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Post by Admin on Jun 20, 2018 19:06:55 GMT -6
***THE MAIN EVENT***
First Blood Match
Skrabz
vs
Forge Roleplay Limit: 2 Roleplay Deadline: Wednesday, June 27, 2018 @ 2AM Central Time |
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Post by Skrabz on Jun 25, 2018 16:17:06 GMT -6
Location: Skrabal's Motel Room, Denver, Colorado
Date: 21st June 2018
Time: 12:25AM
Skrabal returned to his motel room with the bitter taste of his first loss since coming to work for Mile High burning in his throat. He shut the door behind him a little harder than he had intended causing it to slam shut with a loud bang.
As he slowly walked across the small room towards the fridge he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen to see the words "Call from Lil Sis" displayed and with a swipe of his thumb he silenced the call and proceed on to the fridge from where he removed four bottles of just below room temperature beer.
After closing the fridge he walked across to that same old grubby little chair and sat down while opening one of his beers, which he had soon drunk to completion. After placing down the empty bottle he reached for one of his note books.
With the weight of those four words hitting him full force in the gut he slammed his pen down on the table and quickly opened another bottle of beer, followed by another, and another, and another... until he passed out surrounded by empty bottles, sitting in that chair he has become so familiar with.
Location: Skrabal's Motel Room, Denver, Colorado
Date: 21st June 2018
Time: 10:15AM
After a restless sleep Skrabal sat on the edge of his bed slightly hungover and smoking a joint while checking his phone for notifications received while he slept. Upon seeing that he has been schedule to face Trenton Mitchell in a first blood match he reached for a pen and pad and began scribbling away at a page.
Interrupted by the ringing of his phone he dropped the pen on top of the pad and looked at the screen to see once again the words “Call from Lil' Sis” after taking a few seconds to think he swiped his thumb over the screen and silenced the call then dropped his phone on the table. He held his head in hands and took a couple of deep breathes before standing up, collecting his gym bag and exiting his motel room leaving his phone behind.
Date: 23rd June 2018
The scene opens in a small conference room with the camera fixed on the MHW logo. The camera pulls back and the shot opens up to show that the logo is fixed to small table. On one side of the table sits MHW interviewer Jordan Hagan and on the other side sits the number one contender to the Mile High Wrestling championship, Skrabal Stanzas. Jordan takes a few seconds to shuffle some papers that he has sitting in front of him before turning to the camera and beginning to speak.
Jordan: Hello ladies and gentleman and thank you for joining us for this special one off sit down interview with the man who will compete against Candi Bratton at The Rise in Phoenix pay per view in just over two weeks time, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Skrabal Stanzas. Skrabz, thank you for joining me today, I have a lot to ask you and I’m sure, as always, you have a lot to say.
Skrabz: Man feels obligated to do this ting ya-nah, so the thank you ain't sit too well but ya-nah man likes to talk so it ain't a ting. So let us cut out the pleasantries and get to it yeah?
Jordan: As you wish. Getting straight to the point, the first thing I want to ask you about is the wild accusations you were throwing around recently where you accused your boss Robert Mack of being in cahoots with Samantha Hamil...
Skrabz: Really fam? This is what we doin'?
Jordan: I was going to say, you seem to have taken a step back on that front over the past week and haven’t mentioned it since. Can I ask what changed your mind?
Skrabz: Man is observant ya-nah, sometimes so observant he see shit that ain’t there. It happens, and I let my mouth run away with itself but as for what changed my mind... the shit I was expecting to happen ain’t happen so I have to hold my hands up and say I was wrong. Not only that but it was the bossman himself that freed me from captivity last week after Candi done caged man with the ol' chair under the door handle routine, on some cartoon shit, ya-nah man ain’t think that shit really work but that door was stuck tight fam, no budging.
Jordan: Speaking of Mr. Mack freeing you, you seemed to be enjoying an exotic cigar when that door was opened, do you really think it’s appropriate to be taking dru...
Skrabz: Medication fam. Man gets that claustrophobia ya-nah? When that door ain't open them walls closed in and I had to alleviate some symptoms.
Jordan: For someone suffering from claustrophobia you seemed very relaxed when the door was opened.
Skrabz: What can I say bredrin? The medicine good fam, it work well.
Jordan: When you finally made it to ring you let loose with Mic Checks for everyone, even your tag team partner, what was your thinking there?
Skrabz: My thinkin' was why she trapped man in a room for? Look she ain’t wanna team with me and that’s cool coz man ain't wanna carry her heavy set self either, not really, but I said time and again that I'm about this so ya can put me in there with any and everyone and I'm a do what I do. It’s that simple. I mean look, Me and Sam ain't wanna team with each other a few weeks back but we put that aside and dealt with the ting like professionals, on some grown folk business, coz that's how you do. Handle ya shit in the moment and settle ya differences after. Candi ain't wanna wait though so why should I?
Jordan: The tag team match saw you suffer your first defeat here in Mile High Wrestling; do you blame Candi Bratton for that?
Skrabz: I mean I could, but man ain't in the habit of assigning blame fam. I accept responsibility for my own failings innit. I was out there eventually and I ain't break up the pin but everyone saw the difference man made once he hit that ring and ya done know it would a been different result if I had been there from the start.
Jordan: During the tag match you busted Trenton Mitchell's nose, how did it feel to get a measure of revenge after he left you a bloody mess all the way back on episode three?
Skrabz: I ain't really think of like that to be real with you, I ain't go out there trying to make him bleed it just come with the territory. When the fists and boots fly the blood might flow. That’s just the way it go down in the ring ya-nah?
