Post by hostile on May 9, 2006 18:04:44 GMT -5
Holding my last breath
Safe inside myself
Are all my thoughts of you?
Sweet raptured light it ends here tonight
Closing your eyes to disappear
You pray your dreams will leave you here
But still you wake and know the truth
No’s there
Say goodnight
Don’t be afraid
Calling me calling me as you fade to black"
----------------
Heavy breathing approaches silence. The imagery of the arena is darkly lit, but bares enough light to show that it’s run down and in shambles. Graffiti litters the place, as well as scattered pieces of rotted trash. A single wrestling ring rests square in the heart of the location, but looks not to have been used in quite some time. So naturally it's dirty, dingy and musty. Pan up what would have been the aisle way. Rusted guard railing center divides rows of seats some eleven rows back where fans used to sit in unison and cheer the heroes while booing the villains. Those days are now long over.....
Head backstage where broken pieces of walling show sighs of wear and tear. The color used to be white from the looks of things, but now has a piss stain yellow tint to them. Rather disgusting to look at, but age has caught up with this venue. The breathing intensifies in rapid motion as things draw closer to the source. Areas where doors used to conceal rooms behind them, have long been removed, exposing the crackled mess inside. Stuff like rats, spiders and of course, broken remains of what used to be wall plaques.
Cut north and down around the corridor, you come to a single room. The breathing has stopped, leaving an eerie, hollow sound now to pitch in the skeletal direction. The door swings back on its hinges, not much force needed to completely knock it off. Inside sits the lone soul known as Jason Willard. He looks to be in a sheer panic while weepingly putting on his ring attire. The black spandex bares a pair of silver dice on both legs, with captures of a 'V' outlining the face in red coloring. No it's not the traditional Anarchist wear. But rather, the gimmick known as Vegas. The idea previous before Anarchy made its birth.
Jason laces up his boots, sitting next to him a replica of the PCW Tag Team Titles which has cakes of dirt across the gold plates. Willard slings his head up. Signs of grey matching his brown and red dyed hair coloring. His face for once is clean shaven without a bic razor in site. Over the broken speaker in the room, you hear the faint chant of "WILL-ARD. WILL-ARD. WILL-ARD!" This draws Jason's attention to the forefront, as he slowly looks up and shakes his head, his braids swinging about his face. His fists are taped with the names Lantlas on the right and Prophet on the left. But they aren't written with marker, but rather dry blood.
Willard spits on the cold concrete floor, without a care about it. After all, he's the only one there. Even if he wasn't, who was going to notice? Willard gets up off his angled chair, kicking it behind himself. Jason looks ready to snap at any moment as his white teeth clench together. Places where tattoos used to be, seem to have gotten lasered off at one time or another. So just more physical scarring for Jason Willard. He looks down at both his wrists, which are heavily stitched and expose fragments of his blood where the wounds have been dried up. Narrowing his eyes, Willard lifts his head up and begins to go to work in removing the ruby studs from his nose and left ear.
The chanting over the speaker continues, but is now garbled. Amongst Willard you kind of get this sense that laughter comes from the voices of Lantlas and The Prophet, almost daring...taunting if you will Jason to come out and play. He digs his fingertips into his temples, his head beet red and ready to explode. But he removes his hands and exhales deeply. When he does that, the chanting has stopped, the speaker crumbling from its spot in the corner as it dislocates from its iron frame and crashes into floor with a loud bang.
"My thought exactly....." mutters Willard silently
Jason wipes off the dirt off his title and goes into the process of strapping it around his waist. Getting a secure fit, he slaps the face plate and begins to walk for the open hallway. Stepping out of the room, he turns just in time to run into Destiny. She looks torn back and definitely drugged out. Her eyes droop like her breasts. Her teeth rotted to the core. Willard is thrown back for a second. Startled. Before she can even utter a single word, she gets pushed in the room from which her former lover just came from. Willard runs down the hall to get away as quick as he can, yelling the names of Lantlas and Prophet over and over till his voice gets as loud and rageful as it appears it will.
