Post by americangrime on Sept 5, 2021 14:10:15 GMT -5
It was the first time the blood had washed freely from their boots as Charon-then Jack-held the hose at the back of the bar against the black leather and watched the bits of gore and crimson droplets mixed with the liquid rushing quickly and voraciously into the sewers. Jack felt alive, moreso than ever before. Every singular hair on his neck, head, arms, and legs stood up on edge, at attention, a thousand soldiers waiting their next task. In every fibre of his being, he wanted to take the rest of those bricks in his bag and descend upon the streets, crushing in the skull of each and every individual who dared spit or leer in his direction. Jack felt a freedom, a metamorphosis, one he was sure was going through the head of his brother, now, too. He turned the hose to the boots and hands of Lazarus-far more bloody than his, after all. Lazarus had done the action between the two of them, Jack had simply watched. It reminded him of the matinees, the one bit of human joy that the two of them cherished.
Jack would snag spare bills and coins from the register at his barkeep job, and Lazarus would hit a few storefronts for all the snacks he could stuff in his pockets. They’d walk down streets separately, so as to not get caught together if consequence was to come calling for the actions they’d committed to get to this point, and then meet. They’d usually pick the most dark and gruesome film they could identify. Sometimes, a comedy which neither enjoyed, but it allowed them to get out of the air for a bit. Other times, pulp fiction, blood and violence galore. Most times, however, they sought horrors. Hockey masks and machete blades, digging into human flesh and ripping away with all of the force in the world. Now, as Lazarus let bits of flesh and bone drift off and away, Jack was surprised at how fake they looked compared to the vibrancy of the movies. The props in film were, of course, meant to catch eyes above all else, but they looked so much better than this gritty reality.
It was in that course of thought that the adrenaline high began to fade. Hairs stood back to normal positions. The claminess on Jack’s flesh faded, and was replaced by sweat, just as the energy in his bones was replaced with an overwhelming fear. Where would they go, now? Surely if they returned to normal life, they’d be spotted immediately, caught out and called out, arrested by police and sent to some sort of hall for Wayward Youth. Jack knew what happened to people in those places, how they were either dumped out on the street when they came of age if their crime was low-enough risk, but theirs was far from it. They’d shuffle into the prison system and maybe see light in a few decades.
If they made it out at all.
Jack watched Lazarus carefully, looking to see if he’d had the same emotions wash over his face, but he was surprised to see a lack thereof. Jack wondered what was peeling through his brother’s head at this very moment, and as if on cue, Lazarus put a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
It was here that the transformation happened, the metamorphosis. If tonight was the genesis of the Massacre, this was the rising action, the catalyst, the moment where the chrysalis was to burst open and the butterfly was to emerge, still wet and weary from the world away where it had been resting, but ready to fly. Lazarus spun a tale of a world in which they didn’t have to steal, they didn’t have to hide, they could simply take what they wanted. For too long, Lazarus stated that they’d lived like rats. Jack found himself agreeing, more and more with each passing moment, until the remnants of Jack Seede, or what had inhabited his vessel for so long, began to efface fully. Jack felt himself emptied out, a crustacean with a shell peeling away, and replaced with something else, something far more volatile.
As Jack Seede went down the river, Charon Seede was born.
Beyond that, though, The Massacre was born. This would be the final night that they scraped for relevancy, the last opportunity for them to find homeliness among the fellows who inhabited their species, for as similar as the two seemed on the surface, they could not be more different than those which walked the same paths they did. Charon and Lazarus were animals amongst men, wolf amongst sheep, and they should behave as such. This awakening gave them purchase to do so, awakened desires, gave them a drive to move onward.
It was, of course, the natural order of things going forward.
-
This place stinks of death. There’s a permeating rot, a pervasive scent, that carries over the basement dwellings in which half of The Massacre, Charon Seede, resides. He wrings his hands out slowly, carefully, thoughtfully, as he contemplates his words. His hands are lain out over a table, with bloodied boots, a long railroad spike, and a death mask just ahead of him. His hands are covered with black leather gloves, and just ahead on the table are ten, upright standing in porcelain bases, raw eggs. Charon’s eyes drift over them carefully.
“Do you see? It’s a metaphor, really-each egg represents promise, each vessel a container for something great, an evolution, a birthing. Each egg will crack, eventually, forming something, generating life. They represent the ten teams going into Project Honor’s Collision Course-but you guessed that, didn’t you?
However, it’s silly to put ten out. I mean, there’s truly only one answer here, isn’t there?”
