Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Jul 5, 2017 12:24:56 GMT -5
All in all, the world seemed to be pretty A-OK, despite recent events. The World title was safely around Whitey Ford's waist, he had a new game plan and a revelation on his inner drive, and...well, he was wearing a suit that was expensive enough to feed five or six families.
The World Champion himself allowed himself a little leeway as to how straight he had to stand, using the buildings he passed as a perfect place to drop his shoulder and lean heavily on the bricks. A red solo cup dangled precariously from one hand, his eyes droopy and his mouth curled in a perpetual smile. The expensive suit was definitely a lesson in over-dressing, but Whitey didn't much care. He may or may not be concussed from the shot in the head from the shovel, but that wasn't going to stop him from enjoying himself. After all, he had a destination, and he was more than half sure he was stumbling in the right direction
How long had it been raining? Probably since he had left the bar, but he was a little too sloshed to notice at the time. Over the course of the couple mile walk from the drinking hole down to the docks, Whitey had surprisingly sobered up a bit. He gave a dirty look at the cup he had carried all that way and tossed it into an alley as he passed. Weak ass drink. I’ll fix that once I’m there. But where was THERE, actually? Ford suddenly ran out of sidewalk, and found himself standing on a wooden pier, the salty smell of the ocean hitting him right in the face. A wave of confusion washed over him; he must have taken a wrong turn at some point. The pier itself was empty, no boats or cargo docked or resting, except for a small group of noisy seagulls. One of the more bold birds squawked and hopped in his direction, soliciting him for food. “Get the fuck outta here!” Whitey shook a fist at the fowl scavenger. “Do you want me to give you four Harvests? Because I doubt three will do jack shit!”
Whitey guffawed at his own joke, one that was probably getting old to those who had to hear him tell it several times a day. Humility had never been his strong suit, especially now that he held the World Champion and had survived Grimm’s onslaught. Still, every time he made a joke or jest about the former World Champion, he could hear the clang of steel smashing against his skull, and remember waking up underneath the ring last week. It left a sour taste in his mouth; copper, like blood, but mixed with something that tasted like defeat. No amount of booze could wash away that taste, and tonight he hoped to find a remedy.
A whistle from the darkness grabbed his attention, and he spun in exaggerated circles to find its origin. “Over here.” A gruff voice called from behind him. Standing in the illuminated bay door of a brick building was a silhouette, one that he knew well. “BOB!” Whitey cried out, making his way towards the door. “I almost didn’t find the place!”
“You picked the place out, dude.” Bob replied in his deep, droll voice.
“I know, I know.” Whitey admitted, stepping out of the rain and past Bob, who pulled down the rusted bay door and slammed it shut noisily. “I’ve been working things out in my head, but I’m ready for business!” Inside the building was the remnants of what may have been a fish packing plant, but it was all gutted out. The concrete floors were barren but dirty, and the only objects in the room were a stool, a table that displayed the Pure Class Wrestling World Title proudly, and a six foot box covered by a blue tarp. Besides the two bay doors, there was a single walk-in door on the opposite side. Whitey made his way to the box, lifting one corner of the tarp up. “Is everything ready?”
Bob gave a curt nod. “Everything you asked for is in that box, and the volunteers are waiting to be called in. Are you sure they’re going to go through with this, without pressing charges?”
Ford had started unbuttoning his suit jacket, and let it fall to the floor in a wet heap. His smile was no longer droopy and booze tinged, but rather one of excitement. “People do crazy things for money. All the time, people accept cash to be human guinea pigs for medical treatments and just medication in general. At least they’ll KNOW what the side effects are going to be with our little experiment.” His dress shirt was dropped on top of his jacket, and Ford reached into the box. He pulled out a dry T-shirt, throwing it on hastily before removing helmet with a retractable visor. Settling it on nicely to fit his head right, Whitey clapped his hands and gave a big sigh. “Ok. Call em’ in!”
