Post by Rated R on Jul 23, 2009 12:42:36 GMT -5
Trace Demon takes his seat at the head of the table. Four others are also seated, all of them having been waiting for an hour for Trace to arrive. Trace orders a glass of scotch, it is a man’s drink after all, and glances around the table at his four advisors: Eddie, John, Chris and Zach. Only one thought creeps through his mind.
Why don’t my advisors have more exotic names? Would it kill them to be called Cortez or Ricardo or something equally as interesting?
[/color][/i]Why don’t my advisors have more exotic names? Would it kill them to be called Cortez or Ricardo or something equally as interesting?
Eddie: You’re late.
You should be called Cortez god damn it![/color][/i]
Trace: I overslept.
That statement is hard to believe. Everything about Trace’s appearance insinuates that he hasn’t slept in days. Large black bags are clearly present beneath his eyes, his hair is untidy and his clothes askew. His suit and shirt look like they’ve been slept in and his tie is undone. Despite this he remains alert and aware of his surroundings. And a lack of sleep has never affected anyone, right?[/color]
Eddie: It’s six in the afternoon.
CORTEZ!!![/color][/i]
Trace: I forgot that I had to monitor my sleeping habits for you.
Trace’s sarcasm is blatant but uninspired. He subconsciously taps rhythmically on the table in front of him. The other’s around the table share nervous glances.[/color]
John: Why did you ask us to meet you here sir?
Trace: I think I need some help.
Zach: Thank god, we thought you’d never admit it.
Trace: Admit what?
Zach doesn’t speak, obviously realising his mistake. There have been worries over Trace Demon’s mental state ever since he went missing from his hospital bed, in the process throwing a doctor into the laundry shoot and stealing his stethoscope.
He still hasn’t returned the stethoscope.[/color]
Trace: You think I’m nuts, don’t you?
There is a chorus of “No sir, not at all” from all around the table. Trace looks at each man in turn, each of them desperately trying to avoid making eye contact in fear of their soul being sucked out through their pupils and devoured by demons.
What? It could happen.[/color]
Trace: Thunder got to you, didn’t he? I swear that man doesn’t realise that I’m not crazy. I’m just a misunderstood artist, like Picasso or Mozart or even Hitler.
Everyone goes silent.[/color]
Trace: Okay, maybe Hitler wasn’t really a misunderstood artist as much as he was a crazed maniac.
Good save.[/color][/i]
Chris: I think we’re getting a little off topic.
Trace: Who said you were allowed to speak?
Chris: I’m fairly certain it’s in my civil rights as a human being.
Damn civil rights, always causing problems.[/color][/i]
Trace: You know I don’t believe in freedom of speech unless it’s your freedom to listen to my speech.
There’s silence again. This is starting to become an unwanted trend of this meeting, almost like somebody made a bad joke about a dead Nazi ruler just moments earlier.
Oh wait.[/color]
Trace: Back to the topic at hand, I need some advice.
The waiter places Trace’s glass of scotch on the table. Trace takes a large drink.
Ah, the overly expensive taste of being a man.[/color]
John: Advice on what sir?
Trace: Well as you know I am involved in the Survival of the Fittest Tournament this week. You know, a bunch of men all losing to me because I rule.
Boy, do I rule. My rule-a-tude is off the charts.
That isn’t even a word.
Quiet strange voice, it’s a word if I say it’s a word.[/color][/i]
Eddie: You sure that’s wise?
Trace: How could it not be wise?
Eddie: Well you did get thrown from the top of a cage less than a month ago.
Of course. Battleground. That damn Kurt Burton and his overly active imagination. I mean seriously, who throws someone off the top of a cage anymore? It just isn’t done in modern civilized society. Hell, it isn’t even done in uncivilized society. That was proven by how Yukio Blaze didn’t throw anyone off of a cage and he’s the most uncivilized person in the business.[/color]
Trace: Do you realize your opinion would be more valid if your name was Cortez?
Eddie: What?
Trace: It’s nothing.
CORTEZ I SAY![/color][/i]
Trace: I just need to know how to send a message.
Chris: You could always just punch someone in the face. That’ll certainly send a message.
Trace: While I certainly love the idea of violence I need to send a message through the use of words. But to do that I need an interesting location.
Zach: What about a beach house?
Trace: It’s been done.
John: What about a private war room.
Trace[/color]: What kind of stupid idea is that? Who in the world owns a private war room? Probably someone with serious masculinity issues, that’s who.
Chris: Why not an abandoned slaughterhouse.
Zach: What a stupid...
Trace: I like it.
Zach: Stupidly awesome idea.
Trace: You’re such a weasel.
Zach (bowing his head in shame): I know.
The waiter taps Trace on the shoulder. Trace turns to look at him, realising he has a nervous look on his face. Why does everyone look nervous around him? He’s not insane, just misunderstood god damn it.[/color]
Waiter: I’m sorry sir, but some of our other guests have been disturbed by your actions.
Trace: Can’t a man talk to his associates in peace?
Waiter: But sir, who exactly are you talking to?
Trace turns his intentions back to the table to see that there is nobody else there. He comes to the realization that he’s been talking to non-existent people the entire time. His only concern is why if they were imaginary they didn’t have more interesting names.[/color]
Trace: Damn, Maybe I am going crazy.
A single crimson light shines down upon a seat that has been placed in the centre of the building. The light illuminates the surrounding area, showing meat hooks and several tools that reveal the building to be an abandoned slaughterhouse. The stench of death sticks to the walls and floor, a musky stench that sticks in your nose and refuses to leave, invading every inch of your very being. There are no windows, all of them having been painted black when the slaughterhouse was shut down. No light or heat can enter the building, and a cold unnatural chill fills every crevice of a building that has seen so much death.
