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Post by Deleted on Nov 9, 2019 2:02:49 GMT -6
*Cameras On* The high-rise corner office of one Aloysius Marcus Vance IV is just as we remember it from the few times we have been invited within. Pristine without a speck of dust to be noted, a rug on the floor that costs more than most middle-class workers make in a year, walls lined with books, photos and certificates… and, of course, that Mile High Cup still sitting as a centerpiece to it all. Seated in his high-backed, ergonomic leather chair, AMV’s attention is not upon the camera, but upon the sunset-colored view of the city below. He is turned just so… enough that we can make out his profile and some of his features in the dim lighting. It is fair to say that, this evening, for a reason certain to be explained, the high-priced, fourth-generation lawyer is… somber?
No, that is not the proper term. Subdued? Never in a million years. There is no shutting down a man like this, even with the odds against him. So what, then, is the proper way to term is demeanor?
”As a proclaimed and dedicated Defender of Truth, I’ll be the first to admit that the truth is not a beautiful thing. The truth is ugly and dirty. It causes more pain than it cures, leads to sufferings untold… and yet, this world cannot survive without it. Blessed are those who weather the weight for the greater good. Revered are they who have the strength to not only wield it and defend it, but to do so without losing themselves. Those are the sort that become zealots, fanatics and heretics. Truth is no longer truth in their hands. It is poison. It is a drug with which to addict the masses and cause them to give their power up to the wielder. Truth twisted is no longer truth. It is destruction.”
Quite the pontification there, no? It does not offer much insight into the mood of Aloysius Marcus Vance IV other than to show that hs is clearly feeling philosophical.
”Ah, but there’s the rub, right? The saying goes that you should always sweeten a lie with a little bit of truth. How much? Well, much like your grandmother making biscuits, the ingredients are never the same. It is what feels proper. It is what instincts tell you is enough. Do it properly and that lie will be as ambrosia, with the poor soul victimized by it wishing with all they have that it tastes as right as it sounds.
But it never does. It might take a day, a week, maybe even a year. Hell, a decade! But the truth, sour and bitter as some may find it, will eventually overtake that saccharine sweetness that it was wrapped in, a chewy center that no one wants to have to taste. And then? The sugar rush ends. The energy boost is over. You are depleted, weakened… empty.”
Swinging the chair around, Vance folds his hands atop the desk and stares right at the camera. No charming smile or roguish twinkle in his eye, nothing but a stern, stony expression locked upon the lens.
”And this match with Skrabz at ThrowDown #26 is the sweetest of lies. Robert Mack, I expected better from you than to try to pull one over on me. Or on Reaper. Pretty sure the world knows what would happen if the masked man ever unleashed one any wretched soul foolish enough to screw with him. But that bottom line… is where all else ends. Nothing beneath it but dirty money and wicked dreams, either, and some of you people out there, in Mile High and elsewhere, will dig until your fingers are bloody nubs for a handful or two of it no matter how much truth you have to ignore or how every instinct geared toward survival tells you is screaming how foolhardy it is in your discolored brains. They say that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I believe differently. But that’s a tale for another time.”
A faint, fleeting smirk.
”There’s a lot of talk about conspiracies lately. Robert Mack thinks that his enemies, and perhaps even his allies, are out to get him and he is subtly marshalling his forces as a result. Skrabz, the most decorated and revered champion in his company’s short existence thinks that the world is conspiring against him, headed by the aforementioned Mack, wanting nothing more than to put the twice-talented star face-first in the muck with the rest of the dregs.
Certainly the Coven and the Shieldmaidens are looking under every bed and inside every closet, wondering when they’re going to be assaulted again in an effort to break them apart. Even our treasured associate Tyke Index is constantly looking over his shoulder, wondering when the next assault is going to happen, when the next upstart or distorted veteran is going to try to rattle Coke Mountain down to its very foundations.”
Shaking his head, AMV takes in a slow breath with his gaze downcast.
”And in the middle of all this?”
A shadow materializes seemingly out of nowhere behind the chair of Vance, blocking part of the view, man-shaped and towering. Gloved hands close about the top of the chair’s backing, both furniture and leather gloves creaking from the tightness of the grip.
”Reaper.”
Vance lifts his head as the masked man takes in and releases an audible breath… deep, hissing, like the growl of a predatory beast. And somehow… tired.
”Tell me: how, pray, does a staring contest in the middle of the ring lead to a battle between the King of Mile High, the Hip-Hop God, checking mics figuratively and literally and dropping beats and elbows with equal ferocity in the squared circle… the most prolific, talented and respected warrior and champion that Mile High has ever seen…
...and the New Nightmare?”
AMV and Reaper shake their heads damn near in unison, as if the monster was truly the shadow of the verbose lawyer.
”Surely you didn’t ask for this, Skrabz. Not with your Ironman Match with Tyke Index looming. An hour-long battle is daunting at the best of times, but facing someone as talented as Tyke for that whole sixty minutes? It’s fair to say that you should eat your Wheaties with Red Bull that morning, champ. But to the point, your asking for a battle against the masked monster, if it was indeed your choice in the first place, makes no sense. Either you’re feeling froggy or the rumors of dissension are true. Not that we are averse to the fight, mind you…”
Again the sound of leather creaking and knuckles cracking… a certain sign that Reaper is indeed looking for a good time. A violent, bloody, GOOD time.