Jordan: That's certainly the way it will go down next week when the two of you face off in a first blood match, what are your thoughts going in to this match?
Skrabz: My thoughts are why a man who ain't care about winning a month ago suddenly got the front to call himself the true champ around here, the shit's a farce if you ask me. The man flip flop more than the president he complain about fam, on a hypocrite vibe, but given the way he always tweeting emotional like a woman I ain’t too surprised. I think man like Forge be spendin' too much time with them biker bitches and it got him actin out like a female, standard.
Jordan: And the first blood match?
Skrabz: What about it fam? It ain’t a ting, for real. I got a question though, since it’s first blood it’s anythin' goes right? And the goal is to make the other man bleed right? So how about man brings a shank to the ring and get it done real quick blad?
Jordan: I don’t think that would be acceptable.
Skrabz: I can hit him with a chair right, or a bat, or get on that Titaness shit and cave his head in with a sledge hammer but a little jookin' with a blade too much for ya?
Jordan: Quite frankly, yes.
Skrabz: Seen, seen. It ain’t a ting bredder. Man has already made him bleed with nuttin but hands anyway so it standard practice to do it again.
Jordan: The Rise in Phoenix pay per view is fast approaching and you and Forge are both scheduled to compete in separate matches. With you challenging for the title and Trenton Mitchell taking on “Pretty” Ricky Stanton, how do you see those matches playing out?
Skrabz: Trent in over his head bruv, he punching above his weight, on the real. Ricky Stanton a vet in this game, he been around the block more than a few times, only block Trent been around them rusty engines he always workin' on. I ain’t see nuttin but a Ricky Stanton victory, on the level.
Jordan: And your title match?
Skrabz: The fuck you think fam? As far as I'm concerned the shit's a foregone conclusion. Man like Skrabz walked in to this company a nobody, some fresh of the plane limey with no rep, but it ain't take me long to build one. Man saw a lot of naysayers and doubters when the title match was made and I've done silenced all but two of 'em. One of them two is gonna find out next week just how hard it is to bitch and complain with a mouth full of blood and the other one has got but two weeks left at the top of the pile before I pull it out from underneath her.
Jordan: I think that about wraps everything up. Is there anything more you want to add?
Skrabz: One ting fam. Man ain’t doin’ this again. From now on the only interviews man like Skrabz be doin' are with my boy Chris at beer rap and wrestling. You wanna catch mans words you can approach me backstage bredrin, ya seen.
Jordan: Yes, Ok. I’ve ... seen. Thank you for your time, and thank you ladies and gentleman for joining us too.
Skrabal stands up with urgency, sending his chair sliding across the floor as the scene fades.
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Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Jun 25, 2018 17:56:32 GMT -6
> …
> ...
> Playing video “file007.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/24/18
> Time: 4:18pm, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: Twisted Steel Auto Repair & Detailing, Private Garage
> …
> Starting...
There are times when you can read a person just by looking at them, perhaps being in the same room as they are. Other times, you can have a full-blown conversation with someone and never get a handle on how they feel or what they are thinking. When it comes to someone like Trenton Mitchell, better known to Mile High Wrestling fans as Forge, a person does not have to ask what is on his mind, because he will tell you… he will do it colorfully, directly, without fear or favor. The man nicknamed the Martyr Machine wears what passes for his feelings on his sleeve… or perhaps it is more accurate to say on his shoulder. Like the proverbial chip. Just daring someone to come knock it off.
Even in moments of seemingly outwardly calm he tends to radiate a sense of danger. The man has made habit out of busting open almost every opponent he has come into contact with since his debut at Mile High #3, not caring who is in front of him for the most part… up to and including the Mile High Champion herself. Today, however, there is a different air around Forge as he sits on a small stool in the back of his establishment. Sharp eyes will note that the two machines standing before him, one of them getting his direct attention, are in fact his Father’s Day presents from his wife and kids. Is that, perhaps, the meaning of his peace? Long sought-after rides waiting for a skilled hand to bring them back to life? The man has stated more than once he trusts machines more than humans, so…
”We’re going to try something a little different this time, Skrabz… mainly because you’re just too damn thick for words. Your skull is as dense as your accent and, as you can see right now-”
Forge doesn’t look up immediately, though when he does he gestures to the bikes set before him… and does so with pride.
”-I’ve got a more important task in front of me than educating you as to just how badly you’ve been fucking up lately.”
His words are harsh, as per usual, but the snap they so often carry is… subdued, perhaps? No, that is not the word. Refined. Yes, that would be it. Pausing in his tinkering to gather a remote from his pocket, Forge points it at something off-camera and a projector clicks on. In the otherwise dark room (save for the light over Forge himself and the handheld LED light he has directed toward the bike), images appear on the far wall, live and in living color.
The first video up? Forge’s debut match in Mile High: a triple threat between himself, Skrabz and Deuce Holmes. Paying no attention to the replay himself, Forge keeps up his tinkering and twisting as he speaks.
”I can smell the desperation on you, kid, and it reeks. The scent has been on the air since the first time we went round and round. No matter how you try to paint that match up with pretty words, though, the simple fact is that you took the easy way out. Deuce Holmes was the weak link and you pounced on that fact, pinning him and taking the win. You know already I don’t give two shits about victory aside from the extra money in my pocket but even I can smell weakness from thirty feet. Deuce was never meant to step into the ring with someone like me in the first place, something I proved at Mile High #4 and that he confirmed last week by taking an office job. You must have figured it out, too. Then again, you were probably more concerned with tasting blood for several days after that little fight…”
The clip takes a leap forward, to the moment post-match where Forge lays waste to both Holmes and Skrabz, bloodying both men and leaving them lying.
