Post by Deleted on Sept 10, 2014 22:17:14 GMT -5
Walls promote equality, Whitey Ford thought to himself. No matter the color, the size, the shape, or how expensive they were to build...
...it is still massively painful to be thrown through one by an angry Mexican.
White drywall dust shot into the air along with splintered wood as the PCW World Champion was sent back-first through the wall, from the spacious living area to the equally spacious dining room. He hit the floor with a resonating thud, sliding along the hardwood and cracking his back against the leg of a sizeable oak table, which was jolted half a foot across the floor from the impact. The non-judging walls, even though placed inside of a very expensive Texas suite, sent lightning bolts of pain through every part of his body. Ford spit up a bit of blood, unsure if it was coming from an internal injury or from the umpteen punches and kicks he had endured in the last ten minutes. Coughing up another dark red gob of what was probably supposed to stay inside his body, Whitey forced out a raspy laugh. "C'mon, Johnny, it ain't that bad. You'll find a job in no time, you're a household name!"
Whitey pushed himself up to his hands and knees...WHUMP! He attempted to, anyways. Johnny Veigns was on a rampage, and had leapt through the new doorway he had created with Ford's body much quicker than anticipated, landing a huge haymaker to his (former?) employer. "A household name that everybody hates, because I chose to work for you!" Veigns dragged Ford to his feet, only to smash the bridge of the champions nose on the backing of a dining room chair, also made of oh-so-forgiving oak. "Lemme tell you somethin', Ford! I've worked for some very bad people..." Once again, Veigns knocked Whitey's face off of the chair, blood spurting from a fresh cut in the middle of his forehead. "Drug dealers!"
THUMP!
"Pimps!"
CRUNCH!
"Cartels... " THUD. "...murderers..." WHACK. "...DICTATORS..." SPLAT. "...AND I SWEAR ON THE CROSS THAT YOU ARE THE SICKEST, MOST DIABOLICAL MOTHERFUCKER WHO HAS EVER HANDED ME A PAYCHECK!" Over and over Veigns beat Whitey's skull into the oak frame of the chair, and the last sound his head made when colliding with the furniture can only be described as the wet pop a water balloon makes when it explodes. Blood canvased the floor now, pouring like a fountain from Whitey's battered and beaten face. "You...deserve...to die."
Whitey couldn't remember ever taking a beating as severe as this one, and from a man who made his living and passed his free time getting hit in the head with heavy objects, that's really saying something. His breath was labored, ragged and sharp gasps as he drew air into his bruised lungs and pitiful, defeated groan as he exhaled. Veigns let him go then, dropping him down to rest on both knees, sitting down on his heels. Whitey waved an arm in front of him weakly, all of his strength gone, an obvious sign of submission. Veigns knelt down in front of Whitey, with the latter barely able to notice the seething hatred in his Mexican bodyguards eyes. Ford flashed a grin, surprisingly only two teeth less than before he was given the beating. "You have something to say before you die, you son of a bitch?" Veigns said with an malicious, promising tone.
"Uhhhgnnn..." Whitey tried to speak, but was unable to; but only for a minute. His pride swelled, possibly for the last time, and Ford coughed as hard as he could. Blood splattered the face of Johnny Veigns, who looked more surprised than angry at the sign of defiance. "I hope they kill your wife, but not before they have their fun with her."
Ford couldn't remember anything very clearly for the next few minutes. The last thing he remembered was laughing, glad that he could die having the last word, and then the sound of glass breaking. He had no idea what Veigns had hit him with but he somehow bled even more than he already was. He had brief glimpses of a trail of his own blood, enough to be straight out of a SAW movie. It was almost euphoric, as he felt very little pain anymore, and was barely aware of being picked up off the ground, turned around, and...he was awake again, thanks to the cold water of a sizeable aquarium.
Fucking A, I hate fish. I've always hated fish, and now I know why. Whitey couldn't even remember where he was or why there was an aquarium, but as he sat there, helpless, with Johnny Veigns holding his head underwater, everything seemed to slow down. A beta fish drifted in front of his fluttering eyes, and if looks could kill that beta would be dead. Just like Whitey Ford was sure to be.