”...but it reeks of foolishness. And, if I am being totally honest, although I’m never anything but?”
AMV leans in, conspiratorial in his tone, demanding of focus in his expression.
”It makes me think the conspiracy is real.”
One would expect a smile, there… perhaps a chuckle. It is the kind of statement seemingly manifested just to plant a seed of doubt within the mind of an adversary. But AMV looks very serious, very direct. Until the scene cuts to static.
*Cameras Off* A looming figure sits in a room best described as spartan… one that seems a mite too small for a beast of his size. Simple furnishings, little in the way of personal effects, and the beast known as Reaper. He sits, hunched over with a small frame in his hand, staring down at it… unless he’s actually fallen asleep, but that seems unlikely. His breathing is audible, which seems a bit abnormal. The only reason it could or should be would be as a result of powerful stress or emotion…
A sudden banging comes to the nearby door and Reaper looks up, mask half-visible in the dim light. The pounding is insistent and Reaper, oddly calm, puts the picture face-down on the bedside table and reaches into his jacket draped over the bed. As his hand emerges, the gloved hand clasping the handle of some manner of weapon, a voice calls from without.
”Come on, I know you’re in there!”
His grip loosens on the weapon at the words of the female visitor, yet Reaper does not let go. Instead of turning to the door, he turns back to the picture. The woman’s voice becomes more insistent.
”Look, I know you don’t feel like talking right now, but… you can at least listen. This is family. You told us that was more important than anything!”
A deep sigh emits from Reaper, who places the weapon back where it was and rises to his feet. He walks out of sight, toward the door, and as he opens it and exits the room his mask is tossed behind him, landing on the bed. The scene starts to distort, both visually and audibly, masking the view and what is being said before the whole of it cuts to static...
*Cameras On* ...and reforms on the front steps of a downtown high-rise. The timeframe is not far removed from where it had been. For all we know, AMV’s monologue directly preceded the sight of himself and Reaper walking across the marble courtyard, past a garden with a fountain centerpiece, down steps toward a black limo where a uniformed chauffeur waits with the back door held open. AMV gets in first, followed by Reaper. He stares hard at the driver, the man trembling that non-physical gesture. Getting into the car, the door is shut behind the pair and the view cuts to the inside of the ride. Posh is not doing it justice. Mood lighting, a mini-bar, super-comfortable seats and, of course, a solid sound system and lots of beverages.
Reaper sits silently as Vance, in the ride first, is already pouring himself a vodka over ice with a mint leaf and a cherry. He turns to Reaper in the process of putting the cap back on the bottle of Grey Goose.
”Anything for you?”
Making an almost dismissive gesture, Reaper reaches up to remove his mask, setting it aside while leaning back out of the light. Again, a brief glimpse of a profile, a flash of dark facial hair with flecks of gray, then naught but the shadows where his visage should be. Before he fully settles, Vance is reaching for a bottle… but he changes his mind for some reason and puts it back, reaching for a different one: a bottle of Killian’s Red.
Holding it out to Reaper, who takes it in a gloved hand, the big man gestures with the bottle as if to ask why Vance switched up on him. After picking up his glass, Vance holds it out to Reaper as if gesturing for a toast.
”For those who wait for us.”
A moment of hesitation, then a light clink as Reaper taps the neck of the bottle to Vance’s glass, both men taking a sip… though in Reaper’s case it is more of a gulp. Enough to drain half the bottle. Vance… seems concerned by this, but as there’s a camera on, he catches himself and locks on the lens with a satisfied smile.
”I think you’re right, Skrabz. I think someone, perhaps several someones, are out to get you. Jealous of your success, perhaps? Just wanting to make a name for themselves? Perhaps promised some grand reward for making you part of history instead of the present? Ah, the possible reasons are endless. There are myriad reasons as to why someone would want you out of the way, permanently or otherwise. Perhaps you released a… hmm… what do the call it in the business? A beef track? No, a diss track. Someone’s trying to do you like they did Biggie, Skrabz. Maybe not with bullets, but certainly enough to make sure you ain’t a threat on either side of the mic!”
Letting out a light laugh, Vance crosses one leg over the other and gestures toward the camera with his glass.
”Then again, bullets would probably just piss you off. And ramming a car into yours? Might slow you down, but it probably wouldn’t stop you. Not considering how successful you are in Mile High. Someone who’s taken the damage, fought the fights and held that much gold for so long? Nah… they’d end up on their backs before they realized they made a mistake. Suppose I just let my imagination get away from me.
But now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
Another leisurely sip of his Grey Goose leaves AMV refreshed, though his eyes are never taken off the camera. Reaper, meanwhile, sips down the rest of the beer and drops the empty vessel in the receptacle nearby. Reaching past the lawyer, he takes another bottle from the small fridge and twists off the cap. It’s a night to imbibe apparently and the New Nightmare is remorseless.
”If you weren’t before, you are now. In Internet parlance, you just lost the game. How does it feel, Skrabz, to be done in by your own brain?”
Contrary to his client, when Vance finishes his drink, he puts the glass aside and declines a refill. Instead, he folds his hands atop his knee and calmly gazes at the camera.
