"Genesis. Pt I." Collision Course
Sept 5, 2021 14:09:53 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Sept 5, 2021 14:09:53 GMT -5
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
A blanket of darkness covered the sky, night has settled in. Earlier in the day, the city of New Orleans was the recipient of more than a couple hours of heavy rain. However, now those clouds have moved on leaving the remnants, the aftermath of that downpour. The paved streets were still damp, pools and puddles of water had collected against the raised curbs in various spaces. The neon lights and signs that helped illuminate Bourbon Street still occasionally dripped with water, and they reflected off of those pools and puddles of rainwater. The patrons of Bourbon Street on this night didn’t seem to mind the gentle breeze that carried with it the smells of fresh rainfall. And even despite being well past Midnight, those patrons still hung around outside of their bar of choice - smoking cigarettes and pounding back their alcohol while engaging in meaningless conversations with their friends. Immediately, though, those conversations were derailed when - out of the corner of their eyes - they would spot a sight that they didn’t expect to see. Not at this time of night, not in this location.
Two teenagers walking down Bourbon Street together. Both male, both hair long-ish blonde hair and both could be no more than fourteen tops.
This was Lazarus Arjen and Jack Seede. Friends and classmates together. The young boys were bonded by the similarities in their lives.
Lazarus lived in the seedy Seventh District of New Orleans in run down homes; a resident of the most violent neighborhood in the city. Lazarus’ mother turned to the streets after her new marriage turned out for the worst. Lazarus’ father, a murder victim that happened right before Lazarus’ eyes, didn’t leave the family much - and in turn Lazarus’ mother would remarry. The stepfather Lazarus grew up with - an alcoholic, abuser to his family in every sense of the word - forcefully turned the needle onto his wife, getting her hooked and addicted to heroin, then threw her on the corner to turn tricks - to make money for the family.
Jack, on the other hand, lived a privileged life. His family resided in the Bayou St. John neighborhood of New Orleans - one of the nicest areas you could possibly stay in. A mere half hour walk from the Seventh Ward, that distance was enough to separate the two class statuses - well-off and the impoverished. Jack, like Lazarus, would have a violent side to him - though. An instigator of altercations nine times-out of-ten, which is how he and Lazarus would meet and bond; through fights at school. Jack would pick a fight with someone much bigger, Lazarus was accidentally bumped into which caused Lazarus to snap - and together with Jack, would finish off the bigger adversary. And the friendship began.
Coming from the Seventh District, you immediately had to acquire the trait of readiness. No matter what, you always had to be prepared. Robberies, muggings, attacks without cause or provocation, or worse happened on a daily basis and teenagers weren’t exempt. Lazarus always kept this in the back of his head and in his hand, he casually carried a pipe - one he picked up inside of some construction yard after hours. It was something he carried with him everywhere, just in case. While his hands were empty, Jack had a backpack in his possession. The straps worn over his shoulders traditionally, and the contents inside of it a complete mystery to everyone except Jack (and maybe Lazarus). So the instincts they acquired growing up in the Seventh Ward, little did they know, were about to be used to save their lives.
The two turned off of Bourbon Street, slipping into an alleyway that joined the street adjacent to Bourbon. This alleyway was the location of the back entrances and loading zones for a couple of bars, an ideal spot for loitering and hangouts and tonight was no exception. Drunken bar men stood around a small set of stairs that led to the back door of a particular bar, all surrounding a metal trash can whose contents were set on fire for whatever reason. It wasn’t something that Lazarus or Jack cared to find out, and as the two teenagers attempted to walk through the alley - Lazarus’ grip tightened on the pipe.
“You boys lost?” One of the men said. The question was sarcastic, his tone hinted at threatening. Lazarus kept his head down, arm stiff to his side and his grip tight on the pipe. Jack, however, had his head up and his arms bent - hands clinched around the straps of his backpack. Jack was a step ahead of Lazarus as they walked through the alley, much to the chagrin of the mouthy one that spoke up first. His mates chuckled under their breath, but stepped closer. Three of them in total, now closing in on the two. “Maybe you didn’t understand me. Why don’t you two turn around and get out of here.”
Still they pressed forward. Lazarus’ blood was boiling, immediately seeing images of his step-father’s drunken abuse flashing in front of him. Jack’s expression was stoic and his eyes were focused on what was ahead of him - which would soon be blocked by a large man. The trio of drunks would finally stop the teenagers' advancement, trapping them next to the metal trash can. “Maybe they’re deaf?” One said to the other, mockingly. “Or just fucking stupid…” He would finish his statement, turning his attention to the boys, the tone of his voice becoming menacing.
