Post by americangrime on Aug 10, 2021 13:18:44 GMT -5
Incredible.
It was about the only thought that could go through Charon Seede's mind with the destruction of Bezerk and Joshua Bishop. Arjen's boots stained with the blood of the two who'd come before them, who'd come at them, even if their voices had stayed hushed throughout the entirety of their togetherness, their thoughts being left a mystery to a world that now cosigned them into the void. Charon watched, continuously, as Lazarus washed the blood from stomping Bishop’s head in off of his boots and into the sewer system of New Orleans. It was an image that stained the inner walls of his skull as he and Amelie DeGatineau left Arjen’s residence, returning to their own and preparing to finally undress from the carnage of the night before. Seede stood under the spitting head of the shower for a long moment as the cold water rushed over him, finally removing the blood which had so deeply ingrained itself into his flesh as Lazarus had opened a man’s head just in front of him. It pooled with the water at his feet, and swirled the drain a few times-a reddish, rusty color, leaving some sediments at the top of the drain as it dissipated into nothing.
Amazing.
Charon was stunned by how much this moment had impacted him, the truest understanding of what he and Lazarus were capable of as a unit. Truly, Lazarus was like a brother to him. He would take a bullet for Arjen, or his partner, or Maisie if it meant securing the future for any of them, but this? This was a new form of kinship. This was a new growth forming. There’s a true acceleration in the partnership that the two men had made with the success they found in the violence they’d wrought against the first two to step to them. Of course, Collision Course was just on the path ahead-but why think so far ahead? Why not enjoy the moment?
“I haven’t seen you like this in some time.” A voice broke Charon from his trance, now standing in the middle of their bedroom, dressed for rest. He glanced up to see Amelie laying in their bed. “Not with the Prospect Cup, and certainly not after...what’s changed in you, Charon? What’s come forth in your mind?” She narrowed her eyes. “Truly, Lazarus hasn’t had so emboldening an impact on you so early into your reignited partnership, has he? Should I find somewhere else to stay?” Amelie chided, but her voice was warm. Clearly joking. Charon slowly approached and rested on the bed next to her.
“Brotherhood is a strange thing.” Charon mused. “You spend your entire life away from someone, taking separate paths at every fork possible, and still end up right beside them. Why is that, Amelie? Is it fate? Is it destiny? Or is it just that the gravitational pull of this universe felt two aggressive, violent bastards, and decided to slot them back together once again, knowing that they’d bring havoc and all sorts of violent means to violent ends back to wrestling?” Charon smiled for a moment. It was fleeting. “Lazarus and I are...kindred spirits, in ways that are fortunate to none but our own. We don’t bring joy or good competition, we bring good violence. We bring the war to Fallout, and we’ll continue to do so until there’s little left.”
Amelie nodded. “Do you love Lazarus?”
Charon nodded in return. “Like a brother. I’d take a knife for him if it meant that our mission could continue, a bullet to the skull. Any poor bastard who steps to us will have to drive one or the other into my skull to cut us off.”
Amelie nodded, again. “I see. So...what of these four?”
Charon’s eyes drifted down to his phone, where their next match announcement was clear and visible. Amelie watched a spark light up behind his eyes, something wretched and evil.
“Just more cattle for the grinder.”
-
“Let me ask you-what exactly do you think is going to happen here?”
Charon Seede stands in the midst of a butcher’s shop, around him various cuts of meat lain out on various tables with various other implements of torture and butchery lain out alongside them. A vacant smile sits upon the face of the man known as Eden’s Keeper as he motions to the gathered meat around him.
“What do you see when you look at this room? It’s a factory, truly, the last step of production for any form of animal that makes its unfortunate end in the stomach of a human being. Myself, I adore the production aspects-while many will say they don’t want to see how the sausage is made, I find it important to understand exactly what goes into what you eat. I want to see the grisly bits, how the smallest are killed and discarded with little to offer, the largest carved for all that they may be worth. I find myself most at home in a wrestling ring, as you’ve seen, but I envy those who find it in a butcher’s shop. I wish to share my talents with them the way that they so easily do what they do, without remorse, without hesitation. I’d like to think that we’d get along well, wouldn’t you?”
