Post by americangrime on Oct 26, 2021 17:23:13 GMT -5
The streets of New Orleans were unfamiliar to one Graham Baker-but still, here he stood. A slaughterhouse off the beaten path, hidden by the shadows of the city which slept so rarely. Baker’s eyes panned over the doorway ahead of him, and with a deep exhale, he entered.
The smell of rot nailed his nose directly. He wrinkled his face, gritted teeth, and took a few steps forward. Ahead of him, a table stood. Bits and bobs of raw meat, slaughtered animal, desiccated and rotten carcass rested. Butchers’ blades and long, steely knives stabbed into rotted wood, and Graham wore a bit of a sneer as the two forms behind the table produced, amidst the decay, a set of championship belts. Baker looked down at them, and then to the two men who’d produced them.
The Massacre.
This wasn’t just a victory for Baker, should he and Adora manage to take from the powers-that-be what was so rightfully theirs, a righting of grand wrongs, the fixture of a loss which never should have occurred. Arjen and Seede should have claimed those belts, were it not for the interference of the would be winners. And now, with Pyro out of sight and out of mind...Fairweather was alone. Perhaps, not entirely physically, but...still alone. Spiritually. Threatened by the force of violence of a Society that would take what it felt it was owed.
Baker, of course, was a man of action. He’d make sure that they got their fill, the stomachs of the hungry-in this case, himself, Adora, Arik, the others waiting on them. He’d correct the inadequacies that The Massacre were too violent to, with a hand that was only slightly more precise and professional, the finesse of a sharpened knife without the unbridled fury of a chemical imbalance behind it.
Fairweather had chosen this slot, chosen his grave. He’d have to lay in it.
Have to rest in it.
The Guillotine swung for him.
-
“Project Honor. Tag team championships. That’s how Graham Baker fuckin' rolls.”
Baker’s got a cigarette between his teeth as he stands in the Slaughterhouse, alone.
“This is what I do. I’m an international fuckin’ superstar. Wherever I go, I fuckin’ succeed. You look at my resume, and you get impressed. You get admonished. Some of you shit through your fuckin’ pants when you see me, because you know that just being in the ring with me is a fuckin’ health hazard. Same goes for Fairweather, and whichever stupid fuckin’ partner he decides to bring with him to replace that lame sack-of-shit Pyro. DeMarco is lucky, and he understands that, that even though our goals are so fuckin’ different, by just being here i’m making him bags and bags of fuckin’ cash. That’s why I’m here. That’s why…”
Baker snorts.
”He won’t be too sad when I cave Fairweather’s fuckin’ head in and take his shit.
You want to talk about F-Words, Fairweather? Let’s talk about a big one-failure. You and your boy just barely took the titles in Collision Course from two guys who, as you know, much more deserved those shit than you ever would. You couldn’t even maintain your whole ‘fire and ice’ team long enough to make a legacy with those fuckin’ championships, either, you just let ‘em slip out from between your fingers, the faltering and falling through the cracks, stepping into the void and feeling your body slip into fuckin’ darkness. What a shameful fuckin’ display between the two of you, lettin’ the whole of this fuckin’ company down, lettin’ all of us down by makin’ it clear that the two failsons of this promotion, who had all the bulk and bravado of the brand behind them, would bend at the slightest fuckin’ wind.
We are the wind, Fairweather. Me and Adora, we represent somethin’ far fuckin’ deeper than you could understand, beyond the want for gold. You think I want those tag team titles for another trophy to sit on my fuckin’ shelf, a nice conversation piece when I have friends over for whiskey, somethin’ to show every girl I bring home to fuck? Nah. Those tag team titles don’t mean nothin’ to me, save for somethin’ I can take from those fools over at Fallout, dangle in front of myself like a hangin’ down strap to cover my privates, cheese for the fuckin’ mousetrap. I don’t want them just to become champion, I don’t want them just for the fuckin’ reputation, I want them so I can keep fightin’.”
Baker smiles.
