Post by Rated R on Jan 15, 2017 19:19:30 GMT -5
New year, new me.
I know, I know! It’s a good bloody joke ain’t it. As if the turn of a day can change anything about who you are. News flash people, that’s not how it works, and don’t pretend that just because there’s a new number at the end of the year that you’re suddenly going to become more motivated. Life’s not like that. If you couldn’t do it before, what makes you think you’ll do it now?
Oh I’m gonna get thin. Oh I’m gonna find love. Oh I’m gonna learn a new language. Blah blah blah.
The only thing you’re gonna do is call it quits after a week because you’re still the same loser you were before. Just because you say you’ve shed your skin doesn’t mean it’s not stuck to your shoe dragging you back.
I don’t do New Years resolutions, because I don’t need an excuse to succeed. When I say I’m going to do something then I damn well do it. And just because I fell short at Superbrawl, just because yes, I failed, does not mean that I’m about to quit. That WFWF World Championship belongs to me, and now that I’ve got nothing holding me back you better believe I’ll be coming after that title with more force than ever before.
You want to come up with a resolution to make yourself feel better? You go ahead. But don’t expect me to applaud or congratulate you, because you’ve not done anything worth congratulating. Saying you’re gonna do something ain’t the same as doing it. You want me to show you the difference between a resolution and a promise?
I will beat Austin Hayes. I will win the Supreme Gauntlet. I will be the new WFWF World Champion.
Those were promises, because those things will happen.
F*ck your resolution. You can quote me on that. Or not. I’m not the boss anymore.
I really don’t give a sh*t.
< *** >
Trace Demon Presents
Next
The Office of Trace Demon
January 3rd 2017; 13:18am
Trace Demon: You know, I thought I’d have more things to pack up.
The handover is complete. I am no longer in any way associated with the ownership of the WFWF. I’d like to say that I’m going to miss this place but let’s be straight with each other, offices f***ing drag.
Elinox Nix: Care to explain to me why I’m helping you after you left me standing like an idiot in that boardroom?
She’s still a little salty at the whole selling the WFWF thing if you can believe it.
Trace Demon: Because I’m still paying you to manage my sh*t?
Elinox Nix: Manage! Not pack boxes.
Trace Demon: One box! There is literally one box worth of stuff in here. I don’t know whether that’s more impressive on a minimalist level or sad on a sad level. Probably the latter.
I might not own the WFWF but I’ve still got plenty of other business ventures going on behind the scenes, thankfully all of the legal variety after that little incident with those sharks and the coastguard. I’ve told you that one right? Pretty sure I have. Anyway, like I was saying, other business ventures. Thanks to Elinor I don’t need to have any kind of active hand in any of them. I can just sit back and let the money roll in to fund the only thing that matters.
Hurting people en-route to my rightful place as WFWF World Champion. Gotta dream appropriately for your talent level, y’know.
Elinox Nix: I really don’t see why you needed help packing a single bloody box in the first place. You know you could have done this on your own, you’re not that incapable.
Trace Demon: I need the emotional support.
Elinox Nix: You don’t have any emotions.
Trace Demon: Harsh, and not true… lust is an emotion right? And rage? I feel both of them a lot.
Lila Sleater: Well this is just heartbreaking.
Trace Demon: For instance I’m feeling one of them right now. Not gonna tell you which one though, could be either. Or both. Who knows. What d’you want Lila?
She’s standing in the door looking awfully proud of herself, like she’s won something by outlasting me. She doesn’t know what she’s in for with the new boss. I’d almost feel sorry for her if she hadn’t spent the past year and change being an absolute massive pain in my ass.
Lila Sleater: Oh I just came to see you off. I thought it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to say goodbye after all the work we’ve done together.
Hah! Wait, why’re they looking… oh, I laughed out loud. Awkward.
Trace Demon: Elinor, why don’t you take the box down to the car and I’ll meet you there.
Elinox Nix: Why am I carrying the box? It’s your box! I have to interest in the box.
Trace Demon: For someone with no interest in the box you’re sure talking about the box a lot. Just take the damn thing will you?
She scowls but grabs the box on her way out. Not gonna lie, angry Elinor turns me on. A lot. Sadly that half-chub vanishes the moment I’m left alone with the closest thing to a nemesis I’ve got. Actually, thinking about it I’ve got a few nemeses. Couldn’t tell you why. Just attract people desperate to get their head kicked in I guess.
Trace Demon: So, is there where we finally f*ck?
Lila Sleater: Sorry, but no matter how big a d*ck you think you’ve got swinging down there, you’ve still got the wrong chromosome’s for me.
Trace Demon: Implying if you were into dudes you’ve be all over by giant swinging d*ck. Can I add that to my list of positive reviews? I reckon that’d look damn good on a poster. I can see it now. “Five stars!” “Award winning!” “Big swinging d*ck!”
Lila Sleater: You know, I’ll actually miss the little back and forth thing we had going. I mean sure, you were the devil, but you at least kept things interesting. Now what am I going to do with all my time? I suppose I could make something of the WFWF without any interference, that’d be fun.
Trace Demon: It’s cute you think you’ve won. You didn’t beat me Lila, you didn’t even get rid of me. I’ll still be around to spoil your fun.
Lila Sleater: Will you Trace? I mean, you’re just another employee now, what’s to stop me from say, terminating your contract whenever I feel like? I mean after all those attempts to get rid of you in the ring it’d be poetic if you were finally beaten by bureaucracy, don’t you think?