There was no escape for the boys; certainly not forward in the direction they were - at one point - walking, and neither of them ever turned back. So.
Quickly, without warning, Jack slipped his backpack off and threw it directly in the face of the man in front of him. Whatever was in the bag was heavy enough to make him stumble back, holding his face. Lazarus’ stiff arm swung the pipe directly into the kneecap of the man standing in front of him which dropped him almost immediately. Before the third could react, Jack had kicked over the metal trash can sending embers from the flames soaring into the air - also causing him to step back. Lazarus turned to the first man, the man holding his nose, and swung the pipe - with everything he had - into his stomach. Jack scrambled to the exterior wall of the bar, picking up a large brick. As the third turned to Lazarus, Jack hurled the brick toward him - hitting him in the back of the head with it.
Lazarus turned back to the first, straddling him and pressing the pipe lengthwise across his throat - pushing all of his weight down onto him. Jack charged up, kicking the third assailant in the face before doing the same to the second. Lazarus had seen red, letting out a guttural yell as he - essentially - was choking the life out of this man with a pipe. Seeing images of his step father, undoubtedly. Jack retrieved his backpack, opening and pulling out the contents - another brick. Jack held the brick in his hand, his intention was to smash it over the head of the next assailant who pushed up to their feet - however he didn’t get the time to do that.
An onlooker from Bourbon Street who happened to see the commotion was already on the phone with the police, and a squad car was just a block away. The sound of sirens ripped through the night air, making Jack freeze as he stood - brick raised over his head and his eyes on the assailant at his feet. Turning his head to look around, noticing the buildings lighting up red and blue - colors alternating quickly. He dropped the brick, turning to grab Lazarus by the back of the shirt. “Come on Laz. Let’s fuckin’ go.” Jack pulled while he bent down to grab his bag.
Lazarus was pulled off of his assailant, stumbling backward. He stopped for a second to pick up the pipe he once held tightly in his hand before shooting off into a sprint - following Jack through the alley to the end until they were on the street again.
It felt as if their feet were weighed down with cement, stomping as they ran - splashing through puddles, ducking into another alley. This one far darker than the last, also empty of any vagrants or drunks. The running movements stopped. With heavy breaths, they turned and looked at each other.
Tonight was different from any other fight, scuffle or any other word to describe it. Tonight was liberating. Tonight was telling.
TO BE CONTINUED …
You would expect darkness. You would expect something bloody, something grungy, something disgusting when dealing with the Massacre. A setting that would turn stomachs, a backdrop that foreshadowed what the two were planning on doing to their opponents. But, today you wouldn’t get that. Instead, today it’s casual. Today, Lazarus sat inside of a house. No other details were known about this house, except for the state of it. Paint chipped from the discolored paint on the walls. Holes had been punched or damaged through the drywall, and poor plaster jobs were done to cover it up. By the way Lazarus sat on an old school chair - one you would find in the mid-to-late nineties - aluminum with padded seat and backrest, and had one single arm rested on a table next to him; we’re able to determine that this is a kitchen. His elbow on the table was bent and his hand elevated - palm placed firmly on the end of a steel pipe that he kept in the standing position by his grip on the end. The room was lit up by a single, large, candle placed on the table - located just behind where Lazarus had the pipe stationed. The single candle lit just enough of the room to piece together the few minor details we know, and to see Lazarus who was half masked by shadows.
“We’re going to play a little game of word association, albeit a modified version.”
“Let’s start with; significance. What is the significance of this location? Why am I here instead of in some gym somewhere, working a punching bag like I’m some fake tough guy like Pyro who tries to establish himself as this vicious workhorse? I spent many nights sitting at this table, running through these halls as a child - only to later be thrown into the walls, knocked to the floor, my blood staining the cheap linoleum. In this house, I was forced to grow up by the age of twelve. I was out that door by the age of fourteen. Working a dead end job at fifteen. Fighting to survive on the streets with my brother Charon. This home was every bit as significant in the birth of the violence as the bullet that ripped through my father’s body in front of me. This home is significant because if you knew the horrors, the vile and disgusting things that happened here - you wouldn’t question why I became the man I am today.”
