Post by "The Fabulous One" Dan Fierce on Nov 20, 2016 12:25:04 GMT -5
Bridging Memories - Part Five
(Recap: Dan Fierce had decided to begin to see his couples' psychologist, Dr. Phillip M. Schulmann, in a one-on-one setting on a trial basis to address some of his inner demons that reared their ugly heads as an indirect consequence of the Orlando shooting. I encourage reading the body of roleplays for Manifest Destiny found here: pcw05.proboards.com/thread/10509/manifest-destiny-stories-last-hurrah
Also... POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains child abuse. If this sort of thing makes you uncomfortable or could have a detrimental effect on you, then please do NOT read further.
When we last left, young Dan Fierce had run away from home, due to his family's violent reaction to his unscheduled "coming out" party when he was twelve. After a few months on the road, he'd managed to befriend a burly trucker named Ben. The young and naive Dan trusted all too easily. At a deserted rest stop just inside the Oklahoma border, Ben had snuck up behind Dan and knocked him out with chloroform.)
Consciousness faded in and out, the room spinning every time he tried to open his eyes for very long. He felt his heart race from the fear and adrenaline, but his mind just wouldn't snap out of it. That wasn't the only sensation he experienced though. He couldn't quite grasp it, but he knew he felt air all over his body; not rushing, just there, where his mind would eventually figure out his clothes should be.
The fog in his brain only fathomed that perhaps he never left the hospital, but what bleary images his clouded eyes could manage didn't concur with that notion. The antiseptic scent hospitals usually have had been replaced with the musk of sweat and stale cigarrettes.
But it was the sensation in his nether regions that confused him most of all. At times, it felt wet. He experienced pain as something was put inside him. Over and over. Despite his emotional state, there were also undertones that he'd never felt before, at least none that he'd not given himself.
Suddenly his entire body tensed, his eyes shooting wide open as he screamed. "Did you like that, you little faggot?" he heard a gravelly voice snarl, just before he felt an immediate jolt of pain to his temple and passed out once more.
His fog seemed to carry on for days, with the series of sensations repeating themselves in various order for the duration. New feelings, such as his ears popping and the cab of the truck becoming unbearably warm during what he perceived as day and almost bitterly cold when all he could glimpse was darkness. The changes in illumination were the only way he could guess that days may have passed.
His face ached, but his hands bad been bound behind his back, so he was unable to discern just why. One eye just flat out refused to open at all, the swollen sensation making him believe he may have even lost his eye at some point. Even the tears, the one constant he had for the longest time, had dried to gentle weeps, then to hopeless dry sobs as his body slowly dehydrated.
The warmth of what little sun could peek into the king cab through the curtains gave him just that little bit of hope to hold onto. His bound hands could finally pinpoint that he was indeed back to wearing his birthday suit.
Moving even the slightest hurt. Breathing was a chore that parts of his mind were becoming more apathetic about. That little sliver of sunshine became a friend. It became the one thing that kept him going.
Then the curtains made the one sound that made his entire body recoil in fright from the sound, that clink of the tarnished pseudo-brass rings that clamped onto the black velvet fabric as if shrouding the devil himself from the toils of light. As they rapidly pulled open, his friendly sliver of sun became a much less welcome blast of brightness that only obscured his vision even more.
That was, until a large shadow eclipsed the sunlight that beckoned to him for escape. Another knock to his noggin followed by a gravelly laugh nearly drowned out the world in flares of pain.
"End of the road for you, fag," growled the man as he yanked Dan off of the bed behind the cab and onto the unforgiving metal floor with a head-jolting thud. Another drop of about a foot after a brief rug-and-debris burn, landed his back on the boot scraper steps down from the passenger side. His head was kind enough to endure the second step, but fireworks of agony lit all of his nerves when the pavement introduced itself.
He was too weak to protest. He was broken in ways even he wasn't aware of. The sun that had given him refuge before had become a demon breathing fire on every exposed inch of his body as it was dragged through a thicket of scrub and desert bramble bushes. The air was dusty. No. The dust was airy. There was more dirt in his lungs by the end of his unwanted journey than anything that could help his blood oxygenate. Beyond the blowing sand and tumbleweed, there was almost nothing. It sounded as if he was being pulled to a place where he was welcome to spend his final moments going mad from solitude.
The man finally dropped his leg, kicked one last pound or twelve of dirt in his face, before spitting on him and walking away with a satisfied, coughing guffaw.
The one thing that had once been a harbinger of hope, the one thing that steeled his resolve to carry on had now turned against him. It baked even his Latino flesh until it crisped and boiled under the relentless barrage. Still, he called upon every ounce of strength he could muster. Every once in a while, he could hear the sound of a car on the horizon.
