Post by Mr. Showtime on Apr 8, 2015 21:02:54 GMT -5
The four point seven liter engine of the black Maserati GranTurismo MC was roaring down the back roads of Greenville, South Carolina. All eight cylinders were being pushed to their maximum performance as the driver shifted into sixth gear. Four hundred and sixty horse powers were in use as the sports vehicle surpassed a hundred and eighty miles an hour.
The super sports car was a gift to non-other than “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght, and he made quick use of it when he saw the carnage at his New Jersey Estate. The walls were littered with holes. The place reeked of urine and feces where Cory Steel and his minions left their marks. If Showtime caught them in the act he’d be facing murder charges. Unluckily for them, he had time to let this insult fester.
He was blind with rage as his coupe bit each turns corner. Any other day he’d be appreciating the extreme performance. At first he checked for any police vehicles, but if they clocked him now they’d never be able to catch him. He had one destination in mind, and he’d need to do everything in his power not to burn this one down.
He turned the wheel in a tight spin, coming to a sudden halt in front of “The Saint’s Club.” Motorcycles lined the front of the establishment and now it stank of burned rubber. Just before Showtime could storm through the entrance, demanding Steel’s head, he had a better idea. An idea that would make him come to Showtime.
Wryght turned his attention to the dozens of motorcycles that decorated the parking lot. With a swift kick one after another fell like a twisted metal version of dominos. Showtime sadistically smiled as the last domino fell. It didn’t take long for the tavern to clear out. Wryght found himself confronted by a band of extremely pissed off bikers, and not caring about the consequences. He knew very well that there was very few things in this world that a biker cherished more than his ride.
“I’m going to make this quick,” declared Showtime with a sneer. It caused everyone else to quiet down and narrow their eyes at him. “If you send out Steel, Judge and the other clowns that paid me a visit the rest of you will be free to go.”
Showtime half expected the mob to begin laughing at him. He was standing in front of at least thirty advisories, all of which looking dumber than the next. After what Showtime had done to them they were in no laughing mood. A bald man, wearing a denim vest, smacked the two men flanking his shoulders in the chest. The three approached, which was exactly what Showtime had hoped for. Idiots were so predictable.
Instead of everyone coming at once he was able to make an example of a few. These men were no strangers to a fight, but they mostly dealt with drunkards and other scum of the earth. They obviously knew who Showtime was, but didn’t take into account that he was a professional fighter and they’d been drinking. The two on the wings suddenly rushed Wryght. He made short work of them, ending with both of their heads colliding with the other. They dropped quickly and were out cold. The leader of this trio, thinking he was at an advantage, tried to attack Showtime from behind. Wryght was ready for it though, catching the attacker’s wrist and devastating him with a short arm clothesline. He corkscrewed midair and landed face down.
“None of you have done anything wrong, and I’m a half reasonable man,” continued Showtime, as if the three never approached him in the first place. “I’m only looking for Steel and his minions. No one else needs to get hurt.”
“I’ll show you hurt!” exclaimed someone from the crowd, causing an uproar of approval. A few of the men came forward receiving the same fate as the original three. Though it wasn’t long before the hoard of bikers got wise and all joined in. Showtime stood his ground, breaking as many noses and jaws as he could in the process. He even heard the pop of a dislocated shoulder, but couldn’t tell you who it came from. The mob finally got the upper hand when a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon was smashed over Showtime’s skull. It was followed by a flash of blinding white and Showtime staggered to one knee. His world was spinning as he fought to maintain consciousness, but his undoing came when a second bottle, this time Budweiser, exploded into his cranium turning out the lights.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Showtime awoke with as warm droplets fell upon his head. He tried to shake off the cobwebs, but everything was so bright. He wrote it off as a concussion, before he realized something grander was occurring. The bright light was emanating not from the contusion on Showtime brain, but from a large white house. It emanated something more than light. It gave Showtime the feeling of hope and purpose. Wherever he was, this was exactly where he was meant to be.
“What is all of this?” replied Showtime, beginning to actually fear the awesomeness that stood in front of him. A man dressed in white emerged from the house, and approached. The light around him shadowed his front, but his voice sang like an angle.
“Who?” asked Showtime, completely baffled.
