Post by David Hunter on Jan 8, 2019 13:48:50 GMT -5
You ever find yourself staring down the barrel of a beretta?
No?
How about two?
Still no?
Well, it’s not fun. David finds it a rare sight, and certainly not a pleasant one.
He’s also not a fan of surprises. Anybody in his position in his line of work finds that surprises just ruin everything. It’s easier to know what’s ahead, and if things pop up, it not only ruins one’s mood, but it also makes things difficult.
So try to imagine how David is feeling here. He comes to Seattle, following up on that witch’s advice, trying to get some more information as to where to find the Wu he’s looking for. He comes to a bar, looking for a stiff drink after a long flight, and all of a sudden a brawl breaks out.
This’d be all fine and dandy. You’re at a bar, brawls happen. What one doesn’t and can’t prepare for is the sheer amount of potential death when facing down two berettas.
Now, a bit of context. The idea of looking at two barrels of berettas aren’t a bad thing. On the contrary, they’re actually some amazing guns. They do their job and pack a nice punch for anybody unfortunate enough to feel their sting. And hell, any Thomas, Richard, or Harold could wield them. Not very well, mind you, but the concept remains.
The real issue comes when you’re facing down twin berettas from two people in particular. They’re called the Twin Twins. Who came up with the name is a mystery, and clearly lacking in imagination, but the idea of this duo is quite simple: only two people in The Game can dual-wield a pair of pistols so well that the idea of meeting them in the field is enough to scare away a lot of potentials. David’s attested to seeing many brave souls cower in the corner once they face off with either one.
How they came to be so skilled? Experience, mostly. A bit of luck is dashed in there, but David personally chalks it down to natural skill. Experience just makes anybody better, but you don’t get that good without already being skilled.
Who are they? One of them tends to stay in the shadows, and many report him as having retired. He’s gone below the radar, so nobody can really pinpoint what happened to him. He became a big name in Roanapur mostly for mercenary work, but soon joined up with the Russians based off a past debt. Once greater pastures started calling, he took a hike and hitched a ride right out of that dimension. Nobody’s heard anything from him in a few years, but many seem to think he settled down in Remnant. He doesn’t really go by a nickname, mostly to separate as far from his equal as possible.
Speaking of which, the other half of Twin Twins is known affectionately as Two Hands. Her real name is Revy, no surname needed. She’s feared by everybody and it’s a well-established idea that if you see her on the other side of a battlefield, either you’re a guaranteed statistic or you’d better be Usain Bolt and able to run like hell. If you can run away with your life intact, than you should probably head to Las Vegas, because you’re a lucky son of a bitch.
Or, if you’re David Hunter, try to talk your way out of a fight before her eyes lose any sense of a soul. Not that she has one anyway, but at least she starts most of her fights with mercy.
“Hey Revy,” David says.
So yeah. Seattle bar. Looking for info to where to go next. Having a stiff drink. Bar brawl. Pair of berettas pointing at his face.
Not a good time.
“David Hunter. Fancy meeting you here,” Revy says.
She doesn’t have a smirk on her face. If anything, she looks disappointed. Guess this was easier than she thought…
“See, you say that, but I have a feeling you were looking for me,” David says.
“Guilty.”
Neither of them react.
It gets like that for a minute.
With a shrug, David decides to finish off his whisky. When the glass hits the bar, the ice inside crinkle around loudly.
“So…where’s the rest of your crew?” David asks.
“Benny and Dutch are trying to figure out where to park the boat. Pretty sure Rock’s trying to get some tickets for a basketball game. Turns out he saw the team here once when he was a kid,” Revy says.
“The SuperSonics haven’t been in Seattle for years…” David says.
“We’ll let him figure that out…”
David sighs, tapping on the counter a couple times. The bartender notices, and tops off his glass of whisky, not at all disturbed by the brawl that just took place, nor the pair of pistols posted at his patron.
“So I’m assuming you were hired to…what? Stop me or kill me?” David asks.
“Stop. Peacekeeper paid a pretty penny to bring you back alive. Turns out you’ve made a huge impact in The Game. You’re all everybody’s talking about,” Revy says.
“I’m flattered. All it took was making a deal with a big bad and suddenly everybody’s eyes are on you,” David says.
With a smirk, Revy lowers the berettas. She places them in her holsters before tapping on the bar.
“Two tequilas,” she says.
