Post by Deleted on Jul 26, 2012 17:59:01 GMT -5
"Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas"
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And so dear pilgrim I welcome you to yet another debauched tale of both intellect and insanity. A journey to the centre of the earth.
No.
Deeper even than that.
An epic of unprecedented proportions.
The following covers a period in which neither rhyme nor reason were present. The depths of a man's mind are put on show before you and it is within these depths that a new force is realised. For better or for worse? It is too hard to say at this present moment. Time will tell if this change, this breakthrough, has really helped or hindered the evolution of the mind that bears it.
Even I am unaware of the truth, as it is yet to manifest itself, but it will. The truth has a habit of always making itself known.
Of course it is my mind that I speak of, that of the greatest story teller of our generation; Isaac Cray.
After experiencing such a story you may challenge my logic, you may ask me if I regret any of my actions but as is always the case I do not. What is done is done, it is whether you learn from it or choose to forget it that is important. I, of course, am forever learning. I don't claim to be an all powerful, flawless god but I must say I am getting frighteningly close.
I soak up knowledge through every pore in my skin and use it to inform my next move, however sometimes you have to force the process if you want to procure a new way of looking at the situation before you. I achieved that and now I am more than aware of what it is I have to do. The ramblings of a mad man have been well documented and upon leaving this city of sin I plan to comb through them with due diligence to push my knowledge ever onwards.
So come now, are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
Then I will begin.
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Wednesday 18th July 2012
(7 days before Survival of the Fittest)
- 22:04 -
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And so dear pilgrim I welcome you to yet another debauched tale of both intellect and insanity. A journey to the centre of the earth.
No.
Deeper even than that.
An epic of unprecedented proportions.
The following covers a period in which neither rhyme nor reason were present. The depths of a man's mind are put on show before you and it is within these depths that a new force is realised. For better or for worse? It is too hard to say at this present moment. Time will tell if this change, this breakthrough, has really helped or hindered the evolution of the mind that bears it.
Even I am unaware of the truth, as it is yet to manifest itself, but it will. The truth has a habit of always making itself known.
Of course it is my mind that I speak of, that of the greatest story teller of our generation; Isaac Cray.
After experiencing such a story you may challenge my logic, you may ask me if I regret any of my actions but as is always the case I do not. What is done is done, it is whether you learn from it or choose to forget it that is important. I, of course, am forever learning. I don't claim to be an all powerful, flawless god but I must say I am getting frighteningly close.
I soak up knowledge through every pore in my skin and use it to inform my next move, however sometimes you have to force the process if you want to procure a new way of looking at the situation before you. I achieved that and now I am more than aware of what it is I have to do. The ramblings of a mad man have been well documented and upon leaving this city of sin I plan to comb through them with due diligence to push my knowledge ever onwards.
So come now, are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
Then I will begin.
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Wednesday 18th July 2012
(7 days before Survival of the Fittest)
- 22:04 -
Of course we're in the lair.
Why would we be anywhere else?
When a meet is necessary, and the subject of conversation is that of illegalities, to find ourselves anywhere else is out of the question.
Cross legged I sit, riding the back of a steam rolled polar bear. Only his head retains it's original shape, the mouth caught in an eternal snarl.
During a night of debauchery the bear was bestowed with the name "Gerald". At that moment nothing could have been funnier. At this moment I can imagine calling him nothing else.
The comfiest seat in the room.
Gerald.
The evening has been filled with talk of the future, talk of what lies beyond the horizon. Survival of the Fittest is almost upon us and all three members of the baddest group on the planet are set to steal the show in three separate matches. Before now I wasn't sure you could steal the show three times but with The New Epoch boundaries and rules have no meaning.
We've spoken very little of the impending show however. Our sights have been set, like the visionaries we are, on the other side of the mountain. Every utterance has been 10 steps ahead of where our focus is expected to lie so close to the pay per view.
Now, however, we choose to reel things in and consider the here and now. The previous week, the current week, the next week. The time frame the average human being places itself in. After all if we only consider what lies beyond we wouldn't learn from our actions.
"Donnie, I still haven't congratulated you on earning just a pinch of my respect. That mace trick during the cage match was inspired."
"I'd say thanks but in all honesty I don't need a pat on the head from a pr*ck like you."
He's a charmer, that's for sure.
"You did nearly cost me my concentration though, seeing your little legs swinging around as you ran down the ramp."
He doesn't have to take this sh*t from me and he knows it. He's onto me like lightning, his feet in my chest, his blade in my face. Michael lets the scene play out, and why shouldn't he? I'm about to have my life ended by a man who could suck my c*ck standing up straight. What could be more entertaining?
"I've had about enough of your smart mouth, what say I cut it out of your face? I doubt you'd be so witty with no tongue."
Now this situation isn't new to me. In the short while I've known this feisty half pint I've had my life threatened more times than I care to remember, however it never gets any easier. By which I mean my immediate instinct is to laugh in his face. I know my features are contorting, trying harder than ever to hold back a cackle, and what's more I know DMK is wise to it.
I'm done for.
