Post by Deleted on Sept 10, 2021 16:29:18 GMT -5
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
(recommended reading here and here)
The altercation was days ago. The would-be-assailants gathered themselves, visited the closest emergency room and - of course - filled out police reports that painted them as the victims in the story. The descriptions were out there, every cop in the city was looking for two teenage boys who were considered ‘armed and dangerous’.
The two traveled back to the Seventh Ward. The streets were littered with broken down cars, lifted on cinder blocks and rusting to death. The dated, dilapidated houses acted as cover from the police that - to be fair - never really traveled down this way, not with haste anyway. Response times were astronomical, so even if a tip came through the two would be long gone before a police presence was felt.
An abandoned house was their refuge. There was no way Lazarus would subject Jack to what he had to deal with at ‘home’. The windows were broken or boarded up. The floors were bare, where there would be carpet - it was ripped up savagely. The wood floors matched the house, dated - aged and weathered. Graffiti tagged the walls, foliage blew through the broken windows and laid on the ground - rotting away as if it were a corpse. The bathrooms and the kitchen were covered in grime and dirt.
In the middle of the once-was living room, a room where a family probably spent the majority of their time together - gathered around a television and/or sharing meals, Lazarus and Jack are found. Two old milk crates stolen from the receiving door of a nearby corner market, doubled as a place for them to sit. Against the wall, underneath the window, there was a sleeping bag and old, caseless pillow. This is where Lazarus slept after leaving his family home. The two teenage boys sat in front of one another. Lazarus used his milk crate as a seat, while Jack sat on the floor - his legs crossed underneath him. His backpack was emptied, the contents spilled out on the floor. Bags of chips, soda cans, bottles of water, candy. Lazarus’ bag was the same. All things they could grab quickly, stuff into their bag and run away.
“Have you ever wanted...more?” Lazarus asked Jack. Lazarus sat on the milk crate, watching Jack rifle through the contents of their latest ‘score’. Lazarus’ attention was on his friend, his brother. He wasn’t concerned with feeding his growing appetite. There was a new appetite that began to develop, and the incident just days ago was that new appetite showing itself for the first time.
“More junk food? Nah’. An actual meal would be nice, though…” Jack replied, never lifting his eyes from the loot in front of him. He finally would grab a bag of chips, leaning backward against the crate that was propped against the wall, doubling as a backrest. After opening the bag, Jack looked up to Lazarus.
“That’s not what I meant.” Lazarus said, you could almost hear a small chuckle under his breath. But right now, he wasn’t in a joking mood - in fact, he rarely was. “I meant; more than this life? Have you ever thought about becoming more than just a statistic of New Orleans?”
Jack just stared at Lazarus, chewing on the selected brand of potato chips he picked.
“A few nights ago, something inside of me … snapped. You saw it, I know you did. What we did to those guys - it felt … good. And honestly? I don’t know if I could have done that if you weren’t there.” He said, his tone returning to what would be considered normal for him. “I think together, you and I can escape all of this.”
“I don’t know, Laz. I don’t thi--” Jack was cut off.
“Listen to me. You have all of the tools to become better than you are, you just need to separate yourself from this place. Your parents? They’ve shipped you off - that’s why you’re here in this house with me. You can escape this life, Jack, and I will help you. You are meant for more than to become just another dead kid on the streets of New Orleans.” Lazarus’ eyes found Jack’s. Jack, by now, stopped every motion. He just sat there, listening to his brother.
“I’m going to help you, Jack. We’re going to do this together. What we did a few nights ago? That proved we are more than capable of protecting ourselves. I will lead us through all of this shit, and I will stand with you on the other side. We will be stronger after going through it, we will forever be bonded.” Lazarus’ position was now shifted. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together as he looked down to Jack.
Jack took his time, listening to Lazarus. He’s known Lazarus for a few years, he trusts Lazarus and after what he witnessed the other night - watching as Lazarus cleaned blood off of his shoes and pipe, he now had a little knowledge of what Lazarus was capable of. What the demons inside Lazarus could drive him to. “Okay.” Jack would finally speak up. …
This was the first step. A decision that would change the course of their lives. Jack considered Lazarus a brother, he was loyal to him. If Lazarus had an idea, a plan - then Jack was going to follow his brother into hell if that were the case.
They shared the same trait. Loyalty. And now they were bonded by violence, more so now than they had ever been before.
-----------------
PARADISE, NEVADA (2020)
(Proving Ground Seven)
Project: Honor has arrived in Paradise, Nevada and Proving Ground is about to kick off. Tonight would not only welcome the announcement of a tournament to crown the first Tag Team Champions, but would also feature the debut of the man we find sitting isolated in the loading bay area of the venue; Lazarus Arjen. Lazarus sat idly, watching staff and co-roster members file into the venue one by one. He was watching - waiting for someone specific, and when that person - when those people - were spotted, his lips curled into a smirk.
Those people would be Euan Hill and Aurora Ray - American Grime. Together they walked into the venue, following ‘the Father’ who was more concerned with the phone call he was on, than his charges that followed a few steps behind him. ‘The Father’, as he would be known, abruptly turned away from the path he followed - taking time to speak loudly, angrily into the phone. Aurora and Euan stopped, their gaze at ‘the Father’ broken by the low, harsh tone of Lazarus’ voice. “Hey.”
