Post by Gerard Angelo on Jul 15, 2019 20:00:12 GMT -5
Gerard Angelo stood in the dark for a while.
Until a single spotlight turned on, revealing the Hollywood Hero. He looked down at himself, seeing himself dressed in his ring gear, the PCW World Championship over his shoulder, the gold plate with his name on it gleaming in the light. Gerry has a mic in his hand. As he notices this another spot light turns on, revealing a crowd of people, if you could call them that. They were bipedal, humanoid figures, all wearing a sorted PCW merchandise. They could almost be people, except they were all faceless. Like mannequins at a department store.
This revelation didn’t seem bother The Hollywood Hero, as he brought the mic to his lips.
“I am Gerard Angelo! And I am the greatest wrestler in the world!”
The faceless mob didn’t react, but they all seemed to be staring at the man in the ring with the strap. but suddenly a disembodied voice started to laugh. It wasn’t a mirthful laugh. It was cold, unfeeling, much like death. It was a laugh of pure evil.
DO YOU REALLY BELIEVE THAT?
The voice seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was dark and grating, like the door of a tomb being sealed. It made the hairs on Gerry’s neck stand up. He looked around for the source but pulled himself together.
“Yes I do!” Gerard screamed into the microphone, the vein in his forehead bulging. “I will defend this title anywhere and everywhere, facing the best the business has to offer!”
The voice laughs again, like if two ancient glaciers rubbed against each other mockingly.
FOOL. IF YOU REALLY BELIEVED THAT THEN YOU WOULD STILL BE CHAMPION.
Gerry looks down at his shoulder again, the championship is gone. Gerard looks back up in shock when the spotlight widens around him, revealing him standing in the center of a wrestling ring. From somewhere in the darkness as bell sounds, echoing. Gerry turns his body and crochet slightly, looking around for any danger. Suddenly the ring starts to shake under the Hollywood Hero’s feet. He scurries over to hold on to the top rope, when the ring splits open, releasing a plum of fir from Hell. Gerard leans back against the ropes, watching as something spawns its way out of the hole in the ring. A demon claws its way out of the black pit, it’s face ablaze with a beard of red Hellfire. The creature gets to its hoofed feet, growling as it stares down at Gerry with eyes of bright blue fire. Its terrible maw splits open into a grin, revealing rows and rows of razor sharp teeth and fangs. The faceless entities around the ring seem to be staring more intently now.
Gerard seems to know what to do after the initial shock, and tries to not to waste even more time. He balls his right taped fist, throwing it out as hard as he can at fire-bearded demon. It’s like trying to fight underwater. The punch flies out in slow motion and the demon knocks it away easily with a clawed, black hand. Angelo scowls and tries the same thing with his left. The same result happens as his clenched hand flies out towards the creature like a gently blown bubble. Another black hand swipes Gerard’s feeble attempt aside, the demons burning, blue, eyes staring emotionless down at him. The creatures ugly lips split open again, letting out a cackle thats more along the lines of fire burning flesh to ash and cracking open black-burnt bones.
Angelo grits his teeth, letting out a guttural war-cry, as he tries running at the demon. the whole ring seems to warp as even though the thing seemed to be right in front of him, even as he ran he couldn’t get close to it. What made it even odder was the creature seemed to be getting closer, but that’s only because it was growing. Gerry skidded to a stop as he looks up at the terrible beast as it towered over him. That’s when he heard the voice again.
FOOLISH BOY. DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU HAD WHAT IT TOOK THIS TIME? WHEN EVERY OTHER ATTEMPT TO MAKE YOUR SELF SOMETHING WAS A FAILURE?
Gerard went to say something but noticed the now giant demon was gone. He spun around and came face to face with the grinning creature, it’s great beard of fire burning, all consuming. The demon threw its head forward, connecting with Gerard’s, sending the once proud champion to the mat. The disembodied voice laughs again, taunting the fallen hero.
YOU HAVE FAILED AT EVERYTHING IN YOUR LIFE.
ACTING.
LOVE.
FAMILY.
AND ONCE AGAIN YOUR FAILED AT MAKING YOURSELF SOMETHING IN YOUR ONE TRUE LOVE. YOU ARE PATHETIC.
The voice laughs again and the demon joins in as well, it’s cackle hissing like melting fat and burning meat. Gerry tries to peel himself off the mat, looking up at the demon holding up the PCW Championship, the creatures fiery mane dancing in the reflection off the face plate. The sound of many mocking laughs surround the ring, causing Angelo to look around. The crowd of faceless creatures has become a mob of demons themselves, their flaming beards like torches as they crowd around the ring, laughing at the Hollywood Hero. He finally reaches his feet, covering his ears from sniggering of the demonic flock. He turns his focus back to the original demon, who is now holding the PCW title clenched in one massive claw.