A loud shriek from above him gave him enough pause to look skyward. His vision was weak, but clearing. An answering shrill helped him understand that he wasn't alone, and these new friends were awaiting their next meal to be delivered.
His mouth refused to utter a cry for help, try though he might. The desert had claimed what little saliva he could create as fast as he could conjure it. He could tell that he was too far away for any car that wasn't already at a dead halt to hear his meager squeaks for help. Probably not even then.
He carefully maneuvered his hands in front of him, but he was pretty sure he peeled a boil the size of a baseball off of his left butt cheek in the process. The pain was immediate and intense, but at least he would be able to crawl a bit more effectively with his arms in front of him instead of bound in back.
His friend-turned-foe had decided he'd had quite enough fun making Dan jerky, and was giving way to rapidly cooling temperatures as dusk settled in. His skin still burned everywhere, but the cooler temperatures still managed to cut to the bone the deeper they settled in. Finally, he felt something warm and solid underneath his elbows.
He felt the surface with skeptical disbelief. And laughed. It was the hacking, wheezing, chortle of an old man on his death bed, but it was there. It felt spectacular. He crawled a bit further just to get the rest of his body on the asphalt to enjoy the sensation. He flopped onto his back, ignoring the arguing injuries and protesting nerves.
Everything went white, save for a low, somehow calming, buzz in his ears. It may be the last thing he accomplished in his brief life, but he did it, by GAWD.
The screeching of the tires never registered in his ears whatsoever as he drifted into unconsciousness. Only the laughter, the humming, and the peaceful light.
"Well, Ricky-poo... Here we are at Trauma 202 and still nothing is really settled between us."
Dan hung his head, shaking it, but smiling as if reminiscing about an old friend.
"I really don't know what there is to settle, my friend. Seriously. You won fair and square in the Deadly Rumble. You outlasted me in our elimination tag match at Trauma 200. You even had me dead to rights at Trauma 201. That ref's hand was about to slap the mat for the three.
"But then something happened. An explosion went off above the ring that put both of us AND poor Chucky Lim all in peril. Nothing has been proven. No one has claimed the explosion that, quite frankly, saved my bacon, all while trying to cook it. I'll address that later, I suppose. I have my own theories.
"I don't get you Ricky-poo. You say you don't deserve this. Sweetie, look at what you've gone through to get here: everything I mentioned before and then some. You can't ascend to the top of any mountain without the effort to climb.
"You say you're too old for this, but you're a year younger than me. Sure you've sustained some pretty serious injuries in your time, but so have I. I have always been a survivor. I guess that's what's separates us, honey. I have the will to survive, to achieve my goals no matter what life throws at me.
"B - T - W... I'm not gonna lie. I WILL use your injuries to my advantage. I'm a fighter at heart and soul, and if it comes down to it, I will do what I need to, to get what I want, and I'm not afraid to unleash my inner bitch to do it. Don't take it too personal if mama gets a bit menopausal all up on you.
"I will say this though, if I get in that ring with you, I want to see the same will to fight from you. I want to see your survival instincts come into play. If you're going to come down to that ring to give up the same way I saw backstage at Trauma 200, then I won't fight you. I'll walk away. It won't be worth it for either of us if it's anything short of a fight for our very lives. Would you like to know why?"
Dan motions to a television with the footage from Trauma 201 just prior to the explosion that set the ring ablaze. He hits play on the video, allowing the detonation to occur and pauses it again, just as the fire rains down on them. He then motions to the frozen picture of the hellfire and brimstone atmosphere of the latter minutes of their last match.
"Because when one of us gets in the ring with Murdoc... That. Is. Exactly. What. It. Will. Be. It will be a fight for our lives. We won't be getting in there just for gold, we'll be doing it for the right to live. You bring me your best this one last time. If I get past you, then it was meant to be. If not, I'd better not see that defeated shell of a man I witnessed just after Deadly Intentions. I'd better see the man who got where he is by fighting tooth and nail.
"You bring even one iota of doubt to that ring against me, then I won't throw you a pity party. Uh-uh. Mama don't do that. You make me earn that spot, or you by GAWD take it from me with your head held high. Murdoc may use bitch tactics, uh, by the way, the whole ring fireball thing was my idea first. Trademark infringement. Where was I? Oh yes. He may use bitch tactics, but he's nothing short of deadly between those ropes.
"I'll see you in the ring, sweetie. I'll kick your goddamned head off if you waiver for even a second. That not just a promise. That's Fierce. Toodles."
