Post by Gerard Angelo on Feb 9, 2021 21:25:25 GMT -5
Ba’lal sat in the dark, drumming the fingers of the stolen vessel he now owned on the arm of the leather couch, contemplating his next move. He had what he wanted. It should be time to move onto the next step of his plan. Yet, it didn’t feel right. It was almost as if he had some unfinished business to attend to.
But what?
He thought to himself before the vision of wrestling appeared in his head. Ba’lal made a face even as he had the thought. Wrestling was what this body did before it was claimed for a high purpose. It should be done with it’s old life as it was now in the possession of the Black King. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that finishing out this body’s previous mission is what he should do. Was wrestling so ingrained in his new vessel that it was even affecting him? Still, he was a god. Mortal wants and needs had little appeal to him. Material desires, desires of the flesh, they meant nothing to the god of chaos, let alone something as insignificant to him as the championship of a wrestling company.
Even as he said this, he felt something in the pit of his stomach. It was an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long while. Desire. He felt his body’s desire to win the Pure Class Wrestling Championship. It was burning, an all consuming flame like the depths of Hell.
Ba’lal frowned. He had planned on simply moving on with his plan. Taking his vessel and leaving without a trace before reappearing as the conqueror he was. This feeling though, it was complicating matters. He felt as if he wouldn’t fully have control of this body unless he carried out it’s last desire.
Very well then. He smirked, much like the old commander of this vessel would. He would use this Pure Class Wrestling as a means to whet his appetite for destruction. He would conquer PCW much like he would the world. Ba’lal reached in his pocket and pulled out a smartphone. Interesting device these humans made. He opened the messages and saw what match was happening this week. Teaming with the one called Stormm and the one called Grimm. He felt an anger bubbling up in him when reading those names. Guess his vessel had little love for those two.
Stormm was the one who held the championship that was highly coveted. A man his vessel could not defeat in the times that they had faced off. But this was Ba’lal now. He would not fall to mere mortal. Stormm would bend the knee to him like the rest of these pathetic humans will.
These humans were odd, making matches like this. Teaming men who dislike each other together. Forcing them to work together to move towards tearing one another apart. Was that what humans called irony?
Grimm on the other hand was no man. He felt a presence come from that body. Something akin to himself. It mattered very little to Ba’lal. He was a god, and whatever being was inhabiting the vessel of a backwoods hick could not match him in might. It would be just something else in his path he needed to destroy.
And of course they were facing three other men. Two who happened to be the lesser champions of the PCW. They were of no importance to Ba’lal.
Rick Majors was a broken man. Falling apart on the outside, while battling demons on the inside. Ba’lal would simply put him out of his misery for good. Do not say he was without mercy.
Loki was another man. The name of a god, but a man all the same. He seemed to have one foot out the door already, so Ba’lal would deposit him on the streets broken like a piece of trash.
Texas Tim. A cowboy? A man who found himself in this match by happenstance. Another body to be fed to the Dark God. Ba’lal would return the sacrificial lamb back to his eponymous state broken and missing a soul that he would devour.
He smiled. Yes, this would do quite nicely. He would need some violence.
But what?
He thought to himself before the vision of wrestling appeared in his head. Ba’lal made a face even as he had the thought. Wrestling was what this body did before it was claimed for a high purpose. It should be done with it’s old life as it was now in the possession of the Black King. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that finishing out this body’s previous mission is what he should do. Was wrestling so ingrained in his new vessel that it was even affecting him? Still, he was a god. Mortal wants and needs had little appeal to him. Material desires, desires of the flesh, they meant nothing to the god of chaos, let alone something as insignificant to him as the championship of a wrestling company.
Even as he said this, he felt something in the pit of his stomach. It was an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long while. Desire. He felt his body’s desire to win the Pure Class Wrestling Championship. It was burning, an all consuming flame like the depths of Hell.
Ba’lal frowned. He had planned on simply moving on with his plan. Taking his vessel and leaving without a trace before reappearing as the conqueror he was. This feeling though, it was complicating matters. He felt as if he wouldn’t fully have control of this body unless he carried out it’s last desire.
Very well then. He smirked, much like the old commander of this vessel would. He would use this Pure Class Wrestling as a means to whet his appetite for destruction. He would conquer PCW much like he would the world. Ba’lal reached in his pocket and pulled out a smartphone. Interesting device these humans made. He opened the messages and saw what match was happening this week. Teaming with the one called Stormm and the one called Grimm. He felt an anger bubbling up in him when reading those names. Guess his vessel had little love for those two.
Stormm was the one who held the championship that was highly coveted. A man his vessel could not defeat in the times that they had faced off. But this was Ba’lal now. He would not fall to mere mortal. Stormm would bend the knee to him like the rest of these pathetic humans will.
These humans were odd, making matches like this. Teaming men who dislike each other together. Forcing them to work together to move towards tearing one another apart. Was that what humans called irony?
Grimm on the other hand was no man. He felt a presence come from that body. Something akin to himself. It mattered very little to Ba’lal. He was a god, and whatever being was inhabiting the vessel of a backwoods hick could not match him in might. It would be just something else in his path he needed to destroy.
And of course they were facing three other men. Two who happened to be the lesser champions of the PCW. They were of no importance to Ba’lal.
Rick Majors was a broken man. Falling apart on the outside, while battling demons on the inside. Ba’lal would simply put him out of his misery for good. Do not say he was without mercy.
Loki was another man. The name of a god, but a man all the same. He seemed to have one foot out the door already, so Ba’lal would deposit him on the streets broken like a piece of trash.
Texas Tim. A cowboy? A man who found himself in this match by happenstance. Another body to be fed to the Dark God. Ba’lal would return the sacrificial lamb back to his eponymous state broken and missing a soul that he would devour.
He smiled. Yes, this would do quite nicely. He would need some violence.