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Post by Ro on Aug 30, 2008 7:27:46 GMT -5
Charlotte is pumping wild tonight as Deliverance rolls into their backyard in the Edward Jones Dome, but "Palladio" by eScala begins, and everyone knows whose song this is - Mortus comes down from behind the curtain, the blood-red Sanguine Title slung over his shoulder, to a chorus of boos from the crowd.
Mortus climbs into the ring and grabs a microphone, but before he talks, he takes the title belt and raises it high into the air with one arm.
Mortus: They say... you all say... that We are thieves.
The crowd breaks into a chant of "YOU ROBBED CAIN!" Mortus breaks out a half-smile at this, but then seethes with anger.
Mortus: You are all jealous! Cain Ravid, Chris Austin, the "Great" Nodnarb, they're all jealous of what We've accomplished, what they cannot pull off!
The crowd is still into their chant.
Mortus: And now, this fool Skyler Striker creates a tournament to find the next man We will bloody up... it is all foolish. You all know that We will walk out the Sanguine Champion after tonight, and We will walk out the Sanguine Champion after the winner of this tournament challenges Us.
By this time, the crowd had been doing the old "WHAT" routine after every sentence Mortus speaks.
Mortus: And then, maybe, just maybe, all of you will learn to respect Us, the true Sanguine Champion, the championship We have rightfully won from Cain Ravid, all within the rules. You all do not like the fact that We were quick enough to win it from him in the waning seconds of the match, but it was still legal, and like it or not, We are the Sanguine Champion.
The crowd goes back to chanting both "FUCK YOU MORTUS" and "YOU ROBBED CAIN!". Mortus breaks into another smile.
Mortus: So, to you young men who think you are worthy enough to win Our title, We say... bring it on. Cain and Austin... you'll be lucky if you don't die by exsanguination after We finish with you.
Mortus drops the mic as his music plays again. He climbs out of the ring and makes his way up the ramp to the back, while the crowd boos the holy hell out of him. Mortus keeps to the center of the ramp, away from the prying hands of the hateful crowd.VCW Deliverance From the Edward Jones Dome in Charlotte, North Carolina
Round 2:?? vs. ?? Round 2:?? vs. ?? Finals:?? vs. ?? To win, both competitors must score a pinfall AND a submissionPROMO ONLY until Saturday, September 6 11:59 PST. VOTING AND PROMO until Monday, September 8 11:59 PST.
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Austin
Lower Midcarder
Posts: 172
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Post by Austin on Sept 1, 2008 14:05:42 GMT -5
Nothing but blackness, but a voice, a tired, angry, hurting voice sounds out.
You ever been in the mind of a rapist? Ever wanted to know what he thinks, what kind of mindset he’s in? Why he does such unspeakable things?
Be honest, you want to know. I can hear you wanting it, even though you’d never speak it. I know deep down, a sickness lives in each and every one of you. It could be an STD, Ares. It could be a mental deficiency, Bmore. It could be a bad case of amnesia or this desire to live out a fantasy that was first acted out by Martin Lawrence, Brisbane. It could be anything.
People fear what they don’t understand. I don’t want you to fear me. I don’t need your fear to be at my best like some people. He knows who I’m talking to. Mortus.
He had to be pretty proud of himself after the small trick he pulled, showing up in my reflection. All because I said in my own little way, that I’d fuck the shit out of Sarah. Why should he care, she’s dead apparently. However, the Sarah in the ring, the announcer, she’s on the list.
But, I digress.
How would you like just a smidgen of what I think, what I feel? Why I do this?
Do you want it? Ah, I get it. I can feel you saying no without hesitation. Just like my victims, but just like them, I will do it anyway, and you won’t stop me, because you want it too. Here we go.....
It’s dark……dirty……nothing like a home should be. A young child, dressed in pajamas, lies on the living room couch, under a small cover. He lies sleeping, while the Tonight Show illuminates his young, innocent, pure face from a poor reception-grabbing TV . He’s in a state of peace. Or is he? A slight frown peeks itself through, upon closer inspection, we can see hints of tears shed, as two trails lead from his eyes down his cheek in a jagged path, to suggest that he’s been there a while.
