Post by Seth Iser on Mar 8, 2015 15:49:31 GMT -6
The paintbrush of injustice always has a discriminatory code of paint. There have been far too many different layers to this code of paint that have happened since the beginning of time. And we as a society have always operated on momentum and the momentum of this far too dated ideology is still spinning in full course, especially in the more rural and uneducated areas of the world. While there are those who are advocating for some instance of it being stopped...those that feel the power slowly pulling away from them because of this more progressive idea are rallying up support among the ignorant to make sure the cycle never breaks and our future generations are damned to the pits of suffering like this one and every other one before us.
The thing is...if you know where to look in the hearts of humans...they can overcome these years of programming...but if you left them on autopilot...most nuance is lost in the empty matter that’s in their skulls. But when I look around seeing others from afar...there are these fleeting moments that they snap out of it...but when you look for any sort of consistency...to see the concepts of fairness broadened out to other people...it doesn’t happen. It’s talking to a wall.
And this unfairness is what helped shaped me into the human being that I’ve become.
In a brutal hellish evening I was spawned from the sin of two ‘wholesome’ evangelical christians when they decided to do the first human thing in their lives and accidently conceived me. They then, along with the rest of their minions of the church, shunned and damned me without giving my parents any bit of the shame just because I had the ‘audacity’ to use the logic part of my brain. But when they couldn’t live their hypocritical duel lives anymore...because they finally experienced just a sliver of the injustice I’ve endured...they both took their own lives. The injustice of having their son...who was supposed to mean nothing, begin to put together some spectrum of success while they blew their money on the drug of God.
But when you do experience what you deem injustice...it’s true of any human being that those same dark gears that every single one of us feel the need to repress in conversations begin to turn in our brains. That echo just blasts off in your brain where even if you’re in a mass of people you could be stuck in solitary confinement...imprisoned by your own dark thoughts. It’s caused atrocities yet on the other hand caused riots. A riot...is often the language of the unheard...and for the first time in his life...Rob Riot can’t use his professional fame to get him out of a situation that he was, in his mind, unfairly put into. For the first time in his life...he feels like a black man in fergison or how I do everytime I step into a city that’s more religious than not. He feels...persecuted.
And I’d wager more than anything that every negative thought is coursing through his body...and he can feel insanity and sanity both blurring in his own brain. For someone who isn’t used to abnormality even in the crazy business called wrestling...it scares him. Even with the people that he’s won on his side because of his reputation...there are some people that are wondering whether someone like me should feel sorry for a man who is wrongfully put in this situation.
But I don’t...
In Rob Riot’s ordeal...I have no ounce of sympathy for him at all. Simply because with all the clout he’s built in the wrestling industry with all the places and success he’s had...he could’ve used his position that he was put into, rightly or wrongly by the fans, to make a difference when situations like this arise. He could’ve been the difference in getting the message across that nobody ever has to follow my path in life in order to survive and even thrive. Either way he would be a target but at least he would’ve done something that when you look through the hourglasses of time...it’d always stand there even beneath those sands as something lasting.
Instead...like Roger Wright...he never got what it means to be that hero. He squandered it all away. It’s sad, really. They could’ve stopped the persecuting but Roger would feed into the depression of another man’s alcoholic demons and then crucify him...to show what kind of human being he is...and Rob...now that he’s on the wrong end of things has spent much time damning the company rather than realizing the truth that he’s to blame for putting himself into the situation he’s in.
I might be the wrestler who wears the mask...and considers it as much of my identity as my actual face but Rob Riot’s mask of sanity is slipping through his fingertips and I know for a fact now that he’s experienced real life...it’s eating away at him. The negativity that’s surrounding him...is pulling him into depths he’s never endured...and it’s spooking him to the point of a permanent metamorphosis. The kind that a man never truly recovers from considering the way Hunter got him hook line and sinker. And even while going through this change...he’ll never embrace the changes he should’ve used his status to enact for all of us.
And that...dear golden boy of wrestling is why I’m relishing in the thought of hearing your bones crack...your blood spew from your skull...and the thought of making you beg for mercy when I’m putting forth the worst physical torture I can put together inside that squared circle. I’m going to make the guy everyone loves, looks up to and considers one of the best...endure the worst night of his life...when he sees what those negative gears in his brain truly are personified...destroying him from the inside while crippling him from the outside.
...and the truth of it all Rob...is you deserve every second of your pain.
It’s all your fault.
