Post by americangrime on Jul 26, 2021 17:47:58 GMT -5
A cloud of smoke hung in the air over Lazarus Arjen. He stood outside of a seedy, run down, hole-in-the-wall type bar somewhere off of a back alley in New Orleans. This was the type of establishment one would generally cross the street to avoid walking in front of. On a regular day, working girls would meet their John’s in front of these doors, if not, inside of the bar itself. Nightly bar fights; muggings, stabbings, if not worse. The neon bar sign read “BUTCHER’S ROW” flickered every few seconds, the interior bulbs barely holding on to what life they had left. That neon pink and blue light is what illuminated the area around Lazarus, who stood with his back to the shitty exterior materials - old, rotted wood and weather eroded brick. His right leg lifted and bent so his foot was placed flat on the building side. In one hand a lit cigarette was clutched between his index and middle fingers, a trail of smoke seeping up from the lit end. In the other was a beer bottle, three-quarters empty now - even less after he took another long swig from it.
He was dressed casually, well - as casual as Laz would be. Jeans, ripped and tattered - a huge hole in the knee/shin area of his straightened leg - flaps of denim and strings blowing with the slight breeze. A sleeveless black shirt underneath a black hooded sweater - zipper undone, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and hood over his head. All completed by the black combat boots he wore.
He brought the hand holding the cigarette to his mouth, tucking the butt-end of the cigarette between his lips and holding it there between a pinched index finger and thumb. He took the final pull from the death stick before dropping it to the pavement beneath his foot. Bringing his wall-mounted foot down, he stomped out the cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Took you long enough.” Lazarus said into, seemingly, the night. He took the final swig from his beer bottle as he adjusted his stance vertically. A shape emerged from the void across from him, dressed somewhat casually, as well, but he glanced sideways at Charon. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt, with a denim jacket overtop. A pair of blue jeans and black boots adorned his legs and feet. He shrugged.
“I work on my own time. I’m a busy man, Laz...even for you, unfortunately.” The man looked to the bar, and then to the beer bottle. “I see you’ve been drinking...care for another? I’m parched.”
Without waiting for an answer, the man pushed into Butcher’s Row, past Lazarus.
Flicking the cigarette butt from his fingers and taking the last swig from the bottle before tossing that as well, Lazarus turned to re-enter Butcher’s Row. The bottle shattered into pieces on the pavement, but it didn’t matter to Lazarus - he disappeared into the wretched little bar.
The lights were dim, almost too dim to where you couldn’t see while walking in front of you. Lazarus pushed by patrons of the bar, eventually making his way to Charon who found himself a little booth, hidden away from the crowds of the bar. Passing by the bartender, Lazarus gave him a look which was met by a full bottle of whiskey. Lazarus brought it to the booth, sliding in opposite of Charon.
“It’s been awhile.” Lazarus said, twisting the cap off of the bottle and crudely taking a drink from it without pouring into a glass - which sat directly in front of him. Charon raised a brow and poured himself a glass off of Lazarus’ already-sipped from bottle. He took a long sip, and nodded.
“That it has. I see you’re still as barbarous as ever, I can only assume your violent habits match the grittiness with which you’ve always imbibed life.” Charon cracked half a smile. “Glad to see that time doesn’t change just everyone. How’s Maisie?” His eyes flitted up to Lazarus’ face.
“You know me better than most. I don’t change for anyone or anything. My outlook on life matches my outlook in our industry; my actions in life, match my actions there.” Lazarus replied, his voice as stern as ever. “Maisie, though, gives me reason to carry on - to make my time in this industry as good as I can, so she has something to be proud of me for when she is older.” He took another drink from the bottle, this time a slight grimace after. “She would love to see you, you know..”
Charon pauses, and takes a long drink from his glass. He nods. “Legacy, our individual and that of the Collective, are the most important facets of all of this. You, Lazarus, you’ve always taken the lead on carving out your own chunk of meat. I can only assume you’ve continued to do the same for this period of time, aye? The Killjoy Club? Bit of a garish name, and too much of a collective for my personal tastes...but I respect it.” Charon considers Lazarus’ late comment, and nods. “I’m sure she would. Amelie and I will make an appearance soon, perhaps, you just know that I’m a very…busy man. I should make more time for family.”