“I come here when I can. My mother and step-father have both found their way into the ground - and yet this house remains vacant in the Seventh Ward. No one cares. No one cared back then, hearing the sounds of a child screaming - no one cares now that it stands; dilapidated, roof caved in - in certain places. Flood and water damage ensuring that this house will never be a home again. It’s for the best. They say energy transfers through periods of extreme torment or tragedy; if you’re into that sort of thing. But, I come here to keep focused. It was in this home where I was molded, adopted by violence; so it standing is a memory - a driving force that keeps me moving forward. It standing acts as a power source for all of the violence that I know I am capable of. I was - Charon was - MADE to be the way we are. Made by external forces and powers. We were built for the bloody violence of war. Any other man or woman would have ended their life in this house.”
“Not me. I persevered. I withstood the beatings - the things I can’t even mention - just so I can turn around and inflict that same violence, that some punishment, onto each and every one of you that stands in my way. And it all began here ...”
Lazarus paused for a moment. We could tell that his eyes were locked on the recording device in front of him, even though half of his face was still concealed in shadows. He turned his head for a moment, but continued.
“The next word we have is; Legacy.”
“Far too often people associate this word with success. A team that once walked the halls of Project Honor self-righteously named themselves ‘Legacy’ asif momentary success would leave them in the annals of professional wrestling history. Success has nothing to do with a legacy, especially when brief. A legacy is long lasting, something that will be remembered for years to come. For example; the violence that Charon and I have unleashed in our short time together under the banner of Project Honor - that will be remembered. My life, our lives, left a legacy of pain and suffering that Charon and I will never forget - and that is what we will turn onto Project Honor. A legacy of pain and suffering that will always be remembered. We will leave behind a legacy of being the most violent, the most dominant team in this company's history; but we have only just begun our path. So with that idea, that thought of us leaving this legacy of pain, violence and torture that will be passed from fan to fan through the various stages of this companies life - I would like to address all of the teams that enlisted in this tournament and tell them all … our legacy is going to be built through you.”
“Starting with Steele and Venom. This is where we set the tone for the night that Collision Course will be. James Ranger and Kagome Akaibara, the latter of which being the Project Honor ‘veteran’ who called Ranger upon hearing of this opportunity. Courting a friend to enter a tournament you have no business being a part of, or chance of winning. Bringing in someone to back you up, only for them to be left next to your fallen body - bleeding out after Charon and I have put you through more pain and violence than you’ve ever endured; and we’re only getting started. One tag team match together under the Project Honor banner, and you’ve buckled. A Collision Course preview - they said - and you allowed Pyro and Julius Fairweather to gain momentum because neither of you could be present enough to be involved. You’ll use that as an argument, sure, but it also says that neither of you had the killer instinct to go for the throat the first opportunity you had. You’re not built that way it seems. Abysmal records all around, two wins and nine losses for Kagome and one win-two losses for Ranger and the one win is credited to someone else. Together, Charon and I have been unstoppable in Project Honor. We’ve laid waste to Jordan Bishop and BEZERK, neither of which have been seen again. We’ve put Artemis Shephard and Yelich in the fucking ground, also dealing out punishment to Latoya Hixx and Earl Boyde in the process. The only two blemishes on my record here belong to the current Legacy champion and Shawn Warstein - both of whom only narrowly escaped with victory, and both of whom wear the scars of our battles. Do James and Kagome possess the same talent, the same drive as Elena or Warstein? Not in the slightest, and that is why you will fail. Charon and I are bonded through violence and if you need proof, watch back our last matches together - you will see. Victory is only just one thing we will achieve together, and it’s the lowest ranked thing we strive for. What Charon and I intend is to watch the life leave your eyes. To listen to your final, gasping breath as we strangle you in front of the entire world because then you will know how we’ve lived our lives. Struggling for breath, subjected to things you only hear about in horror stories and the most twisted of true-life crime dramazations. What Charon and I intend to do to you two at Collision Course is to make a bloody, violent example out of you - a message to be sent to every other team that has foolishly signed their own death wishes when they entered this tournament. We’ve bled more in one night than you have in your lives, but all that changes on September Eleventh. And in front of a Japanese crowd that has been indoctrinated to scoff at the art of deathmatches in Europe and America, we will send them home with the most vivid of nightmares following what we do to you, and to everyone else here.”
By now his focus shifted from the pipe underneath his hand, to the camera. When he spoke there was a menacing truth behind his words, and his eyes burned with the intensity that they always have.
“The legacy that will be left long after The Massacre is over, will be a story told through every era shift - during every changing of the guard that Project Honor will see. A bloody tale of brutality and while the origins will date well before Collision Course, it will be that event that truly stands out as the grisly beginning.”