Charon picks the spike up in his hand. His eyes dance along the tip of it.
“Take, for example, our first round opponents, Steele and Venom. You want glory? You’ll receive it. Kagome Akabara is as familiar as an opponent as one could see in these parts-from the shadows I watched her fail and falter to claim any sort of prominence over the rest of this company-the Legacy Chamber comes to mind-and she’s brought a friend now. How fitting! Herd animals tend to keep to one another, especially when threatened, and when standing eye to eye with a monolith of malignant flesh like The Massacre, well...you tend to feel quite that way. You tend to feel a chill in your bones, a threat on your tongue, a soft, gentle caress as the breath of death fills your lungs. You can arm yourselves with all the snake teeth and sharpened swords you can find...but they won’t be enough to cut through our violence, to ruin our stride.
You may, however, try. Prey who fight are always more fun to kill. Those animals which still have the breath in their lungs are always more fun to wrestle to the ground and strangle until they finish moving.” Charon winks. “And I’m sure you’ll be just the same as every other who’s tried to step to us before. Moving on, though-as you aren’t the only bodies ahead of us-let’s see who stands after.”
Charon crushes the first egg with his spike, and moves onto the next. “Antithesis? The Antithesis of what, exactly? General society? Let me guess-you stand against the establishment, the rules of living?” Charon snorts. “Give me a break. There aren’t enough black pills in the world to null your senses to the reality that Lazarus and I are going to make you well aware of. There aren’t enough drugs and bags of cash to dull the pain you’ll feel running headfirst into The Massacre. You may want to send the world into darkness, tear down the established scaffolds that hold our society up like some pair of renegades, but you’re really not going to find much success appealing to your own sense of self-destruction over anything else. Lazarus and I are doers, where as the two of you...I get the feeling you simply say without taking anger out on those who deserve it. When Lazarus and I were young, men who tried to stand against us, tried to enforce their rule upon us, they found themselves battered in alleyways, bricks to skulls, pipes to brain, until movement ceased.
Perhaps you’ll find yourselves the same way, trying to enforce a doctrine upon us. Feeding and oxygen tubes galore.” Charon crushes the Antithesis egg with his spike, and moves on. “But you aren’t the only option standing before us. Heritage, family ties, they try to bind the two who stand before us if you do not. Family is everything, but family isn’t just by blood. Lazarus and I are tighter now than I feel we would have been if we did share the same water of the womb. In any other pairing, any other contest, this could have been a glorious showdown! Brother and sister versus brothers in arms, an affair of skill and violence...you just happened to find the two siblings bound by the gore they have piled around themselves, the rotted and ruinous road they’ve created and placed their legacy upon.
Rebecca Brookes, your name may have been established elsewhere, gold adorning your waist, and your trainer may be watching from the stands, or from afar, but he will find no pride in what happens to you. He’ll bite the nails off of his fingers watching us cave your fucking skull in with blow after blow, he’ll cry his tearducts dry watching our boots make bloody hamburger of your brother’s head, and when we’ve finished and decided to lay you to rest, send you down the river, he’ll find some peace in the whirlwind of confusion and sorrow that comes when you’ve lost someone you love. You will find this as the biggest fault in your career-your Heritage cannot withstand this Massacre.” Charon crushes their egg emphatically, and moves on.
“Next, Fire and Ice. Perennial loser Pyro, foolish elder Fairweather. The two of you find yourselves in quite the predicament here, facing us as the faces of Fallout, a land that we’ve marked, a place in which we’ve stirred the pot, some virgin land for us to stain with bloodied feet and the cries of agony that we inflict upon the unworthy. The land that you represent, and by extension, the two of you are unworthy. You’ve not yet found yourselves standing before our blades, not yet seen yourselves through the eyes of killers, steely knives in hand, wanting to take what was ours. Through the entirety of our lives, we’ve cut what we’ve wanted off the beast that was this world. We’ll do the same with you, making a mockery of Fallout as we stomp you gatekeepers into dry soil, end the pitiful lives you’ve tried to make for yourselves.
We’ll carve what we want off of Project: Honor, at your expense. And we move on.”
Charon crushes the egg of Fire and Ice, and taps the top of another.
