Post by Sicko on Feb 25, 2019 3:56:55 GMT -5
The scene, the dreamtime. We've been here before, of course. Ephrain has walked this path numerous times. Shaped by the subconscious, this is whatever his mind wants it to be. Now, though, it's decidedly different. It has that slightly wavery, unreal feeling as before, only in this time, Ephrain is walking through a mist. He gropes through the mist, hands splayed out in front of him, and finally it thins and flattens out into a low lying fog. Still, there's nothing around him but blackness. Featureless dark and formless shape. Ephrain keeps walking, and he comes up on a large steel gate, sort of like a cemetery gate with the large pointed barbs at the top. The gate extends like a wall as far as the eye can see, and in the middle of it are a large pair of swinging doors, painted black, with a large arching sign over it reading "Welcome to the upper echelon". Ephrain grabs the bars of the door and yanks, trying to pull it open. No avail. No movement whatsoever. "Hm," he muses, "Even in my dreams, I'm locked out of joining the party. The subconscious sucks."
"Doesn't it, now."
Ephrain turns, and with the abrupt jump-cut typical of dreams, he's somewhere else. It's a bar. Ephrain's muscles immediately tense, but he looks around, affirming he is indeed standing in front of a bar, the type of dive you'd usually hit for a quick draft, some pretzels and a game of darts on a Friday night. It's deserted now, of course, past closing time perhaps. The only light comes from above the bar, and the neon advertisement signs adorning the walls. Ephrain isn't surprised at all to see himself tending the bar. To be more accurate, it's a darker version of him, the Clown, the demonic, malicious and dark predator who's been on the verge of breaking through into something primal. And it's there that Ephrain realizes the symbolism of the dreamtime. He is being confronted by the thing that works his body like a puppet. Smeared, caked greasepain covers his face, but from here he can see the red eyes, the sharp teeth. He's wearing a buttoned white dress shirt typical of an old time ice cream parlor vendor passing out malts and egg creams, but over that, an apron. He's wiping the bar down with a rag like it's proprietor.
Coming face to face with his doppelganger, Ephrain looks him in the eye. The clown simply smiles devilishly. And the aura permeating the places lets Ephrain know all he needs to. He is in the court of his benefactor, Moloch. Elder god, gourmand of pain and suffering. The teeth bare as Moloch-puppet Ephrain smiles, the words coming out snake oily and dirty. "You know you can never really be rid of me. I am you. And I own you, too."
He doesn't answer back, just squeezes his big frame onto a bar stool. The him painted like Sicko continues, as the dark bar shifts around them. "I told you before, that I can bring you things that escape you even now, as you are. You want respect but you want to go about it the right way, earning it, instead of taking it. I'm a part of you, the part that derives it's pleasure in less... overt ways as you showcased in beating down Crazy Boy, I'm the part of you that finds much more of a challenge... in bending people to your whim, in subtler ways."
The lingering shade of what's left of his Ephrain side nods his head, in consideration.
"Your friend Jason, now... there was a vessel I found worth in. He used to speak often about being a teacher, using your sharp barbs and philosophical metaphors to educate them, for the masses to think for themselves."
"Why did you bring me into the dreamtime to discuss Jason?"
The shade's smirk is cagey, holding cards back. "I didn't Ephrain. You wound me... I came to talk about what I can do for you... and what some others would kill to have a hand in."
He leans his elbow against the bar, hunching in, jabbing a finger carelessly, angrily at the old one who could have his mind broken down into madness. "No, you're hiding something."
The painted lips pucker in a moue that says, nonchalantly, "Who knows, maybe you're right," as the shade shrugs, polishes a glass with the same rag it was wiping down the bar. "I'm just trying to make a point, Ephrain. You won't impress anyone by cracking your own head with a kendo stick over and over. Like the impetus behind that was, what, to make everyone relive 2001? A more cerebral, measured approach to being remembered is what people look for now."
