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Post by Admin on Jul 18, 2018 11:52:38 GMT -6
 Forge
vs
Tyke IndexRoleplay Limit: 2 Roleplay Deadline: Thursday, August 2, 2018 @ 2AM Central Time |
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jul 30, 2018 13:11:39 GMT -6
September 10th 2008
Federal Prison, Brooklyn New York.
Three months deep, all those hours spent thinking, thinking about that night.
I had been incarcerated for a murder I may have partaken in, a murder that would condemn me to ten years with the sharks, ten years in hell.
This? This was merely the beginning.
I knew there would be sleepless nights and long battles with depression and what we had here was nothing more than a spanner in the works.
A prolonged sharp pointy spanner but a spanner nonetheless and by god one I wish I could snap in half at the best of times.
As the air sirens blared across the common rooms, it was time to go back to the cells, dining time was over and with it would come another lonely night.
I sat with my knees crouched on a wrinkly old mattress aware of my own space and how much of it I was willing to share with other people who had made cruelly regrettable decisions in their life, truth be told I was never much of a sharer and as I would soon learn out in here – sometimes it is good to share.
Despite what they say in the movies and particular that TV series about dykes in prison which would launch a mere five years later, some people in prison are your friends or at the very worst people you can relate to.
See, we were all hung out to dry here and in due time the resonating dampness which had saturated our head to toe would eventually moisten up before finally a firm crispness would be appear. At this moment in time, at this very moment I was still absolutely ringing. I was barely out the wash and still contaminated with a lingering stench which would eventually seep through my every pore and cause a cancerous tumour which would eventually evolve my mind into something very dangerous and very real.
Like everything in life it starts with conversation, casual conversation on a Sunday night. This particular night I was dressed head to toe in khaki just like I was dressed in khaki on Saturday and Friday and Thursday and…
Yeah.
So there I am sitting like a crouching fucking tiger in the cell, not speaking to a single soul, nada by mouth they called it in those parts.
Cell sixty five and four away from a glory hole when this man walks up to me, but not like any man, this dude was big, I mean like national security big or at best one of those bouncer guys at the front door of a strip club.
This dude was huge.
He seemed to know my lingo; so anyway this guy sat down on the bedsit across from me and stared across this empty dirty space which surrounded us, you need to
know – there is nobody else there, just me and him him and me me and this big fuck off dude.
This big dude was my new cell mate and by god the start of a beautiful story.
“So what caused you to be trippin’ here?”
Nobody had spoken a word to me since arriving here; after all I was pro wrestler turned junkie murderer who had links to the mafia yet here was this huge dude asking questions. I glanced at him dismissively in a vain attempt to hold on to my composure, weakness is weakness around here and so far my silence had proven a tower of strength.
As I attempted to hold on to my wits as best I could, the seal would soon be broken and nothing would ever be the same around here.
“You think I’m in here to tell some bed stories big guy?”
His stare went right through me, I was intimidated and better yet fucking petrified but I couldn’t let that fear become transparent, like the best kept secrets it would be
found under wraps and only at the very last futile moment of resistance would it dare be unveiled.
“I think I seen your face on the box before my guy, I think I seen your face well, aren’t you the guy in spandex who ended up at the scene of a murder with his pants
down?”
Calling my bluff would be something he would learn to do all so well over the next ten years.
“It is okay guy, could be worse, could be a Knicks supporter”
He would laugh and scared for my life I would feign laughter something I would become pretty damn good at during my time behind bars.
“Names Zeb by the way, you might wanna get real close”
Zeb embraced me with a tight squeeze of a hug, a hug which left no real room for oxygen or endorphin overload; I was his brother in here, that’s just how it was going
to be.
September 10th 2013
Federal Prison, Brooklyn
As I waited on Zeb coming back from the prison gym, I pulled out a book from under my bed; left as a present by an old friend four years ago on day visit it still had ribbons and bows round it. Aptly titled “Save Me For a Rainy Day”, as it turned out this would be my rainiest day in these four walls yet.
I wrestled the bows off the hard shelled arches of the novel and flipped open the first page, it was almost blank apart from a small note left in the unmistakable clumsy comic sans hand writing of my childhood sweetheart (and closest thing I would ever have to a wife and/or RJ) Gemma.
“Hey Chip,
By the time you read this, everything will have went down. I hope one day you understand why one plus one doesn’t always equal two.
Yours,
Gems
X”
See the friend who left this was a friend of Gemma, previously I guess you could even say they were a friend of mines or maybe just an acquaintance. More I think
about it, they were definitely just an acquaintance. After dropping the book off I would never see or hear from this acquaintance ever again but was told in confidence that one day I should read the contents and that when I did I would understand why.
For those late to the party, here’s the scoop.
Guy I killed? Guy having an affair with Gemma.
Gemma?
Gemma wanted the other guy.
This book?
Hook, line and sinker: guy who dies lonely in prison after committing the most terrible of sins. This book was satirical and designed to make my ‘rainy day’ that bit more wet and man it was working. Gemma never wanted to be with me, not truly, yet that’s okay because at least now that guy couldn’t be with her anymore.
That guy was dead.
I was pretty much dead to, my relevance rotting away with every passing day in prison.
I’m the guy in prison and I’m the guy telling the tale not because I want to but because I had to.
I had to tell someone and that someone was Zeb who was now hugging me as I sobbed uncontrollably as the shame of what I had committed suddenly flooded back
like a vanquished nightmare returning for a vigorous and refined one night stand with each page I turned.
July 30th 2018
Denver, Colorado
Ten years passed and I still read that book sometimes.
Admittedly less and less as the pages pass and the days become corridors.
Like a revered memoir I wanted to finally pass the book on, see now someone else was ready to inherit it and that person?
That person was Forge, our pretty little Maiden Mitchell.
See, Forge you’re THAT guy.
You’re merely Tyke Index ten years ago.
Forge, you’re that murderer.
You’ve got a knife in your hands.
Forge, you’ve got blood all over you.
Guilty.As.Charged.
Forge, you need me just like I needed that guy I murdered ten years ago.
Forge, admit it.
I make you feel real.
I make you feel free, but here’s the thing Forge I can still take you higher.
Ask RJ, go ahead Forge.
Ask her.
Ask your pretty lil wife who makes her feel real, who makes her feel free.
Or don’t.
Truth hurts and by god it might just cause someone to be killed.
That someone could be you.
Well it could be, couldn’t it?
Answer me Forge, for the first time in your entire life answer the question.
Go on.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
Do it. Do it.
Do it.
I’m begging you.
Please.
Don’t put me on hold any longer, don’t you dare.
Answer me Forge but before you do I want nothing but the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
See, the truth is something you’ve been hiding from your entire life.
Isn’t it Forge?
The truth is something you have never dared faced.
Isn’t it Forge?
Oh hey, looking to speak to Forge.
You there?
