Post by Johnny Violence on Apr 21, 2021 17:59:09 GMT -5
The fire was crackling. It snapped and spit as Johnny sat on a log next to it. The room was glowing, the fire silhouetting him as he stared at the white hot embers. He slurped his soup without a blink. A crudely stitched gash between his eyes, he watched the embers and the ash spill out onto the dirt floor.
The sky was an angry red as flocks of pigeons circled and migrated over the shack. Their frustration and chaos creates almost tornado like gusts with each passing kit. Their winds carry the smell of mange and must from the mountain tops.
The smell turned Johnny’s face sour. They crossed your rivers and skipped your tolls. The fence line could only go so far. It should have gone farther.
“It should have gone farther.” Johnny says to himself before slamming his bowl and spoon to the ground in a huff pacing towards the window. He gazed into the sky as the wolves stood upon the peak and howled to the crimson sky, his hands folded behind his back like a general overseeing his enemies, plotting his next move.
“In the blink of an eye, the pigeons were ravished and pillaged before one could even coo wolf.”
There was another snap but it wasn’t from the fire. It immediately grabbed Johnny’s attention but it was the warning whinny from Beauty before the sounds of supports giving out and his walls outside his door began collapsing did his feet start moving. He almost ripped the door off the hinge to a scene of pure chaos blowing past his gates.
Beauty was on her hind legs stomping at everything around her like an elephant in a stampede of mice. There was dust and dirt and feathers flying in gusts of whirlwinds. They knocked Johnny back and off his feet as people in a panic stormed past his camp and further up the mountain.
Johnny was scrambling to his feet in a blind bewilderment. “YAW! YAW!” were followed by cracks of a whip as the sounds of a horse and carriage crashing its way along the bumpy trail, the wheels screeching a threat to become separated from its axel at the velocity the driver demands. Johnny scratches at his eyes and stumbles out into the chaos but all he could catch through the blur was a dark figure in a black Victorian suit and top hat snapping the reins, carrying a red-hooded sorceress who peers back. Her face hidden deep in the hood she holds gingerly between her finger tips to stop the wind from blowing away her identity.
They’re getting away!
“But they won’t get far.”
Marching back into his hut, Johnny pulls his sword from rest. Beauty lets out another cry, Johnny catches a few more indistinguishable figures blur past his windows. Absolutely furious at the security breach, Johnny continues to rub his eyes raw trying to free his vision of gravel and soot before he trips.
He looks down.
It all changed. Everything changed.
“What’s this?” Johnny asked himself.
But what was it?
What stopped the story?
What could make Johnny stop his journey for revenge, hopping on the back of his trusty steed and chasing the chicken headed Druid or the naked bard up the hill and dragging them ass scraping down it, tied to the back of the stallion by their ankles?
What is it?
With a grin, Johnny couldn’t help but build the suspense, slowly picking it up.
Slowly picking what up?
Slowly picking it up, he wipes the mud off of the plate of the War Horse Championship.
What’s this?
“I asked that already.”
But why was it?
Like a horror movie, Johnny can’t help but curb his curiosity as he looks up to see the fair haired maiden, her face covered in the flow of her whispering scarlet hair, her ankle caught in the noose of a trap sprung by her own over eager step.
“What’s this?”
You part the hair from your eyes. You look up… down? You were upside down and your ankle is tied tight. The party stormed the camp but it was only you who found yourself face to face with Johnny Violence. The rope was showing its age as it creaked when you swung back and forth with your weight and the waves of wind that kept you swaying.
Johnny was staring down at the championship for a brief moment before he looked up at you. He was aw-struck. His mouth wide open like his jaw was stuck.
But Johnny came to a quick realization. He checked back over his shoulder to see a chicken head silhouetted in the sky like the Batman symbol. He did a double take with the championship in his hand and the chicken headed background and back to you.
“Aw, fuck.”
Cute.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
“Not YOU.”
He was mad. His fists balled tighter, one around the strap of the belt, the other the handle of the sword. The veins in his head started to pulsate the crudely stitched wound, it threatened to burst at the seam. He raised the tip of the blade and rested it on your chin. It was heavy. Johnny had the full weight of the blade resting as he couldn’t take his attention away from the gold.