"Right. Well, the problem I have with that philosophy is status wise, I'm not easily topped in active competition. If it was a popularity contest, I would not win. With men like Gerard Angelo and Dominator are what's in right now, I'm just a blip on the radar screen. Look at the promo I did when I was in the triple threat. It was intelligent, well thought out and different from anything we've seen out of me or others. And before, when I made my case for why I should be the one that faces David Hunter. I did that by decimating Hunter, Muscles and all the rest, and yet no attention was paid to me afterwards. Pure Class Wrestling officials have given every effort to keep me away from an Underground Title shot, while people are saying Hunter is doing the best work of his career instead of more of the same. By trying to gain the popular vote, I'd lose and I know that."
The avatar of the dark god sighs wearily, disappointed by the pessimism, and asks, "So what's left?"
He spreads his hands out, holding out for answers, "You tell me."
His shade responds, an ironic quirk on that painted, sharp-toothed mouth, "Thus we come to the crux of our dilemma. You tried to preach the truth about who you really are and what you're capable of over safe lies about you being a lapdog or an extreme monster throwback, but people don't want to hear truth, they want their own point of view parroted back at them. People won't listen to you, until you make them listen. People won't see your point of view, won't pull their heads out of their own ass until you make them see. And you have to realize, the only thing holding you back from being able to do that. The only person holding you back."
Ephrain looks up, interest piqued. "And that is?"
As if in answer, the bartender produces a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass. He slams the shot on the counter top. "Drink."
Ephrain looks down at the shot. He was never a drinker, back before the fire, before Tia and Esme, Tia didn't like getting drunk, and he - Well. He never was a drinker. "You do realize this goes against every principle I had when I was alive."
Those sharp teeth show, it's a smile that is not mirthful, is in fact a little bit insulting. "You have been your own worst enemy all along."
He gestures right in Ephrain's face, pointing an accusing finger. "Look at where you stand now. In limbo, literally, figuratively, in this place we inhabit now... limbo. Neither dead nor alive. Neither respected nor feared. People view you with contempt because you are a man that they know is denying himself. You took the reigns and set about making yourself "feared" and coming "home" to the Underground Title. You held back. You cut your losses at the last second. Management sees, and they have levied the appropriate punishment. Limbo. Your choice is clear. You can keep spinning your wheels... or you can submit, and let me take the wheel more often.
"So you want me to give all autonomy to you? And that's how I'll prove I'm not a bloodthirsty hardcore wannabe?"
The shade's aura glows brighter, like Moloch is bristling with hellfire. He'd like to think of the eyes in that inky black soup squinting with rage. "You're not listening, and that makes me angry. I could leave you as a hollowed out cinder. But without me, this would just be a corpse anyway... NO. Shut up. And listen to me. Those old, psychological, demented, sadistic games that were part and parcel of being a made man in the Inner Circle... those methods of breaking men, that's what we need. You showed me you were capable of it with Crazy Boy... and that's what's going to make you the most valuable, strongest asset of them all."
"Fine, so tell me, what to do."
"Look at those in your way. Razor Blade, Muscles Malone... David Hunter. Posers, wannabes, little boys trying to live up to a legacy. You are the best elements of each and every one of them in one package, with none of the weaknesses that hold them back, and you don't even know it, do you? You don't need to prove yourself, because you're already proven. You don't need or want controversy, or to get people to believe you're a real killer, because it is known. Take a walk down the street in the dreamtime, into your subconscious mind. It's not just me in here, Ephrain. We... are legion.
And here's the thing, as he swivels around on his bar chair, he can feel them out there. There are no walls, but he can see eyes on every side of him. His eyes, every one. Each and every one of them a facet of his mind, and yet in their unseen gazes he can see dark, depraved, intense emotions that makes, even him, shy away. He turns back, to face "himself", who regards him with amusement.