See, you’ve been saving the truth for a rainy day for eternity and now that time? That time has arrived and on Thursday it will stare you down dead in the face.
Throw Down.
As the heavens open and the holes gape, I’ll be standing there and you’ll be standing there.
Spoiler alert:
This doesn’t end well for you Forge but it ends well for RJ.
RJ gets what she really wants.
Like really, really wants.
So go ahead Forge, kill me on Thursday and see where it gets you.
See where it gets RJ.
See, I am like nothing you have ever faced before.
Whether you like it or not, I am the author writing this shit and without the narrator there is no ending and whether you like it or not Forge Thursday is not the ending
it is all but a beginning – our beautiful beginning.
I’ll be dancing in the rain and I’ll be saving my best moves for that rainy day.
I’ll embrace you like Zeb did me, I’ll hold you tight and then?
Then it is time to say good night sweet prince.
Eight and one.
Good night.
Kiss.
Huggle.
Kiss.
XoX.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jul 30, 2018 16:16:27 GMT -6
> ...
> ...
> Playing video “file011.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 07/27/18
> Time: 5:08pm, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
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> Scene: Twisted Steel Garage, Outside
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> Starting...
Sometimes, to the man himself, it actually felt more appropriate to handle club business inside the garage as opposed to the chapel. There was, no doubt, a certain reverence in that room, surrounded by visages and effects of members both current and past, but in this metal and concrete building, surrounded by tools and implements, the smell of smoke and grease… this, to Forge, was where the Chrome Dragons were exemplified. Men who worked dirty, manipulating metal to their designs, putting power through pipes and engines that they might roar down the asphalt slabs of the world leaving a trail of fire and screams behind them. The whole of the currently-available Dragons were there today as well… from Forge himself to officers such as Khary and Chase on down to members new and old, including Kyojin, Jackie and Boner.
Often there was a bit of amusement and cutting up for times like these, but today… seriousness was the overlying mood. Not the cold kind, but the sort of respect that befitted new blood coming into the fold. Relationships beyond the club made these soon-to-be prospects family. Their entrance into the Dragons made it official. Stronger than blood. Khary, more VP than Sgt-At-Arms at this point, held the cuts while Forge stood ahead of the group, eying the two young men before him. For once, the Martyr Machine didn’t look like a Destroyer… at least not as much so as usual. There was a trace of pride in him, one not backed by violent tendencies.
“This has been a bit too long in coming, boys. Especially where you’re concerned, Noah. If either of you have anything to say before you swear your lives away-”
Some chuckles go up among the other Dragons, especially from Jackie and Boner. As the newest patched-in members, they remember getting this talking-to themselves.
“-now’s the time.”
The lack of seeing Forge ready to rip someone apart definitely helped Joseph out quite a bit. In truth, this was something he purposely kept hidden away from Sam. As a surprise. He’d been ‘the quiet observer’ for far too long now. What better way to help her out than aiding the male counterpart to the Shieldmaidens?
Sam had done so much - far too much, really. And it was rather shameful that he hadn’t been able to return the favor before. The atmosphere also helped his mood, though it didn’t completely erase any lingering forms of anxiety.
“Not really. Go on and show me where to sign. It’s only fitting I offer up my life and soul, anyway. Atheist and all.”
Noah had taken a deep breath and softly smiled. This was a long time coming, since he married Widow. He took a step forward.
“I wanted to simply say thank you. For your trust and for your support. I will do nothing but respect and honor the club. I owe you all a lot, some more than others.”
He threw a glance at Khary, nodding softly at him. Returning the look, Khary nodded calmly and silently though a trace of a smile tugged at his lips. At Forge’s gesture, the big man handed over the vests and the president stepped forward, looking between both Joseph and Noah.
“Then as of this moment, both of you are prospects of the Chrome Dragons. And in due course, dedication and sacrifice will see you patched into the club proper. Where and when that happens falls upon your own shoulders, but rest assured the opportunity is there. Turn around.”
As they move to comply, Forge holds the vests, one at a time, for them to don. This done, he takes a few steps back, casts a glance to the rest of the club, then returns his steely gaze on the pair.
“God have mercy on your souls… ‘cause we sure as hell won’t.”
That got a bit of a roar from the rest of the Dragons, after which they rather well swarmed the prospects with words of welcome and congratulations and all that. Forge hung back, as was his usual, walking over to where Robi stood along with the full complement of Shieldmaidens, looking on rather contently.
The abrupt meeting had been… unexpected. But more surprising for one of the newer Shieldmaidens was watching one of the few actual friends she had been around for so long finally stray away from the ‘pacifist path’. In fact, she honestly thought this was some weird-ass joke. Or at least that Joseph wouldn’t really take his cut.
So upon watching and seeing the exact opposite -- she couldn’t control her happiness.
“You sly son of a bitch, Joseph! Holy fuck!”
Running forward, she smirked happily. Proudly even. Without much warning, her arms rose as she hugged him.
“Finally done being a boy, are ya?”
“Something like that.”
Joseph quips back, causing Sam’s grin to further widen.
“About fucking time. Holy hell. I’m so… wow. I’m legit speechless for once.”
“Should I be recording this, then? Sam’s making this sound like a landmark occurrence, kid…”
Forge had found his way over once the crowd dispersed and Joseph went to his sister. Upon her husband coming close, Robi settled in against his side as per usual. Even with her weight fully upon him and her arm around his back, Forge barely shifted his posture. Robi smiled both at Sam and Joseph, quite pleased with the outcome.
“Don't tease, Trenton. It’s uncouth.”
“Well, lemme put on my care face.”
Acerbic retorts notwithstanding, Forge was actually happy for once. He set a hand on Joseph’s shoulder, nodding at him before turning to Sam.
“He did it for himself, yeah, but he did it for you, too. Keep that in mind.”
“You don’t need to. I’m recording this.”
Joseph points at his head, smirking slightly.
“In here, but I’m doing it in my own way nonetheless. And… well, you’re not too far off in your assumption. This is actually a huge deal. Not gonna sugarcoat it.”
“…yo, Joseph? You possessed or some shit?”
Sam asked, pulling away and glancing up and down her companion with a raised eyebrow.
“Nah. I also don’t really believe in spirits much as well as God.”
Both Joseph and Sam would look a bit taken aback as Forge gave his revelation. Before Sam could actually jest, however, Joseph tilted his head slightly.
“Am I that easy to read? I didn’t really openly say that, but… yeah. That’s actually very true.”
“Wait, what? Get out of here!”
Raising his hands beside his head, Joseph smirked and pivoted on his feet. Sam merely rolled her eyes, grabbing his arm before he could actually take her words in a literal sense. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“It’s literally exactly as he said, Sam. More than myself, you are why I’m doing this. Is it that complicated?”
“No… but definitely unexpected. We’ll need to talk more later about this. Alone.”
