Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2014 15:05:53 GMT -5
With an immense roar of engine and speed, the train barreled overhead, shaking the steel beams so violently that it would seem the rivets holding the bridge together would break and send the towering structure crashing down, right onto Whitey Ford's head. Not much scared the PCW World Champion, but something about the noise of a freight train; so loud and fierce with a bellowing fury, sent chills down his spine. But soon the ruckus had passed, leaving nothing but a receding sound and the reflection of the caboose's blinking yellow light on the rain-soaked pavement below.
It had been raining for hours in Chicago, Illinois. Although it had just started to lighten up in the last half hour, Whitey had been out in the nasty weather just as soon as dusk had arrived. His hair was a matted and knotted mess, hanging down over his face. Ford was shirtless, donning nothing but a pair of jeans and an expensive looking gold necklace. No shoes, no socks...only a half empty bottle of vodka dangling loosely from his fingers. Ford had been looking up at the train as it passed, smiling to himself that a man of his caliber could feel spooked by a loud noise, but his gaze quickly averted to the ground as he shuffled aimlessly down the ominous back alley. Without the light from the train, he was blanketed in darkness, a swaying portrait of the walking dead to the man watching him from the second story window. "Go home, you damned wino!" The man called out, snickering at his crassness. Scores of local drunks staggered through the alley throughout the week, and heckling them was better than TV to some of the Chicago residents.
Little did he know that this was Whitey Ford; and he was not your run of the mill drunk.
Ford took a few steps forward, realizing he was now illuminated from the light from the window of his heckler. He raised his gaze up slowly and whipped his hair back to reveal his face was just short of a crimson mask. The wound must have been somewhere near his hairline but the amount of blood made it hard to tell, with beads of it running clear down to his chin line and dripping onto his chest. Whitey snarled, and with a feral scream the vodka bottle was hurtling through the air, thrown from Whitey's blood soaked hands, only to smash into pieces a foot from the window.
"Jesus Christ!" The heckler slammed his window shut and soon after the light shut off, plunging Ford into darkness once again. The snarl melted into a smirk, and he continued his aimless journey. If that were Eira in that window, I wouldn't have missed... He thought to himself, the very idea of smashing a glass bottle of liquor on the white haired vixen's pretty features making his smile broaden. Thoughts in the same vein were what had gotten him out of the 'nice' part of Chicago, where his associate Michael John Windsor had insisted they traveled. "It'll be a good vacation, we'll hit the town. When's the last time you visited Chicago?" Ford remembered MJW convincing him to get on the plane, and thought back on his voice in a sing song tone.
The time I came down here to euthanize Scruff McGruff for being such a pussy about drugs and violence and teaching kids to be harmless little worker bees. While it sounded like a joke, Whitey had actually been indicted for assaulting the anti-drug mascot at a D.A.R.E. rally years ago. Regardless, tonight Ford had snuck off the second they landed, his flight being a sleepless and tormenting ordeal where he could only think of one name.
Eira.
The woman he had outsmarted to win the PCW Championship from. He had never actually beaten HER, so to speak, but that was neither here nor there in the new champions’ eyes. He reigned supreme, but she refused to get back in her place and accept she was not only inferior to men, but inferior to most of her gender as well. The worst of it all was that the people believed she would win at Living a Legacy and take her belt back. Whitey Ford was used to being a hated man, but to be looked at as a lesser competitor compared to someone like Eira sowed a deep seeded hate inside of his heart for the woman.
Grimm? He's annoying and pretentious...or he would be if I knew what pretention meant. I'm sick of him getting chance after chance after chance, riding on the laurels of past achievements.
Rick Majors? Absolutely insane and as emo as they come, but that's only mildly irritating.
Murdoc? A giant and a monster, having been part of more than one of my very few losses. But I can remedy that in time and for the most part he stays away from me. For now, at least.
