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Post by Admin on Jun 13, 2018 16:32:23 GMT -6
***THE MAIN EVENT***
Tag Team Match
"Tattle Tail" Candi Bratton and Skrabz
vs
Forge and Robi Jean Mitchell Roleplay Limit: 2 Roleplay Deadline: Wednesday, June 20, 2018 @ 2AM Central Time |
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Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
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Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2018 19:27:52 GMT -6
"Whores and Scores"
June 13, 2018
Post-Mile High Wrestling
Denver, CO
Candi Bratton is not in the mood. Is she ever? She’s being attended to by the medics in the back who are checking her over after the attack on her by Forge and the Shieldmaiden.
“Follow my finger,” says the doc as he moves it from side to side. Candi just looks at him like he’s crazy.
“Get the fuck away from me before I take that finger from your goddamned body,” she screams as she slides off the medic table onto the floor, though she is a little dizzy and she has to hold herself up. “I don’t need your fucking finger or your goddamned piece of shit examination to tell you that I’m just fucking fine. Now fuck off before I crack your skull.”
“But Miss Bratton..”
“Don’t fucking Miss Bratton me, you quack. Take your goddamned Doogie Houser degree and get the fuck away from me.”
“I’m going to have to tell Mr. Mack…”
“Yeah, and while you’re at it you can go tell Mr. Mack to go fuck himself. You tell him if he thinks for one goddamned minute that I’m going to tag up with Scrubs for any goddamn thing.” She finally notices the camera and she pushes past the medic and out into the hallway. She turns to the camera, “Listen here, Scrappy Doo and your goddamned band of whores. I’m going to fucking tear each and every one of you apart. You must not have been paying goddamned attention to what I did to that giant turd Combes out there tonight. If you think for one minute I won’t fucking take you out next week, you have another motherfucking think coming.”
She starts to walk away and then turns back, “And you, Scrubs, you can just stay the fuck home next week. I’ll take on the goddamned Brady Bunch all by my self. I don’t want you there. I don’t need you there and I sure as fuck can handle them on my own. So take the night off, you fucking prick. If you show up, I’ll knock you the fuck out too. This is my fight.”
She pauses for a moment as she leans against the wall for a second, perhaps getting her second wind. “Mack, I swear to god if you don’t make this a goddamned handicapped match, then I’ll find you when I get here next week and I’ll beat your pasty white ass from here to there. I’m not fucking around. I want BJ and his Hair Bear Bunch in the ring all by myself. All of them. Not just two of those motherfuckers. I want the entire whorehouse out there. When I get done with them, they’ll be all bear and no hair.”
She turns to walk off, “Where’s my goddamned belt?” she says as she disappears around the corner.
Fade.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2018 10:11:28 GMT -6
> ...
> Starting audio playback...
”Y’know what part of the problem is with the world today? Motherfuckers are too damn scared, or not scared enough, of consequences. Normally, there’d be some kind of middle ground to this, but there ain’t. Courage is a thing of the past. No one has the stones to stand up for what they believe without an army at their back or a bunch of likes on Facebook pumping their fragile egos… and even then a stiff wind and a loud clap would send them scurrying like cockroaches. Soft as fuck is what they are. No one is prepared to suffer anymore. No one wants to sweat or bleed or fucking WORK for what they get. Nah, if they can’t download it for five bucks off the internet or push a button and have someone walk out and hand it to them? That’s too much effort and it probably wasn’t worth it anyway. Soft-handed dickweeds begging scraps from someone better and treating the dregs they’re handed like Olympic fucking medals. That’s the world we live in. The Me Generation, who can’t handle failure or admit to mistakes, who fear the unknown and resist effort.
And people wonder why our country gets shit on around the world. Take a look around, assholes; it isn’t just because of the jackhole running this place, or the freedoms we take for granted, or how we have to have our goddamn fingers in everyone else’s business… not on its own, at least. It’s because people could change all that if they got off our asses, put down the Quarter Pounders, shut off the smartphones and started working for it.
But they won’t. Why? Because it’s easier to let someone else do the work for them. Because they’d rather argue over what a song sounds like or who some talentless cunt celebrity should date. It’s more important to them to vote on half-retarded internet surveys and post photos of their fucking dinner than it is to handle the future we got coming. People like that? They make me sick.
But what does that have to do with wrestling?
The same armchair quarterbacks and basement-dwelling iconoclasts who are content to sit back and watch the world swirl the bowl infest the fucking wrestling business, too. Look up and down every roster you can, from Mile High to anywhere else you could name. Start with the uptight clowns who claim to be ‘fighting the good fight’ and standing up for the little guy. Arrogant pricks who only really care about what they can lord over the rest, boosted up by the adulation of the crowd and a heaping helping of self-righteousness. Without people hanging on their every word and move? They’d be less than nothing. Then you have the wannabe badasses who think a sharp insult and mean faces are enough to send their opponents running like rats. Oh, they’re gonna do this! They’re gonna do that! They’re gonna hurt you real bad!
Except they’re even bigger pussies than the white hats. Ever heard the saying of how the loudest person in the room is the most afraid? Well, what does that tell you? The only ones worse are the cowards who try to ride that line, playing the cool loner or the anti-hero, that idiotic concept that’s in every TV show or movie you see anymore, to say nothing of video games and all else. Too fucking cool for school. Time to pick a side, assholes. Either choose a cause and dive in head-first or get steamrolled by weaker souls with more conviction. Go back and listen to the crowd a couple weeks ago when I kicked Ricky Stanton in his soon-to-be-toothless mug and a little later than that when I put that shitstain Deuce Holmes through a table and made him swallow his own blood. You’ll hear the same thing looking at LAST week when I put Mile High on notice alongside my wife before we laid waste to Corvo and Falls.
And the masses cheered that shit. Y’know why? Not because we acted cool or tossed out half-hearted praise for their ‘support’. Not because we hold ourselves up as heroes beyond reproach or badasses without a care. It’s because we’re fucking real. We say we’re gonna do something and we do it. Plain and simple. Wrestlers will wrestle and schemers will scheme while the Chrome Dragons and the Shieldmaidens will tear apart anyone in front of us.”
> ...end of audio playback...
> ...
> Playing video “file006.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/17/18
> Time: 5:33am, Central
> Location: Metairie, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: The Mitchell Residence, Garage
> …
> Starting...
Technically, the day has begun; after all, the sun is up and the birds are singing. And, being that it is Louisiana in the first days of summer, the temperature is already way too damn high. News flash for the Weather Channel: if it FEELS like 85, it is FUCKING 85! Not feeling the heat himself, Forge sits on a towel spread out on the concrete and already marred by grease stains. Whatever has him up before Jesus and the Mexicans led the Martyr Machine to this, tuning up his ride in the wee hours while the rest of the world slumbers and dreams. Yet, for once, the man does not look to be a cross word from tearing a hole in someone’s face. In fact, he actually looks quite peaceful.
The tattooed powerhouse pauses after tightening a particularly-stubborn bolt, pulling a cloth from his back pocket and mopping some perspiration from his brow. Leaning in and blowing a little debris from the polished machine, Forge eyes it in the manner of an artist staring at their canvas. Another tightening here, the checking of wires and connection there… and after two hours of effort he considers himself done. For now. Rising to his full height, Forge gathers and wipes down his tools, taking them back to the tool chest. As he meticulously puts them away, a pair of bare arms slide around his waist, fingers managing with some effort to interlock. A faint smile touches Forge’s face as he puts the last of the ratchets away. The view, however, does not change; it only moves with Forge himself, as though the rest is immaterial.
”Pretty sure my clanging and banging out here didn’t wake you up, baby, so what are you doing out of bed?”
Seeing as how there ARE others sleeping in the house right now, behind several walls and doors or otherwise, Forge keeps his voice down. Red-painted fingertips start to scrape lightly at his bare abdominals and, just a little, they tense as an automatic reaction.
”Coming to bring you BACK to bed.”
It is Robi, yes… a husky tone to her voice, thick with sleep yet wrapped in silk.
”You didn’t think we were done, did you?”
There is, again, very little to see in the moment other than Forge himself, but just enough space to see Robi lean in a little closer and press her lips to the center of his back. Closing his eyes for a moment, Forge pauses in his efforts, savoring the moment perhaps. Turning the key in the lock of the tool chest, his attention lowers as he feels a silk-sheathed leg wrap around one of his, swathed in black… a discovery that prompts him to pause or a moment He lowers a strong hand to it, stroking the thigh all the way to the lace near the top.
”When you fell asleep? Yeah, kinda did.”
Making a clear noise of pouting, Robi’s one visible leg and her arms along with it tense, then cling tighter to Forge’s mountainous form.
”I swear I was just resting my eyes.”
”A long day makes for a longer night, gorgeous. Club business has us all over the place lately and that doesn’t begin to count the piles of bodies we’re leaving behind us in Mile High. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did with everything that went on just tonight…”
Again a pause… before Forge allows a little something melt-worthy into his own voice for Robi’s benefit.
