Post by Sadistic on Sept 17, 2015 23:34:25 GMT -5
It was the single most brutal match of his twenty-five year career. Period.
He'd drilled her with the Sadistic DDT on the unforgiving cathedral floor, of that much he was certain. Those glazed over anti-freeze green eyes were clearly on autopilot. Blood flowed freely from Sadistic's chest and upper back as he struggled just to cover his equally bloody arch nemesis. After the third toll of the bell, Billy weakly rolled onto his back as a slight drizzle began to pepper the old stone structure. Each gasp of air was a struggle. Billy reached for the gruesome, gaping wound where the broken stone cross impaled him through the back and burst out of his chest. Sadistic tilted his head in search of Eira, but she'd vanished, along with the giant, all-to-familiar priest. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he rolled onto his stomach and began crawling towards the broken outer wall of the cathedral. The rain started dumping as lightning splintered across the sky.
“...”
Billy opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that escaped his lips was a stream of blood.
Phinehas? Michael? Justin? … Ruth? … Kelli? … … Somebody?
Billy attempted to raise up on his hands and knees, but his strength had left him. Still, he dragged himself along on his elbows. As his vision started to fade, he was barely able to make out his saving grace. Jogging up the side of the hill in the downpour, his fiery red hair was streaked against his face. It was Phinehas.
Family is everything.
There was some worry as to whether the PCW World Champion would even be able to make it to the main event of Trauma 179. Frank Foley, in a show of authority, had opted to put Billy Sadistic through a gauntlet leading up to Deadly Intentions VI. A World Championship defense on Trauma was incredibly rare, but two of them back to back leading into a third at the pay-per-view was downright unheard of. And if giving Eira a crack at Sadistic in a match of her choosing wasn't ludicrous enough...
“I'll be back in an hour,” Ruth reassured her older brother. The stern Dillinger sister carried a wooden pail overflowing with blood-stained rags. “Just make sure you keep your torso elevated.” With that, she closed the door. Even her notoriously granite scowl was etched with worry.
...Gem would get a shot – ANOTHER shot – inside of a steel cage. Normally, Sadistic would relish in the opportunity to avenge his only singles loss to Gem...but he'd been bed-ridden for the better part of the past two weeks and was barely able to walk, let alone fight. Sadistic wondered whether Eira would be elated or disappointed to know that she'd nearly finished him off once and for all.
Grimm entered through the front door with a solemn expression on his face. “How is he?” The question was aimed at Ruth, the look of worry uncharacteristic on his bearded mug. After dragging his older brother through the front door sopping wet and leaking blood two weeks ago, Grimm's face told a story of dire desperation. If only he'd known just how close they'd come to losing him.
If...IF...Sadistic were somehow able to walk into the Pure Class Arena on Tuesday to defend the Black Hand's World Championship, he'd be doing so against the professional instruction of any competent doctor, had he chosen to visit one. But he hadn't.
Dead Man Walking.
Months ago, Sadistic had enjoyed a distinct advantage over Gem who'd fought him valiantly on a destroyed knee. Oh, how the tables had turned. At Trauma, the young assassin would have the pleasure of facing off against a walking bag of meat with the grandest prize in the industry on the line...inside of a fifteen foot high steel cage! Nobody enters. Nobody exits. One-on-one in the center of the ring.
How ironic. For at their last encounter at Return to Glory, it was Gem's dear old dad who'd interrupted a perfectly good beating. Lantlas had effectively cost his daughter a match which she was well on her way to losing.
Little Miss Perpetual Victim, you are but a walking cliché.
Justin and Michael, Billy's Black Hand brothers, arrived simultaneously. Their handsome faces both bore signs of concern. Ruth put them at ease with a slight nod. Although the elder Dillinger had arrived hanging on by a string, his sister had done an admirable job of nursing him back to health.
“How's he hanging in there?” came Showtime's inquiry. Despite their recent tension, Showtime had been the one person who'd been by his side through thick and thin.
“There's no way he'll be able to go at Trauma,” was Stormm's expert analysis.
“He'll be back on his feet in no time,” quipped Ruth nonchalantly. It was as if this whole thing were nothing more than a walk in the park for the backbone of the Dillinger clan. Yet it was Phinehas and Ruth leveling concerned gazes towards William's bedroom. The twinkle in Grimm's glacial pupils brought back a wave of memories.
Family is everything.