The night sky has fallen over the damned city of Chicago. The major storm of March has passed through underneath and other than the regular chill of evening...it feels as if we’re returning to slightly normal weather patterns. The nightly wind brushes by while the light of the moon shines down on the city...and just that sight alone is enough to bring in many stories about the feral natures that can exist within human beings as well when they delve too deep into mystical properties they should never tamper with.
“Oh the darkness of human beings…” I mutter.
“Considering what we’re walking into tonight Seth...we could be in for some serious shit but it’s the risk we do run.” Moretti calmly replies before that cat like grin comes in, “But it’s this kind of shit that can be damn fun...don’t you think?”
“Fun.” I repeat with a cringe, “Right. Walking into a strip club with the odor of alcohol and a slithering snake who isn’t much different than what I deal with inside wrestling. That’s not a definition of fun to me.”
“Oh come on...there are girls dancing with some fake snavences…” Moretti swoons.
“Go to the Silicone Valley...and you’ll get much better ones there…” I roll my eyes in disgust, “Instead of going to a city where everything and their mother is mired in mediocrity and hatred.”
“You’re too damned picky…and a touch paranoid.” Moretti smirks.
“Nothing wrong with either of those things…” I scoff behind my mask.
The one joy about wearing a mask that outsiders will never get is that it gives you the luxury of hiding a great portion of your facial expression to the rest of the outside world. To someone who knows you though...they’ll read you like a book. Moretti just calmly straightens his red tie as the silver haired fox and I continue our conversation on our way to do our job. He’s donning the black and red combination suit that he frequently wore when The Family was at full strength with Cipriani and the others. Now it’s just the two of us and some trustworthy grunts as Moretti generally mutters.
The wind ominously stops blowing and I take this moment to brush that one usual lock of black hair out of my still shown eyes. Considering some of the odd looks I’ve gotten for wearing a black mask in particular...I’d be confused for a jihadist in this stupid country if I wasn’t so damn pale. The extremely stupid would make that mistake anyhow though. In contemplation I just put my hands in my familiar black trench coat that I’m wearing over my own black and violet suit that has a just a plain purple tie...a contrast in that respect compared to the bright red one of the ultra flamboyant Moretti.
“It’s amazing the taint some people have in the world…” Moretti thinks out loud.
“Thinking of the target?” I inquire, not shifting expressions behind the mask.
“No...just Rob Riot. To think I used to respect Valora a great deal but once I found out about their connection?”
“It’s an...unusual picture when you paint those two together…” I reply in a disengaged tone before calmly turning toward Vincent, “But why the interest with those two?”
“Rob’s the golden boy...and represents many things that Valora’s always hated in the industry of wrestling...yet in this instance Seth...from what I’ve gathered through some research...well...it’s not exactly a hatred at all when it really should be. I wish it was. In fact, it’s the opposite really...in terms of a connection. They’ve gravitated toward one another…” Moretti grimly answers.
“When you told me earlier, I figured it wasn’t out of pure disdain even though I had seen those two fight over a championship not too long ago…” I shrug.
“Things are never as simple as they seem…” Moretti shakes his head in disappointment, “But...doesn’t it just look weird seeing those two together man?”
Valora and Rob Riot...those two together. There’s so much potential with those two interfering with anything I might do just because Val and I didn’t part on completely amicable terms and...to be perfectly honest I have a resentment and disdain toward Mr. Riot. Yet for some reason with the knowledge I have of Valora’s traumatic past...I can understand why she could seek comfort in someone who does have some understanding of those horrible things. Though as Nathan had pointed out...she’d be happier to die in the ring for her sins than live life. But...beyond that initial...moment where you go what the fuck…
“It makes sense that they did…” I reply finally calculating my words, “People are more similar than different once you peel off the layers of the mask so to speak.”
“Is it wrong to still be disappointed?” Moretti questions.
“I am too for different reasons...but she made her bed with her decisions and she’ll have to lay in it. It’s how it is…” I trail off, “And our target, Mr. Stevenson will become very acquainted with that fact.”
“It’d be hard to murder him in a strip club. That’s the one drawback…” Moretti pouts
“Oh don’t worry about that. But he doesn’t have to know that. There’s more fun anyway. You and I both know we can damage him to where he wish he was dead but has to deal with the suffering of life.” I chuckle in a sadistic manner, “And we know exactly where to prod.”
“I think we’ll enjoy this too much…” Moretti purrs in childish delight before he cackles.