"A walk through your own mind will take you across all their pathetic worlds. The killer. The sadist. The thug. You are, in every sense, everything each other man in the Underground division wishes he could be."
Ephrain says nothing, drinking it in. He has his thick fingers on the shot glass, tracing a line around the rim, but he does not drink.
The dark avatar's painted face pinches. "The simple art of manipulating people starts with asking yourself, what exactly it is they want and how you can fool them into giving up of themselves in order to get it, or even fuck themselves over because they think they have a chance."
He sets another shot glass on the bar, and pours them both a round.
Ephrain looks up. "So Crazy Boy? What does he want?"
A chilling, sickening titter arises from the dark clown. "He is the easiest one of them all. He is transparent. He wants to prove himself, not knowing that that in itself is a never ending quest, and he was doomed from the start. He is interchangeable. He is hollow. He is a shell, a puppet. He can never get himself back on track because he hs slid so far down through his own carelessness and lack of attention to his career that pushing his way uphill is a Sisyphean task. It is this that I wanted to prevent from you. Just beating Crazy Boy, will not finish the job. Tyrone is emblematic of the problem... because in a sense the two of you are opposite sides of the same coin. You're both trying to create names from whole cloth. To try and escape the gravity pull of who you are associated with."
And Ephrain looks bitterly into the drink on the bar. "You make it sound so easy."
"Drink."
"Drink... and worry no more about the morality of your actions."
Ephrain lifts the shot glass up off the counter.
"Remember who you are. In my dark, capable hands... you are a Worldbreaker. They just want to find a way to bomb everything and bring everything down to burning ruins. So burn with me, Ephrain."
"World breaker, Game Changer... it just depends on who's writing the history books, doesn't it."
Those sharp teeth come out full force, the smile peels out so wide that it seems like they'll meet somewhere at the back, and the top layer of the shot sets aflame. Ephrain downs it quickly.
"You've taken the first step."
Ephrain smirks, "We'll see. But first, a little curiousity, Moloch. If I may. Earlier, when you were hinting around about Jason. I sensed some pointedness in your line of questioning, and your reminiscing about my time as one of the Inner Circle."
The shade doesn't seem to want to answer the question. It squirms, turning away. But at length, it can't tell a lie about this.
"Because he's coming back, Ephrain."
"I just want you prepared... at your best, and your sharpest mentally... because Jason Twisted is back in town, and you and me are going to do something about that."
The two doppelgangers say nothing, as they sit across the astral bar, staring at each other.
"Doesn't it, now."
Ephrain turns, and with the abrupt jump-cut typical of dreams, he's somewhere else. It's a bar. Ephrain's muscles immediately tense, but he looks around, affirming he is indeed standing in front of a bar, the type of dive you'd usually hit for a quick draft, some pretzels and a game of darts on a Friday night. It's deserted now, of course, past closing time perhaps. The only light comes from above the bar, and the neon advertisement signs adorning the walls. Ephrain isn't surprised at all to see himself tending the bar. To be more accurate, it's a darker version of him, the Clown, the demonic, malicious and dark predator who's been on the verge of breaking through into something primal. And it's there that Ephrain realizes the symbolism of the dreamtime. He is being confronted by the thing that works his body like a puppet. Smeared, caked greasepain covers his face, but from here he can see the red eyes, the sharp teeth. He's wearing a buttoned white dress shirt typical of an old time ice cream parlor vendor passing out malts and egg creams, but over that, an apron. He's wiping the bar down with a rag like it's proprietor.
Coming face to face with his doppelganger, Ephrain looks him in the eye. The clown simply smiles devilishly. And the aura permeating the places lets Ephrain know all he needs to. He is in the court of his benefactor, Moloch. Elder god, gourmand of pain and suffering. The teeth bare as Moloch-puppet Ephrain smiles, the words coming out snake oily and dirty. "You know you can never really be rid of me. I am you. And I own you, too."
