Post by bennett on Nov 8, 2021 20:37:39 GMT -5
Snake Country
REC
11/08/2021
11:10AM
REC
11/08/2021
11:10AM
The scene opens up with two individuals sitting in the front of a newly-parked vehicle, filmed from the back seat. In the lower right corner of the screen is the date and time; the filming obviously being done on a somewhat antiquated, handheld videocassette recorder. Without any words, the trio pile out of their car, stepping into the mid-day sun - humid and hot, even at the end of autumn. It is Florida, after all.
The trunk is popped, and they unload the few bags they've come with before heading towards the small, roadside motel their vehicle parked in front of. As they walk, the man holding the camera begins to whine to the young woman who is clearly in charge of the group.
"Look, look, I'm sweating already. Couldn't we do that story about the illegal fishing operation back home?"
"...are you serious? You think that kind of weak story will get any traction? We've been over this; true crime sells these days. People catching fish without a permit doesn't really excite the public, you know?"
As they bicker, a dusty, run-down old pickup truck slowly passes by; the third individual - not wrapped up in arguing with the other two - points at something on the side of the vehicle.
"Shut up, you two. Check it out."
Hanging off the side of the truck, secured by ropes on each corner so as not to blow and flutter in the breeze, is a Florida state flag... with one noticeable difference; there is a bit of black spray paint over the word 'God'. Above it is written a different name, changing the message of the phrase entirely:
'In BO We Trust'
"Isn't that the name of one of these fucking swamp people? Bo Bennett? Yeah, great, that's not ominous at all... Can't believe you dragged my ass all the way out to this hellhole..."
The cameraman grumbles under his breath as he to walk towards the motel's front entrance.
"Wait here, I'll get the keys..."
The camera stops recording; when it begins again, the time displayed in the bottom corner of the screen reads '11:21 AM'. The three of them are now inside the modest motel room; two beds, a minifridge, a television and - presumably - a bathroom off-screen.
The young woman has just finished hanging a modular corkboard up on one wall, while her assistant - looking to be even younger, perhaps 21 at the most - is leafing through a stack of pictures which rest on the table.
"Hey, Jose. Get a load of these weirdos," he says to the cameraman, stepping forward to hold two black-and-white, scratched pictures up to the lens.
Billy and Bo Bennett. The camera zooms in on both of them, one at a time... but noticeably, it lingers much longer upon the image of Bo. Whoever snapped this photo seems to have gotten the man's attention at the time it was taken, as his dark gaze stares directly at the camera. There is a bizarre, mysterious quality to his eyes; almost as though he might be able to stare through the picture, and catch a glimpse of the person holding the photograph.
But that would be silly.
"Creepy fucking rednecks..." grumbles Jose.
"Hey guys, stop screwing around. Start handing me pictures, I want to get this chart set up before we do any real filming," says Anna, as she stands in front of the corkboard with both hands on her hips.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The previous, amateur recording is replaced by something slightly more professional; the same unfortunate crewmember who was first tasked with coming out here to interview Billy Bennet - prior to her debut at Bloodbath - must have drawn the short straw once again. He's back at the Bennett compound, and the camera opens up to a fairly close, zoomed-in view of Bo's face; cold, impassive eyes stare into the lens, lips obscured by his bushy, unkempt beard... the spitting image of the polaroid photo which the film makers were looking at in their motel room many, many miles away.
"So nice to have you stop by again, friend. Don't often see new faces 'round here... or at least, not many repeat visitors."
The emphasis placed on the word 'repeat' is slightly troublesome to the man recording, implying that a lot of the strangers who find their way here either don't come back for a second visit... or don't leave, in the first place.
"Oh, um... Yeah, glad to be here..." says the cameraman, his voice sounding fairly unconvincing; but not for lack of trying. The last thing he wants to do is give offense to any member of this bizarre, backwoods family. Not while he's on their land, at least. He's relying on one of them to show him the way back to civilization when he's done here.
"Mmmhmm..."