“After we’ve ripped through Steele and Venom, that leaves the rest of the field for us - immediately Fire and Ice, The Antithesis or the Heritage would be the next in line. I will be blunt; I don’t care who advances. I would be lying, though, if I said that I wouldn’t love to get my hands on Pyro and Fairweather simply due to the fact that they were victorious in the “preview” match. Had Charon and I been involved, I can promise you that the result would have been drastically different - but that’s not up for debate. The whole rivalry-merged-to-team scenario is typically a foreshadowing to a happy ending, but in this instance that couldn’t be any further from the truth. This isn’t a fairy tale - this is real life, and in real life - things don’t always have a happy ending. The fairy tale of the hot Pyro and the ice cold Fairweather will only end up in dissolution. Steam will be all that’s left - nothing tangible. Nothing substantial. They are together simply because of opportunity, and that isn’t going to be enough to stop the Massacre. MMA, boxing and backgrounds similar doesn’t frighten or intimidate us; we’ve put bigger and badder men on their backs with the blades of knives pressed to their skin. In a fight of survival it isn’t about training and technique, it’s about who’s deprave enough - who’s maniacal enough to pull the fucking trigger, or pull back on that blade - slicing open flesh. Charon and I are depraved enough. Charon and I are maniacal enough. And while Pyro can intimidate some with his penchant for fire; it’s our penchant for violence and bloodshed that will push us past this pairing. The heart warming tale that should equate to success, will only bring them pain and agony. And I introduce them to our world with a grin on my face.”
“Facade will be our next word. A word represented by the Antithesis team. Two of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse - right? That’s amusing. The facade they’ve built, centered around being young, angry individuals who will do anything to have the opportunities given to them instead of others, is transparent. Do I worry that these two will survive? Simply put, no. These two haven’t met real adversity. They represent the crybabies, the pathetic fucking losers who united because they saw other people have chances that they decided would better be suited for them. Without earning, or without simply taking the chances for themselves. They united for the simple purpose to bitch and moan about others succeeding while they remained in neutral. A team like this will not make it to the finals, to the championships - because they won’t put in the work. The only future that they have - is to be outlined in chalk if they meet us.”
“Ryan Young and Rebecca Brookes; the latter of the two I have heard of and I am told has all of the potential in the world. You could attribute success to them almost automatically because of the same blood that courses through their veins. But family is more than just blood; we all know that, and blood often promotes the most violent of rivalries. So what’s to say that Brookes, someone with a mountain of success behind her, see’s potential failure from her brother - and drives a knife into his back? This is a cut throat industry we’re in, where success is a driving motivational factor for the simple minded. Charon and I, while not blood, have been through more adversity than most teams in this tournament; which is why we fear none of you. But, for the sake of unity, let’s say the brother-sister duo can make it through the rigorous battlefield to face us. Imagine how exquisite it would be to make one watch while we bleed the other out asif they were nothing but prized game in the wilderness, before turning the blade onto them? We won’t stop there, though. When Young and Brookes are lowered into their hole at their funeral, Charon and I might even show up to eradicate the entire family line. The industry could do with one less family-legacy, don’t you agree?”
“I can sit and talk about the fraudulent Phantom Troupe, but doubt they will make it beyond the Brothers of Balance, who in turn won’t make it past Havoc and Arata who can make their own arguments for success in this tournament. But while they sit conjuring up nicknames from the depths of whatever anime hell they decided to open today; this industry knows and acknowledges only one Shinigami and neither of you fit that mold. Havoc and Arata have carved out a nice little history for themselves, but this tournament isn’t their night. Singles success aside, they haven’t met a team like myself and Charon. Singles success aside, Havoc and Arata aren’t built for the war in this division that only Charon and I are capable of bringing, and that will be evident if we have the chance to leave them as corpses at our feet.”
“We were made, crafted into becoming the monsters we are. No Kraken, Serpent, Underground Ruler or Demon will be able to stop us. Shelldrake and Crowley; adversaries - friends, it truly does not matter what your relationship is on this night. The battle you will be fighting is an unwinnable one. You both are relentless, but stop at victory. That’s your mistake. Where you stop when the bell rings, we stop when the coroner is sent for. Charon and I stop when we’re satisfied with how we leave our victims. You want to see relentlessness? We’ll show you merciless. We’ll show you heartless. And most importantly, we’ll show you savagery like you have never experienced before.”
He paused briefly.
“That is what gives us the advantage. Other teams will give themselves the attribute merciless - but for us, it’s proven. At Collision Course our bloodsoaked legacy begins when we put each of you in body bags.”