”Rulers of the Underground. Am I supposed to be impressed by a pairing of men who haven’t made a damned impact in more matches than Lazarus and I have stood in? Am I supposed to bend the knee before you? Well, by all means, I refuse. The legacy that the two of you have constructed isn’t built to fulfill anything, isn’t meant to rule a goddamned person. You may come forth from your losses and feel that you are unbeatable, indestructible, on a meteoric rise, but you will find nought but failure at your feet. You want others to bow before you, but you’ll be made to bow as we kick your legs out from beneath you, drive your skulls into the canvas, and malform your regal features into something found in only the most vile of horror-shows. You find some luck in the sense that you may never encounter myself and Lazarus, may never find the misfortune of having our violence wrought across your bodies, with the simple price of that being elimination. Listen, and heed me well…
...you should take that loss and leave before you get hurt.”
Charon crushes that egg. He moves on to JORMUNGANDR.
“Impressive, perhaps the most thorough opponents that I’ve gotten to at this point, but that’s not speaking of much considering the collection of sheep sent to the slaughter before you. Crowley and Shelldrake, two men of an immaculate resume here in Project Honor thus far, and you seek to increase it with the drive-forward given by the Collision Course and the Project: Honor Tag Team Championships. I assure you, while your victories thus far are surely impressive...they don’t stand before us. You excel in competition, we excel in brutalization, the murdering and mockery of all of those who stand before us. Consider this a bit of a styles clash, from one ruthless man to two others...we will test your mettle and see how long your resolve truly lasts before we reduce it down to nothing. Just like the rest.”
Charon crushes the next egg.
“Brothers of Balance, right? You’re unfamiliar to here, but you’ve travelled the world. I’ve seen your name on more than a few cards, seen your eyes in more than a few places. I’m unimpressed. You’re transients at best, the box-car riding bag-carrying homeless who jump from place to place looking for any modicum of income to finance survival before eventually dropping off the face of the Earth with relative ease. You come from a place that has Hardcore in the name...but can you handle the true level of violence that people like Lazarus and myself bring? You want to throw yourselves into the mix as proponents of violent acts, real killers, then you’re going to face the full brunt of what we can throw at you, all the sharp bits and blunt hits you can take. If you truly are hardcore, well...we’ll send you back to your federation in a pine box. Take that as a monument to what you could have been, what you could have become if you hadn’t run headfirst into us.”
Charon crushes this one.
“Next is the Phantom Troupe, or is it the Shinigami Foundation? Either way, one thing’s for certain-Alex Slayer will likely be there to fuck the whole thing up. Alex Slayer, constant challenger for the former Warrior Rising Championship, and yet you continue to let this company down. I know that your Shinigami Foundation has roots elsewhere, but it ceases to matter-the roots you’ve established can be so easily ripped from the ground and cast aside without even the slightest hint of difficulty. Your phantoms, or, whoever you come along with will wish that they’d faded into nothingness a long fucking time ago when Lazarus and I wrap hands around their throats and drive skulls into the canvas, time and time again, until you cease to move, until you cease to be. The mission of the Massacre is to kill, not to be killed, and we intend on enforcing that doctrine to the greatest of our ability.
No survivors.
No undeaths.”
Charon crushes the next egg, and leaves one egg remaining.
“And finally…Shinigami No Tensei. Perhaps the bit of external competition that I grow most worried about. Havoc, Arata Asakura, both men that have all the desire in the world and drive. Both men that have come forth from bitter, violent rivalries and held championship gold around this fucking globe. Now, you come head to head with us and seek some more, you seek the victory at Collision Course, you seek to divest the path of the Massacre. You may have a bond forged in combat, but like before, Lazarus and I have one forged in blood and shared flesh. We will come for both of you, one after the other, demons in the fucking night, and we will sink blades into your throats. We will drive you into the soil with as much vile and venom as we can muster. You want violence? You’ve got it. You want to come back from death? Surely, we’ll send you right back. Shinigami No Tensei is not long for this world, you will falter and you will fail, you will find nothing but bleakness and death ahead of you.
You will receive it kindly.”
Charon crushes the final egg, and jams the spike into the table, rising above it and slamming his hands down so viciously he shakes the camera.
“There is no other option. None of the field before us is capable of withstanding the violent deluge of blood and anger that The Massacre will produce, the malevolent storm brought forth by our combined wraths. Every individual who’s stepped before us or been in our path thus far in Project Honor has found themselves sent away lacking pieces they had when they came in. When I look at this field, I don’t see nine able-bodied teams, I see eighteen individual livestock sent headfirst into the grinder, brought to the slaughterhouse for the express purpose of death and destruction. We will hold these championships high, hoist them above heads and stand upon shattered bones and battered bodies. We will revel in the gore, and we will reign supreme with it dripping off every inch of us.