My chest begins to quiver as I laugh with a closed mouth and the very structure DMK stands upon quakes and makes him loose his footing. He tumbles to the floor and his limbs wave around as he lies stuck on his back like tortoise, for a brief moment. I take the knife from him and hold it above my head, which even though I'm seated on the floor is well out of Donnie's reach.
"Ok, enough now Isaac. Donnie is our friend and we don't berate our friends. We have the rest of the world at our finger tips for that purpose."
As per usual he's right but I'm also already aware of this notion. I try, I genuinely do try to be on a level with Donnie but it's hard not to laugh at a vertically challenged attitude problem.[/color]
"If he's going to insist on wearing a wife beater 24/7 he has to be ready for a little bit of jibing. You know I expect to get as good as I give Michael. Perhaps Donnie needs to rethink his response to my every joke. Pushing a knife in my face isn't good for team relations."
"F*ck you."
His fiery temperament is the reason I like him but he doesn't leave much to the imagination. In time I'm sure he'll obtain some wit via osmosis, so long as he continues to follow Michael around. Until then I should probably invest in a stab proof vest.
"It makes it much harder for us to discuss things when I'm constantly having to act as referee. Both of you sit down and shut the f*ck up. We still have plenty to discuss."
The man means business tonight it seems.
"If we're to talk about more recent events then shall we at least toast our last victory?"
Michael nods and my eyes are upon the midget. It seems we agree on something as he reaches for his glass.
"To The New Epoch, and the swift disposal of our enemies."
Three glasses clink and three glasses are drained in unison. A metaphorical line is drawn in the sand and sportsmanship is restored in the ranks.
"So you're heading to Vegas early?"
"That I am brother."
"Scoping out the scenery before we arrive? It always helps to have a tour guide."
"Not likely. I'm going to be running solo for a few days. I wanted to experience a number of things while I was there and I don't enjoy the mentality of the average Johnny wrestler. You roll into town, you fight, you leave town. I'm yet to become acquainted with the city of sin, so what better time than when I'm being paid to travel there?"
Donnie reaches under his chair and heaves out a silver attaché case, sliding it toward me.
"Well this case is loaded to the gunnels with sin."
"Grass?"
He nods.
"Mescaline?"
He nods again.
"Cocaine? LSD? Alcohol?"
For a third time he nods his oversized head.
"Most importantly, did you get the ether?"
"So much so I'll be surprised if you even make it to the Pay Per View show."
"And for that I thank you Donnie. I'll be sure to pay you for your services when you arrive in Vegas."
Kyzer smirks and I know full well that he wishes he was coming for the ride, but his new image conscious self won't allow it. Usually I'd rather he was coming for the ride but not this time.
I'm glad I'm going it alone.
I have a lot to think about at the moment and it's hard to get really stuck into your own questions, worries and fantasies when you have company. Don't get me wrong I know we'd have a whale of a time, but on this occasion part of me is glad he's gone straight, that way I don't have to let him down gently. I can simply drive off toward Nevada at full speed with nothing but my mind and my c*ck as companions.
"Partying hard enough for two I see?"
"And the rest, although I'm not going out there to party."
"That shopping list says otherwise Isaac."
"I'm capable of doing more than partying. I'm going to be living. I'm going to be expressing. It will be art and I am both the artist and the canvass."
There I go getting all poetic. It must be all this excitement. F*ck it I can't wait any longer.
"Right I'm all set. Say goodbye to the most handsome man you've ever known, because the next time you see me I'll be someone different."
Kyzer laughs.
DMK shakes his head.
He hasn't got time for my musings and in all honesty he's probably happy of a week's peace. I cross one final piece of equipment off of my list by pocketing a lightweight dictaphone for the sake of documenting what could well be the pinnacle of an over exuberant life style.
And so off I go, case in one hand, car keys in the other.
No change of clothes.
No toiletries.
No money for food.
Just hard drugs, hard liquor, and an equally hard penis.
Like I said, it must be all this excitement.
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Please leave your message after the tone #1
"A man creates his own destiny yet he cannot control others around him.
A King however controls all.
His path.
The path of his allies.
The path of his enemies.
A King has the right to choose, the ability to change.
His journey is that of uncertainty in the minds of those around him.
A road shrouded in a fog of ignorance.
But for him, the road ahead is clear as day."
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Thursday 19th July 2012
(6 days before Survival of the Fittest)
- 00:55 -[/b]
The car engine roars as I really open her up. There's no sign of life for miles around, so why should I adhere to the nation's speed limitations? The roof is down and the cool, night air of Nevada refreshes me in preparation for the week that lies ahead.
As always it's great to be out of the built up mess of the city. It calms me; sets my mind at ease.
Light pollution can't find me out here in the desert and so I'm greeted by a bounty of stars overhead. The Great Bear, Orion, Cassiopeia, all of which remind me that no matter how untamed my ego may become I am but an atom in an ocean of vast unknown. It's knowledge such as this that keeps me rooted in reality. The enormity of such things puts me in my place where people have failed.
Knowledge of this great enormity is why I laugh at the statements Trace Demon makes about destiny. How can every single one of our lives be mapped out ahead of us from the word go? It's a very self involved view to imagine that you, specifically, have a predetermined journey when there are so many more important elements that require governing.