A blanket of darkness covered the sky, night has settled in. Earlier in the day, the city of New Orleans was the recipient of more than a couple hours of heavy rain. However, now those clouds have moved on leaving the remnants, the aftermath of that downpour. The paved streets were still damp, pools and puddles of water had collected against the raised curbs in various spaces. The neon lights and signs that helped illuminate Bourbon Street still occasionally dripped with water, and they reflected off of those pools and puddles of rainwater. The patrons of Bourbon Street on this night didn’t seem to mind the gentle breeze that carried with it the smells of fresh rainfall. And even despite being well past Midnight, those patrons still hung around outside of their bar of choice - smoking cigarettes and pounding back their alcohol while engaging in meaningless conversations with their friends. Immediately, though, those conversations were derailed when - out of the corner of their eyes - they would spot a sight that they didn’t expect to see. Not at this time of night, not in this location.
Two teenagers walking down Bourbon Street together. Both male, both hair long-ish blonde hair and both could be no more than fourteen tops.
This was Lazarus Arjen and Jack Seede. Friends and classmates together. The young boys were bonded by the similarities in their lives.
Lazarus lived in the seedy Seventh District of New Orleans in run down homes; a resident of the most violent neighborhood in the city. Lazarus’ mother turned to the streets after her new marriage turned out for the worst. Lazarus’ father, a murder victim that happened right before Lazarus’ eyes, didn’t leave the family much - and in turn Lazarus’ mother would remarry. The stepfather Lazarus grew up with - an alcoholic, abuser to his family in every sense of the word - forcefully turned the needle onto his wife, getting her hooked and addicted to heroin, then threw her on the corner to turn tricks - to make money for the family.
Jack, on the other hand, lived a privileged life. His family resided in the Bayou St. John neighborhood of New Orleans - one of the nicest areas you could possibly stay in. A mere half hour walk from the Seventh Ward, that distance was enough to separate the two class statuses - well-off and the impoverished. Jack, like Lazarus, would have a violent side to him - though. An instigator of altercations nine times-out of-ten, which is how he and Lazarus would meet and bond; through fights at school. Jack would pick a fight with someone much bigger, Lazarus was accidentally bumped into which caused Lazarus to snap - and together with Jack, would finish off the bigger adversary. And the friendship began.
Coming from the Seventh District, you immediately had to acquire the trait of readiness. No matter what, you always had to be prepared. Robberies, muggings, attacks without cause or provocation, or worse happened on a daily basis and teenagers weren’t exempt. Lazarus always kept this in the back of his head and in his hand, he casually carried a pipe - one he picked up inside of some construction yard after hours. It was something he carried with him everywhere, just in case. While his hands were empty, Jack had a backpack in his possession. The straps worn over his shoulders traditionally, and the contents inside of it a complete mystery to everyone except Jack (and maybe Lazarus). So the instincts they acquired growing up in the Seventh Ward, little did they know, were about to be used to save their lives.
The two turned off of Bourbon Street, slipping into an alleyway that joined the street adjacent to Bourbon. This alleyway was the location of the back entrances and loading zones for a couple of bars, an ideal spot for loitering and hangouts and tonight was no exception. Drunken bar men stood around a small set of stairs that led to the back door of a particular bar, all surrounding a metal trash can whose contents were set on fire for whatever reason. It wasn’t something that Lazarus or Jack cared to find out, and as the two teenagers attempted to walk through the alley - Lazarus’ grip tightened on the pipe.
“You boys lost?” One of the men said. The question was sarcastic, his tone hinted at threatening. Lazarus kept his head down, arm stiff to his side and his grip tight on the pipe. Jack, however, had his head up and his arms bent - hands clinched around the straps of his backpack. Jack was a step ahead of Lazarus as they walked through the alley, much to the chagrin of the mouthy one that spoke up first. His mates chuckled under their breath, but stepped closer. Three of them in total, now closing in on the two. “Maybe you didn’t understand me. Why don’t you two turn around and get out of here.”
Still they pressed forward. Lazarus’ blood was boiling, immediately seeing images of his step-father’s drunken abuse flashing in front of him. Jack’s expression was stoic and his eyes were focused on what was ahead of him - which would soon be blocked by a large man. The trio of drunks would finally stop the teenagers' advancement, trapping them next to the metal trash can. “Maybe they’re deaf?” One said to the other, mockingly. “Or just fucking stupid…” He would finish his statement, turning his attention to the boys, the tone of his voice becoming menacing.
