Post by Non Compos Mentis on Feb 24, 2014 18:40:00 GMT -5
Beyond the reach of decency, many had surmised. Too far gone for the hand of sanity to drag him back to normality, they thought. But she? She watched as he cavorted with women of the night, she observed as he manipulated the men around him like sick little puppets, she stared as he fell to the bottom of a pit called debauchery… and she knew otherwise.
She wouldn’t be able to tell a right-minded person how she knew Sean Rhodes still existed somewhere within the mind of Non Compos Mentis, only that he did. The man she had once loved was not dead and, she was certain, not untouchable.
The reason for the delinquency, the unchecked depravity, had been his long awaited victory over Rick Majors. And yet, in the two weeks hence, more reason for celebration had arisen. She, and many others, had seen Non Compos Mentis come out triumphant over Grimm and Andy D then inexplicably turn on his tag team partner that night, the PCW World Champion, Eira. Then Murdoc had joined the fray… and just as quickly fallen.
In but a few short minutes, the Untouchables had gone from invincible to flawed and it had been because of not one, but two men. Mentis had lit the fuse, but Whitey Ford kindled the flame.
Everybody had seen that night that collisions were in the making. Plans were in motion and rivalries forming. But how would they fare in the next week where such volatile components would come into contact? Only time would tell, until then things still needed to be discussed. And in that twilight, a light this lady had dared to venture out into, she found herself at the edge of a certain flyover, a fated Hobo Town that had called to her for so long.
The ‘village elders’ had gathered that night, and for all around it seemed the cold Buffalo night had grown quiet. All palaver had ceased apart from these grubby gentlemen. In all, ten individuals sat around the hobo town square in various states of worry and decay. Old Frank slouched and withdrawn, vacant in absent resignation. Squab, bright eyed and idolising with his juvenile excitement. Tal, cross legged and uneasy, impetuous for blood and glory. Among the others were faces every PCW fan would recognise from the Hobo Horde’s incursions onto national television. At their figurehead, of course, the Hobo King himself.
A few laughed with teeth bared, some grinned with eager acceptance and recognition of their leaders’ genius. Some joke, some observational humour mixed with social commentary, some twisted philosophy, whatever it was it had garnered a generous and obligatory response. But soon the laughter abated, and a more serious expression passed over the collective face of the symposium.
“Onto business, and I wish to discuss one man with y’all…” Non Compos Mentis hesitates, looking around the group of expectant faces, waiting for the name of the man no longer BLACKED OUT. And yet they didn’t hear it, they heard “….Whitey Ford.”
Again they laughed, a hearty one this time as if they had heard a joke of riotous hilarity. The hobos took in their share of mirth at the non-existent joke, but slowly their eyes met those demonic, blood-curdling eyes of their master. The mocking laughs at the once great International Champion fell away, the expectation that he would become their next target, their next conquest, was foiled.
“Nobody lays a hand on Whitey Ford.” He spoke in a most calm and instructive tone, and was met with only silence.
The others stared amongst each other and found themselves unable to stifle glares of doubt, wondering if they were being tested. Their master had not been so merciful in the past, lord knew Eira could pay testament to that, and Ford was not a man known for his honour.
The muttering continued with no full words audible, until the unsettled figure sat Indian-style, face shrouded in a hacked and scarred black scrub of stubble, spoke up through the whispers. “Ford cannot be trusted, Sir.”
Non Compos Mentis raised his eyes from the floor to the man sat across from him. Tal, his lieutenant and most trusted fighter, was staring back with serious eyes, more doubting that he had a taste for. “Ford will do what he needs to in order to stake his claim on Eira’s precious belt, he will not be a problem.”
“But, Ford…” the underling questioned once more, his impatient and lack of understanding showing through. But before he could dispute this uneasy alliance further Mentis lifted a hand silently to hush him midsentence.
With an eerie calm that sent chills down Tal’s spine, his King cut in and imparted his own variation on wisdom, a decidedly twisted version. “But nothing. Whitey Ford’s intentions may be helpful to our own endeavours also. Should Eira be beaten…”
“… we will have a claim to the PCW World Title too?” The Neandertal, from which Mentis had shortened his name, could not help but jump to his conclusion, a conclusion that would see his leader climb to the majesty of the World Title once more. The thought quieted his notions of insubordination, but the slow shake of Non Compos Mentis’ head did not.