”...but if you’re out here trying to tempt me back inside, you’re doing a damn good job.”
”...and how about now?”
His posture and position shift slightly from whatever Robi does after her teasing query. Whatever it was, Forge presses a hand against the nearby counter, fingers curling into his palm causing nails to scrape against the wooden surface. His sweaty hair falls before his face a bit, partially masking his eyes while a grin parts his lips.
”Now I’m considering putting you on this fucking table and tampering with you extensively.”
”Promises, promises.”
And, much like being awoken from the best dream at the worst possible time, Forge’s phone rings… or rather vibrates, causing a rattle on top of the tool chest. Spitting out a curse, he picks up the device and checks the ID, an effort that causes yet another curse.
”You have to take this. I recognize that number.”
”Being the voice of reason now? This is new.”
”Trust me, it won’t last. You might want to see to that.”
Grunting, more out of irritation toward the interrupting call than aversion to Robi’s suggestion, Forge puts the call on speaker and moves out of sight of the camera. Before he even answers, the rattle of metal is heard off-camera.
”Takama-san, konbanwa.”
A faint giggle is heard off camera as the rattling continues, a stern Japanese voice cutting through in the midst.
”Ohayōgozaimasu, Mitchell-san. Given our respective time zones I hope I am not interrupting anything?”
”A little early-morning meditation. What can I do for you?”
Oddly enough, Forge’s voice drops some of its edge, becomes business-like and very nearly calm enough to be mistaken for affable. The metallic noises have stopped for the most part and the only sound to come from Robi at this point comes out like a low purr. There’s a brief squeak out of her as well though this is quickly silenced just before Forge speaks again.
”Is this about the recent order?”
”Hai. A complication has arisen with one of our suppliers. We are, unfortunately, required to renegotiate our terms.”
”Yakuza pressure, Takama-san?”
A few soft clicks later and Forge walks back into view, hanging a key on a chain around his neck as he approaches the phone, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
”More of a matter concerning your Mr. Bryce. His group is… known to those that I represent. There are… concerns.”
”And how much more will these concerns cost me?”
A brief, yet uncomfortable, pause… and then…
”Fifteen percent.”
An indignant grunt sounds from the direction Forge just walked. He glances over his shoulder, his expression reflecting that same feeling. Jaw setting, he turns back to the phone.
”Those are expensive concerns, Takama. How about you enlighten me with these concerns so I can properly decide whether or not to fork over… or take my business elsewhere?”
If tension could be felt without words through a cellular phone… this would be the moment.
”He has had… associations… with business rivals of ours and is known to be rather… unsavory. Untrustworthy.”
”His money is as good as anyone else’s and he’s been on the up and up with me from the get. I’m still not hearing good reasons here, Takama.”
”Does foul dealings with your local authorities as well as similar situations elsewhere in your country count?”
”You might as well be describing me and mine here, Takama.”
”Except you have proven yourself to be honorable in terms of business. He has not.”
Another soft noise comes from across the way, grabbing Forge’s attention. This time he responds with an elevated brow, then shrugs and shakes his head.
”Ten percent. No more. And if you’re proven wrong, we go back to the original rate.”
”Very well. Sayōnara, Mitchell-san.”
The call cuts out and Forge stares at the phone for several moments, looking as though he wants to take a steel hammer to it. However, he instead turns it off and tosses it on the counter, turning on his heels and staring at the sight before him. It quite obviously pleases him as his dark grimace turns into an expression of darker anticipation.
”Now… about that tampering…”
> ...video file error, please wait...
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> Playing video “file006a.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/17/18
> Time: 10:41am, Central
> Location: Metairie, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: The Mitchell Residence, Basement
> …
> Starting...
Several hours later and a very happily spent Robi later (come on, you know you were thinking it…) finds Trenton down in the basement of their Metairie home with the portable digital camcorder set up across the way. This particular section of the basement has their workout equipment, because when you’re an anti-social asshole, you don’t care to sweat around a bunch of creatine-filled thickheads and bleached-blonde twats taking mirror selfies. Right away there are going to be people trying to call Forge on showing off or something, but to him this is just multitasking… mixing something he wants to do with something he doesn’t give a fuck about; one makes the other easier to handle. Like medicine with a spoon of sugar, for example.
So let the men stare in envy and the women ogle with dopey smiles on their faces. He can’t stop it nor would he try because Forge doesn’t define himself by the words and actions of others. Right now, he has a match to address… along with a mush-mouthed gorilla and a wrinkled monkey on top.
”Candi Bratton…”
Sitting on the pec deck, several bars linked up behind him, lifted and lowered at the flexing of his arms forth and back, Forge stares through a curtain of perspiration-soaked hair at the propped-up camera. Every motion makes his entire chest flex; a woman would have to be dead inside (or on the other team) to not imagine for a moment running her hands over that.
”The mouth that roars, the woman who uses fuck like it’s a comma, who screams such bloody fucking murder you’re half-afraid her dentures are gonna go flying… who doesn’t impress anyone with two brain cells to rub together, in or out of Mile High Wrestling. If screams were the same as punches, you might be intimidating. But volume is the only weapon you have to bring to bear and, well, that doesn’t impress me. Neither does the hung of tin and pleather over your shoulder, but it won’t be yours for long so it’s a moot point anyway.
The only question I have for you, Bratton, is this: have you even been watching Mile High since I showed up? In what part of your concussed, bruised brain do you think for one flat second that you’re half a match for my physically? At this point I’m tired of rehashing the beatings I’ve delivered while showing off bloody hands smeared with what used to be flowing through the veins of my opponents. I’m fucking tired of alluding to the fact that Robert Mack didn’t just hire a fighter for his wrestling company, but a by-God monster who has no respect for human life. It’s getting tired, mainly because you shit-wits never listen anyway. You refuse to accept that I’m your doom until I’m punching extra holes in your faces.”
The thought makes him chuckle just as it makes his hands clench more tightly around the handles of the machine… as though he’s imagining someone’s throat in them. Like Skrabz. Or Bratton. Hell, maybe both.
”First rule of talking shit? Expect to get punched in the mouth for it eventually. Second rule? Make sure you can back it up. Bratton, I think you got the first down, but the second? Not so much. You got beaten down like a dog by the Shieldmaidens and instead of taking that for the lesson it was, you rose up and squaked even louder. It’s like booting a damn chihuahua across the room; it’ll make a noise and act right for about ten seconds, then it’s back to being a yapping little demon until it catches another sole to the teeth. Get what I’m saying?
You. Should. Have. Stayed. Down!”
Each word is punctuated by another pull in of the weights until, with the last syllable, he draws back and settles the weights, lowering his arms. Sitting forward, he pushes his sweaty locks out of his face, staring hard at the camera with his head canted just so.
”No one’s bad enough to win every fight. And no one soul can face down an army, especially not one as highly-motivated as the Shieldmaidens. You ain’t showing off how tough you are, Bratton, and you’re not impressing anyone that matters. See, when you get that defiant hair up your ass and rise up, yelling and trying to show us that you’re neither hurt nor scared? That just shows us that next time it needs to hurt more. Next time, one of your limbs needs to be crooked… you need to be coughing up blood from the rib scraping your lung. You don’t want to know where it goes after that.
Face it, Brat: you’ve met your match in Robi Mitchell. The more you struggle against the inevitable, the harder she’s going to bring you down next time. And you damn sure don’t want to get in my fucking way. Robi knows when to stop. I don’t. I don’t give motherfuckers the chance to get back up with me. I stomp them till they stop moving and make sure they see my face in their nightmares for years after the fact. You? You don’t have enough years left in the tank to live with that. Your heart will give out on you. And same as it was with every other poor sonofabitch I’ve put on the floor, or in the hospital or in the fucking morgue?”
He... he’s not joking… is he?
”Unlike the former two cases, I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it.”
Grabbing a towel from nearby, Forge wipes himself off, then takes a gulp of water from the bottle on the counter. Crouching down, he looks right into it… extreme close-up.
”Your partner on the other hand? I might be inclined to show him a shred of respect for the fact that his mouth is still flapping considering the hole I tore in his face. So… Skrabz… remember me?”
A flashback to weeks ago on Mile High Wrestling commences, the triple threat debut of Forge against Deuce Holmes and Skrabz, a chaotic and violent encounter that saw the verbose freestyler get the win by pinning Deuce… but then falling victim to borderline assault at the hands of Forge post-match. Cut to some rather graphic footage in the trainer’s room afterward as the doctor tends to the wound on the match’s victor. We get a nasty little close-up on that, framed by Forge chuckling to himself.
”I bet you do. Every time you look in the fucking mirror. When you can’t get the right note out on your current single cause of that swollen face. Did I or did I not warn both your asses about getting froggy? Well, now you know. And here we are, back again. Round two, assuming you’re keeping track of things. A match where your partner doesn’t want you and I’m just looking to rip open a few old wounds for shits and giggles. Truth told, Skrabz? If I have my way, neither you nor the Brat bitch are going to make it to The Rise. At that point, Bobby and Kat will have two choices: either hand the belt to Robi or slot some poor jackass in that ring for her to stomp into oblivion before she takes the belt anyway.