There was no escape for the boys; certainly not forward in the direction they were - at one point - walking, and neither of them ever turned back. So.
Quickly, without warning, Jack slipped his backpack off and threw it directly in the face of the man in front of him. Whatever was in the bag was heavy enough to make him stumble back, holding his face. Lazarus’ stiff arm swung the pipe directly into the kneecap of the man standing in front of him which dropped him almost immediately. Before the third could react, Jack had kicked over the metal trash can sending embers from the flames soaring into the air - also causing him to step back. Lazarus turned to the first man, the man holding his nose, and swung the pipe - with everything he had - into his stomach. Jack scrambled to the exterior wall of the bar, picking up a large brick. As the third turned to Lazarus, Jack hurled the brick toward him - hitting him in the back of the head with it.
Lazarus turned back to the first, straddling him and pressing the pipe lengthwise across his throat - pushing all of his weight down onto him. Jack charged up, kicking the third assailant in the face before doing the same to the second. Lazarus had seen red, letting out a guttural yell as he - essentially - was choking the life out of this man with a pipe. Seeing images of his step father, undoubtedly. Jack retrieved his backpack, opening and pulling out the contents - another brick. Jack held the brick in his hand, his intention was to smash it over the head of the next assailant who pushed up to their feet - however he didn’t get the time to do that.
An onlooker from Bourbon Street who happened to see the commotion was already on the phone with the police, and a squad car was just a block away. The sound of sirens ripped through the night air, making Jack freeze as he stood - brick raised over his head and his eyes on the assailant at his feet. Turning his head to look around, noticing the buildings lighting up red and blue - colors alternating quickly. He dropped the brick, turning to grab Lazarus by the back of the shirt. “Come on Laz. Let’s fuckin’ go.” Jack pulled while he bent down to grab his bag.
Lazarus was pulled off of his assailant, stumbling backward. He stopped for a second to pick up the pipe he once held tightly in his hand before shooting off into a sprint - following Jack through the alley to the end until they were on the street again.
It felt as if their feet were weighed down with cement, stomping as they ran - splashing through puddles, ducking into another alley. This one far darker than the last, also empty of any vagrants or drunks. The running movements stopped. With heavy breaths, they turned and looked at each other.
Tonight was different from any other fight, scuffle or any other word to describe it. Tonight was liberating. Tonight was telling.
TO BE CONTINUED …
You would expect darkness. You would expect something bloody, something grungy, something disgusting when dealing with the Massacre. A setting that would turn stomachs, a backdrop that foreshadowed what the two were planning on doing to their opponents. But, today you wouldn’t get that. Instead, today it’s casual. Today, Lazarus sat inside of a house. No other details were known about this house, except for the state of it. Paint chipped from the discolored paint on the walls. Holes had been punched or damaged through the drywall, and poor plaster jobs were done to cover it up. By the way Lazarus sat on an old school chair - one you would find in the mid-to-late nineties - aluminum with padded seat and backrest, and had one single arm rested on a table next to him; we’re able to determine that this is a kitchen. His elbow on the table was bent and his hand elevated - palm placed firmly on the end of a steel pipe that he kept in the standing position by his grip on the end. The room was lit up by a single, large, candle placed on the table - located just behind where Lazarus had the pipe stationed. The single candle lit just enough of the room to piece together the few minor details we know, and to see Lazarus who was half masked by shadows.
“We’re going to play a little game of word association, albeit a modified version.”
“Let’s start with; significance. What is the significance of this location? Why am I here instead of in some gym somewhere, working a punching bag like I’m some fake tough guy like Pyro who tries to establish himself as this vicious workhorse? I spent many nights sitting at this table, running through these halls as a child - only to later be thrown into the walls, knocked to the floor, my blood staining the cheap linoleum. In this house, I was forced to grow up by the age of twelve. I was out that door by the age of fourteen. Working a dead end job at fifteen. Fighting to survive on the streets with my brother Charon. This home was every bit as significant in the birth of the violence as the bullet that ripped through my father’s body in front of me. This home is significant because if you knew the horrors, the vile and disgusting things that happened here - you wouldn’t question why I became the man I am today.”
