Post by Deleted on Apr 20, 2013 3:57:23 GMT -6
A wise man once said that pride always comes before the fall. It’s one of those things that many in any community preach for in certain aspects but never to have that feeling about one’s own self. Take pride in the place you work for, the ball clubs you cheer for or even the country you live in but the world forbid that you ever take that sense of entitlement for yourself because we would shun upon your arrogance like the Bush administration shunned on the ‘axis of evil’ for their plots of nuclear weapons.
The men of double standards, and the ones that enable them to enforce it, are hypocrites. You need it for a force of motivation to will your own body past the limitations that either you set for yourself or the damned pariahs of society set for fear of losing their own power because let’s face it…power is the ultimate thing any being with a trace of selfishness craves. It’s why Pugh did what he did to Psyco back in the day or why I went as far as to scar current UnStable member Father Nathan’s throat in such a sadistic manner. Hell, that’s even why Cera tried to concuss me in a matter of retribution with that damn Xtreme Speed of her’s last week.
But you can’t ever let your pride inflate your ego, in one facet or another, to near mythical proportions.
You see, Pugh’s addiction to fame in order to feed both his ego and his pride is similar to the vice of alcohol that nearly put yours truly into an early grave like it damn near did for late Pat Summeral. We forgo normal actions that our own minds wouldn’t even deem rational just to get to the thrill of getting that respective high and the ride that follows until we begin our own downward spiral into a horrific crash that anihalates your psyche and morale. Then when you’re at the very bottom looking up at the mountain you just fell off, you wonder what steps happened that dragged you all the way back down.
That is the aftermath of what happens when pride and ego consumes a six foot ten, three hundred and fifty pound mountain of a man.
The issue, however, is that The Insane Icon…like Roger, takes no proper steps in order from allowing it to happen again. At least Roger is being enabled to do so…but Pugh doesn’t have that lifeline to clutch toward as an excuse. He’s enabling the sheep to stroke and prop his own ego on his way up the mountain yet he has the audacity to bitch out one Johnny Stylez when he took his own trek or someone like me when I decided I didn’t want him to end Hazard’s career because I have my own form of twisted fun I have to employ with the Styles Mafia’s behemoth before I allow anyone to call dibs on ending his career.
But alas, a man this big with that much of a fragile yet huge ego and sense of pride doesn’t see sense through his own eyes anymore because that’s what human nature does to us when we abuse instead of merely use pride. He’s so damned warped that he’s upset that I ruined a chance for him to end Hazard instead of lamenting on the inevitable fact that he’s got a guaranteed tag title shot thanks to his team’s victory there.
…and people call ME crazy.
But one doesn’t have their own selfish reasons for wanting to be involved in such a dangerous type of match with one of the crazed giants of wrestling. Let’s say that if I get a chance to bite his flesh off his forehead again…I’ll do it without hesitation just to open or expand a wound because of the lack of rules we have in our own confinement. So Ryan…be ready for a different type of incineration. I burned Cera’s face, torched Roger’s soul…but you better be in for the worst form of burns because even in that egocentric fueled mind of yours…that thought exists in your head and you verbalized it on more than one occasion.
The flame of Seth Iser…is the last point to burn Pugh’s pride, ego, and beard into blackened ashes.
Then and only then you’ll realize that this agent of chaos…and the Modern day Martyr of Professional Wrestling is the true monster that you once were before your pride took over.
God help you all.
The city of Detroit has its own feeling of nostalgia this evening. The buildings have shown their own semblance of age and wisdom with the occasional chip despite their sturdiness. A sense of edginess, however, is very much apparent especially after the tragic turn of events in Boston. You can read it from the tension on the casual passerby’s face and the paranoia in their eyes. In more ways than one, the oppressive atmosphere the world’s creating is starting to infuriate more people and they’re acting out in different and violent ways.
“It’s spreading in multiple forms…too bad for many of these people they don’t know what to do with it…” I growl lowly.
A chilling breeze starts since the previous storm had already passed and it starts to make my black hair sway with my black and purple suit combination. With a dismissive shrug, I go down the familiar streets of Detroit with the oppressive atmosphere making my own body feel just that little bit heavier than normal. That oppressive feeling brings back that incident in Japan where men in white went after me for the first time in years.
The deeper I go into the inner city of Detroit, the need to find the answers to that specific question multiplies in my head. It then occurs to me that Pugh was one of my former employers’ way back in the day and the scowl on my face deepens which causes some of the pedestrians to scurry away from me like I was a satanic presence even without my usual mask. Soon enough, my train of thought is interrupted by a loud, uniform cheer.