The bartender obliges, serving them up in a mug of all things. Revy follows this up by tipping one back and emptying it down her throat.
Grinning and shaking his head, David takes a few gulps from his own drink.
It doesn’t take too long before David’s whisky and both of Revy’s tequilas have disappeared from the outside world.
“So then David…where are you headed?” Revy asks.
“Not quite sure. I was told that somewhere in this city is information I need. Hey…barkeep,” David calls.
The bartender looks on, nodding.
David reaches into his jeans pocket. He pulls out the photo he got from the trailer.
Unfolding it, he reveals the photo to the bartender. He points to the man with black hair and a red jacket.
“You see this guy around here in the past month or so?” David asks.
The bartender nods. He then reaches below the counter, revealing an envelope. The tender hands it off to David, who nods his head in appreciation. David returns the picture to his pocket before ripping open the envelope.
He pulls out a piece of paper, revealing an address for a suburban house around Montreal.
“Oh great. Montreal. That isn’t a city I want to go to,” he says.
“What’s what not to like about it? Snow, cold, Frenchies, the Tennysons, pretty sure my cohort visits every so often,” Revy says.
“Everybody has history in Montreal. Not to mention it’s one of the ‘no-go’ cities for people. That and Tampa. Shit…I think I know the address too,” David says.
Revy takes a look, a smirk growing on her face.
“Ah shit, David. Looks like you’re going to visit ol’ Uncle Ni—”
The door to the bar suddenly bursts open. Standing in the doorway is a pair of suited men. One is wearing sunglasses and wielding a rifle while the other is content with a pistol, but has a bald head. So who wins between the two is anyone's guess.
“Holy hell, looks like somebody get here first,” the bald one says.
“To be fair, the place was fucked up before I got here,” Revy says.
This gets their attention.
“Shit,” the shades-wearer says.
He holds a hand up to his ear.
“We have Two Hands on the property. I repeat, Two Hands is on the property. I’m assuming Peacekeeper involvement,” he says.
Both men suddenly point their weapons at Revy and David.
They merely look at each other, raising their respective eyebrows.
“David Hunter, by the order of The Others, we request you surrender peacefully and allow detainment. You will be subject to interrogation, but otherwise will be unharmed. This is your only warning. As for you, Two Hands, we can do this peacefully, no need for—” the bald one is interrupted by a trio of shots piercing his partner’s body.
With no warning, the rifle hits the floor. The shades-wearer’s shades shatter, leaving two holes in his head and one in his stomach. He hits the floor, slumped against the doorway.
The bald man puts a hand to his ear.
“We have been engaged. My partner is dead. Permission to retreat,” he says.
Three more shots are heard, three more holes, two in the chest, one in the face, all to the bald man, who collapses on the floor.
Two berettas and one colt are pointed in his direction, belonging to Revy and David respectively.
“So tell me David, why shouldn’t I bring you in and claim my money?” Revy asks.
“Well, that depends Revy, were you tasked to follow me?” David asks.
“That I was,” Revy says.
“Well, you could make this sporting. Give me a head start to get to Montreal. I mean, as soon as you get there, one, both, or all of us will probably be captured anyway. I imagine once we step foot in the city limits, there will be hunters on us immediately.”
“Yeah but that involves being nice. Why the fuck should I be nice?”
“Hey barkeep, got that info on where her twin is?”
Both of them look to the bartender, who has suddenly started typing away on a laptop.
A good minute passes before the bartender turns the laptop around. A file is revealed of a man.
The name on the file reads “Diego aka Nathan Miles.”
A red button fades in and out on a map. A map of Montreal. At the top of a map, a message reads ‘last updated yesterday, 5:00 PM.’
“Wow. I knew he was important, but to get a constant surveillance?” Revy asks.
“When you’re the closest thing to a deity we have, you tend to get that kind of attention,” David says.
Amazing the information you can get when you research someone you don't know.
David throws a stack of bills onto the bar.
“That’s for our alcohol, the information, the bar, and probably enough in there for a tip,” he says.
The bartender nods, taking the money and closing the laptop.
David turns back to Revy.
“So…I’m on my way to Montreal to talk to…well, an old friend seems wrong because I’ve never talked to him at length. Ally is incorrect because I’ve never worked with him. No way I’m gonna touch that ‘U’ word for a while. Let’s go with accomplice. He’s the closest thing to a neutral party we have here, and apparently, this guy I’m after agrees,” he says.
