Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jul 17, 2017 19:24:07 GMT -5
08:55 - Sunday 16th July 2017
LA Fitness, Salisbury, United Kingdom
“Four hundred ninety seven, four hundred ninety eight, four hundred ninety nine, five hundred. Stop.”
Horacio forces his thumb downwards against the stopwatch clasped amongst his fingers. So tense is he that the clamminess of sweat amongst his palm is as visible as those that smother Dominic, though the latter’s is the result of a greater level of toil against his body; the very manifestation of his training smothering him like a damp blanket.
With an exhale that rivals a gust of wind, Dominic places the weighted bar back onto its mount and proceeds to jerk himself into an upwardly seated position, leaving a shallow pool of moisture where his back once met the leather beneath him. A stickler for cleanliness, Horacio reaches for a nearby towel, his eyes deadlocked to the digital screen of the stopwatch as he wipes away the excess moisture from the gymnasium’s equipment.
The gym itself is by no means a five-star establishment. The number of machines and apparatus available for its members is at a minimum. Those that remain vacant are even fewer. The lighting within the room is poor. Condensation trickles down the windows like the sweat on Dominic’s face. Where many of the interior walls are laden with fading white paint, one particular wall is the host to several mirrors, giving a greater yet false depth to the room than what truly exists. The reflective panes themselves also have the same sense of dinginess to them; their surfaces barely the scars of being wiped clean with a cloth that has produced more in the way of smears of dormant cleansing fluid than effective sanitation.
Contributing to these levels of squalor, Dominic’s excessive breathing creates small clouds of steam as his warm breath hit’s the disproportionate and unwarranted temperature caused by a newly repaired air conditioning unit directly above his head, the whirring of its mechanism creates a painful droning vibration through the air that, thankfully, Dominic had been able to blank out with thanks to the depths of his concentration up to now. Only by ceasing his workout momentarily has he started to take notice.
“Impressive,” Horacio states as he gazes into the face of the stopwatch as if he were looking into the eyes of a lover. He does not elaborate as to the reason for his admiration. Dominic sits with a weary yet confused expression from his face as he snatches the rag from Horacio’s grasp to mop his face.
“I don’t see the logic…” Dominic pants, trying to maintain a rhythmic breathing pattern, “how timing me affects… a weightlifting session.” He runs the towel through his beard, pulling a few strands of hair away from his face and into the fabric.
“I have my reasons,” Horacio grins, now handing Dominic a bottle of water that had been chilled to perfection. In spite of the seemingly Antarctic levels of heat, or lack of, in the room, Dominic can taste that it had warmed significantly as he swills it around his mouth before gulping it down like a shark. He rises to his feet and begins to walk towards the only vacant treadmill in the gym. “It is easy to lose yourself in the heat of the moment. Just the smallest check on reality can save you from reaching the extremity of any given situation.” Dominic’s nostrils flare upon noticing the sheepish expression stem from his statement. “But yet,” he continues without so much as a glance at his irritated protégé, “by monitoring time accordingly, it becomes less likely to spend too much, or too little, effort into any given task. Isn’t it remarkable? It is truly incredible how proper judgement of time can affect even the most seemingly menial of undertakings for the better.” Weary of listening to these ramblings, Dominic finally cuts him off before he go into any finer details.
“If you‘ve something to say to me, I‘d much rather you say it as you mean it instead of dressing it like a damn salad,” Dominic bluntly states. In a reversal of reactions, Horacio’s smugness quickly turns into slight abhorrence.
“Don’t give me that judgemental look, Dominic,” Horacio says warningly, yet his voice contains no demeanour of intimidation. “After all, I didn’t tell you to flatten a collective group of referees, officials and paramedics. If I hadn’t have liaised with the management, the extent of your punishment may have been more severe.”
Dominic’s stare has retained its intensity, yet it has become more distant, as if deep in thought. The maliciousness of his grin suggests he is reliving the moment in his head. The sound of perhaps a thousand pounds of flesh crashing against steel as a result of his raw and unadulterated power. The thoughts come to him like waves crashing on a beach, from lifting that alleged “crazy” fucker into the air with one arm, pinching his trachea together between his fingers like a drinking straw, all the back to visualising the vertebrae of Alexa’s spine snapping like wood. These thoughts, combined with the resulting smile, depict greater volumes of psychosis than his rival’s name could ever warrant.