Euan and Aurora turned the opposite direction, guards up immediately. Lazarus pushed himself off of the equipment box where he sat and made his way to the two. Euan scowled, Aurora’s eyes narrowed - they were ready for ‘the Father’ to focus and command them to strike.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lazarus Arjen, and while I may be new to this company; I have watched you two. Here and elsewhere.” He began, as he snaked around the two. Wherever he moved, their eyes followed.
“I’ve seen hints of what you two could be. All of the potential in the world, only it’s kept under lock and key by a man trying to control you - control your lives. Imagine the possibilities if you were set free. Imagine … all of the violence that you two could unleash. Imagine … all of the pain that you could inflict if you had those chains removed.” Lazarus said, returning to the position in front of them. A wicked grin began to form over his lips.
“That’s what I can do for you. I can free you. I will allow American Grime to be as violent, as destructive as you desire and I will lead you. I will free you from control, from tyranny and I will lead you to the killing fields for you to slaughter any, and every, person that steps in your way. I will give you freedom. I will give you purpose. And more importantly, I will give you family and a sense of belonging. I can give you that which you’ve never had before.” Lazarus’ eyes bounced back and forth from Aurora to Euan, and back.
“All I ask for in return is loyalty.” He said, ending his pitch to the team.
They took a moment, allowing it to sink in. Aurora’s head tilted, looking up to the bigger - menacing Euan, who’s eyes - and then - head fell as he went through the scenario.
“Take your time, consider your options. Know that should you accept, you have my full loyalty and my promise to push you to become better than you could be under the thumb of a dictator. My family - the death bringers, the Killjoy Club - will be at your full disposal.” Lazarus gave them the final words before turning, and beginning to walk away.
By now ‘the Father’ had finished his call and made his way to the pair. He stood behind, but in the middle of them, watching Lazarus disappear before he commanded their attention again.
Little did ‘the Father’ know that later tonight, he would meet his gruesome end at the hands of his own apostles.
-----------------
PRESENT DAY.
Rolling in from a black video start, we’re greeted with fire.
Flames danced eloquently, embers rose into the air as the fire roared - crackled as it burned. All we can see from this vantage point is the fire source, a metal tin - an old-timey trash can that you would find in any public space. The contents of the bin, whatever they were, burned hot. Darkness engulfs the rest of the space around it, except for the area immediately behind the can - and that is where we find three individuals sitting. In the middle of the menacing little scene in front of us, Lazarus Arjen sits behind the metal trash can. Flanked at his sides are his tag team partners, his family members, and other Killjoy/Massacre representatives - Charon Seede to his right, Ellie Quinn to his left. Charon stares blankly, emotionlessly into the roaring fire. Ellie, sitting with her Kingdom Pro. Atlantic Championship fastened together and worn around her neck asif it were a necklace, has a sly little grin on her face.
Lazarus sat calmly, almost statuesque surrounded by his family members. By his blood-born battlers. His hands were folded in his lap, his blonde hair hanging loosely in front of his face - almost, but not fully, blocking his eyesight. But through the strands of hair, his hazel eyes pierced into the camera lens.
“Loyalty.”
“Let’s be crystal clear about one thing. I have no loyalty to Christian DeMarco or to Fallout. I am loyal to my family - the Killjoy Club. To Charon Seede, to Ellie Quinn, and to the rest of my brothers and sisters of violence. I don’t care about DeMarco and Darling’s rivalry, I don’t care for the animosity between Fallout and Proving Ground; it’s insignificant in the bigger picture of why the Killjoy Club is here in Project Honor.”
“On August the Twenty-Seventh when Charon and I hopped the barrier and targeted Mark Hunter, it wasn’t a Fallout shot at Proving Ground - DeMarco didn’t send us out there. It was a statement. Mark Hunter has become the living, breathing poster boy for Project Honor - one of the faces of this company; and that is why we targeted him. The Massacre doesn’t end in the tag team division; we will strike anyone, anywhere, at any time - and Mark Hunter, with the status and reputation he has earned, has been in our sights since the moment I returned and Charon arrived.”
He stopped for a moment, looking to his right to Charon. Charon returned the glance, a sinister smirk touching his lips - knowing exactly where Lazarus was going with that. After a moment, Lazarus turned his attention back to the camera.
“Leading up to Collision Course, I talked about legacy and how the term is thrown around by many in this industry. However, someone like Mark Hunter has begun to carve his name into the foundation of Project Honor - therefore beginning his own legacy. A former Grand champion, one of the only two people in this companies history to have pinned Dickie Watson when he was here. Mark Hunter has become a staple in Project Honor, just like Elena DeDraca has. And it’s people like Charon, Ellie and myself that plan to rip those staples out, peel back the flesh of Project Honor and erase what was. From the moment I returned, the moment that Charon and Ellie put their names onto the contracts - it was decided that we would viciously - violently - take down the pillars of what was, to recreate this company in our image just as we have done to every company we’ve stepped foot into. Did you think we would be content with just ripping through the tag team division, and that we would stop there? It’s that foolishness that will cost Project Honor dearly.”
“Christian DeMarco has allowed us to operate as freely as we choose. He offered us the ‘Team Fallout’ role, and we accepted. Not because of loyalty, but because of our need for chaos - carnage - and bloodshed. Something that unites not just the three of us representing the Massacre and Killjoy Club, but it’s something that bonds us to Mason Destruction and SWITCHBLXDE as well. I’m no stranger to Switch; the two of us have went to war already, and Mason seems to share the same penchant for violence that we have. This ‘team’, this Fallout unit as it is, is made of five bloodthirsty killers all united for the same cause; to leave bodies at our feet. Lifeless corpses that have been bled out and mutilated, displayed for the entire world to see. None of us are here for brand supremacy, but we are all here for the same purpose - to Massacre the men standing in front of us.”