“Mind if I see that picture?” Revy asks.
“I do, actually. So no. Less you know, easier it is for me,” David says.
Revy turns her berettas on David.
“How about you show me that picture and I think of letting you go,” Revy says.
David stands up, walking towards the door.
Revy actually has the nerve to look annoyed. Not angry, not displeased. Annoyed.
When David reaches the door, two shots to his left and right stop him.
“I don’t think so,” Revy says.
David looks out into the street, smirking.
He then cracks his neck.
Revy notices.
“Shit, what do you—” she starts to say.
“Hey Revy, what the hell? Why didn’t you tell me the SuperSonics—” a voice says.
“Rock, wait!” Revy calls.
As a Japanese man in a white button-up shirt and black tie enters the door frame, David wraps his arm around his neck, planting his pistol against the back of his head. He does this while making sure to stand directly behind him.
“Oh, I’m a hostage now,” the Japanese man—Rock—says.
“Pretty fuckin low, David…” Revy growls.
“Yeah well, you don’t get to where I am by doing things considered 'high',” David says.
“Hey David,” Rock says.
“Hey Rock. Sorry about this,” David says.
“No, I get it. Name of the game, don’t want to be captured, anything goes,” Rock says.
“Any idea where Benny and Dutch are?” David asks.
“Still stuck at the docks. Apparently parking a boat is more of a pain in the ass than we thought.”
“Good. So that means Revy has a choice.”
“Between?” asked by both Rock and Revy.
“Capturing my ass, killing my ass for what I’m about to do…” David says.
It is then David notices Revy’s eyes. They lose their spark. It’s almost like they just turn a deep, singular color.
Remember earlier when David was trying to talk out things? About Two Hands and her eyes? And how they could lose a “sense of a soul?”
There was a whole paragraph on it and everything in an attempt to point out how important and dangerous it was.
The point is, that happened.
Basically, David pushed the ‘Rock’ button.
“…or, saving the person she gets soaked for,” David says.
A gunshot is fired. Then another. And a third. Rock’s insides are pierced. Not anywhere inherently dangerous, but dangerous enough if not left treated.
David knows this.
More importantly, Revy knows this.
Revy tries to fire off a couple shots with her berettas, but David is already out the door. With his pistol hiding in his jeans and the sounds of a groaning Rock fading away behind him, he has enough of an idea of his surroundings to know that he isn’t being followed.
That was a risky gamble.
Huh…maybe there is merit to that whole ‘heading to Las Vegas’ thing.
------------------------------------------------------------
The following was posted to the official Pure Class website by one of our most reputable journalists, who wished to remain anonymous.
A phone camera is set-up in a confined space. Specifically the confined space of an airplane bathroom.
All we can see in frame is David’s head, as well as the lights from above glaring off the screen.
“Sorry about this on short notice but I’ve got to at least deliver something. Considering I’m on a flight back to South Carolina with like…maybe an hour to spare until show time and then an hour to spare heading back out to Montreal, I’m pretty sure I made my life a hell of a lot worse.
Not that that isn’t a common thing for me, it’s just interesting to note the amount of shit I’m in.
I mean, not only am I probably going to die when I get back out at it, but I’m also thrown into another four-way for the crown I call mine, a match consisting of guys who would probably be happy to see me die.
Here we are, once again, with Tyrone Smith. The self-proclaimed ‘Crazy Boy’ who hasn’t done anything of note since the last time he was in an Underground Match. And what happened then? He lost. Decisively.
Like, not that anybody beforehand believed Tyrone was going to win, but by the time the match reached its climax, it was a foregone conclusion that Tyrone wasn’t going to walk away the winner. Honestly, that's the craziest thing about him: that he thinks he can actually win.
Which reminds us of where we are now: exactly in the same place. The only difference is that instead of Holden Ross hogging the throne and making it break under his weight, you all have a new king.
And what a king I am, eh?
While guys like Tyrone struggle to make it on the weekly Trauma, here I am, ready and willing to face all comers, both worthy…and not so worthy.
For those confused, Tyrone and another one of my opponents falls into the latter category.
You see, Tyrone is an interesting case because, as far as opponents go, it’s like wrestling against a teenager. Unless that teenager brings a knife to school, chances are you’re going to destroy their very existence until the very thought of wrestling them puts fear into their hearts.