The door opens…a woman walks through it. She wears a torn sea green dress. It’s torn at the shoulder, and the crotch area. She limps as she becomes a victim of a broken shoe heel, and drunkenly stumbles through the door. She is sad, but happy. The disheveled appearance that glows in the darkness, says she’s been through a lot on this night. The child stirs but doesn’t awake, as if she was the one he tried to wait up for. She leans close while he lies.
She smiles a bit, a dimple exposed, covered in a thick, white, sticky substance of some sort. A trail goes from her chin, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. It separates in many directions like nerves. Said substance runs down her chin, as her tongue instinctively pops out of her mouth and towards the corner of her mouth, managing to get the tip of her tongue to plunge into the facial decoration. She puckers at the taste, suggesting bitterness. She frowns, a tear rolls down her face. She bends back straight, not bothering to kiss the child good night, and who would in that position?
She takes her leave…..and goes to the bathroom; we follow behind to see a dirty dress back, as if she had been lying in an alley. Hits the light, it barely glows. She glares in the mirror, that white shit on her cheek still. A powdered circle is on her nose. She sits on the toilet seat. She begins to weep, making no effort to clean herself. But, through it, she reaches into her pocket, out comes a spoon, a syringe, a plastic tubing of some type, and a lighter.
She places something into the spoon, and ties the tubing around her arm exposing numerous track marks as she rolls up the sleeve. She lights the lighter, constant compression on it to keep the flame illuminated. She heats the spoon, whatever in the spoon, it’s liquid now. She sucks it up through the needle, obviously used. She finds a vein, sticks it in.
The liquid, clear, is sent coursing through her veins, her head goes back, her eyes roll back, and she’s in ecstasy. She sits motionless, allowing the liquid to do its thing. Her nightly ritual is done with varying details, drugs, positions of the white, sticky shit, and just like each night…..There the child stands in the doorway. The resemblance is easy to see. They are mother and son. The son stares at the shell of his mother, his hero. A stream of tears rolls down his cheek. He turns away, always before his mother can see him. He retreats to his room, and cries himself to sleep……
Do you want more? Do you want more?
It’s OK, say no.
You’re still getting it shoved down your throat like each of my prey. They know not to bite the cock that feeds them, lines their belly with nut and fucks their mouths to the point of them swallowing their own blood, in the process deep-throating me, triggering their gag reflex almost to the point of vomiting. I feel it, I relish the feeling. It means someone else is feeling one-trillionth of the pain I deal with every day. Now, back to my little nursery rhyme.
It’s a rainy, stormy afternoon. The child sits in the living room floor to color, not allowed in his room. His mother has a visitor of the male persuasion. He sits with his head down. He won’t look up. The pain is written all over his face and body language.
He rubs his shoulder, having just visited his father earlier in the week. As the boy wears an oversized tank top, you can easily see a bruise, and an adult-size hand print close by. He winces as he touches it; it’s relatively fresh, still sore. Then he hears something.
“AHHHHHHH!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!! STOP!!!!”
The son rises, fear all over him. He squeaks out…. “Mommy?” But he hears something else…….
“SHUT UP BITCH!!”
That comment is followed by flesh on flesh contact. The boy quivers as he takes step after agonizing step down the hall, towards the haunting sound.
“MY SON IS IN THIS HOUSE!!!”
“WHO GIVES A FUCK?”
*SMACK!!*
The child makes it there….peeks in. He’s horrified. A man lies on top of his mother; he swings yet again, makes contact yet again. The child, unarmed, sneaks in as his mother cries out….
“HELP ME!!!”
No one will come. The neighbors know about her promiscuous, drug-induced foul ways. They know that the boy has no sort of support of the parental variety. They know the boy spends all his time alone, the one friend he had, gunned down by his mother’s supplier. Wrong place, wrong time was the situation. Still, they know the boy would be better off without her.
