Post by Dakota Smith on Jul 21, 2020 0:28:44 GMT -5
“This place is beginning to feel a lot like home. “
The voice growled, piercing, like the low drumming of a bass to begin an orchestra, as a single finger, narrow but muscular, it’s frame twisted and deformed from years of violence rises up. Through it’s twitched distortment a dull green piece of tape starts to be wrapped around it, the tape extends up the finger to the hand - which is equally mauled and deformed, skin clinging to flesh like rust on cast iron. As the tape extends up the arm, which bore all too similar scarring you could tell by the tattoo’s that this was the arm of Dakota Smith.
“ When I ventured outside of 4CW, spreading my crooked wings, I didn’t know exactly where the winds would take me… All I knew is that I needed to expand my reach, that my infectious ways craved more than my home could give. I saw myself like a singular drop of perspiration dripping down on the edge of the window sill, building up until it had nothing left to do but to burst and trickle down the edges… Onto the carpet, to the outlet, the source of power. And once my infection had spread to that power outlet, It fucking blew… Burning down the house that I had built… No more foundation, no more solid ground for me to plant my boots into… I was adrift…”
His voice had a deviously curious spark to it, as if he knew what he was saying - but the words themselves meant nothing to him. The camera continued up his arm, as the tape wrapped around his degraded musculature, tightening everything up for the war ahead of him, and make no mistake this was a war… His war.
“Even when I won the grandest prize here in Union, I was doing it under another banner… But I lost it…. I lost it homeless, shelterless, with every kind of threat at my door. When I lost the Union Battleground Championship, it wasn’t because the better man beat me, it was because like when any Apex predator leaves its home, then watches it burn… I was out of my element, confused and disarrayed… My crimson path thrown asunder by things I couldn’t have predicted, my habitat burned while I was out hunting, feeding my hunger… But that hunt never ended did it? And the hunter, became the hunted…”
Panning back, The butcher himself takes center frame, dressed in his ring attire and placing the end of the tape between his canine like jowls and tearing as he sits upon a bench - one that would normally be found inside in a locker room. Following that theme behind the man appears a row of lockers, but instead of being inside of an arena - they sit perfectly submerged in the dirt and debris of a very dense wooded area.
The trees are uncharacteristically bare for this time of year in Missouri, the branches holding no life and the ground sparse and barren. An unnerving child clings to the air, so dry that it would instantly crack the lips of any who stepped inside of it. The overcast ahead hid the sun, giving everything an almost morbidly pale matte.
“ But I didn’t stay the hunted for long…. Just another pup yelping, biting at my ankles for relevancy… A fake, a fraud, a pretender trying to pass himself off as something I’ve always been… In one way or another. A butcher… A butcher of men, of livestock, a butcher for those who just can’t seem to die on their own. “
His head moves with precise intent so that his eyes barrel down the camera, bloodshot and rabid as the edge of lips curls in perverted grin.
“ It’s starting to feel a lot like home here Tommy… AJ… Two men who come from the same wasteland that I used to roam, two men who are equally as disappointing but both in their own special way. “
Reaching forward, you hear the sound of rusted metal creaking as Dakota opens the locker in front of him, in it are his trophies, past victims heads and the like. But without taking his eyes from the camera he grabs his mason jar of foul liquid, which has now been seeped in the two hooks which were previously attached to Dick Devereaux’s back - his ligaments and sinew still clinging to their metal.
“ AJ I don’t need to mention how thin you’re stretched, like a fisherman with so many lines cast out into the ocean that when he finally gets a bite, he isn’t quite sure where it’s coming from. You’re lost, confused, striking out at the iron the second it gets hot. Your legacy that you leave behind will be one stitched together by rags, so worn and torn that anything worthwhile has been lost in the butchery. You talk about how this is your moment, but you speak that way about every moment, every second of time your fucking slit is flapping it’s just more meaningless ego fuel, just talking to yourself because no one wants to hear it anymore. But you need that… You need to keep convincing yourself that you have a place, because the second you find yourself drifting? Why… You cease to exist at all. A man who can’t live without purpose, is barely a man at all.
A man who would let his empire crumble? Fall to his own greed and need for satisfaction? Is even lesser. “
Through the snide and calloused remarks, there was some hard learned truth to his words, as if Dakota was talking from experience. Unscrewing the cap to the mason Jar, Dakota lets the once clear now a murky, brownish-red intoxicant hit his lips - rolling it back down his throat with a few strong gulps - letting it’s macabre flavoring wash over him. With the coppery taste of human flesh now coating the inside of his mouth he continues.