Already I can tell this time alone is going to do me good. Time to rethink my situation, to untangle myself. I'd be laughed at by millions if they knew the way my mind really works.
Sometimes I grow tired of being so cynical but it's not a thing I can change, not at this point in my life. This feeling never lasts for long though, and within minutes I become satisfied with the fact that I'd hate myself if I was anyone else.
My phone starts to ring but I'm taking no calls right now. I set it to silent and ignore the 'unknown' caller. By this stage I can almost guarantee it will be the same dead air prank caller I've been pestered by for months.
I'm driving, not talking.
I push my foot flat to the floor and I know that just beyond my eye line a disgusting mound of neon is just waiting to pounce.
I can't wait.
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Thursday 19th July 2012
(6 days before Survival of the Fittest)
- 04:30 -[/b]
I promised myself I'd go straight to bed when I arrived and I'm surprised that I actually seem to be following through on that promise.
The key that the openly homosexual man on the reception gave to me proves itself to be legitimate as it turns in the door and the lock pops open.
Did I doubt it wouldn't?
Perhaps.
The room itself is humble. For once I felt the over priced penthouse suite wasn't beneficial and if anything would only work to hinder my experience.
These four walls are just fine. Within them sits a double bed, an unnecessary wardrobe, a side table with a coin operated television set placed upon it and a door way into an en-suite bathroom. These walls are dressed with a crass papering that lacks the subtlety you would expect of an ordinary hotel room, however this is Vegas so subdued thought and adornment is essentially out of the window for the time being. I don't fail to notice the aded extras that seem to have come with the room as well, getting on my hands and knees to admire what I suspect to be flecks of blood, crusted into the fibres of the carpet.
This is perfect.
I can only hope to live up to the legacy the previous occupant has left in his, or her, wake.
Throwing my case onto the bed I flick the clip locks open and take a peek inside at the goodies DMK has procured for my pleasure. Sure enough everything he promised is in here and more. I dig around, inspecting each item as I go, until I stumble upon a paperback. Granted this won't aid my narcotic fuelled meltdowns but it will pass the time in between, if there is any of that to speak of.
I pick it out and read the spine. How thoughtful. I almost feel as if DMK actually likes me but then again it's far more likely that this addition is Michael's doing.
"Hell's Angels: The Strange & Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs".
Hunter S. Thompson.
A smile creeps upon my face. Michael has done me proud. Any average man would have packed me a copy of Thompson's later and more infamous work, however Michael is a more shrewd gentleman and instead packed this book. He's well aware I will have enough loathing and fear on my own account without having to reread someone else's.
I place the publication on the bed side table, close the attaché and stretch out before rolling into bed and falling into a state of serene slumber.
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Please leave your message after the tone #2
*Muffled shouts and a sudden thud as the dictaphone hits the floor.*
"You can't talk to me like that. Do you know who I f*cking am?
………………..
I stole what?
……………………..
Get the f*ck out of here, I didn't take sh*t from you. I got these chips with my own money from the vendor.
……….
It's not my fault you've lost all of your money and your wife wants to screw my brains out.
……
She's not your wife? Sh*t you're probably just paying her to be here. Get out of my face, I'm taking this woman somewhere a little more lively. Hold on my phone's ringing.
Hello?
………………
Hello?
……………
F*ck off already, I'm getting tired of this. Can't you call Raider if you want to masturbate down the phone? He's a much more typical kind of handsome, plus I think he's into that kind of thing.
……………..
Stop calling unless you have something to say to me, you're ruining my holiday."
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Friday 20th July 2012
(5 days before Survival of the Fittest)
- 22:41 -[/b]
Already a day has escaped me. Already I find myself recovering my senses half way through a binge.
Wednesday is gone, forever. I neither know nor care what happened during it or why it ran away without even so much as saying goodbye.
I've been brought back around by a handful of water dousing my face, it's temperature enough to constrict my dustbin lid pupils, if only for a minute.
I'm in the bathroom of a gambling establishment, but in vegas that doesn't narrow the options.
I look into my own face in the vast mirror that has replaced the wall above the sinks, and my skin tone seems to be constantly changing, vibrating and crawling. A series of lines tremor behind me making it hard to visualise anything but my immediate surroundings, which right now is my own skull.
It seems the alcohol has worn thin and released me from it's all enveloping grasp, leaving me alone with a delusion of grandeur that can only be attributed to peyote. I begin to chuckle and my freshly revealed teeth are mere polkadots in my mouth, this of course only helps to feed my state of hilarity.
Now back in control of my own memory, motion and mescaline mind set I stride toward the bathroom door, puffed chest and head held high.
Immediately my fragile brain is bombarded by a spectrum of colours wider than I ever imagined possible. I look to the heavens and spin around, the roof above me twisting like a kaleidoscope of lights and shapes. To the clientele of the casino I must look like a star struck child, but what the f*ck do I care?
Chic - "Le Freak" dominates the building's speaker system, quite clearly a subliminal message for the punters to go crazy. Little do the club management know how much I am taking their message to heart. I swagger my way across the room that is half gambling hall, half disco, busting moves as I go.