These tag team championships will find a home after so, so long of being barren...but it’ll be a final one. Death comes quickly for the Project Honor Tag Team Division, and it will find little else but suffering as we finish out this, reign supreme. The Massacre is here, as we have been, and when you run into us, well…”
Charon flashes a toothy grin.
”No one survives.”
A laugh fills the air, and we cut to a sudden, and intense, blackout.
Jack would snag spare bills and coins from the register at his barkeep job, and Lazarus would hit a few storefronts for all the snacks he could stuff in his pockets. They’d walk down streets separately, so as to not get caught together if consequence was to come calling for the actions they’d committed to get to this point, and then meet. They’d usually pick the most dark and gruesome film they could identify. Sometimes, a comedy which neither enjoyed, but it allowed them to get out of the air for a bit. Other times, pulp fiction, blood and violence galore. Most times, however, they sought horrors. Hockey masks and machete blades, digging into human flesh and ripping away with all of the force in the world. Now, as Lazarus let bits of flesh and bone drift off and away, Jack was surprised at how fake they looked compared to the vibrancy of the movies. The props in film were, of course, meant to catch eyes above all else, but they looked so much better than this gritty reality.
It was in that course of thought that the adrenaline high began to fade. Hairs stood back to normal positions. The claminess on Jack’s flesh faded, and was replaced by sweat, just as the energy in his bones was replaced with an overwhelming fear. Where would they go, now? Surely if they returned to normal life, they’d be spotted immediately, caught out and called out, arrested by police and sent to some sort of hall for Wayward Youth. Jack knew what happened to people in those places, how they were either dumped out on the street when they came of age if their crime was low-enough risk, but theirs was far from it. They’d shuffle into the prison system and maybe see light in a few decades.
If they made it out at all.
Jack watched Lazarus carefully, looking to see if he’d had the same emotions wash over his face, but he was surprised to see a lack thereof. Jack wondered what was peeling through his brother’s head at this very moment, and as if on cue, Lazarus put a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
It was here that the transformation happened, the metamorphosis. If tonight was the genesis of the Massacre, this was the rising action, the catalyst, the moment where the chrysalis was to burst open and the butterfly was to emerge, still wet and weary from the world away where it had been resting, but ready to fly. Lazarus spun a tale of a world in which they didn’t have to steal, they didn’t have to hide, they could simply take what they wanted. For too long, Lazarus stated that they’d lived like rats. Jack found himself agreeing, more and more with each passing moment, until the remnants of Jack Seede, or what had inhabited his vessel for so long, began to efface fully. Jack felt himself emptied out, a crustacean with a shell peeling away, and replaced with something else, something far more volatile.
As Jack Seede went down the river, Charon Seede was born.
Beyond that, though, The Massacre was born. This would be the final night that they scraped for relevancy, the last opportunity for them to find homeliness among the fellows who inhabited their species, for as similar as the two seemed on the surface, they could not be more different than those which walked the same paths they did. Charon and Lazarus were animals amongst men, wolf amongst sheep, and they should behave as such. This awakening gave them purchase to do so, awakened desires, gave them a drive to move onward.
It was, of course, the natural order of things going forward.
-
This place stinks of death. There’s a permeating rot, a pervasive scent, that carries over the basement dwellings in which half of The Massacre, Charon Seede, resides. He wrings his hands out slowly, carefully, thoughtfully, as he contemplates his words. His hands are lain out over a table, with bloodied boots, a long railroad spike, and a death mask just ahead of him. His hands are covered with black leather gloves, and just ahead on the table are ten, upright standing in porcelain bases, raw eggs. Charon’s eyes drift over them carefully.
“Do you see? It’s a metaphor, really-each egg represents promise, each vessel a container for something great, an evolution, a birthing. Each egg will crack, eventually, forming something, generating life. They represent the ten teams going into Project Honor’s Collision Course-but you guessed that, didn’t you?
However, it’s silly to put ten out. I mean, there’s truly only one answer here, isn’t there?”
Charon picks the spike up in his hand. His eyes dance along the tip of it.