“Yeah!” the person behind me shouts in glee, “We caught one of the sons a bitches that bombed Boston!”
“Let’s go out and drink!” replies a second one, “To our country and us…the ultimate patriots of the world!”
A second, even more vocal cheer erupts from the people on the street while the scowl behind my sunglasses just intensifies slightly at the word ‘drink’. It’s great that they caught him, but if he’s anything like the Japanese man I tried to interrogate…he won’t cough up much information and the United States Government has conformity to limit how they can get the information from the man where as I have the luxuary of freedom. Yeah, the initial news is great but the real job begins and celebrating before it just deepens the parallels our country has with the damn Romans.
“Oh hey…we know what to do in a situation like this. Let’s blacken our livers worse than Roger’s or mine was with premature celebration…and then wake up not remembering anything and going to whatever minimal wage job we were at where we got prostituted by our bosses in the middle of an excruciating hangover.” I roll my eyes, “Brilliant fuck’n idea you god damned neanderthals.”
“What did I say about your temper? You don’t want to end up in an early grave due to blood pressure, do you?” I hear Moretti’s voice.
Moretti soon approaches me from my right and I meet his grin with an un-amused snarl. The man, per his usual protocol, is dressed to the nines with a silver colored suit that gleams in the night and a black hat to compliment the look. Soon enough, his face tenses up slightly before shaking his head as we observe so many people making a sprint to the local pub behind us. Soon enough he peers ahead of us with a stern expression
“Well, I called Cipriani to see if he had any past dealings with the Atlantic Broadband Institution…” Moretti begins, his voice low.
In shock, I raise my eyebrows slowly. Stephan Cipriani…the full name is someone I haven’t heard spoke of in years. The man was Vincent Moretti’s right hand man in Las Vegas at the height of The Family. Truth be told, in some respects he had the most morals of the three of us but at the same time, he sunk to depths worse than my own with his own demons and lashed out in the worst way possible. I’m more surprised he’s alive though considering the Russian mob’s hit on the head honchos of The Family.
“He evaded the Russians too…well I’ll be damned…thought they had a hit out on all the major members of the Family back in the day,” I reply, a little stunned.
“They did, but we evaded their detection by lying low in other manners. As for what he’s gathered…unfortunately…he has had no dealings. It’s a different type of enemy with a different type of resource pool,” Moretti growls, a little more dejected.
A dark silence follows as we walk away from the sea of people sprinting toward the pub to get their alcoholic fix in celebration. The more I think on the manner, the more I dismiss the notion that Ryan Pugh has anything to do with those men in white going after me. He has too much of a specific type of pride to go through with the action plus he would rather be more hands on with his approach. It’s the same man that’s going punch for violent punch with fellow giant of wrestling Hazard in a matter of pride.
“At least we’re getting more people we can rule out…” I lowly mutter to myself, “Hell, considering the kick I took last week…we can rule Cera and Jennifer out too.”
“Did the dentist end up happy by the end of it?” Moretti muses.
“What the fuck do you think?” I protest while faking a toothy grin to show that one of my front teeth is moved back slightly and a shade smaller toward my manager and former boss.
“He hit the money, then…” Moretti observes.
“Let’s get back on topic,” I command coldly.
For some solitude, we see a split off between two older buildings that’s pitch black in contrast to the illumination all the street lights provide. Beyond a couple of people passed out already due to some various boozing or extracurricular drug use, we have this little alley to ourselves. Vincent’s face looks solemn while mine is just more of irritation behind my sunglasses.
“Still don’t really have any answers though…” I grumble with a quizzical look on my face.
The two of us begin to pace back and forth in this cramped little alley with my hand on my chin in serious contemplation. I start thinking that Roger could be a possibility but I doubt he’d have the common sense to think of something so intricate and damn near perfect behind his withdrawal from the damned bottle. It certainly isn’t Pugh, Inkt, or Kief in that group because even with the air of seriousness two of the three are carrying themselves with now…they’d rather punch me in the face than lock me up with men in white.
Hell, I damn sure doubt United would even think about doing something like this because of their own personal issues. I’ve had no interaction with Scarlet, or Dixie that I’m aware of. Kronin…well he may have the connections but a man of his upbringing wouldn’t go toward something like that in the slightest. He’d rather face things head on. Hell, even my long standing on again off again rivalry with Slater wouldn’t divulge into something this personal because of our mutual respect despite our antagonistic relationship toward one another’s philosophies.
Then like a bolt of lightning we both say it out loud.
“What about the Styles Mafia?” the two of us blurt out before looking at each other with our respective grins.
