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Post by Admin on Jun 27, 2018 15:29:31 GMT -6
Forge
vs
Ripley Roleplay Limit: 2 Roleplay Deadline: Wednesday, July 4, 2018 @ 2AM Central Time |
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Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
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Post by Deleted on Jul 2, 2018 17:41:14 GMT -6
> …
> ...
> Playing video “file008.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 06/27/18
> Time: 10:21pm, Central
> Location: Denver, Colorado
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> Scene: Magness Arena, Trainer’s Room
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> Starting...*pat* *pat* *pat*
Intermittently, the blood drips from Forge’s forehead and into a metal tray held loosely in his left hand. His head is lowered just enough so that he doesn’t spill himself all over the floor or… himself… but those cold eyes are still staring forward despite it all. The angry red lines still stain his skin, the Martyr Machine being on the receiving end of a bloodying for once tonight, and it is hard to tell exactly what he is angry about on looks alone. His right hand rests on the matching leg, fingers clenching and letting go in a steady cycle.
His first singles loss. In a match made for someone of his nature, no less. Not because his opponent was the better man or because Forge himself was weak.
No, he owes this first notch in his loss column to the violent ravings and actions of the Mile High Champion herself, Candi Bratton. Their war in the ring a week prior saw her fall to the Martyr Machine and, as Forge calls Robi Mitchell, the Wicked Witch of the Bayou. Tonight, Forge came out to make a few things clear as far as his intentions toward Skrabz, Ricky Stanton and, of course, Bratton herself. She would barge out on his time, throwing out threats to which Forge responded in his simple, acerbic way.
And there it should have been settled. There it should have ended.
It did not.
”This is gonna sting…”
No verbal retort comes from the monster sitting on the edge of the table as the trainer, with noticeable and understandable tentativity, starts to wipe away the area around the head wound, swabbing it after with alcohol. Sting? It probably hurt like all blue blazes. Hell, when was the last time YOU had something borderline-caustic rubbed into a big ol’ open wound? Most people howl like trapped animals.
Forge… just sits there. Barely moves, not even to wipe a few stray drops from diving off the tip of his nose. His mind is already elsewhere…> …
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> File paused...
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> Initiating archive search...
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> Loading…
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> Date: 04/13/99
> Time: 1:03pm, Eastern
> Location: Apollo Beach, Florida
> ...
> Scene: Oceanside
> …
> Starting......and just like that, the beach spreads out before us. The waters of Tampa Bay lap at the white sands as all up and down the shoreline there are groups and pairs of people. Some are taking in the sun and relaxation while some are engaging in a little physical activity. Still more are noshing on some of the cuisine from one of the food trucks lining the sidewalk and others are, either meticulously or haphazardly, sculpting with sand. A few years after earning his nickname, Forge is on the sand himself, engaged in a little beach football with some of the few souls living that he didn’t find to be completely worthless to him.
He’s as big as life even here, almost two decades ago.
Lining up along the sand, the other team having the ball, Forge drops back to line up on a receiver. He has a line on the guy, yet no sooner does the other side hike the ball than does Forge find himself transfixed on something beyond the game.
”Daymn, bro… can’t even talk shit on that one.”
”Hell no you can’t. You ever seen a body or a face like that on a woman?”
”Not outside a Playboy or a porno. Even one of the good ones. Who the fuck is that anyway?””
”Her name’s Robi or somethin’... she’s in my history class or something. Don’t know why the hell I never looked at her till now, though.”
The friend rests an arm on Forge’s shoulder, grinning as he looks between them. Some impossibly-white teeth the guy has.
”Yo, Robi, ya said? Dude, no shit? I heard she smashed some bitch’s face with a fuckin’ skateboard sophmore year! Then, junior year? Some guy tried to grab on her and she kicked him in the crotch so fuckin’ hard he had a nut pop. You believe that shit? Talk about a ball-buster!”
Not a person even back then who cared much for complicated people or situations if he could avoid it, Forge found himself smirking a little as Robi, who had yet to realize she had spectators at that moment, altered her pose a little for another round of pictures. Still staring, it takes his teammate waving his hand comically in Forge’s face to get his attention.