I hide the faintest of smiles from Vincent as we peer at a brief line entering what should be our destination. There is a stand of five different adult males in line for this particular strip club about ready to participate in their routine weekend escape I’d guess. The smell of booze emanates from the club right away and for a brief moment I just shiver remembering every horrendous thing I’ve ever done under the influence of that toxin. Moretti crosses his arms impatiently as I peer over these gentlemen in line considering I’m six feet five and taller than the average man and see an african american bouncer who makes eye contact with me immediately and stands the same height...and is a little broader than I am.
“Aw shit…” Moretti glances at the size of that man, “He’s bigger than I thought but at least the people who run the titty bar know me.”
“That’s a great thing if the person turns out to be a secret enemy and we get sent home to my daughter cut up in a fillet like fish…” I sigh.
“I’m not THAT bad…” Moretti groans.
“I’m not going to dignify that statement with a response either way.” I cross my arms, my tone unemotional.
“Dude. Fuck you.” Moretti scowls before sticking his tongue at me in a childish manner.
Moretti childishly pouts for a second as the people in front of us don’t seem to take too long to march right through into the door. Then we’re approaching this red door in this flashing neon building that stands out compared to the other taller, more business like buildings surrounding it. The bouncer just eyeballs me and glances at my masked face and what I could be hiding in my suit or trench jacket. I just pull my hands out of my pockets finally and open my hands out to show that there’s nothing in them nor do I make any rattling or metal sounds when I step forth.
I’ve already had a few insane asylums and even police forces target me for one reason or another...the last thing I need to do is give them a legitimate reason to profile me and send me locked next to the increasingly insane Rob Riot and the oversexed sociopath Hunter Valentyne.
“And you are…” he eyeballs me before looking at my collegue.
“Vincent Moretti.” Moretti replies, “And this is my guest for the evening.”
“Why the mask?” he inquires.
“Why not? There’s no policy against wearing any sort of mask here since your main form of business involves nudity,” I fire back calmly and factually.
The bouncer glances at the two of us before he lets out a light chuckle before nodding his head slowly. The aggressive, standoffish stance he had the moment he looked at me loosens finally for the time being and he breathes outward...blinking first in our brief mental chess game.
“Keep the silver haired man out of trouble…” he warns, “Go on in.”
The two of us bust through the red doors and I can see Moretti’s eyes fixated on the stage that’s got two of their strippers with cash in their thongs and dancing with their breasts exposed so every man there can get his rocks off. After that moment of looking toward that black stage and all the chairs and table scattered around, I just dart my eyes to the left and see the heavy bar looking for our specific target. There are many men there drinking and having a good time as the female bartender politely serves them drinks on the stools or the black tables but no target.
“I think I found him,” Moretti whispers.
I glance at Moretti and he has his eyes darted to the right and I peer in that direction now for visual confirmation. There’s no where near as many people on those tables that lead to the private hallways where you can get solo lap dances. My eyes glance at the men at the one side of the tables and none match the description given and then I finally dart my eyes all the way to the right and do my best to hide an evil smirk knowing what is about to happen.
“That’s the son of a bitch alright…” I lowly answer in confirmation.
The two of us begin to calmly walk toward the table where Thomas Stevenson is. The hypocritical priest is sitting on the table wearing a white t-shirt, some blue jeans and a cross around his neck. He’s just casually drinking his hard liquor but he’s eyeballing some of the strippers on the stage. Either he’s acting out polygamy examples like there are in the bible or he’s fallen victim to some of his own seven deadly sins. The best however is this follicly impaired target...is by himself right this moment.
“Thomas Stevenson…” Moretti growls.
“Hm?” the man turns his attention toward us, “Oh…”
The sweat starts to roll down his back knowing how many of these things could end. He’s starting to grow pale thinking of all the horrible things that could happen to him considering the reptation Moretti has. Vincent takes a seat across from him on the table and I cross my arms in an intimidating manner before I sit next to Moretti and just go to work with my hectic glare that could make any man squirm. The sweat drops from Mr. Stevenson go down his wrinkled face.
“Do you know how easy it would be to just to wait until you dragged yourself into a dark alley and not only collect what you owe the world in taxes but what you owe Moretti over here? It’d be so easy to do so and make it look like a random crime because we’d have the money to cover it up and avoid prosecution because of the corruption of our law enforcement system. It’d take little effort at all, boy,” I leer.
“You wouldn’t dare...I have many things I have to do and have touched many people on their way to God an…” he starts blubbering in panic.
“There’s fates worse than your glorified death and your imaginary hell.” I close my eyes behind that mask, “Fates where you wish you were dead.”