I erupt into laughter. I try to control it, honestly I do, but it’s just too sweet. Her cluelessness would be satisfying enough but it’s watching her smug grin slowly fade from her face that really does it for me. Takes me near a minute before I can reign myself in.
Trace Demon: You really think I wouldn’t have thought of that?
Lila Sleater: But you’ve got no power anymore, you’re just another-
Trace Demon: I’ve never been “just another” anything, it’d do you well to remember that. You think I’d really sell my company without making sure I come out of it smelling like roses? This is me you’re talking to Lila. You might not like me but don’t do yourself the disservice of acting so stupid.
She’s trying hard to hide the shame. I get it, she was so caught up in the idea that me selling the company meant she’d beaten me that she never thought about what me actually selling the company meant. She forgot who she was dealing with, just for one second. I rarely let that go.
Lila Sleater: Your contract-
Trace Demon: Is guaranteed and iron-clad as part of the terns for me selling. You can’t sack me, the new owner can’t sack me. I can do what I like, when I like and there’ll be no repercussions, at least from a business standpoint. On top of that I’ve got wage matching and a dozen other perks. For the rest of my career, however long I decide that is, I will always be the best paid professional wrestler in the business. There’s a reason it became known as Trace Demon money after all.
She’s seething, her anger building with every word. I get in close, savouring the taste of her hatred. If I was a lesser man, Samael Ahriman for example, I’d have popped prematurely already. Thankfully I’ve got stamina, and the sense to not impregnate chicks and have idiotic, suicidal and downright stupid children.
Trace Demon: You will never, ever get rid of me Lila. I will be around until you’re dying day doing everything in my power to make your life as miserable as possible. Or until you quit or get fired, whichever comes first.
She’s too angry to speak, probably doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of hearing her scream. Shame, the women I make scream usually come out of the experience… satisfied, to say the least. I lean against the doorframe, enjoying my turn to grin smugly.
Trace Demon: Don’t you just hate it when you meet someone so much smarter than you? No seriously, I’m asking, I’ve never experienced it before. Hah! Seeya Lila, enjoy the place while you can, I’ve got a feeling that when the new boss moves in you won’t be seeing much of it.
I head for the elevator, pausing for a moment to enjoy the stream of obscenities that explode from my old office the moment she thinks I’ve out of earshot. It’s sort of sad that I had to crush her little victory parade back there but the sooner she learns her lesson the better off her pathetic little life will be.
In the real world, the Villain usually wins.
< *** >
BLD
January 11th 2017; 9:11am
If there’s one thing I’m enjoying about my newfound freedom from corporate responsibility it’s the opportunity to eat my morning pancakes in peace again. Do I miss how cool it feels for someone to run through a list of important things West Wing style? Sure. Is it worth ruining the best pancakes in Los Angeles with the hell that is talking to people? Not f*cking likely.
Sera: Not seen you in here on your own in a while. Usually you’re with that scary looking woman.
Sera, the personification of the overly hot waitress. Every place has one. It’s what keeps pervs coming back to establishments they have no place establishing. I don’t consider myself in that category just to be clear. I’m a classy gentleman.
Trace Demon: What, you jealous?
Sera: I’m just a waitress, I don’t know what you mean. You want the usual?
Trace Demon: Aye.
She flashes me a smile and, I’m pretty certain, makes sure I notice her pert ass as she walks away. Sera’s what? Nineteen? Twenty maybe? Not sure why I have that effect on the younger women. Probably something to do with disappointing their fathers. Thank god for daddy issues.
Breakfast alone also gives me time to do something I’ve sadly been a little bit lax on recently. Scouting. I didn’t get this far without being prepared, and it’s time I started putting the work in outside the ring as well as inside it. I flick through the scouting document I’ve put together on Austin Hayes. It’s digital obviously, none of that backwards paper crap Tyme apparently liked to pull with Crowe. It’s the twenty first century man, start thinking like it.
Of course there’s not a lot of information out there on our little dorky friend Austin Hayes, so I’m forced to work with scraps. I take another bite out of my pancakes and let my subconscious fragment. You know that saying that the only good conversation is one you have with yourself? Well that’s rarely truer than when you’re always the smartest man in any conversation. Thankfully I’ve become very adept at talking to myself. That’s a worrying sign right? It feels like a worrying sign.
He’s got raw talent, could be a problem if we underestimate him. High flying ain’t exactly our fortay.
Nah but Brandon Bison ain’t exactly a real challenge. Like basing your judgment of a hockey player based on their performance against Montreal.
Aye. This’d be easier if he actually had some experience and we could get a grasp of his actual talent.
How the f*ck did he even get in this tournament in the first place? He don’t exactly look like a wrestler. Looks more like he belongs serving coffee in one of these hipster sh*tholes we avoid like the plague.
You seen the rest of the field in this tournament? Aside from a handful of guys they’ve not exactly called in the A grade players. Any tournament that’s got Dex and a twelve year old girl in is not one I care to be involved in.
Shame we ain’t got a choice, not if we want that title.
And we do. Very much so.
Sera flashes me another smile as she places the pancakes down in front of me, but doesn’t say anything. Everyone around here knows how seriously I take my breakfast, even hot teenagers who want to do something they’ll regret later. I dig in, savouring the taste almost as much as the peace and quiet.
He’s still out there y’know.
I glance out of the window from the corner of my eye, noticing a sh*tty broken down black Corolla.
I see him.
The cars been following me for two days solid, but never making any kind of move. If he was trying to rob me then he’d have tried it by now and come off worse. Same if he was trying to serve me papers. From the glances I’ve got from him he’s in his late-teens, too old to me the secret product of my loins. Trust me, I’ve done the math.