Bob shifted on his feet, getting ready to do his job. With a scarred hand he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and started to smooth it out on the side of the container Whitey had pulled his face shield from. “The first paid volunteer is—“
“Fuck that.” Whitey cut him off, shaking his head with annoyance. “I don’t want to have to go through the whole legality spiel with each and every volunteer. Bring them all in at once, and stand by the door once they’re all in. No one gets out until they’ve…um…participated. Yeah, that’s the word. Come on, chop chop!” Ford clapped his hands together impatiently, and Bob King moved towards the door, shaking his head but remaining silent.
King opened the single door slowly, and gestured for those on the other side to make their way into the building with a wave of his arm. A stream of people from different walks of life started to file into the building. Some appeared homeless, others like they were on vacation, a few from the business class, men and women alike, about twenty in total. They were all holding a piece of paper that appeared to be a waiver form as they all handed theirs to Bob as they passed him at the door. The group shuffled its way into the center of the warehouse, looking around confused and eying the box, which now seemed ominous, carefully.
“Please, please…can I get all of you to form one straight line, about five feet away from the box?” The people complied to Whitey’s request slowly, each of them weighing in their heads whether it was better to be closer or farther away from the box. “Good…fucking great, you guys are off to a good start.” Whitey grabbed the World Title from its table and slung it over his shoulder. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Whitey Ford. But seeing as this is the great town of Portland, from the state I hail from, you must all know that.”
A clamor of agreement and a series of nods from the group made Whitey clap his hands together excitedly. “GOOD! So you are all aware of the happenings over the last month. Several times I was assaulted by Grimm, a fight which I in fact did ask for, but every time I was on the wrong end of the bargain there was a single neutralizing fact that I want to…equate? I want to take it out of the equation, however you’d say that. But I can’t just go around stealing Grimm’s shovels; I’m sure he has a secret stash or two all around the arena in South Carolina. So I had this great idea…I need an equalizer. I need a signature weapon of my own, and in 2017 the steel chair just doesn’t match up to the range or uniqueness of a fucking shovel swung by a backwoods madman. That’s where all of you and this box come in.” Whitey kicked the box next to him as if to add emphasis to the point. “In this box is a plethora of weapons, conventional and unconventional, that we are going to test out today. By the end of this exercise I will hopefully have my own signature weapon that I can beat Grimm upside the head with, and take away his only crystal clear advantage over me.”
One of the volunteers raised his hand, but spoke without actually being called upon. “What are we going to be hitting, exactly? This place is empty. And we get paid right after, right?”
Ford grimaced, irritated to be cut off, and held up a contradicting finger. “First rule of MY club, don’t fucking talk about anything. Don’t ask questions, don’t talk amongst yourselves, don’t talk. Just don’t talk period, ok? But I’ll answer your questions. Yes, you will be paid after you help with this issue of mine, the second you walk out the door you came in. But…I’m sorry, you are sorely mistaken as to what your purpose is here, my new friend.” Whitey cocked his head at the man who spoke, an obvious junkie who was just looking for a quick buck. Whitey took a few steps towards the man and rested a hand on his shoulder. “See, I’LL be doing the testing of the weapons. All of you fine people signed waivers and contracts to participate in this for one thousand dollars; YOU ALL will be the objects that I will be hitting.”
The group’s collective attitude instantly changed, each and every one of them. A few members of the posse started moving towards the door, having changed their minds. Bob King stood there, however, stoic and still as a statue, carrying a black baseball bat. “Sorry guys.” King said in a genuinely apologetic voice. “Rules are rules, and you all signed the papers. You have to participate. Even says in the fine print that you will help test a weapon. It just never said it was by Whitey or by me.”