”Some people call that me being a sore loser. They can go fuck themselves. That, Skrabz, that act of violence I take great pride in, was a warning. That was your wake-up call. You, though, slept right on through… despite the fact that we were FAR from done. And that, boy, is where the desperation started. Maybe it was while they were sewing up your face, maybe it was when you saw me racking up win after win… doesn’t matter. What does matter… is that it’s real, whether you admit it or not.”
The soft click of the ratchet sounds off against the otherwise-silent garage, the clips playing on the far wall without a soundtrack. Forge, by this point, is beaded up with perspiration to the point that it has soaked a little into the black tank he’s wearing over those old work jeans and boots. A woman’s dream, a man’s nightmare.
”It got worse last week, though. To the point where you, someone who takes so much damn pride in being who and what he is, actually let that elderly bitch masquerading as a champion tell you to stay out of the fight. And you did it. Thing is, you can’t blame that on her or her ego or even the notion that we’d be softening her up for your eventual championship match. What self-respecting fighter, or even wrestler, lets someone tell them what they can and can’t do? Who stays out of a fight when they’re supposed to be right in the thick of it, proving why they’re in the spot they’re in?
Better question, boy: why is a rookie who hasn’t been in the business two months yet having to tell you your fucking business when you’re already up and vying for the big gold? Are you that much of a pussy? Have your balls not dropped yet? You decide to hang back and show up mid-match hoping to still get a piece and do a little damage instead of being out there from the get? What kind of fucking excuses do you have for THAT bullshit performance?”
And there is the first glimpse of the Forge that Mile High Wrestling knows and loathes! He comes within a hair of throwing that socket wrench across the room but he relents; it’s worth more than anything it might hit in his mind. Instead, he picks up the remote again, switching to a clip of Candi Bratton putting a chair up against the locker room door.
And he proceeds to spit in disgust.
”Motherfucker, if you want into a fight, some pissy shit like that shouldn’t fucking stop you. After all the shit you talked you’re just gonna hang back and puff on a blunt instead of stepping up and getting what you have coming? And they think that you have what it takes to carry this place. I’m questioning who’s on worse drugs at this point: you or the Macks. The real shit of it, though? Is that you actually brought the damn fight for once. More that you did a couple shows ago, anyway.
The desperation is still there, though. Those weren’t the punches of a man who’s confident in getting the job done. That’s the manic flailing of a mouse trying to strike back at a lion. Tell me I’m wrong, though. Come up with more excuses and snappy retorts to try and get under my skin… the very acts that prove how afraid you are of what I can and will do to you a couple nights from now. If it were a straight-up fight, you might have a chance at going home with the winner’s check. But in their ‘infinite’ wisdom, the Macks decided to give this main event brawl a little wrinkle.”
Holding up a grease-stained hand, Forge extends two fingers and grins maniacally.
”Two words: first blood.”
Curling the index finger back in and leaving the middle finger up for a moment, Forge again clicks the remote, showing a series of clips slideshow-style. Most of them are post-match from back in the trainer’s room, shots of his opponents since his debut in Mile High, showing each and every one opened up in some way. From Skrabz himself to Deuce Holmes, Emily Falls, Luke Corvo… all the way up to Candi Bratton. He keeps that on repeat as he talks.
”I don’t have to hold you down for three seconds. I don’t have to squeeze your neck until you pass out drooling on yourself. All I have to do, Skrabz, is what I’ve BEEN doing from the get: bust you open. There’s been blood on these hands every night since I signed my contract and this Wednesday? I’m going to add a little more. Grade-A Yardie-reject, mush-mouthed, C-grade-rapping crimson. All over these metal-twisting, machine-manipulating, life-altering hands of mine.
Every word you’ve spoken of late carries that desperation. You’re working under this idiotic notion that you can get under my skin by referencing my wife and whether I’m satisfying her or having my kids’ names in your mouth for whatever reason. That’s the line for some people, the line where things go from business to personal and they lose their shit. They give in to the rage and come charging in full-bore like morons, right into the jaws of the beast they’re supposed to be putting down. It’s a cheap tactic, but it works. Sometimes.”
As he continues to speak, his tone gets a little calmer. A smile actually begin to form as he finishes tightening a stubborn nut on the bike’s engine. Pausing for a gulp from something out of a styrofoam cup sitting just out of sight, Forge takes a cloth from his back pocket and wipes his hands off, chuckling.
”Just… not on me. You don’t even get points for trying that weaksauce bullshit, Skrabz. I’m in a permanent state of rage and there’s not a damn thing you can muster to twist that up. It’s the equivalent of a chimp throwing shit at a wall for attention… except in the case the chimp has several IQ points on you. You want to rile up Robi with that sort of talk? I’ll stand back and laugh at what she does to you. My kids? Please. My daughter is more man than you’ll ever be and my son could snap you like a twig. You’re embarrassing yourself and while that might be good for a few chuckles from the morons in the stands or sitting on their computers watching you spew verbal diarrhea everywhere, it won’t get you anywhere with me.
So try again, fucker. I’m not the guy that gets caught up in the hype or, worse, claims that I AM the hype. What I am is plain for everyone to see: an ass-kicker of Biblical proportions, grinding up and spitting out every bitch and bastard put before me in that ring. The Martyr Machine ain’t just a cool name to sell t-shirts… something you oughta know by now. But hey, third time’s the charm, right? Maybe this time, after I leave you in a puddle of blood in the middle of that ring, it’ll finally register. Who knows, maybe I’ll crack you in the mouth hard enough to make you drop that accent...”