“Well, who has more pride than Jesse considering what he’s done with the promotion and our own little antagonistic relationship?” I growl, “Nobody understands more of what he’s become than I have…and considering where his head is at now…he’s more than willing to play this type of game with someone.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if someone like Johnny gave him that idea before he got e-mailed a DUI from Japan for his incident with Roger…” Moretti snickers.
“What a riot you really are…” I deadpanned.
I glance down at the heavy surroundings and the smell of cannabis is very much in the air. Moretti’s smug expression vanishes into a wave of irritability cruising all over his face. A cold, almost satanic glare behind my sunglasses develops toward the smell that’s taken over this area all of a sudden. I hear the yell for ‘four twenty’ and I have to tense my entire fist to make sure I don’t put it through one of the building walls.
Soon enough, a man with some familiarity to me is further down the alley and I walk slowly toward him. He has a little bit of broad build to him with a giant blunt in his mouth as he sits back and enjoys the brief little high it gets him. He even has a bit of a stubble beard on him to try to compliment his long surfer like hair and the ripped physique behind that thin ‘Wendys’ shirt of his. Soon enough, it clicks in my mind who this damned stoner is.
“Jason ‘Bacon’ Andrews…” I declare coldly.
Andrews rises to his feet to see who is speaking to him and scuffs dismissively toward me due to a lack of recognition. Soon enough, he then leaps up onto his feet and begins to shoot some fists in some enthusiasm. Moretti raises his eyebrow in a quizzical look as Bacon puts out his blunt and pulls out his shirt from half tucked in his pants in an attempt to try to look more professional. Hell, the dumb bastard even tries to comb his hair with his hand.
“Wanna buy something? I sell everything but shit, heroin and your cock,” Bacon asks.
“The least you could do is give us a baconator and a date if you’re going to make that step right away…” Moretti scowls, “Kids these days…I swear…nobody schools you right in how to even sell recreational drugs.”
“The least you can do is part with us for some information…” I scowl toward the drug induced Bacon, “I have places to be and a god damned match to wrestle against a giant. You should know since you were once employed by that same wrestling company because you just got your god damned pink slip.”
“Information isn’t cheap brother. Donate to me for some like the followers of faith donate their time and money for the protection of God.” He starts seriously before his voice cracks from pleading, “Shit dude, I have to make a profit somehow since Jesse fired me and you know as much as I love bacon cheeseburgers…and making them, they aren’t paying the bill.”
Moretti’s temperature is continuing to rise and I just let out a sigh in contrast. Soon enough, I reach inside my jacket part of the suit and I can see him perk up like he might get what he wants. To his dismay, I don’t pull out any money…but my dreaded 12 millimeter pistol. He goes through that range of motions from perplexed at the sight…to an initial sign of anger…and then finally fear once the reality of the situation sinks in.
“Do I have your attention now?” I sneer.
“Wh-what the fuck, man?” he blurts out.
“You should always have your own method of protection…” Moretti scolds, “I’d have a pistol of my own when I was in this business too. That’s also how I did it my day. Doesn’t anyone teach anybody about researching your field anymore?”
“But you know I am not inclined to give you any infomat---“ Bacon blurts out before letting out a gasp.
BANG!
The smell of gunpowder evaporates the smell of weed as the bullet flies over his ear and I can tell by how he winces that the chemicals around the bullet caused a burning sensation. He pauses slightly, succumbing to the terror of the entire situation. Vincent’s mood returns to a more jubilant state after the scare I put to the boy but now it’s my temperature that’s climbing once again. I grit my teeth and sneer at the man before peeling off my sunglasses. After he sees the cold expression in my own eyes, he gulps as he finally realizes who it is.
“Oh…my…God!” Andrews weakly squeaks.
“Do I have your attention NOW!?” I roar.
“Please…save your anger for your opponents…just don’t KILL ME!” he pleads.
“Give me information or you’ll be in worse shape that Psycho was after Ryan Pugh decided to Pugh Bomb him at one of the older World War X matches, boy…” I growl.
Andrews almost collapses in his own fear for a minute with everything combined. I hear the rest of the people that were hanging here sprint in fear of their lives thinking they could easily be next in line considering how volatile Moretti and I are in our respective ways. I take a couple steps closer and point the barrel of the gun right to his face now with every bit. After he regains a little control of his emotions despite the situation, he gives me a nod of his head that he’ll cooperate. Finally, my face just lightens slightly.
“Good.” I sneer, “Now…start talking. My trigger finger’s more impatient than I am as you’ve noticed and if you don’t give me anything useful…I’ll use you as an example for what the hell I’m going to do to both Pugh and Roger. Got it?”