“But while it is that which unites us, it’s something else that unites Proving Ground. Indy Darling’s promise to his fighters that, should they win, they would all be in line for championship opportunities. Greed brings them together, opportunity fuels them. We don’t need incentives or opportunities at championships to do this, all we need are beating hearts on the opposing side of the ring for us to rip out. All we need are living, breathing victims for us to claim. Indy must believe that dangling these opportunities in front of his ‘team’ will encourage them, motivate them to dig deep into themselves - to force themselves through the absurd amount of pain and torture they will endure at Night of Honor. But, Indy - if you’re listening to this, allow me to tell you - it won’t work. Your team won’t make it through this match, not with what we have planned for them.”
His eyes. They told the tale of horror, of pain and of torture that his opponents for Night of Honor. But if they couldn’t see it? They would soon be told, in detail ...
“All five of us; Mason, Ellie, Switch, Charon and myself - are in the business of making statements. Bold, violent, bloody statements. The statement that we’re going to make at Night of Honor is one that will be remembered. Legacy, remember? The five of us will never be remembered for our wrestling technique, or how well we play politics - simply because we don’t give a fuck about any of that. What the five of us will be remembered for - especially here in Project Honor - is the level of brutality that we will bring to this company. To this Night of Honor event..”
“We will go through all five with no hesitation. TJ Thompson, Swindle Shelldrake, Ulf Hednir, Arata and - of course - Mark Hunter. TJ Thompson, I’m not going to lie, will be the weak link of Proving Ground. Someone content with mediocre talent, with mediocre athleticism, with mediocre intelligence - that explains why he’s surrounded himself with like minded individuals who will never succeed in this industry. TJ Thompson is expendable - that’s the honest truth. So when myself, or Charon, or Ellie, Mason, Switch - when any of us end his career, no one will miss him. When we end his life, no one will shed a single fucking tear because - at the end of the day - TJ Thompson means absolutely nothing. Will ‘Lil Petey’ or ‘Yung Sauce’ cry for their fallen friend? Will they seek vengeance? -- Who cares? If Big Drip want to avenge their fallen brother, we will put them in the ground with him. This is about making. A. Statement. And unfortunately for TJ Thomspn - he is part of the statement. It’s amusing - he calls himself ‘the goat’, but at Night of Honor we’re going to slaughter him as if he were a sheep.”
“And while we speak of slaughtering sheep, I would be negligent to bring up the Viking of team Proving Ground - Ulf Hednir. A man whose people would slaughter the newborn sheep they raised for sustenance. However; you and your ancestors are two different beings. You may idolize that lifestyle, you may pay homage to your forefathers - but Ulf, nostalgia will only get you so far in this business. You are a simple minded neanderthal who bases his entire personality off of someone else’s life. True, you come from the bloodline and true, there are still settlements in Norway that practice the old Viking ways - albeit with more positive values than just mindlessly raping and pillaging settlements. But you are not that. You’re a man playing a game of charades. Trying to separate himself from the other newcomers in this industry. A flashy, history-driven angle should work right? I’ll tell you how far you’ll get, Viking. There will be no New World discoveries for you, no capturing and enslaving of men and women to then sell into the European slave market; the only thing you have coming for you is an excruciating, agonizing defeat. We will see to it that whatever Norse god you worship, and that all of your Viking ancestors, will look down on you as you helplessly crawl - leaving a smeared, bloody trail from the wounds that have opened your body. That Norse God, those Ancestors - they aren’t here to save you, Ulf, they’re way up in the sky. But the very real, very threatening presence of myself, Charon, Ellie, Mason and Switch - are right here. And we will be standing over your fallen body, listening as you breathe out that last, gasping, struggling breath. When we say you die, you’ll die with no divine intervention.”
He took a brief pause. A hand moved from his lap and finally he would brush the hair from his face, smoothing it behind his head. His eyes shifted momentarily, but he would continue.