It was a gloriously beautiful day in the Bluegrass state as a young, preadolescent William Dillinger and his equally youthful little brother, Phinehas, frolicked down by the big river. Little William's anti-freeze green eyes were mischievous rather than haunting as he and his younger brother huddled beneath a tree to play a game. Grandfather Dillinger watched from the backyard in his wheelchair, a galvanized cooler full of ice cubes and Old Milwaukee beer bottles beside him. The old man was always reliable for a good lesson.
“I also see a big red barn,” continued little William, tracing his finger along his younger brother's palm.
Phinehas eyed his older brother skeptically. Even at a young age, nothing betrayed his steel blue stare. “It doesn't make any sense,” said Phinehas, his shaggy crimson locks hanging past his brows. “You can't possibly tell the future just from looking at my palm.”
“Oh, yes you can!” blurted William. “I learnt it from that old psycho lady in town.”
“You mean psychic?” came a condescending Phinehas. “Dummy.”
“Yeah,” confirmed William, brushing off the insult. “Mother Theresa Whitedove, or Madame Le Strange, or some crap. You know who I mean! And I know all her techniques.”
Phinehas was not convinced, but William continued nevertheless.
“And right here crossing your palm from left to right...this line tells me that you really won't have a very long life,” declared William. Young Phinehas arched an eyebrow. “And right here...I'm seeing some sort of...what looks like...a big...giant...pond!”
With that, William deposited a phenomenal glob of spit into Phinehas' palm! The fiery-haired youngster was stunned and quickly flicked the saliva from his hand. William's pint-sized cackle was an annoying sort of high pitched. Grandfather Dillinger watched from his wheelchair as a hint of a smirk crept across his face. A furious little Phinehas stormmed over to his grandpa, his face glowing redder by the second.
“What's wrong, Phinny,” rasped the weathered old man.
“Papi, Billy spit in my hand,” blurted Phinehas. “I hate him. I want to hit him...or paralyze him...or...or...I wish he was dead!” William continued to dance and laugh hysterically beneath the old tree in the background.
Grandfather Dillinger looked upon his youngest grandchild with hard eyes. With a disappointed shake of his head, the old man blasted off a quick whistle to summon his oldest grandchild. William reluctantly jogged up to his grandfather. “Yes, Papi?”
“Willy, why don't you grab your Papi a beer?” The wise old man waited patiently for his drink. William was glad to reach into the tub of ice and retrieve a bottle of Old Milwaukee. The raven-haired boy wiped the excess water and ice off the bottle before handing it to his grandpa. Grandfather Dillinger simply shook his head. “No. Why don't you grab me a cold one?”
Nodding his head, William reached down into the bottom of the chest to grab his Papi the coldest bottle. And that's when his grandfather's hand found the back of his head. Holding firm, Grandfather Dillinger's sinewy arm thrust William's head into icy water. Poor William struggled mightily, but the wiry old man's strength was absolute. Phinehas watched on in horror as William began to flail wildly.
“Stop,” ordered Phinehas, but Papi refused to listen. His charcoal gaze rested on Phinehas as the younger Dillinger attempted to jerk his grandpa's arm free. Try as he might, but the old man's grip was firm. “Papi! Let him go!” Phinehas began to beat his fists against his grandfather's chest.
“He doesn't have long down there,” warned Grandfather Dillinger. “If you want to free him, you're going to have to try harder than that.” William's legs were beginning to kick and spasm as he tried desperately to free himself from the freezing water. Phinehas continued to pound away on his grandfather's chest before finally winding up and clocking him in the jaw with a haymaker!
The old man's head was snapped to the side and he released William from his watery demise. The future Phenom gasped air into his burning lungs as Phinehas knelt by his side. Their grandfather stood and turned to address them with harsh eyes.
“Family is everything,” taught Papi. “You'd do well to remember that.”
Ruth ladled a heaping helping of delicious smelling stew into the Black Hand members' bowls seated around the antique dining room table. Phinehas wasted no time digging in. "Stormm" Michaels met the bowl of slop with a
...while Ruth's back was turned, of course. Showtime was no stranger to Ruth's home cookin', but even he balked at the mystery meat tucked amongst the vegetable medley.
“How's the campaign going,” came Justin's attempt at small talk in lieu of choking down his meal.
“Busy,” mumbled Wryght as he dug into his bowl.
“So...our match...” tried Michaels.
“I'm not worried about out match,” said Grimm, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. “I'm worried about Billy's.”
“Nothin' to worry about,” Showtime chimed in. “If Nacho, or Lantlas, or anyone else decides to stick their nose in Black Hand business, they'll be dealt with accordingly. We're a family.”
Grimm's ears perked up. Standing to dish himself seconds, Phinehas addressed the table. “Family is everything.”
