Post by Revvie® on Jul 26, 2013 14:38:08 GMT -5
The Crossroads
You know those moments when you wake up and you’re not sure where you are, but you’re pretty sure it’s not your place. Then after the hangover fades, you realize it actually is your place, and you’re the moron who destroyed it?
No? Me neither, but Reverend on the other hand was a much different tale. He woke that morning to a horrible, awful, disgusting, icky, gooey, and slightly sticky mess. The whole house probably needed a radiation tent, or some of those yellow lines. Anyways, his crappy home was a just a bit crappier that morning.
Shadow lay on his back, with a lump of something pressed against his spine. His reaction was understandable, but it didn’t work out. The crunch of broken glass beneath his palm caused the good Reverend to cry out, and collapse back down on the foreign object. His spine squealed its own appeal to the gods; it sounded like the first bite of a rice crispy treat, but coupled with a screaming man.
Where the hell is Trist? Reverend was use to him being wedged up his ass, and never did a morning go by without him butting in. His opinion was so ‘great’ that everyone in the world had to know. Trist gave Shadow enough grief that the good Reverend may (or may not) wish him dead daily. Today he wished him alive.
The pain was still stagnant in his back, and this time he forced himself through it, and up on his feet. Shadow looked at the hand in question, and saw blood bubble through the seams. After his hand, came the scanning of the forlorn area of disarray. Fire wood was now where the dining room table use to be, and a few lamps were in a few million pieces. Whatever the hell happened the night before was a blur to Rev.
He remembered a conversation with Lauren; their neighbor. When that ended, so did his memories. As far as Shadow was concerned, it was Trist’s fault. The probability of him being gone, and the house a mess, screamed GUILTY! Rev. couldn’t afford to get wound up, and the oozing wounds needed cleaned.
Reverend carefully, and with no amount of grace, moved around the obstacle course. With a sloppy tango, and a few gyrations of the hips, Shadow was uncomfortably in the bathroom. His view in the mirror was an image of a man he didn’t recognize; long locks of grey hair, and beard of the same tint. The elder gentlemen looked downright frail, BUT Shadow didn’t feel frail?
The last few days he felt something else, an urge in him. Rev. attempted to bury it with booze, or any other variety of intoxicants. This never lasted long enough, and there he was again, with the void. He looked down at his hand in the sink, as a crimson trail circled down the drain. Bile nudged at the good Reverend’s throat, and he hastened to his knees. Today it was not before the lord, unless of course you worship a porcelain crapper (I hope not).
“You know, I really DON’T like what you’ve done with the place. I leave for one damn night, and this?” His tone was of a nagging lover, but his purpose was all bunghole. “Seriously though, what the
happened in here?”
Shadow’s voice echoed from the bowl at Trist, “Don’t...know.”
“Of course you don’t, and why would you? You’re only the one who destroyed the place, and left it in utter ruins, but yea, you don’t know.”
Rev. lifted his head from the toilet, “Is there something you need?”
The two of them eyeballed each other, “Someone left a message for you on the machine.”
“If it was the landlord, I don’t care.”
“No, I’m pretty sure she won’t be calling back.”
“Why is that?”
Trist laughed as he walked away from Reverend, who was still leaned over the pot, “Because the phone line is turned off.”
“Great,” and the dry heave continued.
It took twenty minutes to do what little clean up Rev. did. No, he didn’t shower like one might have, and maybe he didn’t brush his teeth. Ok, the man was as loathsome as his apartment, but he did wash his hands (they were out of soap). Shadow walked into the kitchen where Trist rummaged through the fridge. “We’re outta milk.”
“Don’t care,” and Rev. really didn’t. Since he woke up it was all basically bad news, and the sun wasn’t shining any brighter.
“You should care. How the hell am I supposed keep my bones strong if we run outta milk?”
Shadow laid his head on the counter, and a solemn cycle of throbs pounded. “Is the message still on the machine?”
“Uhhh yea, do you think I am a moron or something?”
Rev. decided to not respond, and pressed hard on the machine. He regretted his action as soon as a loud beep came over, but it ended quick , and the message followed without disruption.
"Hey... Rev-Jason, whatever you call yourself. It's Wayne McGurk., you around? I've got something you might be interested in. I'll be in town tonight. Drop by Murphy's on the corner of Melberg and Heyman around 6:30. Trust me, it’s worth your time.”
Murphy’s bar was a dive, and its appearance fit. The old neon barely blinked on, and there was no bouncer. Hell, they were lucky they had any patrons. Shadow knew drinking from a glass there was a guaranteed health code violation. The crust on the rims could tell you that, but it was his home away from home. His family was Jack and Jim the last few months, and he didn’t mind who knew. It is quite cliché, but the mighty man, he once was, had fallen.