And no, you don’t get props for winning that match before, because you didn’t pin me. So you didn’t show me a damn thing to be impressed by. What was left of Deuce Holmes after the fact got put down like a dog, leading to him running off with his tail between his legs to suck air in the Quad Cup or whatever the fuck that waste-of-space bullshit is supposed to be. You want to be something around here, you’re going to have to put my shoulders to the mat for three. And before that happens I’m gonna shove that microphone so far up your tailpipe that you’ll be farting Run DMC for a month. So spit out the rocks out of your mouth, act like you got a set and bring me a fight, ‘cause either you’re gonna draw blood or I’m gonna cover myself in yours like it was war paint.”
He pauses, considering as he takes a seat on the bench press, smirking a little.
”Fuck am I saying? I’m doing that anyway. Wednesday night, I’m rolling into that damn ring with the Wicked Witch of the Bayou on my arm and I’m fucking up the Macks’ main event at The Rise. And who knows? Maybe the happy bitch himself, Ricky Stanton, will be watching!”
And the smirk becomes a snarl, Forge glaring at the camera as he straps his gloves on a little tighter.
”You’d damn well better be, skin-top. You didn’t have the nuts to show up last week and I take that as a sign of disrespect. Translation? That’s another couple screams I’m going to rip from your lungs at The Rise. You took your free shot and you fucking whiffed. I didn’t. I got a taste of how it feels to make new money crash and burn and damned if I didn’t like it. You’re in my world at The Rise, motherfucker, and all that money’s gonna be good for is a couple rounds of maxillofacial surgery to staple your fucking skull back together when I’m done!”
Waving a finger at the camera, then tapping his temple, Forge gets back to the point.
”But first things first. Granny Goodness and the forgotten Beastie Boy have a date with the Martyr Machine. I’m running both you fuckers down and leaving you spread all over the goddamn Rocky Mountains. Then the mouth that roars will be filled with my fist.
See you fuckers soon. Damn soon.”
The camera stays on a few moments more, then cuts off abruptly as Forge lies back on the bench, the device no doubt linked to a timer.
> ...
> End feed...
> ...
> Shutting down...
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Post by Skrabz on Jun 18, 2018 11:50:55 GMT -6
Location: Skrabal’s motel room, Denver, Colorado
Date: 14th June 2018
Time: 10:15AM
Sitting on his small grotty little chair in his less than savory rented accommodation Skrabal looks at his his phone through blurry eyes. Scattered all around him are the remnants of a night of heavy self medication as he waits somewhat impatiently for his video call to be answered. After what feels like a life time to his cloudy and hungover mind the call is finally answered by Ty.
“Skrabz, My G! I saw the ting fam, that's a big win over The Titaness there... but I really need to speak to you bredrin, you need to drop all this shit you been sayin' the past few weeks fam. How many man need to tell you wrong before you listen?” asks Ty in a frustrated tone.
“Ty don't even start fam, man knows the shit already.” Skrabal replies, his voice croaking out through his dry throat.
“Man knows what shit? That you going on like a real dickhead, pissin' off yo boss and making a fool of yoself with yo stoopid accusations?” adds Nash, who is as always a lot less sympathetic than Ty.
“Allow it fam, man already knows b…” Skrabal trails off as Nash interrupts.
“Yeah but does man really know fam? Does he? Did you see the way your boss looked at you after the match? Straight up disappointment fam, that man feel betrayed, I'm tellin' you! After he put you on you gonna do him like that? You gonna end up ruining this ting for yoself if you don’t zip it up blad”
“Yeah but what was man even doin' out there any….” Skrabal trails off again as Nash interrupts once more.
“Will you just shut the fuck up already blad! Man was stood right there and he ain’t stop you from winning. Shit, I could even say he helped you.”
“Helped me? Allow it fam, man helped himself.” Skrabal responds adamantly.
“Nah bredder, Sam Hamilton was throwing you all around that ring until your boss walked out and distrac….” Nash trails off as Ty interrupts him.
“He gets the point so drop it, and I mean drop it yeah? I see or hear you pranging out about the shit again Skrabz and I’m a fly over there and knock you out myself.” Ty tells says before changing the subject “Anyway brudda, you wrote that verse yet?”
“Nah, I mean… a few times over but it ain't ready. I'm a get it done though, let me get Phoenix out of the way and man will get to it, standard. Maybe more than one fam, who knows? And I’m a let it drop for now, even though he set me up teaming with Candi Bratton next week.”
“Well just do what ya been tellin' everyone else to do... play ya position. Stay focused and stay winning. And don’t go tryin a play that bullshit off like you were just sayin it to get under Sam’s skin. You were shook fam, you believed that bullshit.”
Skrabal laughs. “That’s exactly what I was gonna do.” he says through a guilty smile.
“I’m a let you two man go. Stay blessed.”
The three say goodbye and the video call ends.
Date: 15th June 2018
Location: Skrabal’s motel room, Denver Colorado
Date: 17th June 2018
Time: 11.40PM
Skrabal sits in that same grotty chair looking at his phone which sits a few a feet in front of him, propped up on the battered old coffee table. He takes a few gulps of beer from a bottle he holds in his right hand then places the bottle down on the table. He leans back in his chair and shakes his head slightly.
"Askin' if man remembers him. Of course man remembers. Man like Skrabz ain't ever forget a pussy fam."
He smiles smugly then chuckles before shaking his head again and continuing.
“Man has seen you pumpin' iron Trent… but I ain’t impressed to be real witchu, all I can say is it a real shame that even after ya recent escapades your name ain’t hold as much weight as your frame. I mean shit you a strong dude... physically, but mentally ya weak as shit and a whiny bitch on top too. But I ain’t even disagree with what you say fam, not really, I just question the stage you placed ya soap box on.”
Skrabal glances off to the side and holds out his right hand, a few seconds later a naked, toned, very short, dark skinned, young African American girl walks into the shot and hands him a loaded bong. She starts to talk but before she can get a word out Skrabal interrupts her.
“Shush fam, I ain’t payin' you to speak to me.”
She doesn't talk again. She just turns and walks away while Skrabal watches her, looking at her like she's food. He takes his attention from her and reaches forward, picking up a lighter from the table.
“Yeah what? Man's payin' for that pussy tonight but she fine as fuck.”
He brings the bong to his mouth and lights the bowl then inhales deeply. A few seconds later he exhales a cloud of smoke then places the bong on the floor.
“Anyway I’m a gettin' that fuck money that Virgil only dream about... and I ain’t like Olive Garden...”
He pauses and stares in to space for a couple of seconds.
“But Candi ain’t wanna team with man. She told man to stay home coz she wanna make it a handicapped match. Bitch you crazy as shit. Man has to be there... first off to watch you get ripped apart again just like last week, and secondly so I can jump in and stop Forge or his wife pinnin' ya limp body and costing me the dub. See the...”
Skrabal trails off as a loud buzzing sound distracts him, he turns his head towards the bed, which sits in the direction the sound is coming from and whatever he sees causes him to raise his eyebrows and smirk. He continues talking after a few seconds.
“If you ask me this already a handicapped match anyway coz..”
He quickly becomes distracted again but after a few seconds he regains his train of thought.
“It’s already a handicapped match because I gotta take on Forge and his chick there and I gotta do it with a two hundred fifty pound sack a shit strapped to my back. But man is a...”
He trails off again as his head turns towards the direction of the buzzing sound once more.
“But it ain’t a ting. Man is about this, Standar...”
He trails off again, this time becoming distracted by soft moaning sounds and heavy breathing that have joined the buzzing noise, combining to form an orchestra of sound that he just can’t ignore.
“Ah fuck it”
He says with a smile on his face as he leans forward and stand up.
He taps his phone and the recording ends.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 18, 2018 19:57:11 GMT -6
"Me Time"
Candi is getting out of her truck and heading into a bar somewhere near her hotel where she’s stopping for the night. She’s also on the phone.
“I said I’d be there tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you just rent a place down here instead of driving back and forth? You spend more time in that truck than you do anything else.” It’s Lara on the other end.
“Because I don’t fucking want to get a place in Denver. Unless, I’m gonna move and if you think I’m gonna move and bring your fucking lazy assed sisters and their pack of piranhas with me — they already have practically tore the one house I own, why would I do that to myself.”
Candi steps inside and walks up to a barstool and takes a seat, motioning for a beer.
“Just leave them there. You need to stop taking care of them, for real. They’ve been leeching off of you for years and I know you don’t want to hear it, but let them have the damned house and just move down here. The money you save from going back and forth alone will pay for a place. You’re the champ, so it’s not like you’re hurting for money.”