“And you Tommy… What are you doing here? Haven’t had enough? The greatest wrestler to never win the big one, the underdog who always defies expectation, the man who had 4CW in the palm of his hand and then walked away… Is this the beginning to your comeback, will this be your rise back into the spotlight? The one that you so arrogantly reject everytime it gets tossed your way? Do you think I see this match as some type of revenge for all those years ago at Bad Company?
I don’t.”
Dakota’s knee begins to bounce, like a child who couldn’t keep his excitement - but there wasn’t joy on his face, instead it was replaced be a deeply rooted resentment, one for American Tommy. Dakota lets his forearm holding the mason jar rest on his knee, trying to stop it, but it has little effect.
“ The truth of the matter is Tommy, is I don’t give a fuck if that its you… I don’t give a fuck that it’s AJ Morales either… See the two of you are just a pair of names… Ones that upon mutilation and then taken… Will get me right back to where I want to be.
I played with a fake man, who couldn’t hold up his deal of our bargain… A Union Battleground legend, one that now ceases to exist at all…
But now I’m free, free of those chains, free of having to watch my back incase some fucking fraud wanted to play killer!
So It doesn’t matter to me who got this match, who I was facing next. The outcome was always, and will always be the same… Because the two of you are in between me… And the only thing that I care about…
The End. “
Taking another sip, the camera follows his arm as he places the jar back into his locker and shuts the door, but when it pans back to him he’s no longer in a forest, and the cold, stagnant air seems just like a hallucination that has now subsided. Dakota sits in the locker room Black River Coliseum.
“A means to an end, that’s all the two of you are… Two men looking to make history, to make their mark on this company in a defining fashion! Taking out a former champion, winning a main event on their first appearance back, the two of you have nothing to lose, and everything to gain…
But me? I have what I’ve always had… A goal… A line in the sand, an end date, a reaper over my shoulder! I have an apocalypse breathing down my neck and every step I take brings it closer, it seeps further into my veins… You can’t stop it… You can just fall down and be devoured by it, be a witness to it, a victim…
My victims. “
His eyes leave the camera, as if he never noticed it at all, driving his fists down onto his knees and pushing himself up with loud pops and cracks, as he turns away from the camera ready for the match ahead of him, the rumbling of the ground vibrating at his feet...Cut to black.
The voice growled, piercing, like the low drumming of a bass to begin an orchestra, as a single finger, narrow but muscular, it’s frame twisted and deformed from years of violence rises up. Through it’s twitched distortment a dull green piece of tape starts to be wrapped around it, the tape extends up the finger to the hand - which is equally mauled and deformed, skin clinging to flesh like rust on cast iron. As the tape extends up the arm, which bore all too similar scarring you could tell by the tattoo’s that this was the arm of Dakota Smith.
“ When I ventured outside of 4CW, spreading my crooked wings, I didn’t know exactly where the winds would take me… All I knew is that I needed to expand my reach, that my infectious ways craved more than my home could give. I saw myself like a singular drop of perspiration dripping down on the edge of the window sill, building up until it had nothing left to do but to burst and trickle down the edges… Onto the carpet, to the outlet, the source of power. And once my infection had spread to that power outlet, It fucking blew… Burning down the house that I had built… No more foundation, no more solid ground for me to plant my boots into… I was adrift…”
His voice had a deviously curious spark to it, as if he knew what he was saying - but the words themselves meant nothing to him. The camera continued up his arm, as the tape wrapped around his degraded musculature, tightening everything up for the war ahead of him, and make no mistake this was a war… His war.
“Even when I won the grandest prize here in Union, I was doing it under another banner… But I lost it…. I lost it homeless, shelterless, with every kind of threat at my door. When I lost the Union Battleground Championship, it wasn’t because the better man beat me, it was because like when any Apex predator leaves its home, then watches it burn… I was out of my element, confused and disarrayed… My crimson path thrown asunder by things I couldn’t have predicted, my habitat burned while I was out hunting, feeding my hunger… But that hunt never ended did it? And the hunter, became the hunted…”
Panning back, The butcher himself takes center frame, dressed in his ring attire and placing the end of the tape between his canine like jowls and tearing as he sits upon a bench - one that would normally be found inside in a locker room. Following that theme behind the man appears a row of lockers, but instead of being inside of an arena - they sit perfectly submerged in the dirt and debris of a very dense wooded area.