A tense look on his face follows as I just have that probing glare that I’ve mastered to gather information with over the years. A couple nervous sweat drops sprint down his brow as he squirms himself back to his feet in an effort to at least make himself somewhat comfortable. Moretti crosses his arms almost like a disapproving father about ready to scold his kid.
“After I got…fired due to my lack of commitment…I had to sprint out to avoid security tossing me out so I went sprinting around…” Andrews winces, “Soon enough, all I know is when I got back to the backstage area…I heard Jesse cursing out a man over the phone. I couldn’t tell who it was though…”
“Anything else?” Moretti probes.
“I wet my bed until I was fourteen…” Bacon mutters meekly.
“Not helping…” I seethe through my teeth, barely controlling my fury.
Moretti calmly puts his hand on my shoulder after I just about blew my gasket before giving me a nod. Soon enough, I take one step back and soon he’s the one damn near face to face with the wrestler turned amateur pot smoker and drug dealer. For a moment, I point the barrel of my gleaming silver gun away from his face and a small look of relief appears on his face for just a minute.
“I doubt I can control my friend much longer…and it’d be a shame to splatter worthless brains across the wall and ground to make the rats mentally retarded now wouldn’t it Andrews?” Moretti purrs before his tone turns a little more serious “Now…I suggest you give us something a little more useful than that…because if you don’t…well, we’ll have to put that burdon on the rats to clean up your brains and hope they retain some intelligence because stupid breeds stupid in more than one way and you know he views you no better than Roger’s ways of coping with alcohol, Pugh’s ego or even his own parents and their vices…so I suggest you enable us to get some information or we’ll enable you to an early grave, alright?”
The tone of the threat makes Jason pause and he wipes some of the sweat from his forehead. The panic that he tried to suppress is very much returning to his face. Moretti soon lets out a shrill laugh of his own as he thinks about the threat he just made as I point the barrel back to the damned addict’s forehead.
“I suggest you talk because he’s really…really running out of patience…” Moretti grins, “But I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind the result if you didn’t!”
“…all I know is that the other person shouting over the phone was speaking a different language! I don’t know what it was though…” he murmurs out slowly, “That’s all I really know.”
A semblance of a smirk escapes from my hardened face as he lets out a sigh when Moretti takes a couple steps back. Soon enough, he hears the click from the gun as I prepare to take a second shot. A hefty scream escapes his lungs as he sees my index finger move across the trigger very slowly. The whites in his eyes widen as he starts to come to grips of what his fate is. The smirk soon vanishes from my face as I see him just staring slowly at the barrel of the pistol. A brief pause and then…
BANG!
I fire not at his face but at the joint he failed to extinguish and it eviscerates from the force of the bullet. He mouths something but he can’t get it out audibly before I hear Moretti let out a cold, spine jarring chuckle. Slowly, I put the pistol back into my jacket, not taking my eyes off of the former NEW wrestler as I do so as every bit of relief seeps through his face.
“Put your damn blunts out. The last thing we need is a different type of international incident created by another fucking idiot…” I command before breaking eye contact.
“…Did you take notes?” I hear Moretti question the boy as I begin to walk out of the alley, “Maybe then with a little bit of practice you can actually make a profit and be competent in a failing practice...and not like those idiots in Mexico, either.”
“Damn it Vince…let’s go,” I command.
“Sheesh…you’re as headstrong and inpatient as ever Seth…” Moretti snickers.
The two of us begin our exit and shake our head at disgust at what just unfolded but at least I know of a lead on where it could go. I doubt the Styles Mafia, if they’re behind it, would be so obvious as to send another Atlantic Broadband group after me so swiftly…especially when I’m wrestling but considering his state of mind right now…I wouldn’t put any past him at this point. He’ll skull fuck your mother’s dead corpse if it means getting a rating point for his show and a psychological advantage in this crusade he’s waging.
But I can’t look too far ahead at this point…because I have a desperate, prideful monster to deal with and no intimidating probing like what I did with Andrews to gather some information will work on that mastodon from Georgia. Val riled him up by forcing him to see NASCAR but that’s not what I need to do in the darkened state of mind that man is in.
I have to slay him head on using my own brain and damn does he know I’m capable of doing it.
But the most important thing I have to do is convince him once we’re done in that ring that the fake admiration that you get from the sheep does nothing but inflate your own ego and prevent you from ever being the pure wrestler and monster that he once was even if it means I have to pull this same pistol to HIS head in order to complete the task.
The Southern Sex Symbol will realize the error of his ways.
The Insane Icon will learn that despite my affiliation with Nocturnal…that I’m a completely different monster than he’s ever dealt with in that ring.