No response. Obviously.
“When I look at our next set of opponents, I see another proving ground. Bishop and Bezerk were quiet, they were reserved, they made not a peep when Lazarus turned their heads inside out with a few stomps from those heavy boots of his. They were docile as lambs, and they were slaughtered accordingly. Our next opponents are...not so quiet. They whine and writhe on the sidelines, claiming dominance is in their future, but a simple glance says that it’s not so likely.
Artemis Shepherd, the name is fitting, I suppose. You want to be a leader of the people, you want to see your name in the heights, but you’ll find little to lead here. My brother and I have our doctrine solid, and if you want to be seen as some sort of monarch, well...you’d best bloody yourself a bit more before we cast a glance in your direction. I can say the same of your unfortunate partner for this match, Yelich. The two of you give me an aura of worthlessness, an overwhelming atmosphere of pathetic energy. Lazarus and I shouldn’t truly be wasting our time with you, should we? At least our other two opponents had the physical presence to seem threatening, you two...you seem as though you’re boys in costumes, playing pretend, attempting a facsimile of knighthood or monarchy.
Laughable, to say the least. You can hide behind a paper-thin shield of nobility, perceived or otherwise, but it won’t do you much good. The swords of Sirs won’t stab through the flesh of the Massacre, thickened from time on the drying rack and held tough against the tests of time. We’ve been emboldened by violence, we don’t bend the knee to anyone, not the supposed Undefeated nor the Shepherd. We don’t believe in ruling by ordained power, only by violent and extreme force. The culling of the weak for the benefit of the strong.
You aren’t the guiltiest, however. To this point you’ve stayed quiet enough that you haven’t drawn the boots from their resting places, haven’t tempted The Devil with a hellacious response. Latoya Hixx and Earl Boyde, on the other hand...they have. I’ve got no strong feelings toward either of them, save for the fact that they disgust me. Prattling on like lambs before the blades, bleating in the air as though it’ll change a goddamn thing when they know clear and well that it won’t. You two are scum of the Earth, and when we scrape whatever remnants of you stick to the bottom of our boots off into the sewers after this match, you’ll simply be returned to what you came from, the grit and gristle that sticks to the bottom of lead pipes, the sediment on the storm drains, the filth and fuckery that even the rainwater leaves behind so as to prevent itself from being lowered to your level. Simply put, you two are dogshit, hogwash, waste, whatever word you find most offensive so that I can best convey my rage at the fact that we have to waste our time bloodying our boots handling you. Lazarus put it best when he said we’d be butchering whores like a pair of Rippers, but this’ll be much more full of venom and vile from me. I’ll fucking cave both your heads in for having the audacity to exist in the same immediate sphere as me. You don’t belong in this industry, you don’t belong in this ring, and you certainly don’t belong on this plane.
We’ll gladly take you out.”
Charon grins for a moment, a sadistic and pointed thing, before returning to that dazed and far-off look that usually occupies his eyes.
“Lazarus and I are but vessels, tools in the hands of an angry and fuming God, but we are effective tools, surgical weapons to cut away the blistering flesh and excise the festering rot from all those who may be effective. The Massacre may only be two men strong, but we are stronger than you could ever possibly fathom, more vicious and vile than you could bother to consider, more incomprehensibly violent than your small, barely-functioning skulls could ever bear to imagine. Berserk and Bishop ended up with shattered faces, but you four...you will find a far worse fate. You will find yourselves the next examples of what we’ll do heading into Collision Course, the blood we’ll draw forth will be used to paint the next chapter of our lexicon, to infuse into our litany of sorrow. You will fall. You will falter.
You will die here, with no escape.
We are the Massacre. There is no further waiting, there is no further holding-of-breath. We will come, and we will ruin you.
And you will suffer greatly.”
Charon smiled.