“A man who piques my interest is Swindle Shelldrake. JORMUNGANDR is undoubtedly a strong team, one that I hope to meet in the Collision Course tournament just days before this match; but I question why you’re in this fight at all. Are you that insecure with yourself that you need an opportunity at a championship in order to fight, or were you pulled in for lack of anything better to do? With your partners, their motivations are a little easier to read - but you’re a wild card for team Indy. Are you a man in the industry that falls in line with the cliche wants and desires - championships, accolades and spotlight? Or are you someone like myself, like Charon, like Mason - Switch - Ellie? A person who’s only want, only desire is to cruelly and savagely dissect your opponents simply because we can? We’re all sadists in one way or another, Swindle, but the difference between the team of bloodthirsty fighters on Fallout, and the team bound and chained by the rules and oppression of Proving Ground is - we accept what we are. We acknowledge that we’re the dregs of this industry; the roughnecks, the ultraviolent. The men and women who know and don’t shy away from the fact that we’re in this business for one purpose and one purpose only; to fucking hurt people. You, Swindle, fit the bill to stand alongside us - on paper, anyway. But what is it that truly motivates you? Success or bloodshed? I’m curious to hear what you say, but it doesn’t change the fact that for this night - Night of Honor - you represent Indy Darling and his merry band of buffoons, allowing themselves to be used as pawns simply for an opportunity. I want you to know, Swindle, that no opportunity will be awarded after Night of Honor because the Killjoy Club - Mason Destruction and SWITCHBLXDE will not allow it. Success and victory are not normally things that drive me or my peers, but it will be gifted to us after doing the work that we’ve signed up for. That work is meticulously and mercilessly ripping you five apart - limb from limb. And while your tendons rip and tear, while your bones break and shatter - I want you to think about what side of the line you fell on. There’s always an opportunity to change your stance …”
“I won’t offer that same comfort for the rest of them, though. Especially the next two. Arata Asakura; a man who’s certainly carved his name into the history books. Legacy is something that you have already achieved, ALPHA Wrestling star, WrestleWorld history maker, OWA and SSW standout. You’ve tangled with the best of the best, and now here you stand. I will be the first to admit, to anyone else - to any normal individual in this industry - the thought or idea of standing across from the Gaijin Killer Arata would be enough to consider early retirement. However, we’re not just anyone. None of us standing in front of you are normal individuals. Each and every day, we welcome the idea of pain, of death to surround us with it’s cold embrace and every single day we face the disappointment that it’s just not our time. Death would be a sweet release from the hell that I’ve lived through, but yet here I stand - fighting. Here I stand - poking and prodding at the shrouded figure of death to take me. But I’ve realized something, Arata. No solicitation, no begging will ever bring death to my door. My punishment is to live with this torture, to live in this hell - and my gift to the world is to bring hell to each and every person that stands in front of me. You included. You may have your name mentioned in the same breath as legends and icons of this industry, but I’m the type of person that will piss on all those who came before me - because I don’t give a single solid shit about them, you, or anyone else. And should you even make it to Night of Honor, if you survive the inevitable meeting with the Massacre at Collision Course, I can promise you you won’t walk out of this match. But - we are in your domain, aren’t we? I’m no stranger to Japan; just a week ago I was stabbing up Michael Bishop and Richard Gatsby under the SSW banner. As the Gaijin Killer, it is your job to follow through on that claim - to make that moniker actually mean something as opposed to just another stupid catchphrase for a cheaply made t-shirt for people to wear. I’m giving you the opportunity to do what life, nor myself, could do -- kill me. However, be warned, if you miss this opportunity - which I guarantee you will - the only one left near death will be you. And after I’m finished with you, after putting you in a position to suffer pain for the rest of your insignificant life, I won’t be the only one longing to be embraced by lady death.”
Four down and one to go. Lazarus’ pause didn’t last long this time. In fact, he was almost quick to continue.
“Someone else who will get that same opportunity, and same warning is Mark Hunter. You have the opportunity to press the barrel of your gun to me and put me out of my misery, as they say. But I strongly suggest you don’t miss. Make sure that bullet finds what it’s looking for, because you know first hand what myself and Charon are capable of - don’t you? Charon and I stomped your head into the mat until you were out, and had it not been for your Proving Ground cohorts, then we would have continued until your skull was caved in, until your brain stomped into mush underneath our boots. Mark; I’ve already said that you’re held in high regard in this company. You are one of the cornerstones, a piece of the foundation - but we, the Killjoy Club - the Massacre - Mason and Switch, we’re here to fucking burn this place down and rebuild. We’re here to tear down the foundation that built this company, and rebuild it in our own vision. There is simply no room for you. For someone catapulted to the top of the mountain with victories that anyone could amass. You are the fortunate recipient of the ‘right place, right time’ award. A bunch of victories over a gaggle of men who aren’t worth mentioning, but your losses tell another story to anyone who cares to pay enough attention. See, I know most people would see Mark Hunter - the man who’s surface layer reads success after success, but it’s losses that define you. Elena DeDraca, we’re both in that boat together and I can make arguments that separate us, however I won’t. Dickie Watson and his partner - twice, Ozymandis. All of those people have bested you, Hunter, scratching and damaging the supposed ‘impenetrable’ armour you wear. You may have this aura that surrounds you, that illuminates you as the top star in this company; but you only have the success you have because of voids left by those who’ve departed. Your real success was off the backs of those undeserving - victories over men who don’t quite stack up. Therefore you - Mark - are undeserving of the spotlight you hold. Which works well, since that fire you seemed to have lit underneath you - has all but vanished. There was no fire, there was no fight in you when Charon and I had our way with you just weeks ago. Perhaps the Mark Hunter that was once a Grand Champion is long gone. Perhaps he’s laying dormant, waiting for an opportunity to be handed to you - such as this one. It doesn’t matter, though. At the end of Night of Honor, after we’ve torn down and ripped apart what last bit of credibility you have - the world will see you as what you truly are. Just another pretty boy in an industry surrounded by killers armed with knives. And along with your credibility, your magazine cover looks will be shredded until you are barely recognizable.”
“The five of us, we don’t have opportunities resting on whether or not we win this match. The five of us, we don’t even want those opportunities. We’re not the type to be bought off with promises of stardom, promises of accolades and promises of championships. It’s simple really; the only thing the five of us want is blood. The only thing the five of us need, is to inflict pain. To introduce more pain than a human should ever go through. To watch you die. That is our end goal for this. The five of us, we don’t give a shit about brand supremacy. We want to slaughter as many people as possible before we set this whole fucking place on fire.”
Lazarus would finally lean back. The intensity of the orange lighting on his face decreases, giving way to the shadows that surround the trio. Lazarus’ lips curled into a wicked, sinister grin.