“I come here when I can. My mother and step-father have both found their way into the ground - and yet this house remains vacant in the Seventh Ward. No one cares. No one cared back then, hearing the sounds of a child screaming - no one cares now that it stands; dilapidated, roof caved in - in certain places. Flood and water damage ensuring that this house will never be a home again. It’s for the best. They say energy transfers through periods of extreme torment or tragedy; if you’re into that sort of thing. But, I come here to keep focused. It was in this home where I was molded, adopted by violence; so it standing is a memory - a driving force that keeps me moving forward. It standing acts as a power source for all of the violence that I know I am capable of. I was - Charon was - MADE to be the way we are. Made by external forces and powers. We were built for the bloody violence of war. Any other man or woman would have ended their life in this house.”
“Not me. I persevered. I withstood the beatings - the things I can’t even mention - just so I can turn around and inflict that same violence, that some punishment, onto each and every one of you that stands in my way. And it all began here ...”
Lazarus paused for a moment. We could tell that his eyes were locked on the recording device in front of him, even though half of his face was still concealed in shadows. He turned his head for a moment, but continued.
“The next word we have is; Legacy.”
“Far too often people associate this word with success. A team that once walked the halls of Project Honor self-righteously named themselves ‘Legacy’ asif momentary success would leave them in the annals of professional wrestling history. Success has nothing to do with a legacy, especially when brief. A legacy is long lasting, something that will be remembered for years to come. For example; the violence that Charon and I have unleashed in our short time together under the banner of Project Honor - that will be remembered. My life, our lives, left a legacy of pain and suffering that Charon and I will never forget - and that is what we will turn onto Project Honor. A legacy of pain and suffering that will always be remembered. We will leave behind a legacy of being the most violent, the most dominant team in this company's history; but we have only just begun our path. So with that idea, that thought of us leaving this legacy of pain, violence and torture that will be passed from fan to fan through the various stages of this companies life - I would like to address all of the teams that enlisted in this tournament and tell them all … our legacy is going to be built through you.”
“Starting with Steele and Venom. This is where we set the tone for the night that Collision Course will be. James Ranger and Kagome Akaibara, the latter of which being the Project Honor ‘veteran’ who called Ranger upon hearing of this opportunity. Courting a friend to enter a tournament you have no business being a part of, or chance of winning. Bringing in someone to back you up, only for them to be left next to your fallen body - bleeding out after Charon and I have put you through more pain and violence than you’ve ever endured; and we’re only getting started. One tag team match together under the Project Honor banner, and you’ve buckled. A Collision Course preview - they said - and you allowed Pyro and Julius Fairweather to gain momentum because neither of you could be present enough to be involved. You’ll use that as an argument, sure, but it also says that neither of you had the killer instinct to go for the throat the first opportunity you had. You’re not built that way it seems. Abysmal records all around, two wins and nine losses for Kagome and one win-two losses for Ranger and the one win is credited to someone else. Together, Charon and I have been unstoppable in Project Honor. We’ve laid waste to Jordan Bishop and BEZERK, neither of which have been seen again. We’ve put Artemis Shephard and Yelich in the fucking ground, also dealing out punishment to Latoya Hixx and Earl Boyde in the process. The only two blemishes on my record here belong to the current Legacy champion and Shawn Warstein - both of whom only narrowly escaped with victory, and both of whom wear the scars of our battles. Do James and Kagome possess the same talent, the same drive as Elena or Warstein? Not in the slightest, and that is why you will fail. Charon and I are bonded through violence and if you need proof, watch back our last matches together - you will see. Victory is only just one thing we will achieve together, and it’s the lowest ranked thing we strive for. What Charon and I intend is to watch the life leave your eyes. To listen to your final, gasping breath as we strangle you in front of the entire world because then you will know how we’ve lived our lives. Struggling for breath, subjected to things you only hear about in horror stories and the most twisted of true-life crime dramazations. What Charon and I intend to do to you two at Collision Course is to make a bloody, violent example out of you - a message to be sent to every other team that has foolishly signed their own death wishes when they entered this tournament. We’ve bled more in one night than you have in your lives, but all that changes on September Eleventh. And in front of a Japanese crowd that has been indoctrinated to scoff at the art of deathmatches in Europe and America, we will send them home with the most vivid of nightmares following what we do to you, and to everyone else here.”
By now his focus shifted from the pipe underneath his hand, to the camera. When he spoke there was a menacing truth behind his words, and his eyes burned with the intensity that they always have.
“The legacy that will be left long after The Massacre is over, will be a story told through every era shift - during every changing of the guard that Project Honor will see. A bloody tale of brutality and while the origins will date well before Collision Course, it will be that event that truly stands out as the grisly beginning.”