By the sounds of it, Bo isn't entirely convinced that the cameraman is enjoying his second visit to the family's headquarters, deep within the Big Cypress National Preserve. But he seems content to leave the topic alone; in fact, there the slightest hint of enjoyment visible on the face of the man who runs the family business. It's as if he takes some pleasure in the discomfort of others, like it served as sustenance to some particular appetite of his.
Suddenly, the door of the nearest shed is thrown open from within. Instantly, the air surrounding the structure is overcome with a smoky vapor that billows out from inside the structure. The acrid, burning stench is enough to cause a coughing fit in the cameraman - even though he and Bo are situated some distance away - as the unfortunate Project: Honor crewmember begins to gag from the chemical smell which fills the mid-day air.
For his part, Bo is entirely unaffected, sitting in his chair as he rocks back and forth; it's as though he didn't have a care in the world. Just another day here in the swamp.
From within the shed come two figures rushing out, faces covered with bandanas - which they almost immediately pull from their face once outside, hacking and retching as they stumble towards a nearby barrel of rainwater.
After some seconds pass, a third individual appears in the doorway of the rundown shack. Billy Bennett; nothing covering her face, and seemingly none the worse for having been immersed in those chemical fumes. There is a look of disappointment and disdain on her face as she confidently steps towards her older brother, seemingly taking no notice of the cameraman - or the two men who were working alongside her, now washing their eyes and drinking frantically from the water barrel between bouts of vomiting.
"Where'd you find these kids, Bo? Couple of fuckin' pussies..." she says with disgust, stopping a few feet in front of the Kingsnake's rocking chair and depositing a healthy glob of spit onto the ground in front of his boots.
With a sigh, the head of the Bennett clan rises out of his chair. He easily towers over his 5'0" sister, but she hardly seems intimidated; doing more than standing her ground, she actually takes another step towards the massive frame of Bo, staring up at him with glistening eyes that seem full of anticipation. Anticipation of what? Only she knows for sure; but the cameraman is confident that he'll find out soon enough.
"I already told you, if you're going to be workin' part-time with this wrestlin' business, I'd need to find fresh bodies to make up for your absence. Well, that's the new help. They'll either toughen up, and survive... or they won't. Either way, the problem will solve itself. Just be patient..." he sounds more than a little exasperated, almost like they've had this conversation more than once in recent days... but despite his weary tone, there is a hardness behind his words. He's had a lifetime of sparring with Billy, both in speech and with fists, and such constant back-and-forth exchanges clearly test his 'good nature' - or however much of that he truly possesses, behind his mask of friendly, backwoods clan patriarch.
"Patience? That's rich, comin' from you. Hell, where was your patience when you decided you wanted papa's seat at the head of the table? You fuckin' stink of ambition, Bo, y'always did... and the old man could smell it, just as much as I can. That's why h-"
There is a flash of movement before she can finish that thought, one of Bo's hands snapping through the air to grab his sister around the throat; it cuts off her words, and likewise her breath. His previously calm eyes now practically shine with rage... and oddly enough, the change is enough to bring a massive, toothy grin to Billy, even with her windpipe compressed in his massive hand. It's like she wanted to push her brother to this, like she were looking for conflict wherever she goes; even her own blood isn't exempt from her constant lust for violence.
"You just don't know when to shut up, do ya?" says the Kingsnake, voice low and dangerous, his calm veneer shattered in an instant... but before he can continue, his eyes seem to flash with something else: realization.
Held in his captive sister's right hand is her ever-present Bowie knife, pulled from the sheath which is almost always fastened to her belt. The tip of the blade is pressed firmly against his upper thigh: the femoral artery, a place where a deep enough slash would be a death sentence. The knife's sharpened tip doesn't break the fabric of his pants, but Bo knows it wouldn't take much pressure on his sister's part to drive the blade through. And he similarly knows her well enough to be certain that she wouldn't hesitate to open him up. Even if he were unsure about that fact, one look at Billy's face - smiling and nodding, with hungry eyes practically begging him to tighten his strangling grip around her throat - would confirm it.