“Back in line folks. And don’t feel so bad! You’re all desperate for cash, APPARANTELY, and you’re helping your hometown hero find out the weapon he can use to even the playing field!” Whitey spoke loudly and enthusiastically. Most of the not-so-well-off volunteers were already back in line. Ford reached into the box once more, and pulled out a bag of blindfolds. “See, I have a very important tag match this week where I’m facing off against the little spitfire Kyle Shane and one man who greatly interests me…more so than the man who won TIIT…Gabriel. He is Seromine’s right hand man, and I’m of the mind to think that Seromine is what is wrong with Pure Class Wrestling. When I win this match, I send a message straight to that religious zealot that his lackey has no power over me. I may not need to use the weapon I choose today, with your help…but if Grimm comes in looking to do some impromptu hole digging, I plan to smash him as hard in the face as I can with my new friend.”
Ford tosses the bag to the nearest volunteer, who looks at it with dread. “Put those on. I think it’ll be best if you don’t see it coming.”
An hour or so later and the warehouse was empty of human life, barring the presence of Whitey Ford and Bob King. A few blood stains were fresh on the floor, and blindfolds which were hastily thrown off lay in heaps here or there. On the floor as well were the discarded weapons that were used; a whiffle ball bat, a lawn chair, a tiki torch, a table leg, a toaster, a rake, and a dozen other random household items lay strewn about haphazardly. Whitey was sitting on his stool, a discouraged look on his face, the World Title at his feet, and a hatchet in one hand. “I wish I could have used the hatchet. No matter what application, though, murder is illegal. I found that out the hard way.”
“Sorry dude.” Bob leaned against the empty box, looking unsure of what he should do next. It seemed Whitey was inconsolable. He twirled his black baseball bat in his hand absent mindedly. “I just use my custom bat. I didn’t name her, but she does her job.”
“Give me that!” What exclaimed irritably, snatching the bat from his friend’s hands. It was only then that he got a good look at the beautiful weapon. It was a bat, but the black was from electrical tape. The grip was made of leather, a button latch at the bottom placed there to let it clip to a belt loop. What made the bat special, though, was what was underneath the tape. Pennies were stacked up all over the face of the slugger, twenty high, and taped solidly to the frame. It added weight and gave it a little character; Ford’s eye began to shine when he imagined the damage that could be caused with such a device. Turning to Bob slowly, Whitey quietly asked. “Can you make me one with quarters?”
The World Champion himself allowed himself a little leeway as to how straight he had to stand, using the buildings he passed as a perfect place to drop his shoulder and lean heavily on the bricks. A red solo cup dangled precariously from one hand, his eyes droopy and his mouth curled in a perpetual smile. The expensive suit was definitely a lesson in over-dressing, but Whitey didn't much care. He may or may not be concussed from the shot in the head from the shovel, but that wasn't going to stop him from enjoying himself. After all, he had a destination, and he was more than half sure he was stumbling in the right direction
How long had it been raining? Probably since he had left the bar, but he was a little too sloshed to notice at the time. Over the course of the couple mile walk from the drinking hole down to the docks, Whitey had surprisingly sobered up a bit. He gave a dirty look at the cup he had carried all that way and tossed it into an alley as he passed. Weak ass drink. I’ll fix that once I’m there. But where was THERE, actually? Ford suddenly ran out of sidewalk, and found himself standing on a wooden pier, the salty smell of the ocean hitting him right in the face. A wave of confusion washed over him; he must have taken a wrong turn at some point. The pier itself was empty, no boats or cargo docked or resting, except for a small group of noisy seagulls. One of the more bold birds squawked and hopped in his direction, soliciting him for food. “Get the fuck outta here!” Whitey shook a fist at the fowl scavenger. “Do you want me to give you four Harvests? Because I doubt three will do jack shit!”
Whitey guffawed at his own joke, one that was probably getting old to those who had to hear him tell it several times a day. Humility had never been his strong suit, especially now that he held the World Champion and had survived Grimm’s onslaught. Still, every time he made a joke or jest about the former World Champion, he could hear the clang of steel smashing against his skull, and remember waking up underneath the ring last week. It left a sour taste in his mouth; copper, like blood, but mixed with something that tasted like defeat. No amount of booze could wash away that taste, and tonight he hoped to find a remedy.