And at that fine moment, William's bedroom door creaked open.
* * *
He'd drilled her with the Sadistic DDT on the unforgiving cathedral floor, of that much he was certain. Those glazed over anti-freeze green eyes were clearly on autopilot. Blood flowed freely from Sadistic's chest and upper back as he struggled just to cover his equally bloody arch nemesis. After the third toll of the bell, Billy weakly rolled onto his back as a slight drizzle began to pepper the old stone structure. Each gasp of air was a struggle. Billy reached for the gruesome, gaping wound where the broken stone cross impaled him through the back and burst out of his chest. Sadistic tilted his head in search of Eira, but she'd vanished, along with the giant, all-to-familiar priest. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he rolled onto his stomach and began crawling towards the broken outer wall of the cathedral. The rain started dumping as lightning splintered across the sky.
“...”
Billy opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that escaped his lips was a stream of blood.
Phinehas? Michael? Justin? … Ruth? … Kelli? … … Somebody?
Billy attempted to raise up on his hands and knees, but his strength had left him. Still, he dragged himself along on his elbows. As his vision started to fade, he was barely able to make out his saving grace. Jogging up the side of the hill in the downpour, his fiery red hair was streaked against his face. It was Phinehas.
Family is everything.
* * *
There was some worry as to whether the PCW World Champion would even be able to make it to the main event of Trauma 179. Frank Foley, in a show of authority, had opted to put Billy Sadistic through a gauntlet leading up to Deadly Intentions VI. A World Championship defense on Trauma was incredibly rare, but two of them back to back leading into a third at the pay-per-view was downright unheard of. And if giving Eira a crack at Sadistic in a match of her choosing wasn't ludicrous enough...
“I'll be back in an hour,” Ruth reassured her older brother. The stern Dillinger sister carried a wooden pail overflowing with blood-stained rags. “Just make sure you keep your torso elevated.” With that, she closed the door. Even her notoriously granite scowl was etched with worry.
...Gem would get a shot – ANOTHER shot – inside of a steel cage. Normally, Sadistic would relish in the opportunity to avenge his only singles loss to Gem...but he'd been bed-ridden for the better part of the past two weeks and was barely able to walk, let alone fight. Sadistic wondered whether Eira would be elated or disappointed to know that she'd nearly finished him off once and for all.
Grimm entered through the front door with a solemn expression on his face. “How is he?” The question was aimed at Ruth, the look of worry uncharacteristic on his bearded mug. After dragging his older brother through the front door sopping wet and leaking blood two weeks ago, Grimm's face told a story of dire desperation. If only he'd known just how close they'd come to losing him.
If...IF...Sadistic were somehow able to walk into the Pure Class Arena on Tuesday to defend the Black Hand's World Championship, he'd be doing so against the professional instruction of any competent doctor, had he chosen to visit one. But he hadn't.
Dead Man Walking.
Months ago, Sadistic had enjoyed a distinct advantage over Gem who'd fought him valiantly on a destroyed knee. Oh, how the tables had turned. At Trauma, the young assassin would have the pleasure of facing off against a walking bag of meat with the grandest prize in the industry on the line...inside of a fifteen foot high steel cage! Nobody enters. Nobody exits. One-on-one in the center of the ring.
How ironic. For at their last encounter at Return to Glory, it was Gem's dear old dad who'd interrupted a perfectly good beating. Lantlas had effectively cost his daughter a match which she was well on her way to losing.
Little Miss Perpetual Victim, you are but a walking cliché.
Justin and Michael, Billy's Black Hand brothers, arrived simultaneously. Their handsome faces both bore signs of concern. Ruth put them at ease with a slight nod. Although the elder Dillinger had arrived hanging on by a string, his sister had done an admirable job of nursing him back to health.
“How's he hanging in there?” came Showtime's inquiry. Despite their recent tension, Showtime had been the one person who'd been by his side through thick and thin.
“There's no way he'll be able to go at Trauma,” was Stormm's expert analysis.
“He'll be back on his feet in no time,” quipped Ruth nonchalantly. It was as if this whole thing were nothing more than a walk in the park for the backbone of the Dillinger clan. Yet it was Phinehas and Ruth leveling concerned gazes towards William's bedroom. The twinkle in Grimm's glacial pupils brought back a wave of memories.
Family is everything.
* * *
It was a gloriously beautiful day in the Bluegrass state as a young, preadolescent William Dillinger and his equally youthful little brother, Phinehas, frolicked down by the big river. Little William's anti-freeze green eyes were mischievous rather than haunting as he and his younger brother huddled beneath a tree to play a game. Grandfather Dillinger watched from the backyard in his wheelchair, a galvanized cooler full of ice cubes and Old Milwaukee beer bottles beside him. The old man was always reliable for a good lesson.