Candi takes a drink from her beer as she listens. The bartender looks at her, “Can you take that off speaker?” Candi smirks, “I can, but I’m not gonna. I’m just about done, so just hold your shit.”
“Are you in a bar?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Didn’t you just get there? Um, you still have to drive to Denver. You might want to get some rest.”
“I thought I was the fucking mother around here. How about you take care of your shit and I’ll take care of mine. You’ve gotta deal with Hamilton and I gotta deal with the Best Little Whorehouse in Denver and their Dipshit Pimp.”
There’s a snort on the other end of the phone, “I got Hamilton. She still has to be walking funny after I gave her a concussion last week. She probably won’t even be cleared to compete. She’s a dumb as a post. It’ll be an easy night for me. You, I’m worried about. You really want to take on all of them at the same time?”
“Fucking straight. I ain’t scared of them bottom feeding porn stars.” Candi doesn’t seem to notice she’s getting the attention of a few shady looking males behind her, especially when the conversation switched to her having money. “Looks, they jumped me after I had already beaten the shit out of that Combes guy. I’m going to be a hundred percent now and there isn’t nothing they can do to me when I’m at one hundred percent.”
She glances behind her, seeing she has an audience as the four guys just grin at her. She flips them off and turns back to her conversation, finally taking the phone off speaker.
“Look, don’t I always have a plan? Of fucking course, I have a plan. You just worry about your own self, Hamilton isn’t someone to take too lightly. I’ve been in the ring with her. Fuck, Lara. Do whatever the fuck you want. I’m gonna go, I’m suddenly feeling a little greasy. Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She clicks off the phone as the four approach her from behind. “What the fuck do you want?”
One of them takes a seat next to her, “Hey, Grandma. I heard you talking with your kid that you had a lot of money or something.”
Candi doesn’t seem all that concerned as she finishes off her beer. “What of it?”
Another takes a seat on the other side of her, “We thought you might be up to sharing with us. We’ve run on some hard times and could use a little cash advance.”
Candi taps the glass as the bartender refills, though he’s considering reaching for his phone, but Candi just shakes her head at him. “You seem like a bunch of nice young men. I don’t supposed you considered getting a fucking job like everyone else?”
“Hey, lady! No sense in being rude. It’s just hard to get work around here, ain’t it?” He turns to his buddies who nod.
Candi smirks as she reaches for the glass and begins to drink the beer until it’s about half full. “Well, why didn’t you say so. How about we walk down right now and I’ll get some cash and you fine young men can go feed your families or whatever the fuck you’re gonna do.”
The guys all laugh and nod as they get up and head towards the door. When they get there, they realize Candi isn’t following.
“What’s the deal, lady?”
Candi doesn’t look at them but finishes the rest of her beer. “Can’t a lady finish her drink first?”
“Yeah, sure. But it looks like you’re done now.”
“I sure as fuck am.”
“You got quite the mouth on you, lady.”
“That’s why I get paid more than you, dipshit.”
The guys seem to be getting upset with her. “Let’s go.”
Candi just sighs and turns to the bartender, “Now you might want to call. Not the cops, the ambulance.”
She pushes away from the bar and drops a bill on the counter before turning back to door and heading out.
The bartender picks up the phone and hesitates.
Suddenly a car alarm is going off.
Then the sound of shattering glass.
Then another crash.
The door to the bar opens and the head of the leader of this group sticks through and then as if someone is trying to shut the door on his neck as he begins to scream, the bartender dials 9-1-1.
——LATER THAT NIGHT——
Candi is finally in her room. Looks like the bar was a bad idea so she stopped and got herself a six pack of beer. She falls back on the bed and is about to crack open the first beer, when there’s a knock on the door.
“Go the fuck away. I didn’t order no goddamned room service.”
“It’s the police, ma’am.”
“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath.
She gets up and walks over and opens the door and a couple of cops come in. “Ma’am..”
“First, stop calling me ma’am. I hate that shit. My name is Candi.”
The request causes the cop to pause for a moment and then he just shakes his head, “Candi, we have a complaint about gang of women attacking these guys down the road?”
“Ain’t no fucking gang. I beat their ass myself. I don’t need to fucking gang. I can take care of myself.”
The second cop finally nudges the first, “You know who this is, right?”
“No.”
“Mile High Wrestling Champion, Candi Bratton. She’s pretty bad ass. My kids love her.”
Candi smirks, “You let your kids watch me? That’s pretty fucked up.”
The second cop laughs, “We’re sorry to bother you. We’re glad you’re okay. Looking forward to seeing you fight tomorrow.”
They walk out into the hallway and Candi walks to the door.
“Could we bother you for an auto–”
Candi slams the door shut and walks over and finally cracks open that beer. “Me time.”
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jun 19, 2018 10:18:47 GMT -6
††† Parental and NSFW Advisory †††
††† Scenes will contain Violence of a graphic nature, Foul Language and Adult Content. †††
††† You've been warned. †††
>>> Early January 2018 <<<
RJ is standing in the middle of a room with a bank of computer monitors on two separate walls. On either side of the room sat two women. Identical sisters, in fact.
“Ok, so what are we looking for? I know you said this is for Forge for Father’s Day so why are we looking now?”
RJ, the President of the Shieldmaidens MC, looked to the left where the first woman spoke.
“Well, because the thing I want to get him is pretty fucking impossible to find. And, since you two are the only ones I know with your skills…”
The woman on the right spoke up.
“You want us to find the impossible.”
RJ looked to the other woman.
“Pretty much. I mean, it’s…”
“...what we do.”
Both women said at the same time. Where as Robi kinda laughed and shook her head.
“I hate it when ya’ll do that.”
Both women just smirked at each other and then to their President and shrugged nonchalantly.
The tall brunet then turned and left the room to head upstairs back to the main floor of the tattoo shop that she was co-owner of with Ophelia, Venom Ink. The petite Goth looked up to Robi as she came back upstairs and tilted her head slightly.
“They say ok?”
Robi nodded and headed over to bring in the next customer. She showed the woman over to the chair and started the process of getting the information that she needed to be able to give the piercing the woman wanted.
The jobs in the shop were fairly easy to figure out. Robi and Ophelia were co-owners. Robi ran the business side of things as well as gave piercings. Ophelia was the main tattoo artist as well as giving piercings as well. Fianna worked as the receptionist. Jackie was the Assistant Manager. Angelique was one of the other tattoo artists. As was Lyric, who also was another piercer, and Queenie. Alex worked at the garage with Forge. The twins were everyone’s IT people. And Tibs? Well, Tibs was the shop’s accountant.
The day went by relatively fast. They had customer upon customer upon customer. From the time they opened until they finally closed their doors around midnight. Once the shop was closed up and completely secure, Robi called for Church.
As they made their way upstairs, she turned to look at Fianna and Jackie.
“You two wait down here.”
Fi and Jackie, both, nodded to Robi, looked at each other and then headed back downstairs.
Once all of the ruling council of the MC was there, Robi brought Church into session.
“Alright, Church is in session.”
She wasn’t a stickler about where everyone sat. So once everyone was seated, she waited a moment.
“First order of business…”
She paused a moment and then continued.
“Kallahan is on our asses. As per usual. I got a call earlier tonight letting us know that he’s planning a raid on the warehouse. He wasn’t able to give me a date or time, just that he was waiting for approval from a judge for the warrant.”
The ladies all looked at one another and then back to Robi.
“Now, we know there’s nothing for us to worry about. But…”
She looks to Crash and Burn.
“...I want security cameras set up in the next forty-eight hours. Sooner if possible.”
The identical twins nodded in acknowledgement. Robi looked at everyone, then settled her gaze on Tibs.
“Tibs, how’s the treasury?”
Tibs, the MC’s Treasurer, as well as the shop’s accountant, leaned forward and went over her books. Shuffling through papers for a moment and then looked to Robi.
“We’re still waiting on a couple of monthly dues. Shop is doing fantastic. Right now, we have no debts pending, but it looks as if the Praying Mantis’ are dragging their feet on our deal. They’re just trying to strong arm us because you’re back with us now and they think that since you’re back they can try to use threats against a couple of prospects to get us to do whatever they want.”
She looked back down to her papers.
“Mainly, Fi and Jackie. Though…”
She looked back to Robi.
“..neither of them know. Not yet.”
This caused the brunette to frown and looked to Widow and Alex.
“Widow, Bullet… Send a message to them. Let them know that we’re the wrong bitches to try and fuck with. Remind them we’re not the Boogeyman. Remind them that we’re the bitches you send to kill the fucking Boogeyman. Especially when it comes to fellow Maidens.”
Both women nodded and looked at each other with sadistic grins. If anything? Widow got to have some fun.
“Final order of business…”
She made sure all of the Maidens were paying attention.
“Fianna Donnelly. I’m presenting her for a vote to make her a fully patched member. She’s been pivotal in our dealings with the Irish. She’s never let us down any time we’ve asked her for anything. All in favor of making Fianna “Fi” Donnelly a full member?”