He doesn't answer back, just squeezes his big frame onto a bar stool. The him painted like Sicko continues, as the dark bar shifts around them. "I told you before, that I can bring you things that escape you even now, as you are. You want respect but you want to go about it the right way, earning it, instead of taking it. I'm a part of you, the part that derives it's pleasure in less... overt ways as you showcased in beating down Crazy Boy, I'm the part of you that finds much more of a challenge... in bending people to your whim, in subtler ways."
The lingering shade of what's left of his Ephrain side nods his head, in consideration.
"Your friend Jason, now... there was a vessel I found worth in. He used to speak often about being a teacher, using your sharp barbs and philosophical metaphors to educate them, for the masses to think for themselves."
"Why did you bring me into the dreamtime to discuss Jason?"
The shade's smirk is cagey, holding cards back. "I didn't Ephrain. You wound me... I came to talk about what I can do for you... and what some others would kill to have a hand in."
He leans his elbow against the bar, hunching in, jabbing a finger carelessly, angrily at the old one who could have his mind broken down into madness. "No, you're hiding something."
The painted lips pucker in a moue that says, nonchalantly, "Who knows, maybe you're right," as the shade shrugs, polishes a glass with the same rag it was wiping down the bar. "I'm just trying to make a point, Ephrain. You won't impress anyone by cracking your own head with a kendo stick over and over. Like the impetus behind that was, what, to make everyone relive 2001? A more cerebral, measured approach to being remembered is what people look for now."
"Right. Well, the problem I have with that philosophy is status wise, I'm not easily topped in active competition. If it was a popularity contest, I would not win. With men like Gerard Angelo and Dominator are what's in right now, I'm just a blip on the radar screen. Look at the promo I did when I was in the triple threat. It was intelligent, well thought out and different from anything we've seen out of me or others. And before, when I made my case for why I should be the one that faces David Hunter. I did that by decimating Hunter, Muscles and all the rest, and yet no attention was paid to me afterwards. Pure Class Wrestling officials have given every effort to keep me away from an Underground Title shot, while people are saying Hunter is doing the best work of his career instead of more of the same. By trying to gain the popular vote, I'd lose and I know that."
The avatar of the dark god sighs wearily, disappointed by the pessimism, and asks, "So what's left?"
He spreads his hands out, holding out for answers, "You tell me."
His shade responds, an ironic quirk on that painted, sharp-toothed mouth, "Thus we come to the crux of our dilemma. You tried to preach the truth about who you really are and what you're capable of over safe lies about you being a lapdog or an extreme monster throwback, but people don't want to hear truth, they want their own point of view parroted back at them. People won't listen to you, until you make them listen. People won't see your point of view, won't pull their heads out of their own ass until you make them see. And you have to realize, the only thing holding you back from being able to do that. The only person holding you back."
Ephrain looks up, interest piqued. "And that is?"
As if in answer, the bartender produces a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass. He slams the shot on the counter top. "Drink."
Ephrain looks down at the shot. He was never a drinker, back before the fire, before Tia and Esme, Tia didn't like getting drunk, and he - Well. He never was a drinker. "You do realize this goes against every principle I had when I was alive."
Those sharp teeth show, it's a smile that is not mirthful, is in fact a little bit insulting. "You have been your own worst enemy all along."
He gestures right in Ephrain's face, pointing an accusing finger. "Look at where you stand now. In limbo, literally, figuratively, in this place we inhabit now... limbo. Neither dead nor alive. Neither respected nor feared. People view you with contempt because you are a man that they know is denying himself. You took the reigns and set about making yourself "feared" and coming "home" to the Underground Title. You held back. You cut your losses at the last second. Management sees, and they have levied the appropriate punishment. Limbo. Your choice is clear. You can keep spinning your wheels... or you can submit, and let me take the wheel more often.
"So you want me to give all autonomy to you? And that's how I'll prove I'm not a bloodthirsty hardcore wannabe?"