When Rev. walked in, he caught the stale scent of tobacco. A cloud hovered over the entire bar, and a fog lingered in between the patrons(what few there were). It was a good thing that Wayne didn’t look much different to Shadow, and he quickly picked his old colleague out of the haze.
Seeing Him didn’t help the urge, but Rev. would have a beer in his hands soon enough. He pulled his ragged body through the smoke, and reached McGurk in seconds. He appeared to be in amazing shape, or at least when compared to Shadow. It was obvious who had done better, and it wasn’t the man of the cloth.
A dim light swung above Wayne's head, and the glow illuminated his presence. A cigarette between his lips, hung half smoked. It wouldn’t be long before a new one would rest in its place. Wayne didn’t change much in all those years; his hair was still tucked into a ponytail, and a smattering of gray was on the verge of a full take-over. McGurk’s thick layer of facial hair was no match, but a smile kept him looking young. "I remembered you looking a lot scarier."
Rev. looked down at his attire, but he didn’t have to. He smelled like liquor, and sweat. What he wore anymore consisted of rags, and his hair might have had a stronghold of some sort of pest. Still, who the does McGurk think he is, bringing that up? “What is it you wanted?”
"What are the chances you'd come back to the WFWF? The place is in need of talent right now, specifically the established kind."
“Why don’t you come back if that’s the issue?”
"Gave that up a while ago, and my daughter's the current champion; don't think she'd be too happy if I hung around much." Wayne smirked, and then flicked a bit of ash from his cigarette.
Shadow was skeptical about the deal; it just didn’t make sense to him. The hunger in him, however, was not much of skeptic. Its carnal desire was being called into action, and it pulled at the chain. Rev. said nothing as he struggled to keep composed.
"Trace currently owns half the WFWF and, on the Battleground pay-per-view, he's looking to win the rest off Xavier Pierce."
“I see management hasn’t got any better.”
"If you come in as part of his team come Battleground, you've got a contract, and Trace is open to negotiations. Start you off on a semi-regular schedule and an opening salary that's twice what you we're earning during your last run. Judging by how things have been looking for you, I'd think this through."
Taking a long drag, Wayne held himself for a moment and gave Shadow a nod. Looking into his cold eyes, Wayne felt a jump at the sight of a man who had once pushed him to his limits. He left his cigarette on the ashtray and stood from his seat.
"Give me a minute. Recon there's a better way I could put this all into perspective for you."
Reverend felt the urge regurgitate, and the chain in his head snapped. The lure of the squared circle had him. He could feel the adrenaline before the bell tolled for the match to start. The sweat, soreness, and the insatiable hunger; these were the drives of a champion.
Suddenly a voice shattered the good Reverend’s reverie, “You both bring me to one of these places, are you trying to make me relapse?”
The Demon planted himself into the seat, and used his sleeve to carefully scoot Wayne’s mess out of his way. He didn’t seem comfortable, but Reverend didn’t care. It may have been his bar every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, but this was Tuesday, and it was McGurk’s idea.
A stiff glare came with few words from The Demon, “You look like crap.”
Why in the hell did everyone have to compliment on his appearance? Shadow let it roll off his back, he had no choice. The ache in him was chomping at the morsel that was dangled; a possible contract. The Demon locked eyes with the good Reverend, but Shadow was quick to kill his gaze. “So you want me to wrestle again?”
“Wrestle, fight, viciously murder my enemies, or whatever you want to call it. I just want you to bring your smelly self, haul it back into that ring, and do what you do best; beat people up and look kinda scary while you're doing it. I mean hell, it's not like you've got anything better to do, not when you're spending your time in digs like this.”
The Demons words were coarse, concise, and Reverend couldn’t answer. But his hunger had no problem, “Details,” it hissed.
“You see Shadow, I've grown tired of the little power struggle between myself and Xavier Pierce. I've got other aspirations that deserve my time. But I can't simply give him back the company, I can't even continue on as co-owners. So I'm going to end it the only way I know how.
“All or nothing, a four on four elimination match for total control of the WFWF. Can you imagine it Reverend, having the owner on your side again, just like the last time you were stinking up the joint. I could make your dreams a reality, give you whatever you wanted; even make you a saint again.”
Just as Reverend was about to respond, The Demon hurried his fist to the table. With a wild BOOM , every set of eyes was on them.
“But only if you help me win my match.”
The hunger didn’t care what the reason, it wanted fed. A beast scratched at the back of Shadow’s eyes, and he instantly pressed his hand out. His desire was all that mattered now, and he was being given deal. A deal that would take care of everything.
“I hope you've washed that hand.”
Reverend Shadow was home now, and he stared painfully into the mirror. The hairy homeless look was losing its appeal, and he pulled out a pair of shears. With a few strokes, Shadow released random locks of grey into the sink and on the floor. If he was going to be the Reverend, he had to change.