Now I’m not saying Tyrone’s going to walk away from this match fearing David Hunter, but it’s certainly not too much of a guarantee to say he’ll be walking away with less than he walked in with.
I got dibs on his trailer. Muscles can claim his significant other, wife, girlfriend, lover, pig, or whatever he calls a companion. Razor can take his shirt. I heard he hasn’t eaten in a week.
Speaking of Razor, holy shit, welcome back. I do miss you. It was nice having a match that I know I didn’t have to worry about losing. A couple months of being humbled by a cultist and a man obsessed with sex certainly opens up your eyes.
Don’t worry Razor, I’ll make sure Muscles doesn’t wound you too bad. I’ve got a soft-side for you, so if Muscles tries to bully you into lying down for him, just remember, ‘no means no’. Also, remember where he touches you so you can reference it in court.
But on a serious note, I do hope Razor is okay. I don’t want to be the guy that crippled a defenseless man. That would not look good to therest of my kingdom…
No, the only person in this match I’m sweatin is—once again—Muscles Malone.
Hey.
You doin good?
Good. I know I probably fucked your jaw up a bit, and if you’re still worrying, yes, my ass is fine. Unlike you I don’t require it to sense joy in life. Although, I’m sure all two of the women Tyrone calls ‘family’ were sad that you wouldn’t be able to bring satisfaction to their dull lives for a couple of days.
If it makes you feel better, PCW saw fit to give you all of Christmas to think about what happened. So while you were munching on ham or pie or tuna or chocolate flavored hot dogs or whatever messed up shit you were into, I was busy wearing my crown and ruling the Underground with a slow hand.
I can’t really complain though. I did ask for this, though if only to give Muscles no excuses when I keep the throne as my own.
We’ve gone back and forth for a while, so I won’t really say much else about you. I’m sure you could come up with more pointless quips if you want to, but know that it really doesn’t matter at this point. Respect has been earned and really, I’m just worried about keeping this title.
So we’ll see what happens out there.
A couple things are are for sure though.
1. Tyrone and Razor are filler spots in an otherwise more important match.
And 2. 2019 will start off as the year that David Hunter walks in King of the Underground.
And leaves King…of the World.”
A knock is heard outside of the door. David turns off the camera.
No?
How about two?
Still no?
Well, it’s not fun. David finds it a rare sight, and certainly not a pleasant one.
He’s also not a fan of surprises. Anybody in his position in his line of work finds that surprises just ruin everything. It’s easier to know what’s ahead, and if things pop up, it not only ruins one’s mood, but it also makes things difficult.
So try to imagine how David is feeling here. He comes to Seattle, following up on that witch’s advice, trying to get some more information as to where to find the Wu he’s looking for. He comes to a bar, looking for a stiff drink after a long flight, and all of a sudden a brawl breaks out.
This’d be all fine and dandy. You’re at a bar, brawls happen. What one doesn’t and can’t prepare for is the sheer amount of potential death when facing down two berettas.
Now, a bit of context. The idea of looking at two barrels of berettas aren’t a bad thing. On the contrary, they’re actually some amazing guns. They do their job and pack a nice punch for anybody unfortunate enough to feel their sting. And hell, any Thomas, Richard, or Harold could wield them. Not very well, mind you, but the concept remains.
The real issue comes when you’re facing down twin berettas from two people in particular. They’re called the Twin Twins. Who came up with the name is a mystery, and clearly lacking in imagination, but the idea of this duo is quite simple: only two people in The Game can dual-wield a pair of pistols so well that the idea of meeting them in the field is enough to scare away a lot of potentials. David’s attested to seeing many brave souls cower in the corner once they face off with either one.
How they came to be so skilled? Experience, mostly. A bit of luck is dashed in there, but David personally chalks it down to natural skill. Experience just makes anybody better, but you don’t get that good without already being skilled.
Who are they? One of them tends to stay in the shadows, and many report him as having retired. He’s gone below the radar, so nobody can really pinpoint what happened to him. He became a big name in Roanapur mostly for mercenary work, but soon joined up with the Russians based off a past debt. Once greater pastures started calling, he took a hike and hitched a ride right out of that dimension. Nobody’s heard anything from him in a few years, but many seem to think he settled down in Remnant. He doesn’t really go by a nickname, mostly to separate as far from his equal as possible.