Ace Anderson? Ford's thoughts were stopped as soon as the name zipped through his head. Simultaneously his right foot had landed in the middle of a pile of broken glass, making a small and sharp breaking sound. Having frozen in place, he gingerly lifted his foot off of the pile but he could feel one shard sticking out slightly. It wasn't in deep, as his fingers grasped the piece of glass gently before ripping it out of the flesh right below his big toe. It would bleed profusely, but the darkness made it hard for him to see how badly. Given his head wound, that thought didn't bother him one bit. Funny timing. Ace was like a piece of glass that I got stuck in my foot; he made me bleed and it was impossible to get where I wanted to go with him jabbing me nonstop, but I did what I had to do. I pulled him from and tossed him away, where he withered and succumbed to injuries at the hands of Monroe, leaving them both to sit on the edge of obscurity until people forget about them altogether.
But Eira was a completely different story. She wasn't a flesh wound you could patch up with a bandage and some peroxide and wait for it to heal. Eira was a virus, a violently transmitted disease of some sort that would come back time and time again. Whitey had sent his henchman after her, but she rallied back. He attacked her after faking an injury, but she survived. The most stinging memory of encountering her was when she chased him through the crowd and off of the commentary booth.
Tactical retreat. Ford thought gruffly, as if to ward off the little voice inside of his head that played at his insecurities.
The worst of all was that she was gaining momentum, or so it seemed; Whitey was on the ropes, having earned the ire of the PCW 'powers-that-be' and getting himself stuck in a cage match to defend his title, instead of a regular match that he could manipulate to his liking and control to his advantage.
Whitey Ford simply HATED Eira, in the simplest sense of the word. Now, Whitey Ford was the underdog going into Living a Legacy.
And that's exactly why I'm going to win. Whitey thought, letting his hate turn to rage and clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white.
When I first started wrestling, I was never the underdog. I went into every match as the favorite, and I'd win every match right up until the big show. I KNOW that's why I never won a major title before Pure Class Wrestling; because that's when I became the underdog. Me and the AWAssholes? People pegged us as a bunch of punks looking for our 15 seconds of fame. Who could blame them, everyone but me WAS a punk and flaked out within 48 hours. But I rose and burst through the ranks of PCW. Nobody saw it coming. Ford heard something stir from behind a dumpster. He was nearing a street, as he saw the faint blow of a nearly blown street light a few dozen feet ahead, but the movement was definitely from inside of the alley.
When I faced Grimm and Ace Anderson, two of the PCW's golden boys, I was put there only as cannon fodder. The world expected me to get crushed and slink back to the B-league with the rest of the AWA, but I was smarter and faster than both of those pricks and I became the longest reigning Intercontinental Champion...a title which I never fucking lost.
Two men, neither of any colossal size or stature but both moving with a predators swagger, emerged from the other side of the dumpster. Ford just smiled broadly at them and continued in their direction. The World Title match was all in the same. I wasn't supposed to win; somehow, the world thought that Andy D or Eira would be victorious. But yet again, I was the better man.
The larger of the two men, this one wearing a red bandana wrapped around his face, put his hand out to touch the necklace that was draped over Whitey's neck. "Boy, you must be stupid to be walking through MY alleyway with MY necklace..." He let out with an Illinois drawl. But before he could make contact with the gold necklace, Whitey's hand darted out and grabbed him by the wrist.
"If you touch my necklace, I'm going to take your two front teeth." Ford said in a matter of fact tone. This caused the lead muggers cohort to laugh incredulously. Whitey's eyes calmly shifter over to him. "Your's too."
"Man, fuck you! Look'it you, all bloody an' shit! Got no shoes, you smell like fuckin' vodka, give me that--" Ford was met with a nicely masked right hook, not expecting violence before some tough guy bravado, as the bandana wearing assailant swung fast and hard.
Not hard enough.