“After we’ve ripped through Steele and Venom, that leaves the rest of the field for us - immediately Fire and Ice, The Antithesis or the Heritage would be the next in line. I will be blunt; I don’t care who advances. I would be lying, though, if I said that I wouldn’t love to get my hands on Pyro and Fairweather simply due to the fact that they were victorious in the “preview” match. Had Charon and I been involved, I can promise you that the result would have been drastically different - but that’s not up for debate. The whole rivalry-merged-to-team scenario is typically a foreshadowing to a happy ending, but in this instance that couldn’t be any further from the truth. This isn’t a fairy tale - this is real life, and in real life - things don’t always have a happy ending. The fairy tale of the hot Pyro and the ice cold Fairweather will only end up in dissolution. Steam will be all that’s left - nothing tangible. Nothing substantial. They are together simply because of opportunity, and that isn’t going to be enough to stop the Massacre. MMA, boxing and backgrounds similar doesn’t frighten or intimidate us; we’ve put bigger and badder men on their backs with the blades of knives pressed to their skin. In a fight of survival it isn’t about training and technique, it’s about who’s deprave enough - who’s maniacal enough to pull the fucking trigger, or pull back on that blade - slicing open flesh. Charon and I are depraved enough. Charon and I are maniacal enough. And while Pyro can intimidate some with his penchant for fire; it’s our penchant for violence and bloodshed that will push us past this pairing. The heart warming tale that should equate to success, will only bring them pain and agony. And I introduce them to our world with a grin on my face.”
“Facade will be our next word. A word represented by the Antithesis team. Two of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse - right? That’s amusing. The facade they’ve built, centered around being young, angry individuals who will do anything to have the opportunities given to them instead of others, is transparent. Do I worry that these two will survive? Simply put, no. These two haven’t met real adversity. They represent the crybabies, the pathetic fucking losers who united because they saw other people have chances that they decided would better be suited for them. Without earning, or without simply taking the chances for themselves. They united for the simple purpose to bitch and moan about others succeeding while they remained in neutral. A team like this will not make it to the finals, to the championships - because they won’t put in the work. The only future that they have - is to be outlined in chalk if they meet us.”
“Ryan Young and Rebecca Brookes; the latter of the two I have heard of and I am told has all of the potential in the world. You could attribute success to them almost automatically because of the same blood that courses through their veins. But family is more than just blood; we all know that, and blood often promotes the most violent of rivalries. So what’s to say that Brookes, someone with a mountain of success behind her, see’s potential failure from her brother - and drives a knife into his back? This is a cut throat industry we’re in, where success is a driving motivational factor for the simple minded. Charon and I, while not blood, have been through more adversity than most teams in this tournament; which is why we fear none of you. But, for the sake of unity, let’s say the brother-sister duo can make it through the rigorous battlefield to face us. Imagine how exquisite it would be to make one watch while we bleed the other out asif they were nothing but prized game in the wilderness, before turning the blade onto them? We won’t stop there, though. When Young and Brookes are lowered into their hole at their funeral, Charon and I might even show up to eradicate the entire family line. The industry could do with one less family-legacy, don’t you agree?”
“I can sit and talk about the fraudulent Phantom Troupe, but doubt they will make it beyond the Brothers of Balance, who in turn won’t make it past Havoc and Arata who can make their own arguments for success in this tournament. But while they sit conjuring up nicknames from the depths of whatever anime hell they decided to open today; this industry knows and acknowledges only one Shinigami and neither of you fit that mold. Havoc and Arata have carved out a nice little history for themselves, but this tournament isn’t their night. Singles success aside, they haven’t met a team like myself and Charon. Singles success aside, Havoc and Arata aren’t built for the war in this division that only Charon and I are capable of bringing, and that will be evident if we have the chance to leave them as corpses at our feet.”
“We were made, crafted into becoming the monsters we are. No Kraken, Serpent, Underground Ruler or Demon will be able to stop us. Shelldrake and Crowley; adversaries - friends, it truly does not matter what your relationship is on this night. The battle you will be fighting is an unwinnable one. You both are relentless, but stop at victory. That’s your mistake. Where you stop when the bell rings, we stop when the coroner is sent for. Charon and I stop when we’re satisfied with how we leave our victims. You want to see relentlessness? We’ll show you merciless. We’ll show you heartless. And most importantly, we’ll show you savagery like you have never experienced before.”
He paused briefly.
“That is what gives us the advantage. Other teams will give themselves the attribute merciless - but for us, it’s proven. At Collision Course our bloodsoaked legacy begins when we put each of you in body bags.”