Directly beneath the light sits a man in a seat, sitting in front of a TV camera, the cameraman doesn’t really want to be here, but he needs the pay packet to look after his wife and kids. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. The location isn’t the nicest, and the individual in the seat isn’t helping his nerves at all.[/color]
Cameraman: We’re filming.
The man in the seat leans forward so that his face comes into full view. This man is Trace Demon, but he is not the Trace Demon everyone knows. It’s not a subtle difference either, but a very noticeable change in both appearance and demeanour. His hair is no longer a single dark shade of crimson, but now a dark blue with a crimson streak down the middle. He sits bolt upright, a twisted confident grin on his face and a focused, almost crazed look in his eyes.[/color]
Trace Demon: This Sunday, I finally get my chance to return to the ring after a month long sabbatical, which we can all attribute to Kurt Burton throwing me off the top of a cage at Battleground. Firstly, who in the hell throws people off cages anymore? It just isn’t done, I mean come on, does the man not have any ethics...
Cameraman: Um, sir...
Trace Demon: Right, going a little off topic. As I was saying, this Sunday, I return to the ring as a participant in the Survival of the Fittest tournament. More than twenty men competing for one title shot. At least I think it’s twenty people, I haven’t counted. I mean there’s myself, Kronic, Revelation...
Cameraman: Once again sir...
Trace Demon: Damn, did it again. But anyway, there are a lot of guys who all want the same thing, to win the tournament and get that title shot. I intend to win that tournament and most certainly get that title shot regardless of the champion, but to do that I first have to face off against David Williams. I’ve not exactly got a lot of history with David Williams, but one only has to look at our careers to see who is going to win this one. We were both on the House Show’s at around the same time, but now look at us. David Williams is nothing, he’s returning from god knows where doing who knows what. Nobody knows where he has been because nobody cares. Then there is myself, the owner of WFWF. The man who makes all the decisions, who does what he wants to who he wants regardless of what people may think.
The camera zooms in on Trace’s face, showing a thin scar at the tip of his skull that hasn’t fully healed. He remembers it well, the blood covering his face after he was thrown from the top of the cage by that punk Kurt Burton, the countless number of stitches that were needed to make sure he didn’t bleed out and then the hours in a hospital bed. It would have been longer if not for the stethoscope incident. I mean do Doctor’s not have a sense of humour when it comes to being thrown down laundry shoots.[/color]
Trace Demon: Regardless of what David Williams has done, regardless of whether he’s spent his time improving his craft or eating donut after donut, and we all know it’s the second one, he doesn’t hold a candle to my rule-a-tude.
Cameraman: Sir, I don’t think that’s a word.
Trace Demon: Will people stop telling me what is and is not a word. Unless your name is Cortez you are no longer allowed to speak.
Cameraman: Well actually...
Trace Demon: You have to be kidding me?
Cameraman (lowering his head): Yes.
Trace Demon: Your so fired after this.
Trace composes himself after his momentary loss of cool. Well, a fraction of his cool because there is no way in the world that he could possibly lose the epic amount of cool that he has.[/color]
Trace Demon: David Williams has shown himself to be nothing but a loser who thinks he can make a name for himself by involving himself in the business of other equally as idiotic wrestlers. He pretended that he got involved with High Horror and Reckless for something as stupid as a contract when we all know the real reason he did so.
Trace Demon pauses, a small gust of winds manages to creep into the slaughterhouse through a gap in the bricks, causing several of the meat hooks to begin swaying from side to side. The sound that the hooks make when they collide with one another is chilling, but it only goes to calm Trace.[/color]
Trace Demon: David Williams isn’t on par with any of the true stars of the company. Of course the only true star of this company is myself, but David Williams isn’t even on par with the B-list. David Williams is a nobody who has done absolutely nothing noteworthy. He won’t be remembered by history, because history is written by the winners, and the only winner at Survival of the Fittest will be myself. Williams can bring his A game, if he even has one, but it won’t be enough. Williams can bring whatever damn army he has and it still won’t be enough because Survival of the Fittest is my night and my night alone.
Trace pauses, taking a deep breath. The noise from the meat hooks has now come to a halt, although that doesn’t do much for the cameraman’s nerves.[/color]
Trace Demon: But after I beat David Williams, and I will beat David Williams, I then have to settle the score with Kurt Burton.
Trace slouches in the seat, his face dropping to shoulder height, and he stairs directly into the camera. The crazed look in his eyes has vanished, replaced by a focus that he has never had before. The crimson light crates shadows that cover parts of Trace’s face. With the camera angle only his mouth and eyes can be seen.[/color]
Trace Demon: Kurt, I hope you get the chance to watch this, because I need to tell you something. When you threw me off that cage you signed your death warrant. And don’t think I’m kidding around like some high school girl going ‘oh you’re so dead’ to her best friend. I mean when I get my hands on you I intend to beat you so bad that you’ll lose the will to live. I’ll do everything in my power to make your life miserable. I’ll go after your friends, your family. Hell, I’d go after your pets if I wasn’t against animal cruelty. I’ll take one of these meat hooks and cut through your flesh like a knife through butter. When I finally get you Burton, well, your life isn’t going to be worth living. I want you to be assured of one thing, one crucial lesson that the entire WFWF is going to learn.
Trace pauses and a serious expression creeps across his face, almost like all the emotion he once had has now drained away from his body.[/color]
Trace Demon: I’m not taking any prisoners. I’m not showing any remorse. You step in the ring with me... then I’m sending you straight to hell.
Screen fades to black.[/color][/center]