“You all, you don’t think this far ahead. I’ve been to the mountaintop of this industry, scaled to the peak an’ jacked off there, too, left my mark. I could retire tomorrow and be a bigger name than half the fuckin’ cumsocks in this company, I could die in the ring on Sunday an’ my casket would get more attention than any of these limp-dicks who jump off the top rope day in an’ day out. Hell, I’m a bigger star than your big ol’ fuck-off champion, an’ I do half the shit that he does, expand half the effort, take half the damage. Maverick is a waste of flesh. DeDraca is a waste of flesh. I’ll run through ‘em all in time, but now, I focus back on the subject at hand.
The True Society already made our statement, but we’re not nearly finished. I was approach to bring violence into this world, to bring Holt’s message forward, to begin a transformational war that will change Project Honor on the face, will break this cyclical pattern you all are stuck in. With someone as atmospherically great, as unbelievably incredible and strong as I am, a star in the greatest sense of the fuckin’ word, as I am at the head? You’ll find your success, surely. You’ll find your greatness, you’ll find your transformative force...but you’ll find it only in the most brutal violence that you can revel in.
Fairweather’s going to be the first to see, and whichever partner he picks. It’s why I haven’t even bothered considering who he could pull out of his fuckin’ hat to meet death at my hands, why I haven’t even spared a thought toward someone who could be a feasible threat. They’ll find brutalization and gore, a splitting at the skull down through the center, a death beyond deaths. Bring Maverick, let him try for his triple crown and lose his belt in the process, or bring DeDraca, bring anyone and I’ll show them a six foot deep hole in the fuckin' ground. I’ll show them their final resting place, I’ll show them the death of all fuckin’ deaths.
I’ll break ‘em for good.”
Baker spits his cigarette to the ground, and stomps it under his boot. He lets the residual smoke drift out of his nostrils.
“I am my own fuckin’ meal ticket. I am my own fuckin’ promotion. I am the face of this fuckin’ True Society, and I’ll notch our big first statement in the record books. You all...Fairweather, your partner, whoever else comes before me...Adora and I are gonna have you fucked an’ dead. Call that what it is.”
Baker smiles.
“A reckoning.”
We cut to black.
The smell of rot nailed his nose directly. He wrinkled his face, gritted teeth, and took a few steps forward. Ahead of him, a table stood. Bits and bobs of raw meat, slaughtered animal, desiccated and rotten carcass rested. Butchers’ blades and long, steely knives stabbed into rotted wood, and Graham wore a bit of a sneer as the two forms behind the table produced, amidst the decay, a set of championship belts. Baker looked down at them, and then to the two men who’d produced them.
The Massacre.
This wasn’t just a victory for Baker, should he and Adora manage to take from the powers-that-be what was so rightfully theirs, a righting of grand wrongs, the fixture of a loss which never should have occurred. Arjen and Seede should have claimed those belts, were it not for the interference of the would be winners. And now, with Pyro out of sight and out of mind...Fairweather was alone. Perhaps, not entirely physically, but...still alone. Spiritually. Threatened by the force of violence of a Society that would take what it felt it was owed.
Baker, of course, was a man of action. He’d make sure that they got their fill, the stomachs of the hungry-in this case, himself, Adora, Arik, the others waiting on them. He’d correct the inadequacies that The Massacre were too violent to, with a hand that was only slightly more precise and professional, the finesse of a sharpened knife without the unbridled fury of a chemical imbalance behind it.
Fairweather had chosen this slot, chosen his grave. He’d have to lay in it.
Have to rest in it.
The Guillotine swung for him.
-
“Project Honor. Tag team championships. That’s how Graham Baker fuckin' rolls.”
Baker’s got a cigarette between his teeth as he stands in the Slaughterhouse, alone.
