Post by Holden Ross on Apr 21, 2019 15:56:00 GMT -5
Sometime during the past week...
*Rain has turned the dirt scar that is a road running through the Carolina countryside into a mud pit. Holden is crawling on his hands and knees through the mud, the knees of his jeans have worn away some time ago and he is soaked to the bone. He crawls forward at a steady pace with his head down and chin nearly on his chest. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles and the brief illumination exposes the several other people crawling along in similar fashion.
He crawls through most of the night before finally arriving at the destination; a weathered clapboard shack set under a pair of old willow trees. Moss and vines cling to the building like old lovers and the door is missing from the entrance, showing the candles flickering within. He crawls up the stone cobbled path and eventually inside. He is alone when he enters and the smell of incense, mold, and earth hangs heavy in the air. He crawls to the back of the back of the shack leaving small patches of blood where his knees and hands fall on the cracked cement floor. His journey finally comes to and end when he crawls to the foot of an effigy of a man. It has been here many, many decades, three times as long as Holden has been breathing on this earth. A mound of wax, from the hundreds of candles over the years, has formed at the feet of this alter. A ram's skull is mounted where the head would normally be.
It is clad in a time worn black priests frock with a crown of barbed wire. The eye sockets are, of course, empty but small, red jewels were inserted long ago and they almost seem to glow in the light of the candle that sits behind it. Holden remains on his hands and knees before it with his head still bent forward. Water drips from the limp hair hanging down past his face while outside the storm increases its intensity, dumping rain in an almost monsoon-like fashion. He finally lifts his head up, his face is covered in many days worth of stubble, more closer to a beard than just stubble, and his eyes are bloodshot, swollen, and red rimmed.
He straightens up into a kneeling position with his eyes fixed on the eyes of the looming presence before him. Tears spring up from the corners of his eyes, fill up, and overflow his eyelids and mingle with the water already dripping down his face. He raises his right hand up as if trying to touch it; his hand trembles as if afflicted with palsy before it drops back down to his side. Lightning flashes and within a second or two the thunder booms and rattles the shack. The many, many candles flicker in the burst of wind that rages through the open door but none are extinguished.
He begins to sob outright while rocking back and forth. He peels off the shirt he is wearing, as well as the wifebeater underneath, exposing the fresh tattoo covering his back. It is of the demon, Baphomet, standing upon a pile of corpses. The goat skull in the tattoo looks eerily similar to the figure he is kneeling before. His fist delivers one, two, three blows to his own face! Blood trickles from is right nostril and his right eye has started to swell, instantly. In the blink of an eye, Holden launches himself from his kneeling position up to his feet. Two circles of blood, about seven inches in diameter, mark where his knees were on the old, worn cement. His thrusts into his left front pocket and fishes out a picture sealed in a Ziploc bag. It has been spared the rain due to the baggy and it is freed from its plastic prison in one quick tear. He holds it in his trembling hand before him, his eyes playing over the image of he and Seromine, glaring menacingly at the lens. In the picture, Holden is still sporting the on point Mohawk and fuckboy perfect chops, manscaped to a point just under the corners of his mouth while Seromine is looking as villainous as ever.
Holden takes a tentative step forward and tucks the picture, upside down, into the belt of the frock. Slowly, and carefully, he lowers himself down to his knees and bows his head. Quietly, to himself, he mutters something and once finished he raises his head to look at the alter before him. His sobbing has stopped and his tears have quit falling. His red rimmed eyes remain focused on the jeweled eyes of the effigy as he rises to his feet. Another flash of lightning and an almost instant explosion of thunder both rattles the shack and bathes it in the flash of white light before everything is plunged into darkness after a mighty gust of wind.*
Saturday, April Twentieth, approximately ten-thirty p.m.
*The scene opens on Holden, standing alone, in the scrap yard we have seen him in before. He looks a little rough; his clothe look like they have been worn for at least a few days and his hair hangs in greasy taters across most of his face.*
I haven’t been in the ring since “Mass Destruction,” after I was suspended for putting my hands on a referee. I did and, to be honest, I would do it again without batting an eye. If they just did their jobs, counted the one-two-three, and stayed out of the way….I wouldn’t have been suspended. It is what it is. And looking to the future my view is obstructed by Alexa Black.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, I must admit, I find her smoldering beauty quite unique. And nothing turns me on more than watching a woman beat the shit outta some other broad. And even more so when she’s beating some guys ass. I've never been one for pain in the bedroom but, damn, I can’t promise I wont be askin you out to smoke a bowl, drink a beer, or beat the shit outta some fucktard for lookin funny.
Neither of us are liked much around these parts, by both the fans and personnel alike, and neither of us give a damn. We both crave the violence. Yearn for the brutality. And lust the bloodletting. This week the fans the get the Ambassador of Ultraviolence against the Queen of Bedlam. While everyone has their eyes on Sicko, and rightfully so, the two of us will be putting on a true show of Sadism and Masochism. I have no qualms droppin you like a hookers body along the Green River just like I would Tyler Scott. Bring your Best…no..better yet….bring your thirst for destruction. You and I are gonna tear the house down….
