Post by Rated R on Apr 25, 2009 12:32:08 GMT -5
The video opens on static, the sound of fumbling can be heard, followed by a crashing sound, somebody shouts out – “Watch it with the damn camera” – before the screen goes dark. It slowly fades in on the office of Trace Demon, where the man itself is sitting behind a large wooden desk. A bottle of Tequila stands in the middle of the table, a small shot glass placed next to it.
Do I look okay?
You look fine sir.
Trace does not look okay. His hair, while messy, has a sense of perfection about it; large black bags can be seen clearly beneath his eyes. He hasn’t slept for days. His black suit is a mess, his tie undone, and his shirt creased. A manic look creeps across his face, a disturbing focus can be seen in his eyes. His fingers tap on the table in rhythm. He may look like a mess, but he wears it well.
Make sure that camera’s on me.
Trace opens the bottle of Tequila, pouring a shot. The light bounces off the liquid as it splashes elegantly into the glass. Trace drinks the shot in one go, and slams the glass down onto the table. He stares directly into the camera.
I thought I’d do this personally, give my reasoning and answer some questions, because who knows where I’ll be this time next week. More than likely in prison, after I murder my opponents in the War Games match. I mean, I’m going to hurt them, rip them apart, tear their heads off and shove them on a pole. Then I’m going to...
Um, sir.
What?
Don’t you think we should keep things within reason?
You don’t need to worry; I’m not going to pull a Christian Bale.
He chuckles to himself, and then pours himself another shot of Tequila, downing it moments later.
Three teams inside a monstrous steel structure. A number one contender spot for whoever gets the deciding win. But none of that matters, this match is simply about revenge, about showing those losers of the WFWF that unless you follow my rules, you will walk away bloody and battered.
Trace opens his desk, and spreads out three pictures onto the desk in front of him. The camera zooms in, showing that each picture represents one of the three teams participating in the War Games match. Trace points to the first picture, one of the Anointed.
Whatever you want to call them, the Anointed has been a thorn in my side since they turned up in my company. All four men think they’re more important than authority, that the regime has messed them around one too many times, but I can guarantee that if they think they’ve been messed around before, then they’ve obviously not seen the full force of my fury yet.
Trace pours himself another shot, but this time doesn’t drink it immediately. Instead, he pulls a lighter out of his pocket, and holds it in front of his face. He flicks it open, staring at the fire that dances from it, the reds and yellows jumping and skipping around, free but still confined to the cruelty of their confines. Trace flicks the lighter shut, places it on the table, before drinking the shot.
The Anointed came here, into my company, and thought it was a good idea to begin causing trouble for me, to begin messing with my shows and interfering in my plans. I don’t care that they are here, they’re controversial, and I like that, but when a peasant begins to think he is more important than the king, then that peasant must be executed. The problem must be cut off at its source, the revolution stopped before it has a chance to begin. That is what I will do during War Games. I will cut off the head of the beast, and I will hold it up to its followers, and put them back in their place.
Trace drops the picture of the Anointed into a bin placed in view of the camera. He turns his attention to the second picture, that of Yukio Blaze, Wayne McGurk, Kurt Burton and Reverend Shadow.
McGurk, Burton, Shadow. I’ve never had a problem with any of these men. They’ve done what they are paid to do, wrestle. But recently, they too have been having thoughts above their station. Kurt Burton, you took a problem you have with my associate Thunder, and you made it my problem. I don’t care about the history between you and Thunder, or between McGurk or Thunder or any other problems you have with anybody else, but for whatever reason, you thought that it would be a smart idea to align yourselves with that loser Yukio Blaze. That’s when you became my problem.
Trace pours himself yet another shot, drinking this one quicker than the last. He’s halfway through the bottle now, but shows no signs of intoxication. Drinking had always been Trace’s third passion, right behind wrestling and women.
And of course, how could I forget Yukio Blaze. Hell, who am I kidding, he’s very forgettable, just ask any woman he’s ever been with. Yukio, I don’t know what the hell you were smoking when you decided to take my Regime on, but it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that you’ve taken things this far. You’d think that I’d respect someone who kept coming back after every beating he received, but I don’t. I just think you’re a stupid delusional man who doesn’t realise when he’s beat. But you’ll have to realise it soon Yukio, because I’d hate to have to put your body in the ground without knowing that you’d learnt you lesson.
Trace picks up the photo and throws it into the same bin, pouring himself another shot, drinking it, and picking up the third and final photo. The camera zooms in to focus on the photo, which shows Trace Demon, Thunder, Saku, and the Man with no name.
Then there’s my team, personally assembled by myself for this job before me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time in this company, is that you can’t truly trust anybody, because they all have their separate agendas, they’re all out for themselves, so what I had to decide was who could help themselves by helping me. Thunder, the World Heavyweight Champion, was an easy choice. If there’s one person who I know I can count on is the man who has the most to lose. Then there is Saku. We’ve never been the best of friends, in fact, I remember our war over the National Championship. But Saku is a man who understands how to get ahead. He understands that he doesn’t want me on his bad side, a lesson that our opponents have yet to learn. And finally, there’s my trump card, the unnamed man. There’s been a lot of deliberation on who it is behind that mask, but I can promise you that it doesn’t matter who is behind the mask, only that he works for me, and that he will destroy anybody who takes him on. But right now, his sights are set on one unfortunate individual.
Trace pours himself another shot, and downs it in one.
Bad luck Mr. Blaze.
Trace throws the photo in the bin, before pouring the rest of the tequila in as well. He flicks the lighter open, and the camera zooms in on his face, a sick grin spreading across it.
This war will not end until every single adversary is buried six feet beneath the ground, and at War Games, that is exactly what I intend to do.