He ponders that, half-amused, then rises from his seat as he stuffs the cloth into his back pocket again. Bringing the cup with, he takes another long sip and gestures to the camera with it.
”You ain’t got a damn thing to say and nothing to do that will make a difference Wednesday. Even if you DO luck out and bust me open first, I’m still leaving that ring with your blood on my hands. Push your luck and they’ll wheel you to the ring for your little title match with Bratton in a goddamn meat wagon.”
Draining the rest of the beverage, Forge tosses it out of sight and into a garbage can, the metallic rattle confirming that little hole-in-one. One last time he takes out the remote, pausing the clips right where they’re sewing up the face of Skrabz.
”I’m done with you for now. I suggest you take a long hard look at what’s on the wall right now, Skrabz. This ain’t shit compared to what’s coming. Prepare to feed the Martyr Machine.”
Walking off-camera and out of sight, the feed cuts out...
> End feed...
> …
> …
> Searching…
> ...
> Starting audio playback...
”All set, boss?”
”It’ll do for now. Make sure this place gets locked up tight tonight, hear me? Kallahan’s little visit the other day has me thinking that fuckers are snoopin’ around where they shouldn’t.”
”You want me to have some of the prospects ride by tonight to make sure shit’s on the up an’ up?”
”Yeah, good call. One or two of ‘em wanna kick it in the lounge for the night, brownie points next to their name. Ain’t required but considerin’ what’s sittin’ in there right now, I ain’t turning the extra eyes down.”
”Those bikes are primo, boss… 1949s?”
”You know your shit, Goldie. Yeah, two of ‘em. Between them I should be able to get one running with all original pieces. The other will end up being a bit of a hybrid but I’m cool with that.”
”If nothin’ else, I’ll hang out myself.”
”Good man. Keep an eye on the cameras, too. And you got the prepaid number in case shit goes down, right?”
”Got it right here.”
”All right. I’m heading back to the house. Keep me informed.”
> ...end of audio playback...
> ...
> Playing video “file007a.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/24/18
> Time: 7:55pm, Central
> Location: Metairie, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: The Mitchell Residence, Front
> …
> Starting...
Robi herself wasn't sure how she managed it, but the President of the Shieldmaidens had actually talked her husband into wearing a suit! Of course, they both got the typical, yet playful, wolf-whistles from their kids as they got ready to leave for the night, making Robi laugh and causing Forge to shoot them reproving looks. As for Robi, herself, she was dressed in a form-hugging cocktail dress. Black, as was her color, with black silk thigh-high stockings. You know the ones, with the line down the back of the legs. And then that was all brought together by a pair of Mary Jane stilettos. Her brunette hair was styled in an up-do and she had wisps of hair dancing around her face. As for jewelry? She wore a simple tennis bracelet that Forge had gotten her for her birthday one year. A pair of diamond teardrop earrings that he'd gotten her for an anniversary. And, of course, her wedding set. And, for a little sassiness, she also had on an anklet.
Go ahead. Man or woman, we bet you can't take your eyes off THAT vision. Finally making it out the door, she waved good-bye to the kids en route, waiting for her husband by the SUV. Unfortunately, there'd be no biking in these get-ups.
"Still trying to figure out how you talked me into this monkey suit..."
Forge says plainly, more whistles coming from Shanna before he closes the door behind him, rolling his eyes. By the time he reaches Robi, he take her by the hand and gives her a little twirl.
"You, on the other hand..."
Robi grins at him, though when he took her hand and twirled her, the grin became a sweeter smile.
"Because you love me and this event we're going to is a little reminder to the Chief that he needs to get Kallahan in line or his dirty little Horsey secrets come out. I'm glad you like the dress, though I wonder just how badly you want it on the floor?"
That, of course, was said as a taunting suggestion. Trenton chuckles with a shake of his head.
"I'll be having that one way or the other tonight. For now, I'll stick to admiring you. On the question of business, though... something's up with Kallahan. Wasn't the same jackass that came to see me at the garage last week. Something's going on."
"Good to know I'm not the only one that's been getting that feeling. And just try not to rip this dress to shreds later, hm? I like it... and it was the last one they had."
He sounds a big grim at the thought, though for now he doesn't elaborate. Instead he opens the door for Robi and closes it behind her, then gets into the driver's seat himself. Starting up the vehicle, he turns her to her again. Of course, she had to laugh at that. She'd lost count as to how often she had to go buy new clothes thanks to their... super-zealous extracurricular activities.
"Remind me again how you came up with tickets to this thing?"
At the question of the tickets, she just grinned at him sheepishly.
"The twins."
Of course, the twins. How could it be otherwise?
"Figures. You know every eye in that place is gonna be on us. No chance in hell of slipping anything in or out."
Robi nods sagely.
"Of course. Which is why we're going. All eyes are going to be on us. And we are going to be real friendly like with the Chief.."
She paused with a brilliant smile.
"...and his wife."
"That woman better keep her eyes to herself. It's like she has this weird-ass idea that I'm going to give her a shot or something..."
"Oh, I'm quite sure she's going to be focused on her husband tonight. Did you remember to bring the portfolio of that Arabian stallion that we're buying?"
"It's in the glove box. Along with a few contingencies. Shall we?"