Eight hands raised up. Leaving one not. Robi arched a brow and looked to Angelique.
“...Angel?”
The half Cuban, half Creole woman looked up and over to Robi.
“I don’t think she’s ready. She has a strong connection with her sister and I think that could be detrimental to us. Her sister is a wrestler for a company called HYBRID. And though Aerynn walks the line of being an outcast herself, she’s still working on the “proper” side of things. How do we know that Fi won’t choose to walk the same path as her sister in the future?”
Robi looked at everyone else and it was Widow who spoke up.
“That’s a risk we have to take. It’s a risk that Robi took on all of us.”
The Goth woman looked to Angelique.
“Especially you.”
Angelique nodded.
“You’re right. So, I withdraw my nay.”
Robi nodded and brought the gavel down.
“Motion carries.”
She looked to Widow.
“Widow, bring Fi up here, please.”
Widow stood up and headed downstairs. A few minutes later both women walked in. Widow moving to sit back down as Fianna stood there looking like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
Robi looked to the Irish woman and nodded towards her.
“Remove it.”
Fianna started chewing on her bottom lip as she began to remove her cut. Once removed, she walked it over to the table and laid it down. Showing the utmost respect for it and what it represented.
Robi’s demeanor didn’t change and she didn’t even flinch.
“That cut.. Stays off..”
She then tossed the new patches at Fi’s cut with a playful grin.
“That is.. Until you sew these on.”
The room erupted in cheers and Fi looked relieved. Robi banged the gavel to signify that Church was concluded and that they could all head out.
“Alex, hold back a minute.”
The rest of the other Maidens headed out and downstairs to where the clubhouse was so that they could celebrate Fi’s being voted in.
Alex had started to stand, but sat back down when Robi asked her to stay. The Latina woman looked to Robi and tilted her head. She didn’t say anything just yet as she waited for the others to leave and close the door.
“¿Quiubo, Parce?”
Robi leaned forward, planting her forearms on the table before looking at her VP.
“How sure are we that there’s no contraband in the warehouse? And I do mean ANY.”
Alex smirked.
“We have nothing in there. What was there for a day or two was moved when we started moving in the equipment for training. I did the extra inspections myself before we brought in the HVAC contractor. Why, did Kallahan get tipped?”
Robi shrugged.
“I have no idea. All I know is Toby called and said that the request came across his desk that Kallahan was asking for a warrant to search the warehouse. And ONLY the warehouse. He has no reason to even try to come into the shop.”
She glanced to her.
“So, if I happen to not be here when the raid happens, and he tries to go into the shop, remind that the warrant states the warehouse only. Thankfully, Fi came through with a place to store our goods.”
Robi laughed.
“She’s a spitfire, that one. It’s no wonder the Irish have the reps they do.”
Alex grinned, and nodded in agreement.
“She is.”
A strange smile came over Alex’s face.
“Ya vienen los tombos…”
She shook her head, almost laughing as she did it.
“¡Qué pelota que Kallahan es!”
“I know. And until we can get something on Kallahan to catch his own hand in the cookie jar, we have to deal with it as it comes. Thank God we have people in all sorts of places.”
She grew quiet as she thought for a moment.
“Hmmm. Put the screws on his Captain. Remind him who he works for. And that he needs to start getting Kallahan in line before all of his dirty secrets come out.”
She glanced up to her VP.
“You know as well as I do that he does not want his fetish for playing horsey to come out. Especially with his ultra conservative wife.”
Alex nodded.
“We may not need to play that card just yet. If we make Kallahan think he’s going to get a big score on this one and then he comes and finds nothing but a gym, he will have made himself look less than reliable to his peers.”
She nodded and laughed.
“Alright, let’s get downstairs before they drink all the good whiskey.”
Case File: NO06.19-01 Open
“Underestimate me. Please.”
“Because when you underestimate someone, that is when you find out that you fucked up. In a massive way.”
The scene comes to life and Robi “RJ” Mitchell is standing in the middle of a warehouse. The warehouse is filled with a bunch of workout equipment, a wrestling ring, heavy bags and other things used in training and working out.
Robi was dressed in a pair of blue ripped up jeans that clung to her legs like a second skin. The black leather stiletto heeled boots she wore came up to the knee matched with the black, form fitting, Shieldmaidens tank top she wore. She had on a few pieces of jewelry but what stood out was the matching leather “bracers” she wore on her wrists.
And only one person knew what they were for.
“See, people wanna throw around the fact that I was locked up like it’s this week’s hottest breaking news. And you’re right, I was locked up. Wanna know what for? It’s public record. Go do your own research. Then maybe you’ll get a slight understanding of what I’m capable of.”
“But just a taste.”
She turned and started walking towards the ring. Once there, she slid up onto the mat and then slipped between the ropes and moved to lean her forearms against the top rope.
“See, Emily tried that reverse psychology bullshit with me a couple of weeks ago. Kinda hard to take a walking brain damaged patient seriously though. And now we have Granny Smith over here throwing around words like ‘whore’, ‘sluts’ and ‘prostitutes’. And I find it funny because it makes me wonder how many men she fucked to get her rabble of miscreant degenerates. I mean, come on! Besides, they had to be blind drunk to fuck her. Cause if her face looks that sour all the time, I don’t even want to imagine how sour that pussy of hers is.”
She waved off the topic.
“Anyways.. Rob, I have one question for you. How in the fuck are you proud having her as the face of Mile High Wrestling? I mean, you’re going to end up having people stop watching if you keep her on as ‘The Face’ of this company.”
“Skrabz, Skrabz, Skrabz. You, boy, are something else entirely. I’m not even sure what catagory to put you in.”
“Dumb”
She a thumb.
“Dumb.”
She lifted her index finger.
“Or stupid.”
She lifted the middle.
“Now, we both know you had a hard time chewing after Forge got done with you on our first show. Stop tryin’ to front like he didn’t rock your world when he was done. Cause, honey… You don’t lie very well.”
“The problem with you people is you see an all female MC, you see how we dress, you see what we ride and you immediately want to put us in one of two catagories: Whores or Jokes.”
“And I assure you, we are neither. The ones of us that you see every week? Two of us are married. Another is in a committed relationship. And the other two are in a relationship with each other.”
She leaned forward and whispered at the camera after a mocking gasp.
“(gasp!) You mean to tell me you allow… (whispers) lesbians in your MC?!”
This of course said in a mocking manner.
“Of course we do. A Maiden is a Maiden no matter who she loves and/or has sex with. It’s not anyone’s place to judge. Least of all you fucked up dredges of society.”
“Point being, you’re all barking up the wrong tree with us. Ya’ll wanna sit there and whine and bitch about the fact that you got ganged up on.. Ya’ll wanna whine and bitch because we come out here every single fucking week and do exactly what we promised we would do.”
She leaned forward again.
“Are ya listenin’, Ricky-Boy?”
“We put asses in seats. WE are the ones making YOU money. Not the other way around. People are coming to watch what real ass kicking looks like. And we provide that. Let me remind you whining little cunts of one thing…”
“We’re not the good guys! We’re not fucking superheros. We came here to kick ass and tilted your fucking worlds on its axis.”
She stood to her full height of 5ft 10 and held her arms out to her sides.
“And this is only the beginning.”
Case File: NO06.19-01 Closed
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Post by Skrabz on Jun 19, 2018 16:42:53 GMT -6
Location: Skrabal's motel room, Dever, Colorado.
Date: 18th June 2018
Time: 10.45AM
Alone once again after another night of heavy debauchery Skrabal finds himself doing what he usually does at these times. He sits hunched over the coffee table, perched on the edge of that same old grotty chair, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, furiously scratching away at his note pad.
His phone beeps its familiar messaged received tone, distracting him from his writing. he reaches out for the device and swipes at the screen.
Skrabal sighs and puts his phone down. He glances back at his pad and as his eyes meet the page he feels any desire to write drain from his body. He closes the pad and soon gets up and exits his room.
Location: Skrabal's motel room, Denver, Colorado.
Date: 19th June 2018
Time: 12:18am
Skrabal is sitting surrounded by empty beer bottles on the floor of his motel room looking off into space. He has an open bottle of vodka next to him, a half drunk bottle of beer in his hand and a half smoked joint tucked behind his ear. He shakes his head, looks into his phones camera and speaks.
"Talkin' about what people think when they see you... Bitch you fucked up thinkin' man even see you in the first place.... Coz you a ghost to me, RJ. I ain't seen you at all."
He lifts the bottle of beer to his mouth but pulls it away again before taking a sip, eager to continue speaking.
"You and ya gaggle of biker bitches weren't even on mans radar until now. On the level, man had to scratch his head at first when he seen your name across from mine coz I ain't know who the fuck you were."
He lifts the bottle back to his mouth and drinks what is left of the beer.
“Then it clicked fam... she that gyal that took out the old lady champ... after she done been in a cage match with big man Issac... and you need back up still.”
He reaches for the bottle of vodka and unscrews the cap.