With an angry, dismissive grunt he opens his hand before shoving her backwards into the dirt, and staring down at her with barely restrained fury.
"Careful, Billy, careful. You may be family, but you ain't irreplaceable. Nobody is. Remember that."
Able to once again fill her lungs with fresh oxygen, Billy lets out a hideous, rough, half-choking giggle which sounds more like stones grinding together in a rock tumbler than any normal expression of amusement. Her brother's powerful grip has left several deep, dark marks on her otherwise perfectly pale throat. Slowly pushing herself back to her feet - knife still held in her right hand - she watches Bo turn and stomp away before calling after him in a demented, sing-song tone.
"Awww, you all done? Well, I'll be here whenever you're ready to finish our li'l talk. Bye-bye, now!"
With that last, mocking jab at her retreating sibling, Billy falls silent; eyes cast down to her hands, which tremble with what one can only assume is adrenaline. A nervous energy runs rampant through her tiny body; whether from being so close to blacking out in that stranglehold, or being so close to slicing her own brother's artery wide open, one can only guess. It takes her some time to fully compose herself, chest rising and falling with deep, stabilizing breaths as her fingers remain tightly curled around the handle of her knife.
"So, you're back, huh?" she says, once the shaking in her limbs dies down somewhat. Turning to the camera, she offers a slight, twitching smile to the man who has been filming this little family 'disagreement'.
"Y-yeah, I am..." he says in a wavering, uncertain voice; keeping the camera aimed at Billy, although his own eyes move to that knife she holds in her right hand. It's all he can do to hold the camera steady through the tremors of fear that jolt his system.
"Mmm. Well, welcome back, I suppose. Guess you're here to talk about this tag-team thing they got me signed up for..."
The tone of her voice makes her feelings about being forced to partner with anyone plain: she isn't a fan of the idea. And why should she be? Out here in the swamp, you can't rely on anyone but yourself. The concept of teamwork - outside of that which is strictly necessary to keep the family business running smoothly - is an alien one to Billy, even in her tightly knit clan.
Clearing his throat, the cameraman prepares to speak up to move the 'interview' along; but he is cut short by the young woman before he has a chance to utter a single word.
"I don't know whose idea this was, but I don't play well with others... so Thanatos, Mr. Angel-of-Death, do us both a fuckin' favour and stay out of my way until I've had my fun, alright?"
Her manic, twitchy eyes slowly move away from the camera and roll upwards to the sky; there is a pause, as though she were looking for something, or listening for words from on-high. The cameraman fidgets nervously, not wanting to risk speaking up when the feral Bennett girl is in such an obviously unstable frame of mind. Eventually, her gaze - now glassy and sporting the mother of all thousand-yard stares - falls back down towards the camera's lens. She begins to lazily pace back and forth, holding the knife like her life depended on it, eyes darting around as she speaks - never resting on one place for too long.
"Guess you want me to share a few thoughts about my opponents, right? I damn sure hope they're not as tame as the two you had me fightin' at Bloodbath... Nick Danger was good - probably better than me when it comes to wrestlin', truth be told - but he was too damn nice. Treated it like an exhibition match instead of a real brawl... and that's why he lost. As for the other one, that plastic bitch, well... I don't know who she sucked up to for a contract, but her credentials are as phony as her body."
"Soooo disappointin'."
"But I've been lookin' into these other folks. Ellie Quinn and Syndicate... they sure seem like they're made of sterner stuff. But the thing with appearances is, they're only skin deep. Ya got to cut past the surface, tear through that outer layer, to see what someone is really about. As a hunter, it's my job to know my prey."
