Post by Sicko on Feb 9, 2019 7:01:07 GMT -5
It's an eerie feeling you get sometimes when you are standing alone the dark.
But, not just any kind of dark. Not the dark you get in your home when you turn out the lights. Not the kind of dark you get when you climb into bed at night and turn off your reading lamp. No... that's not dark. How can it be? You know what objects surround you in your home... there's no questioning the contents of your living room or bedroom once the lights go out, is there really? No. Instead, think of the kind of dark that engulfs you when you stand outside away from the hustle and bustle of big city life. Think of the pure shadow that flows over you, free from the neon glow of a nearby lamppost. Think of the dark where you cannot see your hand before your own eyes and your breath catches in your throat as you wonder how possible it be that you might be moments away from the edge of a killer's knife...
Yeah... that's the kind of darkness that brings on the eerie feeling.
It's dark in here. Quiet, too. It's too dark to make out even the most rudimentary shapes of the objects in the room. It's almost too dark to determine even if this is a room, except for the empty echoing sound that suddenly starts and continues to reverberate off the walls with each of the steps that someone unseen takes.
She was supposed to be filming an interview here.
But, instead she finds herself alone in the inky blackness, clutching her camera as though it were the last life preserver on the Titanic. She takes small steps through the darkness determined not to fall and hoping not to run into whatever else might be lurking out there. Instead, our intrepid interviewer carries on like some extra from the "Blair Witch Project", finally managing to recall the light on top of her camera. She clicks it on and scans the beam around himself in a wide arc. As the light strikes the surface of the wooden benches and metal lockers, it quickly becomes evident that this is a locker room. Satisfied with this precursory sweep of his surroundings, she decides to chance raising her voice, "Hello? You in here?"
Her voice echoes off the metal doors beside her and resonates off into the gloomy dark ahead of him. With no reply, she sighs and lets her camera slide forth on its shoulder strap. The light emanating from the top lamp illuminates something on the floor that must be quite unsettling to him, gauging by the startled cry that she emits.
The shimmering crimson streak that stains the floor in the middle of the beam of light does nothing to conceal its true nature... it's blood. And there seems to be quite a lot of it here in this room, trailing off into the shadows. It's a trail that our interviewer would sooner not blaze alone, she realizes as she stares wide-eyed at the smeared red droplets on the cold grey tile. And her gaze pans up, like a camera tracking, and the lighting seizes on a scene of such carnal fright that it's a gotcha moment in an indie horror movie for a second, a nightmarish abattoir frame of reds, blacks, and pale white in the light. Sitting there on a wooden bench, leaning back against the locker behind him, was the silhouetted figure of a monster plucked ripe from the nightmares of any number of schoolchildren. The thinning, threadbare fabric of a torn, shredded hoodie is draped loosely over his shoulders, like a cape. Only his cool, unfeeling eyes managed to stare out from underneath its sickening coverage. His fists have unravelled tape, hanging from them. And he has in his hands, just the simple wooden shaft. As his chest rose and fell, you could just slightly see his sinister smile. In short, he was a wreck. Part car crash, part train collision.
Hunched... coiled... tensed. He beckons our frightened doe closer... but she circles him. Trying to sit down on the bench across from him without passing too close. As she does, the kendo stick swings upward, echoing flatly as it hits against his skull. Rhythmically, the figure of Sicko raps the stick against his forehead in a slow staccato pattern.
"It's a weird feeling you get when you're being ignored, isn't it? When people overlook you and all that you've accomplished, it gives you a sensation akin to a stomach full of seething acid, doesn't it? Nobody likes to be forced to live in everyone else's shadow. Yet, so often, that's just what happens to the people that get disenfranchised by their so-called "betters"...
Unnamed interviewer girl watches, her eyes wide enough to look like a frightened raccoon. Sicko ceases the gentle strikes against his forehead and runs one of his hands across his head to wipe away the minor sweat from the heat left in the building.
"And so the world goes... Off to hell in one big hand basket. The "haves" and the "have- nots" forever divided by the barriers erected by their ignorance. But, sometimes... Sometimes, that's just not good enough for some of those being ignored. Sometimes, they demand satisfaction for all they've wrought. Sometimes, they have to take matters into their own hands to ensure that they will no longer be ignored..."
The tapping picks up again, muffled, flat reports of bamboo meeting flesh.