Whitey's head reeled back for just a moment, but rocketed forward again in a vicious head butt that landed squarely on the nose of his attacker. The second man attempted to jump into the fray with a right hook of his own, but Ford deftly stepped out of the way, proving himself once again agile for an alcoholic. Snapping one hand around tough guy number two's wrist and clamping the free hand onto his shoulder, the PCW World Champion sent him face first into the brick building which lined the alleyway. The man's body went limp, and Whitey turned his attention to his second attacker, who was clutching at his obviously broken nose.
Ford grabbed him by both his shoulders and slammed him hard neck first into the dumpster, then tossed him roughly into a pile of trash that sat beside it. A small plastic bag fluttered up from the contact, almost as if it were meant to be used as a weapon. Whitey Ford did take it as a sign and caught it before it hit the ground. The man with the bandana was struggling to his feet, and soon wished he would have stayed down and accepted his punishment. In a flash and moving with a killer's instinct, Whitey wrapped the plastic bag around his would-be muggers head and pulled it tight. Twisting the bag around, Whitey forced the man to face him, and began pulling his head down violently. "What the fuck did I tell you?!?!"
One knee came up to meet the man's head as it was pulled down, connecting square with his face as Ford ignored his gasps for air. A second knee. A third, a fourth, a fifth...and Whitey stopped, feeling the knee of his pants become damp with blood. The blows had ripped open the bag, leaving the unconscious man alive but in critical condition. Reaching down and feeling around inside of the bloody plastic, Ford found what he was looking for...the man's two front teeth. A commotion from behind him, and Whitey didn't even have to turn around to know his second attacker was getting up and attempting to flee. Casually taking the gold chain from his neck and wrapping it loosely around his fist so it hung down by just about a foot, Whitey now had a dangerous weapon...as if he wasn't a weapon himself.
Looking over his shoulder, Whitey was relieved to see the man was still too dazed to run and was trying to use the wall as support as he limped towards the assumed safety of the street, rather than the secluded danger of the alleyway. He didn't get far as Whitey pounced, whipping him with the heavy chain repeatedly in the legs and back until the man fell after half a dozen strikes. Ford wrapped the chain around his fist tight now, and as he turned the man over onto his back he raised his fist back menacingly.
"STOP! STOP!" Ford's quarry cried out, weakly holding his hands in front of his face. "Just let me go!" The scared man was nearly sobbing, and Whitey barked out a laugh.
"Stop? STOP!? Why? Why were you going to try and take my fucking chain before, but now you don't want it?! Huh!?" Whitey menaced the man with his chain wrapped fist once more.
"Y-y-you're covered in blood, man! Me an' TJ, we thought we could just rough you up a little and take it man, I'm sorry! I'm sorry..." The tears came then, a pathetic display from a chickenhearted thug.
"I'm sorry too." Ford responded in a cold, unforgiving voice. He reached his unchained hand into his pocket and pulled out a razor blade. The man on the ground sobbed harder, and tried to plead for mercy through labored breaths. But Whitey then combed back his hair to reveal his hairline, where one expertly placed cut had already dried over.
Ford had cut himself to make himself appear like a victim as a ploy. Just in case the man didn't get it, Whitey made another cut and blood trickled down his face. "I'm sorry that you thought I was the underdog. This is what happens to people who underestimate me." With a vicious strike with his chained fist, Whitey rained down a blow right onto his prey's mouth. Follow by another. Followed by another.
Moments later, Whitey was walking back in the direction he had come to where he had stashed his shoes and clothes. The idea to pretend to be a victim only to lure in attackers had been something out a lunatics daydream, only to play on the fact that he found solace in the fact that no matter if anybody believed in him or not, he would always prevail. The pocketful of souvenirs, though... Whitey reached into his pocket to pull out half a dozen incisors, giving them a long look. ...this borderlines insanity, but I'm not surprised that I'm ok with it. Eira will understand, after Living a Legacy; all of her momentum and all of her...talent, if you could even call it that...won't matter one bit. I do better when I'm the underdog...and I will always prevail, no matter the cost or how far I have to go.