Static end.
(recommended reading here and here)
The altercation was days ago. The would-be-assailants gathered themselves, visited the closest emergency room and - of course - filled out police reports that painted them as the victims in the story. The descriptions were out there, every cop in the city was looking for two teenage boys who were considered ‘armed and dangerous’.
The two traveled back to the Seventh Ward. The streets were littered with broken down cars, lifted on cinder blocks and rusting to death. The dated, dilapidated houses acted as cover from the police that - to be fair - never really traveled down this way, not with haste anyway. Response times were astronomical, so even if a tip came through the two would be long gone before a police presence was felt.
An abandoned house was their refuge. There was no way Lazarus would subject Jack to what he had to deal with at ‘home’. The windows were broken or boarded up. The floors were bare, where there would be carpet - it was ripped up savagely. The wood floors matched the house, dated - aged and weathered. Graffiti tagged the walls, foliage blew through the broken windows and laid on the ground - rotting away as if it were a corpse. The bathrooms and the kitchen were covered in grime and dirt.
In the middle of the once-was living room, a room where a family probably spent the majority of their time together - gathered around a television and/or sharing meals, Lazarus and Jack are found. Two old milk crates stolen from the receiving door of a nearby corner market, doubled as a place for them to sit. Against the wall, underneath the window, there was a sleeping bag and old, caseless pillow. This is where Lazarus slept after leaving his family home. The two teenage boys sat in front of one another. Lazarus used his milk crate as a seat, while Jack sat on the floor - his legs crossed underneath him. His backpack was emptied, the contents spilled out on the floor. Bags of chips, soda cans, bottles of water, candy. Lazarus’ bag was the same. All things they could grab quickly, stuff into their bag and run away.
“Have you ever wanted...more?” Lazarus asked Jack. Lazarus sat on the milk crate, watching Jack rifle through the contents of their latest ‘score’. Lazarus’ attention was on his friend, his brother. He wasn’t concerned with feeding his growing appetite. There was a new appetite that began to develop, and the incident just days ago was that new appetite showing itself for the first time.
“More junk food? Nah’. An actual meal would be nice, though…” Jack replied, never lifting his eyes from the loot in front of him. He finally would grab a bag of chips, leaning backward against the crate that was propped against the wall, doubling as a backrest. After opening the bag, Jack looked up to Lazarus.
“That’s not what I meant.” Lazarus said, you could almost hear a small chuckle under his breath. But right now, he wasn’t in a joking mood - in fact, he rarely was. “I meant; more than this life? Have you ever thought about becoming more than just a statistic of New Orleans?”
Jack just stared at Lazarus, chewing on the selected brand of potato chips he picked.
“A few nights ago, something inside of me … snapped. You saw it, I know you did. What we did to those guys - it felt … good. And honestly? I don’t know if I could have done that if you weren’t there.” He said, his tone returning to what would be considered normal for him. “I think together, you and I can escape all of this.”
“I don’t know, Laz. I don’t thi--” Jack was cut off.
“Listen to me. You have all of the tools to become better than you are, you just need to separate yourself from this place. Your parents? They’ve shipped you off - that’s why you’re here in this house with me. You can escape this life, Jack, and I will help you. You are meant for more than to become just another dead kid on the streets of New Orleans.” Lazarus’ eyes found Jack’s. Jack, by now, stopped every motion. He just sat there, listening to his brother.
“I’m going to help you, Jack. We’re going to do this together. What we did a few nights ago? That proved we are more than capable of protecting ourselves. I will lead us through all of this shit, and I will stand with you on the other side. We will be stronger after going through it, we will forever be bonded.” Lazarus’ position was now shifted. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together as he looked down to Jack.
Jack took his time, listening to Lazarus. He’s known Lazarus for a few years, he trusts Lazarus and after what he witnessed the other night - watching as Lazarus cleaned blood off of his shoes and pipe, he now had a little knowledge of what Lazarus was capable of. What the demons inside Lazarus could drive him to. “Okay.” Jack would finally speak up. …
This was the first step. A decision that would change the course of their lives. Jack considered Lazarus a brother, he was loyal to him. If Lazarus had an idea, a plan - then Jack was going to follow his brother into hell if that were the case.
They shared the same trait. Loyalty. And now they were bonded by violence, more so now than they had ever been before.
-----------------
PARADISE, NEVADA (2020)
(Proving Ground Seven)
Project: Honor has arrived in Paradise, Nevada and Proving Ground is about to kick off. Tonight would not only welcome the announcement of a tournament to crown the first Tag Team Champions, but would also feature the debut of the man we find sitting isolated in the loading bay area of the venue; Lazarus Arjen. Lazarus sat idly, watching staff and co-roster members file into the venue one by one. He was watching - waiting for someone specific, and when that person - when those people - were spotted, his lips curled into a smirk.
Those people would be Euan Hill and Aurora Ray - American Grime. Together they walked into the venue, following ‘the Father’ who was more concerned with the phone call he was on, than his charges that followed a few steps behind him. ‘The Father’, as he would be known, abruptly turned away from the path he followed - taking time to speak loudly, angrily into the phone. Aurora and Euan stopped, their gaze at ‘the Father’ broken by the low, harsh tone of Lazarus’ voice. “Hey.”