"And Ellie... I know a thing about not belongin', same as you do. Hell, Papa Bray sure as shit didn't want no girls in the family. Far as he was concerned, I had no place here. Not strong enough to survive in the swamp. Too weak to stake my claim to the family business. So I understand where you come from... but that's where the similarities end, girl. 'Cause while you spent your life runnin', I fought for my place at the table. While you moved from place to place, lookin' for somewhere that would accept you, coddle you, make you feel good about bein' so goddamn pathetic... I struggled, here, where I belonged. I made them respect me. I showed them I deserved to stand beside my kin. I thrashed, and spit, and bled... until they knew I was worthwhile, until they saw I would sooner rip out my own throat - or anyone else's - before I turned my back on the family. They thought I wasn't good enough, so I proved 'em wrong."
"What kind of animal abandons it's home, abandons what little family it has? The weak, forced out of their habitat so they don't drag down the rest of the pack. The sick, wanderin' off to find a place to die... well, let me help ya with that, Quinnie. I'm somethin' of an expert in shufflin' creatures off this mortal coil, y'know? You're a tree without roots, unable to stand on your own; maybe that's why you fell in with those losers in the Killjoy Club. A bunch of sheep, playin' at bein' wolves," she pauses to let out a hoarse, barking laugh; clearly amused by the mental image of sheep in wolves' clothing. Billy quickly shakes her head, though, dismissing the topic as she carries on with her ranting monologue.
"But that ain't none of my business... I just want you to know that I can see right through you. No matter how much you puff yourself up, no matter how tough you try to appear, I can spot a coward when I see one. And I know when you're up against someone who can see past your mask, you'll fail... you'll break and run away, just like you always have."
With those last words, she finally stops her manic pacing - falling unceremoniously into the empty rocking chair that her brother had previously occupied, as though someone had cut her strings. She runs her free hand across the marks left on her milky-white throat, exhaling a sigh upwards which ruffles a few strings of greasy hair.
"Now, the other one... Syndicate... well, he's a whole other matter, ain't he?
She closes her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply, as whatever thoughts rest in that little head of hers seem to send a shiver down her spine.
"I saw what you did to that woman at Bloodbath. It was beautiful. Two wounded animals, backed into a corner, snappin' and rippin' and tearin' at each other's flesh. You've proven to everyone that you belong at the top of the food chain, and you did it without anyone's help. An alpha wolf. A true predator."
She shudders once more, eyes half-lidded as she runs a tongue across her chapped bottom lip. The idea of facing the Legacy champion seems to have a rather... uncanny effect on her unusual psyche.
"It's enough to get a girl all worked up, y'know? But I hope you ain't grown complacent now that you're packin' that long, thick, heavy... belt 'round your waist. I hope you been healin' up since then, big boy. 'Cause it's my turn to feel, first-hand, just a fraction of what the 'British Raven' was lucky enough to experience. I want to see if you can serve up a helpin' of pain that even I'll struggle to keep down. So rest well, and save your strength for the 11th..."
Her eyes open fully once more, and stare straight into the camera. A dreamy, blissful - and above all else, calm - smile on her lips as she speaks in hushed, breathy tones.
"Y'all wouldn't wanna disappoint little ol' me, right? Last man who couldn't satisfy... well, he ain't in no position to tell the story, if ya catch my meanin'."
A wink at the camera, before rolling her eyes. She must be finished speaking about her competition, because she pushes herself back to her feet and runs the fingers of her free hand through her hair - making an even bigger mess of the unwashed, sweaty mess atop her head.
Suddenly, something seems to catch her eye; and with a flick of the wrist that is almost abnormally swift, the knife in her hand flies towards - and, mercifully, past - the cameraman. Practically tripping over his own feet in surprise and shock, the Project: Honor crewmember spins around to see where the knife landed... it's imbedded right in the middle of a large Diamondback rattlesnake - a species known for it's venomous bite. The tip of the blade is driven through the now-dying creature, stopping it in it's tracks only inches from the unprotected legs of the cameraman.
"Tsk, tsk, city boy..." says Billy, clicking her tongue in disappointment at his lack of awareness in such a dangerous place. She strides forward, shoving him out of the way and gripping the handle of the knife in her right hand. Pulling it out of the ground, she holds up the dead serpent in front of her face... only inches away, close enough to land a fatal bite if there were even an ounce of life left in it's body.