Hell, Ryan Pugh will learn what it’s like to deal with a man who has truly embraced the life of UnStable.
When it comes to the anihalation of the monsterous Ryan Pugh…
“It…is time.”
The men of double standards, and the ones that enable them to enforce it, are hypocrites. You need it for a force of motivation to will your own body past the limitations that either you set for yourself or the damned pariahs of society set for fear of losing their own power because let’s face it…power is the ultimate thing any being with a trace of selfishness craves. It’s why Pugh did what he did to Psyco back in the day or why I went as far as to scar current UnStable member Father Nathan’s throat in such a sadistic manner. Hell, that’s even why Cera tried to concuss me in a matter of retribution with that damn Xtreme Speed of her’s last week.
But you can’t ever let your pride inflate your ego, in one facet or another, to near mythical proportions.
You see, Pugh’s addiction to fame in order to feed both his ego and his pride is similar to the vice of alcohol that nearly put yours truly into an early grave like it damn near did for late Pat Summeral. We forgo normal actions that our own minds wouldn’t even deem rational just to get to the thrill of getting that respective high and the ride that follows until we begin our own downward spiral into a horrific crash that anihalates your psyche and morale. Then when you’re at the very bottom looking up at the mountain you just fell off, you wonder what steps happened that dragged you all the way back down.
That is the aftermath of what happens when pride and ego consumes a six foot ten, three hundred and fifty pound mountain of a man.
The issue, however, is that The Insane Icon…like Roger, takes no proper steps in order from allowing it to happen again. At least Roger is being enabled to do so…but Pugh doesn’t have that lifeline to clutch toward as an excuse. He’s enabling the sheep to stroke and prop his own ego on his way up the mountain yet he has the audacity to bitch out one Johnny Stylez when he took his own trek or someone like me when I decided I didn’t want him to end Hazard’s career because I have my own form of twisted fun I have to employ with the Styles Mafia’s behemoth before I allow anyone to call dibs on ending his career.
But alas, a man this big with that much of a fragile yet huge ego and sense of pride doesn’t see sense through his own eyes anymore because that’s what human nature does to us when we abuse instead of merely use pride. He’s so damned warped that he’s upset that I ruined a chance for him to end Hazard instead of lamenting on the inevitable fact that he’s got a guaranteed tag title shot thanks to his team’s victory there.
…and people call ME crazy.
But one doesn’t have their own selfish reasons for wanting to be involved in such a dangerous type of match with one of the crazed giants of wrestling. Let’s say that if I get a chance to bite his flesh off his forehead again…I’ll do it without hesitation just to open or expand a wound because of the lack of rules we have in our own confinement. So Ryan…be ready for a different type of incineration. I burned Cera’s face, torched Roger’s soul…but you better be in for the worst form of burns because even in that egocentric fueled mind of yours…that thought exists in your head and you verbalized it on more than one occasion.
The flame of Seth Iser…is the last point to burn Pugh’s pride, ego, and beard into blackened ashes.
Then and only then you’ll realize that this agent of chaos…and the Modern day Martyr of Professional Wrestling is the true monster that you once were before your pride took over.
God help you all.
The city of Detroit has its own feeling of nostalgia this evening. The buildings have shown their own semblance of age and wisdom with the occasional chip despite their sturdiness. A sense of edginess, however, is very much apparent especially after the tragic turn of events in Boston. You can read it from the tension on the casual passerby’s face and the paranoia in their eyes. In more ways than one, the oppressive atmosphere the world’s creating is starting to infuriate more people and they’re acting out in different and violent ways.
“It’s spreading in multiple forms…too bad for many of these people they don’t know what to do with it…” I growl lowly.
A chilling breeze starts since the previous storm had already passed and it starts to make my black hair sway with my black and purple suit combination. With a dismissive shrug, I go down the familiar streets of Detroit with the oppressive atmosphere making my own body feel just that little bit heavier than normal. That oppressive feeling brings back that incident in Japan where men in white went after me for the first time in years.
The deeper I go into the inner city of Detroit, the need to find the answers to that specific question multiplies in my head. It then occurs to me that Pugh was one of my former employers’ way back in the day and the scowl on my face deepens which causes some of the pedestrians to scurry away from me like I was a satanic presence even without my usual mask. Soon enough, my train of thought is interrupted by a loud, uniform cheer.
“Yeah!” the person behind me shouts in glee, “We caught one of the sons a bitches that bombed Boston!”
“Let’s go out and drink!” replies a second one, “To our country and us…the ultimate patriots of the world!”