Speaking of which, the other half of Twin Twins is known affectionately as Two Hands. Her real name is Revy, no surname needed. She’s feared by everybody and it’s a well-established idea that if you see her on the other side of a battlefield, either you’re a guaranteed statistic or you’d better be Usain Bolt and able to run like hell. If you can run away with your life intact, than you should probably head to Las Vegas, because you’re a lucky son of a bitch.
Or, if you’re David Hunter, try to talk your way out of a fight before her eyes lose any sense of a soul. Not that she has one anyway, but at least she starts most of her fights with mercy.
“Hey Revy,” David says.
So yeah. Seattle bar. Looking for info to where to go next. Having a stiff drink. Bar brawl. Pair of berettas pointing at his face.
Not a good time.
“David Hunter. Fancy meeting you here,” Revy says.
She doesn’t have a smirk on her face. If anything, she looks disappointed. Guess this was easier than she thought…
“See, you say that, but I have a feeling you were looking for me,” David says.
“Guilty.”
Neither of them react.
It gets like that for a minute.
With a shrug, David decides to finish off his whisky. When the glass hits the bar, the ice inside crinkle around loudly.
“So…where’s the rest of your crew?” David asks.
“Benny and Dutch are trying to figure out where to park the boat. Pretty sure Rock’s trying to get some tickets for a basketball game. Turns out he saw the team here once when he was a kid,” Revy says.
“The SuperSonics haven’t been in Seattle for years…” David says.
“We’ll let him figure that out…”
David sighs, tapping on the counter a couple times. The bartender notices, and tops off his glass of whisky, not at all disturbed by the brawl that just took place, nor the pair of pistols posted at his patron.
“So I’m assuming you were hired to…what? Stop me or kill me?” David asks.
“Stop. Peacekeeper paid a pretty penny to bring you back alive. Turns out you’ve made a huge impact in The Game. You’re all everybody’s talking about,” Revy says.
“I’m flattered. All it took was making a deal with a big bad and suddenly everybody’s eyes are on you,” David says.
With a smirk, Revy lowers the berettas. She places them in her holsters before tapping on the bar.
“Two tequilas,” she says.
The bartender obliges, serving them up in a mug of all things. Revy follows this up by tipping one back and emptying it down her throat.
Grinning and shaking his head, David takes a few gulps from his own drink.
It doesn’t take too long before David’s whisky and both of Revy’s tequilas have disappeared from the outside world.
“So then David…where are you headed?” Revy asks.
“Not quite sure. I was told that somewhere in this city is information I need. Hey…barkeep,” David calls.
The bartender looks on, nodding.
David reaches into his jeans pocket. He pulls out the photo he got from the trailer.
Unfolding it, he reveals the photo to the bartender. He points to the man with black hair and a red jacket.
“You see this guy around here in the past month or so?” David asks.
The bartender nods. He then reaches below the counter, revealing an envelope. The tender hands it off to David, who nods his head in appreciation. David returns the picture to his pocket before ripping open the envelope.
He pulls out a piece of paper, revealing an address for a suburban house around Montreal.
“Oh great. Montreal. That isn’t a city I want to go to,” he says.
“What’s what not to like about it? Snow, cold, Frenchies, the Tennysons, pretty sure my cohort visits every so often,” Revy says.
“Everybody has history in Montreal. Not to mention it’s one of the ‘no-go’ cities for people. That and Tampa. Shit…I think I know the address too,” David says.
Revy takes a look, a smirk growing on her face.
“Ah shit, David. Looks like you’re going to visit ol’ Uncle Ni—”
The door to the bar suddenly bursts open. Standing in the doorway is a pair of suited men. One is wearing sunglasses and wielding a rifle while the other is content with a pistol, but has a bald head. So who wins between the two is anyone's guess.
“Holy hell, looks like somebody get here first,” the bald one says.
“To be fair, the place was fucked up before I got here,” Revy says.
This gets their attention.
“Shit,” the shades-wearer says.
He holds a hand up to his ear.
“We have Two Hands on the property. I repeat, Two Hands is on the property. I’m assuming Peacekeeper involvement,” he says.
Both men suddenly point their weapons at Revy and David.
They merely look at each other, raising their respective eyebrows.
“David Hunter, by the order of The Others, we request you surrender peacefully and allow detainment. You will be subject to interrogation, but otherwise will be unharmed. This is your only warning. As for you, Two Hands, we can do this peacefully, no need for—” the bald one is interrupted by a trio of shots piercing his partner’s body.