A whistle from the darkness grabbed his attention, and he spun in exaggerated circles to find its origin. “Over here.” A gruff voice called from behind him. Standing in the illuminated bay door of a brick building was a silhouette, one that he knew well. “BOB!” Whitey cried out, making his way towards the door. “I almost didn’t find the place!”
“You picked the place out, dude.” Bob replied in his deep, droll voice.
“I know, I know.” Whitey admitted, stepping out of the rain and past Bob, who pulled down the rusted bay door and slammed it shut noisily. “I’ve been working things out in my head, but I’m ready for business!” Inside the building was the remnants of what may have been a fish packing plant, but it was all gutted out. The concrete floors were barren but dirty, and the only objects in the room were a stool, a table that displayed the Pure Class Wrestling World Title proudly, and a six foot box covered by a blue tarp. Besides the two bay doors, there was a single walk-in door on the opposite side. Whitey made his way to the box, lifting one corner of the tarp up. “Is everything ready?”
Bob gave a curt nod. “Everything you asked for is in that box, and the volunteers are waiting to be called in. Are you sure they’re going to go through with this, without pressing charges?”
Ford had started unbuttoning his suit jacket, and let it fall to the floor in a wet heap. His smile was no longer droopy and booze tinged, but rather one of excitement. “People do crazy things for money. All the time, people accept cash to be human guinea pigs for medical treatments and just medication in general. At least they’ll KNOW what the side effects are going to be with our little experiment.” His dress shirt was dropped on top of his jacket, and Ford reached into the box. He pulled out a dry T-shirt, throwing it on hastily before removing helmet with a retractable visor. Settling it on nicely to fit his head right, Whitey clapped his hands and gave a big sigh. “Ok. Call em’ in!”
Bob shifted on his feet, getting ready to do his job. With a scarred hand he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and started to smooth it out on the side of the container Whitey had pulled his face shield from. “The first paid volunteer is—“
“Fuck that.” Whitey cut him off, shaking his head with annoyance. “I don’t want to have to go through the whole legality spiel with each and every volunteer. Bring them all in at once, and stand by the door once they’re all in. No one gets out until they’ve…um…participated. Yeah, that’s the word. Come on, chop chop!” Ford clapped his hands together impatiently, and Bob King moved towards the door, shaking his head but remaining silent.
King opened the single door slowly, and gestured for those on the other side to make their way into the building with a wave of his arm. A stream of people from different walks of life started to file into the building. Some appeared homeless, others like they were on vacation, a few from the business class, men and women alike, about twenty in total. They were all holding a piece of paper that appeared to be a waiver form as they all handed theirs to Bob as they passed him at the door. The group shuffled its way into the center of the warehouse, looking around confused and eying the box, which now seemed ominous, carefully.
“Please, please…can I get all of you to form one straight line, about five feet away from the box?” The people complied to Whitey’s request slowly, each of them weighing in their heads whether it was better to be closer or farther away from the box. “Good…fucking great, you guys are off to a good start.” Whitey grabbed the World Title from its table and slung it over his shoulder. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Whitey Ford. But seeing as this is the great town of Portland, from the state I hail from, you must all know that.”
A clamor of agreement and a series of nods from the group made Whitey clap his hands together excitedly. “GOOD! So you are all aware of the happenings over the last month. Several times I was assaulted by Grimm, a fight which I in fact did ask for, but every time I was on the wrong end of the bargain there was a single neutralizing fact that I want to…equate? I want to take it out of the equation, however you’d say that. But I can’t just go around stealing Grimm’s shovels; I’m sure he has a secret stash or two all around the arena in South Carolina. So I had this great idea…I need an equalizer. I need a signature weapon of my own, and in 2017 the steel chair just doesn’t match up to the range or uniqueness of a fucking shovel swung by a backwoods madman. That’s where all of you and this box come in.” Whitey kicked the box next to him as if to add emphasis to the point. “In this box is a plethora of weapons, conventional and unconventional, that we are going to test out today. By the end of this exercise I will hopefully have my own signature weapon that I can beat Grimm upside the head with, and take away his only crystal clear advantage over me.”
