Post by Mr. Showtime on Mar 29, 2021 22:59:03 GMT -5
In a hole in the ground there lived a broken man. It was a nasty, stinking hole, filled with darkness and self-loathing. He knew why he was locked away and forgotten. Life is a series of decisions. Some good, some bad. Some self-made while others made for you. This shell of a man realized it had long since he’d made a decision for himself. And he loathed himself for it.
Be a good soldier and fall in line. Make sacrifices for the greater good and we’ll take you to levels you’ve never dreamed. Propaganda at its best. Can you believe a lie so fervently it becomes a truth? He did, and horrendous acts were made for the sake of a lie some believe in so deeply. How could he be so naive?
It’s ironic really. Someone who’d once been so cocky and self-assured, now sat in darkness waiting for time to just slip on by. How long had he been down here? Days, months, years? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. In the darkness time ceased to exist. Once he thought someone would come for him. They’d know he was gone, someone of his notoriety didn’t just up and vanish. Sooner or later, they’d come. But alas, they hadn’t. No one ever came. The only sign of life was when some entity behind the iron door slid food in through his slot.
He heard it. Faint and far off were boots clicking on the cold hard ground. Everyone before came in silence, but this, this was a sound. He tried to shout, but his catacomb of a larynx found no words. It was a wheeze, as if his soul was trying to escape its dying vessel. Faster the feet fell, and with each step they grew louder. Elation turned to panic. He realized there was no salvation on the other side of the door, just doom. Beelzebub himself approached and he would reap a new soul for his collection.
As a sign of his sealed fate the iron cell door lock slid open with a deafening crash. He tried to stand, only to stumble backwards. His legs had abandoned him in the darkness, so he could only scurry across to floor to the far side of the room. Slowly, the door screeched open, the pain from the hinges echoing his own. A brilliantly blinding light slowly leaked in causing him to look away. A menacing figure stood in the doorway. The light kept secret his identity as all that could be deciphered was a wild head of hair, no knowing where it began and when it ended.
“Showtime?” the devil asked, the Kill Devil that is.
“YOU!” Michael Wryght croaked from the floor. He tried to lunge forward, but merely flopped on the ground. Phinehas Grimm slipped an arm under Showtime’s and pulled him to his feet. Showtime threw a weak, disregarded, punch which glanced off of Grimm’s beard.
“What are you doing in here?”
“This is your fault,” replied Showtime, in a voice so raspy that it barely raised over a whisper. “The Black Hand threw me down here, because you decided that you didn’t want to be part of their grand plans any longer. I embarrassed myself enough four years ago, by losing the election, though they seemed fine enough with leaving me alone with my failures. Though you, when you started causing trouble, they scooped me up. Just in case they needed insurance, and now…”
“Now, they’re gone,” cut in Grimm, before Showtime could ramble on any further. “And I think it’s time for us to be done with this place as well.”
All things end. They make way for the new and exciting to emerge.
The smoke and cinder still hung in the air in Brick, New Jersey. “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght sat at the end of a small dock which looked out to Beaverdam Creek. Behind him was what remained of his home, ashes and rubble. When he first arrived, the police had been waiting. He tried to explain he’d been held against his will by a secret society in their underground lair. Holding back laugher, they looked at him like the lunatic he sounded, though being the upstanding community member for as long as he had, they didn’t arrest him.
He couldn’t believe it was all gone. The Black Hand took everything from him, and he could only guess where his family was. They had a plan if things went sideways, but everything happened so quickly, who knew if Perfection was able to get them out in time. Now, there was nothing more to do than wait. He looked out at the freezing water and pondered his existence. He was disgusted in what he’d become but didn’t know how to fix it. Lifeless, soulless, he sat as sleet stung at his face, entranced by the ebbs and flow of the creek. This place had been such a harbinger of joy over the years and now it was gone.
“You’re not going to jump in, are you?” asked Phinehas Grimm.
“What? You won’t be my Clarence?”
“I already got my wings, thank you,” replied Grimm, his icy stare bored into Showtime. “So, what now?”
Showtime shrugged, ideas seemed impossible to form in his mind, “Got any suggestions?”
“Yeah, actually. You could pick yourself up and have a little self-respect.”
“It’s all gone.”
“Good, if you ask me, and you did, you’ve been living too pampered of a life. You’re in some dire need of some grit and maybe even find a little bit of that fight you once had.”
“I’m done fighting,” replied Showtime, too ashamed to meet Grimm’s gaze.
“Pathetic,” replied Grimm, turned his back on Showtime. He paused, “The Hand is gone for good, and if you are half the man I’ve battle over the years, you’ll take up Major’s open challenge. No one knows what tomorrow holds, but you can sure as hell go down swinging.”
As Grimm vanished into the darkness, he left Showtime alone to his own devices. His empty mind plagued him with the echo of Grimm’s insults. It had been over four years since he’d entered the ring, even longer since he’d thought for himself. Still, he wasn’t even doing that now, it was Phinehas’s words that compelled him, not his own.
Was there fight in these old bones, and if there was, would he stack up to the likes of Rick Majors and whomever else was coming out of the woodwork. Open challenges always brought out the worst of the worst. He had one been the “Frickin’ Superstar”, a champion, and much more.