“The World Title is none of my concern, Eira can keep her meaningless trinket. But Murdoc… he cares very deeply for her, she tugs on his heart like no other and if Eira should be in danger he will most likely become distracted.” And in very deliberate words he spoke, as if to make it clear beyond mere words. “Whitey Ford is to be protected.”
There was once again silence. There was once again nothing. What else could be said after such an exchange? The will of the King was obvious and needed to rebuttal, no verbal acceptance, yet still he glowered at his once bold now crushed lieutenant. “Must I make this an order, Tal?”
The only sounds were the heavy breaths coming from Tal’s heaving chest as he bit back another defiant response. Instead he shook his head, knowing the question was meant not just for him but the remaining eight in the collective also. Yet when he looked up to see their faces, he found only that obedient expression in every face, albeit in difference forms.
Frank showed the obedience of a slave that had accepted his place as servant, disconsolate and lacking fight. Squab full to the brim with enthusiasm, like a son following his father. The others mindlessly obeying like the most ignorant of sheep. Seeing them all resigned to acceptance, Tal, who had always acted without question, gave in to that same crushing inevitability.
The sick smile that had become almost synonymous with Non Compos Mentis passed over his lips once more and he glanced around his group of great interlopers. They would follow him to the end of the world if he moved them so. Rick Majors had called him a leader of men, and perhaps he was, but what made a leader was merely the ability to manipulate others. There was no honour, no beautiful poetry, in pulling the strings of puppets… but there was much enjoyment to be found.
Did that make him mad? Was it worthy of the label of insanity that others tarnished him with? Maybe, but whether he was or was not no longer mattered to Non Compos Mentis, he had accepted that his mind was its own master and it guided him where it wished. It was with that in mind that he drifted happily back to his feet, followed swiftly by the others, and stared off into the distance.
There a figure caught his eye through the darkness. Its eyes shone through the Buffalo night with emotion that he hadn’t seen for a very long time. As Non Compos Mentis he recognised it, but it was far from the recognition a different man felt deep within.
It had been almost eleven months since he’d seen her face, and only part of his realised it. Through the murk, the gloom that had slowly replaced his vision with choking shadows, Sean Rhodes peered out of his own eyes once again. He saw her hair, the lips he had kissed so tenderly and the body, while smothered in thick layers apt for the season, he had once cradled naked against his own. And in that moment before the demon within could clamber back into control, his tongue told him what the rest of his body knew… “Rebekah.”
She wouldn’t be able to tell a right-minded person how she knew Sean Rhodes still existed somewhere within the mind of Non Compos Mentis, only that he did. The man she had once loved was not dead and, she was certain, not untouchable.
The reason for the delinquency, the unchecked depravity, had been his long awaited victory over Rick Majors. And yet, in the two weeks hence, more reason for celebration had arisen. She, and many others, had seen Non Compos Mentis come out triumphant over Grimm and Andy D then inexplicably turn on his tag team partner that night, the PCW World Champion, Eira. Then Murdoc had joined the fray… and just as quickly fallen.
In but a few short minutes, the Untouchables had gone from invincible to flawed and it had been because of not one, but two men. Mentis had lit the fuse, but Whitey Ford kindled the flame.
Everybody had seen that night that collisions were in the making. Plans were in motion and rivalries forming. But how would they fare in the next week where such volatile components would come into contact? Only time would tell, until then things still needed to be discussed. And in that twilight, a light this lady had dared to venture out into, she found herself at the edge of a certain flyover, a fated Hobo Town that had called to her for so long.
The ‘village elders’ had gathered that night, and for all around it seemed the cold Buffalo night had grown quiet. All palaver had ceased apart from these grubby gentlemen. In all, ten individuals sat around the hobo town square in various states of worry and decay. Old Frank slouched and withdrawn, vacant in absent resignation. Squab, bright eyed and idolising with his juvenile excitement. Tal, cross legged and uneasy, impetuous for blood and glory. Among the others were faces every PCW fan would recognise from the Hobo Horde’s incursions onto national television. At their figurehead, of course, the Hobo King himself.
A few laughed with teeth bared, some grinned with eager acceptance and recognition of their leaders’ genius. Some joke, some observational humour mixed with social commentary, some twisted philosophy, whatever it was it had garnered a generous and obligatory response. But soon the laughter abated, and a more serious expression passed over the collective face of the symposium.