I'm going to die. Yep, this is it, world. At least I didn't go out like a bitch, I got a cool movie villain line in right before I got drowned in a fish tank full of asshole fish. What led to this, I wonder? What did I do to push this ugly bastard over the edge to the point of wanting to kill me? I guess Murdoc won't get the chance to kill me now after all.... Ford's death monologue was cut short in his own head, as memories of just fifteen minutes before came flooding into his mind.
________
He had rented a high rise suite in Austin, somewhere he had always enjoyed being because of the good security and crooked police ready to take a buck to look the other way. Ford was dressed randomly as always, wearing torn jeans and his old Marshall's Law cutoff varsity vest. In the past few weeks he had been in a reminiscent mood, looking back at the incredible journey he had taken to get to the top of the PCW. A pinky-finger sized line of cocaine was laid out in front of him on the dining room table, but not for long. With a large haul from one nostril, the narcotics were gone. Whitey leaned back in an oak chair, not yet stained with crimson, and let loose a sigh of happiness. Things are good. Whitey thought to himself. I get to finish of the Duo of Droll by beating that overrated mask wearing fuckhead, I have Texas cocaine which tastes just like the crushed dreams of country singers...which happens to be my favorite kind of crushed dream...and I've finally cemented my place in the halls of wrestling legends. Well, unofficially of course.
Ford's happy thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice that didn't hide its irritation. "Is this what you called me out here to fuckin' Texas, boss? Really? You flew me out to this shithole redneck state just so I could watch you do lines of blow and smile quietly like an idiot?"
"Johnny! Johnny Veigns, I forgot you were there. This shit is good. I mean, really good. I would have shared, but you know, MJW pays you well enough to buy your own goddam shit." A light bulb turned on in Whitey's ever so drugged up mind, and he remembered the actual reason he had gotten his bodyguard, who was previously on vacation, to come to Texas. "Well, paid is actually the better word."
The imposing Mexican raised an impressively-sized eyebrow. "Paid? Don't give me that shit, Ford, I'm the only one you have left. You can't fire me, you'll be on your own against Murdoc."
"Well, no shit, I can't fire you. You're not my employee to fire, my pea brained fence jumping gorilla! Windsor hired you, not me." Whitey leaned forward across the table towards where Veigns was sitting. His un-employee, per say, did the same. Both men were volatile and dangerous, and neither was going to look like the weak party in this situation. "See, you may not know this, but Windsor and I had a little bit of...well, a falling out. You may have heard it was a fight, but no, our falling out came at the hands of his lawyers. My money is no longer in his hands; it's all in my separate accounts, and he is no longer my Pure Class Wrestling manager. Turns out, though, that Britain's don't keep the company of Mexicans unless it's beneficial to them, so he cut you loose and gave me the option to renew your contract under new terms."
Ford plugged one nostril and snorted back the drip that had begun from the cocaine. All the while Veigns looked on with a wry smirk on his face, as if he had anticipated this day to come. "Turns out, Johnny, that drug addicted alcoholic World Champions don't associate with Mexicans either, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut you loose."
"Good try, Whitey, but I have an ironclad contract that states you have to keep me employed, whether through you or Windsor, until 2016. And I'm going to have to...y'know, make you guys keep your word." Veigns smiled triumphantly and pushed his chair backwards. "So if you don't want my company...SIR...I think I'll go elsewhere and get paid for free for the next two years." Veigns headed for the front door, walking behind Whitey with cocky strides that implied he had achieved victory, but the World Champion wasn't going to be had.
"What you also probably don't know is that I'm aware of that stipulation in your contract...or that I acquired one of the lawyers who used to work for Michael Wryght...you know, the legal geniuses who got me off on a murder charge." As soon as those sentences left Whiteys' mouth, Veigns stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around. Ford remained seated, gloating in his impending victory. "See, it turns out that if you leave the country unaccompanied by me or 'Michelle' John Windsor, your contract is null and void."