"I'll give ya the same advice I was goin' to give my opponents... and my so-called partner, for that matter."
She steps towards the camera, tapping on the lens with the very tip of the blade as she flashes a demented grin; one which seems utterly animalistic in nature.
"Watch yourself. This is snake country."
The trunk is popped, and they unload the few bags they've come with before heading towards the small, roadside motel their vehicle parked in front of. As they walk, the man holding the camera begins to whine to the young woman who is clearly in charge of the group.
"Look, look, I'm sweating already. Couldn't we do that story about the illegal fishing operation back home?"
"...are you serious? You think that kind of weak story will get any traction? We've been over this; true crime sells these days. People catching fish without a permit doesn't really excite the public, you know?"
As they bicker, a dusty, run-down old pickup truck slowly passes by; the third individual - not wrapped up in arguing with the other two - points at something on the side of the vehicle.
"Shut up, you two. Check it out."
Hanging off the side of the truck, secured by ropes on each corner so as not to blow and flutter in the breeze, is a Florida state flag... with one noticeable difference; there is a bit of black spray paint over the word 'God'. Above it is written a different name, changing the message of the phrase entirely:
'In BO We Trust'
"Isn't that the name of one of these fucking swamp people? Bo Bennett? Yeah, great, that's not ominous at all... Can't believe you dragged my ass all the way out to this hellhole..."
The cameraman grumbles under his breath as he to walk towards the motel's front entrance.
"Wait here, I'll get the keys..."
The camera stops recording; when it begins again, the time displayed in the bottom corner of the screen reads '11:21 AM'. The three of them are now inside the modest motel room; two beds, a minifridge, a television and - presumably - a bathroom off-screen.
The young woman has just finished hanging a modular corkboard up on one wall, while her assistant - looking to be even younger, perhaps 21 at the most - is leafing through a stack of pictures which rest on the table.
"Hey, Jose. Get a load of these weirdos," he says to the cameraman, stepping forward to hold two black-and-white, scratched pictures up to the lens.
Billy and Bo Bennett. The camera zooms in on both of them, one at a time... but noticeably, it lingers much longer upon the image of Bo. Whoever snapped this photo seems to have gotten the man's attention at the time it was taken, as his dark gaze stares directly at the camera. There is a bizarre, mysterious quality to his eyes; almost as though he might be able to stare through the picture, and catch a glimpse of the person holding the photograph.
But that would be silly.
"Creepy fucking rednecks..." grumbles Jose.
"Hey guys, stop screwing around. Start handing me pictures, I want to get this chart set up before we do any real filming," says Anna, as she stands in front of the corkboard with both hands on her hips.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The previous, amateur recording is replaced by something slightly more professional; the same unfortunate crewmember who was first tasked with coming out here to interview Billy Bennet - prior to her debut at Bloodbath - must have drawn the short straw once again. He's back at the Bennett compound, and the camera opens up to a fairly close, zoomed-in view of Bo's face; cold, impassive eyes stare into the lens, lips obscured by his bushy, unkempt beard... the spitting image of the polaroid photo which the film makers were looking at in their motel room many, many miles away.
"So nice to have you stop by again, friend. Don't often see new faces 'round here... or at least, not many repeat visitors."
The emphasis placed on the word 'repeat' is slightly troublesome to the man recording, implying that a lot of the strangers who find their way here either don't come back for a second visit... or don't leave, in the first place.
"Oh, um... Yeah, glad to be here..." says the cameraman, his voice sounding fairly unconvincing; but not for lack of trying. The last thing he wants to do is give offense to any member of this bizarre, backwoods family. Not while he's on their land, at least. He's relying on one of them to show him the way back to civilization when he's done here.
"Mmmhmm..."
By the sounds of it, Bo isn't entirely convinced that the cameraman is enjoying his second visit to the family's headquarters, deep within the Big Cypress National Preserve. But he seems content to leave the topic alone; in fact, there the slightest hint of enjoyment visible on the face of the man who runs the family business. It's as if he takes some pleasure in the discomfort of others, like it served as sustenance to some particular appetite of his.