This is f*cking great.
I'm such a phenomenal dancer.
Who said white guys can't dance? Don't believe the hype.
I spiral toward a craps table with the idea of joining in but become quickly distracted, my phone buzzing in my pocket, and waltz on past.
I take the device out and glance at the screen trying to decipher the code I see before me. It's a lost cause, the numbers have been replaced with mysterious glyphs and I'm too wrapped up in the moment to care about anyone trying to get in touch with me, especially when I know the caller just wants to breathe down the phone and keep quiet.
I sheath the still ringing phone and dance on, continuing into the belly of the beast. Every person I pass moves in stop motion animation and they can't help but comment on the shapes I'm throwing.
"Wow he's burning up!"
"Teach me how to do that!"
"Somebody get this guy a salad!"
The final comment leaves me questioning the validity of my hearing and perhaps no one spoke to me in the first place but right now I am on top and the whole of Vegas is pining after me.
On I roll through the room, heading ever onward into a seemingly endless cavern of luminous fractals.
F*ck dancing like there's nobody watching. I want everyone to know that the party is right here.
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Friday 20th July 2012
(5 days before Survival of the Fittest)
- 23:57 -
"He just talks, and talks, and talks. It's not as if anyone even cares about his current trophy either. I've never heard one man relish so heavily and unnecessarily over a single victory, and that is coming from me. Obo is not a big deal. A notch on your bed post perhaps but to come close to bypassing both myself and Elias so close to our match is simply foolish."
My new found compadre listens with the intent of a county court judge. So interested in what I have to say is this man that I begin to question his motives.
"You're not a spy are you? You seem very intent on knowing all about me."
He laughs and shakes his head, his feathered head-dress fluttering with the movement. This gentleman is dressed as a Native American for reasons I can only assume relate to the theme of the casino we are sat outside of. Occupationally he is tethered to this city, seeing it all happen. The coming and going of people, finances and innocence. Always leaving changed from their original self.
He is but a bystander, one whom is usually ignored, blending into the scenery. I was drawn to him though and we hit it off immediately. So far, it's true, I have done the majority of the talking but that's not surprising as I'm very much still wired off the trimethoxyphenethylamine flowing through my blood stream. The colours of the Vegas strip were becoming very overwhelming and so blinkering my vision to a singular person is just what the doctor ordered.
The creases in his face are intensified by my trip, the shadows seeming to run meters deep, making his skin look not dissimilar to that of the desert which surrounds us for miles and miles around.
Quietly he continues to sit next to me as my thoughts race and my mouth rants.
"I'm sure you see a lot of it working here, prima donnas demanding everything whether they deserve it or not."
He seems intent on simply listening but I know he agrees.
"This fool I'm fighting here later in the week is the worst of them. I've held him at arms length for the last few weeks, and he has stomped his feet and spat his dummy out time and time again, telling me how to run my own career, telling me to give him a rematch.
I have had no reason to bow to his whims. I was offered up a new challenger immediately after our last encounter and like the fighting champion I am, I accepted. Drake Elias may be a new blood but he's good and I wanted to prove just how good he was by taking him to his limits, exposing a different, untested side of his character. I wanted something fresh and exciting but Trace wouldn't let it lie and continued to pester and poke, never letting the scab heal. To top it all off he then decides to go over my head, to the 'Chairman of the Board'.
He stops showing up for work.
He starts trash talking the fans, the other wrestlers, the company itself. He told the business as a whole that it could suck his d*ck.
Now usually I'd applaud a man for such actions but not when the sole motive behind it is to leap frog your way back into a match you don't deserve.
Trace persisted in telling the world it owed him something. It owed him respect. It owed him another chance. It owed him more money, more freedom to do what he wants, the freedom to attack members of staff and fear no repercussions.
He wants a license to kill yet the boy still asks 'where's my respect?'. He still begs for more. He still believes he is entitled to the top of the mountain.
As far as I'm concerned the mere idea that he would ask for such promises to be made, to be placed above the law, and therefore above the rest of the company, has cut him open. Any ounce of respect that perhaps was there has drained away. You can't dictate respect and you especially can't assume it will be given after acting like a princess. If you need a signature on a piece of paper to get what you want then you're clearly a snake piece of sh*t."
My mouth is dehydrated from all this hatred and sand. The air is thick with it, sand I mean, although there's a lot hatred here as well. Hatred for 'the man', hatred for the winners, hatred for yourself.
In my case it's none of the above.
Quite the opposite in fact.
I simply hate underachievers.
Like the rest of the roster, the rest of the company and the rest of the world, I hate Trace Demon.
I relieve myself, taking a hit from my hip flask. At this stage of my hallucinations the metal rim of the flask feels huge in my mouth and I bite it between my teeth, almost hard enough to shatter one or the other. Thankfully neither give way and instead my tongue, teeth and tonsils are lubricated with the harsh reality of a glug of tequila.
Screwing my face, I clench my eyes shut for a brief second and all I see inside my eye lids is the smirking face of T-Dog, at least that's what they call him in the Latin-American communities. I think the tequila is putting me at one with the entire latino race.