“Take, for example, our first round opponents, Steele and Venom. You want glory? You’ll receive it. Kagome Akabara is as familiar as an opponent as one could see in these parts-from the shadows I watched her fail and falter to claim any sort of prominence over the rest of this company-the Legacy Chamber comes to mind-and she’s brought a friend now. How fitting! Herd animals tend to keep to one another, especially when threatened, and when standing eye to eye with a monolith of malignant flesh like The Massacre, well...you tend to feel quite that way. You tend to feel a chill in your bones, a threat on your tongue, a soft, gentle caress as the breath of death fills your lungs. You can arm yourselves with all the snake teeth and sharpened swords you can find...but they won’t be enough to cut through our violence, to ruin our stride.
You may, however, try. Prey who fight are always more fun to kill. Those animals which still have the breath in their lungs are always more fun to wrestle to the ground and strangle until they finish moving.” Charon winks. “And I’m sure you’ll be just the same as every other who’s tried to step to us before. Moving on, though-as you aren’t the only bodies ahead of us-let’s see who stands after.”
Charon crushes the first egg with his spike, and moves onto the next. “Antithesis? The Antithesis of what, exactly? General society? Let me guess-you stand against the establishment, the rules of living?” Charon snorts. “Give me a break. There aren’t enough black pills in the world to null your senses to the reality that Lazarus and I are going to make you well aware of. There aren’t enough drugs and bags of cash to dull the pain you’ll feel running headfirst into The Massacre. You may want to send the world into darkness, tear down the established scaffolds that hold our society up like some pair of renegades, but you’re really not going to find much success appealing to your own sense of self-destruction over anything else. Lazarus and I are doers, where as the two of you...I get the feeling you simply say without taking anger out on those who deserve it. When Lazarus and I were young, men who tried to stand against us, tried to enforce their rule upon us, they found themselves battered in alleyways, bricks to skulls, pipes to brain, until movement ceased.
Perhaps you’ll find yourselves the same way, trying to enforce a doctrine upon us. Feeding and oxygen tubes galore.” Charon crushes the Antithesis egg with his spike, and moves on. “But you aren’t the only option standing before us. Heritage, family ties, they try to bind the two who stand before us if you do not. Family is everything, but family isn’t just by blood. Lazarus and I are tighter now than I feel we would have been if we did share the same water of the womb. In any other pairing, any other contest, this could have been a glorious showdown! Brother and sister versus brothers in arms, an affair of skill and violence...you just happened to find the two siblings bound by the gore they have piled around themselves, the rotted and ruinous road they’ve created and placed their legacy upon.
Rebecca Brookes, your name may have been established elsewhere, gold adorning your waist, and your trainer may be watching from the stands, or from afar, but he will find no pride in what happens to you. He’ll bite the nails off of his fingers watching us cave your fucking skull in with blow after blow, he’ll cry his tearducts dry watching our boots make bloody hamburger of your brother’s head, and when we’ve finished and decided to lay you to rest, send you down the river, he’ll find some peace in the whirlwind of confusion and sorrow that comes when you’ve lost someone you love. You will find this as the biggest fault in your career-your Heritage cannot withstand this Massacre.” Charon crushes their egg emphatically, and moves on.
“Next, Fire and Ice. Perennial loser Pyro, foolish elder Fairweather. The two of you find yourselves in quite the predicament here, facing us as the faces of Fallout, a land that we’ve marked, a place in which we’ve stirred the pot, some virgin land for us to stain with bloodied feet and the cries of agony that we inflict upon the unworthy. The land that you represent, and by extension, the two of you are unworthy. You’ve not yet found yourselves standing before our blades, not yet seen yourselves through the eyes of killers, steely knives in hand, wanting to take what was ours. Through the entirety of our lives, we’ve cut what we’ve wanted off the beast that was this world. We’ll do the same with you, making a mockery of Fallout as we stomp you gatekeepers into dry soil, end the pitiful lives you’ve tried to make for yourselves.
We’ll carve what we want off of Project: Honor, at your expense. And we move on.”
Charon crushes the egg of Fire and Ice, and taps the top of another.
”Rulers of the Underground. Am I supposed to be impressed by a pairing of men who haven’t made a damned impact in more matches than Lazarus and I have stood in? Am I supposed to bend the knee before you? Well, by all means, I refuse. The legacy that the two of you have constructed isn’t built to fulfill anything, isn’t meant to rule a goddamned person. You may come forth from your losses and feel that you are unbeatable, indestructible, on a meteoric rise, but you will find nought but failure at your feet. You want others to bow before you, but you’ll be made to bow as we kick your legs out from beneath you, drive your skulls into the canvas, and malform your regal features into something found in only the most vile of horror-shows. You find some luck in the sense that you may never encounter myself and Lazarus, may never find the misfortune of having our violence wrought across your bodies, with the simple price of that being elimination. Listen, and heed me well…
...you should take that loss and leave before you get hurt.”