“Take him away for awhile if you need to, Sam. There’s no work needs doing today. Tomorrow, though…”
Well, that said it all, did it not? It was time to get to work when the sun went down and came back up. Forge puts his arm around Robi, drawing her in closer against his side as Sam and Joseph disappeared into the office to have their powwow, bantering away even before the door closes. Noah, meanwhile, walked over to Widow, smiling and kissing her, his cut proudly being worn. He wrapped his arms around her.
“I am home, with my family.”
Widow smiled softly. After everything the pair had gone through recently, this was a good thing that happened to them.
“We now need to make sure your sister comes home safely.”
He nodded softly, turning to Forge with a smile on his face.
“Thank you once again. I don’t know what I could do to-”
“Do what you’ve been doing. Take care of Widow and take care of the Dragons the same way. This isn’t some token status you’re being given, Noah. You earned this shit. Don’t let anyone try to tell you otherwise. If they do… kick the shit out of them.”
He half-smiled as he said it, but Forge was dead serious. Everything about the Dragons with him was serious. That’s why half the Pride was beaten down and the other half were looking over their shoulders… and likely why Marchand and Kallahan had been scarce of late. Noah chuckled and nodded to Forge.
“You know I will.”
He then headed out with Widow, heading to the hospital to spend some more time with Mona as she healed. Most of the group dispersed at this point, breaking off into their own groups, talking personal as well as business. Before they knew it, Robi and Trent were left alone, leaning upon the wall outside the office. The Shieldmaiden president turned after a few moments, inexplicably burying her face in against Trent’s chest, her arms going around him and her fingers digging into his back beneath the cut. A faint smile works its way into existence on the Martyr Machine’s face and he puts his thick arms around her. A sigh of satisfaction escapes the Wicked Witch of the Bayou as she nestles closer, having a moment for herself.
”Our family grows… times like this are so gratifying…”
”We’ll do right by them like they’ve done right by us. Hey-”
Reaching down, Forge tilts Robi’s head back with a finger curled under her chin, staring down into her eyes as they sparkle noticeably.
”Tears, baby girl?”
”Yeah, of fucking happiness, so keep your trap shut.”
The smile becomes a smirk.
”How you planning on making that happen?””
”Take me home, you big bastard, and I’ll show you!”
”Anything for a lady.”
We’ll just… cut to black right here, yeah?
> ...end of video playback...
> ...
> Playing video “file011a.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 07/29/18
> Time: 1:13pm, Central
> Location: Somewhere outside Metairie, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: Undisclosed
> ...
> Starting...
The camera catches sight of Forge once again, though this time he’s far removed from any other living souls… barring the lady behind the camera, of course. The Martyr Machine never considered himself a naturalist, really; he wasn’t against camping or even the odd fishing trip, though hunting suited him a lot better. It was a matter of finding the right level of patience and calm to actually enjoy himself. After all, why give up time and effort for something that does not give you pleasure? His every step through the brush and dirt causes some manner of snap or crunch as hard soles pound against gravel, twigs and other debris. And in his right hand? A hand-carved walking stick that looks quite familiar. The blood-stained ridges, the grass-colored scales, the minute details brought on by a sharp blade in a careful hand… definitely the handiwork of Forge himself. The hand that destroys can also be the hand that creates.
However, the man himself is far from considering such remembrances as the fans might be at this moment. Old jeans and well-worn black boots hug to his massive frame beneath a white tank and an open, red flannel shirt, his dark hair left hanging loose and wild. As he marches through the wilderness, RJ following with the digital, Forge turns enough to look off to his right, showing the earbuds running from his head down to his pocket. He’s listening to… something. It doesn’t appear to be music, though. After all, wouldn’t that at least induce some head-bobbing, maybe inadvertent lip-synching? Either way, Forge just keeps on walking for a bit longer before, during a brief pause, he leans the dragonstaff on a tree and reaches up to tug the buds from his ears, letting them drape over his shoulders. Hands going into his pockets, he stares off into the distance. Robi comes around with the camera a bit, getting a look at the weirdly-amused expression on the monster’s face before he speaks… more to himself than to the camera.
”Jesus fucking wept… for half a moment there, I almost took that little asshole seriously. C’mere, baby girl. Gimme that camera for a second.”
Dutifully coming over, the scene gets jumbled a bit as the camera switches hands, whereupon Forge offers the earbuds to Robi. Lifting a brow while staring at Forge curiously, she puts them in while he adjusts the MP3 player in his pocket with a light touch. Holding the camera on her, Forge gives it a few moments...
”He’s… he’s serious, isn’t he?”
”Damn sure is. If that’s this little prick’s fourth-quarter Hail Mary…”
Robi just cannot bring herself to remove the buds. At first, her expression only changes via the widening of her eyes. Then she has a hand to her lips, holding back a massive attack of giggles… then it’s straight up belly-laughter, echoing through the otherwise-calm landscape.
”Oh. My. GOD! Does it GET any sadder than that?!”
”Give him some time. I’m sure he’ll lower the bar a little further before the time comes. It’s about all he’s capable of.”
As she removes the earbuds, Forge returns the camera to Robi and proceeds to shut off the MP3 player, putting it and the buds into his pocket. Once she has the device pointed where it belongs and focused to her liking, Robi allows a few more giggles to escape.
”Try not to hurt him too much, hmm?”
”I wouldn’t worry about that. He’s too fucking stupid to understand pain the way I do. I’ll just stomp on him until he’s too broken to move.”
There’s a brief skip in the recording, faint and easily missed by all but the most careful viewers. Seconds later, Forge has gathered up the staff and started walking again, Robi matching his pace and position, keeping a little distance between them.
”At first, kid… I thought I might make a man out of you at Throwdown. Kick enough of the shit piled up inside out of you to help you see sense. Assist you in the realization that, in this company, I am the absolutely the last motherfucker you should be trying to agitate. I figured… you just haven’t been here long enough yet. Maybe, just maybe, you’re just a slow learner… like a Ricky Stanton or a Candi Bratton. You just need a few headbutts and the feeling of the canvas coming at you from eight feet up at near-terminal velocity. That’ll shake the rocks in your skull around a bit, let a few neurons slip through a couple synapses and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up to the way things work in Mile High.”
Forge chuckles a little, though it sounds a bit more like an animal’s growling than a grown man expressing mirth.
”Then… you got up and opened your mouth again… makin’ it clear that you ain’t got enough in you to be half a man at best.”
His jaw sets, his pace uninterrupted as he moves through the brush.