They don’t know the boy is in danger too.
The boy has seen enough as the assailant rips open his mother’s nightgown, revealing nakedness. He quickly climbs the bed, and jumps on the back of the culprit.
“GET OFF MY MOMMY!! STOP HURTING HER!”
She sees her son in harm’s way.
“CHRIS, NO!!! MOMMY’S GONNA BE OK.”
The man is not so compassionate.
“GET OFF ME, BASTARD!”
The man shakes, twists, contorts. The boy is hanging on. But, the man reaches back, grabs a hold of the small youth. The boy kicks, squirms, like his life depended on it. Very similar to the struggle Chris Austin put up against Cain Ravid during the closing seconds of Minutes to Midnight. Like Chris Austin, the boy fails. The attacker holds the boy by his collar, stares at him…
“NOW YOU WILL LEARN YOUR PLACE.”
and throws the boy into the wall. The boy crumples, knocked out, possibly worse as a trail of blood is left on the wall, seemingly from his head. The mother sees this. She snaps. She grabs a bed lamp, cracks it over the unknowing assailant’s head. He goes down. She runs to her fallen seed. He hasn’t moved, but he’s breathing. She lifts him up in her arms, crying. She tries to take him out of the room. She doesn’t make it. The assailant recovers, and retaliates. Constantly hits her, throws her back on the bed.
“DID YOU THINK THAT YOU COULD KEEP AVOIDING ME AND STILL GET YOUR FIX? WHERE’S MY MONEY? ”
She can’t speak, he chokes her. She’s on the bed, her feet dangling, kicking and flailing about. As the feet cease movement, he stops. We hear a zipper being undone. Her feet are still moving, and thrusting ensues. The boy has come to, but he can’t get up. He drifts in and out of consciousness, seeing and hearing the suffering and rape being inflicted upon his mother. A faint…
“mom..”
escapes his mouth, and he blacks out. He comes to later. He rises up….and sees his mother, ravaged, still motionless. Blood covers the sheets and pillows. He rushes to her side.
“MOMMY ARE YOU THERE, ARE YOU OK?”
No response. He calls 911; imagine an eight year-old…having to go through this, bawling with each word:
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My mom, she’s not moving. She’s bleeding real bad, help please!”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know…a man…..please hurry; I don’t want her to die!”
“OK, son, calm down, where are you”
“841 Oakland Square Apartments.”
“Hang tight kid, help is on the way.”
Help arrives, the door is broken down. Police and EMTs rush through the rooms, looking for a human. They get to the mother’s bedroom, and they all are taken aback and crushed by the scene they confront…
A bloody boy, clutching his mother, getting her blood all over him, crying, exhausted.
They take the boy, and stretcher the mother out. The neighbors come out, nosy as hell. Where were they when she cried out? As much as they think they know what’s best, they didn’t show when they could have made a difference. They see the mother; they cover their mouths, shocked. But everyone is destroyed emotionally when they see the boy being carried in the arms of an officer, blood covered pajamas, red-stained oversized tank top. All he can say…
The male's voice has weakened. It seems as if he’s saddened and has been crying. It cracks slightly.
“IS MOMMY OK? WHERE’S MY MOMMY?”
They try to save her, and fail. She was dead before they got there. The boy has a nasty head wound, and a broken heart.
They send the boy to Los Angeles. His closest family member resided there: His father. The boy spends his next 11 years in hell, miraculously excelling in school, social situations and athletics just to get his ass whipped regularly upon arriving home. Constant berating is what he goes through, yet somehow, high school finds him some sort of a support system in friends who actually look out for him. He ends his suffering violently, and goes on to become or revert to, whichever way you look at it, the tortured soul…..
You see before you now.
Was that nice? Now, do you know why do I rape? Is it because I hate women? How could I do such a thing?
I hate what I do, but I have to do it.
The only woman I’ve ever seen regularly…always was drugged up and jizz-covered. How do I respond to that? I had my share of flings yes, but never no emotional attachment.