Veigns opened his mouth to protest with a laugh, but Whitey threw one finger up to tell him to wait, still not turning around to face him. "But I know you're not all that dumb, Johnny. I know you wouldn't leave the country for anything if you're getting a free paycheck. You'd move to fuckin' Nebraska if that's what it took. So I called Border Control, tried to get you deported. You're the only legal Mexican immigrant I've ever met, so that plan went down the gutter too." Whitey stood up then, calmly turning to face Veigns. Ford leaned back against the table and crossed his arms, a smug look upon his face. "Now this...THIS is the part where I live up to the moniker of 'The Asshole.'"
"Turns out there are a lot of very, very bad people on the border of here and Mexico, Johnny. But you already know that. But here's YET ANOTHER fun fact I think you're unaware of...they're so pleasantly easy to reach! A few hundred thousand dollars and they'll gladly network an abduction from, say...South Carolina all the way down to Mexico? They even do package deals!" Veigns face was turning beat red the longer this conversation went on, but his face was painted with a tinge of panic as well, as it was clear he knew where this was going. Whitey's face, however, was a genuine mask of glee and accomplishment. "So if I were to have someone's wife and daughter...'relocated,' to an undisclosed location until he were to leave the country, I could have it done."
"You wouldn't! You're...you're a monster, Ford, but you're not that bad! Do you know what they'd do to Isabella and Maria? Please...please..." Veigns was physically shaking at this point, tears started to form on the corners of his eyes. The diabolical plan was working exactly as it was supposed to.
"Aaah, there's the waterworks!" Ford said excitedly, knowing he had Veigns in the palm of his hand. "I don't want your fucking help, Johnny! Get the fuck out of my life. Murdoc is my charge, you get it? Do you see that? I beat the shit out of his wife but the world wants some pure, straight up fight that I win before I'm viewed as an immortal...as a FUCKING GOD!" Whitey closed the gap between him and Veigns with impressive speed, their faces only an inch away. "I don't want you tarnishing my God damned legacy, and I'm tired of dealing with your ugly fucking face."
Oh, this will be the sweetest part! Whitey then reached into the torn varsity jacket, which still held one inside pocket. He pulled out a single polaroid picture...with a beautiful woman and a young girl who appeared to be no older than five. Both were bound and gagged with rope, and on the back was an address. Ford rolled his eyes, feigning embarrassment as he handed the polaroid over to Johnny. "There I go, mixing up my words again! I didn't mean that I 'could' have it done...I meant I 'did' have it done. Now get the fuck out of my country before I show you the difference between a bodyguard and a real fighter."
________________
Some difference, huh? Ford thought, only a moment or two after the memories came surging back. His head was still submerged in the fish tank, but something was stirring inside of him despite being only a few seconds away from death. Pride, mixed with anger about being upstaged, caused him to bellow out the last of his breath in a roar of rage. My fucking LEGACY! I'm not going out like a bitch, godammit! Veigns had surprised him by getting the best of a top-caliber wrestler, but that was all about to change.
Whitey reached down inside of his sick, dark, evil soul found the strength to rocket an elbow back. Veigns had relaxed everything besides his arms, feeling that Whitey's body had gone completely limp, and he wasn't expecting retaliation at this point. The elbow found it's mark, connecting squarely with Johnny Veign's groin. The blow didn't have a very high effect but it did cause Ford's assailant to loosen his grip by just a bit, and that's all Whitey needed. Ford twisted his head and wrenched it free of Veign's grasp, losing a large tuft of hair in the process. His initial idea of assault was to use one arm to grab the fish tank and whip it around to knock on Veigns in one blow.