Euan and Aurora turned the opposite direction, guards up immediately. Lazarus pushed himself off of the equipment box where he sat and made his way to the two. Euan scowled, Aurora’s eyes narrowed - they were ready for ‘the Father’ to focus and command them to strike.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lazarus Arjen, and while I may be new to this company; I have watched you two. Here and elsewhere.” He began, as he snaked around the two. Wherever he moved, their eyes followed.
“I’ve seen hints of what you two could be. All of the potential in the world, only it’s kept under lock and key by a man trying to control you - control your lives. Imagine the possibilities if you were set free. Imagine … all of the violence that you two could unleash. Imagine … all of the pain that you could inflict if you had those chains removed.” Lazarus said, returning to the position in front of them. A wicked grin began to form over his lips.
“That’s what I can do for you. I can free you. I will allow American Grime to be as violent, as destructive as you desire and I will lead you. I will free you from control, from tyranny and I will lead you to the killing fields for you to slaughter any, and every, person that steps in your way. I will give you freedom. I will give you purpose. And more importantly, I will give you family and a sense of belonging. I can give you that which you’ve never had before.” Lazarus’ eyes bounced back and forth from Aurora to Euan, and back.
“All I ask for in return is loyalty.” He said, ending his pitch to the team.
They took a moment, allowing it to sink in. Aurora’s head tilted, looking up to the bigger - menacing Euan, who’s eyes - and then - head fell as he went through the scenario.
“Take your time, consider your options. Know that should you accept, you have my full loyalty and my promise to push you to become better than you could be under the thumb of a dictator. My family - the death bringers, the Killjoy Club - will be at your full disposal.” Lazarus gave them the final words before turning, and beginning to walk away.
By now ‘the Father’ had finished his call and made his way to the pair. He stood behind, but in the middle of them, watching Lazarus disappear before he commanded their attention again.
Little did ‘the Father’ know that later tonight, he would meet his gruesome end at the hands of his own apostles.
-----------------
PRESENT DAY.
Rolling in from a black video start, we’re greeted with fire.
Flames danced eloquently, embers rose into the air as the fire roared - crackled as it burned. All we can see from this vantage point is the fire source, a metal tin - an old-timey trash can that you would find in any public space. The contents of the bin, whatever they were, burned hot. Darkness engulfs the rest of the space around it, except for the area immediately behind the can - and that is where we find three individuals sitting. In the middle of the menacing little scene in front of us, Lazarus Arjen sits behind the metal trash can. Flanked at his sides are his tag team partners, his family members, and other Killjoy/Massacre representatives - Charon Seede to his right, Ellie Quinn to his left. Charon stares blankly, emotionlessly into the roaring fire. Ellie, sitting with her Kingdom Pro. Atlantic Championship fastened together and worn around her neck asif it were a necklace, has a sly little grin on her face.
Lazarus sat calmly, almost statuesque surrounded by his family members. By his blood-born battlers. His hands were folded in his lap, his blonde hair hanging loosely in front of his face - almost, but not fully, blocking his eyesight. But through the strands of hair, his hazel eyes pierced into the camera lens.
“Loyalty.”
“Let’s be crystal clear about one thing. I have no loyalty to Christian DeMarco or to Fallout. I am loyal to my family - the Killjoy Club. To Charon Seede, to Ellie Quinn, and to the rest of my brothers and sisters of violence. I don’t care about DeMarco and Darling’s rivalry, I don’t care for the animosity between Fallout and Proving Ground; it’s insignificant in the bigger picture of why the Killjoy Club is here in Project Honor.”
“On August the Twenty-Seventh when Charon and I hopped the barrier and targeted Mark Hunter, it wasn’t a Fallout shot at Proving Ground - DeMarco didn’t send us out there. It was a statement. Mark Hunter has become the living, breathing poster boy for Project Honor - one of the faces of this company; and that is why we targeted him. The Massacre doesn’t end in the tag team division; we will strike anyone, anywhere, at any time - and Mark Hunter, with the status and reputation he has earned, has been in our sights since the moment I returned and Charon arrived.”
He stopped for a moment, looking to his right to Charon. Charon returned the glance, a sinister smirk touching his lips - knowing exactly where Lazarus was going with that. After a moment, Lazarus turned his attention back to the camera.
“Leading up to Collision Course, I talked about legacy and how the term is thrown around by many in this industry. However, someone like Mark Hunter has begun to carve his name into the foundation of Project Honor - therefore beginning his own legacy. A former Grand champion, one of the only two people in this companies history to have pinned Dickie Watson when he was here. Mark Hunter has become a staple in Project Honor, just like Elena DeDraca has. And it’s people like Charon, Ellie and myself that plan to rip those staples out, peel back the flesh of Project Honor and erase what was. From the moment I returned, the moment that Charon and Ellie put their names onto the contracts - it was decided that we would viciously - violently - take down the pillars of what was, to recreate this company in our image just as we have done to every company we’ve stepped foot into. Did you think we would be content with just ripping through the tag team division, and that we would stop there? It’s that foolishness that will cost Project Honor dearly.”
“Christian DeMarco has allowed us to operate as freely as we choose. He offered us the ‘Team Fallout’ role, and we accepted. Not because of loyalty, but because of our need for chaos - carnage - and bloodshed. Something that unites not just the three of us representing the Massacre and Killjoy Club, but it’s something that bonds us to Mason Destruction and SWITCHBLXDE as well. I’m no stranger to Switch; the two of us have went to war already, and Mason seems to share the same penchant for violence that we have. This ‘team’, this Fallout unit as it is, is made of five bloodthirsty killers all united for the same cause; to leave bodies at our feet. Lifeless corpses that have been bled out and mutilated, displayed for the entire world to see. None of us are here for brand supremacy, but we are all here for the same purpose - to Massacre the men standing in front of us.”
