Post by Murdoc on Jun 2, 2014 18:00:02 GMT -5
The house is unreasonably warm.
The transition from Winter to Summer was seamless and unremarkable, with no hint of Spring to be found … save for maybe a week. The central air is nice, and MORE than capable of keeping everything cool. It doesn’t do much, however, when the stove has been running for several hours consecutively. You would think that Eira would know better.
And she does.
It’s MURDOC who stands hunched over the stove, burners and oven going at full tilt. Shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of thin, form hugging shorts. The whistling was odd to hear, the gravelly undertones adding a whole new dimension of FUCKING UNSETTLING. Could it be that the most miserable bastard in the WHOLE of PCW is … happy?!
DEAR FUCKING GOD.
He had seen hide nor hair of Jackson OR Eira today. Probably because it’s 10 am, and … well, Eira likes her beauty sleep. Jackson? … enh. It’s probably better that he HADN’T been seen. Murdoc was one encounter away from tossing the munchkin out the den’s front window. But even THAT seems to be on the back-burner, much like the scrambled eggs on the stove. Murdoc stands to his full height … and INSTANTLY regrets it, as the open cabinet door’s pointed edge catches him violently on the back of the head.
The sudden sharp pain instantly creates a surge of anger/adrenaline/surprise in the Man-Mountain Martha Stewart. A heavy paw reaching up to slam the cabinet shut, he lets out a rumbling but as-quiet-as-can-be ‘FUCK!’. He’s trying his best not to wake her, but that may have just undone all his sneakiness. He listens for a few tense seconds, fully expecting to hear the awakening steps of his better half … but no sounds are heard, save for the sizzling of bacon.
Mmmmm …
‘… bacon.’
POINK.
Murdoc’s eyes grow in size as he turns, Eira standing in the kitchen doorway. The shocked look on her face, coupled with her near-full state of undress (she’s wearing slippers, at least), is enough to force a smile across the face of Murdoc. He smiles warmly and takes a quick glance at the stove before moving to his Queen.
‘Amba. I had hoped I wouldn’t wake you.' He pulls her into his arms and embraces her tightly, enveloping her with all the love and passion available to him. ‘Good morning. How did you sleep?’ She smiles and nestles her face into his bare chest, enjoying the feel of it. ‘I slept all right. I’m not used to waking up and seeing you NOT there. You always snore me into the day.’
She peeks over his shoulder at the stove and the oven, smiling mischievously. ‘Nor am I used to you in this room. Ever. Unless you’re pawing through the fridge like a bear looking for a snack.’ He smiles and shrugs, releasing her and turning back to the oven where he carefully removes a plate of biscuits. Half of the regular variety, half with a sweeter cinammon sugar coating. ‘Remind me again: this IS the room where food lives, right?’ She chuckles and moves to the stove to flip the bacon …
… but there he is in a flash, lightly moving her hand away and taking the spot for himself. ‘Noooooooooo, you’re not allowed. Go drink a beer or something, I’m sure there’s a baseball game or something on.’ The reversal of gender stereotypes is funny to her, prompting a short giggle. ‘You’re not gonna let me help, fine. But could you please please PLEASE explain to me WHY you’re doing all this?’
The camera has whirred to life, its’ unblinking eye coming to rest on Murdoc … seated at a regal table adorned with a luxurious spread of meats and breads, wine and ale. Many of the worldly pleasures one could imagine, all before you. He sits comfortably, his blood red arm chair at the head of the table. Eira to his immediate right. The camera at the far end. A very cozy scene, candles lighting the otherwise dim room … bedecked with art work and sculptures. Fine living at its’ FINEST.
‘Tonight is the night where we give thanks. I’ve been told that giving thanks is not a sign of weakness, nor of mental instability as I was initially led to believe.’ He casts a subtle glance over at Eira, who raises a glass to the notion and takes a delicate sip. ‘Bear with me. I understand that it’s unusual and strange but it will all be over soon. Just let it happen.’