“See you soon.”
We cut to black.
It was about the only thought that could go through Charon Seede's mind with the destruction of Bezerk and Joshua Bishop. Arjen's boots stained with the blood of the two who'd come before them, who'd come at them, even if their voices had stayed hushed throughout the entirety of their togetherness, their thoughts being left a mystery to a world that now cosigned them into the void. Charon watched, continuously, as Lazarus washed the blood from stomping Bishop’s head in off of his boots and into the sewer system of New Orleans. It was an image that stained the inner walls of his skull as he and Amelie DeGatineau left Arjen’s residence, returning to their own and preparing to finally undress from the carnage of the night before. Seede stood under the spitting head of the shower for a long moment as the cold water rushed over him, finally removing the blood which had so deeply ingrained itself into his flesh as Lazarus had opened a man’s head just in front of him. It pooled with the water at his feet, and swirled the drain a few times-a reddish, rusty color, leaving some sediments at the top of the drain as it dissipated into nothing.
Amazing.
Charon was stunned by how much this moment had impacted him, the truest understanding of what he and Lazarus were capable of as a unit. Truly, Lazarus was like a brother to him. He would take a bullet for Arjen, or his partner, or Maisie if it meant securing the future for any of them, but this? This was a new form of kinship. This was a new growth forming. There’s a true acceleration in the partnership that the two men had made with the success they found in the violence they’d wrought against the first two to step to them. Of course, Collision Course was just on the path ahead-but why think so far ahead? Why not enjoy the moment?
“I haven’t seen you like this in some time.” A voice broke Charon from his trance, now standing in the middle of their bedroom, dressed for rest. He glanced up to see Amelie laying in their bed. “Not with the Prospect Cup, and certainly not after...what’s changed in you, Charon? What’s come forth in your mind?” She narrowed her eyes. “Truly, Lazarus hasn’t had so emboldening an impact on you so early into your reignited partnership, has he? Should I find somewhere else to stay?” Amelie chided, but her voice was warm. Clearly joking. Charon slowly approached and rested on the bed next to her.
“Brotherhood is a strange thing.” Charon mused. “You spend your entire life away from someone, taking separate paths at every fork possible, and still end up right beside them. Why is that, Amelie? Is it fate? Is it destiny? Or is it just that the gravitational pull of this universe felt two aggressive, violent bastards, and decided to slot them back together once again, knowing that they’d bring havoc and all sorts of violent means to violent ends back to wrestling?” Charon smiled for a moment. It was fleeting. “Lazarus and I are...kindred spirits, in ways that are fortunate to none but our own. We don’t bring joy or good competition, we bring good violence. We bring the war to Fallout, and we’ll continue to do so until there’s little left.”
Amelie nodded. “Do you love Lazarus?”
Charon nodded in return. “Like a brother. I’d take a knife for him if it meant that our mission could continue, a bullet to the skull. Any poor bastard who steps to us will have to drive one or the other into my skull to cut us off.”
Amelie nodded, again. “I see. So...what of these four?”
Charon’s eyes drifted down to his phone, where their next match announcement was clear and visible. Amelie watched a spark light up behind his eyes, something wretched and evil.
“Just more cattle for the grinder.”
-
“Let me ask you-what exactly do you think is going to happen here?”
Charon Seede stands in the midst of a butcher’s shop, around him various cuts of meat lain out on various tables with various other implements of torture and butchery lain out alongside them. A vacant smile sits upon the face of the man known as Eden’s Keeper as he motions to the gathered meat around him.
“What do you see when you look at this room? It’s a factory, truly, the last step of production for any form of animal that makes its unfortunate end in the stomach of a human being. Myself, I adore the production aspects-while many will say they don’t want to see how the sausage is made, I find it important to understand exactly what goes into what you eat. I want to see the grisly bits, how the smallest are killed and discarded with little to offer, the largest carved for all that they may be worth. I find myself most at home in a wrestling ring, as you’ve seen, but I envy those who find it in a butcher’s shop. I wish to share my talents with them the way that they so easily do what they do, without remorse, without hesitation. I’d like to think that we’d get along well, wouldn’t you?”