With no warning, the rifle hits the floor. The shades-wearer’s shades shatter, leaving two holes in his head and one in his stomach. He hits the floor, slumped against the doorway.
The bald man puts a hand to his ear.
“We have been engaged. My partner is dead. Permission to retreat,” he says.
Three more shots are heard, three more holes, two in the chest, one in the face, all to the bald man, who collapses on the floor.
Two berettas and one colt are pointed in his direction, belonging to Revy and David respectively.
“So tell me David, why shouldn’t I bring you in and claim my money?” Revy asks.
“Well, that depends Revy, were you tasked to follow me?” David asks.
“That I was,” Revy says.
“Well, you could make this sporting. Give me a head start to get to Montreal. I mean, as soon as you get there, one, both, or all of us will probably be captured anyway. I imagine once we step foot in the city limits, there will be hunters on us immediately.”
“Yeah but that involves being nice. Why the fuck should I be nice?”
“Hey barkeep, got that info on where her twin is?”
Both of them look to the bartender, who has suddenly started typing away on a laptop.
A good minute passes before the bartender turns the laptop around. A file is revealed of a man.
The name on the file reads “Diego aka Nathan Miles.”
A red button fades in and out on a map. A map of Montreal. At the top of a map, a message reads ‘last updated yesterday, 5:00 PM.’
“Wow. I knew he was important, but to get a constant surveillance?” Revy asks.
“When you’re the closest thing to a deity we have, you tend to get that kind of attention,” David says.
Amazing the information you can get when you research someone you don't know.
David throws a stack of bills onto the bar.
“That’s for our alcohol, the information, the bar, and probably enough in there for a tip,” he says.
The bartender nods, taking the money and closing the laptop.
David turns back to Revy.
“So…I’m on my way to Montreal to talk to…well, an old friend seems wrong because I’ve never talked to him at length. Ally is incorrect because I’ve never worked with him. No way I’m gonna touch that ‘U’ word for a while. Let’s go with accomplice. He’s the closest thing to a neutral party we have here, and apparently, this guy I’m after agrees,” he says.
“Mind if I see that picture?” Revy asks.
“I do, actually. So no. Less you know, easier it is for me,” David says.
Revy turns her berettas on David.
“How about you show me that picture and I think of letting you go,” Revy says.
David stands up, walking towards the door.
Revy actually has the nerve to look annoyed. Not angry, not displeased. Annoyed.
When David reaches the door, two shots to his left and right stop him.
“I don’t think so,” Revy says.
David looks out into the street, smirking.
He then cracks his neck.
Revy notices.
“Shit, what do you—” she starts to say.
“Hey Revy, what the hell? Why didn’t you tell me the SuperSonics—” a voice says.
“Rock, wait!” Revy calls.
As a Japanese man in a white button-up shirt and black tie enters the door frame, David wraps his arm around his neck, planting his pistol against the back of his head. He does this while making sure to stand directly behind him.
“Oh, I’m a hostage now,” the Japanese man—Rock—says.
“Pretty fuckin low, David…” Revy growls.
“Yeah well, you don’t get to where I am by doing things considered 'high',” David says.
“Hey David,” Rock says.
“Hey Rock. Sorry about this,” David says.
“No, I get it. Name of the game, don’t want to be captured, anything goes,” Rock says.
“Any idea where Benny and Dutch are?” David asks.
“Still stuck at the docks. Apparently parking a boat is more of a pain in the ass than we thought.”
“Good. So that means Revy has a choice.”
“Between?” asked by both Rock and Revy.
“Capturing my ass, killing my ass for what I’m about to do…” David says.
It is then David notices Revy’s eyes. They lose their spark. It’s almost like they just turn a deep, singular color.
Remember earlier when David was trying to talk out things? About Two Hands and her eyes? And how they could lose a “sense of a soul?”
There was a whole paragraph on it and everything in an attempt to point out how important and dangerous it was.
The point is, that happened.
Basically, David pushed the ‘Rock’ button.
“…or, saving the person she gets soaked for,” David says.
A gunshot is fired. Then another. And a third. Rock’s insides are pierced. Not anywhere inherently dangerous, but dangerous enough if not left treated.
David knows this.
More importantly, Revy knows this.
