Post by pretzelbender on Aug 26, 2020 20:06:39 GMT -5
The first thing you’ll notice entering the warehouse is the strong scent of something. Stale, sticking to the air and crawling into your throat in an attempt to make you gag. Rubber bands, mixed with a copper that stains your tongue, the stench of something animal. The smell of Miles Lucky himself, who sits in the far corner of the warehouse, a pair of boxers the only piece of clothing adorning him.
He stares at nothing in thought, which isn’t unusual. It gives us time to take in the rest of the environment. It lets us notice the pigeons stooping and watching upon the bars in the upper level of the warehouse, more of the social birds resting and coagulating in the nook of the industrial fan near the roof, which stopped turning during the peak of the Summer within this disgusting city.
It leaves him sweaty and sticky, the curls of his unruly, knotted hair clasped to his forehead, screaming to be cut in its slow descent into becoming matted. His skin sheening, bruised and scattered in scratches, a clear healing gash trailing from his side, trying to meet his center.
He has seen better days, but that doesn't need to be said. If you know him, you know each day gets worse, his brain swells just a little more. If you’re new? Don’t touch any of the junk. The piles of boxes. The ping pong table, something feathered and familiar decaying next to the takeout, birthing flies, tin cans and ripped clothes, soggy newspapers upon the surface. A jukebox, golf clubs, random furniture mazed around a ring that is falling apart and equipment meant to keep him active. Watch your step along the glass, plates and vases left expendable in his stuttering rage.
Don’t touch anything at all and, more importantly, don’t ask any questions.
“Morgan Payne’s therapy session with me failed.” He moves from his crouched corner, his body building up jaggedly into a stand as if his bones were clicking into place to hold the form. We see the harsh state of him fully, the injuries juxtaposed with the fact that we no longer see his ribs anymore, the thinness of him dissolving with each passing day, meat and muscle clinging to him.
“I was almost excited. I thought I would be leaving the match different, with a newly balanced brain. She just yelled and screamed, trying to match me, trying to feed on my energy, but that’s a tough string to swallow. She left me bloodied and gave me nothing, she left me hungry. She’s a useless bitch and I love her. She made me realize, heading to the back that night with my title in hand, that I’m a different breed.”
He begins to drag his body toward the ping pong table, his steps slow and careful, his bare feet leaving prints upon the disgusting floor of the warehouse. He takes his time, scooping handfuls of old rice from a takeout box and shoveling it into his mouth, grabbing jeans and chucking them on as he speaks.
“I’m not easily satisfied, I can’t relax. Each defense, each show, every day that passes, the absolute awe that comes when looking at me, speaking with me. I’m the guy with the head that everyone wants to bust open and crawl into. I’ve become that person that I said I would, I said I won’t be ignored. Like a fucking wreck, no one can look away. You can pick me from a lineup without trying: that’s him, officer. That’s Miles Lucky, he did it.”
He’s preparing for something; throwing and strapping on protection. Knees and elbows. Once he’s prepared, geared up for the scramble of the day, he goes to retrieve his title. It doesn’t leave the warehouse unless there’s a match, yet it’s pristine. It’s his pride and his greatest accomplishment. It’s growing into a behemoth, in search of something greater.
“I’ve been on a tear. I’ve been gathering up wins, etching names across this title. I’ve delivered time and time again, burning into your mind the last tragedy to occur in whatever match I happen to be in. I’ve proven that I’m something to take seriously, and I’m itching for serious competition.”
He clears off the ping pong table in an extraordinarily loud swipe that sends everything to the ground, the title taking its place so he may stare at it.
“So, is this it? The usual breakdown of a champion, the need and hunger for something that could match them. This is just me, watching and searching, zooming in on the Dakotas and Kaelans, the Dannys and Annas. Drells. Fantasizing about getting my hands around the throat of Indi and snapping her neck to mend the win that I was too warped in existing to achieve.”
He growls out, his reflection upon the shine of the title twisting. He tries to calm himself down, overwhelming tears trying to surface as he grits his teeth.