But Whitey is a survivor, not a superhero. Instead of lifting the fish tank, his attempt caused him to be pulled to the side of the tank, not directly in the middle. With that stroke of dumb luck, Whitey avoided a massive downwards elbow that probably would have spelled the end. Instead, Veign's arm connected with the top of the fish tank, catching the glass and shattering not only it, his arm as well. Now Veigns' blood joined Whitey's on the floor, gushing from numerous cuts and gashes caused by the glass. Veigns screamed...and Whitey capitalized. A flying elbow, maliciously aimed at his former friends teeth, landed squarely.
But that was all he had. Whitey was battered, cut, bleeding, and recovering from a near death experience. Throwing haymaker blows wasn't an option anymore. The one shot he landed, however, had staggered Veigns towards a nearby sliding glass door that lead to a balcony. Whitey's arms hung loosely at his sides and he was barely able to see through the mask of blood, or even hold up his head for that matter. I can't beat him. But I'm not going out alone...fucking asshole. With one more perceived final inner monologue and a defiant roar, Whitey Ford expended the last of his energy to rocket forward and catch the staggering Johnny Veigns head-first in the solar plexus, driving him back...
...through the glass door...
...and over the railing of the balcony.
______
How much time had passed? Ford tried opening his eyes but only found them blinded momentarily by a flashlight, held by a man wearing an ambulance uniform. After said moment had passed, Ford realized he was strapped down to a stretcher, staring up at the balcony of the same high rise suite he had rented. What he hadn't realized was there was a larger balcony right below it, fit with a pool and a full bar. It was more of a public area for high rollers, but had been shut down for the night. He wasn't so fortunate to land in the pool after his fall, but by the look of Johnny Veigns, he was far more fortunate than him. In a cinematic and almost too good to be true moment, Veigns face (frozen in a death mask of fear,) was covered with a white sheet.
"Lucky guy, this one." Ford heard a voice but couldn't see who it was; his head and neck hurt far too much and he really couldn't give a fuck less.
"Shut up and go look for more evidence upstairs, that dead bastard must have broken in somehow. There has to be signs of entry." Another voice, one that Whitey liked better because he sounded like a prick, piped in to silence the first. Soon after the dull sound of footsteps were heard, and an unfamiliar face leaned over Ford's, a knowing grin plastered there. He wore a brown overcoat and had a badge clipped to his outer pocket, and as he threw Ford a wink, Whitey immediately knew.
Crooked detective. They were everywhere.
"Look, man." The detective "I know who you are. I know what you do and I know that you bribe cops. I may happen to be one of those cops, but we'll talk later. I don't know if you can remember anything, but it appears you and that big guy over there...under the sheet? You had a nasty fall out of that window. Good thing you didn't go out the north side. Anyways...you landed on top of him. He landed on concrete...banged his head real, real bad, end of story, especially with all that blood coming from his arm. You, on the other hand? You look like you died, came back, died again, snuck out of Hell and now you're here...relatively unharmed minus some serious cuts to your dome. I'm no doctor though...but I will see you at the hospital." The detective slapped Ford on the chest as a goodbye, which only garnered a pained groan in response.
Whitey Ford fell into a semi-conscious state, finally succumbing fully to the pain. He was strapped down, after all. He couldn't kill me. Unbelievable. The bastard must have hit me over a hundred times...hard. Beat my head into every blunt and sharp object he could, threw me through a FUCKING WALL...drowned me to death, he must have actually killed me. There's no way.
But I'm still here...still alive.
I even fell a full story onto a balcony and survived! I'm immortal...my legacy is real. There isn't a single person out there who can beat me now, not even Murdoc. Not...even...Murdoc. He can beat me and beat me and beat me, I'll still get back up. I'll still have fight in me, and I will show him what this asshole can do. No help, no bullshit accusations...I am going to beat Murdoc and keep my fucking title. And if Murdoc want's to win? He'll have to do the impossible.
He'll have to kill me.
Whitey Ford came to one last time before reaching the hospital, pushed back into the suite and the wheel of his stretcher had run over an ashtray the ambulance drivers hadn't seen. As he was jolted awake, the two seconds he had to recognize anything were spent on something that made him feel even more victorious.