"Sometimes, they have to break a few bones and wound a few egos before everyone takes notice of exactly what they are capable of..."
The last sentence flows out from between his lips in a hushed tone, dripping with malicious intent. Clearly, it is a threat for the future more so than a statement of opinion concerning the past.
"I thought people would notice me, when I eliminated the unworthy and stood in the final six, as the elite, who fought through a roster and winnowed down the strong, at the rumble at Deadly Intentions, but... no."
"I thought people would notice me when I handed Kyle Shane the loss back in the day that cost him his Underground Championship. Again, no."
The tapping has grown to smacking now, deliberate and painful. If his face wasn't shrouded in darkness, there would surely be a trickle of blood from his forehead.
"Crazy Boy? Defeated. Muscles Malone? Beaten and humbled. David Hunter, Winston Wilson, Non Compos Mentis. And the list goes on and on. I knew it wasn't going to be easy, that I was going to get compared to every brainless ape with a talent for using weapons. Perhaps, I'm not making myself clear enough."
The stick swings up with a harsh, sickening crack.
And he looms out of the darkness, into her circle of light again. His moon face and sunken eyes and haunting, dangerous snarl of rotted, sharklike teeth an image that will haunt into her nightmares, as is the ugly red pitted scar forming from the repeated smacks.
It's been said that to look in this man's eyes and see the pitless void that looks back, you get a sense of why Sicko does this. As a way to fill the void of what's missing. But when that void looks back into you, many have tried, and failed, not to scream.
The unnamed interviewer girl says "...Oh, fuck this," and, well, the last image we get through the light beam is the camera clattering to the ground. There's a scuffle as it's picked up, and it illuminates, from an upshot angle, Sicko's grinning face, then it turns to show a streaked mirror.
He grins into the camera, that dead-eyed, nihilistic stare, and the abyss yawns. Staring at his present self, but reflecting on the past... he is quiet, contemplative.
"When you look in the mirror, Crazy Boy… what do you see? Do you think this is a FEUD? Do you revel in the fact that you and I were paired against Seromine and Grimm, so that I'm forced to tag in with you? When I look at you, Tyrone, I see something else. I see a scared little boy, squealing for his big titted mommy... and every song by you remains the same. About you waking up, about you realizing your potential. And still, The name–dropping. The arrogance. The thoughts of you stamping your claim and trying to get in line for My Underground championship. that's right, MY championship, get used to me saying that. That goads you on, your once dull and dim eyes alight with joy when you salivate, thinking that it's only a few... more... steps, until you get to that level and claim the title."
The shadows ripple over his face as it twists in the light of the camera. The blood drips down from his eye.
"Except, of course, the step in front of you, isn't the breezy walk in the park you're getting when I seemingly have to do all the fighting for your ineffectual ass against our two foes, but in your little world, you can overlook that. When you imagine holding the belt, Tyrone... does it ease your weary mind to hold it so tightly? Would it comfort you to kiss that unfeeling metal?"
In an ironic, negative, rejecting retort, the kendo stick SWINGS up against his skull again, breaking. Like he intends to break these dreams. Rivulets of blood are flowing more freely now, but he does not sell the pain. He just stares, his unsettling eyes watching, staring into, piercing.
"Those are your hopes. All we ever But, what are your fears? Are you scared of growing old? Are you scared of dying? No, you suffer from no ordinary or common fear like these. The only thing you fear is a one-on-one confrontation with me, at the moment. Look at our track records. Now you look at me, straight in your sights, and what do you see? What is it that's making the yellow stream flow from that teeny tiny itty bitty thing you call a johnson when you realize that soon, tag matches and Love Hurts will be over with, and any road to the Underground championship runs through the Demon Clown, the most violent sonofabitch in this company- hell WRESTLING, today... facts. That's what's frightening you, the cold, hard facts. You sensing a pattern emerging here, sport? It doesn't matter what obstacle is put in front of me, it is not going to stop me. I may not have been here as long as Grimm, or as Seromine, but my legacy far outlasts all of theirs. I will NOT let that legacy go downplayed, no-sold, forgotten. I will not LET Seromine, and Grimm, and any idiot stupid enough to be partnered with EITHER of them, Black Hands, Followers, put their quarrels in front of me getting what I'm coming for. But you know all of this, I know all of this, every single person watching this match knows I'm going to cripple my opposition, so maybe the more interesting tack would be to give you a benefit of the doubt. Contradict conventional wisdom. Play the good partner. Stand on the sidelines and hold my hand out politely and demurely for a tag."