”Of course, you don’t believe anything like that could happen to you. And chances are that it won’t. It’s a different world than it was in the heyday of gangsta rap and something I think they referred to as the something-era? You know… back when wrestling was more about tits, cursing and screwing corpses than it was who could actually go in the ring. Damn if I know what it was called, but, eh… you get it.”
A dismissive wave of his hand and a shake of his head.
”But whether you believe it or not, whether it makes sense or not, it will forever be in the back of your head. How hard is it to stop thinking once you’ve started? Impossible. Take it from a man whose job is to think. The doubt is officially seeded in your brain, Skrabz, and whether you like it or not, whether you consciously endeavor to control it, that doubt is going to have an effect. It might slow you down a step or two. It might rob you of a sliver of focus. It might cause a single, solitary drop of sweat to roll down your cheek and hit the mat, with all the force of a feather but all the meaning of a gunshot, as you go eyes to chest with Reaper.
My client is inhuman, Skrabz. A monster in human flesh, an animal too intelligent and dangerous for the jungle, who would scare more people without the mask than with. Like any predator worth his salt, he can smell fear and sense weakness. Now, he might stop short of ripping out a man’s throat with his teeth, but as many before you have learned, that does not mean he will not make a good show of grabbing your head and making it feels as if your skull is in a hydraulic press.
Do not deny this truth: he CAN do that you, champ. And if he does, you won’t make it out of ThrowDown under your own power, much less be ready to go the distance with Tyke Index at Black Magic. And I understand what that last sentence is making you think, so shall we address it right now?”
As if sensing the state of his client’s beverage, AMV gathers a third Killian’s from the fridge, passing it to Reaper just as he was finishing his second bottle.
”Reaper is not playing spoiler for Tyke Index. Our arrangement is mutually beneficial but does not include doing Tyke’s dirty work. Regardless of who decided on this match, it is nothing to us other than one more fight for Reaper to engage in as he furthers his personal agenda here in Mile High. Yes, we will step in to see Index get his fair chance at you and your championship, and yes, we will have his back should the need arise, but that is where it ends because Tyke is a man not only of talent and ability, but pride. As am I. As is Reaper.”
A gesture is made toward the camera by Reaper with his beer bottle… but in agreement? Deference? For no reason at all? Hard to tell without a face to go by in this case. AMV nods, regardless, giving his charge a glance before putting his eyes back on the camera.
”Pride, though, is a dangerous thing. Almost as dangerous as the truth. The truth, Skrabz, is that no matter how this match goes, you are going to lose in some fashion. Not your championship, not your life, but you WILL lose something. Like perhaps that security blanket that’s been around your shoulders since you began to outlast and outlive everyone who has come looking for your title. Or perhaps that aura of the unstoppable, indefatigable drive to be the best at everything. Reaper is not a person you defeat. He is a beast that you survive. My pride demands that I give my monster all the tools and backup necessary for him to succeed, in and out of the ring. Tyke’s pride demands that he earn and hold high any and every title that catches his eye, screaming his glory from the summit of Coke Mountain. Reaper’s pride, on the other hand-”
As if in response, Reaper holds out the empty bottle of Killian’s. Not to Aloysius, but toward the camera. AMV, pausing at the sight, wonders at what his client might be up to. Then, in his gloved hand, Reaper crushes the bottle with a loud pop. Brown chunks of glass fall to the floor and Reaper dusts his hands of the remaining debris, declining a fourth brew. AMV, glancing to the floor, then to his client, chuckles dryly.
”Good thing we don’t have to clean that up ourselves.”
Reaper growls slightly and sits back again, keeping himself out of the light which shines upon the mask that rests near him upon the seat.
”Reaper’s pride… has nothing to do with anything that pertains to wrestling. Why, then, does he ply his trade in the ring? Because that is where destiny awaits. More than that the world, and you Skrabz, need not be privy to. The destruction he levels upon his opponents and that you will soon feel first-hand is a by-product of the natural skill and strength that God himself bestowed on the New Nightmare. So I invite you and the rest of Mile High Wrestling to consider this, since they all have Reaper’s name on their lips and have since Mile High Spectacular 2:
Humor me and consider what might happen if Reaper, for whatever reason, decided to take wrestling seriously instead of using it at the means to an end. If he devoted time to training in the ring wars instead of simply doing his time in the gym to maintain strength and health, putting that new knowledge and drive to use between the bells… what then? Because as much as I hate to shatter your illusions, folks, that is yet another case of truth being dark, dangerous and fucking scary: Reaper has yet to truly show what he can do. To anyone. Marinate on that for a moment.”
While they do so, AMV calmly refills his glass with fresh ice, another cherry and another bit of Grey Goose. Reaper, on the other hand, takes a cigarette from a black case in his jacket pocket and lights a match with his fingernail, putting the flame to the cancer stick. A long plume of smoke is exhaled and what we can see of Reaper’s posture shows a slightly more relaxed monster. AMV, on the other hand...
”Couple the knowledge that Reaper’s limits are yet unknown with the pressure you’re feeling from all sides and both careers, Skrabz. Sprinkle on top that there is no chance of intimidating Reaper, much less reasoning with him when that bell rings. You might as well try to shout down a tornado. Will that be enough to send you down in defeat? I would not dare show a lack of faith in my client, but to be fair you have a knack for finding victory no matter how slim the odds. Perhaps this is where Reaper’s streak ends.