”Except you’re not slow, Index. You’re not stupid, either. No… you’re just willfully ignorant and malignantly masochistic. And just like Stanton, Bratton and the rest, no matter how many times I kick your ass, it’s never going to get through to you. Your retarded zen is just too strong. You’re gonna keep talking outlandish shit and yanking on every thread you see, trying to get under my skin and hoping that I’ll bite down on the hook so you can reel me in. If it weren’t so pathetic, I’d laugh. But we’re way past that line, ain’t we? This ain’t funny no more. It’s not even sad. This is like running up on a rabbit squealing in a bear trap with a broken leg. Struggling and squirming, damn near tearing that leg off trying to get away. There’s nothin’ to do for it at this point, though. No doctor on the planet is gonna fix that. The only option left is to pick up a big damn rock and put Bugs or Peter or Roger or whatever the fuck out of his misery.
Then chop off the good foot and make a new keychain. Let’s not be wasteful here.”
His right side to the camera obscures for a moment the act of putting his left hand in his pocket and taking out his keys… complete with a VERY realistic-looking rabbit’s foot keychain among the carved metal. That’s… yeah… moving on.
”So, right from the fucking start, I know I’m wasting my breath trying to get through to you, Tyke. But for what it’s worth? At least I’m not bored. Idle hands are the devil’s playground, but an idle monster? They just start ripping shit up for kicks. So good on you for keeping my attention longer than expected. That’s more than I thought you were capable of.”
Tucking the keys back in his pocket, Forge carries on.
”Your first go-round with me didn’t end the way you expected. My guess is that you felt a little too empowered after the Rise and wanted to ride that bit of success into something bigger. Then about halfway through the match, I saw that look in your eyes. I’ve seen it in everyone’s eyes since I’ve gotten here; I know it at the first glance. Deuce Holmes, Luke Corvo, Ripley, Ricky, Candi… even Robert and Katrina… and yes, fucking Skrabz, too. That’s the moment that they realize just who the hell I am and that they’re in way too deep to back out. And let me tell ya, boy: I live for that moment of realization.
You’re doing your best to stuff that sensation, but every time you put your head down in the dark and close your eyes, you see this face. These wild eyes, the wicked smile. Then you feel that clenching up and down your spine, the tingling in your toes and fingertips. You bring your hand up to your face and when it comes away there’s crimson on your flesh. Except it isn’t a nightmare. You’re wide awake, alone with the fear, alone with the pain that wracks your body, mind and soul from moment, lingering for months after the fact. For you, though, it’s worse. Worse than Deuce, worse than Skrabz. See, Holmes was too thick to know better. Skrabz? He’s the only sonofabitch here that can actually stand up to me.
But you? You’re literally asking for it. Begging me for a dance, begging for me to step-up in your own attention-starved way. The numbers ain’t on your side this time, though. You had backup in the tag match, Tyke, and my attention was split. And that was still more than enough to shift your vertebrae with my knee and put your shoulders down for three. The big champion from out of town with the pretty gold belts, thinking he’s King of all the Lord’s Imperial, rolled up into the Martyr Machine’s yard and yanked on his chain. And what happened, spanky? Damn near got your leg torn off, didn’t you? Now? You’re hoppin’ that fence again, this time with a big ol’ stick, lookin’ to do more pokin’. See what I mean about being masochistic? This is no way to deal with daddy never buying you a puppy, kid.”
Shaking his head a bit, Forge stops his walk and holds up the walking stick, balancing it in his open hand for… well, for some reason. Maybe it’s helping him focus?
”You don’t have an out this time, Tyke. No one’s going to run in to save you and there’s nothin’ to distract me from ripping you apart at my leisure. You’re the only person in that locker room, aside from maybe tall, dark and hairy Solomon Cain, who hasn’t accepted how things work here. Mile High Wrestling is my turf. In this company, if you’re not a Chrome Dragon or a Shieldmaiden, you’re fucking prey. You exist at our word and that same word can end your career if we so choose. Now, I know you, kid: you hear that and next thing I know you’re gonna be making smartass jabs about how I need help to get the job done. Go ahead. It’ll get you about as far as the noise you’ve been spewing up to this point, which is fuckin’ nowhere.”
Closing his fingers around the carved wood, Forge pushes the tip into the soft earth, his palm resting atop it.
”Truth told, though? You still won’t get it after Thursday, either. That mouth will keep on runnin’, bloody teeth, busted lips and all. Hobbling into the locker room you’ll still squawk to anyone in earshot that you’re the man. That’s just how your kind is. And, really, I accept that. Talk, y’see, can be ignored. Having holes torn in your face and crapping the teeth that got knocked down your throat days after the fact? There’s no brushing that off. Don’t believe me? Ask yourself why Deuce Holmes barely enters a wrestling ring here anymore. Ask our World Heavyweight Champion why he makes it a point to give me a WIDE berth backstage despite being the supposed best-thing-going in Mile High while you stare at that permanent deformity stretching outward from his lips. Even that oversized cunt Bratton has stopped flapping her ball-washer. A little bit.”
Giving the camera his full attention, Forge snarls at it… not out of anger or agitation, but eagerness, the desire to break a motherfucker. That growling is like the roar of an engine heating up, preparing to tear off down the big slab.
”You want to try comparing scars with the baddest motherfucker in Mile High? I’ll give you a few more so you can keep up with me. You wanna set our rap sheets side by side and see which one’s got more red on it? We’ll be up WAY past your bedtime. There ain’t a damn thing that you can do in the ring our out of it that I haven’t already done and done fuckin’ better. I’d tell you to turn your ass around and toddle back to HcW but after how fucking embarrassing you’ve been here up to this point? I doubt they’d want your ass back. On second thought, maybe I’ll box up what’s left of you and send you back there parcel-fuckin’-post. Give them a little warning about letting any more of their roster try to invade my damn turf.”
Now there’s a thought that gets a grin. It doesn’t last, though. Which… is probably good. There might be children watching. And a grin like that would make the boogeyman piss his pants.
”So keep on talkin’, Tyke. Every damn word is another shovelful of dirt slung out of the hole. By the time you realize how deep you are, you’ll be too far down to dig your way back out. And when you look up, I’ll be standing there laughing my ass off before leaving you to rot. You wandered into this place beneath me, figuratively speaking. It’s only fitting that I make the description actual. The only choice you have in the matter is whether you get in that hole willingly… or make me pound you into it like a fence post.
Better choose fast, boy. Otherwise, I’m-a choose for you.”
Tugging the walking stick out of the dirt, Forge props it on his shoulder and inclines his chin toward the camera.
”My yard, my rules. Prepare to feed the Martyr Machine.”
The camera remains stationary as Forge turns and walks off, soon disappearing into the trees and brush, after which the scene fades to black.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Aug 1, 2018 18:00:31 GMT -6
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> Playing video “file011b.wma”...
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> Date: 07/31/18
> Time: 4:01pm, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
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> Scene: Orleans Parish Prison, Visiting Room
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> Starting...