*The camera fades out with Holden smirking at the camera.*
*Rain has turned the dirt scar that is a road running through the Carolina countryside into a mud pit. Holden is crawling on his hands and knees through the mud, the knees of his jeans have worn away some time ago and he is soaked to the bone. He crawls forward at a steady pace with his head down and chin nearly on his chest. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles and the brief illumination exposes the several other people crawling along in similar fashion.
He crawls through most of the night before finally arriving at the destination; a weathered clapboard shack set under a pair of old willow trees. Moss and vines cling to the building like old lovers and the door is missing from the entrance, showing the candles flickering within. He crawls up the stone cobbled path and eventually inside. He is alone when he enters and the smell of incense, mold, and earth hangs heavy in the air. He crawls to the back of the back of the shack leaving small patches of blood where his knees and hands fall on the cracked cement floor. His journey finally comes to and end when he crawls to the foot of an effigy of a man. It has been here many, many decades, three times as long as Holden has been breathing on this earth. A mound of wax, from the hundreds of candles over the years, has formed at the feet of this alter. A ram's skull is mounted where the head would normally be.
It is clad in a time worn black priests frock with a crown of barbed wire. The eye sockets are, of course, empty but small, red jewels were inserted long ago and they almost seem to glow in the light of the candle that sits behind it. Holden remains on his hands and knees before it with his head still bent forward. Water drips from the limp hair hanging down past his face while outside the storm increases its intensity, dumping rain in an almost monsoon-like fashion. He finally lifts his head up, his face is covered in many days worth of stubble, more closer to a beard than just stubble, and his eyes are bloodshot, swollen, and red rimmed.
He straightens up into a kneeling position with his eyes fixed on the eyes of the looming presence before him. Tears spring up from the corners of his eyes, fill up, and overflow his eyelids and mingle with the water already dripping down his face. He raises his right hand up as if trying to touch it; his hand trembles as if afflicted with palsy before it drops back down to his side. Lightning flashes and within a second or two the thunder booms and rattles the shack. The many, many candles flicker in the burst of wind that rages through the open door but none are extinguished.
He begins to sob outright while rocking back and forth. He peels off the shirt he is wearing, as well as the wifebeater underneath, exposing the fresh tattoo covering his back. It is of the demon, Baphomet, standing upon a pile of corpses. The goat skull in the tattoo looks eerily similar to the figure he is kneeling before. His fist delivers one, two, three blows to his own face! Blood trickles from is right nostril and his right eye has started to swell, instantly. In the blink of an eye, Holden launches himself from his kneeling position up to his feet. Two circles of blood, about seven inches in diameter, mark where his knees were on the old, worn cement. His thrusts into his left front pocket and fishes out a picture sealed in a Ziploc bag. It has been spared the rain due to the baggy and it is freed from its plastic prison in one quick tear. He holds it in his trembling hand before him, his eyes playing over the image of he and Seromine, glaring menacingly at the lens. In the picture, Holden is still sporting the on point Mohawk and fuckboy perfect chops, manscaped to a point just under the corners of his mouth while Seromine is looking as villainous as ever.
Holden takes a tentative step forward and tucks the picture, upside down, into the belt of the frock. Slowly, and carefully, he lowers himself down to his knees and bows his head. Quietly, to himself, he mutters something and once finished he raises his head to look at the alter before him. His sobbing has stopped and his tears have quit falling. His red rimmed eyes remain focused on the jeweled eyes of the effigy as he rises to his feet. Another flash of lightning and an almost instant explosion of thunder both rattles the shack and bathes it in the flash of white light before everything is plunged into darkness after a mighty gust of wind.*
Saturday, April Twentieth, approximately ten-thirty p.m.
*The scene opens on Holden, standing alone, in the scrap yard we have seen him in before. He looks a little rough; his clothe look like they have been worn for at least a few days and his hair hangs in greasy taters across most of his face.*
I haven’t been in the ring since “Mass Destruction,” after I was suspended for putting my hands on a referee. I did and, to be honest, I would do it again without batting an eye. If they just did their jobs, counted the one-two-three, and stayed out of the way….I wouldn’t have been suspended. It is what it is. And looking to the future my view is obstructed by Alexa Black.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, I must admit, I find her smoldering beauty quite unique. And nothing turns me on more than watching a woman beat the shit outta some other broad. And even more so when she’s beating some guys ass. I've never been one for pain in the bedroom but, damn, I can’t promise I wont be askin you out to smoke a bowl, drink a beer, or beat the shit outta some fucktard for lookin funny.
Neither of us are liked much around these parts, by both the fans and personnel alike, and neither of us give a damn. We both crave the violence. Yearn for the brutality. And lust the bloodletting. This week the fans the get the Ambassador of Ultraviolence against the Queen of Bedlam. While everyone has their eyes on Sicko, and rightfully so, the two of us will be putting on a true show of Sadism and Masochism. I have no qualms droppin you like a hookers body along the Green River just like I would Tyler Scott. Bring your Best…no..better yet….bring your thirst for destruction. You and I are gonna tear the house down….
*The camera fades out with Holden smirking at the camera.*