Robi nods with a smile, a little too eager if you asked Forge... but that was Robi to a 'T'; she had everything in hand and was eagerly awaiting watching their enemies squirm.
"Mmm, yes. Let's."
Firing up the SUV, Forge pulls away from the house and the scene fades to black.
> ...
> End feed...
> ...
> Shutting down...
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Post by Skrabz on Jun 26, 2018 16:05:21 GMT -6
Location: Skrabal’s motel room, Denver, Colorado
Date: 24th June 2018
Time: 9:45am
Skrabal glances at his ringing phone as he walks across the motel room towards the door with his gym bag in hand. He answers the call and speaks impatiently.
“Ty this really ain’t a good ti...” he stops abruptly as Ty interrupts.
“Shut up bredrin! Listen to me now ya heard? Your sister been blowin' up my line all week long fam and you know it ain’t a problem coz we all family but that’s why I feel for her, ya get me? You needsta handle your shit cuz, she losin' her mind out here.”
“Fam it ai...” Once again Skrabal is stopped mid-sentence as Ty continues his rant.
“Didn't man tell you to shut up? Ya sister ain't the only ting man needs to hear me out on. I’m a tell you straight coz you my boy... Your lil' video ting there last week? Embarrassin' fam! No other word for it. Man's sat on the floor, slurring his words all drinkin' vodka from a bottle, you know how many people watch this shit fam? You makin' a fool a yaself rudeboy!”
“Man still handle hi...” frustration builds in Skrabal as Ty cuts him off for a third time.
“Man ain't handle shit fam. You ain’t have ya phone or nothin'? I mean why man can't call nobody to let him out? Why man can't kick the door off or somthin? Why man decide to jus' blaze up right there and do nothin'?”
“I'm a give ya that one brudda ya do kinda gotta point there but you know how man get claustrophobic and he have to medi...” Not yet finished his tirade Ty interrupts, Skrabal sighs in response as he sits down on his bed.
“Man need to get his shit together, every time you put somthin' out you either smoking or drinking or ya got some gyal there sleepin' or walkin' around butt naked...” This time it is Ty who trails off as he is interrupted by Skrabal.
“I get you fam, I really do but I ain't doin' nuttin' I ain't do at home. But I'm a keep ya words in mind fam you ain't ever steer me wrong before. So listen fam, ya-nah the pay per view ting is comin' up real quick time now right?... I want you man out here, all a you manor man, so ask around and see who down to make it and I’m a see you all there yeah?”
“I'm in fam, if man has to fly out on his ones you know I’m a be there.” Ty responds without a moments hesitation.
“I know that, standard. Jus' let me know how many man a comin’ soon as and I'm a fix it all up for ya.”
“Will do blad, no doubt. I’m a speak to you soon bredrin, Toll.”
“Peace out fam, Toll.” Says Skrabal as he swipes his thumb across the screen ending the call before picking up his gym bag and exiting the room.
Location: Skrabal’s motel room, Denver, Colorado
Date: 26th June 2018
Time: 10:30pm
The scene opens to show Skrabal sitting on the floor of his room propped up against a wall. He sits with his legs up, bent up the knee with his arms resting atop. A condensation covered bottle of water is held in his right hand and in his left hand a red clipper lighter. He moves the lighter up to his mouth and sparks it to flame, lighting the blunt that rests between his lips. He takes a few deep puffs and exhales a cloud of white grey smoke and then speaks.
“Ya-nah I heard ya say suttin' about what ya wife could do to me in the ring, all on account on what man has been sayin' he’d do to her any place but, well I've enjoyed bein' beaten' up by less attractive women so if she wanna scrap with Skrabz she can bring it on any time but she best keep herself out my business witchu next week.”
He pauses to take another long draw on the blunt and begins talking immediately, the smoke seeping from his lungs with every word.
“This lil' ting is between me and you Trent so I ain't wanna see any single one of ya harem out there at ringside ya heard? But if they decide to bring it... Shit, I ain't no Candi Bratton fam, trust! They step in my way they gonna smacked right back out of it.”
Another pause in speech for another long deep pull on the blunt. His eyes squint slight as the smoke catches his throat on the way down. He coughs a little before exhaling and continuing.
“See ya shot yaself in the foot, ain't got a leg to stand now I'm a go out on a limb for the win like that blood that you wear on ya hands... Takin' about C grade blad that’s B plus at worst, it’s extracurricular activities out here ya get me fam? Man is teachin’ dem how.”
He pauses this time for a drink of water, gulping it down to sooth his cotton dry mouth
“But he tear flesh from bone or that the way it been told facin Tessai from Ninja Scroll how the fuck you gonna tear stone?... Ya see what I mean blad? Man puts pride in his pen ya-nah so allow that nonsense and foolishness fam I beg of you.”
He laughs and shakes his head slightly before continuing on.
“Now a done know you think ya the giant at the top of the beanstalk but the only ting in the clouds your head fam, trust. Talkin' about man took the easy way out when he pinned Deuce in the triple threat match. Fam all that iron ya pump effect the oxygen supply to ya brain or suttin'. It’s fuckin’ up ya memory cuz, on the real. See I pinned Deuce Holmes but not coz he a weak link fam, nah, never that. Man pinned Deuce Holmes coz Deuce Holmes said he wanna win. But you said you ain’t care about that..."
He scowls as sense of disgust builds in his tone.
“So tell me, what the fuck good it do me to beat a man who ain’t even wanna win in the first place?”
He shakes his head again as he lifts the blunt back to his mouth and speaks with it perched between his lips.