He could feel the looks on half the other people in the room and hear the whispers from the rest, both guards and inmates included. Seated at one of the back tables, looking a bit out of sorts without his cut, Forge leans back in the hard metal chair, one leg resting atop the other knee, staring toward the double doors. As stated, he feels, he hears… but he doesn’t react. The uniformed guards at the doors whispered to each other, stealing glances they think he does not see. The inmates, half of them inked and most of them affiliated with various gangs and organizations, do their best to puff up and look intimidating, trying to draw Forge’s eye as he waits. Now, everyone has their theories on what it’s like being locked up, but until you’ve been behind bars you just don’t know.
Forge? He could pick these people out on a glance. The three white boys in the corner with excessive ink and piercings? Clearly Aryan Brotherhood. Couple big black dudes who look like they squeeze every inch out of yard time and stuff it in their biceps? D-Block Boys, born and bred. A couple others of like color, acting too cool for school? Byrd Gang. A man doesn’t have an organization in town, a profitable one at that, without knowing who and what runs those streets. While the Chrome Dragons didn’t deal with these type, they knew what to look for and how to deal with them if the need arose. They did their best to draw his attention, hoping to start something; word got around in the clink when someone of interest came in, after all. Putting some marks or drawing some blood from the president of the most dangerous MC in town? That puts stripes on sleeves.
”Got eyes on ya, homie. Slidin’ up in here on like this your turf? Best watch where ya step, feel me?”
That came from one of the D-Block Boys. Forge, averting his eyes in the direction of the man talking, sees as his gaze passes over that one of the guards had put a hand to his baton, the other keeping a hand close to his radio. They were expecting trouble right from the get. The thought made Forge grin. He inclines his chin in the direction of the guy who addressed him.
”Seein’ somethin’ funny, boy? Keep lookin’ here like that an’ we gonna snatch out them eyes an’ feed ‘em to ya.”
”Matter of fact, I do see something funny. I see a couple boys thinking they’re men, trying to impress someone by talking a lot of noise that they can’t back up.”
”Yo, fuck you say, biscuit-boy?!”
By now one of the guards was on his radio, while the D-Block Boys were on their feet, clearly agitated that their attempt at intimidation was accomplishing jack and shit. Forge, still leaned back calm as ice, looks up at them with a smirk.
”What are you two? Nineteen? Maybe twenty-two? You been in here, what, couple months now?”
For some reason, that makes the three guys pause, looking at each other as though bells had started to ring in their heads. Forge, the smirk going away, continues.
”Probably got swept up at the same time when one of you loudmouthed assholes tried to talk shit in front of the wrong people. Cops yanked your ass in and you’re waiting on your homies out on the block to find a way to bust your asses out. Tell me I’m wrong.”
”The fuck you know about anything, cracker-ass motherfucker?!”
”Rule number one, boys: the loudest man in the room is the most scared asshole in the room. Right now?”
The Martyr Machine takes a moment look around, spotting the Byrd Gang shaking their heads and the Aryans laughing to themselves and pointing, both at Forge and the D-Block Boys. Seeing him look around makes the Boys look around. It’s his voice that draws them back in, though.
”You’re proving that right. So before you start somethin’ you damn sure can’t finish? I suggest you sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Yeah, there’s three of you, but there’s a damn army past those doors and I doubt anyone else in this room is gonna back you up if a throwdown starts. Personally? I don’t give a damn.”
He swings his leg down and leans forward.
”You want a fight? I’ll beat the dog out of all three of you right now. Then we’ll see how well you sleep when the lights go out and they start callin’ for fresh fish. You’ll be cryin’ for your mommas before the sun comes up. You want that shit hangin’ over your head? Take it from someone who’s actually done real time: stick to your business. They’ll stick to theirs, I’ll stick to mine, and everyone gets to leave with a normal-sized asshole.””
They don’t seem to be used to that level of blunt. And while they still shoot dirty looks at Forge from moment to moment, they nonetheless take his advice. Sitting back again, Forge only waits a few moments before the buzzer sounds and the guards open the doors so another pair can lead someone else into the room. The guy’s in the same prison issue as the rest, standing a couple inches past six feet with a broad, barrel-sized chest. Forge gets up as the crew-cutted tree trunk of a man comes over, the two embracing for a moment before both sit down.
”You look like shit.”
”Fuckin’ blow me.”
Both men chuckle at one another over that line. As the thick fella rolls up his sleeves, the insignia of the Chrome Dragons is seen on his forearm. Forge eyes this for a moment before getting serious.
”I got your message the other day. Hell’s goin’ on, Vice?”
The easy-going grin fades and the man called Vice folds his arms on top of the table.
”They’re lookin’ to tack on another year or two on Georgie an’ Lance on some bullshit charge. We got enemies in here, brother. They don’t want us at full strength so they’re pullin’ every fuckin’ thread they can to make sure it don’t happen.”
”You know we got Beatrice runnin’ every line she can find, trying to work around your-”
”And I’m tellin’ you that you’re wastin’ your time on that end, brother. I’m gonna be in here for a long damn time yet. Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me is that you ain’t made a new VP yet…”
Going silent, Forge has no answer for Vice and the man’s response is to roll his eyes.
”Fuckin’ Christ, Trent. The hell are you waitin’ on? Khary’s made for that damn spot. This holdin’ out hope shit ain’t doin’ the club no favors, hear me? You’re smarter’n that.”
”Maybe I am. But she’s gonna keep lookin’ and we’re gonna see what we can do for Georgie and Lance in the meantime. Is there anything you need, man?”
”Other than a brace and bit? Maybe a hacksaw?”
Vice chuckled and, despite himself, Forge laughed a little as well.
”Just keep the packages comin’, brother. That’s all. They help a lot more than you think. I heard somethin’ else, though… that y’all been running up againts the Pride again.”
”More like runnin’ them over.”
”Keep your eyes open, Forge. Don’t go startin’ too much shit with them. I hear they got a new backer, under the table. Some big-time motherfucker who wants them to expand. Even havin’ words with the Brotherhood, so the rumor goes.”
Pushing down the instinct to look in that direction, Forge leans in a little closer, his voice down.
”Any idea who?”
”Nah, but just do like I say and keep your eyes open. If they bastards make a move, don’t just jump on it. I get that perception means somethin’ still but just… let ‘em hang themselves if you can, you know?”
”Yeah… I get it. You just watch your back in here, yeah?”
”Always. Don’t sweat it, man. I got Georgie and Lance.”
”Dropped off somethin’ for all of ya. You’ll have it by tonight.”
”You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”
”Fuck off with that shit.”
The two rise, embracing once more before Forge turns and leaves the visiting area. Vice takes his seat again, staring at his hands until the scene goes black.
> ...end of video playback...
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> Playing video “file011c.wma”...
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> Date: 07/31/18
> Time: 5:11pm, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
> ...
> Scene: Orleans Parish Prison, Outside
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> Starting...