”’Ey, Earth to Trent! You readin’ me, motherfucker? Got a game to get back to!”
”Move your goddamn hand, Jasper. You’re blockin’ my view.”
”You ain’t serious? Dude, you know who her family is? That on top of all else means chasin’ her is a good way to get y’self fucked up, feel me?”
Shoving the ball into Jasper’s midsection, Forge turns a grin on him.
”Ever known me to back off from any-damn-thing, Jazz?”
”HAH! Fuck no, man! That’s the truth!”
Impatient, the rest of the guys call out to Jasper and Forge, the former heading back to the game after giving Forge another nudge. He’s still staring, though, and by now Robi has felt the eyes upon her. On her feet and dusting herself off a bit, she locks eyes with Forge for a few moments from across the beach. Despite herself, some pink rises to the young lady’s cheeks. Forge, two fingers to his head, gives her a little wave before heading back over to the game.
Robi? She keeps right on staring until SHE has to be shook loose...> …
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> Archived video ending...
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> Resuming current file playback...
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> Loading…The thread is passing through Forge’s flesh via an imposing-looking needle as the recording starts up again, with a couple stitches already woven into the man’s brow. By all appearances, Forge hasn’t moved from the position we left him in. The only real change is the thread and how the puddle of red in the metal tray now has drops of clear fluid in it, that being the alcohol. By now, Robi is standing in the doorway, arms folded while she leans against the wall, staring angrily at the wound in the process of being sutured.
Forge, feeling the stare, averts his eyes toward the door, his head going with it a bit, causing the trainer to gasp and reaffirm their position.
”Be still! This is delicate work!”
”Then maybe we ought to let a professional do it!”
Snaps the Wicked Witch of the Bayou, stomping into the room. The trainer’s hands tremble but Forge slowly lifts his free hand in a gesture meant to calm, or at least stall, his wife.
”Oh, don’t even!”
She starts, as though Forge had actually spoken.
”If you think for a hot moment that I’m letting that sloppy cunt walk after some shit like this?! Oh, that bitch is gonna bleed from a LOT of new holes that I’m-a tear in her! This is fuckin’ bullsh-”
”And what will that accomplish?”
Both the trainer AND Robi are shocked to hear such a response. Matter of fact, the trainer probably expected Forge to agree, maybe snatch some medical implement off the counter and follow Robi out of the room to go do some borderline-murdering. Robi, too, looked shocked, or perhaps aghast, at that response. While they stood there, jaws slack, Forge resumed staring straight ahead and compounded on his answer.
”It’s the same fuckin’ lesson we try to keep teachin’, baby girl, and by now I’m thinking these motherfuckers are just too goddamn stupid to learn. Dog sticks its nose in a fire an’ gets burnt? It won’t do that shit no more. Cat screws around with a bigger animal and gets swatted? It won’t do that shit no more. How many times do we have to waste time beating these assholes down when it ain’t doin’ a damn thing but filling someone else’s pockets? ‘Cause it damn sure ain’t doin’ shit for us.”
”They deserve it, Trent, and you know that! Plus it makes me feel good to shove my boot up their asses, even if they beg for it again and again after the fact!”
Forge’s right hand clenches again and his shoulders and jaw set tightly. The trainer pauses as though expecting Forge to bolt upright but… no such thing happens.
”Keep fucking sewing.”
His eyes avert to Robi again.
”Look, I’m the last sonofabitch to tell you what to do. But think for a moment: what do we get if we stomp them into paste in the parking lot or slash their tires… or, hell, slash their brake lines? A little momentary satisfaction. Nothin’ else. They ain’t gonna shut up, they ain’t gonna change. Bratton will still be a wrinkled-up toad with a big mouth and no filter. Skrabz will still be a ball-gargling No Limit Soldiers reject who thinks he can talk his way to a win over a better man. And Ricky? He’ll still have his bank accounts and excuses.”
The moment the trainer sets the needle down, Forge is on his feet, putting the metal tray down on the counter. The trainer moves to bandage the wound but one glare from Forge has him backing off. Meanwhile, the Martyr Machine looks to his wife anew.