But, still why I do this? I love women, worship them. I can’t stand to look at myself after my unspeakable acts. They don’t deserve what happens to them, but I have to do it. I will myself to do it, for one reason.
REVENGE.
I do this, different girl each time, hoping I come across the mother of daughter of the man who took my mother away from me and the daughters, granddaughters, wives, girlfriends or whatever females related to the “Good Samaritans” who let it happen. Do you realize how many innocent souls I’ve crushed in my blood thirsty quest? Do you understand how many more I may have to crush? Do you understand that I am sorry, but even if I did apologize, I couldn’t really mean it? She may have been a terrible parent, but I loved her still, she never hit me and she loved me too, I know she did. Otherwise, hell needs to make a place for me, unless I can find God. But, until then……..
I won’t stop until I find the woman, the neighbors’ women, or the fucker himself, so I can take his or her life. I can’t stop…..my grief; my lust for REVENGE won’t let me.
REVENGE is the name of the game.
Mortus and Cain Ravid, this is where you two come in.
The Minutes to Midnight match was violent. It was awesome, but it was also a showcase of the sickness of yours truly. The sicknesses both of you have, and display it just as I do.
But, I want REVENGE. Ravid, you took the Sanguine title from me as if it was my mother’s life. She left me blood-covered, that belt was the closest thing I had to remind me of her. And you took it. I will have my REVENGE.
Mortus, you’re the champion. You have always been my primary antagonist. You hate me, I hate you. You’ve tried to instill fear into me, and you may have succeeded in the bathroom, but now…after I unlocked what I had bottled away, after everything I’ve been through in seeing my mother be raped and killed while she took her last breath in my arms. I killed my father, a man who threatened my life almost every day. You, I can deal with, and I will.
I will have my REVENGE, and it isn’t really about the belt.
It’s about you two reminding me of the worst moment in my life. I spent so much time locking it away, only for you two to awaken it with ease. I want REVENGE. I will have it, one way or another.
That’s all I want, blood for blood, mother for mother.
See you both at Deliverance, where I will be delivering REVENGE. Hopefully, the EMTs don’t make it in time for one of you either.
Cut the mother fucking camera.
The camera moves backwards from blackness and we see Austin wearing a black trench coat sitting Indian-style at his mother’s grave. It’s a rainy, stormy afternoon, just like the day she died. The camera slowly moves to his front. He wears black and white Chuck Taylor shoes, black baggy cargo pants. But, what the aforementioned trench coat is covering….that bloody oversized tank top, one he fills out more these days. He’s crying, but the rain mixes with it. He stares at the tombstone, never wavering. Black out. END.
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Post by Mortus on Sept 2, 2008 18:12:10 GMT -5
The Knight’s fading form shone with a brilliant light as he thrust the Lance into the skull of the assailing Conceptual Deity. We felt Our form tear free of the psychic anchors We had installed.
That wretched host had something to do with this. We're sure he did. Such anembarrassmentt that such a weak, fleshy thing would have outsmarted Us.
Now; looking back, We cannot help but think that this was the Mortal known as Matthew Philip Dunn's intention all along. It had been one of the factors that appealed to Us; that swayed Our decision in choosing a host; winning over physically more dominating alternatives.
Fortunately, what We managed to do here on Earth had left Us with enough power to maintain a hold on the edges of the physical fabric. We were not removed from this plane; as Fortitude; the now broken wreck, would have liked.
We were, however, left broken; hostless...