I open my eyes once more and the world surges into them, my only goal to tell it how much of a fake I feel this T-Dog really is. Who the f*ck even cares? If I was sober I probably wouldn't, but right now in my inebriated state it's the only thing that matters.
I verbally kick the door in.
"What's more is the fact that everything he pretends to be is a lie. He's built up this façade of a character, acting like a performer in a stage show. There isn't a shred of sincerity in anything he says or does. He is an emulator. At first I thought it was my good friend Michael he was attempting to mirror but over the last month I am coming to see why this rematch means so much to him.
Trace Demon is my echo. He would like nothing more than to remove me from the picture so that he can claim my persona for himself. His mannerisms, the way he attempts to hold himself in interviews, the cockiness and sexual endeavours which in his case are consistently failed attempts. What annoys me the most is the constant way he tries to convince us all he's overcome such a rebellious drug riddled period of his life. I have no doubt now that he has recovered from it, however what I do doubt is the sheer ferocity of it in the first place. Why, if he's willing to lie to himself, would he do us the service of telling the truth about those matters?
He's full of sh*t.
He simply wishes he was me yet he can never hope to be half of what I am, because he doesn't live it. He doesn't breathe every moment in the guise of a killer. He's a p*ssy wearing a dog mask, parading around on TV like a court jester, making a mockery of himself without even realising it. His act is fooling no one.
This man is not who he claims to be. Trace Demon is not a psycho, he is merely plagued with insecurities that stop him from being himself.
What kind of a 'psycho' calls out "pancakes are ready" to his dyke half sister?
He wants to be the Emperor and I feel he is proving worthy of such a title. He is no Caesar though. He is a man who dresses himself in what he believes is a glorious outfit. So conceited is this man that he fails to realise he stands before a crowd of millions, broadcast around the world, in nothing but the outfit he was born in. He stands naked, on show to all. We see who he really is, we see past his bull sh*t. He is only pulling the wool over his own eyes, not mine, not your's, not the rest of the world's. Trace Demon is his own worst enemy.
He is not controversial, he just washes and repeats things that were done years ago by the likes of Michael and myself. Anything he does that we haven't already done is nine times out of ten a joke. Attacking referees and officials? It's hardly fair game now is it? He, like most of the people in this industry is a trained athlete, laying a beating on a man who has had no training and is simply there to officiate. Perhaps it allows him to feel like a man, as though he has at least accomplished one thing every time he goes out there and gets his head caved in. I don't know. What I do know is that I would appreciate it if he would at least have the decency to execute the innocents with his own finishing manoeuvres as oppose to mine. He has attempted the move on myself and failed, he has put away Elias with it and he has injured members of staff with it. I'm aware he does it to goad me, to poke and jeer at me. But it only serves to solidify my statement that he lacks any originality and if he could have his own way he would take my name as well as my move set.
He is not a valued and important piece of the puzzle like I am. I help make this company what it is where as Trace is simply a name that can fill a spot.
He is the safe bet. The work horse who never disagrees. He just keeps his head down and gets on with eating the sh*t sandwich he's been fed……..until now of course. But I still don't buy it. I still don't believe that his stimulation for this demanding outburst lies in a want to kick back and be noticed.
Once again I think it's all a big show, a ploy to have himself placed into a match with me and go for gold. He doesn't really care about his legacy, he knows that's already down the pan. He admitted himself that the only reason he has even seen success in the past is because he was the best of a bad lot.
The scum that floated to the surface.
Trace Demon is making one final and desperate attempt at clinging on to a pay-check. He knows his days are numbered here, and it doesn't matter how many times he beats up a homeless man, he is aware that he has to get a title belt around his waist and quickly if he wants to hang onto his job.
Trace Demon knows that if he wants to become a fundamental part of this industry he has to defeat me, and it seems based upon his recent spouts during interviews and the like that he genuinely believes he is capable of doing it."
My flow is abruptly interrupted by something that has just entered my peripheral vision. I tell myself it's simply a warped reality and I am mistaken, but now turning to focus my central eye sight onto the person in question I feel as if there is no doubt in who I see. Standing across the road from me is that damned interviewer.
Sam Clearland.
He is smiling at me. No matter how many times I try and subtly give him the message that I don't care for his interviews he continues to come back. He's like a wife that loves to be beaten. What takes me back more than his mere presence however is his knowledge of my presence in Vegas so early before the show.
Arrogantly I stand and leave my new found companion without uttering a word. Mescaline has made me fickle, it's true. I don't stop to even consider saying thank you to the stranger who has just sat and listened to my trail of thought for well over 45 minutes, and I know how rude that is of me but I am drawn toward Clearland like a moth to a flame.
I glare so hard toward him that my face hurts. He is my only target and I vow to destroy him for being invasive enough to follow me here. My intention was to come here alone. Not even my closest friends are invited and yet this insect stands within fifty feet of me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, his stupid f*cking note pad in his hand.
I will feed it to him. I will make him eat every page of that book one at a time.
My pace quickens but he doesn't break his smile which angers me. I have found it so easy to terrify him in the past but now he stands there so defiantly, unwavering against my approach.