The polaroid of Isabella and Maria, blowing in the Texas wind, soared right behind a police officers head and off into the night...both the polaroid and those captured in it's picture now lost forever.
...it is still massively painful to be thrown through one by an angry Mexican.
White drywall dust shot into the air along with splintered wood as the PCW World Champion was sent back-first through the wall, from the spacious living area to the equally spacious dining room. He hit the floor with a resonating thud, sliding along the hardwood and cracking his back against the leg of a sizeable oak table, which was jolted half a foot across the floor from the impact. The non-judging walls, even though placed inside of a very expensive Texas suite, sent lightning bolts of pain through every part of his body. Ford spit up a bit of blood, unsure if it was coming from an internal injury or from the umpteen punches and kicks he had endured in the last ten minutes. Coughing up another dark red gob of what was probably supposed to stay inside his body, Whitey forced out a raspy laugh. "C'mon, Johnny, it ain't that bad. You'll find a job in no time, you're a household name!"
Whitey pushed himself up to his hands and knees...WHUMP! He attempted to, anyways. Johnny Veigns was on a rampage, and had leapt through the new doorway he had created with Ford's body much quicker than anticipated, landing a huge haymaker to his (former?) employer. "A household name that everybody hates, because I chose to work for you!" Veigns dragged Ford to his feet, only to smash the bridge of the champions nose on the backing of a dining room chair, also made of oh-so-forgiving oak. "Lemme tell you somethin', Ford! I've worked for some very bad people..." Once again, Veigns knocked Whitey's face off of the chair, blood spurting from a fresh cut in the middle of his forehead. "Drug dealers!"
THUMP!
"Pimps!"
CRUNCH!
"Cartels... " THUD. "...murderers..." WHACK. "...DICTATORS..." SPLAT. "...AND I SWEAR ON THE CROSS THAT YOU ARE THE SICKEST, MOST DIABOLICAL MOTHERFUCKER WHO HAS EVER HANDED ME A PAYCHECK!" Over and over Veigns beat Whitey's skull into the oak frame of the chair, and the last sound his head made when colliding with the furniture can only be described as the wet pop a water balloon makes when it explodes. Blood canvased the floor now, pouring like a fountain from Whitey's battered and beaten face. "You...deserve...to die."
Whitey couldn't remember ever taking a beating as severe as this one, and from a man who made his living and passed his free time getting hit in the head with heavy objects, that's really saying something. His breath was labored, ragged and sharp gasps as he drew air into his bruised lungs and pitiful, defeated groan as he exhaled. Veigns let him go then, dropping him down to rest on both knees, sitting down on his heels. Whitey waved an arm in front of him weakly, all of his strength gone, an obvious sign of submission. Veigns knelt down in front of Whitey, with the latter barely able to notice the seething hatred in his Mexican bodyguards eyes. Ford flashed a grin, surprisingly only two teeth less than before he was given the beating. "You have something to say before you die, you son of a bitch?" Veigns said with an malicious, promising tone.
"Uhhhgnnn..." Whitey tried to speak, but was unable to; but only for a minute. His pride swelled, possibly for the last time, and Ford coughed as hard as he could. Blood splattered the face of Johnny Veigns, who looked more surprised than angry at the sign of defiance. "I hope they kill your wife, but not before they have their fun with her."
Ford couldn't remember anything very clearly for the next few minutes. The last thing he remembered was laughing, glad that he could die having the last word, and then the sound of glass breaking. He had no idea what Veigns had hit him with but he somehow bled even more than he already was. He had brief glimpses of a trail of his own blood, enough to be straight out of a SAW movie. It was almost euphoric, as he felt very little pain anymore, and was barely aware of being picked up off the ground, turned around, and...he was awake again, thanks to the cold water of a sizeable aquarium.
Fucking A, I hate fish. I've always hated fish, and now I know why. Whitey couldn't even remember where he was or why there was an aquarium, but as he sat there, helpless, with Johnny Veigns holding his head underwater, everything seemed to slow down. A beta fish drifted in front of his fluttering eyes, and if looks could kill that beta would be dead. Just like Whitey Ford was sure to be.