“That's a real bad look blad, but you boast about that shit like it suttin.”
He takes a mouth full of vodka from the bottle and gulps it down.
“Small victories for little women, innit”
He shakes his head and laughs a little, but not much, before continuing.
“But do ya really think you impressing anyone just coz a couple of ya members hookin' up on the regs? Ya think we surprised an all female MC got a couple dyke bitches? Nah fam, this twenty eighteen, you gonna have to break out the mixed race gender queers if you wanna be seen on a progressive tip. I beg ya show me a non binary otherkin, shit anything less is oppressive... or suttin.”
He takes another swig of vodka from the bottle then screws the lid back on and puts it down on the floor next to him.
“RJ, ya remember when man like Skrabz said he feels to fuck you in front of your husband? Well the offer still stand if you wanna ditch dude after the show but man ain't riding pillion, nah! I'm a take control and open ya throttle real wide though, ya see me?”
He smiles as he removes the half smoked joint from behind his ear. He places it between his lips and lights it, taking a few deep puffs before speaking again.
“Yeah, on the real, the last time a said it ya husband busted my face up, and what? Man ain't miss a step nor slur a word. My pronunciation stay on point with stitches, food or pussy in my mouth fam, standard.”
He takes a few more hits on the joint then stubs it out in an ashtray.
“Now Forge been chatting that gas about how I only took the dub in our triple threat match coz I got the pin on Deuce and not him. Are you dizzy fam?... Trent ya needsta to remember that you were outside the ring because Man like Skrabz put you there, and I'm a do it again only this time it be ya wife left alone in the ring with me so ya might wanna get up a bit quicker ya feel me?”
He reaches again for the bottle of vodka and unscrews its lid.
“There no doubt you a big bad wolf my dude, but the house that Skrabz built is carved from stone so it ain't matter how hard you huff and puff you ain't shaking these foundations blad, never that!”
He lifts the bottle to his face and sniffs the clear liquid within before greedily gulping down a couple of mouthfuls. He lets out a sigh as the vodka burns his throat on the way down.
“See this how it’s gonna go down... I’m a stand on that apron and watch you and ya wife take apart my so called partner. I’m a watch you rip her limb from limb, coz that what you do right? And it in high demand right? At least that what’s you sayin’ anyway. So I’m a watch you do what you do and when the time is right I’m a roll into that ring and shut it down, on a takeover vibe. I’m a catch another dub because that’s what I do, standard, and ya grease monkey paws ain’t gonna throw no wrenches in my plans, trust!”
He takes another swig from the bottle of vodka and then clumsily places it on the floor without putting the lid on.
“And as for Candi Bratton... well she can hate it or love it coz I’m a be there for this match whether she like it or not just to remind her about what’s coming. Coz the clock is ticking Candi, second by second we get closer to Phoenix and man like Skrabz get closer to snatchin' up what’s mine right from your hands, coz I know full well that shit ain’t fittin' round your waist.”
He picks up the bottle of vodka again and holds it in his hand.
So when you crawl your battered and bloodied body across that ring and you hold out ya limp little hand... when you look up at me beggin' for the tag... as you piss and plead with tears in ya eyes and snot runnin’ down your face “please... save me Skrabz”... you’ll be glad I ain’t give you what you wanted and leave you to deal with it yaself.”
He pauses and thinks about taking another drink from the bottle but changes his mind.
“And when I do what I does and catch us that dub... you’ll know that you’re lookin' at the man who’s gonna take the only ting in your life worth a shit from you and I ain’t mean your daughter. Even the productive one worthless fam... but I might just take her along with that strap anyway.”
He lifts the bottle to his mouth but it slips from his grip and lands on the floor with a thud. A little of the fluid spills out on to the grubby carpet as the bottle comes to rest on its side.
“Ah fuck it”
He says as he leans wearily towards his phone and taps its screen, ending the recording.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jun 19, 2018 18:51:22 GMT -6
> ...
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> Playing video “file006b.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/18/18
> Time: 6:19pm, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: Twisted Steel Auto Repair & Detailing, Rear Office
> …
> Starting...
Back at Forge’s garage a short while after his most recent address to Mile High Wrestling, the Martyr Machine is holding court with a somewhat-nervous gentleman in an ill-fitting suit and horn-rimmed glasses. The stranger, dwarfed just by standing next to Forge, is looking over three muscle cars through the office window, the high-performance machines shining under the sun streaming in through the other windows. Pressing up close to his vantage point, almost mashing his own nose against the glass, the uppity fellow breathes what sounds like a small,if shaky, sigh of relief.
”You’d never know unless you checked under the hood. And even then… it isn’t obvious, right?
”Look for yourself if you doubt me.”
”N-No, I trust you.”
The word ‘trust’ has what little amiability that exists on Forge’s face going bye-bye. The man continues to stare at the cars, half-worriedly, half-longingly, as Forge stares him down. Not one to be gentle, or anything other than blunt, Forge makes his guest jump with a few simply-stated words.
”Got a call from Takama-san yesterday.”
”What?! R-Really?!”
Whirling around, finding himself staring up at Forge, the man is almost shaking in his shoes at this point. The sight of it does nothing to soften Forge’s mood.
”Is there anything I oughta know, Bryce? Such as why I’m all of a sudden paying an extra ten percent just for doing business with you? I’m not cool with secrets between my crew and the people we do work for. Secrets are bad for business.”
”Oh, well, I mean…”
”Think hard, Bryce. The work’s done and paid for, the cars are ready to go and everything is square. For now.”
’For now’ came off sounding a lot more foreboding than it should have, prompting Bryce to swallow a large lump in his throat as he nervously looked toward the door. Was he thinking of bolting? No way he’d reach it in time.
”But if that’s going to continue, and I think we both know how profitable that would be for all concerned…”
”Er…”
”...I’m going to need full disclosure. That ten percent comes from Takama and his associates finding you untrustworthy for some reason, not the least of which being that you’ve worked with their competitors in the past.”
”He...said that?”
”Is he wrong on that? Cause the man ain’t known to talk shit that ain’t true… not in the years I’ve worked with him. That means either he’s wrong or you’re holding out. Neither is good, but one is worse. Especially for you.”
Looking ready to take a crack at bolting, Bryce turns as naturally as he can only to see the door opening and Goldie coming in, if for no other reason than to speak to Forge.
”Hey, boss… Julie’s back again. Looks like her jackass boyfriend was joyriding again and-”
Halting mid-sentence, Goldie looks between Bryce and Forge and his brows go up.
”Bad time, boss?”
”Nah, stick around.”
”W-Wait a minute now…”
Goldie seems to get, right off the bat, that something is amiss. He closes the door and leans on it while Forge is locked in on Bryce again. He nods toward the old sofa in the office and, perhaps glad to not be loomed over as much by either Forge or Goldie, the suited man takes a seat, wringing his hands.
”Start talking.”
”Okay, look… I didn’t want to bring this up and ruin a good deal, but…”
> ...
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> ...video file corrupted...
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> ...scanning...
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> ...restarting from uncorrupted section...
”-been trying to distance myself and the business away from it all, but apparently that isn’t possible. But I swear, that’s all in the past! We avoid them like the plague!”
Defensive all over again, looking quickly between Goldie and Forge, Bryce starts to get up but Forge gestures him back down. It is difficult to read his expression, though a good guess would say that the Chrome Dragons President is assimilating the information given. Goldie rubs at his own face nervously, muttering under his breath.
”Dude, this had to fuckin’ happen, didn’t it?! I thought I got some good shit going for the club, man!”
”Chill, Goldie. This don’t change anything.”
”It… it doesn’t?”
”It doesn’t help anything, but I’m not letting it stand in the way of business. If you say you’re done with The Pride, I believe it. And for now, I’ll eat the ten percent and let that slide with Takama. Just keep your side on the up and up and we don’t have an issue.”
”You know the moment they find out that we’re working together those racist fuckers are gonna try startin’ shit, Forge…”
”Fuckin’ let ‘em. This is our town. They start enough shit and they’ll be dealt with. We’re legit and I’ll be damned if I’ll let those assholes fuck it up. Bryce, I’ll have my boys deliver the cars later tonight. Same place as we set up in the first place. I trust the payment will come through with no issues?”
”Oh, certainly, certainly… it will be there no less than two hours after delivery, as promised!”
A knock comes to the door and, after Forge nods to Goldie who opens the door, Khary pokes his head in the office.
”Yo, boss… Kallahan just pulled up outside. What’s the plan?”
”Nothin’. We ain’t up to shit. Send him back to me. Goldie, you see Mr. Bryce out then get back to work. And tell Julie this is the last time I’m fixing her boyfriend’s fuck-ups. He pulls this shit again and I’ll break his fucking hands with a pipe wrench.”
Nodding with a grin, Goldie does as instructed while Khary exits as well, heading back to the garage to see about Kallahan. Left alone in the office, Forge sits behind the desk, leaning back in the chair and musing quietly.