Charon chuckled. He’s caught himself.
”Family. Funny, that word. It’s just you, me, Amelie, and Maisie now, of mine. Lonely world.”
“Family is all we are, all we have. You and Amelie never have been excluded.” Lazarus replied before he took another drink. “The Killjoy Club - Project Death - Death Blooms, the name holds no weight. We are a family, each one of us. The unwanted, the undesirable. You and Amelie will always be a part of that, whether or not you represent it on the front line of war.”
Charon nods. He looks down at his drink for a moment, before glancing back up to Lazarus.
“Perhaps we should bear that name, that family more outwardly, more…violently. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten our hands dirty, hasn’t it? Perhaps...we should do that again.”
Charon lets the thought hang in the air as he and Laz share a knowing glance, before we fade out to our next scene.
-
"Let's not mince words about what myself and my brother are here to do...we're here to bring violence."
Charon Seede picks his teeth with a toothpick as his lover, Amelie DeGatineau, postures behind him. She leans her arms on the back of the dark leather chair that Charon's currently occupying. Seede's hair-a seafoam color-is allowed to hang loosely over one side of his face. He wears a pair of slim black jeans, tucked into black combat boots, and no shirt, revealing the littany of scars written across his chest and shoulders, pockmarks from various deathmatches across the world. Around his neck is a gold chain, ending in a small, golden, thorned rose. Seede flicks the toothpick into the void and crosses his hands.
"It's not necessarily shameful to find yourself feeling hopeless in the face of such violence as this. I'm sure that our opponents aren't quite prepared-how do you prepare for the Massacre, after all? How do you plan to handle two men who don't give half a fuck about the pain you're going to feel, save for to relish in the inevitable agony we'll be causing. There's no hope here-win or lose, fail or flourish, myself and Lazarus are going to carve these two individuals up with relative ease. Even if we don't walk out with the victory, hell, we'll have taken absolutely all we need to take from them.
We'll have spread our doctrine, the superiority of violence, the desire to slink into the muck, hands and knees flush with the soil, and find salvation on the edge of a serrated knife, on every fist driven int the skull of every wayward wanderer who happens to step in your way. It seems we’ve got a handful of those for our first competition, honestly. I’m not sure what a former world champion is doing in a place like Fallout, where gore goes much further than gold could ever carry you. You want to show off your pedigree, Jordan, I don’t think you’ll find much success here. You’re a prize fighter looking for a winner’s purse, but what you’ll find is the putrid scent of death as you slink to your knees once I sink my claws into your fuckin’ stomach. You want to be a journeyman, eh? You want to showcase to the world the accolades you’ve held in your fuckin’ trophy case? I don’t mind the gold you’ve held-surely more than I have-but it won’t save you, friend, no. Your various championships won’t shield you from the blows I drive into the back of your skull, time and time again. It won’t shield you from the steely knives that Lazarus spikes into your forehead before we drive you into the canvas.
‘Bishop’ is a bit of a fitting name, honestly, because you’re gonna need some God or Holy Man to save you from the enforcement of our doctrine, of my Black Book, of the Killjoy Club, of the coming Massacre. I believe that every man should have the freedom of choice, of enjoyment, and if you want to go and seek gold and glory while filling your pockets, Joshua, I invite you to. I invite you to take every opportunity before you to become the richest, most infamous, most powerful competitor in Project Honor, the same way the man who booked this match invited me to disfigure you, to mangle your skull and the various orifices about your face with a railroad spike, or a knife, or whichever sharp object I can wrap my fuckin’ fingers around first. It’s all about the ‘illusion of choice’, the fact that any of us, you, me, Lazarus, Bezerk, we can do whatever we want. The world is dying, so we might as well enjoy our last days, right?