”The ONLY way you make these people see the truth is by doing it in that ring. Slowly, week by week? I’m starting to get this wrestling shit, baby. The little tricks and traps and idiosyncrasies of the business and the people in it…”
He taps his temple lightly with his index finger.
”All we have to do? Is what we’ve been doing. Stomping asses, washing our hands in blood and cashing fat fuckin’ checks. Between the fuckin’ bells? That’s where the talk damn well stops. That’s where what we do better than anyone else around here. It’s on display for every ticket-buying moron and television-consuming loaf in the damn world, and even those braindead lemmings can see what people like Bratton, Stanton and the rest live their ignorant lives ignoring:
We are superior.”
Robi doesn’t look like she wants to let it go until Trenton comes up to her and cups her chin, having her look up at him.
”They’ll get theirs. We’ll see to it personally. But we’re gonna do it their way just to fucking rub it and let them know that there ain’t shit they can say or do to bounce back the hell we bring down on ‘em. So save this bloody fire in you, baby. Save it for the fights in front of the cameras. Save it so the world can see us crush them and shut this place the fuck down all around ‘em.”
”Um… you need a note or something? To get some pain meds or...”
”Fuck no.”
He looks insulted that the trainer would even suggest it.
”Save it for The Rise. I’ll be sending a few assholes your way that’ll need it for more than just a scrape like this.”
Forge points at the sutured wound on his head, then takes Robi by the arm and walks with her out of the room and, in turn, out of the arena.> ...end of audio playback...
> ...
> Playing video “file008a.wma”...
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> Date: 06/28/18
> Time: 2:36am, Central
> Location: Denver, Colorado
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> Scene: Hampton Inn, Forge & Robi’s Room
> …
> Starting...Just a few hours later, Forge is sitting in the living area of his and Robi’s hotel room, the room mostly dark and owing its only illumination to the moon shining in the nearby window. Seated dead center on the sofa, his left arm stretched out on top of the cushions, Forge is as he had been hours before: staring straight ahead with cold eyes… not that we can see much of them. The shadows fall upon him for the most part, revealing at least that he is shirtless, that there’s a bottle of spirits and a glass on the table and that the camera is stationary, likely meaning that Robi is either sleeping or elsewhere.
A small, fiery speck shows some of the Martyr Machine’s face briefly before it dies down and is replaced by a plume of acrid smoke plunging out of both nostrils. Forge leans forward, flicking a few ashes into the tray on the table, then replacing the cig, letting it hang precariously from the corner of his mouth. Gnawing on it a little, Forge clears his throat slightly and his one visible eye locks on the camera.
”Ripley, yeah? Gonna go ahead and skip the old-ass Alien or ‘Believe It or Not’ jokes. This ain’t a good night for funny. Matter of fact, fresh fish? I’m gonna do you a solid… mainly because I don’t want any fucking whining later on after I get through with you.”
Another long drag taken in before Forge speaks again.
”Plant your ass in front of a television, computer or whatever-the-fuck and watch a little Mile High Wrestling… catch the last couple of shows, if you can. Take a good long look at the Martyr Machine in action, both in and out of the ring. Let all that soak in for a while, then come back. Just hit pause on this… I won’t give a shit. Not like I got a damn thing to do.”
Leaning forward to pick up the glass of liquor, Forge takes a long sip from it, then swirls the ice around in the glass, being silent otherwise. This must have been giving Ripley a moment to do as instructed or something, because for the better part of a minute or so, Forge doesn’t even look in the direction of the camera. Finally, though, he takes another sip and sets the glass down to refill it, putting his focus back on the camera.
”I’m betting you just sat there for the last minute, staring at me like a jackass and waiting to see if there was some doofy-ass punchline coming. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck whether you watched or not. That ain’t the point. The point is that this is your first fight in Mile High Wrestling and right off the bat they pitted you against the most dangerous person in the company, someone who draws blood each and every time out and who has yet to be pinned or made to tap out in this place.