“There are many levels of hypocrisy...in what you’re doing and what you are preaching since you mentioned it…” Moretti interjects, “What would your sermons be like knowing that the dwindling people who go to them know that you’re being even more selective in that book than ever before? You’re suffering from a deadly sin…”
“How would you know this?” he defensively asks.
“What person goes to a strip club just to drink?” Moretti barks up a laugh, “And you’re certainly looking at many of these women longingly while you ruin your current marriage further.”
“B-but I’m here to make people repent an---” Thomas continues to throw up defenses.
“Boy. You’re violating what you’re preaching no matter how you throw it out there.” I sneer.
“So here’s the deal. You owe some of my employees considerable coin. If I were you, I’d start working on paying up. Immediately. You know that cash that you were probably going to blow here...that’s a good start.” Moretti commands, “You know the alternatives that happen if you don’t, right?”
I just stand up from the table just glaring down at the man and I can see he’s flustered as is and having a large man glare down over him from a table isn’t helping matters at all. I just calmly reach into my pants pocket rather than my coat pocket and reveal the shiny gleam of a small dagger that’s concealed in a protective case so I don’t slice my own thigh. Just the gleam of that sharp object though and what I could do with it...is making this man shutter and beg for his God.
“The alternative is...I give you experiences worse than any horrible thing that book of falsehoods ever wrote about for your sins at worst…” I blink, “Or if you even think about blowing the whistle on that...we could just ruin your business and tell you about all these excursions and how dishonest you were about everything when you were preaching the evils of sex. It’s your choice.”
The man twitches in fear for a moment before he reaches into his jeans and pulls out a bulging black wallet. Moretti puts a smirk etched on his face as the preacher pulls out a thousand dollars of cold hard cash in hundreds toward Moretti and slides them over to him, defeated. Vincent puts up a sickening smile before pocketing the money and soon he stands up as I put the concealed dagger away.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Moretti stands up and bows in a mocking manner.
“You don’t want either of us to return…” I scowl, “It’ll be far far worse for you if we do. And if you see that happening...make your peace with your God and let the horrors of what could be done run through your fickle brain. It isn’t fun to be in your position but now...you know what it’s like to be truly powerless.”
With that the two of us start to walk away from the man with Moretti smirking that he had achieved his goal and glancing at some of the strippers. He pulls out his own wallet the opposite pocket of the money he JUST pocketed from Mr. Stevenson to reveal he had plenty of money on his own for his own night of debauchery and fun and I just shrug my shoulders before merely crossing my arms near the wall to let him go have his fun and my mind drifts away from the first job...and onto the next one.
In many ways...Rob is experiencing what that preacher is at the moment...what it’s like to be truly powerless. It’s morphing his mind into the darkest places it can go and we’ve already seen what that’s made him do as a referee...now he’s wrestling in that mind frame...going in there thinking that he’s the better man because of this experience because he’ll know what it takes to never be powerless again. To never let anyone get at him like that ever again.
Wrong.
He’s going to have the worst evening of his professional career when he’s staring opposite of me...because he’s failing to understand where exactly I’ve come from. The first time I ever wore a mask was just so I can get back in the ring...and it’s representative of doing whatever it takes to get at your job...and get your job done. People know what my face looks like now...and I lost that the day Roger screwed me out of my original mask. This new mask...well it’s representative of that will but it’s also a reminder of the things people hide that I’m willing to keep out into the open.
But Rob...you and I both know we all wear masks. It isn’t just physical...but you’ve hid your true nature for years and years and it’s just finally starting to creek out and be exposed to the entire world. I’m just here to facilitate that when I drive you even further to doing these dark, heinous things. The dark thoughts that you want to suppress...you’ll have to embrace to survive because of what I’m going to do to you in that ring...and once everyone sees that...do you honestly think that they would even hesitate to keep you incarcerated for the rest of your life?
You’re performing the oldest definition of insanity in the book...because you keep trying to hide your true motives in one way or another other than just wanting to kick Hunter’s ass. You’re hiding your inflated ego once you got into your privileged position. You’re hiding your personal sins from the rest of us...and you’re going against someone who doesn’t have any of those things to hide...and a man who fully embraces what he is.
And that is the worst of the human mind.
I’m a far better man than you’ll ever be because I know what I am exactly as a human being. And using this...I’m going to humble you...I’m going to humiliate you and make you beg for mercy when I don’t have any in my soul. I’ll tear your reputation apart limb from limb. And hell...maybe then you’ll welcome being locked up in that dungeon...in solitary because then you’d have an out anyway...to run away from the fact that you’re not the best wrestler...or even half the man that you pretend to be.