“I want all of this. I’m not growing an ego, I’m growing goals. And the more full my title becomes, the more it’s ready to burst in my hands. I have plans for the future, I have plans to cut them all down and pack them up in a freezer. This is not the Champions Breakdown, this is the Champions Growth. There’s so much to achieve, so much that I’m able to do with the title in my hands. So much that I am going to do.”
He relaxes then, it comes out like a held breath. He knows it’s true, he knows his plans. It’s a slow bloody crawl to the throne, and this is the key to the kingdom. He rounds the table, finally looking at us straight on.
“And they give me you. Baz Jacobi. They set you up, put you in a position to try and take my ace to future success, giggling as they tell you to put your hand in a hole. I’m on the other side, I’m going to bite your fucking hands off for even trying to reach me!”
He roars out, fury making him flip the ping pong table that he already hated well enough to do it, the title.
Rolling to the floor?
“You’re the guy that will admit to it all. Admit that Shortcut helps you out when you call for it, admit that you’re making a killing as a tag wrestler in a company that fucks kids and mutts, crying over Sharpes in the waters, showing your stupid fucking dog as if you’re not set up to face a guy that will rip off the head of that rat and drain it from its neck. For your big fucking mouth and all the things that you can’t keep to yourself, I’m surprised you did any prison time at all. For someone who claims to have a strong sense of self, you owe it all to the people around you.”
Miles stops himself, because he realizes that he could say the same thing. Everyone he’s talking to, all the people that scratch at his head and leave him insane, angry.
He owes it all to them for what he’s become. He is the result of all he has torn apart and, looking at his hand where the tooth of the woman he wants to kill is lodged in the middle of his palm. He’s both Frankenstien and the monster. Tearing apart his opponents, and putting them within himself.
Nothing is missing.
He considers this improving.
He knows he is. He’s the beast and the master. He feeds himself.
He controls his breathing, looking at the destruction within the warehouse and it feels like home. This is something given to him and built upon. He goes to retrieve his title from the floor.
It’s been replaced by a motorcycle helmet.
Chipped, dirtied and yet clear. He lifts it from the floor and looks at his reflection. He speaks, sure of himself.
“I have no respect for you, Baz. You’re a waste of time and at the end of the day, had you been in my cell instead of the Shortcut you hold so dear to secure your victories? You would’ve been my bitch. You would’ve choked on it. This match isn’t going to be any different. You can limp to the strip club and have a heck of a story to tell about how Miles Lucky tore your asshole into two.”
He puts on the helmet, feeling like something has been completed, or something is just about to start. We don’t see it, his unnerving smile.
“And I’ll continue as I have been, as I always been. With the world in my hands, shaking it.”
He grabs a golf club then, making his way to the exit of the warehouse. He presses his hand against the large metal door for a moment in hesitation to leave, the tooth throbbing in the middle.
“Stupidly, you’ve puffed yourself up into this unstoppable being that won’t quit unless his breathing stops first. You’ll die before you lose?”
“Then die, because this title is mine.”
He opens the door then, the sun harsh and blazing, blinding him in it’s impossible glare, even past the motorcycle helmet he is wearing. Feintly, he sees people surrounding him, piling up junk as if offering to a God. They scatter in his presence.
He rubs at his eyes. He rubs at his eyes?
“Miles! How long have you been out here? Look at your fucking skin.”
The helmet is gone and he’s upon a lawn chair, a rooster scolding him from a car window in front of the warehouse. Graffiti scattered and windows busted, junk all along the front as if for decoration. A dog right under where he’s seated. His body is burnt from the sun. He sighs out in frustration.
“Don’t yell at me.” He grumbles, his skin tight and stinging.
“Get in the car.”
Miles makes his way to move, the dog stirring beneath him to follow as they both get into the passenger side of the car. The bloodied bandages on the leg of the dog are torn, yet she seems happy enough on his lap, her smile big.