“Talkin' about mouse and a lion, behave bredrin man is a dirty schemin rat fam, ya get me? Gnawin’ and clawin my way to the top. Ya talkin' about desperate fam and I'm a admit it coz the shit’s true, man like Skrabz been desperate for more than a minute and driven from day dot. Man wanna win bredrin, I'm a thrive on dubs like a DJ and you pout an piss about these traits like they negatives?... I guess that why you ain’t care about winnin. Ya gots all them bikes but no drive to ride with. You comfy.”
He finally relights the blunt and takes few short puffs on it.
“You walk roun' all over talkin' like you the big bad but you settled in ya place, content, happily married family man. It’s good bro, I respect but not really though, nah! Man is pullin' ya leg. That monogamous life ain’t for me man nah, no way, I can’t imagine sleepin’ with just one woman forever, rest of my life like that locked down to one chick? Nah blad, man like Skrabz need a new one every other night, ya feel me?”
He laughs arrogantly before remarking.
“ Shit, I guess not”
He laughs again briefly, but an expression that seems to be a mixture of dissatisfaction, distaste and disgust soon replaces any sense of lightheartedness in his mood.
“But fam I’m a be real with you, one time. All that talk about you ain’t care if you win? Bullshit! We all know it blad, I seen it time and again. New man comes in insecure, worried, knows he out a the shallow end and he ain’t too sure if he sink or swim so he announce loudly he ain’t care if he drown... Come on fam I mean it show in the way you flip flop coz now you got yaself a couple win there and ya ain’t shut up about it a day since.“
He pauses for seemingly no reason in particular this time and just kind of looks off into space for a few seconds.
“But it all stops now bredder. Man has seen you run round here for too long already and since you getting too big for ya boots it’s about time man gets his Stormzy on and give you the boot fam, ya see me? It’s over for you now fammo and I’m a tell ya this, it ends in bloodshed that a make Mass Transit look like a paper cut.”
He sniffs and looks arrogantly into the camera with a subtle shake of his head.
“I’m a chop you and throw the scraps on a plate for the pretty boy to feed on at Phoenix while I go on to take that strap from Candi Bratton so ya can go ahead and change ya lil twitter handle right now.”
He pauses looking off to the side, before glancing back at the camera and continuing.
“Ya see I nah whatcha all thinkin. Ya thinkin’ that’s it, Skrabz done now. Lost the match there with Candi now it’s down hill on a Toboggan vibe. Bun that! It’s chair lift time, man is still rising to the top he ain’t
peaked.”
He shakes his head, silently mouthing the words “Never that”.
“But it get's peak though, and ya all gonna have to face facts at some point or another. So ya can either accept it now or ya can accept it on the eleventh of July when man a hold that strap in the air but ya lookin' at the next Mile High champion, standard.”
“Samantha Hamilton ain't stop me. Forge Mitchell ain't gonna stop me... and as far as Candi Bratton...nah, never.””
He kisses his teeth and shakes his head then takes another long, deep pull on his blunt. He leans forward, exhaling directly at his phone and filling the shot with smoke as he taps the screen and ends the recording.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2018 17:40:08 GMT -6
> …
> ...
> Playing video “file007b.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/26/18
> Time: 3:37pm, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: New Orleans Police Department, Outside...
> …
> Starting...
Pacing back and forth in front of the black SUV she and Forge had taken out not two nights ago, Robi Mitchell is seven shades of pissed and none of them are pretty… at least to anyone aside from her fellow Shieldmaidens and her husband. The latter of which is the main reason she is here at this moment, throwing cross glances at the parking meter from time to time and checking her watch every other moment, threatening to grind a trench in the concrete with her constant near-stomping steps.
Out in front of the New Orleans Police Station, in full Shieldmaiden gear from cut to boots, Robi continues to pace. She is a good two seconds from stalking into the building and making things ten times worse when her phone rings. Half-tempted to ignore the call, Robi allows it to go to voicemail once, but the second time her phone starts up she growls out something very unladylike under her breath and answers the call.
”What do you want, Kallahan?!”
Ah, the detective for which Robi and Trenton have such disdain… and a beef going back several years, too. A retort sounds from the other end of the call, which Robi quickly cuts off.
”Where do you think I am?! One of your jackass cronies hauled off Trenton, Khary and Kyojin a couple hours ago on some trumped-up bullshit!”
Another pause, another reply, followed by a snorted laugh of contempt and disbelief.
”And why should I believe that, especially after last night?!”
Whatever Kallahan’s response is, it renders Robi silent for a few long moments. Before she makes her reply, the view switches.
> ...
> Scene: New Orleans Police Department, Holding Cells...
> …
Now we find ourselves looking at the interior of the police station… more specifically at the holding cells further back in the building. Sitting on one of the cots in the communal cell is Kyojin, his girth making the furniture dip a bit. Khary leans against the wall, staring out the window with his face twisted into a cold mask. Forge, meanwhile, paces back and forth in front of the bars, seething. Both his fellow club members are in their riding gear though Forge himself is in his work attire.
”What are they trying to accomplish here, boss?”
Kyojin’s faintly-accented voice speaks up from the cot, his attention turning to Forge. The fellow was taller than Forge and a little wider, too. A real hoss of a biker. Stopping his pacing and leaning on the bars with his hands resting between them, Forge shakes his head.
”Fucked if I know. I get a call from Alex about some Detective Asswipe showing up at the garage giving her shit about her papers and people she’s supposed to be associated with and that’s when I called you two. Turns out he ain’t got shit on her but since we showed up we’re obviously up to something so he hauls us in on suspicion…”
”In other words, the fucker is dicking with us.”