The trees are uncharacteristically bare for this time of year in Missouri, the branches holding no life and the ground sparse and barren. An unnerving child clings to the air, so dry that it would instantly crack the lips of any who stepped inside of it. The overcast ahead hid the sun, giving everything an almost morbidly pale matte.
“ But I didn’t stay the hunted for long…. Just another pup yelping, biting at my ankles for relevancy… A fake, a fraud, a pretender trying to pass himself off as something I’ve always been… In one way or another. A butcher… A butcher of men, of livestock, a butcher for those who just can’t seem to die on their own. “
His head moves with precise intent so that his eyes barrel down the camera, bloodshot and rabid as the edge of lips curls in perverted grin.
“ It’s starting to feel a lot like home here Tommy… AJ… Two men who come from the same wasteland that I used to roam, two men who are equally as disappointing but both in their own special way. “
Reaching forward, you hear the sound of rusted metal creaking as Dakota opens the locker in front of him, in it are his trophies, past victims heads and the like. But without taking his eyes from the camera he grabs his mason jar of foul liquid, which has now been seeped in the two hooks which were previously attached to Dick Devereaux’s back - his ligaments and sinew still clinging to their metal.
“ AJ I don’t need to mention how thin you’re stretched, like a fisherman with so many lines cast out into the ocean that when he finally gets a bite, he isn’t quite sure where it’s coming from. You’re lost, confused, striking out at the iron the second it gets hot. Your legacy that you leave behind will be one stitched together by rags, so worn and torn that anything worthwhile has been lost in the butchery. You talk about how this is your moment, but you speak that way about every moment, every second of time your fucking slit is flapping it’s just more meaningless ego fuel, just talking to yourself because no one wants to hear it anymore. But you need that… You need to keep convincing yourself that you have a place, because the second you find yourself drifting? Why… You cease to exist at all. A man who can’t live without purpose, is barely a man at all.
A man who would let his empire crumble? Fall to his own greed and need for satisfaction? Is even lesser. “
Through the snide and calloused remarks, there was some hard learned truth to his words, as if Dakota was talking from experience. Unscrewing the cap to the mason Jar, Dakota lets the once clear now a murky, brownish-red intoxicant hit his lips - rolling it back down his throat with a few strong gulps - letting it’s macabre flavoring wash over him. With the coppery taste of human flesh now coating the inside of his mouth he continues.
“And you Tommy… What are you doing here? Haven’t had enough? The greatest wrestler to never win the big one, the underdog who always defies expectation, the man who had 4CW in the palm of his hand and then walked away… Is this the beginning to your comeback, will this be your rise back into the spotlight? The one that you so arrogantly reject everytime it gets tossed your way? Do you think I see this match as some type of revenge for all those years ago at Bad Company?
I don’t.”
Dakota’s knee begins to bounce, like a child who couldn’t keep his excitement - but there wasn’t joy on his face, instead it was replaced be a deeply rooted resentment, one for American Tommy. Dakota lets his forearm holding the mason jar rest on his knee, trying to stop it, but it has little effect.
“ The truth of the matter is Tommy, is I don’t give a fuck if that its you… I don’t give a fuck that it’s AJ Morales either… See the two of you are just a pair of names… Ones that upon mutilation and then taken… Will get me right back to where I want to be.
I played with a fake man, who couldn’t hold up his deal of our bargain… A Union Battleground legend, one that now ceases to exist at all…
But now I’m free, free of those chains, free of having to watch my back incase some fucking fraud wanted to play killer!
So It doesn’t matter to me who got this match, who I was facing next. The outcome was always, and will always be the same… Because the two of you are in between me… And the only thing that I care about…
The End. “
Taking another sip, the camera follows his arm as he places the jar back into his locker and shuts the door, but when it pans back to him he’s no longer in a forest, and the cold, stagnant air seems just like a hallucination that has now subsided. Dakota sits in the locker room Black River Coliseum.
“A means to an end, that’s all the two of you are… Two men looking to make history, to make their mark on this company in a defining fashion! Taking out a former champion, winning a main event on their first appearance back, the two of you have nothing to lose, and everything to gain…
But me? I have what I’ve always had… A goal… A line in the sand, an end date, a reaper over my shoulder! I have an apocalypse breathing down my neck and every step I take brings it closer, it seeps further into my veins… You can’t stop it… You can just fall down and be devoured by it, be a witness to it, a victim…
My victims. “
His eyes leave the camera, as if he never noticed it at all, driving his fists down onto his knees and pushing himself up with loud pops and cracks, as he turns away from the camera ready for the match ahead of him, the rumbling of the ground vibrating at his feet...Cut to black.