If your definition of enjoyment fits into the mangling I give you...all the better, right?”
Charon lets his words hang for a moment as he contemplates the other opponent in this match.
“Funny, how another leader wants to come before The Movement and claim his superiority. Bezerk, I’ve surely got nothing against you despite the fact that you want to spread doctrine, you want this platform to appear superior. I’d love to say that I want the same, which is why I’m here in the first place, except I believe that my actions will speak louder than my words. I honestly think that when I take you and your boy Bishop to the ground and peel the fucking features off your face, I’ll have given a better warning, spread a better message than any word from your book ever could have done. You, Bezerk, you want to be a messiah so bad but your brand of madness doesn’t quite click as well with the populace who have a bead of sanity left in their heads, your mask doesn’t quite invite those in who’d like to find some solace in a new grouping, your manic movements take away from your movement, the ideology, take away from anything you could ever offer in the form of salvation. What Lazarus and I offer is a violence beyond words, what Lazarus and I offer is a blessing in disguise, the ability to do what you want, take what you want, whatever pound of flesh or violent direction you wish to embark upon, and magnify it.
Your platform, Bezerk, is directionless, but let me give you a direction. Let me turn you from a beast of a man, a creature of wrath and chaos, into a mournful figure, one that will evoke sympathy as he rests on his knees begging for followers to come help him up, a lump of malformed clay, a creature of pity and empathy. You’ll get your followers, those to clean up after you, to make sure that you can still feed yourself, still care for you in any capacity as you rot into nothing. Let us give you this gift, Bezerk, and let us take from your shoulders the pain of having to try, having a failing platform that grants you nothing but sorrow, and rot.
You will be but the first messages in the tome of the Massacre.”
Seede places his hands together as if praying, a smile on his face.
“As Lazarus and I head into Collision Course, put the Project Honor Tag Team Championships both in sight and mind, we will progress forward, inexorably, seeking a glory that can’t be found anywhere but in the championships we hold. We want to hold our platform high, our names even higher, we are seekers of the purest glory in the form of proliferation of our ideals, and the best way to find that is at the hands of those watching, those seeing us in a dominant light, those who will watch us crush the skulls of the two men we’re facing dead ahead and believe in us. Heading into our contest for those tag team championships, you will see why we’re called The Massacre. You will understand the glory and gore we spread.
You will know everything you need to know about us.
And you will know fear.”
Charon lowers his hands, letting out a laugh as Amelie rubs his shoulders, before we cut to black.
He was dressed casually, well - as casual as Laz would be. Jeans, ripped and tattered - a huge hole in the knee/shin area of his straightened leg - flaps of denim and strings blowing with the slight breeze. A sleeveless black shirt underneath a black hooded sweater - zipper undone, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and hood over his head. All completed by the black combat boots he wore.
He brought the hand holding the cigarette to his mouth, tucking the butt-end of the cigarette between his lips and holding it there between a pinched index finger and thumb. He took the final pull from the death stick before dropping it to the pavement beneath his foot. Bringing his wall-mounted foot down, he stomped out the cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Took you long enough.” Lazarus said into, seemingly, the night. He took the final swig from his beer bottle as he adjusted his stance vertically. A shape emerged from the void across from him, dressed somewhat casually, as well, but he glanced sideways at Charon. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt, with a denim jacket overtop. A pair of blue jeans and black boots adorned his legs and feet. He shrugged.
“I work on my own time. I’m a busy man, Laz...even for you, unfortunately.” The man looked to the bar, and then to the beer bottle. “I see you’ve been drinking...care for another? I’m parched.”
Without waiting for an answer, the man pushed into Butcher’s Row, past Lazarus.
Flicking the cigarette butt from his fingers and taking the last swig from the bottle before tossing that as well, Lazarus turned to re-enter Butcher’s Row. The bottle shattered into pieces on the pavement, but it didn’t matter to Lazarus - he disappeared into the wretched little bar.