But as always, things unfolded; the Universe will not allow spectres such as We were to drift around in the realm of flesh; Existence always manages to set things right...The scene opens; Matt is seen through a window, obviously on the phone, screaming at someone. The conversation itself seems mostlyinaudiblee; however, it is clear that Mr. Dunn had some sort of issue with someone; and judging by theeccentricc man throwing the Sanguine Championship out of the window; it can only be assumed that such an argument was with the VCW owners; possibly some sort of pay dispute? Matt P. Dunn was of little value to the tale; however. The important detail; one overlooked by everyone present in their homes surrounding; too preoccupied with the raging wrestling brand name, failed to notice a man take the Bloody Championship. This man was a Doll Maker by trade, crafting beautifulcollectibless from Porcelainn primarily, though he had made a selection of three, rather interesting if not somewhat intimidating masks which he held very dear. His first wife, may the good Lord Gabrielle rest her soul, had been of the Orient; she held a deep fascination in Kabuto style masks; and their home was littered with them. So; Our as of yet unnamed dollmaker had taken it upon himself to add to her collection utilising his own delicate hands. However; his wife died the night the final mask was complete; a victim of rape; she was found with a slit throat in some alley shortly after... The man had remarried, though he distanced himself from his new family; finding himself working well into the night many a time; afraid to grow too attached and to lose it all again. The son, bore of his second wifes womb, however, was a fan of the upcoming Wrestling federation; VCW. And the man, no Stranger, recognised Mortus' belt, and Mortus' voice for what they were; he took the discarded belt; intending to give it to his son as an early birthday present... But that could wait until the morning; his nights were sleepless; thus he worked. But as soon as the key turned in the lock to his workshop, sealling him within, he felt as if something was very wrong...[/i] "Why, hello there."The man span around; looking for the owner of the voice; though he saw no 'person.'"You have something that belongs to Us...The man pushed further, the belt clutched to his chest beneath his coat; until he reached his work bench.
One of the three masks; usually locked away in a draw as if they were some precious treasure; which admittedly, the gilded masterpieces could be considered; was propped up, balancing on the back support of a wooden chair, somewhat unnaturally.
A white, work overall had been drapped over it, giving the rough impression of a human sitting beneath it."Spare Us the explaination; We know why you did it, and quite frankly, We will offer you a chance to walk out of here with your stolen prize..."The man, speechless, sat down at the desk; opposite the speaking mask, slowly bring the belt to rest upon the worktop as a pile of cards appeared by the Mask's 'hand.'"This is a none standard deck; it contains seven of each card, from one to seven. It contains four face cards. The rules are simple, We will deal up to seven rows of cards; each row gaining one card in addition to the last.
The first card will be face down, consider it a second life if you will.
A matching pair, overlapping, will result in you losing the hand. Though a face card will save you from this fate, should it be present in the same row.
If you complete seven rows, you may have Our belt. You can decide to back out and settle whenever you wish, and you may leave.
If you lose the hand; your fate is Our will. Understand?"[/color] The man nodded yes, as the Mask dealt the cards...? 5, 1 3, 2, 7 face, 3, 7, 1,
The 'face' card bares the likeness of VCW's Cain Ravid, and saved the man from losing the hand..."Lucky so far..."? 5, 1 3, 2, 7 face, 3, 7, 1 5, 6, 2, 1 "Oh dear; if your face down card is a One or a Seven, We do believe it's game over for you..."The man turned over the first card, revealing it to be a three, therefor keeping him in the game...
He spoke for the first time to the mystical creature playing these games with him..."I'd like to play on..."x 5, 1 3, 2, 7 face, 3, 7, 1 5, 6, 2, 3 1, 1, 5, 3, face The second face appeared to be Chris Austin's likeness...
The man nodded his head, guesturing for his last deal; his greed; his lust for the title to earn, to buy his childs love growing too strong...x 5, 1 3, 2, 7 face, 3, 7, 1 5, 6, 2, 3 1, 1, 5, 3, face 7, 1, 5, 4, 3, 6 "How unfortunate for you..."We witnessed the cards set ablaze as We reached out with Our corrupting tendrils; reaching from the Sanguine Belt; the very title We found Ourselves anchored to; bound within.
We witnessed the Man begin to run; a near perfect specimen; the exact same height, weight and build as Our old host; and alas; for him, there was no escape.
Our tendrils caught him by the ankle and swung his face down into the ground; his jaw cracked against the cold floor.
We dragged him closer to Us; to the 'beautiful mask' he made as our make shift robe fell away, driven by Our 'divine' will towards Our target.