Foregoing anything too fancy, Forge decides to simply cut his promo this time with the cell phone camera while he sits on his bike outside the prison. There’s plenty of daylight to go, after all… and the big man is in need of a little solitude. As the feed cuts on, he’s got a Marlboro hanging out of the corner of his mouth and sunglasses masking his eyes from the glare. Naturally the scene’s a bit shaky… but fuck it. No one’s gonna grade his ass on video quality so long as the message gets across.
”Wakey-wakey, dumbass!”
Pointedly tapping at the phone as if it were a window with Tyke Index on the other end, Forge proceeds to give the device a little shake, too, carrying on the minor joke with some small amount of aplomb.
”Figured I should go ahead and line up a little something else for you to listen to, because you’re clearly a lot slower than I originally guessed. When I start thinking that a meaningful conversation with Deuce Holmes is preferable to listening to you babble like a lovestruck child in my general direction? There’s somethin’ wrong. Mighty fuckin’ wrong.”
Probably should have chuckled there. Maybe even smiled a little. But he doesn’t. He takes a long draw from the cig and then blows out a plume of smoke, staring at it as it dissipates.
”The key to talking shit, Tyke, is to know what the hell you’re talking about. And beyond that, to know how to get to your opponent. So far, you haven’t figured out how to come at me yet and what you’re throwing out online and over social media is fucking embarrassing. You don’t sound like someone heading into the fight of their lives; you sound like you’re shining up for a fucking date. ‘Dance in the rain’ this and telling me love stories about your bunkmate that… if I didn’t know you were full of shit I might actually be offended a little…”
Considering a moment, he scoffs and puts the cigarette back in place, shaking his head.
”Nah, fuck that. That’ll be the say when some metrosexual dickweed like you gets under my skin. Nickel’s worth of free advice, though?”
Straightening up the phone, Forge stares directly into it.
”Don’t haul your scrawny ass up in front of a camera again with my name on your lips. You don’t have any weapons to bring to bear and I’ve already proven that you don’t have the fight to survive me, much less beat me. And seriously… the hell are you going to say if you do? Gonna invite me over for Netflix and chill? Name-drop my wife a couple hundred more times? Maybe another thinly-veiled pass at me?
You ain’t edgy, kid. You’re sad. Beating you down is going to feel like the wrestling equivalent of kicking a retarded puppy. Not that that’s going to stop me with a paycheck on the line, though. See… that’s where punks like you fall short against me. You have to dredge up all this fire and fury, or in your case hearts and flowers, and come at me with both barrels, throwing everything you got to try and put me off-balance, to get me off my game. People have been trying that shit from the start. Know how many times it has worked?
Fuckin’ none.”
Puffing out another cloud of acrid smoke, Forge holds up a leather-gloved hand, fingers curled into a fist, extending one at a time.
”Week after week after week after motherfuckin’ week. Never pinned, never submitted and my only loss you can hang off the beak-like nose of one Candi Bratton sticking her fat ass in my business.”
Every week is another finger uncurled. Eventually he runs out, though… not out of weeks, though. Still building on those..
”They can deny it all they like in that locker room, from Skrabz on down to Ripley and everyone in between… especially that shaven sasquatch, Solomon Cain: when I set foot in the arena, mouths shut and the path parts. I earned that shit by every single week taking blood from my opponent with this-”
He holds up the closed fist again.
’-and this.”
He points at his head, which bears more than a few scars.
”They might as well call my ass ‘The Truth’ at this point. What I say I’m gonna do, I do. Doesn’t matter what, doesn’t matter where. I’m a license for this place to print money. Every jackass within five hundred miles will pile into the goonmobile and drive to the arena just to see me wreck you assholes, leaving with a couple shirts and adding a few more zeroes to my paycheck. You? You’re nothing to me. Fodder. Another victim. Another payday. I’ll drink down whatever they pay me for mauling you, spend half the rest on my lady and all that’s left jacking up this steel angel…”
The phone is aimed down toward the Harley he’s straddling; hard to tell exactly what model it is, but the bike gleams like she just came off the showroom floor. Soon, though, the camera’s back on Forge’s gnarled mug.
”...and that’s the last thought I’ll ever pay your ass. The only reason you’re getting a second chance against me is probably because Robert Mack is hoping to recoup what’s left of his manhood by feeding you to someone he knows you can’t squirm away from. So, in the end, if you want someone to blame, some whose conscience you can burden? Talk to him. Ask him why you’re the next sacrifice to the Martyr Machine. Aside from the fact that the Lost Child has yet to set up and that my strikingly dangerous and beautiful wife is the next one to get a piece of Skrabz and his title. Bottom line: this ain’t your day.
Sort of makes me feel like a glorified garbage man. Or some demonic gatekeeper. They keep lining you assholes up and I keep knocking you down. Eventually, the Macks are going to run out of warm bodies. And I’m going to run out of patience. And then? Then the real hunt begins for me. What does that mean, you ask? I wouldn’t worry about it, kid. By the time that happens, you’ll have tucked tail and run your ass right out of here with what remains of your manhood in your back pocket. Maybe Zeb will take you back.”
Forge chuckles quietly at the thought, then spits out the burned-down butt and turns a glare on the camera.
”You know what? I’ve done my fuckin’ part. Having to run my damn mouth once to you was bad enough, knowing it was going in one ear and out the other. Sitting here and doing it again… I can feel myself getting dumber, trying to get through to your rainbow-chasing ass. You can say and do whatever you want, Index. At this point, I’m so far beyond giving a fuck that you couldn’t pay me to chase that fuck down with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. It’s the same song and dance no matter who I fight and and this point I’m straight up bored with it. They talk noise, I tell them how stupid they are. They snap back, I tell them how much blood they’re going to lose. Ding-ding, I break a bitch, spill some blood, ding-ding. I get paid, I ride on down the road. Ad-fuckin’-infinitum.
It comes down to one damn thing: Thursday night, I’m gonna fuckin’ hurt you. Win or lose, you’re going to suffer like the attention-whoring parasite that you are. Not because you ran your mouth, not because I don’t like you, but because it’s what I do and no one does it better. And the money, naturally. More for a win than a loss, kid, hence why I’m loaded with W’s. You got two options in this, Tyke: show up and man up, or make a bitch of yourself and end up getting scraped off my heel. No Option C, no lifelines or calling a friend. Thursday night, I’ll be smearing you across that ring and laughing all the fucking while.”
Starting the bike, he guns the engine, causing that Milwaukee hog (with more than a few adjustments and improvements) to bellow like a fell beast. Sliding his shades down a bit, Forge fixes one last tight stare on the camera.
”Don’t make me chase you, kid. Or I’ll forget that I’m not supposed to straight-up murder you in front of ten thousand screaming idiots.”
Forge shuts off the camera, ending the scene abruptly.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 1, 2018 18:26:03 GMT -6
Chapter One.