“We have a lot of work to do and you’re cooking yourself. I know you’re thinking ahead, I know you-”
“Happy Pigeon Day, Bryan.” Miles interrupts him, throwing the seat back to rest his eyes. The rooster concedes.
“Happy Pigeon Day.”
He stares at nothing in thought, which isn’t unusual. It gives us time to take in the rest of the environment. It lets us notice the pigeons stooping and watching upon the bars in the upper level of the warehouse, more of the social birds resting and coagulating in the nook of the industrial fan near the roof, which stopped turning during the peak of the Summer within this disgusting city.
It leaves him sweaty and sticky, the curls of his unruly, knotted hair clasped to his forehead, screaming to be cut in its slow descent into becoming matted. His skin sheening, bruised and scattered in scratches, a clear healing gash trailing from his side, trying to meet his center.
He has seen better days, but that doesn't need to be said. If you know him, you know each day gets worse, his brain swells just a little more. If you’re new? Don’t touch any of the junk. The piles of boxes. The ping pong table, something feathered and familiar decaying next to the takeout, birthing flies, tin cans and ripped clothes, soggy newspapers upon the surface. A jukebox, golf clubs, random furniture mazed around a ring that is falling apart and equipment meant to keep him active. Watch your step along the glass, plates and vases left expendable in his stuttering rage.
Don’t touch anything at all and, more importantly, don’t ask any questions.
“Morgan Payne’s therapy session with me failed.” He moves from his crouched corner, his body building up jaggedly into a stand as if his bones were clicking into place to hold the form. We see the harsh state of him fully, the injuries juxtaposed with the fact that we no longer see his ribs anymore, the thinness of him dissolving with each passing day, meat and muscle clinging to him.
“I was almost excited. I thought I would be leaving the match different, with a newly balanced brain. She just yelled and screamed, trying to match me, trying to feed on my energy, but that’s a tough string to swallow. She left me bloodied and gave me nothing, she left me hungry. She’s a useless bitch and I love her. She made me realize, heading to the back that night with my title in hand, that I’m a different breed.”
He begins to drag his body toward the ping pong table, his steps slow and careful, his bare feet leaving prints upon the disgusting floor of the warehouse. He takes his time, scooping handfuls of old rice from a takeout box and shoveling it into his mouth, grabbing jeans and chucking them on as he speaks.
“I’m not easily satisfied, I can’t relax. Each defense, each show, every day that passes, the absolute awe that comes when looking at me, speaking with me. I’m the guy with the head that everyone wants to bust open and crawl into. I’ve become that person that I said I would, I said I won’t be ignored. Like a fucking wreck, no one can look away. You can pick me from a lineup without trying: that’s him, officer. That’s Miles Lucky, he did it.”
He’s preparing for something; throwing and strapping on protection. Knees and elbows. Once he’s prepared, geared up for the scramble of the day, he goes to retrieve his title. It doesn’t leave the warehouse unless there’s a match, yet it’s pristine. It’s his pride and his greatest accomplishment. It’s growing into a behemoth, in search of something greater.
“I’ve been on a tear. I’ve been gathering up wins, etching names across this title. I’ve delivered time and time again, burning into your mind the last tragedy to occur in whatever match I happen to be in. I’ve proven that I’m something to take seriously, and I’m itching for serious competition.”
He clears off the ping pong table in an extraordinarily loud swipe that sends everything to the ground, the title taking its place so he may stare at it.
“So, is this it? The usual breakdown of a champion, the need and hunger for something that could match them. This is just me, watching and searching, zooming in on the Dakotas and Kaelans, the Dannys and Annas. Drells. Fantasizing about getting my hands around the throat of Indi and snapping her neck to mend the win that I was too warped in existing to achieve.”
He growls out, his reflection upon the shine of the title twisting. He tries to calm himself down, overwhelming tears trying to surface as he grits his teeth.