But of course; the foolish bastard decided to fight in now, didn't he?
Thus resulted in Us having to throw his rag doll frame around a little; blood splattered everywhere as We broke this bone, fracture that rib, damaged that eye...
By the time the work apron suffercated the last of his life away; Our new, unnamed host was left a bloody wreck; a modern art impression of what he once was.
The new 'robe' constricted the man; it's once, albeit dirty, white tone taking on the thick claret hue.
A freshly deceased body is simple enough to possess, and now We once again found Ourself a physical medium... Well. There was one final issue that needed to be attended to...
But, of course; with this new frame, new robes...
A new look was in order...
We picked up one of the masks, placing it upon Our face; as of the three, it was the one We prefered. The other two were taken too, clipped to Our chest...
Yes... One last call of duty to attend to...[/color] INCOMPLETE
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Post by Sir Feyd Brisbane on Sept 7, 2008 17:34:55 GMT -5
“Bless me father, fer I ‘ave sinned. ’S been eleven years since my last confession. Eight years ago, I killed a man. Though I did it in defense of one who could not defend himself, the man’s face follows me wherever I go. It pains me each time I think tha’ somewhere, there’s a family who have lost a son, a father, a brother, and that they will never know what became of ‘im.
“For seven months, a boy s’ffered, because I was not strong enough to protect him. He was being abused in ways that I can’ bring myself to say. I used to think that I fought the good fight, but now I realize how much more I coulda done, if not fer my cowardice.
“It was fer fear, that Charles suffered. My fear led to my silence. My silence lead to unnamable abuse. The abuse led to the deaths of more than twenty men, and the condemning of one. It was my fear that led him to attempt on his own life; my fear that led him to be confined for a second time.
“Further, it was my betrayal that led to ‘is imprisonment in the first place. I first met him when I was twenty-two, aboard the USS Paladin. How ‘e stole ‘imself into our cargo hold, I have no idea. I found ‘im lyin’ there between a crate and the wall, using a duffel bag for a pillow. I was filled with sorrow as I looked at the ragged boy, skulking there in the shadows.
“I didn’ wake him. We’d already left the harbor and were far out to sea. I left the hold and notified the captain of the ship that we had a stowaway. In the followin’ months, I apologized to Charles again and again, but all he ever said was, ‘You couldn’ a known.’”
“Sometimes, I wake up at night and can still hear ‘im say it. My dreams are haunted with his face, and often, I wake up and just cry. My cousin Rob was captured by Iraqis six years ago, and I didn’ take it as hard as when I found out that Charles was going to trial for killin’ them sailors of the Paladin after I left.
“I was s’posed to ‘ave checked all the holds the day before we disembarked. I had put it off, mostly because there had never been any problems with our cargo. So, I had filed my paperwork, havin’ decided that I would check after we left, just to say that I actually done it. I often think that had I checked all the holds before we left the harbor, like I was s’pposed to, things woulda turned out much different.
“I told the captain that we had a stowaway, expectin’ ‘im to just turn the ship ‘round, or send out one of the smaller vessels, because we couldn’ have a civie aboard, ‘specially when we was supposed to be heading deeper into the Pacific, closer to hostile water. Instead, he sent two sailors down to retrieve ‘im. They were big guys, and I ‘member that one of them was that kind of obnoxious Texan, the kind who held the Bible in one and a gun in the other. ‘Is name was John Hargrove, and he was the first one to put a beating on poor Charles.
“The beaters brought ‘im up, scared and shakin’, and you could tell he already been slapped around. He had a big welt on the right side of his face, and the trail of a few tears that had run down. Honestly, he looked pathetic, just standing there, clutchin’ his duffel.
“He couldn’a been no more’n fifteen. It struck me as a very sad thing for such a youngster bein’ on his own. ‘minded me of my younger brother, back home in Georgia, who was jus’ ‘bout the same age. An’ that prolly ‘ad somethin’ t’do with my keepin’ an eye on ‘im too. As much as it was fer ‘im, it was also fer me. I was homesick, missin’ my family. So I ‘eld onto ‘im. In a way, we was each other’s lifelines to th’ outside world.