“Onto business, and I wish to discuss one man with y’all…” Non Compos Mentis hesitates, looking around the group of expectant faces, waiting for the name of the man no longer BLACKED OUT. And yet they didn’t hear it, they heard “….Whitey Ford.”
Again they laughed, a hearty one this time as if they had heard a joke of riotous hilarity. The hobos took in their share of mirth at the non-existent joke, but slowly their eyes met those demonic, blood-curdling eyes of their master. The mocking laughs at the once great International Champion fell away, the expectation that he would become their next target, their next conquest, was foiled.
“Nobody lays a hand on Whitey Ford.” He spoke in a most calm and instructive tone, and was met with only silence.
The others stared amongst each other and found themselves unable to stifle glares of doubt, wondering if they were being tested. Their master had not been so merciful in the past, lord knew Eira could pay testament to that, and Ford was not a man known for his honour.
The muttering continued with no full words audible, until the unsettled figure sat Indian-style, face shrouded in a hacked and scarred black scrub of stubble, spoke up through the whispers. “Ford cannot be trusted, Sir.”
Non Compos Mentis raised his eyes from the floor to the man sat across from him. Tal, his lieutenant and most trusted fighter, was staring back with serious eyes, more doubting that he had a taste for. “Ford will do what he needs to in order to stake his claim on Eira’s precious belt, he will not be a problem.”
“But, Ford…” the underling questioned once more, his impatient and lack of understanding showing through. But before he could dispute this uneasy alliance further Mentis lifted a hand silently to hush him midsentence.
With an eerie calm that sent chills down Tal’s spine, his King cut in and imparted his own variation on wisdom, a decidedly twisted version. “But nothing. Whitey Ford’s intentions may be helpful to our own endeavours also. Should Eira be beaten…”
“… we will have a claim to the PCW World Title too?” The Neandertal, from which Mentis had shortened his name, could not help but jump to his conclusion, a conclusion that would see his leader climb to the majesty of the World Title once more. The thought quieted his notions of insubordination, but the slow shake of Non Compos Mentis’ head did not.
“The World Title is none of my concern, Eira can keep her meaningless trinket. But Murdoc… he cares very deeply for her, she tugs on his heart like no other and if Eira should be in danger he will most likely become distracted.” And in very deliberate words he spoke, as if to make it clear beyond mere words. “Whitey Ford is to be protected.”
There was once again silence. There was once again nothing. What else could be said after such an exchange? The will of the King was obvious and needed to rebuttal, no verbal acceptance, yet still he glowered at his once bold now crushed lieutenant. “Must I make this an order, Tal?”
The only sounds were the heavy breaths coming from Tal’s heaving chest as he bit back another defiant response. Instead he shook his head, knowing the question was meant not just for him but the remaining eight in the collective also. Yet when he looked up to see their faces, he found only that obedient expression in every face, albeit in difference forms.
Frank showed the obedience of a slave that had accepted his place as servant, disconsolate and lacking fight. Squab full to the brim with enthusiasm, like a son following his father. The others mindlessly obeying like the most ignorant of sheep. Seeing them all resigned to acceptance, Tal, who had always acted without question, gave in to that same crushing inevitability.
The sick smile that had become almost synonymous with Non Compos Mentis passed over his lips once more and he glanced around his group of great interlopers. They would follow him to the end of the world if he moved them so. Rick Majors had called him a leader of men, and perhaps he was, but what made a leader was merely the ability to manipulate others. There was no honour, no beautiful poetry, in pulling the strings of puppets… but there was much enjoyment to be found.
Did that make him mad? Was it worthy of the label of insanity that others tarnished him with? Maybe, but whether he was or was not no longer mattered to Non Compos Mentis, he had accepted that his mind was its own master and it guided him where it wished. It was with that in mind that he drifted happily back to his feet, followed swiftly by the others, and stared off into the distance.
There a figure caught his eye through the darkness. Its eyes shone through the Buffalo night with emotion that he hadn’t seen for a very long time. As Non Compos Mentis he recognised it, but it was far from the recognition a different man felt deep within.
It had been almost eleven months since he’d seen her face, and only part of his realised it. Through the murk, the gloom that had slowly replaced his vision with choking shadows, Sean Rhodes peered out of his own eyes once again. He saw her hair, the lips he had kissed so tenderly and the body, while smothered in thick layers apt for the season, he had once cradled naked against his own. And in that moment before the demon within could clamber back into control, his tongue told him what the rest of his body knew… “Rebekah.”