The world has no room for false heros…
But if you want to pretend to be one, Riot in front of those fickle sheep...I’ll give you the tragic end every hero has.
It doesn’t sound fair...but I’m going to tell you the same thing...everyone has ever told me the last thirty-four years.
Nothing in life is fair. Nothing.
The thing is...if you know where to look in the hearts of humans...they can overcome these years of programming...but if you left them on autopilot...most nuance is lost in the empty matter that’s in their skulls. But when I look around seeing others from afar...there are these fleeting moments that they snap out of it...but when you look for any sort of consistency...to see the concepts of fairness broadened out to other people...it doesn’t happen. It’s talking to a wall.
And this unfairness is what helped shaped me into the human being that I’ve become.
In a brutal hellish evening I was spawned from the sin of two ‘wholesome’ evangelical christians when they decided to do the first human thing in their lives and accidently conceived me. They then, along with the rest of their minions of the church, shunned and damned me without giving my parents any bit of the shame just because I had the ‘audacity’ to use the logic part of my brain. But when they couldn’t live their hypocritical duel lives anymore...because they finally experienced just a sliver of the injustice I’ve endured...they both took their own lives. The injustice of having their son...who was supposed to mean nothing, begin to put together some spectrum of success while they blew their money on the drug of God.
But when you do experience what you deem injustice...it’s true of any human being that those same dark gears that every single one of us feel the need to repress in conversations begin to turn in our brains. That echo just blasts off in your brain where even if you’re in a mass of people you could be stuck in solitary confinement...imprisoned by your own dark thoughts. It’s caused atrocities yet on the other hand caused riots. A riot...is often the language of the unheard...and for the first time in his life...Rob Riot can’t use his professional fame to get him out of a situation that he was, in his mind, unfairly put into. For the first time in his life...he feels like a black man in fergison or how I do everytime I step into a city that’s more religious than not. He feels...persecuted.
And I’d wager more than anything that every negative thought is coursing through his body...and he can feel insanity and sanity both blurring in his own brain. For someone who isn’t used to abnormality even in the crazy business called wrestling...it scares him. Even with the people that he’s won on his side because of his reputation...there are some people that are wondering whether someone like me should feel sorry for a man who is wrongfully put in this situation.
But I don’t...
In Rob Riot’s ordeal...I have no ounce of sympathy for him at all. Simply because with all the clout he’s built in the wrestling industry with all the places and success he’s had...he could’ve used his position that he was put into, rightly or wrongly by the fans, to make a difference when situations like this arise. He could’ve been the difference in getting the message across that nobody ever has to follow my path in life in order to survive and even thrive. Either way he would be a target but at least he would’ve done something that when you look through the hourglasses of time...it’d always stand there even beneath those sands as something lasting.
Instead...like Roger Wright...he never got what it means to be that hero. He squandered it all away. It’s sad, really. They could’ve stopped the persecuting but Roger would feed into the depression of another man’s alcoholic demons and then crucify him...to show what kind of human being he is...and Rob...now that he’s on the wrong end of things has spent much time damning the company rather than realizing the truth that he’s to blame for putting himself into the situation he’s in.
I might be the wrestler who wears the mask...and considers it as much of my identity as my actual face but Rob Riot’s mask of sanity is slipping through his fingertips and I know for a fact now that he’s experienced real life...it’s eating away at him. The negativity that’s surrounding him...is pulling him into depths he’s never endured...and it’s spooking him to the point of a permanent metamorphosis. The kind that a man never truly recovers from considering the way Hunter got him hook line and sinker. And even while going through this change...he’ll never embrace the changes he should’ve used his status to enact for all of us.
And that...dear golden boy of wrestling is why I’m relishing in the thought of hearing your bones crack...your blood spew from your skull...and the thought of making you beg for mercy when I’m putting forth the worst physical torture I can put together inside that squared circle. I’m going to make the guy everyone loves, looks up to and considers one of the best...endure the worst night of his life...when he sees what those negative gears in his brain truly are personified...destroying him from the inside while crippling him from the outside.
...and the truth of it all Rob...is you deserve every second of your pain.
It’s all your fault.
The night sky has fallen over the damned city of Chicago. The major storm of March has passed through underneath and other than the regular chill of evening...it feels as if we’re returning to slightly normal weather patterns. The nightly wind brushes by while the light of the moon shines down on the city...and just that sight alone is enough to bring in many stories about the feral natures that can exist within human beings as well when they delve too deep into mystical properties they should never tamper with.
“Oh the darkness of human beings…” I mutter.