The lights were dim, almost too dim to where you couldn’t see while walking in front of you. Lazarus pushed by patrons of the bar, eventually making his way to Charon who found himself a little booth, hidden away from the crowds of the bar. Passing by the bartender, Lazarus gave him a look which was met by a full bottle of whiskey. Lazarus brought it to the booth, sliding in opposite of Charon.
“It’s been awhile.” Lazarus said, twisting the cap off of the bottle and crudely taking a drink from it without pouring into a glass - which sat directly in front of him. Charon raised a brow and poured himself a glass off of Lazarus’ already-sipped from bottle. He took a long sip, and nodded.
“That it has. I see you’re still as barbarous as ever, I can only assume your violent habits match the grittiness with which you’ve always imbibed life.” Charon cracked half a smile. “Glad to see that time doesn’t change just everyone. How’s Maisie?” His eyes flitted up to Lazarus’ face.
“You know me better than most. I don’t change for anyone or anything. My outlook on life matches my outlook in our industry; my actions in life, match my actions there.” Lazarus replied, his voice as stern as ever. “Maisie, though, gives me reason to carry on - to make my time in this industry as good as I can, so she has something to be proud of me for when she is older.” He took another drink from the bottle, this time a slight grimace after. “She would love to see you, you know..”
Charon pauses, and takes a long drink from his glass. He nods. “Legacy, our individual and that of the Collective, are the most important facets of all of this. You, Lazarus, you’ve always taken the lead on carving out your own chunk of meat. I can only assume you’ve continued to do the same for this period of time, aye? The Killjoy Club? Bit of a garish name, and too much of a collective for my personal tastes...but I respect it.” Charon considers Lazarus’ late comment, and nods. “I’m sure she would. Amelie and I will make an appearance soon, perhaps, you just know that I’m a very…busy man. I should make more time for family.”
Charon chuckled. He’s caught himself.
”Family. Funny, that word. It’s just you, me, Amelie, and Maisie now, of mine. Lonely world.”
“Family is all we are, all we have. You and Amelie never have been excluded.” Lazarus replied before he took another drink. “The Killjoy Club - Project Death - Death Blooms, the name holds no weight. We are a family, each one of us. The unwanted, the undesirable. You and Amelie will always be a part of that, whether or not you represent it on the front line of war.”
Charon nods. He looks down at his drink for a moment, before glancing back up to Lazarus.
“Perhaps we should bear that name, that family more outwardly, more…violently. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten our hands dirty, hasn’t it? Perhaps...we should do that again.”
Charon lets the thought hang in the air as he and Laz share a knowing glance, before we fade out to our next scene.
-
"Let's not mince words about what myself and my brother are here to do...we're here to bring violence."
Charon Seede picks his teeth with a toothpick as his lover, Amelie DeGatineau, postures behind him. She leans her arms on the back of the dark leather chair that Charon's currently occupying. Seede's hair-a seafoam color-is allowed to hang loosely over one side of his face. He wears a pair of slim black jeans, tucked into black combat boots, and no shirt, revealing the littany of scars written across his chest and shoulders, pockmarks from various deathmatches across the world. Around his neck is a gold chain, ending in a small, golden, thorned rose. Seede flicks the toothpick into the void and crosses his hands.
"It's not necessarily shameful to find yourself feeling hopeless in the face of such violence as this. I'm sure that our opponents aren't quite prepared-how do you prepare for the Massacre, after all? How do you plan to handle two men who don't give half a fuck about the pain you're going to feel, save for to relish in the inevitable agony we'll be causing. There's no hope here-win or lose, fail or flourish, myself and Lazarus are going to carve these two individuals up with relative ease. Even if we don't walk out with the victory, hell, we'll have taken absolutely all we need to take from them.