Or perhaps the weeds of doubt will grow in that head of yours, squeezing the confidence and drive from your soul, diminishing you just enough for your skull to be filled with 1,000 Screams at the hands of the New Nightmare. Put on a brave face if you will, champ. Come before the world and tell us how Reaper is just another monster, an oversized lummox in a mask trying to get by on reputation and violence, someone who can’t even do his own talking without me by his side. Remind the world of who and why you are the way you are, held in the esteem you have earned. But I think you know how futile that will be. Because… we obviously know already, having sung your praises more than once.”
A sip of his drink is taken as Reaper takes another puff. Unfortunately, the light of the coal at the end of the cig is not enough to put glow on Reaper’s true face.
”You will lose, though, Skrabz. If not at ThrowDown, then at Black Magic. Reaper will take from you what is necessary to survive the pay-per-view with your gold intact. Tyke will have no qualms about picking up the pieces of you that the New Nightmare will leave strewn about the ring and piling them up just to pin them for the one… two… three. Heads we win, tails we win. And thus the view from the Summit never changes.”
AMV ‘toasts’ the camera with his glass.
”Welcome to the beginning of the end, Skrabz. Your nightmare is about to come true.”
The view fades out slowly...
*Cameras Off* Another monster sighting… the New Nightmare, standing somewhere beautiful, masked and jacketed, his head lowered and his gaze clearly locked on something. His posture is not that of a man laden with strength, but rather more like that of a creature weighed down considerably. A veritable black-clad Atlas. But what, pray, could weigh down the New Nightmare? What could the Masked Beast bear that would give him even the slightest pause? A man who tears through opponents dispassionately and silently like Reaper does surely cannot possess… feelings?
He takes a knee, placing a leather hand on the top of what looks to be a marker of some kind… though what exactly it is shall be left to conjecture for the view never lowers any further than it starts. Taking his hand away after a few moments, reaching into his long coat for something, Reaper retrieves what looks like an envelope and places it on the ground. Then, without a word (obviously), he rises to his feet and turns, walking away. The view shakes a bit, distorts and then cuts to static before the view goes completely dark.
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Post by Skrabz on Nov 9, 2019 22:43:44 GMT -6
Location: AT&T Center, San Antonio, Texas
Date: October 27th
Time: Immediately After MHW ThrowDown Episode Twenty Five
Skrabal Stanazs pushed the arena door open and took half a step outside, after a quick glance in every direction he stepped out into the night air gripping the bag that held his MHW Ultimate Title a little tighter than usual. There was no swagger, no bounce in his step, instead each foot was planted upon the earth's surface flat and at pace as he made the journey back to his motel room on foot with the hood of his plain black hoody pulled up over his head.
As he left the arena grounds he reached into the left pocket of his sweat pants and pulled out a branded Kimber Cannon doob tube, he hurriedly pulled the pre rolled, Billy Kimber OG bud, kief and shatter infused joint out and placed it’s glass tip between his lips. Seconds later he rolled his thumb over his lighter, sparking it to life, then moved it’s flame close to his joint, setting it ablaze. . With his lungs full of potent smoke he placed the doob tube and lighter back in his pocket and as he exhaled his mind was filled with flashes of distant memories.
Skrabal continued on his journey, puffing on his joint, as the memories kept churning over.
A mix of emotions swirled amongst the memories, from pride to anger and everything in between, but Skrabal had no time to dwell on these fleeting feelings as the memories continued flashing by.
Skrabal exhaled another cloud of pungent smoke and as he did he lifted his left hand up to touch the wound sitting above his right eye, the wound caused by Tyke Index as he attacked Skrabal from behind earlier in the night. Before anger over that incident engulfed him Skrabal's mind travelled back in time again.
Skrabal shook his head as he remembered Wavy's words for the first time since they were spoken. His face, partially hidden beneath his hood, contorted, becoming a rapidly changing mask of micro-expressions that faded and morphed as quickly as they appeared. He continued walking in the direction of his motel, his joint still filling the San Antonio air with it's complex, kush based, earthy yet sweet aroma. As sure as his left foot followed his right, and as sure as his lungs were filled with smoke, his mind was again flooded with memories.
Location: Skrabal's Motel Room, San Antonio, Texas. Date: October 28th 2019 Time 12.05AM
Skrabal slammed his motel room door closed behind him, shaking it's rotten wooden frame and sending vibrations through to the rooms either side of his own. He made a beeline straight for his ever present box of beer sat atop the coffee table, placing his bag containing his MHW Ultimate Championship on the cherry red sofa, before haphazardly grabbing a bottle from the box. He accidentally dropped it on the corner of the scuffed and stained coffee table. The bottle shattered, sending glass and foamy warm beer cascading on to the worn linoleum flooring. Skrabal wasted no time in reaching for another bottle, this time more carefully, and within in seconds his first was quenched. Skrabal eagerly reached for another bottle, hoping to halt this flood of flashbacks, but before long his mind wondered to the past again as he paced around his motel room.