I finish up and throw a bill on the table, as well as my business card for Sera. I’d love to stay and convince her to do something utterly degrading with me but I’m sick of being followed. I was intrigued at first, now I’m just bored.
I head out the door, the guy noticing a little too late. He ducks down behind the wheel anyway. Pathetic. I make out like I’m getting into my car but instead reach for the metal baseball bat I’ve kept with me since it popped up two weeks back. Not exactly sure where it came from but may as well put it to good use.
I turn suddenly and swing the bat. With a crack his wing mirror flies across the parking lot. His head pops up, eyes wide like a deer about to get mowed down. A second swing shatters his window, the kid managing to get his hands up to stop himself losing an eye from the glass. I notice Sera and a couple of the other staff staring out at the scene, but wave them off. They know me well enough by now to not even think about calling the cops. Wouldn’t matter if they did. You know how much money I’ve got? The cops do.
Tyler Draven: What the hell man!
I yank open the door and drag him out, throwing him to the floor, getting my first good look at my embarrassingly bad stalker. Definitely in his late-teens. Black hair, a bit too grunge for my liking, and wearing a little bit too much denim as well. I know stalkers aren’t notoriously fashionable but still, I expect a higher class of criminal.
I push the bat to his chin. There’s that embarrassing wide eyed look again.
Trace Demon: You got three to tell me who you are.
Tyler Draven: Man I-
Trace Demon: One.
Tyler Draven: I’m just looking-
Trace Demon: Two.
Tyler Draven: Wait wait wait!
The bat goes up.
Trace Demon: Thr-
Tyler Draven: I want you to train me!
I stop mid-swing, letting the bat fall to my side. Is he f*cking kidding me?
Trace Demon: So you stalked me for two days, followed me around like a damn weirdo all to ask me if I’d train you? You, somebody who I’ve never met and who has made a really bad first impression?
Tyler Draven: Pretty much.
I stare at him, amazed at the idiocracy that flows through todays youth. The kid looks like he’s stepped out of a bloody Papa Roach music video. Black floppy hair, black top, ripped skinny jeans which make me sick to be anywhere near.
Also if you don’t know who Papa Roach are then you’re too young to be reading this and you make me feel old.
Trace Demon: No.
I chuck the bat into my car and pull out the switchblade I keep for very special occasions like this. Also because I’ve met a lot of creepy people in my time and my drug addled mine still isn’t quite sure which of them are real or not. The kid flinches but I spare him. His tire isn’t so lucky.
Trace Demon: Try following me now dumbass.
I climb into my car, the kid still on the floor, shocked. As I drive off I’m fairly certain of one thing.
This kid is never going to pop up again. That’s a definite, right?
< *** >
The Langham Hotel, Chicago
January 14th 2017; 8:44pm
I let Elinor choose my hotels. Now you’d think I’d look a little out of place in a place like this, but luxury hotels like this take bookings from rock stars, actors, politicians. Next to them I’m damn right normal. Doesn’t stop me getting glances from the help when I walk in though. Might have something to do with me not having to dress like a businessman anymore. Most of the people round here dress up and keep their dirt on the inside. Me? I’m not really in the mood for covering up anymore.
Trace Demon: Booking in.
The chick at the desk side eyes me, probably finding it hard to believe I can even afford somewhere like this. Half temped to tip her a few hundred straight down that cleavage she’s purposefully showing off, but poor performance should not be rewarded no matter how much boob you’re showing.
Receptionist: Name?
Trace Demon: Demon.
Receptionist: Excuse me?
Trace Demon: Why, what’d you do?
She looks at me again. I tap the top of the monitor. No chance she’s getting that tip now.
Receptionist: Oh, you’re actually… sorry Mr. Demon. You have a booking for… the penthouse suite. Okay… I’ll just get one of the guys to take your bags.
Trace Demon: No you won’t. Just give me the card for the door and I’ll sort myself out. What? You got a problem with that?
Receptionist: No… of course not sir.
I snatch the card out of her hand. Didn’t intend to make the whole bag thing a well, thing, but any chance you get right? Plus I’ve only got the one bag, the duffel over my shoulder, don’t want any weirdo’s grubby paw prints over it.
My phone rings as I hit the stairs. Anders. Weird, I know we buried the hatchet, a f*ck-ton of money will do that, but we’re still not exactly on speaking terms.
Trace Demon: What d’you want Anders, you finding it hard to spend all-
Jason Anders: Is she with you?
Panicked. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. I spent over a year with Anders at my side, threw pretty much all of my worst mood swings at him and never managed to get him this freaked out. Whatever this is, it’s bad.
Trace Demon: Who?
Jason Anders: Anna! My daughter!
Trace Demon: Why would she-
Jason Anders: Don’t give me the crap! I know you’ve still been seeing her! Is she with you!
I’ll admit, I haven’t quite cut off all ties with Anders’ daughter. You don’t give up legs like that, let me tell you, especially when they’re attached to someone so good at acting innocent until you hit the bedroom. Still, not a fan of the accusatory tone.
Trace Demon: Anders I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’m in Chicago for the show, why-
Jason Anders: She’s missing! She’s not answering her phone, her texts, her college roommate hasn’t seen her in five days!
Trace Demon: Five days? Man she’s probably just on a bender somewhere.
Jason Anders: She’s not you! Nobody else is you! People don’t go out on five day benders on their own!