Murdoc lifts a mug of an undefined beverage and takes a long draw of it into his gullet before replacing it to the table from whence it came. ‘Tonight, I offer an olive branch to the whole of Pure Class Wrestling’s management. Like mercurial lovers, we have often times been at odds. I single-handedly ruined a multi-million dollar advertisement deal and you tried to erase me from your history books. I get it. But in the end, no matter the bumps of the road we travel … it always comes down to one thing. WHAT I CAN DO FOR YOU.’
‘Pure Class Wrestling has taken, FREELY, of my mind. My body. My heart. My SOUL. And given very little of true value in return. For those of you who cry of my obvious wealth and luxury, I suggest that I would be just as happy in squalor. Yes, it’s true: I am very shrewd and uncompromising with my finances. Understand, however, that my happiness … my peace of mind … does not come from a billfold.’
Murdoc reaches down in front of him and takes a gigantic turkey leg in his hand and rips off a vicious bite of the meat. Succulent and tender, as finely prepared as any Alain Ducasse meal. ‘This week, on Trauma … I must show my gratitude for what Pure Class Wrestling has given to me. They have finally given to me something of tangible value. Of noticeable worth. And that is … ’
‘ … the fact that I WON’T HAVE TO HUNT DOWN WHITEY FORD OR LOKI.’ Murdoc smiles and places the turkey leg on the platter before him, cleaning away the light sheen of juice from his fingers. ‘Last week, it seemed to come to a head. Whitey Ford refusing to show up because he was afraid of getting thumped on the head a little. Leaving me to fend off two STALWART competitors in Andy D and Grimm. Whew. Hell of a pickle right there.’
‘And Loki. Poor, simple Loki. Did you REALLY think I wasn’t expecting you? After all the taunts and jabs last week, did you really think that I was surprised that you were going to make your presence known? At my darkest-seeming hour, OF COURSE you were going to toddle your broken-minded self to the ring and try to put your fingers in my pie.’ Murdoc reaches across the table to the delicious pastry and shoves a finger in, a wince playing across his features behind the mask … his muscles tensing as he does so. Conveying the heat of the situation.
‘Loki, you know what happens. EVERY TIME you stick your grubby little meat sausage fingers into my bakery, you get BURNED. You never learn. It was no different this time.’
Retracting his hand from the pie, Murdoc casually slings the filling off onto the floor where it steams in the cool dining room. ‘I don’t have to chase you backstage this week. I don’t have to haunt your fucking footsteps down those bleak, fluorescent hallways. All I have to do … is wait. Wait for you to walk your last mile. Wait for you to accept your punishment. OR … we all get to see if you take the Whitey way out and scamper off to whatever domestic hardship you have waiting for you at home.’
‘Not only have I been given this gift, but I have been given the gift of seeing HER made happy. SHE doesn’t have to chase Whitey. He is brought to her like a lamb to slaughter. ON A SILVER PLATTER. Devoid of his testicles and looking for redemption. Will Whitey nut up and take his inevitable beating like a man … or will he be predictable Whitey and hide behind his blustery claims of ‘It’s not worth my time.’?
Eira smiles at the prospect, Murdoc smiles at her smiling.
‘Boys, it doesn’t matter what happens this week. Run. Don’t run. My only advice is to eat, drink and be merry tonight. For tomorrow, we pull you apart like warm bread. Tear the meat from your bones like a rack of ribs. Imbibe your suffering like so much honey beer. We’re out for blood, and tomorrow we will gorge ourselves on it.’
‘And I will finish repaying PCW for this incredible gift by sharing it with the WORLD.’
The last of the meal is finished preparing.
A lovely morning spread.
The dining room table is cozy and warm, an unbelievable breakfast prepared by quite possibly the LAST man on the planet considered. The irony is not lost on her. She is seated comfortably in one of his shirts at his side. He enjoys a glass of cool water, attempting to replace the fluids that have been shed this morning … sweat beaded upon his weathered brow.
‘So, shall we dig in my love?’
Murdoc smiles and pats her on the hand. ‘Of course we can. However, I think -I’ll- wait for Jackson to show up.’