“Considering what we’re walking into tonight Seth...we could be in for some serious shit but it’s the risk we do run.” Moretti calmly replies before that cat like grin comes in, “But it’s this kind of shit that can be damn fun...don’t you think?”
“Fun.” I repeat with a cringe, “Right. Walking into a strip club with the odor of alcohol and a slithering snake who isn’t much different than what I deal with inside wrestling. That’s not a definition of fun to me.”
“Oh come on...there are girls dancing with some fake snavences…” Moretti swoons.
“Go to the Silicone Valley...and you’ll get much better ones there…” I roll my eyes in disgust, “Instead of going to a city where everything and their mother is mired in mediocrity and hatred.”
“You’re too damned picky…and a touch paranoid.” Moretti smirks.
“Nothing wrong with either of those things…” I scoff behind my mask.
The one joy about wearing a mask that outsiders will never get is that it gives you the luxury of hiding a great portion of your facial expression to the rest of the outside world. To someone who knows you though...they’ll read you like a book. Moretti just calmly straightens his red tie as the silver haired fox and I continue our conversation on our way to do our job. He’s donning the black and red combination suit that he frequently wore when The Family was at full strength with Cipriani and the others. Now it’s just the two of us and some trustworthy grunts as Moretti generally mutters.
The wind ominously stops blowing and I take this moment to brush that one usual lock of black hair out of my still shown eyes. Considering some of the odd looks I’ve gotten for wearing a black mask in particular...I’d be confused for a jihadist in this stupid country if I wasn’t so damn pale. The extremely stupid would make that mistake anyhow though. In contemplation I just put my hands in my familiar black trench coat that I’m wearing over my own black and violet suit that has a just a plain purple tie...a contrast in that respect compared to the bright red one of the ultra flamboyant Moretti.
“It’s amazing the taint some people have in the world…” Moretti thinks out loud.
“Thinking of the target?” I inquire, not shifting expressions behind the mask.
“No...just Rob Riot. To think I used to respect Valora a great deal but once I found out about their connection?”
“It’s an...unusual picture when you paint those two together…” I reply in a disengaged tone before calmly turning toward Vincent, “But why the interest with those two?”
“Rob’s the golden boy...and represents many things that Valora’s always hated in the industry of wrestling...yet in this instance Seth...from what I’ve gathered through some research...well...it’s not exactly a hatred at all when it really should be. I wish it was. In fact, it’s the opposite really...in terms of a connection. They’ve gravitated toward one another…” Moretti grimly answers.
“When you told me earlier, I figured it wasn’t out of pure disdain even though I had seen those two fight over a championship not too long ago…” I shrug.
“Things are never as simple as they seem…” Moretti shakes his head in disappointment, “But...doesn’t it just look weird seeing those two together man?”
Valora and Rob Riot...those two together. There’s so much potential with those two interfering with anything I might do just because Val and I didn’t part on completely amicable terms and...to be perfectly honest I have a resentment and disdain toward Mr. Riot. Yet for some reason with the knowledge I have of Valora’s traumatic past...I can understand why she could seek comfort in someone who does have some understanding of those horrible things. Though as Nathan had pointed out...she’d be happier to die in the ring for her sins than live life. But...beyond that initial...moment where you go what the fuck…
“It makes sense that they did…” I reply finally calculating my words, “People are more similar than different once you peel off the layers of the mask so to speak.”
“Is it wrong to still be disappointed?” Moretti questions.
“I am too for different reasons...but she made her bed with her decisions and she’ll have to lay in it. It’s how it is…” I trail off, “And our target, Mr. Stevenson will become very acquainted with that fact.”
“It’d be hard to murder him in a strip club. That’s the one drawback…” Moretti pouts
“Oh don’t worry about that. But he doesn’t have to know that. There’s more fun anyway. You and I both know we can damage him to where he wish he was dead but has to deal with the suffering of life.” I chuckle in a sadistic manner, “And we know exactly where to prod.”
“I think we’ll enjoy this too much…” Moretti purrs in childish delight before he cackles.
I hide the faintest of smiles from Vincent as we peer at a brief line entering what should be our destination. There is a stand of five different adult males in line for this particular strip club about ready to participate in their routine weekend escape I’d guess. The smell of booze emanates from the club right away and for a brief moment I just shiver remembering every horrendous thing I’ve ever done under the influence of that toxin. Moretti crosses his arms impatiently as I peer over these gentlemen in line considering I’m six feet five and taller than the average man and see an african american bouncer who makes eye contact with me immediately and stands the same height...and is a little broader than I am.