I'm going to die. Yep, this is it, world. At least I didn't go out like a bitch, I got a cool movie villain line in right before I got drowned in a fish tank full of asshole fish. What led to this, I wonder? What did I do to push this ugly bastard over the edge to the point of wanting to kill me? I guess Murdoc won't get the chance to kill me now after all.... Ford's death monologue was cut short in his own head, as memories of just fifteen minutes before came flooding into his mind.
________
He had rented a high rise suite in Austin, somewhere he had always enjoyed being because of the good security and crooked police ready to take a buck to look the other way. Ford was dressed randomly as always, wearing torn jeans and his old Marshall's Law cutoff varsity vest. In the past few weeks he had been in a reminiscent mood, looking back at the incredible journey he had taken to get to the top of the PCW. A pinky-finger sized line of cocaine was laid out in front of him on the dining room table, but not for long. With a large haul from one nostril, the narcotics were gone. Whitey leaned back in an oak chair, not yet stained with crimson, and let loose a sigh of happiness. Things are good. Whitey thought to himself. I get to finish of the Duo of Droll by beating that overrated mask wearing fuckhead, I have Texas cocaine which tastes just like the crushed dreams of country singers...which happens to be my favorite kind of crushed dream...and I've finally cemented my place in the halls of wrestling legends. Well, unofficially of course.
Ford's happy thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice that didn't hide its irritation. "Is this what you called me out here to fuckin' Texas, boss? Really? You flew me out to this shithole redneck state just so I could watch you do lines of blow and smile quietly like an idiot?"
"Johnny! Johnny Veigns, I forgot you were there. This shit is good. I mean, really good. I would have shared, but you know, MJW pays you well enough to buy your own goddam shit." A light bulb turned on in Whitey's ever so drugged up mind, and he remembered the actual reason he had gotten his bodyguard, who was previously on vacation, to come to Texas. "Well, paid is actually the better word."
The imposing Mexican raised an impressively-sized eyebrow. "Paid? Don't give me that shit, Ford, I'm the only one you have left. You can't fire me, you'll be on your own against Murdoc."
"Well, no shit, I can't fire you. You're not my employee to fire, my pea brained fence jumping gorilla! Windsor hired you, not me." Whitey leaned forward across the table towards where Veigns was sitting. His un-employee, per say, did the same. Both men were volatile and dangerous, and neither was going to look like the weak party in this situation. "See, you may not know this, but Windsor and I had a little bit of...well, a falling out. You may have heard it was a fight, but no, our falling out came at the hands of his lawyers. My money is no longer in his hands; it's all in my separate accounts, and he is no longer my Pure Class Wrestling manager. Turns out, though, that Britain's don't keep the company of Mexicans unless it's beneficial to them, so he cut you loose and gave me the option to renew your contract under new terms."
Ford plugged one nostril and snorted back the drip that had begun from the cocaine. All the while Veigns looked on with a wry smirk on his face, as if he had anticipated this day to come. "Turns out, Johnny, that drug addicted alcoholic World Champions don't associate with Mexicans either, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut you loose."
"Good try, Whitey, but I have an ironclad contract that states you have to keep me employed, whether through you or Windsor, until 2016. And I'm going to have to...y'know, make you guys keep your word." Veigns smiled triumphantly and pushed his chair backwards. "So if you don't want my company...SIR...I think I'll go elsewhere and get paid for free for the next two years." Veigns headed for the front door, walking behind Whitey with cocky strides that implied he had achieved victory, but the World Champion wasn't going to be had.
"What you also probably don't know is that I'm aware of that stipulation in your contract...or that I acquired one of the lawyers who used to work for Michael Wryght...you know, the legal geniuses who got me off on a murder charge." As soon as those sentences left Whiteys' mouth, Veigns stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around. Ford remained seated, gloating in his impending victory. "See, it turns out that if you leave the country unaccompanied by me or 'Michelle' John Windsor, your contract is null and void."