The shade's aura glows brighter, like Moloch is bristling with hellfire. He'd like to think of the eyes in that inky black soup squinting with rage. "You're not listening, and that makes me angry. I could leave you as a hollowed out cinder. But without me, this would just be a corpse anyway... NO. Shut up. And listen to me. Those old, psychological, demented, sadistic games that were part and parcel of being a made man in the Inner Circle... those methods of breaking men, that's what we need. You showed me you were capable of it with Crazy Boy... and that's what's going to make you the most valuable, strongest asset of them all."
"Fine, so tell me, what to do."
"Look at those in your way. Razor Blade, Muscles Malone... David Hunter. Posers, wannabes, little boys trying to live up to a legacy. You are the best elements of each and every one of them in one package, with none of the weaknesses that hold them back, and you don't even know it, do you? You don't need to prove yourself, because you're already proven. You don't need or want controversy, or to get people to believe you're a real killer, because it is known. Take a walk down the street in the dreamtime, into your subconscious mind. It's not just me in here, Ephrain. We... are legion.
And here's the thing, as he swivels around on his bar chair, he can feel them out there. There are no walls, but he can see eyes on every side of him. His eyes, every one. Each and every one of them a facet of his mind, and yet in their unseen gazes he can see dark, depraved, intense emotions that makes, even him, shy away. He turns back, to face "himself", who regards him with amusement.
"A walk through your own mind will take you across all their pathetic worlds. The killer. The sadist. The thug. You are, in every sense, everything each other man in the Underground division wishes he could be."
Ephrain says nothing, drinking it in. He has his thick fingers on the shot glass, tracing a line around the rim, but he does not drink.
The dark avatar's painted face pinches. "The simple art of manipulating people starts with asking yourself, what exactly it is they want and how you can fool them into giving up of themselves in order to get it, or even fuck themselves over because they think they have a chance."
He sets another shot glass on the bar, and pours them both a round.
Ephrain looks up. "So Crazy Boy? What does he want?"
A chilling, sickening titter arises from the dark clown. "He is the easiest one of them all. He is transparent. He wants to prove himself, not knowing that that in itself is a never ending quest, and he was doomed from the start. He is interchangeable. He is hollow. He is a shell, a puppet. He can never get himself back on track because he hs slid so far down through his own carelessness and lack of attention to his career that pushing his way uphill is a Sisyphean task. It is this that I wanted to prevent from you. Just beating Crazy Boy, will not finish the job. Tyrone is emblematic of the problem... because in a sense the two of you are opposite sides of the same coin. You're both trying to create names from whole cloth. To try and escape the gravity pull of who you are associated with."
And Ephrain looks bitterly into the drink on the bar. "You make it sound so easy."
"Drink."
"Drink... and worry no more about the morality of your actions."
Ephrain lifts the shot glass up off the counter.
"Remember who you are. In my dark, capable hands... you are a Worldbreaker. They just want to find a way to bomb everything and bring everything down to burning ruins. So burn with me, Ephrain."
"World breaker, Game Changer... it just depends on who's writing the history books, doesn't it."
Those sharp teeth come out full force, the smile peels out so wide that it seems like they'll meet somewhere at the back, and the top layer of the shot sets aflame. Ephrain downs it quickly.
"You've taken the first step."
Ephrain smirks, "We'll see. But first, a little curiousity, Moloch. If I may. Earlier, when you were hinting around about Jason. I sensed some pointedness in your line of questioning, and your reminiscing about my time as one of the Inner Circle."
The shade doesn't seem to want to answer the question. It squirms, turning away. But at length, it can't tell a lie about this.
"Because he's coming back, Ephrain."
"I just want you prepared... at your best, and your sharpest mentally... because Jason Twisted is back in town, and you and me are going to do something about that."
The two doppelgangers say nothing, as they sit across the astral bar, staring at each other.