It fell. Sching. It scratched from under your chin and even cut your lip and a bit of the tip of your nose as the blade fell to the ground.
“It wasn’t supposed to be about this.” Johnny growled, grinding his teeth and shoving the title in your face. He throws himself in a tantrum the other way. He slings the sword over his shoulder and drags the title, another mere silhouette in the moonlight against the blood red sky, of a warrior with his shoulders slumped and another cross to bare. He took another glance at the title before he turned his attention over his shoulder.
“This was supposed to mean… more.”
“This wasn’t supposed to be so black and white…”
What was it supposed to mean?
“What does it even mean now?”
“What does it even mean to you?” Johnny shouted on his way back, shaking erratically, shoving the title in your face once more. It was getting annoying. It was getting annoying because Johnny wanted to get under your skin and this is Johnny’s world. Johnny gets what Johnny wants. You were annoyed and each time he shoved that gold, your gold, your purpose in your face and you swung back and forth you wanted to ball your fists.
No you didn’t? You’re the “War Horse” champion? This isn’t something that could never get under your skin? Why don’t you look at your hands?
Your fists were balled. You could feel your blood boiling. Your eyes grew hot and nostrils flared. His name was Johnny Violence. He’s asking for it, right? It was a name and an offer, innit? Hit him. Hit him!
But you didn’t.
You wouldn’t.
Would you?
Johnny lowered the title and crouched down to meet your eyes. “Maybe you would. Maybe you would be so stupid to fight to the very end… Maybe you do want to scratch and claw and swing for the fence if even an eyelash fell a centimetre more in your direction. But I wouldn’t know it, would I Emery? I wouldn’t know it because you would rather die hung from this tree than admit I could be right. No. Something tells me you like the fight… something tells me you want the fight. ”
The damned sword again to your chin, the scratch marks from earlier still a little hot to touch.
“But I wouldn’t be much of a man if I slaughtered a noble warrioress from your throat down your blinding white underbelly like swine, would I? No… not the type of man I want to be.”
“The type of man who knows what he wants.”
“And I wanted something so specific Emery. I wanted something so specific. Do you know what I wanted Emery? Do you even know what you want anymore? Don’t you have it all already Emery?! A name in every record book? Eight times you’ve defended your titles successfully. Five hundred and ten days of waking up and calling yourself a champion in Union and now you want to play “gatekeeper”? Emery fucking Layton does whatever she wants —“
“BUT THIS WAS NEVER ABOUT YOU EMERY!”
“You’ve had it all and when it was finished you took. your. ball. and you went home.”
“And now all of a sudden we're supposed to care? After three years of giving it your all and being remembered for nothing all of a sudden we’re supposed to bend to your whim?”
Johnny dropped the sword but this time it wasn’t so careless, dragging the very tip lightly across your forehead on the way to the ground. Johnny drives the sword into the ground and takes a knee, meeting our eyes once again.
“Do you know what I want Emery? I could never have been more clear. I want everything Emery. I don’t want ex-convicts, witch doctors and people who can’t give me more than 65% tops. I don’t want any more excuses.”
“I wanted a match, a classic a particular man might say. Johnny Violence versus Bryan Williams… it was set to be nothing but a five star show stealer.”
“And I’ll be damned if I let Ms. Lost Her Way for Three Years take all of that from me.”
“Emery…” Johnny brushes the hair out of your eyes, wiping the dirt from your scowl. “You might be a War Horse… but you’ll never be a workhorse like me… like Bryan Williams, like Dakota Smith…”
“You come ready for battle and that’s admirable. But when you squander this opportunity to reach the top of the mountain and overstep your boundaries and overplay your hand, it might be another three years before we see you again.”
“But when people like me or Bryan Williams… we work so hard to reach these parts of the mountain… and we work harder to stay there. And when we slip, we fall fast but…” Johnny points back to the scramble up the mountain, “we get back up faster.”