The transition from Winter to Summer was seamless and unremarkable, with no hint of Spring to be found … save for maybe a week. The central air is nice, and MORE than capable of keeping everything cool. It doesn’t do much, however, when the stove has been running for several hours consecutively. You would think that Eira would know better.
And she does.
It’s MURDOC who stands hunched over the stove, burners and oven going at full tilt. Shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of thin, form hugging shorts. The whistling was odd to hear, the gravelly undertones adding a whole new dimension of FUCKING UNSETTLING. Could it be that the most miserable bastard in the WHOLE of PCW is … happy?!
DEAR FUCKING GOD.
He had seen hide nor hair of Jackson OR Eira today. Probably because it’s 10 am, and … well, Eira likes her beauty sleep. Jackson? … enh. It’s probably better that he HADN’T been seen. Murdoc was one encounter away from tossing the munchkin out the den’s front window. But even THAT seems to be on the back-burner, much like the scrambled eggs on the stove. Murdoc stands to his full height … and INSTANTLY regrets it, as the open cabinet door’s pointed edge catches him violently on the back of the head.
The sudden sharp pain instantly creates a surge of anger/adrenaline/surprise in the Man-Mountain Martha Stewart. A heavy paw reaching up to slam the cabinet shut, he lets out a rumbling but as-quiet-as-can-be ‘FUCK!’. He’s trying his best not to wake her, but that may have just undone all his sneakiness. He listens for a few tense seconds, fully expecting to hear the awakening steps of his better half … but no sounds are heard, save for the sizzling of bacon.
Mmmmm …
‘… bacon.’
POINK.
Murdoc’s eyes grow in size as he turns, Eira standing in the kitchen doorway. The shocked look on her face, coupled with her near-full state of undress (she’s wearing slippers, at least), is enough to force a smile across the face of Murdoc. He smiles warmly and takes a quick glance at the stove before moving to his Queen.
‘Amba. I had hoped I wouldn’t wake you.' He pulls her into his arms and embraces her tightly, enveloping her with all the love and passion available to him. ‘Good morning. How did you sleep?’ She smiles and nestles her face into his bare chest, enjoying the feel of it. ‘I slept all right. I’m not used to waking up and seeing you NOT there. You always snore me into the day.’
She peeks over his shoulder at the stove and the oven, smiling mischievously. ‘Nor am I used to you in this room. Ever. Unless you’re pawing through the fridge like a bear looking for a snack.’ He smiles and shrugs, releasing her and turning back to the oven where he carefully removes a plate of biscuits. Half of the regular variety, half with a sweeter cinammon sugar coating. ‘Remind me again: this IS the room where food lives, right?’ She chuckles and moves to the stove to flip the bacon …
… but there he is in a flash, lightly moving her hand away and taking the spot for himself. ‘Noooooooooo, you’re not allowed. Go drink a beer or something, I’m sure there’s a baseball game or something on.’ The reversal of gender stereotypes is funny to her, prompting a short giggle. ‘You’re not gonna let me help, fine. But could you please please PLEASE explain to me WHY you’re doing all this?’
****
‘Please.’
‘Have a seat.’
‘Let us break bread together.’
The camera has whirred to life, its’ unblinking eye coming to rest on Murdoc … seated at a regal table adorned with a luxurious spread of meats and breads, wine and ale. Many of the worldly pleasures one could imagine, all before you. He sits comfortably, his blood red arm chair at the head of the table. Eira to his immediate right. The camera at the far end. A very cozy scene, candles lighting the otherwise dim room … bedecked with art work and sculptures. Fine living at its’ FINEST.
‘Tonight is the night where we give thanks. I’ve been told that giving thanks is not a sign of weakness, nor of mental instability as I was initially led to believe.’ He casts a subtle glance over at Eira, who raises a glass to the notion and takes a delicate sip. ‘Bear with me. I understand that it’s unusual and strange but it will all be over soon. Just let it happen.’