Ford jumped up to grab a fire escape ladder and pull himself up, starting the ascent to the third floor unoccupied apartment he had broken into as a place to keep his shirt, shoes, and money while he went on his frightening and bizarre trek through Chicago. As he climbed, he couldn't help but think...
Eira is trying to take my gold. I hope she has dental insurance
It had been raining for hours in Chicago, Illinois. Although it had just started to lighten up in the last half hour, Whitey had been out in the nasty weather just as soon as dusk had arrived. His hair was a matted and knotted mess, hanging down over his face. Ford was shirtless, donning nothing but a pair of jeans and an expensive looking gold necklace. No shoes, no socks...only a half empty bottle of vodka dangling loosely from his fingers. Ford had been looking up at the train as it passed, smiling to himself that a man of his caliber could feel spooked by a loud noise, but his gaze quickly averted to the ground as he shuffled aimlessly down the ominous back alley. Without the light from the train, he was blanketed in darkness, a swaying portrait of the walking dead to the man watching him from the second story window. "Go home, you damned wino!" The man called out, snickering at his crassness. Scores of local drunks staggered through the alley throughout the week, and heckling them was better than TV to some of the Chicago residents.
Little did he know that this was Whitey Ford; and he was not your run of the mill drunk.
Ford took a few steps forward, realizing he was now illuminated from the light from the window of his heckler. He raised his gaze up slowly and whipped his hair back to reveal his face was just short of a crimson mask. The wound must have been somewhere near his hairline but the amount of blood made it hard to tell, with beads of it running clear down to his chin line and dripping onto his chest. Whitey snarled, and with a feral scream the vodka bottle was hurtling through the air, thrown from Whitey's blood soaked hands, only to smash into pieces a foot from the window.
"Jesus Christ!" The heckler slammed his window shut and soon after the light shut off, plunging Ford into darkness once again. The snarl melted into a smirk, and he continued his aimless journey. If that were Eira in that window, I wouldn't have missed... He thought to himself, the very idea of smashing a glass bottle of liquor on the white haired vixen's pretty features making his smile broaden. Thoughts in the same vein were what had gotten him out of the 'nice' part of Chicago, where his associate Michael John Windsor had insisted they traveled. "It'll be a good vacation, we'll hit the town. When's the last time you visited Chicago?" Ford remembered MJW convincing him to get on the plane, and thought back on his voice in a sing song tone.
The time I came down here to euthanize Scruff McGruff for being such a pussy about drugs and violence and teaching kids to be harmless little worker bees. While it sounded like a joke, Whitey had actually been indicted for assaulting the anti-drug mascot at a D.A.R.E. rally years ago. Regardless, tonight Ford had snuck off the second they landed, his flight being a sleepless and tormenting ordeal where he could only think of one name.
Eira.
The woman he had outsmarted to win the PCW Championship from. He had never actually beaten HER, so to speak, but that was neither here nor there in the new champions’ eyes. He reigned supreme, but she refused to get back in her place and accept she was not only inferior to men, but inferior to most of her gender as well. The worst of it all was that the people believed she would win at Living a Legacy and take her belt back. Whitey Ford was used to being a hated man, but to be looked at as a lesser competitor compared to someone like Eira sowed a deep seeded hate inside of his heart for the woman.
Grimm? He's annoying and pretentious...or he would be if I knew what pretention meant. I'm sick of him getting chance after chance after chance, riding on the laurels of past achievements.
Rick Majors? Absolutely insane and as emo as they come, but that's only mildly irritating.
Murdoc? A giant and a monster, having been part of more than one of my very few losses. But I can remedy that in time and for the most part he stays away from me. For now, at least.