“I ‘member one day, I caught that big ol’ Texan messin’ with Charlie. At this poin’, Charlie wa’ still allowed t’ walk on th’ deck. We was far out t’ sea by then, and ‘im bein’ outside wasn’ ‘armin’ nobody. Anyways, I come out on th’ deck an’ see Hargrove givin’ Charles a hard time. ‘E was hittin’ ‘im and pushin’ Charlie up ‘gainst th’ railing. Charles was all bloodied up an’ just lookin’ at ‘im almost made me sick.
“I run over to ‘em, an’ grab onto John’s shoulders, tryin’ to pull ‘im away from Charlie. ‘e pulled a knife on me, an’ we struggled a bit. In th’ end, the knife was in ‘is gut an’ blood on my hands. An’ by no small miracle, no one ‘had seen what ‘appened. I aint prouda m’self, but wit’ Charles’ help, I threw the body overboard.
“Even though no one ‘had seen it, after a few days, everyone noticed that John was missin’. They also knew that ‘e ‘ad taken to messin’ wit’ Charles an’ I’d taken to protectin’ ‘im. It was no stretch of th’ ‘magination that I ‘ad killed ‘im, but since nobody could prove it, there was no charges. Hell, there was barely even an investigation. But either way, they all was ‘fraid t’ screw wit’ Charles, ‘specially if I was ‘round.
“It was fine enough fer Charles, for a time. Ev’ry so often, I’d see ‘im with new bruises or cuts an’ I’d know they got to ‘im, but he would never say who ‘ad done it. Durin’ the time on the ship, Charles cultivated a very creative imagination. In retrospect, I think ‘e was probably just building up ‘is walls, but you know wha’ they say, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.
“Back home in Gerogia, me an’ a couple of friends in high school used t’ play Dungeons an’ Dragons. I know what yer thinkin’ father, but it really aint a gateway to Satanism. I don’t understand how people could think that, it’s just a game. I’d like t’ think I’m more religious than th’ average man, but those guys sayin’ that it leads kids astray jus’ don’ know what they’re talkin’ bout.
“Anyway, to get back on track, I decided that I was gonna teach Charles how to play. I would run the game, an’ he’d play it. That is how Feyd Brisbane came into being. I think that ‘e created him so that ‘e could feel a little more in control, even if just in a fantasy world. Charles was a prisoner, but Feyd was a knight, standin’ up for people like Charles who couldn’ defend themselves.
“The men on th’ ship conspired ‘gainst me. I was given an ultimatum: Leave willin’ly, or there was gonna be charges brought up on me for killin’ John Hargrove. There was really nothin’ I could do, but I refused. I was told by th’ captain that a transport was already on its way t’ come get me an’ would be at th’ ship in th’ mornin’.
“Turns out that they lied t’ me. When I reached th’ mainland, I was discharged from service on some charge the captain of the Paladin had made up. Didn’t even get a hearing. Jus’ sent me away, but gave me a dividend t’ keep quiet about what happened on th’ ship. I’m ashamed, but I took th’ money. I needed a way t’ live, an’ a dishonorable discharge fer actions unbecoming really screws up a resume.
“I heard that Charles was bein’ put on trial for murderin’ those sailors. I can’t say I blame ‘im, an’ it was a tragedy when they sent ‘im t’ that institution. I kept tabs on ‘im and when I went t’ see ‘im when ‘e got out, ‘e didn’ even recognize me. I felt shattered, an’ after that, I looked up what ‘appened in court. I found out tha’ he grew some delusion that ‘e was actually Feyd Brisbane. Lucky fer ‘im though, ‘e seems to ‘ave made ‘imself a little niche in that wrestling thing he’s doing.