Yeah, they tried trumping that shit this week where Skrabz is concerned, acting like that’s a big damn deal. Kind of makes you wonder who the hell is running this place. I don’t give a damn who that is. My job around here is simple: they sign me to a match, I beat a motherfucker down and cash my check. That simple. A week from now, Ripley? I probably won’t remember your name. Chances are you’ll have trouble remembering it yourself if you come at me with any sort of disrespect, which I’m pretty sure is what’s going to go down. See…”
Downing a gulp of the freshly-poured liquor, Trent sits back with his glass in one hand and the cigarette smoldering in the other.
”...you stepped into Bizzaro World here, boy. Freaks like Candi Bratton, bitches straight from the gates of hell or so they’d have you believe, walk around here acting like they own the place, breaking every rule and calling people every name in the book. And the fans chant their name. People who spend more time twisting the English language in dangerous direction, like Skrabz, and are barely fit to stand in front of a microphone much less fight in the ring, yet they get rose petals dumped at their feet like they just cured fuckin’ cancer.
And there’s more examples than that, kid. We got one twat that cries every time someone gives her a dirty look, some bearded-and-barefoot ignoramus who is all of a sudden calling shots when he can barely speak a full sentence, some ginormous motherfucker who got his ass beat by a little girl (said that lovingly, Ophelia), some weirdo who likes dancing like a horse and a couple prima donna morons to even things out. This place might as well be a goddamn wrestling asylum or the most fucked up reality show in existence.”
Another long pull from the cancer stick ends with another expelled miasma floating to the ceiling. Forge watches it closely for a moment, then simply lies his head back.
”So… what’re you?”
That head comes back up, a glare fixed on the camera.
”Ain’t seen nor heard shit outta you yet. Being straight up, the smartest thing you could do is just stay quiet. Show up, fight, walk away. The less reason I have to look at you as some upstart bitch trying to horn in on my territory, the better. See, the rest of the loons around here, Ripley? They’re easy to figure out. They all got a tic, somethin’ that makes them do what they do. Watch, listen and learn and you’ll see the way to break them like the bitches they are.
But when it comes to myself and the Shieldmaidens? Never has been and never will be that easy where we’re concerned. While the rest are playing a fucking character, hiding insecurities and whatever else they got in their closets, myself and the rest… we’re fucking real. We talk strong and fight hard, fucking people up for looking at us the wrong way and teaching respect painfully in that fucking ring. Unlike the rest, we back up what we say. Might be direct, might be roundabout, but if I say I’m gonna bust you open? It’ll happen. If Robi says she’s gonna knock you the fuck out and leave you twitching on the mat? That’ll fuckin’ happen, too.”
”Goddamn right.”
Walking out of the shadows and up behind the couch, a black cami with the club insignia emblazoned on the front covering her upper half, Robi leans in and rests her chin on Forge’s shoulder, her long arms wrapped around him from behind.
”Maybe you pissed someone off on your way in, Rip. Maybe Stanton put you up to shacking in Mile High thinking to use you as a pawn against me. Hell, maybe you’re one of Candi’s illegitimate children who doesn’t like the shit being said about his mom. You got some kind of motivation, sure. But is it gonna be enough? Will that alone get you through a first match here that might end up being your last? I”ve told ‘em before, and I’m tellin’ you now: I don’t make allowances. I don’t ‘go easy’. And I damn sure don’t have a fuckin’ off-switch.
In that ring, I live up to the Martyr Machine moniker in every sense of the world. I will chase you down, grind you up and spit you out just because you’re between me and a check. Not for beef, not for giggles… but because that’s what I do. And no one in Mile High does it better.”
Robi grins, then points out the glass in Forge’s hand. Handing it to her, she takes a sip of her own while Forge finishes up.
”And that’s about all you need to know. We’ll see if you got the guts to bite back, either on a screen or in the ring, soon enough. My money’s on not. But hey… been wrong before. After all, I thought Ricky Stanton was a man. More fool me.”
Smirking, Forge leans forward to snuff out the cig in the tray, rising and staring more downward toward the stationary camera as he speaks his last.