I step onto the road and nearly lose my life to a coach that ploughs right on past, mere inches in front of me. My narcotised attention is so focused on my prey that I failed to see or even hear it coming at speed. I lose my breath for a second and in the wake of the coach I notice Sam to be walking away from me now. His shaggy blonde hair bobs up and down as he moves and I feel the urge to grab a handful of it to pull him to the ground.
My pace increases and I cross the road, now jogging to keep up with the quick escape of this journalist. I will not be denied.
He looks back over his shoulder and still he smiles. It makes my skin crawl and I feel helpless in knowing that he is quickly turning the tables on me in this relationship. I am starting to experience a suggestion of fear. Why is he smiling like that?
I break into a sprint now as my quarry does the same. He moves pretty fast for a writer. I always assumed a light trot would provoke his asthma or some other respiratory defect.
I push myself as hard as my body will go at this moment but still I can't close the gap between us. The drugs in my system allow me to ignore the fatigue from the orgy of hedonism I have been a part of over the previous 36 hours, and so I continue to run, and run and run. The neon glow of Las Vegas is starting to be left behind me yet I push on. I race along the run down streets that could be anywhere, in any city. Turning corner after corner, working my way deeper and deeper into this residential maze.
The next turn takes us onto 'White Horse Street'. I can't put my finger on why but that name jumped out at me. I don't have time to focus on why however as my breathing starts to really become an issue.
I pant and gasp for air, chasing a man who shouldn't be able to outrun me, and then it hits me like a tonne of bricks. Exhaustion drags me under and I grab at my heart and take a knee. Sam Clearland turns to look at me, that smile still plastered on his face, barely even breaking a sweat.
I begin to fade and here seems like as good a place as any to take a lie down. I fall onto my front, face down in the middle of this dusty side street and see Clearland take off around a corner and out of sight.
I just need to recuperate.
Sleep for a little and get my game back together.
I'm aware this isn't logical thought but right now nothing could make more sense to me.
All is black and Clearland has escaped.[/b]
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Saturday 21st July 2012
(4 days before Survival of the Fittest)
- ??:?? -
I am awake again but my eyes remain closed in fear of what I may see. I remember I ran but to where I know not. My head is in a state of disarray, desperately trying to piece together my previous evening but to no avail, as is always the case initially. I can feel the hot sun beating down on me, slowly baking my innards. It's going to be a hot day indeed.
Suddenly an earth shaking thud sounds within inches of my head, and my eyes involuntarily snap open. Light pours into them and I can see nothing but white for a number of seconds but slowly things begin to take shape. Colours become smudges, become shapes, become objects.
The source of such a nerve jolting sound is revealed to me and I find myself still laid flat in the dirt. A horse's great hoof is in close proximity to my face, a hoof of solid white. Both the hoof itself and the hair that crowns it are like snow. The hoof paws at the dusty earth and then leaps out of my view and I am well aware that the equine beast it belongs to has just vaulted up and over me. I roll in the opposite direction, scared of being trampled, and pull myself to my feet. It is from a standing base I get to look around and in doing so I realise that I don't recognise my surroundings.
I know I ran.
I know I ran far enough to be removed from the glitzy side of the town.
I know I didn't run this far though.
I'm in the desert itself. The unforgiving, unrelenting desert.
How the f*ck did I get this far out of town? I must have been rolling deeper than I remember.
I spin around looking for a sign of the city I've left behind. Luckily I spot it but it's a fair distance away. A good 10 miles at least.
I must have been jacked up.
The sound of a horse's whinny brings me back into my current situation. I turn back to set my eyes upon it and I see how truly enormous the beast is. It stands taller than any horse I've seen before. It's hair, mane and tail, a shocking white, reflect the sun to almost dazzling effect and I have to shield my eyes and squint to remain focused on the stallion. I am not alone with this creature however. I come to see that the horse has a rider, a rider who bears a sword.
What the f*ck is going on here?
Without warning the horse rears up onto it's hind legs and the rider raises his sword above his head while mine is spinning. His face is obstructed by a head dress come veil. A scarf of sorts that has been thrown over his shoulder, cloaking his identity.
I shout and a meagre voice scratches out of my throat.
"Who the f*ck are you?"
That was quite brave all things considered. He does have a sword after all. What am I saying? I have to still be deep in a trip. I must still be laid on the ground in the confines of the city. This is merely my mind going into overdrive.
All of this questioning is blown away now by the booming voice of the rider.[/color][/b]
"None of your games Kali! You know who I am!"
Perhaps I'm mistaken because it seems like this guy on the f*cking horse is the one who is nuts deep in a bad trip. Where did I find this freak? He's got to be loaded up on Angel Dust or something.
"Kali? Who the f*ck is Kali?"
I really do swear quite profusely when I'm confused.
"Listen mate, drop this sh*t and take me back to my hotel. I've got plenty more drugs back there. I'll give you a handful if you let me ride on the back of that horse."
The rider laughs, his voice booming against the desolate waste land.[/color]
"Perhaps you Demons are as ignorant as Lakshmi told me. Foolish sinner I am Kalki, Lord Kalki, and I am here to end this!"