A smile briefly flashed across Skrabal's face as he remembered the night his title reign began. He stopped pacing and sat back down on the cherry red sofa. He opened another bottle of beer and took a couple of mouthfuls before placing the bottle atop the coffee table. He opened the coffee table drawer and pulled out another pre-rolled joint. He placed it in his mouth and lit it then sat back on the sofa. As he sat puffing away his mind was again filled with memories. These ones much more recent than those that came before them.
Maybe it was his level of inebriation, maybe it was the thought of his successes, whatever it was Skrabal felt lighter, and as he mind calmed he sank in to the cherry red sofa and soon passed out.
Location: Skrabal's Motel Room, San Antonio, Texas. Date: October 28th 2019 Time 9.15AM
After a somewhat restless nights sleep Skrabal stirred, still on the sofa, and as he reached up towards his head in his half asleep state to scratch an itch his fingers felt the open wound inflicted by Tyke Index the night before. Skrabal sat up instantly with a jolt, his mind again awash with memories, these ones even more recent than those he was plagued with just a few hours earlier.
Skrabal's phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of him, snapping him back to the current moment. He reached forward and picked up his phone and tapped at the notification.
Skrabal looked at his phone for a second or two, taking the words in, and in those seconds every single memory that had clawed at his mental state over the last twelve hour period flashed before his eyes. In those seconds he thought about everything that had led to this moment. In a sudden, serene state of clarity he did what he usually does. He laughed and shook his head, then tossed the phone on to the coffee table and reached for his breakfast beer.
Location: Skrabals Motel Room, Baton Rouge, Louisiana Date: November 10th 2019 Time: 1.35AM
The scene opens as it usually does, with the reigning Mile High Wrestling Ultimate Champion perched on a sofa in a run down motel room with his gleaming MHW Ultimate Championship sat on the sofa next to him on full display. He looks into the camera with smoke drifting slowly in the space between him and the lens his eyes are fixed upon.
“I has to hold my hands up, on the real. Man like Skrabz done talked a lot of shit over the last year and more about the bossman…It be about six weeks or suttin’ now since I done challenged him to confront me if… and only if... he really got a pro’lem. He ain’t do that though nah, but shit I can’t blame him coz I ain’t really wait around that night after the five way ting. Nah, man raced straight to the back lookin’ for him.”
He pauses and lifts his smouldering joint to his mouth and inhales deeply then continues, smoke chasing every syllable as they travel over his lips.
“I ain’t find him though.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“I ain’t find him and for a minute or two man start to feel like I really do be paranoid. Then it happen though, he call me out publicly, pon the twitter ting like so many a them done did in the past. For a day or two more I start to think maybe he scurred, felt to go get his affairs in order before he step to man, last will and testament vibe, ya get me?.”
He takes another deep toke on his joint, his gaze drifting around the room as he considers his next words.
“I must a been dizzy fam coz I ain’t seen the ting comin’ at all. That’s the second time I been caught slippin’ since September too. Coz the bossman say jus’ the right words to pique man’s interest, talkin’ ‘bout snatchin the big strap… Ya nah I hear ‘em say he done invited me out there, verbally, but on the real I ain’t hear that part coz I already be on the way… Coz shit I done said it from the start that it ain’t matter who you are, you want the strap jus’ come try takin’ it and since he said what he said, and was stood right there in the Mi' High ring when he said it, I was ‘bout to go out there and let him try reach for it.”
He leans down the side of the sofa, reaching for a bottle of beer.
“What happened though?”
He twists the cap from the bottle and throws it in the direction of the camera.
“It’s a rhetorical question fam, the shit ain’t need answerin’ plus ya all done seen the ting anyway.”
He takes a long drink from the brown glass bottle and sighs.
“I’m a answer it though, butchu already knew that innit… What happened is I ain’t make it half way down to that ring before his lil’ old Haitch Cee Dub buddy Tyke Index jump me from the back and I can’t front fam, he got me good this time. Bus’ my face up but shit it ain’t be the first time I bled so it jus' be another scar to add the collection… Nex’ ting ya nah Tyke Index runnin’ out graspin’ suttin’ that belong to man like Skrabz... and we gonna get to that in the near future, trust!"
He finishes his beer and lazily tosses the bottle on to the floor.
“But shit I had work to do still, had to right that Azzy wrong so I had to hold back for a bit but first chance I got after that dub I had Tyke in my sights, locked and loaded ready to drop flat on his back wit’ a Snare Clap… Then it happen though. Yeah… those guitars strummed out through the arena and out he stepped in all his glory, the latest eejiat lettin' Tyke Index ride his hype train. The biggest puppet I ever done laid my eyes on. So I stood there lookin’ up, yeah I said lookin’ fam up he a big dude I can’t lie, and I’m lookin’ through two holes in a metal mask wonderin’ jus’ what the fuck all the fuss been about. Coz he had his shot right there to prove he ‘bout it, and he ain’t take it nah. His lil’ suit wearin’ mouth piece be there too, givin’ it all that nonsense and foolishness ‘bout how I ain’t want none a man like Reaper… What happen nex though?... It’s a rhetori… fuck it, you nah I’m a answer it anyway. What happened nex’ is his lil’ tailor made suit wearin’ mouthpiece whispered a few words in his ear and he walked right ‘round man like Skrabz. Picked his boy Tyke up and carried on him right on outta the buildin’."