“I been followin’ ‘is progress, probably because I still feel bad fer what happened. Turns out that ‘e is actually a good wrestler. I never woulda guessed, but then, ‘e was in that place so long an’ he changed a lot. In many ways, I think tha’ bein’ Feyd is good fer Charles. ‘E stands on principles, an’ ‘e does what ‘e thinks is right. But at th’ same time, I realize that ‘e lost eight years of ‘is life an’ it’s my fault. That’s something I’ll have to live with.
“After I was released from service, I came back home, but everyone was doin’ their own thing. There wasn’t a place fer me anymore. So I travelled through the country, just tryin’ to find my place. I’ve been livin’ here in Charlotte fer two years now. After wha’ ‘appened, I felt like I needed some religious atonement. Where better than th’ City of Churches? This is th’ first time I’ve ‘ad th’ strength of spirit t’ be able t’ confess. That was Charles’ gift to me.
“Charles ‘as lived a life of constant adversity, an’ ‘e has come through. There is no reason tha’ I can’t as well. Now, I ‘ave to give ‘im support as ‘e has me. Even though ‘e will probably never know it, ‘is effect on me was profound. So, I ‘ave a ticket, an’ I’m gonna be givin’ ‘im my support tomorrow night, when ‘e will need it most. I ‘eard tha’ ‘is doctor is going t’ be there also, so maybe I’ll try tp talk t’ ‘im.
“T’morrow, Charles is gonna need all th’ strength ‘e can muster. ‘E is in th’ title match fer the championship of the federation. In ‘is last match, it was a tie, an’ now ‘e is goin’ one-on-one with his opponent, some arrogant Canuck. Given, th’ guy is good, but it’s really irritatin’. Pardon th’ expression, father, but ‘e thinks ‘e is God’s gift t’humanity. Perfection personified, if you know what I mean. I wish someone would jus’ put ‘im in ‘is place. Maybe that somebody is gonna be Charles. Maybe not. But, if anyone ‘as th’ drive t’ do it, it’d be ‘im.
“However, ‘e does seem to ‘ave changed, even as I followed ‘im on th’ television. ‘E seems t’ ‘ave been growin’ darker an’ more irritable. I hope ev’rything is fine wit’ ‘im. I’d hate t’ see ‘im go down a bad path. Although, if I ‘ad t’ make a guess, I’d say ‘e will, at least fer a time. ‘E ‘as been followin’ roughly the life of ‘is character, an’ after Feyd ‘ad gained acceptance in Solamnia, ‘e started slipping. I do hope ‘e doesn’t hurt anyone. It’d be my fault.”
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Post by Ro on Sept 8, 2008 19:00:46 GMT -5
Subject to change:
Chris Austin vs. Cain Ravid vs. Mortus
Eric Ares vs. Feyd Brisbane
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Post by Judas De Dios on Sept 8, 2008 20:08:44 GMT -5
Chris Austin
Eric Ares vs. Feyd Brisbane
Waiting for Ares to promo or last second of deadline to change vote
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Austin
Lower Midcarder
Posts: 172
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Post by Austin on Sept 8, 2008 20:25:08 GMT -5
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Post by Sir Feyd Brisbane on Sept 8, 2008 20:28:57 GMT -5
Austin
Feyd
Go me!
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Post by Great Nodnarb on Sept 8, 2008 23:47:11 GMT -5
Chris Austin
Feyd
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Post by Skyler Striker on Sept 9, 2008 3:48:35 GMT -5
Austin
Feyd vs. Ares
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Post by suikoden on Sept 9, 2008 7:53:04 GMT -5
Mortus
Eric Ares vs. Feyd Brisbane
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Post by Mortus on Sept 9, 2008 8:39:52 GMT -5
Austin
Feyd
Hmmm, I'm totally stuck on the Mortus character right now, I don't quite know where I want to go, and ergo, I think I may need a show or two off here to refocus.
Ergo; Mr. Austin, I'm giving you my vote here, just know I'll be back for my belt as soon as I have some ideas.
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Post by Mike Forrest on Sept 9, 2008 14:59:08 GMT -5
Austin
Feyd
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