It Starts With A…
Scene:
Hotel Suite in Brooklyn
1/8/2018Since Tuesday evening I had been sitting doing something I wasn’t very used to, probably had I learned earlier in life it wouldn’t have been such an issue now. See, I always found listening incredibly difficult; preferring to talk and create a district of conversation was always my thing.
Here’s the thing, though, Harvey Goodfellows had managed to obtain a bunch of tapes created by that little virgin Forge. As we sat back and re watched the footage I was at best startled and worst amazed by the content, here we had a guy in his 30s or 40s dancing about with a knife making statements that wouldn’t be lost in a cut scene from Breaking Bad.
Better yet, his position of power fell under being the dictator of a stable named after a terrible Google internet server.
I laughed, Harvey laughed, Zeb laughed.
Fuck it, even Sam was desperate to laugh during that whole painful tirade we had just spent the best part of forty five minutes watching. Harvey was trying to make
sense of it all, he was struggling though and to be honest so was I, this booking and segment was far worse than any of the nonsense written out of a Vince Russo playbook.
Zeb summed it up best when he spat out his beer at the part Forge started quoting the bible, for real, coming out HcW we had all witnessed some loopy ass viewing which included Lance Mikes trying to suck his own dick for three hours a show – this though? This was plain ridiculous.
I had been warned all week about the hazards of pissing the Chrome Dragons and Shieldmaidens off but truth be told, neither camp particularly scared me, not in the slightest – not even a teensy weensy bit.
Well, okay, maybe a tiny bit when they all started cheering and grunting when the blades came out – it was probably the most cringe worthy television I have watched since the first season of Friends.
It’s fine, though, we’re all friends here and as time goes on I am sure we will get a lot closer.
Won’t we RJ?
Ha.
Harvey had disappeared to the kitchen for around ten minutes, he was whipping a chunk of ice into a rock glass in preparation for an old fashioned served up the Glasgow, Scotland way.
One rock, 100ml Buffalo Trace, fragment of bitters and a tiny orange peel which would soon be lit up to create a shadow over the entire room, bingo, it was time to get real around here.
Zeb was lay slouched over the bean bag we had purchased earlier still high as the Eiffel Tower, 360 meters of damn good times. If you’re late to the party here, we all like a smoke around here; some more than others, Zeb was one of those ‘others’.
Harvey brought three old fashioned’ in but there was only ever going to be two being deleted – we were a man down, Zeb was in cuckoo land and could be heard passively murmering about the state of the education system in Brooklyn. To be fair if Zeb hadn’t spent the majority of his life in prison and undertaking more than half a dozen torturously bad habits in his life time he could have probably been a lawyer or some shit.
Harvey Goodfellows was our lawyer, though, the best business advisor in the whole of the country – arguably the best in the world on Sundays when he would have to get us two morons out of a whole heap of shit created over the weekend. As Harvey sat on the couch opposite me and behind the perched Zeb I could tell he was already pissed at me this week and despite his titanium crates of laughter earlier, there were deeper shades to just what was going down in this room tonight.
Pull the shades, this shit is about to get dark.
“Ya know, I gotta say – you heard the chat? People are talking Tyke; people are talking about you to the extent I’m not sure I wanna hear much more.”
I glanced over at Harvey and lifted my glass up off the table where Harvey had left it for me; his eyes were focused firmly upon my green plated sockets distracted for all but a second as Zeb let out some desperately needed trivial flatulence as he shut his eyes for the final time today, with Zeb in the land of nod Harvey could finally rip big time.
“Okay now Zeb is asleep, I really need to say this Tyke and I know you are probably not going to like what I am going to say here but…”
I leaned forward staring daggers through the soul of Harvey, almost trying to shame him out of what he was about to say…
“This whole thing with the Maidens and the Dragons, this whole episode Tyke, it makes me feel uneasy. I know this will mean jack shit to you and hell please don’t go ape on me here, but you need to hear me out and I implore you to do so. Listen Tyke…”
I swear you could feel the tension sauntering over the entire room three times over, Harvey was about to tell me that everything I had achieved in the wrestling world meant nothing in Mile High, that my whole career was null and void until I bet some sea side resort joke that somehow managed to strike it lucky with a once in a million shot at a billy big time contract as head of some second rate rasslin’ stable.
Harvey would be wrong, the wrestling world would be wrong and as each syllable poured out of Harveys mouth warning me about this war and how it was not too late to back track and “start again”, Harvey was missing the entire point here. Everyone in this room had come too far and that included Harvey himself, see it was Harvey who had spent ten hours in a shitty little motel creasing the T’s and ironing the dots with Robert Mack not me and not Zeb.
As Harvey stressed he was looking out for my best interests, for the first time in my career I could see he was showing weakness, Harvey was displaying a fragility and a curious case of vulnerability, everything about this conversation was deeply sickening me.
Harvey would eventually fall silent and as he glanced at me awaiting some sort of response all I could do was let out a long and unwinding sigh.
Harvey just didn’t get it, I wasn’t here to make a name for myself; I had already achieved that. Hell, for the past ten years I had been one of the, if not the biggest name in the wrestling industry. My name was already firmly in the record books as a milestone and Tyke Index would be fondly remembered as a torch bearer, that I already knew.
As I took another sip of my drink, Harvey reclined back into his chair as he realized that he was never going to get the reply he was looking for off me. Not tonight, not tomorrow; and probably not even next week. If I’m putting my hands up here and laying my cards firmly on the table I’m not even sure what Harvey was expecting me to say. Harvey knew me better than anyone, even my own mother, he knew how proud I was and how much confidence I had in my own ability, if what Harvey was looking for here was a concessional speech then he would be waiting a long fucking time.
Harvey resorted to plan B with a gentle and less direct tone:
“Hey, here’s the thing. Hello, it’s me Harvey Goodfellows talking not some guy off the street. It’s not some reporter for the New York Times or a douche looking to build a scoop off of substance simply not there. What I’m employed to do is advise you, advise you as best I can and by the way have you any idea how fucking hard that is when you are dealing with a space cadete…”
I stood up angrily and hovered over Harvey who quickly backtracked. Looks like it was time for Plan C…
“Okay, okay, okay! LISTEN TYKE! I’m sorry! I’m not here to upset you, hell I’ve presided over every single one of your multi-million dollar contracts and half a dozen of your world championship reigns, you’re Tyke fuckin’ Index but here’s the thing and it’s a very BIG thing – you my friend are not super human and these THINGS you are messing with will only be defeated by some sort of fuckin’ super power. I don’t see cobwebs shooting out of the tip of your hands, hell I don’t even see wings magically fuckin’ appear from your shoulders to let you fly free like an eagle and get the hell out of dodge like you really fuckin’ should be right now oh and pardon my French but do you even know how to overcome a third world country size of Kryptonite?”
Harvey was about to bust a blood vessel with anger, he was spitting all over my face with each and every desperate word falling out of his mouth. Just as he was comparing me to the likes of Super Man, Spider Man and my favourite one yet…a frickin’ eagle, I couldn’t help but think how good another spliff would be right about now, Harvey wasn’t done though (unfortunately).