With disgust, a scoffing, nightmarish bark of ugly laughter, he lets the broken kendo stick fall to the ground, discarded. There's the answer.
"...Yeah, I wouldn't buy that, either. Your best bet, Tyrone, shut the fuck up and mince your pissbaby way into the ring, stand in front of me and drop to your knees in terrified awe."
He wipes the blood from the deeply unsettling gash in his forehead away, looking at it in his hand.
"But, I don’t blame you for being scared… I even scare myself sometimes. You see, most people know the difference between right and wrong or good and bad. But, to me, there is no difference. It all comes down to whatever you have to do to succeed and thrive. If it comes at the personal expense of others, who cares? So keep praying that I’ll just go away… like a toddler trying to ward off the boogeyman and the other things that go “bump” in the night. Be afraid, Don. Because you are going to get some relevance out of this. As people whisper among themselves, as you become an example. I told you all, I came to play, and I meant it. I'm coming straight for the Underground championship. I do not intend to "FEUD" with you, Tyrone, Crazy Boy, Smith, I do not intend to give you a showcase match at Mass Destruction, I do not intend to be a solid partner and hold your hand while we tackle Seromine and Grimm together. I intend to be as a living, breathing embodiment of the Khmer Rouge every single time I am put into the ring. I intend to be the hound of hell they were always afraid to let off it it's leash. So cower in fear, but know that when people talk about Trauma from this point forward it is as a response to what I do to anyone standing in the ring, on both sides, on Trauma. I will NOT be forgotten... this time. The countdown begins now. Tick... tick... tick..."
Repeating these ominous words to himself, he walks off, leaving her camera behind, and whoever that girl was, she plays no more interest in his thoughts than would partnering with Crazy Boy. He's left the frame of the camera, left the area entirely, and the camera with it's flash still illuminating a small circle shows only the corrugated cork of the ceiling in the dressing room, but you can still hear him faintly repeating "tick... tick... tick..." to himself, and you can't see it, but you know that smile never leaves his face.
But, not just any kind of dark. Not the dark you get in your home when you turn out the lights. Not the kind of dark you get when you climb into bed at night and turn off your reading lamp. No... that's not dark. How can it be? You know what objects surround you in your home... there's no questioning the contents of your living room or bedroom once the lights go out, is there really? No. Instead, think of the kind of dark that engulfs you when you stand outside away from the hustle and bustle of big city life. Think of the pure shadow that flows over you, free from the neon glow of a nearby lamppost. Think of the dark where you cannot see your hand before your own eyes and your breath catches in your throat as you wonder how possible it be that you might be moments away from the edge of a killer's knife...
Yeah... that's the kind of darkness that brings on the eerie feeling.
It's dark in here. Quiet, too. It's too dark to make out even the most rudimentary shapes of the objects in the room. It's almost too dark to determine even if this is a room, except for the empty echoing sound that suddenly starts and continues to reverberate off the walls with each of the steps that someone unseen takes.
She was supposed to be filming an interview here.
But, instead she finds herself alone in the inky blackness, clutching her camera as though it were the last life preserver on the Titanic. She takes small steps through the darkness determined not to fall and hoping not to run into whatever else might be lurking out there. Instead, our intrepid interviewer carries on like some extra from the "Blair Witch Project", finally managing to recall the light on top of her camera. She clicks it on and scans the beam around himself in a wide arc. As the light strikes the surface of the wooden benches and metal lockers, it quickly becomes evident that this is a locker room. Satisfied with this precursory sweep of his surroundings, she decides to chance raising her voice, "Hello? You in here?"
Her voice echoes off the metal doors beside her and resonates off into the gloomy dark ahead of him. With no reply, she sighs and lets her camera slide forth on its shoulder strap. The light emanating from the top lamp illuminates something on the floor that must be quite unsettling to him, gauging by the startled cry that she emits.