“But while it is that which unites us, it’s something else that unites Proving Ground. Indy Darling’s promise to his fighters that, should they win, they would all be in line for championship opportunities. Greed brings them together, opportunity fuels them. We don’t need incentives or opportunities at championships to do this, all we need are beating hearts on the opposing side of the ring for us to rip out. All we need are living, breathing victims for us to claim. Indy must believe that dangling these opportunities in front of his ‘team’ will encourage them, motivate them to dig deep into themselves - to force themselves through the absurd amount of pain and torture they will endure at Night of Honor. But, Indy - if you’re listening to this, allow me to tell you - it won’t work. Your team won’t make it through this match, not with what we have planned for them.”
His eyes. They told the tale of horror, of pain and of torture that his opponents for Night of Honor. But if they couldn’t see it? They would soon be told, in detail ...
“All five of us; Mason, Ellie, Switch, Charon and myself - are in the business of making statements. Bold, violent, bloody statements. The statement that we’re going to make at Night of Honor is one that will be remembered. Legacy, remember? The five of us will never be remembered for our wrestling technique, or how well we play politics - simply because we don’t give a fuck about any of that. What the five of us will be remembered for - especially here in Project Honor - is the level of brutality that we will bring to this company. To this Night of Honor event..”
“We will go through all five with no hesitation. TJ Thompson, Swindle Shelldrake, Ulf Hednir, Arata and - of course - Mark Hunter. TJ Thompson, I’m not going to lie, will be the weak link of Proving Ground. Someone content with mediocre talent, with mediocre athleticism, with mediocre intelligence - that explains why he’s surrounded himself with like minded individuals who will never succeed in this industry. TJ Thompson is expendable - that’s the honest truth. So when myself, or Charon, or Ellie, Mason, Switch - when any of us end his career, no one will miss him. When we end his life, no one will shed a single fucking tear because - at the end of the day - TJ Thompson means absolutely nothing. Will ‘Lil Petey’ or ‘Yung Sauce’ cry for their fallen friend? Will they seek vengeance? -- Who cares? If Big Drip want to avenge their fallen brother, we will put them in the ground with him. This is about making. A. Statement. And unfortunately for TJ Thomspn - he is part of the statement. It’s amusing - he calls himself ‘the goat’, but at Night of Honor we’re going to slaughter him as if he were a sheep.”
“And while we speak of slaughtering sheep, I would be negligent to bring up the Viking of team Proving Ground - Ulf Hednir. A man whose people would slaughter the newborn sheep they raised for sustenance. However; you and your ancestors are two different beings. You may idolize that lifestyle, you may pay homage to your forefathers - but Ulf, nostalgia will only get you so far in this business. You are a simple minded neanderthal who bases his entire personality off of someone else’s life. True, you come from the bloodline and true, there are still settlements in Norway that practice the old Viking ways - albeit with more positive values than just mindlessly raping and pillaging settlements. But you are not that. You’re a man playing a game of charades. Trying to separate himself from the other newcomers in this industry. A flashy, history-driven angle should work right? I’ll tell you how far you’ll get, Viking. There will be no New World discoveries for you, no capturing and enslaving of men and women to then sell into the European slave market; the only thing you have coming for you is an excruciating, agonizing defeat. We will see to it that whatever Norse god you worship, and that all of your Viking ancestors, will look down on you as you helplessly crawl - leaving a smeared, bloody trail from the wounds that have opened your body. That Norse God, those Ancestors - they aren’t here to save you, Ulf, they’re way up in the sky. But the very real, very threatening presence of myself, Charon, Ellie, Mason and Switch - are right here. And we will be standing over your fallen body, listening as you breathe out that last, gasping, struggling breath. When we say you die, you’ll die with no divine intervention.”
He took a brief pause. A hand moved from his lap and finally he would brush the hair from his face, smoothing it behind his head. His eyes shifted momentarily, but he would continue.