“These things or rather PEOPLE are not ones you wanna fuck with. Tyke, take my advice, you will win more world championships here. I swear, we’ll get to that part, you know we will but this war? This war with the Shield Maidens? This whole thing about fucking Robi Jean? C’mon let it go, you gotta let it go if ya wanna reign supreme here and have that fuckin’ dynasty we always talk about high. Mark my words Tyke, you’re here five minutes and you already have a huge fuck off target firmly upon your chest and that’s not good for business Tyke, that’s just a fuckin’ catastrophe.”
Harvey made some valid points, hell he always did, that wasn’t really the part that was up for discussion here. What I wanted to discuss was something entirely different yet in context with the conversation.
“Harvey, do you know where RJ gets her pants from?”
Chapter Two Rolling Down Scene: Magness Arena, Denver, Colorado - 2/8/2018 Arriving at the Magness Arena I noticed a few things; firstly nobody arrived here early, like literally not a soul – even the dining area was quiet. I remember Harvey remarking about how everyone either kept to themselves here like Skrabz or would vanquish themselves to a stable like the Chrome Dragons or Shieldmaidens.
In all honesty, it kinda made sense that there was no middle grounds here, no room for error or weakness. Abandoned dining rooms were the tip of the iceberg in Mile High, it’s not even an exaggeration or stretch to suggest that the only people who were found in the common areas in this company were those too stupid to know better.
I guess that’s why I was standing at the front of the line about to purchase a Milky Way milkshake with two packets of brown sugar, hey, cut me some slack – I’m supposed to be playing the village idiot this week – at least that is what people keep telling me.
As I sat down and pierced the foil top of my milkshake with a straw I noticed a certain Samantha Hamilton at the side of my eye, she never noticed me and if she did she done a damn good job of feigning my village idiot role.
Seeing Samantha triggered some perverse feelings raging inside me, we hadn’t spoken to each other since that fateful night in Florida, the night I arrived at the hospital and she begged to suck my cock.
Sorry, Joseph, Samantha is a squirter.
As I briefly paused before taking another slurpy slurp slurp of my milkshake I laughed again, this time reminiscing in my mind about how besotted she was with Rob for all those months even when he looked like a big girl in all that horrendous make up – no wonder she was in a stable full of dykes these days, should have seen the warnings huh?
Samantha was cut from the same cloth as RJ, a weak person surrounded by other like-minded people.
People like erm…
I dunno…
Forge maybe?
Martyr Machine…
Ha.
I digress, the second thing I had noticed about this shithole was the lack of interviewers – seems like the only people who were well catered for in regards to column inches around here was the hangers on within the Maidens and Dragons or those that came across like illiterate and curious fools like Skrabz. Saying as I fell within neither bracket I would have to do something which deviated from the norm in MAAAII HAAAAI RASSLIN.
I grabbed a gas receipt out of my pocket from earlier in the week and started to put some dots and dashes on that son’ bitch.
“Hi Forge.
It’s me.
Tykey Poo.
So tomorrow night we dance and I was just wondering if you have looked out your dancing shoes yet? See I’ve been prepared for weeks now, prepared to feel something I have never felt before. I am prepared to feel more suave and spiffingly sophisticated than I ever have before.
I have a new jacket just for you, I hope you like it, no really I do.
Your opinion means a lot to me, so high do I regard your opinion that I share it of my choice in woman. That’s why Robi Jean is so special to me; she comes in the highest regards from you yourself.
I need you to know something though Forge, this whole thing we have going? This whole thing is truly captivating, it’s beautiful and as the credits roll tomorrow night we will have embarked on a journey – something memorable and frantic, bumpy and at times even chaotic.
Those words you said to me last week sent a chill up my spine, so much so that I’ve been of inking the callous and cold brisk sweet nothings you blew in my direction
all day.
I’ve been celebrating, commiserating and capitulating the knots in my stomach with a pit full of emotions; this is your legacy Forge. Those things that you make me feel are truly unique, not a single soul has weeded me in like you do.
I care for nothing but you Mr. Martyr Machine, I truly hope that I can give you a home under the stars tomorrow. I reap for your faithfulness and I will not stop till you accept me and accept this.
I dare you Mr. Martyr, I dare you to dream, I dare you to walk head first into this nestling magical forest that we never had to create but lest we forget that it was created and now you must walk.
This, Forge, is what you deserve.
This, Forge, is what your hard work and empire has attained.
This, Forge, is what happens to good people.
You are a good person and good people must be rewarded.
As I walk with you tomorrow night, accept me not as a foe but as someone who simply wanted to help.
Unlike your Chrome Dragons, though, I am not willing to die for the cause.
See, it is impossible to die for a cause you have not yet accepted.
Forge, I do not accept you and I probably never will.
These walls you have built up with the most delicate licks of paint and careful consideration of decoration will be broken down tomorrow and repainted with cold blooded
murder.
I didn’t want to be the guy who had to do this and judging by the response of everyone around here, perhaps I’m not even the chosen one.
That’s absolutely fine though as it’s braver to evolve and become chosen than be chosen and falter.
You should know that better than anyone considering you’re living a life with a woman who feels nothing but pity for your short comings, a woman who would rather be sleeping with me.”
I ran out of paper and ideas, so shoot me.
As I folded up the letter and walked towards the hall way in search of HIS locker room a thought came to mind.
This idea though was going to take two to tango…
Chapter Two and Three QuartersSame scene, same date, same blah blah blahI called Harvey up immediately and impressed on him what I wanted to do…
“Tyke, are you out of your fucking mind?!”
Stupid question.
There was a brief pause from Harvey as he was trying to gage just how serious I was, but I was serious, very serious…
“Okay, but if this backfires I swear you’re in on this on your own. No court cases, no lawsuits, no nothing. At worst you end up dead and at best if this goes WELL you end up managing a Krispy Kremes in five years under a new identity. Tyke, you are out of your fucking mind.”
As I hung up the phone on Harvey I looked in the mirror within my locker room and sniggered at myself, this was going to be the bait which would finally entice Forge for a beautiful little bite.
Around three and a half hours had passed when finally I heard the knock on the door I had been expecting..
“Got a package here for a Mr. Tyke Index?”
As I grabbed the package off the courier delivery dude and shut the door, I sat down and began to hurriedly and excitedly unravel the wrapping on the package; MY package piece by piece, tape by tape until all that could be seen was…
A pair of spiffing spandex which featured RJ kissing my bottom, lips first.
Forge, how pretty does RJ look here stuck to my butt?
Come on, tell me in detail.
Tell me everything.
Tonight was going to be just…
Perfect.
And Harvey thought I was a tad strange for wanting to know where RJ bought her pants from?
Shucks...
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