We'll have spread our doctrine, the superiority of violence, the desire to slink into the muck, hands and knees flush with the soil, and find salvation on the edge of a serrated knife, on every fist driven int the skull of every wayward wanderer who happens to step in your way. It seems we’ve got a handful of those for our first competition, honestly. I’m not sure what a former world champion is doing in a place like Fallout, where gore goes much further than gold could ever carry you. You want to show off your pedigree, Jordan, I don’t think you’ll find much success here. You’re a prize fighter looking for a winner’s purse, but what you’ll find is the putrid scent of death as you slink to your knees once I sink my claws into your fuckin’ stomach. You want to be a journeyman, eh? You want to showcase to the world the accolades you’ve held in your fuckin’ trophy case? I don’t mind the gold you’ve held-surely more than I have-but it won’t save you, friend, no. Your various championships won’t shield you from the blows I drive into the back of your skull, time and time again. It won’t shield you from the steely knives that Lazarus spikes into your forehead before we drive you into the canvas.
‘Bishop’ is a bit of a fitting name, honestly, because you’re gonna need some God or Holy Man to save you from the enforcement of our doctrine, of my Black Book, of the Killjoy Club, of the coming Massacre. I believe that every man should have the freedom of choice, of enjoyment, and if you want to go and seek gold and glory while filling your pockets, Joshua, I invite you to. I invite you to take every opportunity before you to become the richest, most infamous, most powerful competitor in Project Honor, the same way the man who booked this match invited me to disfigure you, to mangle your skull and the various orifices about your face with a railroad spike, or a knife, or whichever sharp object I can wrap my fuckin’ fingers around first. It’s all about the ‘illusion of choice’, the fact that any of us, you, me, Lazarus, Bezerk, we can do whatever we want. The world is dying, so we might as well enjoy our last days, right?
If your definition of enjoyment fits into the mangling I give you...all the better, right?”
Charon lets his words hang for a moment as he contemplates the other opponent in this match.
“Funny, how another leader wants to come before The Movement and claim his superiority. Bezerk, I’ve surely got nothing against you despite the fact that you want to spread doctrine, you want this platform to appear superior. I’d love to say that I want the same, which is why I’m here in the first place, except I believe that my actions will speak louder than my words. I honestly think that when I take you and your boy Bishop to the ground and peel the fucking features off your face, I’ll have given a better warning, spread a better message than any word from your book ever could have done. You, Bezerk, you want to be a messiah so bad but your brand of madness doesn’t quite click as well with the populace who have a bead of sanity left in their heads, your mask doesn’t quite invite those in who’d like to find some solace in a new grouping, your manic movements take away from your movement, the ideology, take away from anything you could ever offer in the form of salvation. What Lazarus and I offer is a violence beyond words, what Lazarus and I offer is a blessing in disguise, the ability to do what you want, take what you want, whatever pound of flesh or violent direction you wish to embark upon, and magnify it.
Your platform, Bezerk, is directionless, but let me give you a direction. Let me turn you from a beast of a man, a creature of wrath and chaos, into a mournful figure, one that will evoke sympathy as he rests on his knees begging for followers to come help him up, a lump of malformed clay, a creature of pity and empathy. You’ll get your followers, those to clean up after you, to make sure that you can still feed yourself, still care for you in any capacity as you rot into nothing. Let us give you this gift, Bezerk, and let us take from your shoulders the pain of having to try, having a failing platform that grants you nothing but sorrow, and rot.
You will be but the first messages in the tome of the Massacre.”
Seede places his hands together as if praying, a smile on his face.
“As Lazarus and I head into Collision Course, put the Project Honor Tag Team Championships both in sight and mind, we will progress forward, inexorably, seeking a glory that can’t be found anywhere but in the championships we hold. We want to hold our platform high, our names even higher, we are seekers of the purest glory in the form of proliferation of our ideals, and the best way to find that is at the hands of those watching, those seeing us in a dominant light, those who will watch us crush the skulls of the two men we’re facing dead ahead and believe in us. Heading into our contest for those tag team championships, you will see why we’re called The Massacre. You will understand the glory and gore we spread.
You will know everything you need to know about us.
And you will know fear.”
Charon lowers his hands, letting out a laugh as Amelie rubs his shoulders, before we cut to black.