“This is what I do. I’m an international fuckin’ superstar. Wherever I go, I fuckin’ succeed. You look at my resume, and you get impressed. You get admonished. Some of you shit through your fuckin’ pants when you see me, because you know that just being in the ring with me is a fuckin’ health hazard. Same goes for Fairweather, and whichever stupid fuckin’ partner he decides to bring with him to replace that lame sack-of-shit Pyro. DeMarco is lucky, and he understands that, that even though our goals are so fuckin’ different, by just being here i’m making him bags and bags of fuckin’ cash. That’s why I’m here. That’s why…”
Baker snorts.
”He won’t be too sad when I cave Fairweather’s fuckin’ head in and take his shit.
You want to talk about F-Words, Fairweather? Let’s talk about a big one-failure. You and your boy just barely took the titles in Collision Course from two guys who, as you know, much more deserved those shit than you ever would. You couldn’t even maintain your whole ‘fire and ice’ team long enough to make a legacy with those fuckin’ championships, either, you just let ‘em slip out from between your fingers, the faltering and falling through the cracks, stepping into the void and feeling your body slip into fuckin’ darkness. What a shameful fuckin’ display between the two of you, lettin’ the whole of this fuckin’ company down, lettin’ all of us down by makin’ it clear that the two failsons of this promotion, who had all the bulk and bravado of the brand behind them, would bend at the slightest fuckin’ wind.
We are the wind, Fairweather. Me and Adora, we represent somethin’ far fuckin’ deeper than you could understand, beyond the want for gold. You think I want those tag team titles for another trophy to sit on my fuckin’ shelf, a nice conversation piece when I have friends over for whiskey, somethin’ to show every girl I bring home to fuck? Nah. Those tag team titles don’t mean nothin’ to me, save for somethin’ I can take from those fools over at Fallout, dangle in front of myself like a hangin’ down strap to cover my privates, cheese for the fuckin’ mousetrap. I don’t want them just to become champion, I don’t want them just for the fuckin’ reputation, I want them so I can keep fightin’.”
Baker smiles.
“You all, you don’t think this far ahead. I’ve been to the mountaintop of this industry, scaled to the peak an’ jacked off there, too, left my mark. I could retire tomorrow and be a bigger name than half the fuckin’ cumsocks in this company, I could die in the ring on Sunday an’ my casket would get more attention than any of these limp-dicks who jump off the top rope day in an’ day out. Hell, I’m a bigger star than your big ol’ fuck-off champion, an’ I do half the shit that he does, expand half the effort, take half the damage. Maverick is a waste of flesh. DeDraca is a waste of flesh. I’ll run through ‘em all in time, but now, I focus back on the subject at hand.
The True Society already made our statement, but we’re not nearly finished. I was approach to bring violence into this world, to bring Holt’s message forward, to begin a transformational war that will change Project Honor on the face, will break this cyclical pattern you all are stuck in. With someone as atmospherically great, as unbelievably incredible and strong as I am, a star in the greatest sense of the fuckin’ word, as I am at the head? You’ll find your success, surely. You’ll find your greatness, you’ll find your transformative force...but you’ll find it only in the most brutal violence that you can revel in.
Fairweather’s going to be the first to see, and whichever partner he picks. It’s why I haven’t even bothered considering who he could pull out of his fuckin’ hat to meet death at my hands, why I haven’t even spared a thought toward someone who could be a feasible threat. They’ll find brutalization and gore, a splitting at the skull down through the center, a death beyond deaths. Bring Maverick, let him try for his triple crown and lose his belt in the process, or bring DeDraca, bring anyone and I’ll show them a six foot deep hole in the fuckin' ground. I’ll show them their final resting place, I’ll show them the death of all fuckin’ deaths.
I’ll break ‘em for good.”
Baker spits his cigarette to the ground, and stomps it under his boot. He lets the residual smoke drift out of his nostrils.
“I am my own fuckin’ meal ticket. I am my own fuckin’ promotion. I am the face of this fuckin’ True Society, and I’ll notch our big first statement in the record books. You all...Fairweather, your partner, whoever else comes before me...Adora and I are gonna have you fucked an’ dead. Call that what it is.”
Baker smiles.
“A reckoning.”
We cut to black.