“You know, he’s probably right,” Showtime said, to no one. He paused for a long while as the idea began to take shape in his mind’s eye. “Maybe, just maybe, it’s Showtime…”
Be a good soldier and fall in line. Make sacrifices for the greater good and we’ll take you to levels you’ve never dreamed. Propaganda at its best. Can you believe a lie so fervently it becomes a truth? He did, and horrendous acts were made for the sake of a lie some believe in so deeply. How could he be so naive?
It’s ironic really. Someone who’d once been so cocky and self-assured, now sat in darkness waiting for time to just slip on by. How long had he been down here? Days, months, years? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. In the darkness time ceased to exist. Once he thought someone would come for him. They’d know he was gone, someone of his notoriety didn’t just up and vanish. Sooner or later, they’d come. But alas, they hadn’t. No one ever came. The only sign of life was when some entity behind the iron door slid food in through his slot.
He heard it. Faint and far off were boots clicking on the cold hard ground. Everyone before came in silence, but this, this was a sound. He tried to shout, but his catacomb of a larynx found no words. It was a wheeze, as if his soul was trying to escape its dying vessel. Faster the feet fell, and with each step they grew louder. Elation turned to panic. He realized there was no salvation on the other side of the door, just doom. Beelzebub himself approached and he would reap a new soul for his collection.
As a sign of his sealed fate the iron cell door lock slid open with a deafening crash. He tried to stand, only to stumble backwards. His legs had abandoned him in the darkness, so he could only scurry across to floor to the far side of the room. Slowly, the door screeched open, the pain from the hinges echoing his own. A brilliantly blinding light slowly leaked in causing him to look away. A menacing figure stood in the doorway. The light kept secret his identity as all that could be deciphered was a wild head of hair, no knowing where it began and when it ended.
“Showtime?” the devil asked, the Kill Devil that is.
“YOU!” Michael Wryght croaked from the floor. He tried to lunge forward, but merely flopped on the ground. Phinehas Grimm slipped an arm under Showtime’s and pulled him to his feet. Showtime threw a weak, disregarded, punch which glanced off of Grimm’s beard.
“What are you doing in here?”
“This is your fault,” replied Showtime, in a voice so raspy that it barely raised over a whisper. “The Black Hand threw me down here, because you decided that you didn’t want to be part of their grand plans any longer. I embarrassed myself enough four years ago, by losing the election, though they seemed fine enough with leaving me alone with my failures. Though you, when you started causing trouble, they scooped me up. Just in case they needed insurance, and now…”
“Now, they’re gone,” cut in Grimm, before Showtime could ramble on any further. “And I think it’s time for us to be done with this place as well.”
All things end. They make way for the new and exciting to emerge.
The smoke and cinder still hung in the air in Brick, New Jersey. “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght sat at the end of a small dock which looked out to Beaverdam Creek. Behind him was what remained of his home, ashes and rubble. When he first arrived, the police had been waiting. He tried to explain he’d been held against his will by a secret society in their underground lair. Holding back laugher, they looked at him like the lunatic he sounded, though being the upstanding community member for as long as he had, they didn’t arrest him.
He couldn’t believe it was all gone. The Black Hand took everything from him, and he could only guess where his family was. They had a plan if things went sideways, but everything happened so quickly, who knew if Perfection was able to get them out in time. Now, there was nothing more to do than wait. He looked out at the freezing water and pondered his existence. He was disgusted in what he’d become but didn’t know how to fix it. Lifeless, soulless, he sat as sleet stung at his face, entranced by the ebbs and flow of the creek. This place had been such a harbinger of joy over the years and now it was gone.
“You’re not going to jump in, are you?” asked Phinehas Grimm.
“What? You won’t be my Clarence?”
“I already got my wings, thank you,” replied Grimm, his icy stare bored into Showtime. “So, what now?”
Showtime shrugged, ideas seemed impossible to form in his mind, “Got any suggestions?”
“Yeah, actually. You could pick yourself up and have a little self-respect.”
“It’s all gone.”
“Good, if you ask me, and you did, you’ve been living too pampered of a life. You’re in some dire need of some grit and maybe even find a little bit of that fight you once had.”
“I’m done fighting,” replied Showtime, too ashamed to meet Grimm’s gaze.
“Pathetic,” replied Grimm, turned his back on Showtime. He paused, “The Hand is gone for good, and if you are half the man I’ve battle over the years, you’ll take up Major’s open challenge. No one knows what tomorrow holds, but you can sure as hell go down swinging.”
As Grimm vanished into the darkness, he left Showtime alone to his own devices. His empty mind plagued him with the echo of Grimm’s insults. It had been over four years since he’d entered the ring, even longer since he’d thought for himself. Still, he wasn’t even doing that now, it was Phinehas’s words that compelled him, not his own.
Was there fight in these old bones, and if there was, would he stack up to the likes of Rick Majors and whomever else was coming out of the woodwork. Open challenges always brought out the worst of the worst. He had one been the “Frickin’ Superstar”, a champion, and much more.
“You know, he’s probably right,” Showtime said, to no one. He paused for a long while as the idea began to take shape in his mind’s eye. “Maybe, just maybe, it’s Showtime…”