The shimmering crimson streak that stains the floor in the middle of the beam of light does nothing to conceal its true nature... it's blood. And there seems to be quite a lot of it here in this room, trailing off into the shadows. It's a trail that our interviewer would sooner not blaze alone, she realizes as she stares wide-eyed at the smeared red droplets on the cold grey tile. And her gaze pans up, like a camera tracking, and the lighting seizes on a scene of such carnal fright that it's a gotcha moment in an indie horror movie for a second, a nightmarish abattoir frame of reds, blacks, and pale white in the light. Sitting there on a wooden bench, leaning back against the locker behind him, was the silhouetted figure of a monster plucked ripe from the nightmares of any number of schoolchildren. The thinning, threadbare fabric of a torn, shredded hoodie is draped loosely over his shoulders, like a cape. Only his cool, unfeeling eyes managed to stare out from underneath its sickening coverage. His fists have unravelled tape, hanging from them. And he has in his hands, just the simple wooden shaft. As his chest rose and fell, you could just slightly see his sinister smile. In short, he was a wreck. Part car crash, part train collision.
Hunched... coiled... tensed. He beckons our frightened doe closer... but she circles him. Trying to sit down on the bench across from him without passing too close. As she does, the kendo stick swings upward, echoing flatly as it hits against his skull. Rhythmically, the figure of Sicko raps the stick against his forehead in a slow staccato pattern.
"It's a weird feeling you get when you're being ignored, isn't it? When people overlook you and all that you've accomplished, it gives you a sensation akin to a stomach full of seething acid, doesn't it? Nobody likes to be forced to live in everyone else's shadow. Yet, so often, that's just what happens to the people that get disenfranchised by their so-called "betters"...
Unnamed interviewer girl watches, her eyes wide enough to look like a frightened raccoon. Sicko ceases the gentle strikes against his forehead and runs one of his hands across his head to wipe away the minor sweat from the heat left in the building.
"And so the world goes... Off to hell in one big hand basket. The "haves" and the "have- nots" forever divided by the barriers erected by their ignorance. But, sometimes... Sometimes, that's just not good enough for some of those being ignored. Sometimes, they demand satisfaction for all they've wrought. Sometimes, they have to take matters into their own hands to ensure that they will no longer be ignored..."
The tapping picks up again, muffled, flat reports of bamboo meeting flesh.
"Sometimes, they have to break a few bones and wound a few egos before everyone takes notice of exactly what they are capable of..."
The last sentence flows out from between his lips in a hushed tone, dripping with malicious intent. Clearly, it is a threat for the future more so than a statement of opinion concerning the past.
"I thought people would notice me, when I eliminated the unworthy and stood in the final six, as the elite, who fought through a roster and winnowed down the strong, at the rumble at Deadly Intentions, but... no."
"I thought people would notice me when I handed Kyle Shane the loss back in the day that cost him his Underground Championship. Again, no."
The tapping has grown to smacking now, deliberate and painful. If his face wasn't shrouded in darkness, there would surely be a trickle of blood from his forehead.
"Crazy Boy? Defeated. Muscles Malone? Beaten and humbled. David Hunter, Winston Wilson, Non Compos Mentis. And the list goes on and on. I knew it wasn't going to be easy, that I was going to get compared to every brainless ape with a talent for using weapons. Perhaps, I'm not making myself clear enough."
The stick swings up with a harsh, sickening crack.
And he looms out of the darkness, into her circle of light again. His moon face and sunken eyes and haunting, dangerous snarl of rotted, sharklike teeth an image that will haunt into her nightmares, as is the ugly red pitted scar forming from the repeated smacks.
It's been said that to look in this man's eyes and see the pitless void that looks back, you get a sense of why Sicko does this. As a way to fill the void of what's missing. But when that void looks back into you, many have tried, and failed, not to scream.
The unnamed interviewer girl says "...Oh, fuck this," and, well, the last image we get through the light beam is the camera clattering to the ground. There's a scuffle as it's picked up, and it illuminates, from an upshot angle, Sicko's grinning face, then it turns to show a streaked mirror.
He grins into the camera, that dead-eyed, nihilistic stare, and the abyss yawns. Staring at his present self, but reflecting on the past... he is quiet, contemplative.