FAILURE.
The voice boomed again, louder this time, as if it was right next to Gerard’s ear.
YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF.
The demon with the beard of crimson flames reaches out and grips Gerard by the throat, lifting him up.
EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT.
Gerard sputters for air as clawed mitt of the creature crushed his wind pipe, his face turning purple as he looked up at the fiend. The burning blue flames stared down at its prey, the vermilion flames splitting open into another toothy smirk. Suddenly, it’s mouth open wide, revealing the gleaming, razor-edged, fangs. Gerard stared into the abyss as his hands fruitlessly tugged at the inhuman grip around his neck. The creatures head moved suddenly and everything went black.
—————
I shot up in bed, panting heavily in the dark. I looked over at the clock as I ran my forearm across my brow, wiping the sweat off. Ugh, it was 4:08 in the morning. Great. At this rate is was gonna be another night with less than two hours of sleep. I swung my legs over an sat on the edge of my bed, feeling the cool Egyptian cotton sheets on my bare thighs. I just sat there, rubbing my hands down my face, thinking. I’ve had the same exact dream every night for nearly a month and a half. Well, more like nightmares. Yep, ever since I lost the World title to Grimm, I’ve had the same reoccurring nightmare. It was getting to the point where I was dreading sleep at this point.
I rubbed my eyes with both hands as I stood up, walking over to my dresser. I slid a drawer open and reached inside, digging around the pile of clothes until I yanked a pair of basketball shorts out. I kicked the drawer closed with a bare foot before slipping the shorts on, pulling them up over my bare bottom. I looked at the digital clock that displayed 4:13 in glowing blue numbers. The weirdest thing about the nightmares was that I wasn’t afraid of Grimm. At least that was what I kept telling myself.
I opened the door to the master bedroom and stepped out in the hallway, the only light coming a from a few small night lights plunged into outlets along the walls. I shut the door behind be a stepped down the hall, feeling the cool wood beneath my feet. Maybe the nightmares were from constantly reflecting on what went wrong at Living a Legacy. In over a month there hasn’t been a day that went by that I haven’t thought about the title match that I lost. When your rehabbing from an injury such as a MCL sprain, aside from the moments your spending with doctors and trainers, you have a shit load of time to just think. Whether it was thinking about how Grimm tried to end my career, or my own ineptitude as a champion, all I’ve thought about was that night.
I made my way down the spiral, wooden, staircase slowly and carefully. Last thing I needed to do at this point was to slip and crack my head open like an egg. That would be quite poetic though. Slipping and tumbling down my stairs the same way I had slipped so easily from the top of the mountain in PCW. I reached the bottom of the staircase and took a step onto the wooden floor that let out a creek as I put my weight down on my left leg. I felt a slight twinge in my knee and I instinctively reached down to rub it.
I was good to go, but it was still sore. It was just something I have to deal with for the time being. Like Grimm. And/or nightmares about Grimm. Speaking of that, I’m getting the same feeling that I got from the company when I was going against Kyle. It’s like they want to stack the deck against me. I get booked to go up against not just Grimm, but with his buddy who has an equally as ugly beard. And, yes, I’m talking about Dominator. So I have to face The Black Hand, which I guess is an official unit despite the fact Dominator is clearly leering at Grimm’s strap like it’s a woman and he’s a fifty something year old construction worker. But the kicker is that they give me god damn Justin Michaels as a partner!
I haven’t really ever seen eye to eye with Stormm since I walked into the company over a year ago. Nothing against him as wrestler. I might not like the guy, but he’s one of the best to ever do it. The thing is, I’m not his biggest fan and I’m pretty sure he would rather slap my face then my hand. So two partners that don’t care for each other, going up against two of the most dominate wrestlers in recent history? Sounds like I’m going to get my ass kicked on my first night back.
I walked into my kitchen and flipped the lights on, squinting a bit as my eyes adjusted. I walked over to a cupboard, opening the dark wooden door and removed a large, white, mug. I shuffled over to my island counter and turned on my Keurig, placing the mug on the tray. I spun the K-cup holder around as I searched for what I wanted. I pulled out a french vanilla flavored coffee and stuffed it into the Keurig as I sat down and waited for the coffee to brew. Now while I’m hoping Stormm is thinking “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”, Dominator and Grimm still being chums is odd to me considering any time Dom wants he can invoke his title shot for the World title. I know Dillinger isn’t a fucking moron, so maybe he’s just trying to keep him close. Or is Grimm so cocky that he thinks he can simply handle Dominator if he decides waiting a year to become is as fucking stupid as the rest of us think.