With that the man placed his hand on Showtime’s bearded cheek, washing away all doubt. He knew that this was a prophecy that he needed to decipher. It was angelic, until the being lightly slapped Showtime. Then a second time, but the third time is when he rushed back to consciousness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Showtime came back in a euphoric state. The moment the man, he assumed it was a man, touched his face things became clearer. Everything that he had done for the Black Hand was immediately justified in his mind. There were greater powers at work here that reached much further than man. He knew that the prophecy was charging him to succeed in winning the Icemann Invitational Tournament. It was the only true way to protect the gold. It must be in reference to the PCW World Title. The Black Hand had put so much emphasis on securing that in the beginning that Showtime even sacrificed himself so Sadistic could take it.
What Showtime didn’t realize was that he was no longer stuck in a vision, but was very much in danger. He was tied to chair, and the room was spinning. The back of a man’s hand crashed across his face sending jarring pains through his upper half. The man was a mountain with tattoos covering his body, even his face. The man went for another blow, before realizing that Showtime had drifted back to reality. Of course the man had no idea where Showtime’s consciousness went, for his body was dragged into a private room in the back of ”The Saint’s Club”.
“Steel,” is all Showtime could muster at first. He knew that Steel was the traitor mentioned, but other than that there was nothing he could decipher so quickly.
“You’re sure you tied him securely?” came another voice in the room. Showtime recognized it as Victor Creed’s.
“Of course I did, there is no getting out of these bonds,” replied the tattooed man with a sneer. He backhanded Showtime again, for good measure, though he scratched his neck revealing a tattooed black hand. Realizing what he was looking at, Showtime found that the bindings around his arms were tight but those around his wrists were very loose.
“Okay, then go outside and watch the door,” Creed demanded, throwing a giant Bowie knife into the table. As mountainous man made his way to the door Creed added, “And no matter what, open that door for no one.”
Once alone Creed grabbed the knife to run it across Showtime’s face and said, “You really are lucky, you know. If it weren’t for me those savages outside would have ripped you limb from limb. My guess is that they would have drawn and quartered you with the four most powerful bikes. Though Corey wouldn’t have liked that. He wants you for himself.”
Showtime spat in Creed’s face, but it only caused the man to smile before he continued, “Now the way I see it is that he won’t mind if I take a little something in return. After all, one of those bikes was mine that you kicked over and now it’s ruined. I was already planning on taking your sweet ride, but that’s not enough. I think a pinkie will even the score.”
Showtime’s bright blue eyes bore into Creed as he smiled sadistically. Creed was spinning the knife around in his hand. He took a step forward, but was halted when Showtime spoke up, “I don’t understand how you can follow a man like Steel. He has no integrity.”
“Ha, that’s rich coming from you.”
“What? Are you going to quote him on how I never wanted him in The Black Hand? That with the power the three of us have, who needs an enforcer? He was a puppet the whole time and the only one that didn’t know it was him. We put him in the place to take over the underground, because none of us were going to. It didn’t interfere with our plans and we were going to use him till the end. In all honestly I should be the only one he likes out of the trio. I was the only one that told him the truth. He’s a mindless coward that couldn’t see what was truly in front of him. He’s a joke Creed, and so are you.”
“You watch your mouth!”
“You want to jump Creed? Come on! Come on Creed, JUMP!” and when provoked an idiot will always fall for the trap. With the knife in hand, Creed attacked, not knowing that Showtime’s hands had been free the whole conversation. Showtime kicked Creed in the gut propelling himself back and leaving his chair in pieces. The ropes fell from Showtime like a dead snake and as Creed sucked wind to catch his breath. He knew he was done for. Showtime sent a kick to Creed’s face that loosened a few teeth. He grabbed Steel’s friend and tossed him through the table he once stuck the knife in. By the end Victor was lying face down, blood pooling around his unconscious head.
Showtime notices a stack of Cory Steel headshots, courtesy of Pure Class Wrestling. All of the Superstars needed to sign them to be sold at the shows, even the bottom of the barrel like Steel. Showtime grabbed the top one and the knife from the floor. He pinned the photo to the wall with the knife, almost as if Cory had put it there himself.
“Unlike your boy Steel, I send my own messages,” said Showtime as he kneels over the prone body of Creed. He places his hand in the pool of blood, then proceeds to mark a hand print over Steel’s glossy. It wasn’t black, but the point wouldn’t be missed.
“You really are lucky, you know,” mocked Showtime. “Because I should burn this place to the ground. Cory is going to rue the day he ever crossed Mr. Showtime. NEX ADDO!”
With that Showtime exited the back room and walked out into the main bar area. The tattooed man was long gone, knowing that he’d get blamed for letting Showtime escape. All of the other patrons looks on with utter amazement. There was Showtime, hand dripping with Creed’s blood, walking out like he owned the place.