He shakes his head before continuing.
“But I ain’t want none a him right? That’s what ya said right? Blad the way I remember it is it was me watchin’ him walk away fam. Man like Skrabz stay planted to the canvas jus’ watchin’ him disappear in a the distance and suddenly he ain’t look so big no more.”
He shakes his again, this time while silent mouthing “Nah” before taking an overdue puff on his joint.
“Ya nah man a thought that’d be it. I’m a see him again in a few months once he proved his hype real but the bossman got other plans, prolly thinkin’ Reaper gonna soften me up so his lil’ ol’ buddy Tyke can have at least a half a chance come Black Magic, or suttin’. Maybe it jus’ be bidness coz for real that argument be a lil' valid coz I can't deny he got 'em talkin' but fact is I ain’t really give a shit either way. It ain't matter if it be bidness, it ain't matter if the bossman behind it, it ain't matter if Tyke behind it. The motive ain't a ting fam, not once the bell ring, nah.”
He holds the joint in front of him and watches as the smoke floats up and away before moving it back to his mouth for another deep toke.
“So October twenty sixth it be Reaper goin’ one on one wit’ man like Skrabz.”
He takes a final puff on his joint then stubs it out in an ashtray that sits out of shot.
“Oi Reaper, don’t think I’m a stand that close to you fam, dont think for single second man like Skrabz gonna look you right in those eyes and not see you blad.”
He looks in to the camera intently, straight faced.
“Man like Skrabz done seen those eyes before. Yeah.”
He holds his gaze on the lens as he continues.
“I nah it’s you blad, stop frontin’.”
The intensity in his stare grows as he continues.
“Give it up Ace, man has you sussed innit.”
His stare softens slightly and a smile rises at the corners of his mouth.
"What ya sayin’? You sayin’ it can’t be Ace Indigo?"
He tilts his head slightly, as if listening for an answer.
“Seen, seen. Man has seen those eyes before still.”
His eyes travel around the room, from wall to floor to ceiling to wall, as he seemingly racks his brain trying to remember. Suddenly his eyes widen and he claps loudly, just once. His eyes return to the camera.
“That’s it fam, I got it this time.”
He tries to maintain a deadpan expression, but that same smile rising at the corners of his mouth gives away his true intentions.
“Joseph Hunter that’s you blad! Cut it out now fam, come on take the mask off.”
He laughs slightly, and arrogantly, before continuing.
“What ya say it can’t be him either?”
He looks around the room again, a feigned expression of confusion on his face that lasts just a few seconds before that smug smile breaks through again.
“Seen, seen.”
He takes a few seconds before continuing, this time his straight face remains unbroken.
“Man has got it this time for real though, yeah. See I remember you real good from way back, triple threat match… Yeah man a remember ya eyes blad…”
The intensity in his stare sets in cold.
“I jus’ be glad you had some boots on this time coz man like Skrabz remember ya bare stinkin’ feet too Deuce and after the way done bowed out way back I ain’t surprised ya feel ya needsta wear a ma...
He breaks again and laughs loudly, a smug look of self satisfaction smeared across his face,
“What you sayin’ it ain’t Deuce Holmes either?... For real? Shit I ain’t nah then…”
He leans down the side of the sofa again for another bottle of beer then returns his eyes to the camera.
“I guess it be a real mystery.”
His words ooze with sarcasm as he twists the top of his second bottle of beer and tosses it across the room.
“Relax innit, I’m jus’ fuckin'witchu fam... They prolly say I shouldn’t but shit man like Skrabz been told not to play wit’ his food since the baby days but way I see it is you a big meal so there be a whole to play wit’... There be some real dif’rences between you and all three a them there names I mention, can’t lie there be some similarities too…. Whatchu got in common wit’ man like Ace Indigo though?... Tell me fam, what you got in common with Joe Hunter blad? I mean jus’ how in the fuck is you like Deuce Holmes?
He smiles smugly again before drinking from the bottle of beer.
“Ya nah how it go by now, right?... Rhetorical question innit”
Another gulp and the beer is gone, he drops the bottle on the floor and continues.
“The ting ya got in common wit’ each and e’ryone a them is ya done did jus’ about as much as they did to earn they place in the ring wit’ man like Skrabz.”
He sets his eyes on the camera again.
"Nuttin!."
He sneers with venom before reaching yet again for another bottle of beer.
"Oh shit nah, that’s right. Man has gotta give ya a lil’ credit, ain’t none a them win the Mi’ High cup... And that’s jus’ one a those dif’rences I be talkin’ about between’ you an’ them, there be more too. Biggest one be when I said each and e’ry one a they names suttin’ special happen’, man like Skrabz a put a picture in the mind a e’ry person who heard him say it. Don’t get it twisted fam, it ain’t telepathy or nuttin', nah."
He twists the top from the bottle and drops it on the floor.
“It’s how language work innit.”
He laughs before taking a drink from his third bottle of beer.
“See when I said they names , despite how lil’ they done did here, despite how lil’ weight their names carry e’rybody listenin’ could picture they faces. That ain’t happen for you though, nah, man a say your name an’ e’ryone a picture suttin’ else…”
He takes another quick drink from the bottle before continuing.