“I want all of this. I’m not growing an ego, I’m growing goals. And the more full my title becomes, the more it’s ready to burst in my hands. I have plans for the future, I have plans to cut them all down and pack them up in a freezer. This is not the Champions Breakdown, this is the Champions Growth. There’s so much to achieve, so much that I’m able to do with the title in my hands. So much that I am going to do.”
He relaxes then, it comes out like a held breath. He knows it’s true, he knows his plans. It’s a slow bloody crawl to the throne, and this is the key to the kingdom. He rounds the table, finally looking at us straight on.
“And they give me you. Baz Jacobi. They set you up, put you in a position to try and take my ace to future success, giggling as they tell you to put your hand in a hole. I’m on the other side, I’m going to bite your fucking hands off for even trying to reach me!”
He roars out, fury making him flip the ping pong table that he already hated well enough to do it, the title.
Rolling to the floor?
“You’re the guy that will admit to it all. Admit that Shortcut helps you out when you call for it, admit that you’re making a killing as a tag wrestler in a company that fucks kids and mutts, crying over Sharpes in the waters, showing your stupid fucking dog as if you’re not set up to face a guy that will rip off the head of that rat and drain it from its neck. For your big fucking mouth and all the things that you can’t keep to yourself, I’m surprised you did any prison time at all. For someone who claims to have a strong sense of self, you owe it all to the people around you.”
Miles stops himself, because he realizes that he could say the same thing. Everyone he’s talking to, all the people that scratch at his head and leave him insane, angry.
He owes it all to them for what he’s become. He is the result of all he has torn apart and, looking at his hand where the tooth of the woman he wants to kill is lodged in the middle of his palm. He’s both Frankenstien and the monster. Tearing apart his opponents, and putting them within himself.
Nothing is missing.
He considers this improving.
He knows he is. He’s the beast and the master. He feeds himself.
He controls his breathing, looking at the destruction within the warehouse and it feels like home. This is something given to him and built upon. He goes to retrieve his title from the floor.
It’s been replaced by a motorcycle helmet.
Chipped, dirtied and yet clear. He lifts it from the floor and looks at his reflection. He speaks, sure of himself.
“I have no respect for you, Baz. You’re a waste of time and at the end of the day, had you been in my cell instead of the Shortcut you hold so dear to secure your victories? You would’ve been my bitch. You would’ve choked on it. This match isn’t going to be any different. You can limp to the strip club and have a heck of a story to tell about how Miles Lucky tore your asshole into two.”
He puts on the helmet, feeling like something has been completed, or something is just about to start. We don’t see it, his unnerving smile.
“And I’ll continue as I have been, as I always been. With the world in my hands, shaking it.”
He grabs a golf club then, making his way to the exit of the warehouse. He presses his hand against the large metal door for a moment in hesitation to leave, the tooth throbbing in the middle.
“Stupidly, you’ve puffed yourself up into this unstoppable being that won’t quit unless his breathing stops first. You’ll die before you lose?”
“Then die, because this title is mine.”
He opens the door then, the sun harsh and blazing, blinding him in it’s impossible glare, even past the motorcycle helmet he is wearing. Feintly, he sees people surrounding him, piling up junk as if offering to a God. They scatter in his presence.
He rubs at his eyes. He rubs at his eyes?
“Miles! How long have you been out here? Look at your fucking skin.”
The helmet is gone and he’s upon a lawn chair, a rooster scolding him from a car window in front of the warehouse. Graffiti scattered and windows busted, junk all along the front as if for decoration. A dog right under where he’s seated. His body is burnt from the sun. He sighs out in frustration.
“Don’t yell at me.” He grumbles, his skin tight and stinging.
“Get in the car.”
Miles makes his way to move, the dog stirring beneath him to follow as they both get into the passenger side of the car. The bloodied bandages on the leg of the dog are torn, yet she seems happy enough on his lap, her smile big.
“We have a lot of work to do and you’re cooking yourself. I know you’re thinking ahead, I know you-”
“Happy Pigeon Day, Bryan.” Miles interrupts him, throwing the seat back to rest his eyes. The rooster concedes.
“Happy Pigeon Day.”