One of the volunteers raised his hand, but spoke without actually being called upon. “What are we going to be hitting, exactly? This place is empty. And we get paid right after, right?”
Ford grimaced, irritated to be cut off, and held up a contradicting finger. “First rule of MY club, don’t fucking talk about anything. Don’t ask questions, don’t talk amongst yourselves, don’t talk. Just don’t talk period, ok? But I’ll answer your questions. Yes, you will be paid after you help with this issue of mine, the second you walk out the door you came in. But…I’m sorry, you are sorely mistaken as to what your purpose is here, my new friend.” Whitey cocked his head at the man who spoke, an obvious junkie who was just looking for a quick buck. Whitey took a few steps towards the man and rested a hand on his shoulder. “See, I’LL be doing the testing of the weapons. All of you fine people signed waivers and contracts to participate in this for one thousand dollars; YOU ALL will be the objects that I will be hitting.”
The group’s collective attitude instantly changed, each and every one of them. A few members of the posse started moving towards the door, having changed their minds. Bob King stood there, however, stoic and still as a statue, carrying a black baseball bat. “Sorry guys.” King said in a genuinely apologetic voice. “Rules are rules, and you all signed the papers. You have to participate. Even says in the fine print that you will help test a weapon. It just never said it was by Whitey or by me.”
“Back in line folks. And don’t feel so bad! You’re all desperate for cash, APPARANTELY, and you’re helping your hometown hero find out the weapon he can use to even the playing field!” Whitey spoke loudly and enthusiastically. Most of the not-so-well-off volunteers were already back in line. Ford reached into the box once more, and pulled out a bag of blindfolds. “See, I have a very important tag match this week where I’m facing off against the little spitfire Kyle Shane and one man who greatly interests me…more so than the man who won TIIT…Gabriel. He is Seromine’s right hand man, and I’m of the mind to think that Seromine is what is wrong with Pure Class Wrestling. When I win this match, I send a message straight to that religious zealot that his lackey has no power over me. I may not need to use the weapon I choose today, with your help…but if Grimm comes in looking to do some impromptu hole digging, I plan to smash him as hard in the face as I can with my new friend.”
Ford tosses the bag to the nearest volunteer, who looks at it with dread. “Put those on. I think it’ll be best if you don’t see it coming.”
An hour or so later and the warehouse was empty of human life, barring the presence of Whitey Ford and Bob King. A few blood stains were fresh on the floor, and blindfolds which were hastily thrown off lay in heaps here or there. On the floor as well were the discarded weapons that were used; a whiffle ball bat, a lawn chair, a tiki torch, a table leg, a toaster, a rake, and a dozen other random household items lay strewn about haphazardly. Whitey was sitting on his stool, a discouraged look on his face, the World Title at his feet, and a hatchet in one hand. “I wish I could have used the hatchet. No matter what application, though, murder is illegal. I found that out the hard way.”
“Sorry dude.” Bob leaned against the empty box, looking unsure of what he should do next. It seemed Whitey was inconsolable. He twirled his black baseball bat in his hand absent mindedly. “I just use my custom bat. I didn’t name her, but she does her job.”
“Give me that!” What exclaimed irritably, snatching the bat from his friend’s hands. It was only then that he got a good look at the beautiful weapon. It was a bat, but the black was from electrical tape. The grip was made of leather, a button latch at the bottom placed there to let it clip to a belt loop. What made the bat special, though, was what was underneath the tape. Pennies were stacked up all over the face of the slugger, twenty high, and taped solidly to the frame. It added weight and gave it a little character; Ford’s eye began to shine when he imagined the damage that could be caused with such a device. Turning to Bob slowly, Whitey quietly asked. “Can you make me one with quarters?”