Suddenly, the door of the nearest shed is thrown open from within. Instantly, the air surrounding the structure is overcome with a smoky vapor that billows out from inside the structure. The acrid, burning stench is enough to cause a coughing fit in the cameraman - even though he and Bo are situated some distance away - as the unfortunate Project: Honor crewmember begins to gag from the chemical smell which fills the mid-day air.
For his part, Bo is entirely unaffected, sitting in his chair as he rocks back and forth; it's as though he didn't have a care in the world. Just another day here in the swamp.
From within the shed come two figures rushing out, faces covered with bandanas - which they almost immediately pull from their face once outside, hacking and retching as they stumble towards a nearby barrel of rainwater.
After some seconds pass, a third individual appears in the doorway of the rundown shack. Billy Bennett; nothing covering her face, and seemingly none the worse for having been immersed in those chemical fumes. There is a look of disappointment and disdain on her face as she confidently steps towards her older brother, seemingly taking no notice of the cameraman - or the two men who were working alongside her, now washing their eyes and drinking frantically from the water barrel between bouts of vomiting.
"Where'd you find these kids, Bo? Couple of fuckin' pussies..." she says with disgust, stopping a few feet in front of the Kingsnake's rocking chair and depositing a healthy glob of spit onto the ground in front of his boots.
With a sigh, the head of the Bennett clan rises out of his chair. He easily towers over his 5'0" sister, but she hardly seems intimidated; doing more than standing her ground, she actually takes another step towards the massive frame of Bo, staring up at him with glistening eyes that seem full of anticipation. Anticipation of what? Only she knows for sure; but the cameraman is confident that he'll find out soon enough.
"I already told you, if you're going to be workin' part-time with this wrestlin' business, I'd need to find fresh bodies to make up for your absence. Well, that's the new help. They'll either toughen up, and survive... or they won't. Either way, the problem will solve itself. Just be patient..." he sounds more than a little exasperated, almost like they've had this conversation more than once in recent days... but despite his weary tone, there is a hardness behind his words. He's had a lifetime of sparring with Billy, both in speech and with fists, and such constant back-and-forth exchanges clearly test his 'good nature' - or however much of that he truly possesses, behind his mask of friendly, backwoods clan patriarch.
"Patience? That's rich, comin' from you. Hell, where was your patience when you decided you wanted papa's seat at the head of the table? You fuckin' stink of ambition, Bo, y'always did... and the old man could smell it, just as much as I can. That's why h-"
There is a flash of movement before she can finish that thought, one of Bo's hands snapping through the air to grab his sister around the throat; it cuts off her words, and likewise her breath. His previously calm eyes now practically shine with rage... and oddly enough, the change is enough to bring a massive, toothy grin to Billy, even with her windpipe compressed in his massive hand. It's like she wanted to push her brother to this, like she were looking for conflict wherever she goes; even her own blood isn't exempt from her constant lust for violence.
"You just don't know when to shut up, do ya?" says the Kingsnake, voice low and dangerous, his calm veneer shattered in an instant... but before he can continue, his eyes seem to flash with something else: realization.
Held in his captive sister's right hand is her ever-present Bowie knife, pulled from the sheath which is almost always fastened to her belt. The tip of the blade is pressed firmly against his upper thigh: the femoral artery, a place where a deep enough slash would be a death sentence. The knife's sharpened tip doesn't break the fabric of his pants, but Bo knows it wouldn't take much pressure on his sister's part to drive the blade through. And he similarly knows her well enough to be certain that she wouldn't hesitate to open him up. Even if he were unsure about that fact, one look at Billy's face - smiling and nodding, with hungry eyes practically begging him to tighten his strangling grip around her throat - would confirm it.
With an angry, dismissive grunt he opens his hand before shoving her backwards into the dirt, and staring down at her with barely restrained fury.
"Careful, Billy, careful. You may be family, but you ain't irreplaceable. Nobody is. Remember that."