Shaking his head to snap him out of his self-inflicted trance, Dominic suddenly snorts in confusion as Horacio’s words finally sink in.
“Punishment?”
“Courtesy of your recklessness, Tyrone Smith now has his opportunity to exact his revenge within sanctioned circumstances,” Horacio explains, revealing the closest thing that he can muster to a frown, not fully formed, yet its presence is somewhat noticeable. Dominic, who has now began pacing briskly along the conveyer that hums beneath him having pressed a combination of buttons to activate the treadmill, simply allows his same sadistic smirk to return to his face. “It gets worse,” Horacio continues solemnly. Somehow Dominic doubted that. “It will be two against two. Smith will be partnering with an individual who calls himself High Tide.”
“What’s this guy’s deal?”
“Essentially, he’s a pirate.”
Dominic raises an eyebrow curiously, taking a moment to mull over this simple description.
“You know something?“ Dominic tries to hide a chuckle amongst his beard, “I sometimes think that, in spite of the stretches of the imagination that The Chronological Order might require, that you and I are the only true sane people to be employed by this fucking company.“ Horacio seems a little insulted by this metaphor, yet he does not vocalise these sentiments. “Anything else?” he grunts to express his exasperation.
“Well, the man you will be quote-unquote “teaming” with is a monstrous clown named Sicko…” Horacio begins. Before he is even able to persist with his descriptions, Dominic immediately jams his thumb on to a button with a downwards-pointing triangle in its centre. Slowly, the electronics die into stillness. Dominic allows the conveyor to pull him backward towards its lip before he hops off as gracefully as a man of his stature can. A dumfounded look is etched across his face before screwing his face up hysterically. Rather than erupt into laughter, Dominic inhales though his nose sharply before allowing his face to unfold into its natural position upon breathing out.
“Wow,” Dominic grunts insincerely, scratching the back of his head momentarily. “That’s some punishment.” The sarcasm is overwhelming. Mortimer, though, does not look amused.
“Don’t you understand?” Horacio utters worriedly. “Smith has genuine motivation to make amends for the events of the last fortnight or more. Not only does he have High Tide in his corner, but Sicko is anything but mentally stable. He is just as much of a threat to you as your opponents.”
“You underestimate me, Horacio,” Dominic calmly says, wiping some more sweat from his brow. “I am familiar with the antics of the clown Sicko. You forget, we were both a part of the WGWF roster prior to making our marks in the realms of our current employers. I can begrudgingly respect Sicko for the same levels of malice that we both enjoy to introduce.” Dominator then notices the sheer extent of Mortimer’s apprehension, before the realisation suddenly strikes him. “You know what I think?” he smirks. “I think that you are concern that you will somehow end up getting caught in the crossfire. You think that, as a result of my behaviour last week, that Crazy Boy sees an equally sized target on your chest to match the one on mine.”
“Is that so infeasible?” Mortimer scoffs.
“I didn’t tell you to kick the man in the dick,” he beams, proud that he had been able to turn Mortimer’s earlier argument on its head and fire back at him. He awaits his mentor’s retort, taking a glance at his own variation of Horacio’s watch that is strapped around his gargantuan wrist. Dominic counts thirteen seconds of awkward, yet blissful silence.
“You should consider making your way to the airport soon,” comes the change of subject, an unsurprising evasion of acknowledgement that causes Dominator to already feel a sense of triumph. Going as far to stare at his watch simply to avoid making eye contact, Horacio makes mental calculations in his head. “You have a mere five hours and seventeen minutes before your flight departs, minus the three hours we are required to wait, as well as the hour and twenty nine minutes it will take to get to Heathrow based on the average flow of traffic, gives you just forty eight minutes to shower and change.” Dominic has long since stopped listening, walking along the length of the gymnasium towards the door leading to the locker room.
“Time is of the essence, I guess,” Dominic mutters to himself, almost half-heartedly at first, yet he pauses simply to reflect on that statement. The saying really is true. And that is precisely the message that Horacio Mortimer wanted to tell the world. In spite of his criticisms and uncertainty towards the idea of time being superior to religion itself, there was a slim chance in Dominator‘s mind that this does truly hold some merit.
“Dominic,” Horacio calls as he glances at the watch mounted on his wrist, halting The Suzerain of Time in his tracks. “Whatever happens, please consider doing something about your reckless abandon.”
Dominator simply flickers what is fast becoming a trademark wicked smirk over his shoulder in the direction of Mortimer.