The super sports car was a gift to non-other than “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght, and he made quick use of it when he saw the carnage at his New Jersey Estate. The walls were littered with holes. The place reeked of urine and feces where Cory Steel and his minions left their marks. If Showtime caught them in the act he’d be facing murder charges. Unluckily for them, he had time to let this insult fester.
He was blind with rage as his coupe bit each turns corner. Any other day he’d be appreciating the extreme performance. At first he checked for any police vehicles, but if they clocked him now they’d never be able to catch him. He had one destination in mind, and he’d need to do everything in his power not to burn this one down.
He turned the wheel in a tight spin, coming to a sudden halt in front of “The Saint’s Club.” Motorcycles lined the front of the establishment and now it stank of burned rubber. Just before Showtime could storm through the entrance, demanding Steel’s head, he had a better idea. An idea that would make him come to Showtime.
Wryght turned his attention to the dozens of motorcycles that decorated the parking lot. With a swift kick one after another fell like a twisted metal version of dominos. Showtime sadistically smiled as the last domino fell. It didn’t take long for the tavern to clear out. Wryght found himself confronted by a band of extremely pissed off bikers, and not caring about the consequences. He knew very well that there was very few things in this world that a biker cherished more than his ride.
“I’m going to make this quick,” declared Showtime with a sneer. It caused everyone else to quiet down and narrow their eyes at him. “If you send out Steel, Judge and the other clowns that paid me a visit the rest of you will be free to go.”
Showtime half expected the mob to begin laughing at him. He was standing in front of at least thirty advisories, all of which looking dumber than the next. After what Showtime had done to them they were in no laughing mood. A bald man, wearing a denim vest, smacked the two men flanking his shoulders in the chest. The three approached, which was exactly what Showtime had hoped for. Idiots were so predictable.
Instead of everyone coming at once he was able to make an example of a few. These men were no strangers to a fight, but they mostly dealt with drunkards and other scum of the earth. They obviously knew who Showtime was, but didn’t take into account that he was a professional fighter and they’d been drinking. The two on the wings suddenly rushed Wryght. He made short work of them, ending with both of their heads colliding with the other. They dropped quickly and were out cold. The leader of this trio, thinking he was at an advantage, tried to attack Showtime from behind. Wryght was ready for it though, catching the attacker’s wrist and devastating him with a short arm clothesline. He corkscrewed midair and landed face down.
“None of you have done anything wrong, and I’m a half reasonable man,” continued Showtime, as if the three never approached him in the first place. “I’m only looking for Steel and his minions. No one else needs to get hurt.”
“I’ll show you hurt!” exclaimed someone from the crowd, causing an uproar of approval. A few of the men came forward receiving the same fate as the original three. Though it wasn’t long before the hoard of bikers got wise and all joined in. Showtime stood his ground, breaking as many noses and jaws as he could in the process. He even heard the pop of a dislocated shoulder, but couldn’t tell you who it came from. The mob finally got the upper hand when a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon was smashed over Showtime’s skull. It was followed by a flash of blinding white and Showtime staggered to one knee. His world was spinning as he fought to maintain consciousness, but his undoing came when a second bottle, this time Budweiser, exploded into his cranium turning out the lights.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Showtime awoke with as warm droplets fell upon his head. He tried to shake off the cobwebs, but everything was so bright. He wrote it off as a concussion, before he realized something grander was occurring. The bright light was emanating not from the contusion on Showtime brain, but from a large white house. It emanated something more than light. It gave Showtime the feeling of hope and purpose. Wherever he was, this was exactly where he was meant to be.
Friend to Foe.
Foe to Friend.
It will never be the same in the end.
Foe to Friend.
It will never be the same in the end.
“What is all of this?” replied Showtime, beginning to actually fear the awesomeness that stood in front of him. A man dressed in white emerged from the house, and approached. The light around him shadowed his front, but his voice sang like an angle.
You are the Baptist.
You must pave the way.
You must prepare for their arrival.
You must pave the way.
You must prepare for their arrival.
“Who?” asked Showtime, completely baffled.
Protect the gold.
A traitor will fall.
A foe will see.
A savior will rise.
A traitor will fall.
A foe will see.
A savior will rise.