I’ve been sober for two years and still people can’t get over the whole drug and alcohol addict thing. Weak.
Trace Demon: I haven’t seen her in weeks Anders, if I do I’ll let you know, probably.
Jason Anders: What do you me-
I hang up, bored of the whole thing. Am I meant to give a sh*t about some girl I’m sleeping with just because she’s missing? Does it even count as missing at five days? When I was nineteen I hadn’t spoke to my mother in a year. Did she report me as missing? Wait, Im forgetting my mother hated me. That’s probably the difference.
Anders phones again, but I’m at my hotel room door and can’t be bothered with him. I turn my phone off, swipe the card and push the door open.
Anna Anders: Hey Trace.
What were the chances of this. Anna Anders sitting in my hotel room before I’d even booked in. I chuck my bag on the floor, eyeing her suspiciously. And in general. Someone explain how a guy like Anders has a daughter so hot? I mean she swears she’s his.
Trace Demon: How’d you get in here before me?
Anna Anders: Have you see my legs?
Trace Demon: Fair point. You want to tell me why you’ve vanished on your dad for the past five days? He called me, if you need proof of how worried he is. Why are you here Anna?
She rises, approaches me, trying hard to seduce me. I brush past her. And here I thought I was done with power plays.
Anna Anders: I need help.
Trace Demon: And you can’t ask your dad why? Is it money? He’s got money now.
Anna Anders: This isn’t the kind of thing you ask your dad about.
Aww balls.
Her hands goes to her stomach, palm rested against it.
Aww sh*t.
Anna Anders: Trace…
Aww f*ck.
Anna Anders: I’m pregnant.
Trace Demon: Aww f**cking sh*t balls.
< *** >
So here we are. The first show of the Supreme Gauntlet. A tournament featuring ten of the very best wrestlers in the WFWF. A tournament so important that every single person on this roster wants to be a part of it. So who am I facing for this oh so important first match?
Drakz? Kyzer? Phillip Schneider? A McGurk? Reverend Shadow? No… not even close. They couldn’t even get me Johnny f*cking Michaels.
Austin Hayes. Now to be brutally honest with you before this match was announced I didn’t have a damn clue who you were. I don’t even remember hiring you. Did I hire you? Or did you just turn up pretending you work here now? I mean somebody brought a twelve year old girl into the tournament and don’t give me any of that sh*t that she’s older now. That’s not how the world works. Sense? We do use that around here y’know.
However you did it somehow you got a shot here. And you grabbed it with both hands. I won’t pretend I didn’t go back and watch your match. I won’t do you that disservice. I’ve been studying you Austin, I’m not taking you lightly. I watched that match and… well, I wish I could say I was impressed. Honestly I do, because at least then I could say you deserve to be here. But seriously, it’s Brandon Bison, you’re not exactly proving anything by beating him. Nah Hayes, the real proving ground starts right now. And I don’t think you’re ready.
I also won’t pretend to understand why our new owner decided to put you in this tournament. But then you’re not the only one who’s here just making up the numbers. Did I mention the twelve year old girl I’ve gonna get arrested for crippling? But the one thing you’ve got on her is that you actually won a match so… bravo. You’ve made it. Next stop? The WFWF World Championship. Oh wait, Malakai’s too dead to hand over the title to another nobody. Sorry, guess you’re sh*t out of luck.
Like I said Hayes I’ve done my research. I know you were trained by some of the so called top high flyers in that sh*thole you call home. I also know you’re one of these new school millennial types who pride yourself on being all caught up on your pop culture. Now call me an old man but that don’t really impress me. But it also doesn’t really surprise me. Because the fact is you belong in a comic shop a hell of a lot more than you belong in a wrestling ring.
You are not a wrestler Hayes. You’re a little boy who’s somehow got to hang with men and who hasn’t quite realised just how bad he’s going to get hurt. I mean look at you. You’re a scrawny piece of sh*t, aren’t you? Barely a muscle on you. You’re what? 5’10? 160? Now I know, size and weight don’t really matter, it’s all about your talent. But the fact is you ain’t really got much of that either. Sure you can flip about, but this business ain’t about flips, it’s about fights. The people who find success in this business are the ones who can fight no matter the opponent, no matter the stipulation, no matter the danger.
There aren’t many men more dangerous than me kid. I mean talk about trail by fire, am I right? See you can do your slips and show off all your pop culture knowledge all you want but when it comes down to facing me none of it matters. What matters is whether you’re willing to break you knuckles caving my skull in. What matters is if you’re willing to crack my ribs and snap my leg to stop me coming after you. What matters is whether you’ve got the balls to break my back if that’s what it takes to put me down for the three.
Because trust me kid, I’ll do all of that and more to you just to get the win. Fact is every single match I’m in means more to me than anything in your life has ever meant to you. You go along with your comics and your films and all that crap that you plaster on your gear but the only thing that matters to me is winning. And now that I don’t have sponsors to worry about or shareholders to appease I can finally let the demon loose. So if you think for a second that anything other than absolute brutality is going to get you through this match then you are clearly in the wrong business.
If me snapping your spine across my knee is what it takes to make sure you can’t dress up like something you’re not and make a f*cking fool out of yourself trying to fight people you ain’t got no business fighting? Then I’ll be the Bane to your Bat. Or maybe I’ll just take my bat to your head.
How’s that your pop culture?
Playtime is over boy. Put away your toys, cause it’s time the man of the house taught you a lesson in what it takes to survive in my ring. Hope you’ve got plenty of comics to read Hayes.