“Ya nah I heard ‘em speakin’ ‘bout how that mask be on a horror movie vibe. Said…”
His voice shifts to a higher, nasally pitch. His words carry a melodic tone as he continues
“Here’s host a reasons why, he slowly stalks you, doesn’t talk and he won’t wait until you die... you can run but you can’t hide…”
He shakes his head again and looks into the camera, his face a picture of exasperation.
“Fam!”
He lowers his head and raises a hand to his forehead, a second later his head snaps back up and again looks directly into the camera as he bellows.
“I HAD TO ROLL MY EYES!”
He laughs loudly as he throws himself back on the sofa, being careful not spill even a drop of his beer.
“Yeah, coz man like Skrabz seen a movie or two himself ya nah, he a cultured dude. So I said nah it ain’t that’ fam, no horror movie bidness’ ‘bout it. It’s a Pulp Fiction ting, Tarantino times ya get me? Big man’s on that Gimp shit. I mean weigh it up blad…. The bredda ain’t say a word himself and he follow his lawyer 'round like a lost cuck followin’ his wife's boyfriend so you ask me ain't nuttin' Michael Myers 'bout him nah, plus it ain't Halloween no more and he more a trick than trick or treat anyway, ya get me? Coz he ain't care about the dub, is that right fam? So what he here for the money is it?.”
He shakes his head again, the disdain evident in his facial expression.
“But man was trippin’ right? Sweatin’ out leavin’ grease stains pon the canvas like a paper plate a fried chicken? I mean that’s what he be sayin’, his lil’ tailor made suit wearin’ mouthpiece, Aloyus Marbella Whatever-the-fuck, pon the twitter ting. Talkin’ ‘bout sweat, fam that was the swag drippin’. I mean what? Ya think it be the first time man like Skrabz had someone masked up starin’ him down? Nah , the shit be a monthly occurrence where I be from but it usually on some balaclava bidness.”
He takes another drink from his bottle of beer.
“Plus I been expectin’ it since September fifteenth. Yeah, man a knew this would happen ya nah, ever since ya stepped in and snatched up that Mi’ High Cup. Yeah the written been on the wall for a lil’ while, shit you ask me the paint ain’t even dry yet, got some drips too. The shit be lookin’ kinda rushed blad… But I ain’t throw ‘em up fam, nah, I just wash ‘em off… So if they say it your turn than man a guess it be your turn reglardess a the motives behind it. Plus it bound to happen anyway coz in Mi’ High man like Skrabz be suttin’ like the first Sarah Connor in the phone book. What that mean though? It mean the name alone got e’ry wanna be Terminator gunnin’ for me…“
He finishes his beer and again drops the empty bottle on the floor.
"But I ain’t back down from anyone yet and I ain’t ‘bout to start witchu, nah. But I nah ya got some of ‘em shook. I heard the talk fam man ain’t deaf, and no matter what they sayin’ ‘bout ya fam I’m a tell ya right now that you ain’t death. Nah, and you ain’t nuttin’ to be scurred a bredrin."
He leans forward towards the coffee table and retrieves a pre-rolled rolled.
“Oh but Skrabz he six foot seven, two hundred seventy suttin’ pounds…He the biggest challenge ya faced yet…. Nah, bun that right off fam, he the biggest bitch in the buildin’!.. I mean tell me blad, what kind of a man your size hides behind a mask? What kind of a man who they say done weaved a path a destruction, who they sayin' mapped out mayhem throughout Mi’ High ain’t want the world to nah who the fuck he is?”
He places the joint between his lips and lights it, inhaling deeply, then continues.
“I’m a tell ya fam, one time, on the level… A wasteman, a pussy that wanna stay anonymous jus' so he be able turn ‘round and go run away the second his lil' plans show first signs a goin' south…
His stare again lingers on the camera’s lens as he puffs on his joint.
“Or is it a social anxiety ting blad? You need a service animal or suttin? Is that what it is?”
He laughs and shakes his head.
“Nah, none a that. The reason ya wear the mask plain to see. It similar to Azzy’s apron and that ol' Rock N Roll God costume from way back innit, it jus’ be suttin’ else to sell to the people in the seats. Well get that merch money while ya can innit coz you ain’t ever comin’ close to that big strap pay packet, nah! And that’s why I gotta give ya lil’ spokesman some credit, he clued up. Obviously he been watchin' my shit from the past.”
He leans forward and retrieves a folded shirt from the floor.
“So he see Reapers name in big bold letters right there at the type a the card, right nex’ to mine in even bigger letters and he jump pon the twitter ting and start barkin’ demands about havin’ a shirt made… Coz man like Skrabz gonna wear it right? It’s what I do right?”
He unfolds the shirt and holds it up, displaying the front of it emblazoned with the words “New Nightmare” positioned either side of a printed transfer.
“Nah, I ain’t wearin' this shit.”
He throws the shirt to the side, out of the frame. He stays silent, his only movements being his eyes as they slowly drift around the room and his right arm moving to placing his joint in his mouth and then removing it as he puffs away.