With that the man placed his hand on Showtime’s bearded cheek, washing away all doubt. He knew that this was a prophecy that he needed to decipher. It was angelic, until the being lightly slapped Showtime. Then a second time, but the third time is when he rushed back to consciousness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Showtime came back in a euphoric state. The moment the man, he assumed it was a man, touched his face things became clearer. Everything that he had done for the Black Hand was immediately justified in his mind. There were greater powers at work here that reached much further than man. He knew that the prophecy was charging him to succeed in winning the Icemann Invitational Tournament. It was the only true way to protect the gold. It must be in reference to the PCW World Title. The Black Hand had put so much emphasis on securing that in the beginning that Showtime even sacrificed himself so Sadistic could take it.
What Showtime didn’t realize was that he was no longer stuck in a vision, but was very much in danger. He was tied to chair, and the room was spinning. The back of a man’s hand crashed across his face sending jarring pains through his upper half. The man was a mountain with tattoos covering his body, even his face. The man went for another blow, before realizing that Showtime had drifted back to reality. Of course the man had no idea where Showtime’s consciousness went, for his body was dragged into a private room in the back of ”The Saint’s Club”.
“Steel,” is all Showtime could muster at first. He knew that Steel was the traitor mentioned, but other than that there was nothing he could decipher so quickly.
“You’re sure you tied him securely?” came another voice in the room. Showtime recognized it as Victor Creed’s.
“Of course I did, there is no getting out of these bonds,” replied the tattooed man with a sneer. He backhanded Showtime again, for good measure, though he scratched his neck revealing a tattooed black hand. Realizing what he was looking at, Showtime found that the bindings around his arms were tight but those around his wrists were very loose.
“Okay, then go outside and watch the door,” Creed demanded, throwing a giant Bowie knife into the table. As mountainous man made his way to the door Creed added, “And no matter what, open that door for no one.”
Once alone Creed grabbed the knife to run it across Showtime’s face and said, “You really are lucky, you know. If it weren’t for me those savages outside would have ripped you limb from limb. My guess is that they would have drawn and quartered you with the four most powerful bikes. Though Corey wouldn’t have liked that. He wants you for himself.”
Showtime spat in Creed’s face, but it only caused the man to smile before he continued, “Now the way I see it is that he won’t mind if I take a little something in return. After all, one of those bikes was mine that you kicked over and now it’s ruined. I was already planning on taking your sweet ride, but that’s not enough. I think a pinkie will even the score.”
Showtime’s bright blue eyes bore into Creed as he smiled sadistically. Creed was spinning the knife around in his hand. He took a step forward, but was halted when Showtime spoke up, “I don’t understand how you can follow a man like Steel. He has no integrity.”
“Ha, that’s rich coming from you.”
“What? Are you going to quote him on how I never wanted him in The Black Hand? That with the power the three of us have, who needs an enforcer? He was a puppet the whole time and the only one that didn’t know it was him. We put him in the place to take over the underground, because none of us were going to. It didn’t interfere with our plans and we were going to use him till the end. In all honestly I should be the only one he likes out of the trio. I was the only one that told him the truth. He’s a mindless coward that couldn’t see what was truly in front of him. He’s a joke Creed, and so are you.”
“You watch your mouth!”
“You want to jump Creed? Come on! Come on Creed, JUMP!” and when provoked an idiot will always fall for the trap. With the knife in hand, Creed attacked, not knowing that Showtime’s hands had been free the whole conversation. Showtime kicked Creed in the gut propelling himself back and leaving his chair in pieces. The ropes fell from Showtime like a dead snake and as Creed sucked wind to catch his breath. He knew he was done for. Showtime sent a kick to Creed’s face that loosened a few teeth. He grabbed Steel’s friend and tossed him through the table he once stuck the knife in. By the end Victor was lying face down, blood pooling around his unconscious head.
Showtime notices a stack of Cory Steel headshots, courtesy of Pure Class Wrestling. All of the Superstars needed to sign them to be sold at the shows, even the bottom of the barrel like Steel. Showtime grabbed the top one and the knife from the floor. He pinned the photo to the wall with the knife, almost as if Cory had put it there himself.
“Unlike your boy Steel, I send my own messages,” said Showtime as he kneels over the prone body of Creed. He places his hand in the pool of blood, then proceeds to mark a hand print over Steel’s glossy. It wasn’t black, but the point wouldn’t be missed.
“You really are lucky, you know,” mocked Showtime. “Because I should burn this place to the ground. Cory is going to rue the day he ever crossed Mr. Showtime. NEX ADDO!”
With that Showtime exited the back room and walked out into the main bar area. The tattooed man was long gone, knowing that he’d get blamed for letting Showtime escape. All of the other patrons looks on with utter amazement. There was Showtime, hand dripping with Creed’s blood, walking out like he owned the place.