“I also see a big red barn,” continued little William, tracing his finger along his younger brother's palm.
Phinehas eyed his older brother skeptically. Even at a young age, nothing betrayed his steel blue stare. “It doesn't make any sense,” said Phinehas, his shaggy crimson locks hanging past his brows. “You can't possibly tell the future just from looking at my palm.”
“Oh, yes you can!” blurted William. “I learnt it from that old psycho lady in town.”
“You mean psychic?” came a condescending Phinehas. “Dummy.”
“Yeah,” confirmed William, brushing off the insult. “Mother Theresa Whitedove, or Madame Le Strange, or some crap. You know who I mean! And I know all her techniques.”
Phinehas was not convinced, but William continued nevertheless.
“And right here crossing your palm from left to right...this line tells me that you really won't have a very long life,” declared William. Young Phinehas arched an eyebrow. “And right here...I'm seeing some sort of...what looks like...a big...giant...pond!”
With that, William deposited a phenomenal glob of spit into Phinehas' palm! The fiery-haired youngster was stunned and quickly flicked the saliva from his hand. William's pint-sized cackle was an annoying sort of high pitched. Grandfather Dillinger watched from his wheelchair as a hint of a smirk crept across his face. A furious little Phinehas stormmed over to his grandpa, his face glowing redder by the second.
“What's wrong, Phinny,” rasped the weathered old man.
“Papi, Billy spit in my hand,” blurted Phinehas. “I hate him. I want to hit him...or paralyze him...or...or...I wish he was dead!” William continued to dance and laugh hysterically beneath the old tree in the background.
Grandfather Dillinger looked upon his youngest grandchild with hard eyes. With a disappointed shake of his head, the old man blasted off a quick whistle to summon his oldest grandchild. William reluctantly jogged up to his grandfather. “Yes, Papi?”
“Willy, why don't you grab your Papi a beer?” The wise old man waited patiently for his drink. William was glad to reach into the tub of ice and retrieve a bottle of Old Milwaukee. The raven-haired boy wiped the excess water and ice off the bottle before handing it to his grandpa. Grandfather Dillinger simply shook his head. “No. Why don't you grab me a cold one?”
Nodding his head, William reached down into the bottom of the chest to grab his Papi the coldest bottle. And that's when his grandfather's hand found the back of his head. Holding firm, Grandfather Dillinger's sinewy arm thrust William's head into icy water. Poor William struggled mightily, but the wiry old man's strength was absolute. Phinehas watched on in horror as William began to flail wildly.
“Stop,” ordered Phinehas, but Papi refused to listen. His charcoal gaze rested on Phinehas as the younger Dillinger attempted to jerk his grandpa's arm free. Try as he might, but the old man's grip was firm. “Papi! Let him go!” Phinehas began to beat his fists against his grandfather's chest.
“He doesn't have long down there,” warned Grandfather Dillinger. “If you want to free him, you're going to have to try harder than that.” William's legs were beginning to kick and spasm as he tried desperately to free himself from the freezing water. Phinehas continued to pound away on his grandfather's chest before finally winding up and clocking him in the jaw with a haymaker!
The old man's head was snapped to the side and he released William from his watery demise. The future Phenom gasped air into his burning lungs as Phinehas knelt by his side. Their grandfather stood and turned to address them with harsh eyes.
“Family is everything,” taught Papi. “You'd do well to remember that.”
* * *
Ruth ladled a heaping helping of delicious smelling stew into the Black Hand members' bowls seated around the antique dining room table. Phinehas wasted no time digging in. "Stormm" Michaels met the bowl of slop with a
...while Ruth's back was turned, of course. Showtime was no stranger to Ruth's home cookin', but even he balked at the mystery meat tucked amongst the vegetable medley.“How's the campaign going,” came Justin's attempt at small talk in lieu of choking down his meal.
“Busy,” mumbled Wryght as he dug into his bowl.
“So...our match...” tried Michaels.
“I'm not worried about out match,” said Grimm, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. “I'm worried about Billy's.”
“Nothin' to worry about,” Showtime chimed in. “If Nacho, or Lantlas, or anyone else decides to stick their nose in Black Hand business, they'll be dealt with accordingly. We're a family.”
Grimm's ears perked up. Standing to dish himself seconds, Phinehas addressed the table. “Family is everything.”
And at that fine moment, William's bedroom door creaked open.
NEX ADDO