"When you look in the mirror, Crazy Boy… what do you see? Do you think this is a FEUD? Do you revel in the fact that you and I were paired against Seromine and Grimm, so that I'm forced to tag in with you? When I look at you, Tyrone, I see something else. I see a scared little boy, squealing for his big titted mommy... and every song by you remains the same. About you waking up, about you realizing your potential. And still, The name–dropping. The arrogance. The thoughts of you stamping your claim and trying to get in line for My Underground championship. that's right, MY championship, get used to me saying that. That goads you on, your once dull and dim eyes alight with joy when you salivate, thinking that it's only a few... more... steps, until you get to that level and claim the title."
The shadows ripple over his face as it twists in the light of the camera. The blood drips down from his eye.
"Except, of course, the step in front of you, isn't the breezy walk in the park you're getting when I seemingly have to do all the fighting for your ineffectual ass against our two foes, but in your little world, you can overlook that. When you imagine holding the belt, Tyrone... does it ease your weary mind to hold it so tightly? Would it comfort you to kiss that unfeeling metal?"
In an ironic, negative, rejecting retort, the kendo stick SWINGS up against his skull again, breaking. Like he intends to break these dreams. Rivulets of blood are flowing more freely now, but he does not sell the pain. He just stares, his unsettling eyes watching, staring into, piercing.
"Those are your hopes. All we ever But, what are your fears? Are you scared of growing old? Are you scared of dying? No, you suffer from no ordinary or common fear like these. The only thing you fear is a one-on-one confrontation with me, at the moment. Look at our track records. Now you look at me, straight in your sights, and what do you see? What is it that's making the yellow stream flow from that teeny tiny itty bitty thing you call a johnson when you realize that soon, tag matches and Love Hurts will be over with, and any road to the Underground championship runs through the Demon Clown, the most violent sonofabitch in this company- hell WRESTLING, today... facts. That's what's frightening you, the cold, hard facts. You sensing a pattern emerging here, sport? It doesn't matter what obstacle is put in front of me, it is not going to stop me. I may not have been here as long as Grimm, or as Seromine, but my legacy far outlasts all of theirs. I will NOT let that legacy go downplayed, no-sold, forgotten. I will not LET Seromine, and Grimm, and any idiot stupid enough to be partnered with EITHER of them, Black Hands, Followers, put their quarrels in front of me getting what I'm coming for. But you know all of this, I know all of this, every single person watching this match knows I'm going to cripple my opposition, so maybe the more interesting tack would be to give you a benefit of the doubt. Contradict conventional wisdom. Play the good partner. Stand on the sidelines and hold my hand out politely and demurely for a tag."
With disgust, a scoffing, nightmarish bark of ugly laughter, he lets the broken kendo stick fall to the ground, discarded. There's the answer.
"...Yeah, I wouldn't buy that, either. Your best bet, Tyrone, shut the fuck up and mince your pissbaby way into the ring, stand in front of me and drop to your knees in terrified awe."
He wipes the blood from the deeply unsettling gash in his forehead away, looking at it in his hand.
"But, I don’t blame you for being scared… I even scare myself sometimes. You see, most people know the difference between right and wrong or good and bad. But, to me, there is no difference. It all comes down to whatever you have to do to succeed and thrive. If it comes at the personal expense of others, who cares? So keep praying that I’ll just go away… like a toddler trying to ward off the boogeyman and the other things that go “bump” in the night. Be afraid, Don. Because you are going to get some relevance out of this. As people whisper among themselves, as you become an example. I told you all, I came to play, and I meant it. I'm coming straight for the Underground championship. I do not intend to "FEUD" with you, Tyrone, Crazy Boy, Smith, I do not intend to give you a showcase match at Mass Destruction, I do not intend to be a solid partner and hold your hand while we tackle Seromine and Grimm together. I intend to be as a living, breathing embodiment of the Khmer Rouge every single time I am put into the ring. I intend to be the hound of hell they were always afraid to let off it it's leash. So cower in fear, but know that when people talk about Trauma from this point forward it is as a response to what I do to anyone standing in the ring, on both sides, on Trauma. I will NOT be forgotten... this time. The countdown begins now. Tick... tick... tick..."
Repeating these ominous words to himself, he walks off, leaving her camera behind, and whoever that girl was, she plays no more interest in his thoughts than would partnering with Crazy Boy. He's left the frame of the camera, left the area entirely, and the camera with it's flash still illuminating a small circle shows only the corrugated cork of the ceiling in the dressing room, but you can still hear him faintly repeating "tick... tick... tick..." to himself, and you can't see it, but you know that smile never leaves his face.