A second, even more vocal cheer erupts from the people on the street while the scowl behind my sunglasses just intensifies slightly at the word ‘drink’. It’s great that they caught him, but if he’s anything like the Japanese man I tried to interrogate…he won’t cough up much information and the United States Government has conformity to limit how they can get the information from the man where as I have the luxuary of freedom. Yeah, the initial news is great but the real job begins and celebrating before it just deepens the parallels our country has with the damn Romans.
“Oh hey…we know what to do in a situation like this. Let’s blacken our livers worse than Roger’s or mine was with premature celebration…and then wake up not remembering anything and going to whatever minimal wage job we were at where we got prostituted by our bosses in the middle of an excruciating hangover.” I roll my eyes, “Brilliant fuck’n idea you god damned neanderthals.”
“What did I say about your temper? You don’t want to end up in an early grave due to blood pressure, do you?” I hear Moretti’s voice.
Moretti soon approaches me from my right and I meet his grin with an un-amused snarl. The man, per his usual protocol, is dressed to the nines with a silver colored suit that gleams in the night and a black hat to compliment the look. Soon enough, his face tenses up slightly before shaking his head as we observe so many people making a sprint to the local pub behind us. Soon enough he peers ahead of us with a stern expression
“Well, I called Cipriani to see if he had any past dealings with the Atlantic Broadband Institution…” Moretti begins, his voice low.
In shock, I raise my eyebrows slowly. Stephan Cipriani…the full name is someone I haven’t heard spoke of in years. The man was Vincent Moretti’s right hand man in Las Vegas at the height of The Family. Truth be told, in some respects he had the most morals of the three of us but at the same time, he sunk to depths worse than my own with his own demons and lashed out in the worst way possible. I’m more surprised he’s alive though considering the Russian mob’s hit on the head honchos of The Family.
“He evaded the Russians too…well I’ll be damned…thought they had a hit out on all the major members of the Family back in the day,” I reply, a little stunned.
“They did, but we evaded their detection by lying low in other manners. As for what he’s gathered…unfortunately…he has had no dealings. It’s a different type of enemy with a different type of resource pool,” Moretti growls, a little more dejected.
A dark silence follows as we walk away from the sea of people sprinting toward the pub to get their alcoholic fix in celebration. The more I think on the manner, the more I dismiss the notion that Ryan Pugh has anything to do with those men in white going after me. He has too much of a specific type of pride to go through with the action plus he would rather be more hands on with his approach. It’s the same man that’s going punch for violent punch with fellow giant of wrestling Hazard in a matter of pride.
“At least we’re getting more people we can rule out…” I lowly mutter to myself, “Hell, considering the kick I took last week…we can rule Cera and Jennifer out too.”
“Did the dentist end up happy by the end of it?” Moretti muses.
“What the fuck do you think?” I protest while faking a toothy grin to show that one of my front teeth is moved back slightly and a shade smaller toward my manager and former boss.
“He hit the money, then…” Moretti observes.
“Let’s get back on topic,” I command coldly.
For some solitude, we see a split off between two older buildings that’s pitch black in contrast to the illumination all the street lights provide. Beyond a couple of people passed out already due to some various boozing or extracurricular drug use, we have this little alley to ourselves. Vincent’s face looks solemn while mine is just more of irritation behind my sunglasses.
“Still don’t really have any answers though…” I grumble with a quizzical look on my face.
The two of us begin to pace back and forth in this cramped little alley with my hand on my chin in serious contemplation. I start thinking that Roger could be a possibility but I doubt he’d have the common sense to think of something so intricate and damn near perfect behind his withdrawal from the damned bottle. It certainly isn’t Pugh, Inkt, or Kief in that group because even with the air of seriousness two of the three are carrying themselves with now…they’d rather punch me in the face than lock me up with men in white.
Hell, I damn sure doubt United would even think about doing something like this because of their own personal issues. I’ve had no interaction with Scarlet, or Dixie that I’m aware of. Kronin…well he may have the connections but a man of his upbringing wouldn’t go toward something like that in the slightest. He’d rather face things head on. Hell, even my long standing on again off again rivalry with Slater wouldn’t divulge into something this personal because of our mutual respect despite our antagonistic relationship toward one another’s philosophies.
Then like a bolt of lightning we both say it out loud.
“What about the Styles Mafia?” the two of us blurt out before looking at each other with our respective grins.
“Well, who has more pride than Jesse considering what he’s done with the promotion and our own little antagonistic relationship?” I growl, “Nobody understands more of what he’s become than I have…and considering where his head is at now…he’s more than willing to play this type of game with someone.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if someone like Johnny gave him that idea before he got e-mailed a DUI from Japan for his incident with Roger…” Moretti snickers.