“Aw shit…” Moretti glances at the size of that man, “He’s bigger than I thought but at least the people who run the titty bar know me.”
“That’s a great thing if the person turns out to be a secret enemy and we get sent home to my daughter cut up in a fillet like fish…” I sigh.
“I’m not THAT bad…” Moretti groans.
“I’m not going to dignify that statement with a response either way.” I cross my arms, my tone unemotional.
“Dude. Fuck you.” Moretti scowls before sticking his tongue at me in a childish manner.
Moretti childishly pouts for a second as the people in front of us don’t seem to take too long to march right through into the door. Then we’re approaching this red door in this flashing neon building that stands out compared to the other taller, more business like buildings surrounding it. The bouncer just eyeballs me and glances at my masked face and what I could be hiding in my suit or trench jacket. I just pull my hands out of my pockets finally and open my hands out to show that there’s nothing in them nor do I make any rattling or metal sounds when I step forth.
I’ve already had a few insane asylums and even police forces target me for one reason or another...the last thing I need to do is give them a legitimate reason to profile me and send me locked next to the increasingly insane Rob Riot and the oversexed sociopath Hunter Valentyne.
“And you are…” he eyeballs me before looking at my collegue.
“Vincent Moretti.” Moretti replies, “And this is my guest for the evening.”
“Why the mask?” he inquires.
“Why not? There’s no policy against wearing any sort of mask here since your main form of business involves nudity,” I fire back calmly and factually.
The bouncer glances at the two of us before he lets out a light chuckle before nodding his head slowly. The aggressive, standoffish stance he had the moment he looked at me loosens finally for the time being and he breathes outward...blinking first in our brief mental chess game.
“Keep the silver haired man out of trouble…” he warns, “Go on in.”
The two of us bust through the red doors and I can see Moretti’s eyes fixated on the stage that’s got two of their strippers with cash in their thongs and dancing with their breasts exposed so every man there can get his rocks off. After that moment of looking toward that black stage and all the chairs and table scattered around, I just dart my eyes to the left and see the heavy bar looking for our specific target. There are many men there drinking and having a good time as the female bartender politely serves them drinks on the stools or the black tables but no target.
“I think I found him,” Moretti whispers.
I glance at Moretti and he has his eyes darted to the right and I peer in that direction now for visual confirmation. There’s no where near as many people on those tables that lead to the private hallways where you can get solo lap dances. My eyes glance at the men at the one side of the tables and none match the description given and then I finally dart my eyes all the way to the right and do my best to hide an evil smirk knowing what is about to happen.
“That’s the son of a bitch alright…” I lowly answer in confirmation.
The two of us begin to calmly walk toward the table where Thomas Stevenson is. The hypocritical priest is sitting on the table wearing a white t-shirt, some blue jeans and a cross around his neck. He’s just casually drinking his hard liquor but he’s eyeballing some of the strippers on the stage. Either he’s acting out polygamy examples like there are in the bible or he’s fallen victim to some of his own seven deadly sins. The best however is this follicly impaired target...is by himself right this moment.
“Thomas Stevenson…” Moretti growls.
“Hm?” the man turns his attention toward us, “Oh…”
The sweat starts to roll down his back knowing how many of these things could end. He’s starting to grow pale thinking of all the horrible things that could happen to him considering the reptation Moretti has. Vincent takes a seat across from him on the table and I cross my arms in an intimidating manner before I sit next to Moretti and just go to work with my hectic glare that could make any man squirm. The sweat drops from Mr. Stevenson go down his wrinkled face.
“Do you know how easy it would be to just to wait until you dragged yourself into a dark alley and not only collect what you owe the world in taxes but what you owe Moretti over here? It’d be so easy to do so and make it look like a random crime because we’d have the money to cover it up and avoid prosecution because of the corruption of our law enforcement system. It’d take little effort at all, boy,” I leer.
“You wouldn’t dare...I have many things I have to do and have touched many people on their way to God an…” he starts blubbering in panic.
“There’s fates worse than your glorified death and your imaginary hell.” I close my eyes behind that mask, “Fates where you wish you were dead.”
“There are many levels of hypocrisy...in what you’re doing and what you are preaching since you mentioned it…” Moretti interjects, “What would your sermons be like knowing that the dwindling people who go to them know that you’re being even more selective in that book than ever before? You’re suffering from a deadly sin…”
“How would you know this?” he defensively asks.
“What person goes to a strip club just to drink?” Moretti barks up a laugh, “And you’re certainly looking at many of these women longingly while you ruin your current marriage further.”