Able to once again fill her lungs with fresh oxygen, Billy lets out a hideous, rough, half-choking giggle which sounds more like stones grinding together in a rock tumbler than any normal expression of amusement. Her brother's powerful grip has left several deep, dark marks on her otherwise perfectly pale throat. Slowly pushing herself back to her feet - knife still held in her right hand - she watches Bo turn and stomp away before calling after him in a demented, sing-song tone.
"Awww, you all done? Well, I'll be here whenever you're ready to finish our li'l talk. Bye-bye, now!"
With that last, mocking jab at her retreating sibling, Billy falls silent; eyes cast down to her hands, which tremble with what one can only assume is adrenaline. A nervous energy runs rampant through her tiny body; whether from being so close to blacking out in that stranglehold, or being so close to slicing her own brother's artery wide open, one can only guess. It takes her some time to fully compose herself, chest rising and falling with deep, stabilizing breaths as her fingers remain tightly curled around the handle of her knife.
"So, you're back, huh?" she says, once the shaking in her limbs dies down somewhat. Turning to the camera, she offers a slight, twitching smile to the man who has been filming this little family 'disagreement'.
"Y-yeah, I am..." he says in a wavering, uncertain voice; keeping the camera aimed at Billy, although his own eyes move to that knife she holds in her right hand. It's all he can do to hold the camera steady through the tremors of fear that jolt his system.
"Mmm. Well, welcome back, I suppose. Guess you're here to talk about this tag-team thing they got me signed up for..."
The tone of her voice makes her feelings about being forced to partner with anyone plain: she isn't a fan of the idea. And why should she be? Out here in the swamp, you can't rely on anyone but yourself. The concept of teamwork - outside of that which is strictly necessary to keep the family business running smoothly - is an alien one to Billy, even in her tightly knit clan.
Clearing his throat, the cameraman prepares to speak up to move the 'interview' along; but he is cut short by the young woman before he has a chance to utter a single word.
"I don't know whose idea this was, but I don't play well with others... so Thanatos, Mr. Angel-of-Death, do us both a fuckin' favour and stay out of my way until I've had my fun, alright?"
Her manic, twitchy eyes slowly move away from the camera and roll upwards to the sky; there is a pause, as though she were looking for something, or listening for words from on-high. The cameraman fidgets nervously, not wanting to risk speaking up when the feral Bennett girl is in such an obviously unstable frame of mind. Eventually, her gaze - now glassy and sporting the mother of all thousand-yard stares - falls back down towards the camera's lens. She begins to lazily pace back and forth, holding the knife like her life depended on it, eyes darting around as she speaks - never resting on one place for too long.
"Guess you want me to share a few thoughts about my opponents, right? I damn sure hope they're not as tame as the two you had me fightin' at Bloodbath... Nick Danger was good - probably better than me when it comes to wrestlin', truth be told - but he was too damn nice. Treated it like an exhibition match instead of a real brawl... and that's why he lost. As for the other one, that plastic bitch, well... I don't know who she sucked up to for a contract, but her credentials are as phony as her body."
"Soooo disappointin'."
"But I've been lookin' into these other folks. Ellie Quinn and Syndicate... they sure seem like they're made of sterner stuff. But the thing with appearances is, they're only skin deep. Ya got to cut past the surface, tear through that outer layer, to see what someone is really about. As a hunter, it's my job to know my prey."
"And Ellie... I know a thing about not belongin', same as you do. Hell, Papa Bray sure as shit didn't want no girls in the family. Far as he was concerned, I had no place here. Not strong enough to survive in the swamp. Too weak to stake my claim to the family business. So I understand where you come from... but that's where the similarities end, girl. 'Cause while you spent your life runnin', I fought for my place at the table. While you moved from place to place, lookin' for somewhere that would accept you, coddle you, make you feel good about bein' so goddamn pathetic... I struggled, here, where I belonged. I made them respect me. I showed them I deserved to stand beside my kin. I thrashed, and spit, and bled... until they knew I was worthwhile, until they saw I would sooner rip out my own throat - or anyone else's - before I turned my back on the family. They thought I wasn't good enough, so I proved 'em wrong."