You’re gonna get awfully bored in that hospital bed otherwise.
I know, I know! It’s a good bloody joke ain’t it. As if the turn of a day can change anything about who you are. News flash people, that’s not how it works, and don’t pretend that just because there’s a new number at the end of the year that you’re suddenly going to become more motivated. Life’s not like that. If you couldn’t do it before, what makes you think you’ll do it now?
Oh I’m gonna get thin. Oh I’m gonna find love. Oh I’m gonna learn a new language. Blah blah blah.
The only thing you’re gonna do is call it quits after a week because you’re still the same loser you were before. Just because you say you’ve shed your skin doesn’t mean it’s not stuck to your shoe dragging you back.
I don’t do New Years resolutions, because I don’t need an excuse to succeed. When I say I’m going to do something then I damn well do it. And just because I fell short at Superbrawl, just because yes, I failed, does not mean that I’m about to quit. That WFWF World Championship belongs to me, and now that I’ve got nothing holding me back you better believe I’ll be coming after that title with more force than ever before.
You want to come up with a resolution to make yourself feel better? You go ahead. But don’t expect me to applaud or congratulate you, because you’ve not done anything worth congratulating. Saying you’re gonna do something ain’t the same as doing it. You want me to show you the difference between a resolution and a promise?
I will beat Austin Hayes. I will win the Supreme Gauntlet. I will be the new WFWF World Champion.
Those were promises, because those things will happen.
F*ck your resolution. You can quote me on that. Or not. I’m not the boss anymore.
I really don’t give a sh*t.
< *** >
Trace Demon Presents
Next
The Office of Trace Demon
January 3rd 2017; 13:18am
Trace Demon: You know, I thought I’d have more things to pack up.
The handover is complete. I am no longer in any way associated with the ownership of the WFWF. I’d like to say that I’m going to miss this place but let’s be straight with each other, offices f***ing drag.
Elinox Nix: Care to explain to me why I’m helping you after you left me standing like an idiot in that boardroom?
She’s still a little salty at the whole selling the WFWF thing if you can believe it.
Trace Demon: Because I’m still paying you to manage my sh*t?
Elinox Nix: Manage! Not pack boxes.
Trace Demon: One box! There is literally one box worth of stuff in here. I don’t know whether that’s more impressive on a minimalist level or sad on a sad level. Probably the latter.
I might not own the WFWF but I’ve still got plenty of other business ventures going on behind the scenes, thankfully all of the legal variety after that little incident with those sharks and the coastguard. I’ve told you that one right? Pretty sure I have. Anyway, like I was saying, other business ventures. Thanks to Elinor I don’t need to have any kind of active hand in any of them. I can just sit back and let the money roll in to fund the only thing that matters.
Hurting people en-route to my rightful place as WFWF World Champion. Gotta dream appropriately for your talent level, y’know.
Elinox Nix: I really don’t see why you needed help packing a single bloody box in the first place. You know you could have done this on your own, you’re not that incapable.
Trace Demon: I need the emotional support.
Elinox Nix: You don’t have any emotions.
Trace Demon: Harsh, and not true… lust is an emotion right? And rage? I feel both of them a lot.
Lila Sleater: Well this is just heartbreaking.
Trace Demon: For instance I’m feeling one of them right now. Not gonna tell you which one though, could be either. Or both. Who knows. What d’you want Lila?
She’s standing in the door looking awfully proud of herself, like she’s won something by outlasting me. She doesn’t know what she’s in for with the new boss. I’d almost feel sorry for her if she hadn’t spent the past year and change being an absolute massive pain in my ass.
Lila Sleater: Oh I just came to see you off. I thought it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to say goodbye after all the work we’ve done together.
Hah! Wait, why’re they looking… oh, I laughed out loud. Awkward.
Trace Demon: Elinor, why don’t you take the box down to the car and I’ll meet you there.
Elinox Nix: Why am I carrying the box? It’s your box! I have to interest in the box.
Trace Demon: For someone with no interest in the box you’re sure talking about the box a lot. Just take the damn thing will you?
She scowls but grabs the box on her way out. Not gonna lie, angry Elinor turns me on. A lot. Sadly that half-chub vanishes the moment I’m left alone with the closest thing to a nemesis I’ve got. Actually, thinking about it I’ve got a few nemeses. Couldn’t tell you why. Just attract people desperate to get their head kicked in I guess.
Trace Demon: So, is there where we finally f*ck?
Lila Sleater: Sorry, but no matter how big a d*ck you think you’ve got swinging down there, you’ve still got the wrong chromosome’s for me.
Trace Demon: Implying if you were into dudes you’ve be all over by giant swinging d*ck. Can I add that to my list of positive reviews? I reckon that’d look damn good on a poster. I can see it now. “Five stars!” “Award winning!” “Big swinging d*ck!”
Lila Sleater: You know, I’ll actually miss the little back and forth thing we had going. I mean sure, you were the devil, but you at least kept things interesting. Now what am I going to do with all my time? I suppose I could make something of the WFWF without any interference, that’d be fun.
Trace Demon: It’s cute you think you’ve won. You didn’t beat me Lila, you didn’t even get rid of me. I’ll still be around to spoil your fun.
Lila Sleater: Will you Trace? I mean, you’re just another employee now, what’s to stop me from say, terminating your contract whenever I feel like? I mean after all those attempts to get rid of you in the ring it’d be poetic if you were finally beaten by bureaucracy, don’t you think?