“What a riot you really are…” I deadpanned.
I glance down at the heavy surroundings and the smell of cannabis is very much in the air. Moretti’s smug expression vanishes into a wave of irritability cruising all over his face. A cold, almost satanic glare behind my sunglasses develops toward the smell that’s taken over this area all of a sudden. I hear the yell for ‘four twenty’ and I have to tense my entire fist to make sure I don’t put it through one of the building walls.
Soon enough, a man with some familiarity to me is further down the alley and I walk slowly toward him. He has a little bit of broad build to him with a giant blunt in his mouth as he sits back and enjoys the brief little high it gets him. He even has a bit of a stubble beard on him to try to compliment his long surfer like hair and the ripped physique behind that thin ‘Wendys’ shirt of his. Soon enough, it clicks in my mind who this damned stoner is.
“Jason ‘Bacon’ Andrews…” I declare coldly.
Andrews rises to his feet to see who is speaking to him and scuffs dismissively toward me due to a lack of recognition. Soon enough, he then leaps up onto his feet and begins to shoot some fists in some enthusiasm. Moretti raises his eyebrow in a quizzical look as Bacon puts out his blunt and pulls out his shirt from half tucked in his pants in an attempt to try to look more professional. Hell, the dumb bastard even tries to comb his hair with his hand.
“Wanna buy something? I sell everything but shit, heroin and your cock,” Bacon asks.
“The least you could do is give us a baconator and a date if you’re going to make that step right away…” Moretti scowls, “Kids these days…I swear…nobody schools you right in how to even sell recreational drugs.”
“The least you can do is part with us for some information…” I scowl toward the drug induced Bacon, “I have places to be and a god damned match to wrestle against a giant. You should know since you were once employed by that same wrestling company because you just got your god damned pink slip.”
“Information isn’t cheap brother. Donate to me for some like the followers of faith donate their time and money for the protection of God.” He starts seriously before his voice cracks from pleading, “Shit dude, I have to make a profit somehow since Jesse fired me and you know as much as I love bacon cheeseburgers…and making them, they aren’t paying the bill.”
Moretti’s temperature is continuing to rise and I just let out a sigh in contrast. Soon enough, I reach inside my jacket part of the suit and I can see him perk up like he might get what he wants. To his dismay, I don’t pull out any money…but my dreaded 12 millimeter pistol. He goes through that range of motions from perplexed at the sight…to an initial sign of anger…and then finally fear once the reality of the situation sinks in.
“Do I have your attention now?” I sneer.
“Wh-what the fuck, man?” he blurts out.
“You should always have your own method of protection…” Moretti scolds, “I’d have a pistol of my own when I was in this business too. That’s also how I did it my day. Doesn’t anyone teach anybody about researching your field anymore?”
“But you know I am not inclined to give you any infomat---“ Bacon blurts out before letting out a gasp.
BANG!
The smell of gunpowder evaporates the smell of weed as the bullet flies over his ear and I can tell by how he winces that the chemicals around the bullet caused a burning sensation. He pauses slightly, succumbing to the terror of the entire situation. Vincent’s mood returns to a more jubilant state after the scare I put to the boy but now it’s my temperature that’s climbing once again. I grit my teeth and sneer at the man before peeling off my sunglasses. After he sees the cold expression in my own eyes, he gulps as he finally realizes who it is.
“Oh…my…God!” Andrews weakly squeaks.
“Do I have your attention NOW!?” I roar.
“Please…save your anger for your opponents…just don’t KILL ME!” he pleads.
“Give me information or you’ll be in worse shape that Psycho was after Ryan Pugh decided to Pugh Bomb him at one of the older World War X matches, boy…” I growl.
Andrews almost collapses in his own fear for a minute with everything combined. I hear the rest of the people that were hanging here sprint in fear of their lives thinking they could easily be next in line considering how volatile Moretti and I are in our respective ways. I take a couple steps closer and point the barrel of the gun right to his face now with every bit. After he regains a little control of his emotions despite the situation, he gives me a nod of his head that he’ll cooperate. Finally, my face just lightens slightly.
“Good.” I sneer, “Now…start talking. My trigger finger’s more impatient than I am as you’ve noticed and if you don’t give me anything useful…I’ll use you as an example for what the hell I’m going to do to both Pugh and Roger. Got it?”
A tense look on his face follows as I just have that probing glare that I’ve mastered to gather information with over the years. A couple nervous sweat drops sprint down his brow as he squirms himself back to his feet in an effort to at least make himself somewhat comfortable. Moretti crosses his arms almost like a disapproving father about ready to scold his kid.