”Don’t fuck this up, boy, by pissing me off. Come get you a fight and we’ll see for sure what you got. Save the jokes and other crap when you’re facing someone a little lower on the food chain. Don’t be like the rest and nut up with both barrels, all guns blazing… because I’ll shove it back down your throat along with this size-sixteen. Count on that.”
Walking around the sofa, he takes the glass from Robi’s hand and finishes it, then walks off with her into the darkness.> ...
> End feed...
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> Shutting down...
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ripley
MHW Superstar
Posts: 40 
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Post by ripley on Jul 3, 2018 18:32:33 GMT -6
We see Ripley, in jeans and a black T-shirt, laying on his couch in the living room of his Florida home. He seems to be sound asleep even though there is a movie with loud explosions playing on the large flatscreen tv. After a few seconds his wife Alice walks into the room and picks up the remote that Ripley dropped on the floor. She turns off the tv then kicks the couch causing Ripley to wake up looking startled and confused.
Alice: Going to sleep all day?
Ripley rolls onto his back and rubs between his eyes.
Ripley: I’m jet lagged alright?
Alice: Hey, it’s what happens when you sign with multiple companies. Now get up, you promised we’d do something this weekend together before we head out to Denver.
Ripley: Yeah I remember.
He slowly sits up and swings his legs off the couch and sits for a moment.
Alice: Oh yeah, you got a text earlier about your match for Mile High Wrestling from someone claiming to be your road agent.
Ripley: Road agent?
He looks confused as he’s still shaking off the sleep then all of a sudden his expression changed to clarity.
Ripley: Oh, that’d be Deuce Holmes. What was the text?
Alice: He was letting you know he’s the road agent for you versus Forge.
Ripley: Forge? Like the X-Man?
Ripley has a short lived chuckle as Alice gives him a stern look.
Ripley: What? That was funny, kinda. Right?
Alice: No.
Ripley: Sorry, I just saw an opportunity to make fun of a name since everyone always does the same jokes about mine over and over. Wanted to know how it felt to do it myself.
Alice: Well, how’d it feel?
Ripley: Terrible. I feel cheap and unoriginal now. Don’t think I’ll ever be doing that again.
Alice: Good because you’re better than that.
Ripley: Yeah, plus I need to be taking him seriously and not making terrible jokes. This Forge guy seems pretty odd but dangerous. I’m going to have my work cut out for me.
Ripley gets up and walks over to a small bar where he pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a small rocks glass which he places on the bar top. He grabs another glass and motions to Alice and she gives a slight nod then sits on one of the two barstools. Ripley pours them both some whiskey.
Ripley: While I’ve been resting up from my second encounter with “The Master” I’ve been trying to watch Forge’s previous matches.
Alice: Between other wrestling matches and managing the development of your show Silver Lake?
Ripley takes a sip of whiskey and shrugs.
Ripley: What can I say, I’m a productive guy. Anyway, I know I’ll have to really step up my game which I can do. How many times have people underestimated me?
Alice: Hmm, pretty much all the time.
Ripley: Exactly but I never let that stop me. If anything I use it to fuel me. I have a feeling based on what he’s said in the past he won’t be taking me seriously and will be wanting this match to be over as soon as possible. I don’t care about personal feelings or whatever I just want to fight him and beat him. No matter what it takes.
Alice gives him a concerned look.
Alice: I’ve heard you say that way to many times to act like I don’t know what you mean by that. Don’t be stupid out there like you were with “The Master”.
Ripley: Stupid? I had plenty of fight left in me and I wasn’t done.
Alice: There was blood everywhere. You looked like you barely knew where you were.
Ripley: I knew I was in a wrestling ring and that’s all I needed to know.
Alice: You were a damn bloody mess. You know how worried I was? I was hoping you’d stay down because I knew I was watching your career come to an end.
Ripley looks down at his glass then takes a final large gulp of whiskey.
Ripley: Alright, but you know I was born to fight so I’m going to fight as hard as I can when I step into that ring with Forge. I’m going to Mark him and we are going to enjoy some fireworks afterward.
Ripley walks off as Alice sips her glass of whiskey.
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