The door slammed shut, and a buzz could be heard behind it.
You know those moments when you wake up and you’re not sure where you are, but you’re pretty sure it’s not your place. Then after the hangover fades, you realize it actually is your place, and you’re the moron who destroyed it?
No? Me neither, but Reverend on the other hand was a much different tale. He woke that morning to a horrible, awful, disgusting, icky, gooey, and slightly sticky mess. The whole house probably needed a radiation tent, or some of those yellow lines. Anyways, his crappy home was a just a bit crappier that morning.
Shadow lay on his back, with a lump of something pressed against his spine. His reaction was understandable, but it didn’t work out. The crunch of broken glass beneath his palm caused the good Reverend to cry out, and collapse back down on the foreign object. His spine squealed its own appeal to the gods; it sounded like the first bite of a rice crispy treat, but coupled with a screaming man.
Where the hell is Trist? Reverend was use to him being wedged up his ass, and never did a morning go by without him butting in. His opinion was so ‘great’ that everyone in the world had to know. Trist gave Shadow enough grief that the good Reverend may (or may not) wish him dead daily. Today he wished him alive.
The pain was still stagnant in his back, and this time he forced himself through it, and up on his feet. Shadow looked at the hand in question, and saw blood bubble through the seams. After his hand, came the scanning of the forlorn area of disarray. Fire wood was now where the dining room table use to be, and a few lamps were in a few million pieces. Whatever the hell happened the night before was a blur to Rev.
He remembered a conversation with Lauren; their neighbor. When that ended, so did his memories. As far as Shadow was concerned, it was Trist’s fault. The probability of him being gone, and the house a mess, screamed GUILTY! Rev. couldn’t afford to get wound up, and the oozing wounds needed cleaned.
Reverend carefully, and with no amount of grace, moved around the obstacle course. With a sloppy tango, and a few gyrations of the hips, Shadow was uncomfortably in the bathroom. His view in the mirror was an image of a man he didn’t recognize; long locks of grey hair, and beard of the same tint. The elder gentlemen looked downright frail, BUT Shadow didn’t feel frail?
The last few days he felt something else, an urge in him. Rev. attempted to bury it with booze, or any other variety of intoxicants. This never lasted long enough, and there he was again, with the void. He looked down at his hand in the sink, as a crimson trail circled down the drain. Bile nudged at the good Reverend’s throat, and he hastened to his knees. Today it was not before the lord, unless of course you worship a porcelain crapper (I hope not).
“You know, I really DON’T like what you’ve done with the place. I leave for one damn night, and this?” His tone was of a nagging lover, but his purpose was all bunghole. “Seriously though, what the
happened in here?”Shadow’s voice echoed from the bowl at Trist, “Don’t...know.”
“Of course you don’t, and why would you? You’re only the one who destroyed the place, and left it in utter ruins, but yea, you don’t know.”
Rev. lifted his head from the toilet, “Is there something you need?”
The two of them eyeballed each other, “Someone left a message for you on the machine.”
“If it was the landlord, I don’t care.”
“No, I’m pretty sure she won’t be calling back.”
“Why is that?”
Trist laughed as he walked away from Reverend, who was still leaned over the pot, “Because the phone line is turned off.”
“Great,” and the dry heave continued.
It took twenty minutes to do what little clean up Rev. did. No, he didn’t shower like one might have, and maybe he didn’t brush his teeth. Ok, the man was as loathsome as his apartment, but he did wash his hands (they were out of soap). Shadow walked into the kitchen where Trist rummaged through the fridge. “We’re outta milk.”
“Don’t care,” and Rev. really didn’t. Since he woke up it was all basically bad news, and the sun wasn’t shining any brighter.
“You should care. How the hell am I supposed keep my bones strong if we run outta milk?”
Shadow laid his head on the counter, and a solemn cycle of throbs pounded. “Is the message still on the machine?”
“Uhhh yea, do you think I am a moron or something?”
Rev. decided to not respond, and pressed hard on the machine. He regretted his action as soon as a loud beep came over, but it ended quick , and the message followed without disruption.
"Hey... Rev-Jason, whatever you call yourself. It's Wayne McGurk., you around? I've got something you might be interested in. I'll be in town tonight. Drop by Murphy's on the corner of Melberg and Heyman around 6:30. Trust me, it’s worth your time.”
Murphy’s bar was a dive, and its appearance fit. The old neon barely blinked on, and there was no bouncer. Hell, they were lucky they had any patrons. Shadow knew drinking from a glass there was a guaranteed health code violation. The crust on the rims could tell you that, but it was his home away from home. His family was Jack and Jim the last few months, and he didn’t mind who knew. It is quite cliché, but the mighty man, he once was, had fallen.