Again he pushes his sword toward the sky. This guy is a lunatic. I really hope this is some kind of f*cked up stripagram that Michael has arranged, otherwise I'm f*cked regardless of who this guy really is.
"Demon? You think I'm a Demon? Listen brother I don't…."[/color]
"Silence yourself. This, the age of vice, is coming to an end. I have arrived to bring a new age and with it your destruction Kali."
Do I just play along? Is someone filming this?
"The scriptures have said I will kill by the millions the thieves who have dared dress as kings, and you, Kali are the worst perpetrator of such a moral sin."
He could be talking about me I suppose, that description does fit the bill, but why does he keep tossing the name 'Kali' around?
[/color]
"You look much weaker than the the stories tell. I came here expecting a war yet I am offered you?"
F*ck this guy!
"F*ck you! I am the king! I am the only f*cking king. You're an inbred spastic and I dare you to run that cold steel through me. Let's have it nancy boy!"
It's hard not to sound like a football hooligan when you get riled up as an Englishman.[/color][/b]
"As you wish."
The rider, this 'Kalki' figure, ushers the horse onward with a kick of it's stomach and I now find myself in the direct path of a thundering animal.
I stand firm, although I'm not sure if it's bravery or fear that has me rooted to the spot. The animal is meters away now and as it closes in I dive to my right and roll. As I turn a full rotation, head over heels, a change occurs. My body and mind set are transformed, and by the time I land with both feet against the ground again I find myself, sword in hand, draped in battle gown and, more shockingly, in possession of a full understanding of what is taking place.
I cackle at the failed attempt from my assailant and flood his ears with words as educated in the myth as his own.
"Kalki! Destroyer of foulness, blighter of darkness. This is my age. This is my kingdom. Kali Yugar is an age in which I am God!"
I now feel like a passenger within this whole charade, being lead along by my own body but with little control over it's actions. My mouth continues to speak but it is not my thoughts that are being projected, no matter how much I may agree with them.
"This is a time in which rulers are wicked, sex is praised and drugs are commonplace. Who better than me to rule such a world?
You may call me evil but the entirety of the city that lays behind you would say otherwise."
The man who calls himself Kalki narrows his eyes and with another nudge of his heel sends his steed headlong toward me yet again. This time I propel myself, with a force that seems natural, over his head and tear my blade through the air. He writhes his reins hard to the left and the horse turns sharply about face. The cloth that previously covered his features falls away. My cut has severed it in two and it tumbles to the sand.
The head of a Hungarian is revealed.
Drake Elias stares at me with cold eyes but is unrelenting with his attack and only seconds later I have to throw myself out of harms way yet again.[/color][/b]
"Kali you are a liar and deceiver. You have lead this world to believe that it loves materialism and everything that goes with it. I am your end. I am the light that will drown your blackness and cast away hatred."
Since when was Elias so f*cking self righteous? Or is he truly Kalki as he claims to be?
Whoever he is he's getting on my t*ts with all of this talk about cleaning things up. This entire situation stinks of my every day life. People forever telling me they will rid the world of my evil, The New Epoch's evil. We're the ones doing the cleaning…….or is it cleansing?
As far as I'm concerned this Kalki cretin needs splitting in two.
Sensation returns to my hands.
I now feel the weight of the sword in my arms and the grains of sand bounce off my face as the wind picks up.
I feel back in control now as oppose to a slave to a host.
I am Kali and I will not abide by this idiot on horseback.
"Then let us finish this c*nt of the light. I've had enough of your talk. Where is your wh0re? Why haven't you brought her with you? Lakshmi? Miraya? Whatever name we are giving her. Goddess of wealth and prosperity, for her and her alone. You are blind to this and it will be your undoing. Come at me with all of your anger. Feed your fight with the violence that your heart instills in you. We both know the only way you can defeat me is to use your anger to aid you.
Come at me Kalki!"
Once more the horse drums it's hooves hard against the ground and the vibrations can be felt in my knees. Kalki rises up, standing on the saddle with his blade in one hand and the reins in the other. I read his every move and as he leaps through the air toward me I make for his steed and run my sword through it's neck sending it buckling to the floor along with a river of blood. The dying beats lashes around on the ground, it's legs kicking and attempting to run. The thick syrup like liquid that gushes from it's cut throat is tossed in every direction like a 'Spin Art' disaster and I relish the moment that the animal, now stained pink, cries for a final time.
"Your anger makes you stupid Kalki, yet you know it to be your greatest strength. You must learn to control it."
Kalki is immediately next to me, swinging his sword for my head but he meets only steel. Our blades clash and we struggle for control, staring into each others eyes. The pretext of this fight is out of my hands, but right now I know fully well that I am gazing into the eyes of Drake Elias and not a hindu avatar. I lose myself for a moment in the realisation that this is a vision of what's to come.
My moment of reflection costs me dearly.
He boots me away from the clash and I fall to the floor, my weapon leaving my hand and landing out of reach. I sense the need to act quickly but without a moments notice Elias is stood on top of me, his boot crushing my windpipe.
I snarl at him, defiant till the end.
"This isn't over."
[/color]
"Oh but it is my friend."