"What kind of animal abandons it's home, abandons what little family it has? The weak, forced out of their habitat so they don't drag down the rest of the pack. The sick, wanderin' off to find a place to die... well, let me help ya with that, Quinnie. I'm somethin' of an expert in shufflin' creatures off this mortal coil, y'know? You're a tree without roots, unable to stand on your own; maybe that's why you fell in with those losers in the Killjoy Club. A bunch of sheep, playin' at bein' wolves," she pauses to let out a hoarse, barking laugh; clearly amused by the mental image of sheep in wolves' clothing. Billy quickly shakes her head, though, dismissing the topic as she carries on with her ranting monologue.
"But that ain't none of my business... I just want you to know that I can see right through you. No matter how much you puff yourself up, no matter how tough you try to appear, I can spot a coward when I see one. And I know when you're up against someone who can see past your mask, you'll fail... you'll break and run away, just like you always have."
With those last words, she finally stops her manic pacing - falling unceremoniously into the empty rocking chair that her brother had previously occupied, as though someone had cut her strings. She runs her free hand across the marks left on her milky-white throat, exhaling a sigh upwards which ruffles a few strings of greasy hair.
"Now, the other one... Syndicate... well, he's a whole other matter, ain't he?
She closes her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply, as whatever thoughts rest in that little head of hers seem to send a shiver down her spine.
"I saw what you did to that woman at Bloodbath. It was beautiful. Two wounded animals, backed into a corner, snappin' and rippin' and tearin' at each other's flesh. You've proven to everyone that you belong at the top of the food chain, and you did it without anyone's help. An alpha wolf. A true predator."
She shudders once more, eyes half-lidded as she runs a tongue across her chapped bottom lip. The idea of facing the Legacy champion seems to have a rather... uncanny effect on her unusual psyche.
"It's enough to get a girl all worked up, y'know? But I hope you ain't grown complacent now that you're packin' that long, thick, heavy... belt 'round your waist. I hope you been healin' up since then, big boy. 'Cause it's my turn to feel, first-hand, just a fraction of what the 'British Raven' was lucky enough to experience. I want to see if you can serve up a helpin' of pain that even I'll struggle to keep down. So rest well, and save your strength for the 11th..."
Her eyes open fully once more, and stare straight into the camera. A dreamy, blissful - and above all else, calm - smile on her lips as she speaks in hushed, breathy tones.
"Y'all wouldn't wanna disappoint little ol' me, right? Last man who couldn't satisfy... well, he ain't in no position to tell the story, if ya catch my meanin'."
A wink at the camera, before rolling her eyes. She must be finished speaking about her competition, because she pushes herself back to her feet and runs the fingers of her free hand through her hair - making an even bigger mess of the unwashed, sweaty mess atop her head.
Suddenly, something seems to catch her eye; and with a flick of the wrist that is almost abnormally swift, the knife in her hand flies towards - and, mercifully, past - the cameraman. Practically tripping over his own feet in surprise and shock, the Project: Honor crewmember spins around to see where the knife landed... it's imbedded right in the middle of a large Diamondback rattlesnake - a species known for it's venomous bite. The tip of the blade is driven through the now-dying creature, stopping it in it's tracks only inches from the unprotected legs of the cameraman.
"Tsk, tsk, city boy..." says Billy, clicking her tongue in disappointment at his lack of awareness in such a dangerous place. She strides forward, shoving him out of the way and gripping the handle of the knife in her right hand. Pulling it out of the ground, she holds up the dead serpent in front of her face... only inches away, close enough to land a fatal bite if there were even an ounce of life left in it's body.
"I'll give ya the same advice I was goin' to give my opponents... and my so-called partner, for that matter."
She steps towards the camera, tapping on the lens with the very tip of the blade as she flashes a demented grin; one which seems utterly animalistic in nature.
"Watch yourself. This is snake country."