A real bruiser himself, Khary is also rather soft-spoken. Forge nods without a verbal reply, looking back and forth as cops and other employees of the station walk past, few of them daring to pass a glance at the cage.
”No sense in worrying, then. Unless…”
There is a brief pause and then it dawns on the big man. Khary, noting the recognition, nods slowly.
”Unless Robi gets word of it.”
”You know good and goddamn well that she has.”
”That… complicates things.”
”Only if she loses her temper. I love that woman more than life itself but if she comes busting in here, shit’s gonna get worse. Wouldn’t even be able to blame her cause I’d do the same.”
Nodding sagely, Kyojin stands up again, to his full height. Khary watches him, commenting on the matter himself.
”This asshole knew Alex. Knew enough to rattle her and have her call us down. Five bucks says he’s counting on Robi to make a scene, boss. I don’t like this shit.””
Forge hadn’t thought of such a scene; it made his jaw set, his teeth gritted almost painfully.
”Motherfucker!”
> ...
> Scene: New Orleans Police Department, Outside...
> …
Switching back to the outside, Robi is still on the phone, presumably with Kallahan. She looks frustrated but not in a way that betrays anger. As if… she is starting to see sense where none existed before.
”...you’d better not be yanking my chain here, Kallahan.”
Allowing the reply to go uninterrupted, Robi sighs. Her hands tenses as though she wants to crush the phone, but instead she just nods and lets the detective finish his piece before finally responding.
”Fine. But if this asshole keeps poking us, he’s going to have more trouble than he can handle. Mark that.”
Hanging up, Robi tucks the phone into her pocket and takes a deep breath. After putting a couple more coins in the meter, she heads into the police station as calmly as she can.
> End feed...
> …
> Playing video “file007c.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/26/18
> Time: 8:01pm, Central
> Location: Metairie, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: Deke’s Roadhouse, Outside...
> …
> Starting...
A few hours removed from the day’s incident at the garage and with the local police, Forge finds himself at one of his preferred near-home hangouts: Deke’s. There’s no fighting tonight, unfortunately, but that suits the President of the Chrome Dragons just fine. In fact, there’s not much of anyone else in the bar this evening other than the Dragons and the Shieldmaidens, who have all but taken over one corner of the place for themselves. A couple from both clubs are shooting pool while the rest are nursing drinks at the side tables nearby. Forge, standing against the wall near the window, is nursing a glass of whiskey on the rocks, downing each sip without so much as a twitch to his expression.
Robi comes over after taking her shot at the table, sliding an arm around Forge’s waist and nestling herself against his side. His arm moves to go around her but his eyes remain staring forward. He does lean in to whisper something to her, which has her nodding and departing. As he motion Goldie over to his side, Robi returns with the digital camera. Leaning down to kiss his wife briefly, Forge heads outside with the newest member of the MC in tow, turning on the device as they go. Once the door closes behind them, Forge takes a seat on one of the chairs outside and waits… looking toward the camera once he gets the signal.
”Ready for a little more truth, Skrabz? Don’t bother answering; the question is rhetorical. If I waited for my opponents to be ready for anything I dished out, be it words or punches, I’d die of old age before they dropped their stones and stood tall to take what was coming.”
Scoffing irritably, Forge takes a longer drink of the spirits, drawing in one of the ice cubes and crunching down on it angrily. Swallowing the cold shards, he exhales slowly.
”This business is already fucking changing me, or at the very least changing my perspective. And I don’t fucking like that. From the moment I had to put this mug in front of a camera and jaw-jack you assholes before putting fists to faces, I had one goal and one goal only: money. The green. Simoleons. The root of all evil. Judge me if you will because I’m beyond caring one way or the other. Money makes the world go round and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is either full of shit or thinks you are.
But after last week? As much as it fucking galls me to admit it, I feel priorities shifting. I feel my focus… not so much wavering as it is turning toward something it never should have, money be damned. I’m becoming covetous of something I’ve disdained since the start as a piece of trash that people only use to try and make themselves look and feel important...”
He trails off a little, his attention moving from the camera to the person just past it. A brow goes up before both narrow, making Forge look imposing as hell even while sitting down and leaned forward a bit, marginally decreasing his stature.
”Somethin’ on your brain, Goldie? Spit it out!”
You can practically hear Goldie’s nuts shrink back up into his body...
”Just, y’know… ain’t used to hearin’ ya talk that way, boss. Not saying you ain’t capable just… not the sort of banter ya get around a garage.”
”Stay in school.”
It is a weak attempt at a joke, but Forge finds it amusing. Goldie has the good sense to chuckle himself. That bit settled, Forge is back on the camera.
”Bottom lining this shit, Skrabz? I want that fucking Mile High Championship. To hell with my opinion of it once upon a time and, to an extent, fuck the bigger paychecks. I’m already the baddest motherfucker in Mile High Wrestling, bar none. Now? I want that gold to rub it in everyone’s fucking face. I want it to be my personal canvas where I tally up the bodies I leave behind me in streaks of blood. That damn thing needs to be fixed to the front of my bike so every sonofabitch on the planet who lays eyes on me knows just who the fuck I am.”
He smirks, albeit slightly, picking up the glass again but not drinking from it just yet.