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> ...
> Playing video “file006c.wma”...
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> Date: 06/18/18
> Time: 7:09pm, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: Twisted Steel Auto Repair & Detailing, Outside
> …
> Starting...
Outside after closing up the garage, and dealing with Kallahan, Trenton ‘Forge’ Mitchell at least LOOKS calm… but looks can be deceiving. He locks the door behind him and walks over a bit, standing under the streetlight while reaching into his pocket and taking out a pack of Marlboro Red 100s. Smacking it against his palm a few times, he extracts one of the cancer-sticks from the barely-used pack and puts it between his lips. A silver Zippo follows, the flame touched to the tip before Forge takes a long drag, exhaling through his nose. Closing his eyes, he rests his head back against the wall, soaking in the silence. Someone is obviously there because the camera ain’t holding itself… but they are of no consequence.
Still in his shop shirt with ‘Trenton’ on the patch over his left breast pocket as well as grease-stained jeans and work boots, Forge isn’t exactly looking to impress in terms of appearance. That is, unless the ladies like their men rough and dirty. Come to think of it, there’s more and more swooning females in the crowd in Denver each and every week, so...
”Guess hearing really is one of the first things go with age. That and higher mental functions. Part of me wants to make allowances for you just being fucking senile or at the very least brain-damaged from so many years taking ass-kickings AND ass-poundings. But seriously, Brat: I think you’re just half-retarded at this point. If you’re trying to get under my skin, you’re failing. If you’re trying to intimidate me, you’re failing miserably. If you’re trying to make the world believe you got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting past either myself or Robi tomorrow night?”
Shaking his head with the cig gripped between his teeth, Forge draws in and lets loose another cloud of acrid smoke, almost snarling.
”Then you’re all-the-fucking-way retarded. At this point the only thing you got me convinced of is that if you tried to throw yourself on the floor you’d fucking miss.”
Taking the cig down long enough to flick a few ashes to the asphalt below, Forge holds on to it a minute while staring off in disbelief. It’s almost enough to make him smirk. Almost. But he’s a little too irritated at this point in time to show anything registering amusement.
”But you just keep grasping at straws, making excuses at the same time. Oh, you’d just had a fight. Oh, you weren’t ready. Oh, shut the fuck UP already. I’ve been in this business less than a fucking month and even I’ve already learned to keep my head on a swivel around this place. Then again, I’ve been doing that since I could walk. Give anyone motivation and half a chance and they’ll run with it until the rope runs out. Doesn’t mean they’ll make anything of the opportunity, but there ain’t a solitary soul on this planet that doesn’t desire more. Even you, Brat. You got the belt, you got top billing in Mile High, but you want more.
What, though, do you want? To be recognized as the biggest badass around this place? Your chances of that ended three weeks ago when I walked through the fucking doors. You want people to take you seriously as a threat? That ended the first time you opened your damn mouth. Cursing and cheap insults don’t mean shit around here, Brat. Anyone can do that. I’ve BEEN doing that. Difference is that I produce results after the fact. You’re supposed to be top bitch on the hill, aren’t you? Then what’s with the fucking excuses? Didn’t Robi and the other Shieldmaidens tell you that you were fucking marked? Then you don’t get to act unprepared when they played ‘Kick the Can’ with your decrepit hide.”
Taking another long drag, Forge pauses before blowing out a few rings, chuckling dryly.
”Bet you’ll have more fucking excuses after I kick the shit out of you tomorrow night, too. Win or lose, I’ll be staining my hands with your tainted blood… part of the reason I have to hit Denver early to make sure my vaccinations are up to snuff. God knows what you’re carrying. Diseases that haven’t been prominent for five fucking decades, I’ll bet. If I come out of this match with leprosy after beating you bloody I’ll come back and beat you down with whatever body parts fall off me.”
At that point, the roar of a pair of Harleys become too loud to ignore, much less speak over. Goldie and Khary ride past, slowing briefly to raise a hand in Forge’s direction, a gesture which he reciprocates. After a few moments, and another puff or two which takes the stick down to the filter, Forge drops the mostly-burnt cig to the ground and grinds it out with the toe of his boot.
”And by the way… heard about your little fracas up in Denver. Pays to have a couple contacts in towns I do business in.”
Must have been a hell of a day; Forge only rarely smokes. That pack of Malboros? Over a month old and that was only the fourth cig taken from it. But here he is, taking out another and lighting it.
”Not impressed.”
He leaves it at that, taking another long, satisfying draw from the Marlboro.
”I’ve kicked bigger asses than yours AND Skrabz just to get INTO a fight, Brat. You want to impress me? You want me to treat you with anything resembling respect? Try beating it out of me tomorrow night. Try, for once in your life, showing some gumption and that you’re something more than a foul mouth and a fat ass wrapped in a title belt and more fucks than a Denis Leary comedy marathon. Because right now, I don’t see a champion in front of me. I see a bitch whose daddy didn’t kick the shit out of her enough when she fucked up, whose mother should have slapped the taste out of her mouth the first time she got wise. Go on and get up in arms about that if you want. Better yet, try and do something about it.
I dare you. Hell, I’m begging you. All I want is a little more than all the reasons I already got to knock your eyes crooked… just for the fucking fun of it.”
A few minutes after the MC members take their leave, the sound of another engine is heard off-camera. A door opens and closes, then another. Forge looks over and lifts a hand in greeting but also in halting; he’s not done yet, after all.
”Leave it to Skrabz, though, to out-bonehead his partner. Or at least try to. Here’s the thing, sport: you can try to call Robi and her crew on how they handle business, trying to make them out to weak or whatever else, but in order to insult someone? They have to value your opinion. You have to mean something to them. And you? You don’t fucking rate. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I speak for my wife, because the woman’s tough as hell and doesn’t need anyone to back her up… no, what I’m telling you right now, mush-mouth, comes from me and me alone.”
A mild gesture is given, as if to emphasize his point by indicating what is already clear: he’s the only one in sight, the only one speaking.
”We don’t make excuses for who and what we are. We’re not here to be heroes and wear the white hats. We’re here to stomp the shit out of anyone in our way, anyone who has something we want or the fucks we just don’t like. We’re here getting paid to do what we’d do for free, what we’ve done since the day we were born: fight. It’s time for you and everyone else to drill that sentiment into your rock-hard skulls. Said it before: Robi warned Brat that she was coming. Brat thinks of herself as pretty tough and sharp. She should have known Robi was coming with the Maidens and should have been ready. She wasn’t. She got beaten down. End of story. You’re angling for the same, Skrabz, except I won’t be calling in Goldie, Khary, Kyojin or any of the other Dragons. Mainly because I want you for myself.
Look at the bright side, though; I’m actually willing to throw you a bone. That’s right, mush-mouth… a little, shall we say, gift. You tell me which hand is your dominant one and I’ll make that the hand that I don’t stomp into splinters. That way while you’re laid up in the hospital you’ll have a free hand to scribble down something for your next demo.”
Laughing, just a little bit, he draws in another breath, spewing smoke after. The sky is steadily darkening, but thanks to the light we get all the Forge we can lay eyes on.
”Eh, what am I saying? Just looking at your hare-lipped mug is going to make me want to smash any piece of you I can lay hands on. It ain’t even got nothin’ to do with you trying to make a play at my lady… that just made her fuckin’ laugh her ass off. She’s not into slumming, Vanilla Ice. Go find some Rocky Mountain whore if you want to spread your seed. Or your partner. I’m sure she’d spread those tree trunks for you… probably clench down and rip your dick off in the process, though. She’s got that look about her.”
Only part of that is said jokingly; good luck figuring out which part. Finished with the second cig by now, Forge snuffs it out; he doesn’t reach for a third.
”It goes like this, boy, so take off the bootleg Beats by Dre, shut off the Relapse CD and listen REAL fucking close, ‘fam’.”
That word… he fairly spits it out.
”I’ve done taken your measure, boy, and from the looks of you ain’t shit changed… except you’re a little bolder at the mouth for surviving me. Not beating me, not impressing me… surviving me. Survival only gets you so far. A smart hunter? They rectify their mistakes, correct their timing and eliminate their miscues. You ain’t coming into a fight with the same ‘grease monkey’ that you squeezed past a few weeks ago. That wouldn’t be a problem for you if you had grown yourself, but you’re the same slang-spewing, jive-talking yardie who rapped his way past that shitstain Deuce Holmes and… hasn’t accomplished much else.
What I did to you after that triple threat? That’s what us grown-ups call a warning shot. A few light smacks and slams to wake you up, which obviously didn’t take. Now? I’m swinging for the fucking fences, Skrabz. I’m going to knock your head through the damn wall like a screaming line drive down the center of the plate. Win? Lose? Inconsequential. All that matters is busting you up, again. Sending a message to the locker room. Again. And especially to Ricky Stanton. Now… no hackles, mush-mouth. I’m not looking past your goofy ass. Just making sure that all eyes and ears paying attention right now are aware of where I’m coming from and where I’m going. Coming from the Big Easy to the Mile High City. Coming from busting your face open to knocking your fucking block off. Coming from hell to chew up and grind down every poor bitch and bastard that Bobby and Kat shove in front of me.”