Charon crushes that egg. He moves on to JORMUNGANDR.
“Impressive, perhaps the most thorough opponents that I’ve gotten to at this point, but that’s not speaking of much considering the collection of sheep sent to the slaughter before you. Crowley and Shelldrake, two men of an immaculate resume here in Project Honor thus far, and you seek to increase it with the drive-forward given by the Collision Course and the Project: Honor Tag Team Championships. I assure you, while your victories thus far are surely impressive...they don’t stand before us. You excel in competition, we excel in brutalization, the murdering and mockery of all of those who stand before us. Consider this a bit of a styles clash, from one ruthless man to two others...we will test your mettle and see how long your resolve truly lasts before we reduce it down to nothing. Just like the rest.”
Charon crushes the next egg.
“Brothers of Balance, right? You’re unfamiliar to here, but you’ve travelled the world. I’ve seen your name on more than a few cards, seen your eyes in more than a few places. I’m unimpressed. You’re transients at best, the box-car riding bag-carrying homeless who jump from place to place looking for any modicum of income to finance survival before eventually dropping off the face of the Earth with relative ease. You come from a place that has Hardcore in the name...but can you handle the true level of violence that people like Lazarus and myself bring? You want to throw yourselves into the mix as proponents of violent acts, real killers, then you’re going to face the full brunt of what we can throw at you, all the sharp bits and blunt hits you can take. If you truly are hardcore, well...we’ll send you back to your federation in a pine box. Take that as a monument to what you could have been, what you could have become if you hadn’t run headfirst into us.”
Charon crushes this one.
“Next is the Phantom Troupe, or is it the Shinigami Foundation? Either way, one thing’s for certain-Alex Slayer will likely be there to fuck the whole thing up. Alex Slayer, constant challenger for the former Warrior Rising Championship, and yet you continue to let this company down. I know that your Shinigami Foundation has roots elsewhere, but it ceases to matter-the roots you’ve established can be so easily ripped from the ground and cast aside without even the slightest hint of difficulty. Your phantoms, or, whoever you come along with will wish that they’d faded into nothingness a long fucking time ago when Lazarus and I wrap hands around their throats and drive skulls into the canvas, time and time again, until you cease to move, until you cease to be. The mission of the Massacre is to kill, not to be killed, and we intend on enforcing that doctrine to the greatest of our ability.
No survivors.
No undeaths.”
Charon crushes the next egg, and leaves one egg remaining.
“And finally…Shinigami No Tensei. Perhaps the bit of external competition that I grow most worried about. Havoc, Arata Asakura, both men that have all the desire in the world and drive. Both men that have come forth from bitter, violent rivalries and held championship gold around this fucking globe. Now, you come head to head with us and seek some more, you seek the victory at Collision Course, you seek to divest the path of the Massacre. You may have a bond forged in combat, but like before, Lazarus and I have one forged in blood and shared flesh. We will come for both of you, one after the other, demons in the fucking night, and we will sink blades into your throats. We will drive you into the soil with as much vile and venom as we can muster. You want violence? You’ve got it. You want to come back from death? Surely, we’ll send you right back. Shinigami No Tensei is not long for this world, you will falter and you will fail, you will find nothing but bleakness and death ahead of you.
You will receive it kindly.”
Charon crushes the final egg, and jams the spike into the table, rising above it and slamming his hands down so viciously he shakes the camera.
“There is no other option. None of the field before us is capable of withstanding the violent deluge of blood and anger that The Massacre will produce, the malevolent storm brought forth by our combined wraths. Every individual who’s stepped before us or been in our path thus far in Project Honor has found themselves sent away lacking pieces they had when they came in. When I look at this field, I don’t see nine able-bodied teams, I see eighteen individual livestock sent headfirst into the grinder, brought to the slaughterhouse for the express purpose of death and destruction. We will hold these championships high, hoist them above heads and stand upon shattered bones and battered bodies. We will revel in the gore, and we will reign supreme with it dripping off every inch of us.
These tag team championships will find a home after so, so long of being barren...but it’ll be a final one. Death comes quickly for the Project Honor Tag Team Division, and it will find little else but suffering as we finish out this, reign supreme. The Massacre is here, as we have been, and when you run into us, well…”
Charon flashes a toothy grin.
”No one survives.”
A laugh fills the air, and we cut to a sudden, and intense, blackout.