Ace Anderson? Ford's thoughts were stopped as soon as the name zipped through his head. Simultaneously his right foot had landed in the middle of a pile of broken glass, making a small and sharp breaking sound. Having frozen in place, he gingerly lifted his foot off of the pile but he could feel one shard sticking out slightly. It wasn't in deep, as his fingers grasped the piece of glass gently before ripping it out of the flesh right below his big toe. It would bleed profusely, but the darkness made it hard for him to see how badly. Given his head wound, that thought didn't bother him one bit. Funny timing. Ace was like a piece of glass that I got stuck in my foot; he made me bleed and it was impossible to get where I wanted to go with him jabbing me nonstop, but I did what I had to do. I pulled him from and tossed him away, where he withered and succumbed to injuries at the hands of Monroe, leaving them both to sit on the edge of obscurity until people forget about them altogether.
But Eira was a completely different story. She wasn't a flesh wound you could patch up with a bandage and some peroxide and wait for it to heal. Eira was a virus, a violently transmitted disease of some sort that would come back time and time again. Whitey had sent his henchman after her, but she rallied back. He attacked her after faking an injury, but she survived. The most stinging memory of encountering her was when she chased him through the crowd and off of the commentary booth.
Tactical retreat. Ford thought gruffly, as if to ward off the little voice inside of his head that played at his insecurities.
The worst of all was that she was gaining momentum, or so it seemed; Whitey was on the ropes, having earned the ire of the PCW 'powers-that-be' and getting himself stuck in a cage match to defend his title, instead of a regular match that he could manipulate to his liking and control to his advantage.
Whitey Ford simply HATED Eira, in the simplest sense of the word. Now, Whitey Ford was the underdog going into Living a Legacy.
And that's exactly why I'm going to win. Whitey thought, letting his hate turn to rage and clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white.
When I first started wrestling, I was never the underdog. I went into every match as the favorite, and I'd win every match right up until the big show. I KNOW that's why I never won a major title before Pure Class Wrestling; because that's when I became the underdog. Me and the AWAssholes? People pegged us as a bunch of punks looking for our 15 seconds of fame. Who could blame them, everyone but me WAS a punk and flaked out within 48 hours. But I rose and burst through the ranks of PCW. Nobody saw it coming. Ford heard something stir from behind a dumpster. He was nearing a street, as he saw the faint blow of a nearly blown street light a few dozen feet ahead, but the movement was definitely from inside of the alley.
When I faced Grimm and Ace Anderson, two of the PCW's golden boys, I was put there only as cannon fodder. The world expected me to get crushed and slink back to the B-league with the rest of the AWA, but I was smarter and faster than both of those pricks and I became the longest reigning Intercontinental Champion...a title which I never fucking lost.
Two men, neither of any colossal size or stature but both moving with a predators swagger, emerged from the other side of the dumpster. Ford just smiled broadly at them and continued in their direction. The World Title match was all in the same. I wasn't supposed to win; somehow, the world thought that Andy D or Eira would be victorious. But yet again, I was the better man.
The larger of the two men, this one wearing a red bandana wrapped around his face, put his hand out to touch the necklace that was draped over Whitey's neck. "Boy, you must be stupid to be walking through MY alleyway with MY necklace..." He let out with an Illinois drawl. But before he could make contact with the gold necklace, Whitey's hand darted out and grabbed him by the wrist.
"If you touch my necklace, I'm going to take your two front teeth." Ford said in a matter of fact tone. This caused the lead muggers cohort to laugh incredulously. Whitey's eyes calmly shifter over to him. "Your's too."
"Man, fuck you! Look'it you, all bloody an' shit! Got no shoes, you smell like fuckin' vodka, give me that--" Ford was met with a nicely masked right hook, not expecting violence before some tough guy bravado, as the bandana wearing assailant swung fast and hard.
Not hard enough.
Whitey's head reeled back for just a moment, but rocketed forward again in a vicious head butt that landed squarely on the nose of his attacker. The second man attempted to jump into the fray with a right hook of his own, but Ford deftly stepped out of the way, proving himself once again agile for an alcoholic. Snapping one hand around tough guy number two's wrist and clamping the free hand onto his shoulder, the PCW World Champion sent him face first into the brick building which lined the alleyway. The man's body went limp, and Whitey turned his attention to his second attacker, who was clutching at his obviously broken nose.