And with that the tip of his sword is plunged with undeniable force into my face.
I am not spared even an ounce of pain as the steel splinters the bone of my skull before perforating the soft tissue that lies beneath.
Again I am left with only blackness.
[/color]
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Please leave your message after the tone #3
"Elias means to destroy me in any way possible.
He isn't a man who is easily led into emotional involvement but it seems I have got his attention subsequent to my comments towards his love interest, slash business partner, slash puppet master.
I have come to realise that it is Miraya who pulls the strings of this war machine and in doing so I have also come to see that this man Elias poses less of a threat than I originally thought.
His mind is weak.
He is a drone.
Working for his queen without a thought for his own welfare.
He will work himself to death if she deems it necessary. He has been brainwashed by the emotions he has always kept at bay, and they have left him vulnerable and now the open wound is ready for salting.
Drake Elias currently finds himself in the midst of a storm of both love and anger, two very controlling emotions individually, but even more so together. It's a volatile situation right now and it would take very little to ignite the fuse. He has shown himself to me. He has shown his true colours and I am not one to rest on my laurels, especially when my own well-being is at stake.
I will not only take advantage of this chink in his armour but I will also reveal it to 'the third man' in the equation.
The addition of 'the third man' has left Drake very prone as over the course of the past few weeks he has been so completely focused on my destruction that any further distractions have gone unnoticed.
He lost to Trace Demon because his mind was on me at ring side.
He lost in the cage because his mind was on me and his woman.
He lost to Obo because his mind was reeling, still trying to catch up with circumstance and the addition of this 'third man'.
It seems Drake has dropped the ball and for what reason? To remove me from his life?
I am all he can think about. I am what he falls asleep and dreams of. My destruction is the only thing that will satisfy that Indian wh0re and therefore satisfy him.
She tells him over and over that he must achieve, that he needs to take this belt from me to concrete himself as a player in this sport.
I will give her the credit she deserves mind you, she has got it all right. Drake does need to win. Drake needs to take this belt from me if wants to stay alive here. He's quickly running out of options, and with every loss he racks up, his chances at anything this big coming around again are becoming slimmer and slimmer.
He knows it because she knows it. A loss at my hands, or even at the hands of 'the third man' drops him into serious trouble. If he is to lose another match that puts him on a lousy record of only 3 wins against 5 losses, where as a win of course will level him out.
He needs to win.
He needs to reset the balance.
Besides this fact he also has to pull double and perhaps even triple duty on the night of Survival of the Fittest.
Imagine if he were able to win all 3?
Suddenly our broken man shoots up the ranks, his record balance tipped, the International Title belt around his waist and of course, who could forget? A chance at the highest accolade in the game.
Miraya knows this and so Drake knows this.
If she can say all the right things, put him in the correct frame of mind, he could become a force to be reckoned with in one night! Truly Survival of the Fittest is Drake Elias' proving ground. This event means more to him than it does to anyone else. Forget the main event, your Kyzers, Browns, Raiders and Obos, the Pay Per View is all about Drake Elias.
But again he has a problem. If he is to win any of the matches he has to tie his emotions down. Attempting to use rage, to use anger, will cloud his already hazy judgement. I know he plans on relying on his anger to give him the edge, the physical strength to tear me in half. I know the frame of mind he's in, and I know he's been destroying his training partners while this red mist has numbed his ability to empathise. That blind brutality might work on crash-test dummies but it is my intelligence that you need to fear. I'm not stupid and I'm more than capable of seeing that Elias has me dead to rights in the raw strength department. I'm not sure there are many in the WFWF who could seriously pose a serious threat to him in a battle of physicality however if he is leaning on his animal instinct to heavily I am certain I can outsmart him and force him to make mistakes, mistakes that will leave him open…….leave him with nothing.
He needs to reassess the situation he is in. He needs to take a step back and breathe. Focusing exclusively on little old me could cost him everything. There are more men than myself at work on that night and these are men who want what Elias stands in the way of.
Who wouldn't want to be the man to say: I put an end to a rise that could have been the greatest this company has ever seen?
Yes Drake Elias needs to clear his head. He needs to avoid making mistakes. He needs to see past the science, because right now I fear that is all he views our encounter as. He's ignoring the human side and focusing only on the technical method in which he can claim victory. I can only hope that his puppet master tells him the only way he can win is to adapt and evolve in the ring, not go out with a game plan.
People are not robots. There is no set road to victory. Elias may well prove me wrong but if he continues down this same path, allowing me to rip out his wires from right underneath his nose, he will fall hard and his woman will trade him in for scrap.
'Kalki' needs to surprise the world.
He knows it, because she knows it."[/center]
with me. No matter how many Drakz RPs I read, I feel as if a color code at the beginning should be in order, similar to what a few others do, especially when you've got more than two people talking in a scene, like your scenes with Kyzer and DMK in this. I had that issue when I first started RPing, coloring all of the different people talking, and I got sh*t on for it because no one could tell who was who. I obviously can tell here who is who through context, but it's just a personal hinderence going back and rereading a couple of lines, trying to remember who was saying what. But that's not a problem at all really, just a personal preference. That, and the yellow for Brennan is 