“A man who piques my interest is Swindle Shelldrake. JORMUNGANDR is undoubtedly a strong team, one that I hope to meet in the Collision Course tournament just days before this match; but I question why you’re in this fight at all. Are you that insecure with yourself that you need an opportunity at a championship in order to fight, or were you pulled in for lack of anything better to do? With your partners, their motivations are a little easier to read - but you’re a wild card for team Indy. Are you a man in the industry that falls in line with the cliche wants and desires - championships, accolades and spotlight? Or are you someone like myself, like Charon, like Mason - Switch - Ellie? A person who’s only want, only desire is to cruelly and savagely dissect your opponents simply because we can? We’re all sadists in one way or another, Swindle, but the difference between the team of bloodthirsty fighters on Fallout, and the team bound and chained by the rules and oppression of Proving Ground is - we accept what we are. We acknowledge that we’re the dregs of this industry; the roughnecks, the ultraviolent. The men and women who know and don’t shy away from the fact that we’re in this business for one purpose and one purpose only; to fucking hurt people. You, Swindle, fit the bill to stand alongside us - on paper, anyway. But what is it that truly motivates you? Success or bloodshed? I’m curious to hear what you say, but it doesn’t change the fact that for this night - Night of Honor - you represent Indy Darling and his merry band of buffoons, allowing themselves to be used as pawns simply for an opportunity. I want you to know, Swindle, that no opportunity will be awarded after Night of Honor because the Killjoy Club - Mason Destruction and SWITCHBLXDE will not allow it. Success and victory are not normally things that drive me or my peers, but it will be gifted to us after doing the work that we’ve signed up for. That work is meticulously and mercilessly ripping you five apart - limb from limb. And while your tendons rip and tear, while your bones break and shatter - I want you to think about what side of the line you fell on. There’s always an opportunity to change your stance …”
“I won’t offer that same comfort for the rest of them, though. Especially the next two. Arata Asakura; a man who’s certainly carved his name into the history books. Legacy is something that you have already achieved, ALPHA Wrestling star, WrestleWorld history maker, OWA and SSW standout. You’ve tangled with the best of the best, and now here you stand. I will be the first to admit, to anyone else - to any normal individual in this industry - the thought or idea of standing across from the Gaijin Killer Arata would be enough to consider early retirement. However, we’re not just anyone. None of us standing in front of you are normal individuals. Each and every day, we welcome the idea of pain, of death to surround us with it’s cold embrace and every single day we face the disappointment that it’s just not our time. Death would be a sweet release from the hell that I’ve lived through, but yet here I stand - fighting. Here I stand - poking and prodding at the shrouded figure of death to take me. But I’ve realized something, Arata. No solicitation, no begging will ever bring death to my door. My punishment is to live with this torture, to live in this hell - and my gift to the world is to bring hell to each and every person that stands in front of me. You included. You may have your name mentioned in the same breath as legends and icons of this industry, but I’m the type of person that will piss on all those who came before me - because I don’t give a single solid shit about them, you, or anyone else. And should you even make it to Night of Honor, if you survive the inevitable meeting with the Massacre at Collision Course, I can promise you you won’t walk out of this match. But - we are in your domain, aren’t we? I’m no stranger to Japan; just a week ago I was stabbing up Michael Bishop and Richard Gatsby under the SSW banner. As the Gaijin Killer, it is your job to follow through on that claim - to make that moniker actually mean something as opposed to just another stupid catchphrase for a cheaply made t-shirt for people to wear. I’m giving you the opportunity to do what life, nor myself, could do -- kill me. However, be warned, if you miss this opportunity - which I guarantee you will - the only one left near death will be you. And after I’m finished with you, after putting you in a position to suffer pain for the rest of your insignificant life, I won’t be the only one longing to be embraced by lady death.”
Four down and one to go. Lazarus’ pause didn’t last long this time. In fact, he was almost quick to continue.
“Someone else who will get that same opportunity, and same warning is Mark Hunter. You have the opportunity to press the barrel of your gun to me and put me out of my misery, as they say. But I strongly suggest you don’t miss. Make sure that bullet finds what it’s looking for, because you know first hand what myself and Charon are capable of - don’t you? Charon and I stomped your head into the mat until you were out, and had it not been for your Proving Ground cohorts, then we would have continued until your skull was caved in, until your brain stomped into mush underneath our boots. Mark; I’ve already said that you’re held in high regard in this company. You are one of the cornerstones, a piece of the foundation - but we, the Killjoy Club - the Massacre - Mason and Switch, we’re here to fucking burn this place down and rebuild. We’re here to tear down the foundation that built this company, and rebuild it in our own vision. There is simply no room for you. For someone catapulted to the top of the mountain with victories that anyone could amass. You are the fortunate recipient of the ‘right place, right time’ award. A bunch of victories over a gaggle of men who aren’t worth mentioning, but your losses tell another story to anyone who cares to pay enough attention. See, I know most people would see Mark Hunter - the man who’s surface layer reads success after success, but it’s losses that define you. Elena DeDraca, we’re both in that boat together and I can make arguments that separate us, however I won’t. Dickie Watson and his partner - twice, Ozymandis. All of those people have bested you, Hunter, scratching and damaging the supposed ‘impenetrable’ armour you wear. You may have this aura that surrounds you, that illuminates you as the top star in this company; but you only have the success you have because of voids left by those who’ve departed. Your real success was off the backs of those undeserving - victories over men who don’t quite stack up. Therefore you - Mark - are undeserving of the spotlight you hold. Which works well, since that fire you seemed to have lit underneath you - has all but vanished. There was no fire, there was no fight in you when Charon and I had our way with you just weeks ago. Perhaps the Mark Hunter that was once a Grand Champion is long gone. Perhaps he’s laying dormant, waiting for an opportunity to be handed to you - such as this one. It doesn’t matter, though. At the end of Night of Honor, after we’ve torn down and ripped apart what last bit of credibility you have - the world will see you as what you truly are. Just another pretty boy in an industry surrounded by killers armed with knives. And along with your credibility, your magazine cover looks will be shredded until you are barely recognizable.”
“The five of us, we don’t have opportunities resting on whether or not we win this match. The five of us, we don’t even want those opportunities. We’re not the type to be bought off with promises of stardom, promises of accolades and promises of championships. It’s simple really; the only thing the five of us want is blood. The only thing the five of us need, is to inflict pain. To introduce more pain than a human should ever go through. To watch you die. That is our end goal for this. The five of us, we don’t give a shit about brand supremacy. We want to slaughter as many people as possible before we set this whole fucking place on fire.”
Lazarus would finally lean back. The intensity of the orange lighting on his face decreases, giving way to the shadows that surround the trio. Lazarus’ lips curled into a wicked, sinister grin.
Static end.