“Oh, you can count on it.”
LA Fitness, Salisbury, United Kingdom
“Four hundred ninety seven, four hundred ninety eight, four hundred ninety nine, five hundred. Stop.”
Horacio forces his thumb downwards against the stopwatch clasped amongst his fingers. So tense is he that the clamminess of sweat amongst his palm is as visible as those that smother Dominic, though the latter’s is the result of a greater level of toil against his body; the very manifestation of his training smothering him like a damp blanket.
With an exhale that rivals a gust of wind, Dominic places the weighted bar back onto its mount and proceeds to jerk himself into an upwardly seated position, leaving a shallow pool of moisture where his back once met the leather beneath him. A stickler for cleanliness, Horacio reaches for a nearby towel, his eyes deadlocked to the digital screen of the stopwatch as he wipes away the excess moisture from the gymnasium’s equipment.
The gym itself is by no means a five-star establishment. The number of machines and apparatus available for its members is at a minimum. Those that remain vacant are even fewer. The lighting within the room is poor. Condensation trickles down the windows like the sweat on Dominic’s face. Where many of the interior walls are laden with fading white paint, one particular wall is the host to several mirrors, giving a greater yet false depth to the room than what truly exists. The reflective panes themselves also have the same sense of dinginess to them; their surfaces barely the scars of being wiped clean with a cloth that has produced more in the way of smears of dormant cleansing fluid than effective sanitation.
Contributing to these levels of squalor, Dominic’s excessive breathing creates small clouds of steam as his warm breath hit’s the disproportionate and unwarranted temperature caused by a newly repaired air conditioning unit directly above his head, the whirring of its mechanism creates a painful droning vibration through the air that, thankfully, Dominic had been able to blank out with thanks to the depths of his concentration up to now. Only by ceasing his workout momentarily has he started to take notice.
“Impressive,” Horacio states as he gazes into the face of the stopwatch as if he were looking into the eyes of a lover. He does not elaborate as to the reason for his admiration. Dominic sits with a weary yet confused expression from his face as he snatches the rag from Horacio’s grasp to mop his face.
“I don’t see the logic…” Dominic pants, trying to maintain a rhythmic breathing pattern, “how timing me affects… a weightlifting session.” He runs the towel through his beard, pulling a few strands of hair away from his face and into the fabric.
“I have my reasons,” Horacio grins, now handing Dominic a bottle of water that had been chilled to perfection. In spite of the seemingly Antarctic levels of heat, or lack of, in the room, Dominic can taste that it had warmed significantly as he swills it around his mouth before gulping it down like a shark. He rises to his feet and begins to walk towards the only vacant treadmill in the gym. “It is easy to lose yourself in the heat of the moment. Just the smallest check on reality can save you from reaching the extremity of any given situation.” Dominic’s nostrils flare upon noticing the sheepish expression stem from his statement. “But yet,” he continues without so much as a glance at his irritated protégé, “by monitoring time accordingly, it becomes less likely to spend too much, or too little, effort into any given task. Isn’t it remarkable? It is truly incredible how proper judgement of time can affect even the most seemingly menial of undertakings for the better.” Weary of listening to these ramblings, Dominic finally cuts him off before he go into any finer details.
“If you‘ve something to say to me, I‘d much rather you say it as you mean it instead of dressing it like a damn salad,” Dominic bluntly states. In a reversal of reactions, Horacio’s smugness quickly turns into slight abhorrence.
“Don’t give me that judgemental look, Dominic,” Horacio says warningly, yet his voice contains no demeanour of intimidation. “After all, I didn’t tell you to flatten a collective group of referees, officials and paramedics. If I hadn’t have liaised with the management, the extent of your punishment may have been more severe.”
Dominic’s stare has retained its intensity, yet it has become more distant, as if deep in thought. The maliciousness of his grin suggests he is reliving the moment in his head. The sound of perhaps a thousand pounds of flesh crashing against steel as a result of his raw and unadulterated power. The thoughts come to him like waves crashing on a beach, from lifting that alleged “crazy” fucker into the air with one arm, pinching his trachea together between his fingers like a drinking straw, all the back to visualising the vertebrae of Alexa’s spine snapping like wood. These thoughts, combined with the resulting smile, depict greater volumes of psychosis than his rival’s name could ever warrant.
Shaking his head to snap him out of his self-inflicted trance, Dominic suddenly snorts in confusion as Horacio’s words finally sink in.