“B-but I’m here to make people repent an---” Thomas continues to throw up defenses.
“Boy. You’re violating what you’re preaching no matter how you throw it out there.” I sneer.
“So here’s the deal. You owe some of my employees considerable coin. If I were you, I’d start working on paying up. Immediately. You know that cash that you were probably going to blow here...that’s a good start.” Moretti commands, “You know the alternatives that happen if you don’t, right?”
I just stand up from the table just glaring down at the man and I can see he’s flustered as is and having a large man glare down over him from a table isn’t helping matters at all. I just calmly reach into my pants pocket rather than my coat pocket and reveal the shiny gleam of a small dagger that’s concealed in a protective case so I don’t slice my own thigh. Just the gleam of that sharp object though and what I could do with it...is making this man shutter and beg for his God.
“The alternative is...I give you experiences worse than any horrible thing that book of falsehoods ever wrote about for your sins at worst…” I blink, “Or if you even think about blowing the whistle on that...we could just ruin your business and tell you about all these excursions and how dishonest you were about everything when you were preaching the evils of sex. It’s your choice.”
The man twitches in fear for a moment before he reaches into his jeans and pulls out a bulging black wallet. Moretti puts a smirk etched on his face as the preacher pulls out a thousand dollars of cold hard cash in hundreds toward Moretti and slides them over to him, defeated. Vincent puts up a sickening smile before pocketing the money and soon he stands up as I put the concealed dagger away.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Moretti stands up and bows in a mocking manner.
“You don’t want either of us to return…” I scowl, “It’ll be far far worse for you if we do. And if you see that happening...make your peace with your God and let the horrors of what could be done run through your fickle brain. It isn’t fun to be in your position but now...you know what it’s like to be truly powerless.”
With that the two of us start to walk away from the man with Moretti smirking that he had achieved his goal and glancing at some of the strippers. He pulls out his own wallet the opposite pocket of the money he JUST pocketed from Mr. Stevenson to reveal he had plenty of money on his own for his own night of debauchery and fun and I just shrug my shoulders before merely crossing my arms near the wall to let him go have his fun and my mind drifts away from the first job...and onto the next one.
In many ways...Rob is experiencing what that preacher is at the moment...what it’s like to be truly powerless. It’s morphing his mind into the darkest places it can go and we’ve already seen what that’s made him do as a referee...now he’s wrestling in that mind frame...going in there thinking that he’s the better man because of this experience because he’ll know what it takes to never be powerless again. To never let anyone get at him like that ever again.
Wrong.
He’s going to have the worst evening of his professional career when he’s staring opposite of me...because he’s failing to understand where exactly I’ve come from. The first time I ever wore a mask was just so I can get back in the ring...and it’s representative of doing whatever it takes to get at your job...and get your job done. People know what my face looks like now...and I lost that the day Roger screwed me out of my original mask. This new mask...well it’s representative of that will but it’s also a reminder of the things people hide that I’m willing to keep out into the open.
But Rob...you and I both know we all wear masks. It isn’t just physical...but you’ve hid your true nature for years and years and it’s just finally starting to creek out and be exposed to the entire world. I’m just here to facilitate that when I drive you even further to doing these dark, heinous things. The dark thoughts that you want to suppress...you’ll have to embrace to survive because of what I’m going to do to you in that ring...and once everyone sees that...do you honestly think that they would even hesitate to keep you incarcerated for the rest of your life?
You’re performing the oldest definition of insanity in the book...because you keep trying to hide your true motives in one way or another other than just wanting to kick Hunter’s ass. You’re hiding your inflated ego once you got into your privileged position. You’re hiding your personal sins from the rest of us...and you’re going against someone who doesn’t have any of those things to hide...and a man who fully embraces what he is.
And that is the worst of the human mind.
I’m a far better man than you’ll ever be because I know what I am exactly as a human being. And using this...I’m going to humble you...I’m going to humiliate you and make you beg for mercy when I don’t have any in my soul. I’ll tear your reputation apart limb from limb. And hell...maybe then you’ll welcome being locked up in that dungeon...in solitary because then you’d have an out anyway...to run away from the fact that you’re not the best wrestler...or even half the man that you pretend to be.
The world has no room for false heros…
But if you want to pretend to be one, Riot in front of those fickle sheep...I’ll give you the tragic end every hero has.
It doesn’t sound fair...but I’m going to tell you the same thing...everyone has ever told me the last thirty-four years.
Nothing in life is fair. Nothing.