No response. Obviously.
“When I look at our next set of opponents, I see another proving ground. Bishop and Bezerk were quiet, they were reserved, they made not a peep when Lazarus turned their heads inside out with a few stomps from those heavy boots of his. They were docile as lambs, and they were slaughtered accordingly. Our next opponents are...not so quiet. They whine and writhe on the sidelines, claiming dominance is in their future, but a simple glance says that it’s not so likely.
Artemis Shepherd, the name is fitting, I suppose. You want to be a leader of the people, you want to see your name in the heights, but you’ll find little to lead here. My brother and I have our doctrine solid, and if you want to be seen as some sort of monarch, well...you’d best bloody yourself a bit more before we cast a glance in your direction. I can say the same of your unfortunate partner for this match, Yelich. The two of you give me an aura of worthlessness, an overwhelming atmosphere of pathetic energy. Lazarus and I shouldn’t truly be wasting our time with you, should we? At least our other two opponents had the physical presence to seem threatening, you two...you seem as though you’re boys in costumes, playing pretend, attempting a facsimile of knighthood or monarchy.
Laughable, to say the least. You can hide behind a paper-thin shield of nobility, perceived or otherwise, but it won’t do you much good. The swords of Sirs won’t stab through the flesh of the Massacre, thickened from time on the drying rack and held tough against the tests of time. We’ve been emboldened by violence, we don’t bend the knee to anyone, not the supposed Undefeated nor the Shepherd. We don’t believe in ruling by ordained power, only by violent and extreme force. The culling of the weak for the benefit of the strong.
You aren’t the guiltiest, however. To this point you’ve stayed quiet enough that you haven’t drawn the boots from their resting places, haven’t tempted The Devil with a hellacious response. Latoya Hixx and Earl Boyde, on the other hand...they have. I’ve got no strong feelings toward either of them, save for the fact that they disgust me. Prattling on like lambs before the blades, bleating in the air as though it’ll change a goddamn thing when they know clear and well that it won’t. You two are scum of the Earth, and when we scrape whatever remnants of you stick to the bottom of our boots off into the sewers after this match, you’ll simply be returned to what you came from, the grit and gristle that sticks to the bottom of lead pipes, the sediment on the storm drains, the filth and fuckery that even the rainwater leaves behind so as to prevent itself from being lowered to your level. Simply put, you two are dogshit, hogwash, waste, whatever word you find most offensive so that I can best convey my rage at the fact that we have to waste our time bloodying our boots handling you. Lazarus put it best when he said we’d be butchering whores like a pair of Rippers, but this’ll be much more full of venom and vile from me. I’ll fucking cave both your heads in for having the audacity to exist in the same immediate sphere as me. You don’t belong in this industry, you don’t belong in this ring, and you certainly don’t belong on this plane.
We’ll gladly take you out.”
Charon grins for a moment, a sadistic and pointed thing, before returning to that dazed and far-off look that usually occupies his eyes.
“Lazarus and I are but vessels, tools in the hands of an angry and fuming God, but we are effective tools, surgical weapons to cut away the blistering flesh and excise the festering rot from all those who may be effective. The Massacre may only be two men strong, but we are stronger than you could ever possibly fathom, more vicious and vile than you could bother to consider, more incomprehensibly violent than your small, barely-functioning skulls could ever bear to imagine. Berserk and Bishop ended up with shattered faces, but you four...you will find a far worse fate. You will find yourselves the next examples of what we’ll do heading into Collision Course, the blood we’ll draw forth will be used to paint the next chapter of our lexicon, to infuse into our litany of sorrow. You will fall. You will falter.
You will die here, with no escape.
We are the Massacre. There is no further waiting, there is no further holding-of-breath. We will come, and we will ruin you.
And you will suffer greatly.”
Charon smiled.
“See you soon.”
We cut to black.