Pushing off from the wall again, Forge undoes the buttons of his shirt, pulling it off and tossing it off-camera, catching in return his cut which he dons smoothly. Myriad patches line both breasts and elsewhere, marking his efforts as the President of the Chrome Dragons. Not much time to detail these, though...
”Time, once again, to fire up the Martyr Machine and fuck some shit up. All eyes… ALL OF THEM… best be watching. Especially the eyes of a certain skin-topped bitch. I’m about to make an example of the champion AND the top contender to send a message to that pretty little fuck-wit:
Your life is in MY hands. And I’m going to crush the fuck out of it.”
Walking off past the camera, the engine of the unseen vehicle starts up again as the scene fades to black.
> ...
> End feed...
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> Shutting down...
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Jun 20, 2018 0:39:05 GMT -6
††† Parental and NSFW Advisory ††† ††† Scenes will contain Violence of a graphic nature, Foul Language and Adult Content. ††† ††† You've been warned. †††
>>> Early June 2018 <<<
In the early morning hours when Robi’s cell phone started ringing. She groggily look up at the clock and groaned. She reached out to grab her phone and spent a few seconds fumbling around trying to find her phone so it would stop ringing.
Once she found the offending device, she picked it up and swiped at the screen to unlock it.
“Someone had better be dead.”
She said when she answered the phone. But when the voice of one of the twins came across the line, she was instantly awake and sat up.
“Hey Boss. Sorry it’s so early, but… They’re here.”
“They are? Where?”
“At the shop.”
“Great. I’ll be there as soon as I wake up.”
She hung up the phone and then leaned over to kiss her husband on the forehead and tried to slip out of bed. When he reached an arm out to grasp her, he groaned in protest as she swatted at his arm.
“I have to go, babe. Got a call. Club business.”
Forge lifted his head up and frowned.
“It’s Sunday morning. Everything ok?”
“I won’t know until I get there.”
She leaned over once more and this time kissed him passionately. Pressing her forehead to his, she smiled.
“I’ll be back in a little bit.”
She finally got out of bed and headed to the closet to get changed into some clean clothes.
It took about half an hour to get ready to head out. That included taking a shower, pulling her long hair back into a messy braid and then getting dressed. And, as per usual, she only wore a touch of make-up. As she was getting ready, she had started the coffee and it was ready by the time she got out of the shower.
She had grabbed a quick cup as she was getting dressed. Once that was all done, she headed out to her bike and was off heading to the shop.
Once she got there, she parked the bike and headed inside after killing the engine and securing the bike so it wouldn’t fall over.
When she headed downstairs, Burn was coming up.
“Hey Robi, they’re in the warehouse.”
Robi stopped, turned to head back up the stairs and out the back door. The warehouse was at the back of the property. Once they had purchased both the land and the building, they had extended the shop’s original fence out to encompass both properties.
When she stepped inside the warehouse, she seen them. She stood there, awestruck.
“They are gorgeous.”
Burn frowned slightly as she looked the 1949 Harley Davidson Panheads and looked to Robi.
“Why would you want them in this condition? I could’ve found you a couple of rebuilt ones for the same amount of money.”
Robi was now knelt down looking one of the bikes over. She shook her head at what Burn was saying. Still smiling brightly.
“No. These are perfect. They’ll mean so much more if he can fix them up with his own hands. Thank you, Burn. You and Crash really came through. I really appreciate it.”
She looked up to the blonde woman and her smile got even brightly.
“He’s gonna love these.”
>>> Father’s Day 2018 <<<
It was late in the morning when she snuck out of bed, woke the kids and they all snuck out of the house. Sure, he was already awake when they all left, but they needed to be super quiet as he was down in the basement of the house working out and cutting his most current promo for Mile High.
So they didn’t arouse any suspicion, Crash was waiting down the road for them in her SUV. It took them about ten minutes to get to the shop. Once there, however, they set about getting the bikes out of the warehouse and into the back parking lot of the shop. It had taken some looking around, but they managed to find (well, had to have specially made) boxes to cover the bikes up for when he got there. They were both wrapped up in wrapping paper and had HUGE bows on them.
Once that was all done, she sent a tweet out on Twitter and waited. He replied that he was on his way and she was getting more excited by the minute.
About 10 minutes later, he showed up. Pulling into the back parking lot, he secured his bike after cutting the engine and dismounted. On his face a look of curiosity.
“....Robi, what’s going on?”
She just smiled at her husband and, after kissing him deeply, she headed over so that she and the twins were standing between the two, very large, boxes.
“Happy Father’s Day.”
It was at that moment a few of the Shieldmaidens’ prospects lifted the boxes revealing the two bikes. And the look of complete shock showed on Forge’s face.
“Ho….How...Where…”
For the first time in forever, he was, quite literally, speechless. He walked over and began to look them both over. Running a hand over one and then turned to look at the other.
“How in the world did you manage to find these? Finding one had to be hard, but two?”
He looked up at his wife.
“Robi, you are the most amazing wife.”
He looked to the twins.
“And you two!”
Connor and Shanna stood there all smiles. Connor, who looked just like his mother, stood next to his twin sister, Shanna. Who was the spitting image of her father.
Both kids headed over and hugged their father.
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad!”
They said in unison.
Once hugs and thank-yous to his kids were done, he headed over to his wife. Wrapping up in his big, powerful arms, he kissed her deeply. A kiss which threatened to consume her right on the spot.
He spoke so low that only she could hear him.
“Thank you, babe. I can’t even begin to imagine how you pulled it off… this is the second best Father’s Day ever.”
Once all the celebrating of the gifts was over, they had decided to have a BBQ. Inviting the entire families of both the Shieldmaidens and the Chrome Dragons. All back at the house, of course.
With Connor and Shanna, both, offering to babysit for those who had younger kids.
Case File: NO06.19-02 Open
The scene opens up to Robi sitting at one of the tattoo chairs at the shop. Her client was a rather large guy. Not in the sense of being obese or anything like that. No, this guy stood around six ft 7 and was built like a brick shithouse.
Robi herself was concentrating on the task she was performing at that moment.
“Ya know, Skrabz, watchin’ you tryin’ to front is rather amusing. I mean, we both know that if I wasn’t on your ‘radar’, you wouldn’t have made the egregious mistake of even suggesting you can fuck me better than my husband can. Of which, I assure you, you most certainly can not.”
“What’s funny is you say some misogynistic bullshit about us being bitches, dykes and, I quote, ‘little’ women, yet you claim to be ‘progressive’. If that’s being progressive, I sure as fuck would hate to see the type of female who would let you stick your cock inside of them. Cause, Cupcake, you’re not the catch you think you are.”
“Now, if you spoke so that you sounded more human and less like you’re chewing on a mouthful of shit and bile, you might get a woman who’s worth a more than a two dollar hooker on Saturday night.”
“But, wait, ‘man’ Skrabz pays for his shit. Why? Because that’s the only way you’ll ever get a female to touch you, let alone fuck you.”
She hadn’t looked up from the piercing she was doing for the guy.
“What’s funny is you honestly believe I needed backup to stomp a hole in Granny over there. And you think I just HAD to wait until after her cage match to do so. See, thing is, ‘man’ Skrabz, I didn’t need to have backup. My Maidens like kicking asses as much as I do. I didn’t need to wait until after the cage match, either. It was simply an offered opportunity to get a message across.”
“Which we did.”
“Just like Forge got his message across by you needing to get your face stitched up.”
She then tapped the man on his leg to let him know that she was done. She looked down at her work and smiled with pride.
“You ok?”
The man nodded as he stood up and pulled his jeans back up and she went on to explain how he needed to care for the piercings so they didn’t get infected and what not.
Once the man was leaving, she looked up to the camera.
“And you done the one thing that ensured that I’m gonna take great pleasure in putting you down… Emily made the mistake a couple of weeks ago. And you just made the same mistake.”
“One thing I know about my daughter is… She has standards. And trust me, you’re not even close to being high enough on her list for you to even register. But, if there is one thing you should take away from this, Skrabz…”
“...you really should’ve kept my daughter outta your mouth.”
“Cause now? Now, you’ll find out why it’s a bad idea to fuck with a momma wolf in regards to her pups.”
“I am going to break every single bone in your hand.. And then I’m gonna watch as Forge tears more holes in your face for even thinking about touching his daughter.”
"And grandma, don't think for a second that I forgot about you. Believe me when I say, that belt will be mine. And I'll gladly stand over that bloated, wrinkled body of yours. I'll stand there loud and proud while you're laying there bleeding. And trust me when I say, you'll be pissing blood for a month when I'm through with you."
“I told you once… I’ll say it once more…”
“This is only the beginning.”
Case File: NO06.19-02 Closed
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