Veigns opened his mouth to protest with a laugh, but Whitey threw one finger up to tell him to wait, still not turning around to face him. "But I know you're not all that dumb, Johnny. I know you wouldn't leave the country for anything if you're getting a free paycheck. You'd move to fuckin' Nebraska if that's what it took. So I called Border Control, tried to get you deported. You're the only legal Mexican immigrant I've ever met, so that plan went down the gutter too." Whitey stood up then, calmly turning to face Veigns. Ford leaned back against the table and crossed his arms, a smug look upon his face. "Now this...THIS is the part where I live up to the moniker of 'The Asshole.'"
"Turns out there are a lot of very, very bad people on the border of here and Mexico, Johnny. But you already know that. But here's YET ANOTHER fun fact I think you're unaware of...they're so pleasantly easy to reach! A few hundred thousand dollars and they'll gladly network an abduction from, say...South Carolina all the way down to Mexico? They even do package deals!" Veigns face was turning beat red the longer this conversation went on, but his face was painted with a tinge of panic as well, as it was clear he knew where this was going. Whitey's face, however, was a genuine mask of glee and accomplishment. "So if I were to have someone's wife and daughter...'relocated,' to an undisclosed location until he were to leave the country, I could have it done."
"You wouldn't! You're...you're a monster, Ford, but you're not that bad! Do you know what they'd do to Isabella and Maria? Please...please..." Veigns was physically shaking at this point, tears started to form on the corners of his eyes. The diabolical plan was working exactly as it was supposed to.
"Aaah, there's the waterworks!" Ford said excitedly, knowing he had Veigns in the palm of his hand. "I don't want your fucking help, Johnny! Get the fuck out of my life. Murdoc is my charge, you get it? Do you see that? I beat the shit out of his wife but the world wants some pure, straight up fight that I win before I'm viewed as an immortal...as a FUCKING GOD!" Whitey closed the gap between him and Veigns with impressive speed, their faces only an inch away. "I don't want you tarnishing my God damned legacy, and I'm tired of dealing with your ugly fucking face."
Oh, this will be the sweetest part! Whitey then reached into the torn varsity jacket, which still held one inside pocket. He pulled out a single polaroid picture...with a beautiful woman and a young girl who appeared to be no older than five. Both were bound and gagged with rope, and on the back was an address. Ford rolled his eyes, feigning embarrassment as he handed the polaroid over to Johnny. "There I go, mixing up my words again! I didn't mean that I 'could' have it done...I meant I 'did' have it done. Now get the fuck out of my country before I show you the difference between a bodyguard and a real fighter."
________________
Some difference, huh? Ford thought, only a moment or two after the memories came surging back. His head was still submerged in the fish tank, but something was stirring inside of him despite being only a few seconds away from death. Pride, mixed with anger about being upstaged, caused him to bellow out the last of his breath in a roar of rage. My fucking LEGACY! I'm not going out like a bitch, godammit! Veigns had surprised him by getting the best of a top-caliber wrestler, but that was all about to change.
Whitey reached down inside of his sick, dark, evil soul found the strength to rocket an elbow back. Veigns had relaxed everything besides his arms, feeling that Whitey's body had gone completely limp, and he wasn't expecting retaliation at this point. The elbow found it's mark, connecting squarely with Johnny Veign's groin. The blow didn't have a very high effect but it did cause Ford's assailant to loosen his grip by just a bit, and that's all Whitey needed. Ford twisted his head and wrenched it free of Veign's grasp, losing a large tuft of hair in the process. His initial idea of assault was to use one arm to grab the fish tank and whip it around to knock on Veigns in one blow.
But Whitey is a survivor, not a superhero. Instead of lifting the fish tank, his attempt caused him to be pulled to the side of the tank, not directly in the middle. With that stroke of dumb luck, Whitey avoided a massive downwards elbow that probably would have spelled the end. Instead, Veign's arm connected with the top of the fish tank, catching the glass and shattering not only it, his arm as well. Now Veigns' blood joined Whitey's on the floor, gushing from numerous cuts and gashes caused by the glass. Veigns screamed...and Whitey capitalized. A flying elbow, maliciously aimed at his former friends teeth, landed squarely.