“Punishment?”
“Courtesy of your recklessness, Tyrone Smith now has his opportunity to exact his revenge within sanctioned circumstances,” Horacio explains, revealing the closest thing that he can muster to a frown, not fully formed, yet its presence is somewhat noticeable. Dominic, who has now began pacing briskly along the conveyer that hums beneath him having pressed a combination of buttons to activate the treadmill, simply allows his same sadistic smirk to return to his face. “It gets worse,” Horacio continues solemnly. Somehow Dominic doubted that. “It will be two against two. Smith will be partnering with an individual who calls himself High Tide.”
“What’s this guy’s deal?”
“Essentially, he’s a pirate.”
Dominic raises an eyebrow curiously, taking a moment to mull over this simple description.
“You know something?“ Dominic tries to hide a chuckle amongst his beard, “I sometimes think that, in spite of the stretches of the imagination that The Chronological Order might require, that you and I are the only true sane people to be employed by this fucking company.“ Horacio seems a little insulted by this metaphor, yet he does not vocalise these sentiments. “Anything else?” he grunts to express his exasperation.
“Well, the man you will be quote-unquote “teaming” with is a monstrous clown named Sicko…” Horacio begins. Before he is even able to persist with his descriptions, Dominic immediately jams his thumb on to a button with a downwards-pointing triangle in its centre. Slowly, the electronics die into stillness. Dominic allows the conveyor to pull him backward towards its lip before he hops off as gracefully as a man of his stature can. A dumfounded look is etched across his face before screwing his face up hysterically. Rather than erupt into laughter, Dominic inhales though his nose sharply before allowing his face to unfold into its natural position upon breathing out.
“Wow,” Dominic grunts insincerely, scratching the back of his head momentarily. “That’s some punishment.” The sarcasm is overwhelming. Mortimer, though, does not look amused.
“Don’t you understand?” Horacio utters worriedly. “Smith has genuine motivation to make amends for the events of the last fortnight or more. Not only does he have High Tide in his corner, but Sicko is anything but mentally stable. He is just as much of a threat to you as your opponents.”
“You underestimate me, Horacio,” Dominic calmly says, wiping some more sweat from his brow. “I am familiar with the antics of the clown Sicko. You forget, we were both a part of the WGWF roster prior to making our marks in the realms of our current employers. I can begrudgingly respect Sicko for the same levels of malice that we both enjoy to introduce.” Dominator then notices the sheer extent of Mortimer’s apprehension, before the realisation suddenly strikes him. “You know what I think?” he smirks. “I think that you are concern that you will somehow end up getting caught in the crossfire. You think that, as a result of my behaviour last week, that Crazy Boy sees an equally sized target on your chest to match the one on mine.”
“Is that so infeasible?” Mortimer scoffs.
“I didn’t tell you to kick the man in the dick,” he beams, proud that he had been able to turn Mortimer’s earlier argument on its head and fire back at him. He awaits his mentor’s retort, taking a glance at his own variation of Horacio’s watch that is strapped around his gargantuan wrist. Dominic counts thirteen seconds of awkward, yet blissful silence.
“You should consider making your way to the airport soon,” comes the change of subject, an unsurprising evasion of acknowledgement that causes Dominator to already feel a sense of triumph. Going as far to stare at his watch simply to avoid making eye contact, Horacio makes mental calculations in his head. “You have a mere five hours and seventeen minutes before your flight departs, minus the three hours we are required to wait, as well as the hour and twenty nine minutes it will take to get to Heathrow based on the average flow of traffic, gives you just forty eight minutes to shower and change.” Dominic has long since stopped listening, walking along the length of the gymnasium towards the door leading to the locker room.
“Time is of the essence, I guess,” Dominic mutters to himself, almost half-heartedly at first, yet he pauses simply to reflect on that statement. The saying really is true. And that is precisely the message that Horacio Mortimer wanted to tell the world. In spite of his criticisms and uncertainty towards the idea of time being superior to religion itself, there was a slim chance in Dominator‘s mind that this does truly hold some merit.
“Dominic,” Horacio calls as he glances at the watch mounted on his wrist, halting The Suzerain of Time in his tracks. “Whatever happens, please consider doing something about your reckless abandon.”
Dominator simply flickers what is fast becoming a trademark wicked smirk over his shoulder in the direction of Mortimer.
“Oh, you can count on it.”