“Such a shame. In five hundred and ten days… and you’ve learned nothing at all.”
He stood to his feet and dropped the title directly underneath you, inches out of your grasp.
“Prove me wrong.”
The sky was an angry red as flocks of pigeons circled and migrated over the shack. Their frustration and chaos creates almost tornado like gusts with each passing kit. Their winds carry the smell of mange and must from the mountain tops.
The smell turned Johnny’s face sour. They crossed your rivers and skipped your tolls. The fence line could only go so far. It should have gone farther.
“It should have gone farther.” Johnny says to himself before slamming his bowl and spoon to the ground in a huff pacing towards the window. He gazed into the sky as the wolves stood upon the peak and howled to the crimson sky, his hands folded behind his back like a general overseeing his enemies, plotting his next move.
“In the blink of an eye, the pigeons were ravished and pillaged before one could even coo wolf.”
There was another snap but it wasn’t from the fire. It immediately grabbed Johnny’s attention but it was the warning whinny from Beauty before the sounds of supports giving out and his walls outside his door began collapsing did his feet start moving. He almost ripped the door off the hinge to a scene of pure chaos blowing past his gates.
Beauty was on her hind legs stomping at everything around her like an elephant in a stampede of mice. There was dust and dirt and feathers flying in gusts of whirlwinds. They knocked Johnny back and off his feet as people in a panic stormed past his camp and further up the mountain.
Johnny was scrambling to his feet in a blind bewilderment. “YAW! YAW!” were followed by cracks of a whip as the sounds of a horse and carriage crashing its way along the bumpy trail, the wheels screeching a threat to become separated from its axel at the velocity the driver demands. Johnny scratches at his eyes and stumbles out into the chaos but all he could catch through the blur was a dark figure in a black Victorian suit and top hat snapping the reins, carrying a red-hooded sorceress who peers back. Her face hidden deep in the hood she holds gingerly between her finger tips to stop the wind from blowing away her identity.
They’re getting away!
“But they won’t get far.”
Marching back into his hut, Johnny pulls his sword from rest. Beauty lets out another cry, Johnny catches a few more indistinguishable figures blur past his windows. Absolutely furious at the security breach, Johnny continues to rub his eyes raw trying to free his vision of gravel and soot before he trips.
He looks down.
It all changed. Everything changed.
“What’s this?” Johnny asked himself.
But what was it?
What stopped the story?
What could make Johnny stop his journey for revenge, hopping on the back of his trusty steed and chasing the chicken headed Druid or the naked bard up the hill and dragging them ass scraping down it, tied to the back of the stallion by their ankles?
What is it?
With a grin, Johnny couldn’t help but build the suspense, slowly picking it up.
Slowly picking what up?
Slowly picking it up, he wipes the mud off of the plate of the War Horse Championship.
What’s this?
“I asked that already.”
But why was it?
Like a horror movie, Johnny can’t help but curb his curiosity as he looks up to see the fair haired maiden, her face covered in the flow of her whispering scarlet hair, her ankle caught in the noose of a trap sprung by her own over eager step.
“What’s this?”
- - -
You part the hair from your eyes. You look up… down? You were upside down and your ankle is tied tight. The party stormed the camp but it was only you who found yourself face to face with Johnny Violence. The rope was showing its age as it creaked when you swung back and forth with your weight and the waves of wind that kept you swaying.
Johnny was staring down at the championship for a brief moment before he looked up at you. He was aw-struck. His mouth wide open like his jaw was stuck.
But Johnny came to a quick realization. He checked back over his shoulder to see a chicken head silhouetted in the sky like the Batman symbol. He did a double take with the championship in his hand and the chicken headed background and back to you.
“Aw, fuck.”
Cute.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
“Not YOU.”
He was mad. His fists balled tighter, one around the strap of the belt, the other the handle of the sword. The veins in his head started to pulsate the crudely stitched wound, it threatened to burst at the seam. He raised the tip of the blade and rested it on your chin. It was heavy. Johnny had the full weight of the blade resting as he couldn’t take his attention away from the gold.