“After I got…fired due to my lack of commitment…I had to sprint out to avoid security tossing me out so I went sprinting around…” Andrews winces, “Soon enough, all I know is when I got back to the backstage area…I heard Jesse cursing out a man over the phone. I couldn’t tell who it was though…”
“Anything else?” Moretti probes.
“I wet my bed until I was fourteen…” Bacon mutters meekly.
“Not helping…” I seethe through my teeth, barely controlling my fury.
Moretti calmly puts his hand on my shoulder after I just about blew my gasket before giving me a nod. Soon enough, I take one step back and soon he’s the one damn near face to face with the wrestler turned amateur pot smoker and drug dealer. For a moment, I point the barrel of my gleaming silver gun away from his face and a small look of relief appears on his face for just a minute.
“I doubt I can control my friend much longer…and it’d be a shame to splatter worthless brains across the wall and ground to make the rats mentally retarded now wouldn’t it Andrews?” Moretti purrs before his tone turns a little more serious “Now…I suggest you give us something a little more useful than that…because if you don’t…well, we’ll have to put that burdon on the rats to clean up your brains and hope they retain some intelligence because stupid breeds stupid in more than one way and you know he views you no better than Roger’s ways of coping with alcohol, Pugh’s ego or even his own parents and their vices…so I suggest you enable us to get some information or we’ll enable you to an early grave, alright?”
The tone of the threat makes Jason pause and he wipes some of the sweat from his forehead. The panic that he tried to suppress is very much returning to his face. Moretti soon lets out a shrill laugh of his own as he thinks about the threat he just made as I point the barrel back to the damned addict’s forehead.
“I suggest you talk because he’s really…really running out of patience…” Moretti grins, “But I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind the result if you didn’t!”
“…all I know is that the other person shouting over the phone was speaking a different language! I don’t know what it was though…” he murmurs out slowly, “That’s all I really know.”
A semblance of a smirk escapes from my hardened face as he lets out a sigh when Moretti takes a couple steps back. Soon enough, he hears the click from the gun as I prepare to take a second shot. A hefty scream escapes his lungs as he sees my index finger move across the trigger very slowly. The whites in his eyes widen as he starts to come to grips of what his fate is. The smirk soon vanishes from my face as I see him just staring slowly at the barrel of the pistol. A brief pause and then…
BANG!
I fire not at his face but at the joint he failed to extinguish and it eviscerates from the force of the bullet. He mouths something but he can’t get it out audibly before I hear Moretti let out a cold, spine jarring chuckle. Slowly, I put the pistol back into my jacket, not taking my eyes off of the former NEW wrestler as I do so as every bit of relief seeps through his face.
“Put your damn blunts out. The last thing we need is a different type of international incident created by another fucking idiot…” I command before breaking eye contact.
“…Did you take notes?” I hear Moretti question the boy as I begin to walk out of the alley, “Maybe then with a little bit of practice you can actually make a profit and be competent in a failing practice...and not like those idiots in Mexico, either.”
“Damn it Vince…let’s go,” I command.
“Sheesh…you’re as headstrong and inpatient as ever Seth…” Moretti snickers.
The two of us begin our exit and shake our head at disgust at what just unfolded but at least I know of a lead on where it could go. I doubt the Styles Mafia, if they’re behind it, would be so obvious as to send another Atlantic Broadband group after me so swiftly…especially when I’m wrestling but considering his state of mind right now…I wouldn’t put any past him at this point. He’ll skull fuck your mother’s dead corpse if it means getting a rating point for his show and a psychological advantage in this crusade he’s waging.
But I can’t look too far ahead at this point…because I have a desperate, prideful monster to deal with and no intimidating probing like what I did with Andrews to gather some information will work on that mastodon from Georgia. Val riled him up by forcing him to see NASCAR but that’s not what I need to do in the darkened state of mind that man is in.
I have to slay him head on using my own brain and damn does he know I’m capable of doing it.
But the most important thing I have to do is convince him once we’re done in that ring that the fake admiration that you get from the sheep does nothing but inflate your own ego and prevent you from ever being the pure wrestler and monster that he once was even if it means I have to pull this same pistol to HIS head in order to complete the task.
The Southern Sex Symbol will realize the error of his ways.
The Insane Icon will learn that despite my affiliation with Nocturnal…that I’m a completely different monster than he’s ever dealt with in that ring.
Hell, Ryan Pugh will learn what it’s like to deal with a man who has truly embraced the life of UnStable.
When it comes to the anihalation of the monsterous Ryan Pugh…
“It…is time.”