Speaking of that, how fucking disrespectful this fucking goon is to the rest of the roster? “Oi, mate. I’ll wait a year to cash in ‘cause me and Grimm have proper beards!” The balls on that oversized sack of shit. I don’t care if he does beat my ass again, I’m gonna slap the taste of of that misplaced asshole he calls his mouth. I grab the mug as it finishes filling with the steaming dark liquid. I lift it up to my lips, blowing on it before a take a sip. I make a face before taking another sip. This whole diet change by not eating sugar or dairy was great for everything but the enjoyment of my food and drink.
This isn’t about Dominator or Stormm to me though. This is about Grimm. This about sitting in the trainers room after Living a Legacy with doctors telling me I narrowly missed a torn MCL that would’ve kept me out of the ring for months. This is about being pushed aside like trash win I lost the strap. The disrespect from Grimm and PCW. I honestly didn’t care if Grimm puts me in the hospital, ends my career, or even kills me. I am going to make the ginger fuck and everyone else respect me, even if it means the end of Gerard Angelo.
I stared into the mug, watching the steam lazily rise from it. Hell, this probably wasn’t just about Grimm. It was about me doing the same thing I always do when I win a major championship. I work my ass off to get to the top of the mountain and when I finally reach the summit, I seem to stop caring. I rest on my laurels and get cocky. Hell I hadn’t won a match since Mass Destruction, and instead of refocusing, I decided to go after the biggest baddest guy in the yard. And I got exposed.
Maybe that’s where the nightmares are coming from. Maybe I can’t deal with the fact that Grimm was just better then me. Maybe I’m bitter that Pure Class Wrestling was all to happy to have Grimm take the top spot again. Maybe I’m just obsessed with beating Grimm.
That was probably it. I need to prove that I’m not a fluke. I need to prove that I do belong in the upper echelon of Pure Class Wrestling. I need to prove that I wasn’t just a lame duck champion.
“Well, actually your dreams are from something far more sinister then your subconscious.”
I jump off the stool that I was sitting on when I hear that voice. My elbow connects with the mug as I whip around and it falls to the tiled floor shattering to pieces as the liquid it once contained spreads out on the tiles, flooding into the grout. Sitting on one of my counters is the same brunette woman that he saved from falling off a cliff a month ago, dressed in a black tee, jeans and a pair of Chuck Taylor's.
“Amanda?” I ask, my heart beating so fast I can feel my pulse in my ears. She just giggled and rubs her hands on her jeans.
“Nice to see you remember me.”
“How the hell did you get in here?!” I ask, glancing around.
She just waves her hand in the air dismissively. “I have my ways, but that’s not important.”
I starts to frantically slap at my pockets, before realizing I left my iPhone upstairs. She just giggles again.
“Calling the police isn’t something you wanna do anyways. Besides I’m here to help!”
“Help me with what?” I asked rather annoyed by the whole combination of events so far tonight. “I’m not giving you another damn interview.”
Amanda just scoffs.
“I don’t want an interview. In fact I’m not even a wrestling reporter or whatever.”
I raise an eye brow as I just look at this young woman but I just let out a frustrated sigh and rub a hand down over my face. “Then will you please explain what’s going on and why you are here?”
“Well,” She says as she hops off the counter and walks towards me, “Let’s just say that my real job is making sure that ghouls, ghosts, and oddities don’t run amok in this world.”
I give her a quizzical look as I peer down at her.
“So you’re a ghost hunter?”
“One could say that,” she says with a laugh, “but that’s not what is important. What you need to know is that you are dealing with forces of darkness more terrible then you can imagine.”
“In Pure Class Wrestling?” I ask cynically. She shrugs and nods.
“Wrestling has always been a hot bed for things that are typically unexplainable by traditional means. I just need you to be careful.”
“What is going on? And why me?!” I lift my arms and hold my palms upwards, getting even more frustrated. She just shrugs.
“I can’t tell you anything now. When I know more I will tell you. For now, you just need to trust me.”
I let out a frustrated bellow and turn away from her, running my hands through my hair.
“Listen, you either tell me what’s going on or I’m gonna call…” I turn around but stop mid sentences. She had disappeared. “…the police?”
I look around the kitchen and even check behind the island counter. Nothing. I walk over to the kitchen door way and stick my head out, staying quiet, trying to hear anything if she’s still in my home. I walk back into the kitchen and stop in my tracks. The shattered mug and spilled coffee is no longer on the floor. I rub my eyes and looks again. My eyes are drawn back to the island counter where a mug sits, steam rising from inside of it. I reach out tentatively and grip the mug’s handle. I lift it up with the care of a solider defusing a bomb. Satisfied that nothing was going to happen, I bring the mug to my nose and smell it. I raise an eyebrow but take a sip anyway. Yup. French vanilla. I let out another, but probably not my last, exasperated sigh.
Things were gonna get fucking weird.