Murdoc lifts a mug of an undefined beverage and takes a long draw of it into his gullet before replacing it to the table from whence it came. ‘Tonight, I offer an olive branch to the whole of Pure Class Wrestling’s management. Like mercurial lovers, we have often times been at odds. I single-handedly ruined a multi-million dollar advertisement deal and you tried to erase me from your history books. I get it. But in the end, no matter the bumps of the road we travel … it always comes down to one thing. WHAT I CAN DO FOR YOU.’
‘Pure Class Wrestling has taken, FREELY, of my mind. My body. My heart. My SOUL. And given very little of true value in return. For those of you who cry of my obvious wealth and luxury, I suggest that I would be just as happy in squalor. Yes, it’s true: I am very shrewd and uncompromising with my finances. Understand, however, that my happiness … my peace of mind … does not come from a billfold.’
Murdoc reaches down in front of him and takes a gigantic turkey leg in his hand and rips off a vicious bite of the meat. Succulent and tender, as finely prepared as any Alain Ducasse meal. ‘This week, on Trauma … I must show my gratitude for what Pure Class Wrestling has given to me. They have finally given to me something of tangible value. Of noticeable worth. And that is … ’
‘ … the fact that I WON’T HAVE TO HUNT DOWN WHITEY FORD OR LOKI.’ Murdoc smiles and places the turkey leg on the platter before him, cleaning away the light sheen of juice from his fingers. ‘Last week, it seemed to come to a head. Whitey Ford refusing to show up because he was afraid of getting thumped on the head a little. Leaving me to fend off two STALWART competitors in Andy D and Grimm. Whew. Hell of a pickle right there.’
‘And Loki. Poor, simple Loki. Did you REALLY think I wasn’t expecting you? After all the taunts and jabs last week, did you really think that I was surprised that you were going to make your presence known? At my darkest-seeming hour, OF COURSE you were going to toddle your broken-minded self to the ring and try to put your fingers in my pie.’ Murdoc reaches across the table to the delicious pastry and shoves a finger in, a wince playing across his features behind the mask … his muscles tensing as he does so. Conveying the heat of the situation.
‘Loki, you know what happens. EVERY TIME you stick your grubby little meat sausage fingers into my bakery, you get BURNED. You never learn. It was no different this time.’
Retracting his hand from the pie, Murdoc casually slings the filling off onto the floor where it steams in the cool dining room. ‘I don’t have to chase you backstage this week. I don’t have to haunt your fucking footsteps down those bleak, fluorescent hallways. All I have to do … is wait. Wait for you to walk your last mile. Wait for you to accept your punishment. OR … we all get to see if you take the Whitey way out and scamper off to whatever domestic hardship you have waiting for you at home.’
‘Not only have I been given this gift, but I have been given the gift of seeing HER made happy. SHE doesn’t have to chase Whitey. He is brought to her like a lamb to slaughter. ON A SILVER PLATTER. Devoid of his testicles and looking for redemption. Will Whitey nut up and take his inevitable beating like a man … or will he be predictable Whitey and hide behind his blustery claims of ‘It’s not worth my time.’?
Eira smiles at the prospect, Murdoc smiles at her smiling.
‘Boys, it doesn’t matter what happens this week. Run. Don’t run. My only advice is to eat, drink and be merry tonight. For tomorrow, we pull you apart like warm bread. Tear the meat from your bones like a rack of ribs. Imbibe your suffering like so much honey beer. We’re out for blood, and tomorrow we will gorge ourselves on it.’
‘And I will finish repaying PCW for this incredible gift by sharing it with the WORLD.’
****
The last of the meal is finished preparing.
A lovely morning spread.
The dining room table is cozy and warm, an unbelievable breakfast prepared by quite possibly the LAST man on the planet considered. The irony is not lost on her. She is seated comfortably in one of his shirts at his side. He enjoys a glass of cool water, attempting to replace the fluids that have been shed this morning … sweat beaded upon his weathered brow.
‘So, shall we dig in my love?’
Murdoc smiles and pats her on the hand. ‘Of course we can. However, I think -I’ll- wait for Jackson to show up.’
‘We have a bit of talking to do …’