It fell. Sching. It scratched from under your chin and even cut your lip and a bit of the tip of your nose as the blade fell to the ground.
“It wasn’t supposed to be about this.” Johnny growled, grinding his teeth and shoving the title in your face. He throws himself in a tantrum the other way. He slings the sword over his shoulder and drags the title, another mere silhouette in the moonlight against the blood red sky, of a warrior with his shoulders slumped and another cross to bare. He took another glance at the title before he turned his attention over his shoulder.
“This was supposed to mean… more.”
“This wasn’t supposed to be so black and white…”
What was it supposed to mean?
“What does it even mean now?”
“What does it even mean to you?” Johnny shouted on his way back, shaking erratically, shoving the title in your face once more. It was getting annoying. It was getting annoying because Johnny wanted to get under your skin and this is Johnny’s world. Johnny gets what Johnny wants. You were annoyed and each time he shoved that gold, your gold, your purpose in your face and you swung back and forth you wanted to ball your fists.
No you didn’t? You’re the “War Horse” champion? This isn’t something that could never get under your skin? Why don’t you look at your hands?
Your fists were balled. You could feel your blood boiling. Your eyes grew hot and nostrils flared. His name was Johnny Violence. He’s asking for it, right? It was a name and an offer, innit? Hit him. Hit him!
But you didn’t.
You wouldn’t.
Would you?
Johnny lowered the title and crouched down to meet your eyes. “Maybe you would. Maybe you would be so stupid to fight to the very end… Maybe you do want to scratch and claw and swing for the fence if even an eyelash fell a centimetre more in your direction. But I wouldn’t know it, would I Emery? I wouldn’t know it because you would rather die hung from this tree than admit I could be right. No. Something tells me you like the fight… something tells me you want the fight. ”
The damned sword again to your chin, the scratch marks from earlier still a little hot to touch.
“But I wouldn’t be much of a man if I slaughtered a noble warrioress from your throat down your blinding white underbelly like swine, would I? No… not the type of man I want to be.”
“The type of man who knows what he wants.”
“And I wanted something so specific Emery. I wanted something so specific. Do you know what I wanted Emery? Do you even know what you want anymore? Don’t you have it all already Emery?! A name in every record book? Eight times you’ve defended your titles successfully. Five hundred and ten days of waking up and calling yourself a champion in Union and now you want to play “gatekeeper”? Emery fucking Layton does whatever she wants —“
“BUT THIS WAS NEVER ABOUT YOU EMERY!”
“You’ve had it all and when it was finished you took. your. ball. and you went home.”
“And now all of a sudden we're supposed to care? After three years of giving it your all and being remembered for nothing all of a sudden we’re supposed to bend to your whim?”
Johnny dropped the sword but this time it wasn’t so careless, dragging the very tip lightly across your forehead on the way to the ground. Johnny drives the sword into the ground and takes a knee, meeting our eyes once again.
“Do you know what I want Emery? I could never have been more clear. I want everything Emery. I don’t want ex-convicts, witch doctors and people who can’t give me more than 65% tops. I don’t want any more excuses.”
“I wanted a match, a classic a particular man might say. Johnny Violence versus Bryan Williams… it was set to be nothing but a five star show stealer.”
“And I’ll be damned if I let Ms. Lost Her Way for Three Years take all of that from me.”
“Emery…” Johnny brushes the hair out of your eyes, wiping the dirt from your scowl. “You might be a War Horse… but you’ll never be a workhorse like me… like Bryan Williams, like Dakota Smith…”
“You come ready for battle and that’s admirable. But when you squander this opportunity to reach the top of the mountain and overstep your boundaries and overplay your hand, it might be another three years before we see you again.”
“But when people like me or Bryan Williams… we work so hard to reach these parts of the mountain… and we work harder to stay there. And when we slip, we fall fast but…” Johnny points back to the scramble up the mountain, “we get back up faster.”
“Such a shame. In five hundred and ten days… and you’ve learned nothing at all.”
He stood to his feet and dropped the title directly underneath you, inches out of your grasp.
“Prove me wrong.”