He stops at the base of the entrance, counts to the number eleven and heads down for the ring. Slowly he walks, dreams of days go by as he mockingly acts like people are there booing him. He goes into full blown Willardisms, with the taunting and laughing. Getting halfway to the ring, he runs and slides inside from under the bottom rope, almost dropping the rickety architectural design off its base.
Willard stands up, takes off his title and tosses it aside. He then turns to see a man dressed like Lantlas, but looking like The Prophet approaching. On both sides of this stranger, are Jason's daughters Kristen and Autumn. They stagger forward. Their tiny hands clutched. Willard sees this and IMMEDIATLEY darts out of the ring. He’s stopped in his tracks as this man shows off a set of long, wet needles on the inner portion of his coat. Willard drops to his knees, tears falling from his eyes as he begs for the mercy of his children. The sadist laughs callously and shows no remorse as he drives the heroin into the veins of Autumn first, followed by Kristen. Pushing the drug all the way into their body, he lets go of them as they fall forward against each other.
Willard hops up, finding strength inside of his will to give chase. But he's stopped at the laughter from behind him. He slowly turns to see illusions of Lantlas and The Prophet inside of the ring. Tag Titles strewn in front of them. The Trauma and PCW likeliness shown all over ringside. There, they call Willard on for a fight, but appear to have his greatest weakness well in place. Fear.
Willard's breathing begins to pick up in quickness again, and his heart feels like it's about to pace itself into submission. He charges at the ring and once inside and up to do something the hallucinations falter away. This leads into a shower of vodka from the rafters, soaking Jason as he spins around in the ring, yelling out to vent frustration.
'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
Willard snaps out of his chair, dressed in long red, horsemen style tights. He's panting heavily, Loco looking over worried about the welfare of his partner, but knowing full well what he just went through. Willard's black shirt promoting TUHA is drenched with sweat. Calming down, he breaks into disturbing laughter....
"Lantlas and Prophet have made the biggest mistakes of their entire fucking careers. The Gold is about to be transferred...."
END
Safe inside myself
Are all my thoughts of you?
Sweet raptured light it ends here tonight
Closing your eyes to disappear
You pray your dreams will leave you here
But still you wake and know the truth
No’s there
Say goodnight
Don’t be afraid
Calling me calling me as you fade to black"
----------------
Heavy breathing approaches silence. The imagery of the arena is darkly lit, but bares enough light to show that it’s run down and in shambles. Graffiti litters the place, as well as scattered pieces of rotted trash. A single wrestling ring rests square in the heart of the location, but looks not to have been used in quite some time. So naturally it's dirty, dingy and musty. Pan up what would have been the aisle way. Rusted guard railing center divides rows of seats some eleven rows back where fans used to sit in unison and cheer the heroes while booing the villains. Those days are now long over.....
Head backstage where broken pieces of walling show sighs of wear and tear. The color used to be white from the looks of things, but now has a piss stain yellow tint to them. Rather disgusting to look at, but age has caught up with this venue. The breathing intensifies in rapid motion as things draw closer to the source. Areas where doors used to conceal rooms behind them, have long been removed, exposing the crackled mess inside. Stuff like rats, spiders and of course, broken remains of what used to be wall plaques.
Cut north and down around the corridor, you come to a single room. The breathing has stopped, leaving an eerie, hollow sound now to pitch in the skeletal direction. The door swings back on its hinges, not much force needed to completely knock it off. Inside sits the lone soul known as Jason Willard. He looks to be in a sheer panic while weepingly putting on his ring attire. The black spandex bares a pair of silver dice on both legs, with captures of a 'V' outlining the face in red coloring. No it's not the traditional Anarchist wear. But rather, the gimmick known as Vegas. The idea previous before Anarchy made its birth.