“For real... I nah you all think I be frontin’. Skrabz shook on the inside this time innit, he has to be… Coz Reaper the most dangerous rookie in Mi’ High right? Reaper the embodiment of vengeance or suttin’, right? This gonna be a massacre, right? He speak wit’ his fists and he tell nuttin' but tales a violence, right? But he ain't care about the dub... I mean this all what the lawyer be sayin'... Don't care about the dub... That's loser talk fam, some female dog on it's hind legs bidness. What that mean though?... It mean it some straigh up bitch shit, and we all nah it too plus you not the first man to claim it. Ting is ain't nobody else who said it in the past still here now, nah! Coz once they stopped catchin' dubs they slipped right on out the door and in the process showed us all how much that dub actually mean to 'em. So wisen up fam and quick, coz you aint impress nobody wit' that rancid also ran rhetoric where you tell us Reaper ain't care if win and he ain't take this bidness seriosuly. On the level that shit disrespecftul to e'rybody out there workin' tryin' catch they come up in Mi' igh or elsewhere and when man like Skrabz callin' you out for bein' disrepctful then you bein' disrespctful as fuck innit, and real stupid too. I mean switch the scenario up a bit, imagine ya suited self steppin' in a the court room and the first ting ya do is tell the judge, the jury and e'rybody else up in there that you ain't take the law seriously, that you ain't care if your client bus' case or not. How the fuck ya think that shit gonna go down? You ain't be gettin' no more retainers that's for sure fam. Man like Skrabz catch a case in the future and I'd rather take my chances on that over worked, uninspired public difender tip, ya get me?"
He looks in to the camera is if waiting for an answer.
"Don't care about the dub... allow it fam, spare me that nonsensen and foolishness. Coz Man like Skrabz stay dif'rent, he say it loud and proud like a pride march, from day one I let 'em all know the dub the only ting that matter to me and that's why I done had this strap ya see sittin' nex' to me since forever... But yeah I been listenin' still, listenin’ and watchin’ from the day ya walked through the door. The only way I’m a get through it alive if is if he lets me, right? That's a lil' more a what the lawyer been sayin' to e'ryone else Reaper step in the ring wit', but he a typical lawyer innit, he talk a whole lot a shit... I mean what the fuck fam, a beef track? Are you dizzy blud? Biggie Smalls? Fam man like Skrabz be about four years old and a couple a thousand miles away when that ol' east coast west coast shit went down. So I beg you and anyone else that wanna talk that shit get wit' the times innit, or jus' stick to speakin' on shit you actually nah a lil' suttin' about'. I mean two careers? The fuck you mean blad? Man is fully focused on this wrestlin' ting for time now, one hundred. Yeah I rap a lil' but that shit be jus a small part a my culture fam, there be other elements too it but I ain't about to waste my time explainin' it. Fact is it aint a career, not for man like Skrabz or anybody who value it anyway. Truth is I ain't do that shit for cash fam nah, I does it cos it flow through my veins, I does it coz my heart got that ol' school boom bap beat... But leave it to the lawyer to see ery'ting as a route to riches innit. Look at how I live fam, shit I invite each a e'ryone a ya into the place I stay e'ry time I sit down in front a the camera. It's cruddy motel rooms and cheap chicks by the dozen...”
He shakes his head again and rolls his eyes, as he puffs on his joint.
“But this the beginin' a the end for man like Skrabz right? Yeah I heard that before fam, too many times to count. But this where my nightmare comes true, right? Fam my nightmare came true the night Azzy Vebbins rolled me up and stole the dub. Fuck mares fam that was a night terror, straight up. But I'm still here blad, still settin' levels like I be mixin' on the decks, thats one a those other elements I be talkin' about... But you think I'm a let that shit happen again? Nah, never that! So what’s gonna happen come episode twenty six is this, the bell gonna ring to start the match and when it rings again to end it, it gonna be man like Skrabz standin’ in the ring, large and in charge like I been from day dot. And then we gonna see jus' how much that dub matter to man like Reaper. Coz I ain't Bruiser fam, I ain't Erin Blue and I ain't anybody else ya done dumped outta that ring back at Mi' High Spectacular Two, nah! You well aware a who I be though innit fam, I tell 'em all often enough. I be the big strap packer, the Mi' High Ultimate Champion and the first real test ya had and most likely ya last coz shit ya can fill a whole roster wit' people who had a buzz until I silenced it...
He pauses for a second but keeps his confident flare set firmly on the camera.
"Ya nah a lot a man might say they gonna rip that mask from his face, expose him to the whole word. Not me blad, like I already done said man like Skrabz stay dif’rent. So since he wanna keep his features hidden’ I’m a straight up mangle that mask so bad not even Reaper himself gonna be able to pry it off, trust...
He pauses again momentarily, his gaze drifting down to the floor then back up to meet the camera.
"Oh but Reaper the New Nightmare right? That's a lil' more a what that lil' tailor made suit wearin', high rise office workin', backstage coffee drinkin' lawyer been sayin'... But shit you ask me and I'm a tell anyone who believe it to wake the fuck up...”
He laughs lightly and shakes his head again before continuing, his words flowing with melody and overflowing with arrogance.
“Coz it seem to me ya be dreamin’, and if he a nightmare that only mean that I could beat him while I’m sleepin’!”
He leans forward, his arrogant stare locked on the camera, and taps at his phones screen, ending the recording.
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