Ford grabbed him by both his shoulders and slammed him hard neck first into the dumpster, then tossed him roughly into a pile of trash that sat beside it. A small plastic bag fluttered up from the contact, almost as if it were meant to be used as a weapon. Whitey Ford did take it as a sign and caught it before it hit the ground. The man with the bandana was struggling to his feet, and soon wished he would have stayed down and accepted his punishment. In a flash and moving with a killer's instinct, Whitey wrapped the plastic bag around his would-be muggers head and pulled it tight. Twisting the bag around, Whitey forced the man to face him, and began pulling his head down violently. "What the fuck did I tell you?!?!"
One knee came up to meet the man's head as it was pulled down, connecting square with his face as Ford ignored his gasps for air. A second knee. A third, a fourth, a fifth...and Whitey stopped, feeling the knee of his pants become damp with blood. The blows had ripped open the bag, leaving the unconscious man alive but in critical condition. Reaching down and feeling around inside of the bloody plastic, Ford found what he was looking for...the man's two front teeth. A commotion from behind him, and Whitey didn't even have to turn around to know his second attacker was getting up and attempting to flee. Casually taking the gold chain from his neck and wrapping it loosely around his fist so it hung down by just about a foot, Whitey now had a dangerous weapon...as if he wasn't a weapon himself.
Looking over his shoulder, Whitey was relieved to see the man was still too dazed to run and was trying to use the wall as support as he limped towards the assumed safety of the street, rather than the secluded danger of the alleyway. He didn't get far as Whitey pounced, whipping him with the heavy chain repeatedly in the legs and back until the man fell after half a dozen strikes. Ford wrapped the chain around his fist tight now, and as he turned the man over onto his back he raised his fist back menacingly.
"STOP! STOP!" Ford's quarry cried out, weakly holding his hands in front of his face. "Just let me go!" The scared man was nearly sobbing, and Whitey barked out a laugh.
"Stop? STOP!? Why? Why were you going to try and take my fucking chain before, but now you don't want it?! Huh!?" Whitey menaced the man with his chain wrapped fist once more.
"Y-y-you're covered in blood, man! Me an' TJ, we thought we could just rough you up a little and take it man, I'm sorry! I'm sorry..." The tears came then, a pathetic display from a chickenhearted thug.
"I'm sorry too." Ford responded in a cold, unforgiving voice. He reached his unchained hand into his pocket and pulled out a razor blade. The man on the ground sobbed harder, and tried to plead for mercy through labored breaths. But Whitey then combed back his hair to reveal his hairline, where one expertly placed cut had already dried over.
Ford had cut himself to make himself appear like a victim as a ploy. Just in case the man didn't get it, Whitey made another cut and blood trickled down his face. "I'm sorry that you thought I was the underdog. This is what happens to people who underestimate me." With a vicious strike with his chained fist, Whitey rained down a blow right onto his prey's mouth. Follow by another. Followed by another.
Moments later, Whitey was walking back in the direction he had come to where he had stashed his shoes and clothes. The idea to pretend to be a victim only to lure in attackers had been something out a lunatics daydream, only to play on the fact that he found solace in the fact that no matter if anybody believed in him or not, he would always prevail. The pocketful of souvenirs, though... Whitey reached into his pocket to pull out half a dozen incisors, giving them a long look. ...this borderlines insanity, but I'm not surprised that I'm ok with it. Eira will understand, after Living a Legacy; all of her momentum and all of her...talent, if you could even call it that...won't matter one bit. I do better when I'm the underdog...and I will always prevail, no matter the cost or how far I have to go.
Ford jumped up to grab a fire escape ladder and pull himself up, starting the ascent to the third floor unoccupied apartment he had broken into as a place to keep his shirt, shoes, and money while he went on his frightening and bizarre trek through Chicago. As he climbed, he couldn't help but think...
Eira is trying to take my gold. I hope she has dental insurance