Revy tries to fire off a couple shots with her berettas, but David is already out the door. With his pistol hiding in his jeans and the sounds of a groaning Rock fading away behind him, he has enough of an idea of his surroundings to know that he isn’t being followed.
That was a risky gamble.
Huh…maybe there is merit to that whole ‘heading to Las Vegas’ thing.
------------------------------------------------------------
The following was posted to the official Pure Class website by one of our most reputable journalists, who wished to remain anonymous.
A phone camera is set-up in a confined space. Specifically the confined space of an airplane bathroom.
All we can see in frame is David’s head, as well as the lights from above glaring off the screen.
“Sorry about this on short notice but I’ve got to at least deliver something. Considering I’m on a flight back to South Carolina with like…maybe an hour to spare until show time and then an hour to spare heading back out to Montreal, I’m pretty sure I made my life a hell of a lot worse.
Not that that isn’t a common thing for me, it’s just interesting to note the amount of shit I’m in.
I mean, not only am I probably going to die when I get back out at it, but I’m also thrown into another four-way for the crown I call mine, a match consisting of guys who would probably be happy to see me die.
Here we are, once again, with Tyrone Smith. The self-proclaimed ‘Crazy Boy’ who hasn’t done anything of note since the last time he was in an Underground Match. And what happened then? He lost. Decisively.
Like, not that anybody beforehand believed Tyrone was going to win, but by the time the match reached its climax, it was a foregone conclusion that Tyrone wasn’t going to walk away the winner. Honestly, that's the craziest thing about him: that he thinks he can actually win.
Which reminds us of where we are now: exactly in the same place. The only difference is that instead of Holden Ross hogging the throne and making it break under his weight, you all have a new king.
And what a king I am, eh?
While guys like Tyrone struggle to make it on the weekly Trauma, here I am, ready and willing to face all comers, both worthy…and not so worthy.
For those confused, Tyrone and another one of my opponents falls into the latter category.
You see, Tyrone is an interesting case because, as far as opponents go, it’s like wrestling against a teenager. Unless that teenager brings a knife to school, chances are you’re going to destroy their very existence until the very thought of wrestling them puts fear into their hearts.
Now I’m not saying Tyrone’s going to walk away from this match fearing David Hunter, but it’s certainly not too much of a guarantee to say he’ll be walking away with less than he walked in with.
I got dibs on his trailer. Muscles can claim his significant other, wife, girlfriend, lover, pig, or whatever he calls a companion. Razor can take his shirt. I heard he hasn’t eaten in a week.
Speaking of Razor, holy shit, welcome back. I do miss you. It was nice having a match that I know I didn’t have to worry about losing. A couple months of being humbled by a cultist and a man obsessed with sex certainly opens up your eyes.
Don’t worry Razor, I’ll make sure Muscles doesn’t wound you too bad. I’ve got a soft-side for you, so if Muscles tries to bully you into lying down for him, just remember, ‘no means no’. Also, remember where he touches you so you can reference it in court.
But on a serious note, I do hope Razor is okay. I don’t want to be the guy that crippled a defenseless man. That would not look good to therest of my kingdom…
No, the only person in this match I’m sweatin is—once again—Muscles Malone.
Hey.
You doin good?
Good. I know I probably fucked your jaw up a bit, and if you’re still worrying, yes, my ass is fine. Unlike you I don’t require it to sense joy in life. Although, I’m sure all two of the women Tyrone calls ‘family’ were sad that you wouldn’t be able to bring satisfaction to their dull lives for a couple of days.
If it makes you feel better, PCW saw fit to give you all of Christmas to think about what happened. So while you were munching on ham or pie or tuna or chocolate flavored hot dogs or whatever messed up shit you were into, I was busy wearing my crown and ruling the Underground with a slow hand.
I can’t really complain though. I did ask for this, though if only to give Muscles no excuses when I keep the throne as my own.
We’ve gone back and forth for a while, so I won’t really say much else about you. I’m sure you could come up with more pointless quips if you want to, but know that it really doesn’t matter at this point. Respect has been earned and really, I’m just worried about keeping this title.
So we’ll see what happens out there.
A couple things are are for sure though.
1. Tyrone and Razor are filler spots in an otherwise more important match.
And 2. 2019 will start off as the year that David Hunter walks in King of the Underground.
And leaves King…of the World.”
A knock is heard outside of the door. David turns off the camera.