But that was all he had. Whitey was battered, cut, bleeding, and recovering from a near death experience. Throwing haymaker blows wasn't an option anymore. The one shot he landed, however, had staggered Veigns towards a nearby sliding glass door that lead to a balcony. Whitey's arms hung loosely at his sides and he was barely able to see through the mask of blood, or even hold up his head for that matter. I can't beat him. But I'm not going out alone...fucking asshole. With one more perceived final inner monologue and a defiant roar, Whitey Ford expended the last of his energy to rocket forward and catch the staggering Johnny Veigns head-first in the solar plexus, driving him back...
...through the glass door...
...and over the railing of the balcony.
______
How much time had passed? Ford tried opening his eyes but only found them blinded momentarily by a flashlight, held by a man wearing an ambulance uniform. After said moment had passed, Ford realized he was strapped down to a stretcher, staring up at the balcony of the same high rise suite he had rented. What he hadn't realized was there was a larger balcony right below it, fit with a pool and a full bar. It was more of a public area for high rollers, but had been shut down for the night. He wasn't so fortunate to land in the pool after his fall, but by the look of Johnny Veigns, he was far more fortunate than him. In a cinematic and almost too good to be true moment, Veigns face (frozen in a death mask of fear,) was covered with a white sheet.
"Lucky guy, this one." Ford heard a voice but couldn't see who it was; his head and neck hurt far too much and he really couldn't give a fuck less.
"Shut up and go look for more evidence upstairs, that dead bastard must have broken in somehow. There has to be signs of entry." Another voice, one that Whitey liked better because he sounded like a prick, piped in to silence the first. Soon after the dull sound of footsteps were heard, and an unfamiliar face leaned over Ford's, a knowing grin plastered there. He wore a brown overcoat and had a badge clipped to his outer pocket, and as he threw Ford a wink, Whitey immediately knew.
Crooked detective. They were everywhere.
"Look, man." The detective "I know who you are. I know what you do and I know that you bribe cops. I may happen to be one of those cops, but we'll talk later. I don't know if you can remember anything, but it appears you and that big guy over there...under the sheet? You had a nasty fall out of that window. Good thing you didn't go out the north side. Anyways...you landed on top of him. He landed on concrete...banged his head real, real bad, end of story, especially with all that blood coming from his arm. You, on the other hand? You look like you died, came back, died again, snuck out of Hell and now you're here...relatively unharmed minus some serious cuts to your dome. I'm no doctor though...but I will see you at the hospital." The detective slapped Ford on the chest as a goodbye, which only garnered a pained groan in response.
Whitey Ford fell into a semi-conscious state, finally succumbing fully to the pain. He was strapped down, after all. He couldn't kill me. Unbelievable. The bastard must have hit me over a hundred times...hard. Beat my head into every blunt and sharp object he could, threw me through a FUCKING WALL...drowned me to death, he must have actually killed me. There's no way.
But I'm still here...still alive.
I even fell a full story onto a balcony and survived! I'm immortal...my legacy is real. There isn't a single person out there who can beat me now, not even Murdoc. Not...even...Murdoc. He can beat me and beat me and beat me, I'll still get back up. I'll still have fight in me, and I will show him what this asshole can do. No help, no bullshit accusations...I am going to beat Murdoc and keep my fucking title. And if Murdoc want's to win? He'll have to do the impossible.
He'll have to kill me.
Whitey Ford came to one last time before reaching the hospital, pushed back into the suite and the wheel of his stretcher had run over an ashtray the ambulance drivers hadn't seen. As he was jolted awake, the two seconds he had to recognize anything were spent on something that made him feel even more victorious.
The polaroid of Isabella and Maria, blowing in the Texas wind, soared right behind a police officers head and off into the night...both the polaroid and those captured in it's picture now lost forever.