”Sort of puts things into perspective, don’t it? In a couple weeks you and that frog-faced bitch Candi Bratton are gonna duke it out for that strap. And depending on which one of you walks out with it… well, you can expect another ass-stomping from me in short order. Don’t go selling your soul thinking that the Pretty Bitch is going to slow me down, steel cage or not. I’m going to flay him as though those steel links are a goddamn cheese grater and leave pieces of him all over the arena.
And then? Then I’m going to plop myself down backstage and watch you two beat the shit out of each other to see who leaves as champion. Hell, I might even come down and ‘congratulate’ the winner if I’ve a mind to.”
Something about the way he says ‘congratulate’ does not inspire feelings that are warm nor fuzzy...
”That’s a couple weeks off, though. First things first. Tomorrow night at Mile High #7… when I come to that ring looking to spill your blood. And make no mistake, boy: you’re gonna bleed. Might be that I bleed first, but you WILL bleed. A lot. All over the fucking place. I’m going to rub it across my face and chest like it’s the fucking mana of a fallen warrior instead of the dregs of a pop star gone wrong. Whatever it takes to see you twitching and begging on the canvas is what I’ll do to make that happen. And you should know by now that I’m not a man possessed of limits.
For the record, though? This cerebral shit? Don’t get used to it. Been a long, shitty day and there’s enough of the drink in me to make me level. That goes for the rest of you fuckwits listening in, too. Take this as anything other than an aberration of attitude where I’m concerned and the life I ruin will be your own.”
He swirls the remaining cubes in the glass, the blocks starting to melt a bit, water mixing with the fine Tennessee rye. He downs the rest and sets it down, licking a few stray drops off his lips and getting back to business.
”Go ahead and lower your hackles though, Skrabz, because none of the Dragons or the Maidens are coming down tomorrow night. Somewhere along the way people got this wrong-headed notion that we have to be up in each other’s business every goddamn time. Those same people keep getting curb-stomped because they don’t pay attention and think they’re invincible. You? There’s at least some small part of you that has a straight line of thought. I’m going to knock that part crooked when we step in the ring, but for now… be assured it that it’s just you and me.
As Robi can tell you, I’m a possessive creature. Ever tried taking a steak away from a hungry dog? You’ll lose fucking fingers. Anyone getting in my way in our fight, be they Mile High punk-asses, security or even my own club members… and I’ll send them out of there on their ass. That’s how serious I take this fight. That’s how much I want to send you to Candi Bratton as less of a man than you are at this moment… which ain’t much to speak of for how you seem to be treating family.”
No further elaboration on that point… Forge just lets it hang in the air like smoke from a flame.
”If I were you, though? I’d skip the dimestore psychology stuff, kid. The last thing you want to do is try to figure me out, to get in my head. There’s nightmares up here, chuckles. Enough to freeze your cojones clean off. Lucky you, though… hell, lucky for the whole roster… that I don’t let my demons determine what I do in that ring. Otherwise, I’d have already added several more lines to my rap sheet. The point? Stay in your lane.”
There comes another moment of silence and, if possible, Forge looks even more grim.
”The other shit, though… up until now, wins weren’t shit to me other than more money. That’s the whole point of this Mile High business; legit cash flow. No more, no less. Keeps the extracurriculars moving along without heat coming down on me and my people. That motherfucking title, though… that goddamned hunk of tin and… I fucking WANT IT!”
The empty glass, save for a few small cube remnants, gets smacked off the table. In the near distance the sound of it shattering is apparent. Another seven dollars, no doubt… the glass cost as much as the drink it carried. But Forge could not be bothered to give two hot shits.
”If that means I have to suck it up and try to win, then so be it. Maybe I start that shit tomorrow night. That what you want, bredrin? You want me comin’ into this First Blood Match actually wanting to rip you apart and be the first to make the world see red? You want to know what happens when I actually make some fucking effort? Because I can show you and the world and especially that fat, belligerent toad Candi Bratton what happens when you fill the Martyr Machine up with premium, kick the CO2 knob in and put pedal to the fucking floor! I can leave you and the rest of that arena in fucking awe of what this steel-twisting, punk-smashing, bitch-breaking monster is capable of!
You want to be that first casualty, Skrabz? Because so far, regardless of the sorry state I've left them in, all my opponents could walk away before now! I can let the monster out the cage and show you what a living nightmare really is! The problem is… you’ll never make it to Rise Up if I do. And neither will I. That’s why I rein it in, boy, and it’s about time you understood that. You aren’t worth losing my chance to tear Stanton limb from limb and hang his remains from the cage so his entitled twat protege can scream bloody murder at them. You aren’t worth losing what is owed me, that being a shot at the Mile High Championship. But make no mistake: you’re worth hurting. You’re worth fighting over. And we ARE going to fight. A fine, bloody fucking rumble is what we’re gonna have...”
Rising to his feet, Forge dusts himself off, snarling as he puts his focus back on the camera for the final time.
”Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ you, fam? Sure you don’t wanna back off on those words? Eh, too late now, I suppose…”
The sinister, twisted grin reappears...
”You remember that shit when I’m pulping your face with these fists. When you open your swollen eyes and see this motherfucker looming over you between heaven and hell, somewhere that time has no meaning. When it finally hits you that you’re in the clutches of a monster that would make the Terminator rust his pants and send the Predator run crying to his crab-faced mother? It’s gonna be too late.
Too late for you, for Bratton, for Stanton… too fucking late for Mile High. The Martyr Machine is gonna run ALL OF YOU DOWN!”
Turning on his heel, he strides back into the roadhouse as Goldie fumbles with the camera for a moment, finally bringing the feed to a close.
> ...
> End feed...
> ...
> Shutting down...
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