I erupt into laughter. I try to control it, honestly I do, but it’s just too sweet. Her cluelessness would be satisfying enough but it’s watching her smug grin slowly fade from her face that really does it for me. Takes me near a minute before I can reign myself in.
Trace Demon: You really think I wouldn’t have thought of that?
Lila Sleater: But you’ve got no power anymore, you’re just another-
Trace Demon: I’ve never been “just another” anything, it’d do you well to remember that. You think I’d really sell my company without making sure I come out of it smelling like roses? This is me you’re talking to Lila. You might not like me but don’t do yourself the disservice of acting so stupid.
She’s trying hard to hide the shame. I get it, she was so caught up in the idea that me selling the company meant she’d beaten me that she never thought about what me actually selling the company meant. She forgot who she was dealing with, just for one second. I rarely let that go.
Lila Sleater: Your contract-
Trace Demon: Is guaranteed and iron-clad as part of the terns for me selling. You can’t sack me, the new owner can’t sack me. I can do what I like, when I like and there’ll be no repercussions, at least from a business standpoint. On top of that I’ve got wage matching and a dozen other perks. For the rest of my career, however long I decide that is, I will always be the best paid professional wrestler in the business. There’s a reason it became known as Trace Demon money after all.
She’s seething, her anger building with every word. I get in close, savouring the taste of her hatred. If I was a lesser man, Samael Ahriman for example, I’d have popped prematurely already. Thankfully I’ve got stamina, and the sense to not impregnate chicks and have idiotic, suicidal and downright stupid children.
Trace Demon: You will never, ever get rid of me Lila. I will be around until you’re dying day doing everything in my power to make your life as miserable as possible. Or until you quit or get fired, whichever comes first.
She’s too angry to speak, probably doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of hearing her scream. Shame, the women I make scream usually come out of the experience… satisfied, to say the least. I lean against the doorframe, enjoying my turn to grin smugly.
Trace Demon: Don’t you just hate it when you meet someone so much smarter than you? No seriously, I’m asking, I’ve never experienced it before. Hah! Seeya Lila, enjoy the place while you can, I’ve got a feeling that when the new boss moves in you won’t be seeing much of it.
I head for the elevator, pausing for a moment to enjoy the stream of obscenities that explode from my old office the moment she thinks I’ve out of earshot. It’s sort of sad that I had to crush her little victory parade back there but the sooner she learns her lesson the better off her pathetic little life will be.
In the real world, the Villain usually wins.
< *** >
BLD
January 11th 2017; 9:11am
If there’s one thing I’m enjoying about my newfound freedom from corporate responsibility it’s the opportunity to eat my morning pancakes in peace again. Do I miss how cool it feels for someone to run through a list of important things West Wing style? Sure. Is it worth ruining the best pancakes in Los Angeles with the hell that is talking to people? Not f*cking likely.
Sera: Not seen you in here on your own in a while. Usually you’re with that scary looking woman.
Sera, the personification of the overly hot waitress. Every place has one. It’s what keeps pervs coming back to establishments they have no place establishing. I don’t consider myself in that category just to be clear. I’m a classy gentleman.
Trace Demon: What, you jealous?
Sera: I’m just a waitress, I don’t know what you mean. You want the usual?
Trace Demon: Aye.
She flashes me a smile and, I’m pretty certain, makes sure I notice her pert ass as she walks away. Sera’s what? Nineteen? Twenty maybe? Not sure why I have that effect on the younger women. Probably something to do with disappointing their fathers. Thank god for daddy issues.
Breakfast alone also gives me time to do something I’ve sadly been a little bit lax on recently. Scouting. I didn’t get this far without being prepared, and it’s time I started putting the work in outside the ring as well as inside it. I flick through the scouting document I’ve put together on Austin Hayes. It’s digital obviously, none of that backwards paper crap Tyme apparently liked to pull with Crowe. It’s the twenty first century man, start thinking like it.
Of course there’s not a lot of information out there on our little dorky friend Austin Hayes, so I’m forced to work with scraps. I take another bite out of my pancakes and let my subconscious fragment. You know that saying that the only good conversation is one you have with yourself? Well that’s rarely truer than when you’re always the smartest man in any conversation. Thankfully I’ve become very adept at talking to myself. That’s a worrying sign right? It feels like a worrying sign.
He’s got raw talent, could be a problem if we underestimate him. High flying ain’t exactly our fortay.
Nah but Brandon Bison ain’t exactly a real challenge. Like basing your judgment of a hockey player based on their performance against Montreal.
Aye. This’d be easier if he actually had some experience and we could get a grasp of his actual talent.
How the f*ck did he even get in this tournament in the first place? He don’t exactly look like a wrestler. Looks more like he belongs serving coffee in one of these hipster sh*tholes we avoid like the plague.
You seen the rest of the field in this tournament? Aside from a handful of guys they’ve not exactly called in the A grade players. Any tournament that’s got Dex and a twelve year old girl in is not one I care to be involved in.
Shame we ain’t got a choice, not if we want that title.
And we do. Very much so.
Sera flashes me another smile as she places the pancakes down in front of me, but doesn’t say anything. Everyone around here knows how seriously I take my breakfast, even hot teenagers who want to do something they’ll regret later. I dig in, savouring the taste almost as much as the peace and quiet.
He’s still out there y’know.
I glance out of the window from the corner of my eye, noticing a sh*tty broken down black Corolla.
I see him.
The cars been following me for two days solid, but never making any kind of move. If he was trying to rob me then he’d have tried it by now and come off worse. Same if he was trying to serve me papers. From the glances I’ve got from him he’s in his late-teens, too old to me the secret product of my loins. Trust me, I’ve done the math.