Jason laces up his boots, sitting next to him a replica of the PCW Tag Team Titles which has cakes of dirt across the gold plates. Willard slings his head up. Signs of grey matching his brown and red dyed hair coloring. His face for once is clean shaven without a bic razor in site. Over the broken speaker in the room, you hear the faint chant of "WILL-ARD. WILL-ARD. WILL-ARD!" This draws Jason's attention to the forefront, as he slowly looks up and shakes his head, his braids swinging about his face. His fists are taped with the names Lantlas on the right and Prophet on the left. But they aren't written with marker, but rather dry blood.
Willard spits on the cold concrete floor, without a care about it. After all, he's the only one there. Even if he wasn't, who was going to notice? Willard gets up off his angled chair, kicking it behind himself. Jason looks ready to snap at any moment as his white teeth clench together. Places where tattoos used to be, seem to have gotten lasered off at one time or another. So just more physical scarring for Jason Willard. He looks down at both his wrists, which are heavily stitched and expose fragments of his blood where the wounds have been dried up. Narrowing his eyes, Willard lifts his head up and begins to go to work in removing the ruby studs from his nose and left ear.
The chanting over the speaker continues, but is now garbled. Amongst Willard you kind of get this sense that laughter comes from the voices of Lantlas and The Prophet, almost daring...taunting if you will Jason to come out and play. He digs his fingertips into his temples, his head beet red and ready to explode. But he removes his hands and exhales deeply. When he does that, the chanting has stopped, the speaker crumbling from its spot in the corner as it dislocates from its iron frame and crashes into floor with a loud bang.
"My thought exactly....." mutters Willard silently
Jason wipes off the dirt off his title and goes into the process of strapping it around his waist. Getting a secure fit, he slaps the face plate and begins to walk for the open hallway. Stepping out of the room, he turns just in time to run into Destiny. She looks torn back and definitely drugged out. Her eyes droop like her breasts. Her teeth rotted to the core. Willard is thrown back for a second. Startled. Before she can even utter a single word, she gets pushed in the room from which her former lover just came from. Willard runs down the hall to get away as quick as he can, yelling the names of Lantlas and Prophet over and over till his voice gets as loud and rageful as it appears it will.
He stops at the base of the entrance, counts to the number eleven and heads down for the ring. Slowly he walks, dreams of days go by as he mockingly acts like people are there booing him. He goes into full blown Willardisms, with the taunting and laughing. Getting halfway to the ring, he runs and slides inside from under the bottom rope, almost dropping the rickety architectural design off its base.
Willard stands up, takes off his title and tosses it aside. He then turns to see a man dressed like Lantlas, but looking like The Prophet approaching. On both sides of this stranger, are Jason's daughters Kristen and Autumn. They stagger forward. Their tiny hands clutched. Willard sees this and IMMEDIATLEY darts out of the ring. He’s stopped in his tracks as this man shows off a set of long, wet needles on the inner portion of his coat. Willard drops to his knees, tears falling from his eyes as he begs for the mercy of his children. The sadist laughs callously and shows no remorse as he drives the heroin into the veins of Autumn first, followed by Kristen. Pushing the drug all the way into their body, he lets go of them as they fall forward against each other.
Willard hops up, finding strength inside of his will to give chase. But he's stopped at the laughter from behind him. He slowly turns to see illusions of Lantlas and The Prophet inside of the ring. Tag Titles strewn in front of them. The Trauma and PCW likeliness shown all over ringside. There, they call Willard on for a fight, but appear to have his greatest weakness well in place. Fear.
Willard's breathing begins to pick up in quickness again, and his heart feels like it's about to pace itself into submission. He charges at the ring and once inside and up to do something the hallucinations falter away. This leads into a shower of vodka from the rafters, soaking Jason as he spins around in the ring, yelling out to vent frustration.
'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
Willard snaps out of his chair, dressed in long red, horsemen style tights. He's panting heavily, Loco looking over worried about the welfare of his partner, but knowing full well what he just went through. Willard's black shirt promoting TUHA is drenched with sweat. Calming down, he breaks into disturbing laughter....
"Lantlas and Prophet have made the biggest mistakes of their entire fucking careers. The Gold is about to be transferred...."
END