When Rev. walked in, he caught the stale scent of tobacco. A cloud hovered over the entire bar, and a fog lingered in between the patrons(what few there were). It was a good thing that Wayne didn’t look much different to Shadow, and he quickly picked his old colleague out of the haze.
Seeing Him didn’t help the urge, but Rev. would have a beer in his hands soon enough. He pulled his ragged body through the smoke, and reached McGurk in seconds. He appeared to be in amazing shape, or at least when compared to Shadow. It was obvious who had done better, and it wasn’t the man of the cloth.
A dim light swung above Wayne's head, and the glow illuminated his presence. A cigarette between his lips, hung half smoked. It wouldn’t be long before a new one would rest in its place. Wayne didn’t change much in all those years; his hair was still tucked into a ponytail, and a smattering of gray was on the verge of a full take-over. McGurk’s thick layer of facial hair was no match, but a smile kept him looking young. "I remembered you looking a lot scarier."
Rev. looked down at his attire, but he didn’t have to. He smelled like liquor, and sweat. What he wore anymore consisted of rags, and his hair might have had a stronghold of some sort of pest. Still, who the
does McGurk think he is, bringing that up? “What is it you wanted?”"What are the chances you'd come back to the WFWF? The place is in need of talent right now, specifically the established kind."
“Why don’t you come back if that’s the issue?”
"Gave that up a while ago, and my daughter's the current champion; don't think she'd be too happy if I hung around much." Wayne smirked, and then flicked a bit of ash from his cigarette.
Shadow was skeptical about the deal; it just didn’t make sense to him. The hunger in him, however, was not much of skeptic. Its carnal desire was being called into action, and it pulled at the chain. Rev. said nothing as he struggled to keep composed.
"Trace currently owns half the WFWF and, on the Battleground pay-per-view, he's looking to win the rest off Xavier Pierce."
“I see management hasn’t got any better.”
"If you come in as part of his team come Battleground, you've got a contract, and Trace is open to negotiations. Start you off on a semi-regular schedule and an opening salary that's twice what you we're earning during your last run. Judging by how things have been looking for you, I'd think this through."
Taking a long drag, Wayne held himself for a moment and gave Shadow a nod. Looking into his cold eyes, Wayne felt a jump at the sight of a man who had once pushed him to his limits. He left his cigarette on the ashtray and stood from his seat.
"Give me a minute. Recon there's a better way I could put this all into perspective for you."
Reverend felt the urge regurgitate, and the chain in his head snapped. The lure of the squared circle had him. He could feel the adrenaline before the bell tolled for the match to start. The sweat, soreness, and the insatiable hunger; these were the drives of a champion.
Suddenly a voice shattered the good Reverend’s reverie, “You both bring me to one of these places, are you trying to make me relapse?”
The Demon planted himself into the seat, and used his sleeve to carefully scoot Wayne’s mess out of his way. He didn’t seem comfortable, but Reverend didn’t care. It may have been his bar every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, but this was Tuesday, and it was McGurk’s idea.
A stiff glare came with few words from The Demon, “You look like crap.”
Why in the hell did everyone have to compliment on his appearance? Shadow let it roll off his back, he had no choice. The ache in him was chomping at the morsel that was dangled; a possible contract. The Demon locked eyes with the good Reverend, but Shadow was quick to kill his gaze. “So you want me to wrestle again?”
“Wrestle, fight, viciously murder my enemies, or whatever you want to call it. I just want you to bring your smelly self, haul it back into that ring, and do what you do best; beat people up and look kinda scary while you're doing it. I mean hell, it's not like you've got anything better to do, not when you're spending your time in digs like this.”
The Demons words were coarse, concise, and Reverend couldn’t answer. But his hunger had no problem, “Details,” it hissed.
“You see Shadow, I've grown tired of the little power struggle between myself and Xavier Pierce. I've got other aspirations that deserve my time. But I can't simply give him back the company, I can't even continue on as co-owners. So I'm going to end it the only way I know how.
“All or nothing, a four on four elimination match for total control of the WFWF. Can you imagine it Reverend, having the owner on your side again, just like the last time you were stinking up the joint. I could make your dreams a reality, give you whatever you wanted; even make you a saint again.”
Just as Reverend was about to respond, The Demon hurried his fist to the table. With a wild BOOM , every set of eyes was on them.
“But only if you help me win my match.”
The hunger didn’t care what the reason, it wanted fed. A beast scratched at the back of Shadow’s eyes, and he instantly pressed his hand out. His desire was all that mattered now, and he was being given deal. A deal that would take care of everything.
“I hope you've washed that hand.”
Reverend Shadow was home now, and he stared painfully into the mirror. The hairy homeless look was losing its appeal, and he pulled out a pair of shears. With a few strokes, Shadow released random locks of grey into the sink and on the floor. If he was going to be the Reverend, he had to change.
The door slammed shut, and a buzz could be heard behind it.