I finish up and throw a bill on the table, as well as my business card for Sera. I’d love to stay and convince her to do something utterly degrading with me but I’m sick of being followed. I was intrigued at first, now I’m just bored.
I head out the door, the guy noticing a little too late. He ducks down behind the wheel anyway. Pathetic. I make out like I’m getting into my car but instead reach for the metal baseball bat I’ve kept with me since it popped up two weeks back. Not exactly sure where it came from but may as well put it to good use.
I turn suddenly and swing the bat. With a crack his wing mirror flies across the parking lot. His head pops up, eyes wide like a deer about to get mowed down. A second swing shatters his window, the kid managing to get his hands up to stop himself losing an eye from the glass. I notice Sera and a couple of the other staff staring out at the scene, but wave them off. They know me well enough by now to not even think about calling the cops. Wouldn’t matter if they did. You know how much money I’ve got? The cops do.
Tyler Draven: What the hell man!
I yank open the door and drag him out, throwing him to the floor, getting my first good look at my embarrassingly bad stalker. Definitely in his late-teens. Black hair, a bit too grunge for my liking, and wearing a little bit too much denim as well. I know stalkers aren’t notoriously fashionable but still, I expect a higher class of criminal.
I push the bat to his chin. There’s that embarrassing wide eyed look again.
Trace Demon: You got three to tell me who you are.
Tyler Draven: Man I-
Trace Demon: One.
Tyler Draven: I’m just looking-
Trace Demon: Two.
Tyler Draven: Wait wait wait!
The bat goes up.
Trace Demon: Thr-
Tyler Draven: I want you to train me!
I stop mid-swing, letting the bat fall to my side. Is he f*cking kidding me?
Trace Demon: So you stalked me for two days, followed me around like a damn weirdo all to ask me if I’d train you? You, somebody who I’ve never met and who has made a really bad first impression?
Tyler Draven: Pretty much.
I stare at him, amazed at the idiocracy that flows through todays youth. The kid looks like he’s stepped out of a bloody Papa Roach music video. Black floppy hair, black top, ripped skinny jeans which make me sick to be anywhere near.
Also if you don’t know who Papa Roach are then you’re too young to be reading this and you make me feel old.
Trace Demon: No.
I chuck the bat into my car and pull out the switchblade I keep for very special occasions like this. Also because I’ve met a lot of creepy people in my time and my drug addled mine still isn’t quite sure which of them are real or not. The kid flinches but I spare him. His tire isn’t so lucky.
Trace Demon: Try following me now dumbass.
I climb into my car, the kid still on the floor, shocked. As I drive off I’m fairly certain of one thing.
This kid is never going to pop up again. That’s a definite, right?
< *** >
The Langham Hotel, Chicago
January 14th 2017; 8:44pm
I let Elinor choose my hotels. Now you’d think I’d look a little out of place in a place like this, but luxury hotels like this take bookings from rock stars, actors, politicians. Next to them I’m damn right normal. Doesn’t stop me getting glances from the help when I walk in though. Might have something to do with me not having to dress like a businessman anymore. Most of the people round here dress up and keep their dirt on the inside. Me? I’m not really in the mood for covering up anymore.
Trace Demon: Booking in.
The chick at the desk side eyes me, probably finding it hard to believe I can even afford somewhere like this. Half temped to tip her a few hundred straight down that cleavage she’s purposefully showing off, but poor performance should not be rewarded no matter how much boob you’re showing.
Receptionist: Name?
Trace Demon: Demon.
Receptionist: Excuse me?
Trace Demon: Why, what’d you do?
She looks at me again. I tap the top of the monitor. No chance she’s getting that tip now.
Receptionist: Oh, you’re actually… sorry Mr. Demon. You have a booking for… the penthouse suite. Okay… I’ll just get one of the guys to take your bags.
Trace Demon: No you won’t. Just give me the card for the door and I’ll sort myself out. What? You got a problem with that?
Receptionist: No… of course not sir.
I snatch the card out of her hand. Didn’t intend to make the whole bag thing a well, thing, but any chance you get right? Plus I’ve only got the one bag, the duffel over my shoulder, don’t want any weirdo’s grubby paw prints over it.
My phone rings as I hit the stairs. Anders. Weird, I know we buried the hatchet, a f*ck-ton of money will do that, but we’re still not exactly on speaking terms.
Trace Demon: What d’you want Anders, you finding it hard to spend all-
Jason Anders: Is she with you?
Panicked. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. I spent over a year with Anders at my side, threw pretty much all of my worst mood swings at him and never managed to get him this freaked out. Whatever this is, it’s bad.
Trace Demon: Who?
Jason Anders: Anna! My daughter!
Trace Demon: Why would she-
Jason Anders: Don’t give me the crap! I know you’ve still been seeing her! Is she with you!
I’ll admit, I haven’t quite cut off all ties with Anders’ daughter. You don’t give up legs like that, let me tell you, especially when they’re attached to someone so good at acting innocent until you hit the bedroom. Still, not a fan of the accusatory tone.
Trace Demon: Anders I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’m in Chicago for the show, why-
Jason Anders: She’s missing! She’s not answering her phone, her texts, her college roommate hasn’t seen her in five days!
Trace Demon: Five days? Man she’s probably just on a bender somewhere.
Jason Anders: She’s not you! Nobody else is you! People don’t go out on five day benders on their own!
I’ve been sober for two years and still people can’t get over the whole drug and alcohol addict thing. Weak.
Trace Demon: I haven’t seen her in weeks Anders, if I do I’ll let you know, probably.
Jason Anders: What do you me-
I hang up, bored of the whole thing. Am I meant to give a sh*t about some girl I’m sleeping with just because she’s missing? Does it even count as missing at five days? When I was nineteen I hadn’t spoke to my mother in a year. Did she report me as missing? Wait, Im forgetting my mother hated me. That’s probably the difference.
Anders phones again, but I’m at my hotel room door and can’t be bothered with him. I turn my phone off, swipe the card and push the door open.
Anna Anders: Hey Trace.
What were the chances of this. Anna Anders sitting in my hotel room before I’d even booked in. I chuck my bag on the floor, eyeing her suspiciously. And in general. Someone explain how a guy like Anders has a daughter so hot? I mean she swears she’s his.
Trace Demon: How’d you get in here before me?
Anna Anders: Have you see my legs?
Trace Demon: Fair point. You want to tell me why you’ve vanished on your dad for the past five days? He called me, if you need proof of how worried he is. Why are you here Anna?
She rises, approaches me, trying hard to seduce me. I brush past her. And here I thought I was done with power plays.
Anna Anders: I need help.
Trace Demon: And you can’t ask your dad why? Is it money? He’s got money now.
Anna Anders: This isn’t the kind of thing you ask your dad about.
Aww balls.
Her hands goes to her stomach, palm rested against it.
Aww sh*t.
Anna Anders: Trace…
Aww f*ck.
Anna Anders: I’m pregnant.
Trace Demon: Aww f**cking sh*t balls.
< *** >
So here we are. The first show of the Supreme Gauntlet. A tournament featuring ten of the very best wrestlers in the WFWF. A tournament so important that every single person on this roster wants to be a part of it. So who am I facing for this oh so important first match?
Drakz? Kyzer? Phillip Schneider? A McGurk? Reverend Shadow? No… not even close. They couldn’t even get me Johnny f*cking Michaels.
Austin Hayes. Now to be brutally honest with you before this match was announced I didn’t have a damn clue who you were. I don’t even remember hiring you. Did I hire you? Or did you just turn up pretending you work here now? I mean somebody brought a twelve year old girl into the tournament and don’t give me any of that sh*t that she’s older now. That’s not how the world works. Sense? We do use that around here y’know.
However you did it somehow you got a shot here. And you grabbed it with both hands. I won’t pretend I didn’t go back and watch your match. I won’t do you that disservice. I’ve been studying you Austin, I’m not taking you lightly. I watched that match and… well, I wish I could say I was impressed. Honestly I do, because at least then I could say you deserve to be here. But seriously, it’s Brandon Bison, you’re not exactly proving anything by beating him. Nah Hayes, the real proving ground starts right now. And I don’t think you’re ready.
I also won’t pretend to understand why our new owner decided to put you in this tournament. But then you’re not the only one who’s here just making up the numbers. Did I mention the twelve year old girl I’ve gonna get arrested for crippling? But the one thing you’ve got on her is that you actually won a match so… bravo. You’ve made it. Next stop? The WFWF World Championship. Oh wait, Malakai’s too dead to hand over the title to another nobody. Sorry, guess you’re sh*t out of luck.
Like I said Hayes I’ve done my research. I know you were trained by some of the so called top high flyers in that sh*thole you call home. I also know you’re one of these new school millennial types who pride yourself on being all caught up on your pop culture. Now call me an old man but that don’t really impress me. But it also doesn’t really surprise me. Because the fact is you belong in a comic shop a hell of a lot more than you belong in a wrestling ring.
You are not a wrestler Hayes. You’re a little boy who’s somehow got to hang with men and who hasn’t quite realised just how bad he’s going to get hurt. I mean look at you. You’re a scrawny piece of sh*t, aren’t you? Barely a muscle on you. You’re what? 5’10? 160? Now I know, size and weight don’t really matter, it’s all about your talent. But the fact is you ain’t really got much of that either. Sure you can flip about, but this business ain’t about flips, it’s about fights. The people who find success in this business are the ones who can fight no matter the opponent, no matter the stipulation, no matter the danger.
There aren’t many men more dangerous than me kid. I mean talk about trail by fire, am I right? See you can do your slips and show off all your pop culture knowledge all you want but when it comes down to facing me none of it matters. What matters is whether you’re willing to break you knuckles caving my skull in. What matters is if you’re willing to crack my ribs and snap my leg to stop me coming after you. What matters is whether you’ve got the balls to break my back if that’s what it takes to put me down for the three.
Because trust me kid, I’ll do all of that and more to you just to get the win. Fact is every single match I’m in means more to me than anything in your life has ever meant to you. You go along with your comics and your films and all that crap that you plaster on your gear but the only thing that matters to me is winning. And now that I don’t have sponsors to worry about or shareholders to appease I can finally let the demon loose. So if you think for a second that anything other than absolute brutality is going to get you through this match then you are clearly in the wrong business.
If me snapping your spine across my knee is what it takes to make sure you can’t dress up like something you’re not and make a f*cking fool out of yourself trying to fight people you ain’t got no business fighting? Then I’ll be the Bane to your Bat. Or maybe I’ll just take my bat to your head.
How’s that your pop culture?
Playtime is over boy. Put away your toys, cause it’s time the man of the house taught you a lesson in what it takes to survive in my ring. Hope you’ve got plenty of comics to read Hayes.
You’re gonna get awfully bored in that hospital bed otherwise.
I dont know good luck 