Trace drops the lighter into the bin, and it erupts in flames. The camera zooms in on the fire, and the face of Yukio Blaze can be seen burning. The screen goes back to static. Trace’s voice can still be heard, but no visual is shown.
Send it to every news site, and a special copy to everyone involved in the match. Let them see what they’ve got themselves into. I need another bottle of Tequila.
The screen goes completely black.
Do I look okay?
You look fine sir.
Trace does not look okay. His hair, while messy, has a sense of perfection about it; large black bags can be seen clearly beneath his eyes. He hasn’t slept for days. His black suit is a mess, his tie undone, and his shirt creased. A manic look creeps across his face, a disturbing focus can be seen in his eyes. His fingers tap on the table in rhythm. He may look like a mess, but he wears it well.
Make sure that camera’s on me.
Trace opens the bottle of Tequila, pouring a shot. The light bounces off the liquid as it splashes elegantly into the glass. Trace drinks the shot in one go, and slams the glass down onto the table. He stares directly into the camera.
I thought I’d do this personally, give my reasoning and answer some questions, because who knows where I’ll be this time next week. More than likely in prison, after I murder my opponents in the War Games match. I mean, I’m going to hurt them, rip them apart, tear their heads off and shove them on a pole. Then I’m going to...
Um, sir.
What?
Don’t you think we should keep things within reason?
You don’t need to worry; I’m not going to pull a Christian Bale.
He chuckles to himself, and then pours himself another shot of Tequila, downing it moments later.
Three teams inside a monstrous steel structure. A number one contender spot for whoever gets the deciding win. But none of that matters, this match is simply about revenge, about showing those losers of the WFWF that unless you follow my rules, you will walk away bloody and battered.
Trace opens his desk, and spreads out three pictures onto the desk in front of him. The camera zooms in, showing that each picture represents one of the three teams participating in the War Games match. Trace points to the first picture, one of the Anointed.
Whatever you want to call them, the Anointed has been a thorn in my side since they turned up in my company. All four men think they’re more important than authority, that the regime has messed them around one too many times, but I can guarantee that if they think they’ve been messed around before, then they’ve obviously not seen the full force of my fury yet.
Trace pours himself another shot, but this time doesn’t drink it immediately. Instead, he pulls a lighter out of his pocket, and holds it in front of his face. He flicks it open, staring at the fire that dances from it, the reds and yellows jumping and skipping around, free but still confined to the cruelty of their confines. Trace flicks the lighter shut, places it on the table, before drinking the shot.
The Anointed came here, into my company, and thought it was a good idea to begin causing trouble for me, to begin messing with my shows and interfering in my plans. I don’t care that they are here, they’re controversial, and I like that, but when a peasant begins to think he is more important than the king, then that peasant must be executed. The problem must be cut off at its source, the revolution stopped before it has a chance to begin. That is what I will do during War Games. I will cut off the head of the beast, and I will hold it up to its followers, and put them back in their place.
Trace drops the picture of the Anointed into a bin placed in view of the camera. He turns his attention to the second picture, that of Yukio Blaze, Wayne McGurk, Kurt Burton and Reverend Shadow.
McGurk, Burton, Shadow. I’ve never had a problem with any of these men. They’ve done what they are paid to do, wrestle. But recently, they too have been having thoughts above their station. Kurt Burton, you took a problem you have with my associate Thunder, and you made it my problem. I don’t care about the history between you and Thunder, or between McGurk or Thunder or any other problems you have with anybody else, but for whatever reason, you thought that it would be a smart idea to align yourselves with that loser Yukio Blaze. That’s when you became my problem.
Trace pours himself yet another shot, drinking this one quicker than the last. He’s halfway through the bottle now, but shows no signs of intoxication. Drinking had always been Trace’s third passion, right behind wrestling and women.
And of course, how could I forget Yukio Blaze. Hell, who am I kidding, he’s very forgettable, just ask any woman he’s ever been with. Yukio, I don’t know what the hell you were smoking when you decided to take my Regime on, but it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that you’ve taken things this far. You’d think that I’d respect someone who kept coming back after every beating he received, but I don’t. I just think you’re a stupid delusional man who doesn’t realise when he’s beat. But you’ll have to realise it soon Yukio, because I’d hate to have to put your body in the ground without knowing that you’d learnt you lesson.
Trace picks up the photo and throws it into the same bin, pouring himself another shot, drinking it, and picking up the third and final photo. The camera zooms in to focus on the photo, which shows Trace Demon, Thunder, Saku, and the Man with no name.
Then there’s my team, personally assembled by myself for this job before me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time in this company, is that you can’t truly trust anybody, because they all have their separate agendas, they’re all out for themselves, so what I had to decide was who could help themselves by helping me. Thunder, the World Heavyweight Champion, was an easy choice. If there’s one person who I know I can count on is the man who has the most to lose. Then there is Saku. We’ve never been the best of friends, in fact, I remember our war over the National Championship. But Saku is a man who understands how to get ahead. He understands that he doesn’t want me on his bad side, a lesson that our opponents have yet to learn. And finally, there’s my trump card, the unnamed man. There’s been a lot of deliberation on who it is behind that mask, but I can promise you that it doesn’t matter who is behind the mask, only that he works for me, and that he will destroy anybody who takes him on. But right now, his sights are set on one unfortunate individual.
Trace pours himself another shot, and downs it in one.
Bad luck Mr. Blaze.
Trace throws the photo in the bin, before pouring the rest of the tequila in as well. He flicks the lighter open, and the camera zooms in on his face, a sick grin spreading across it.
This war will not end until every single adversary is buried six feet beneath the ground, and at War Games, that is exactly what I intend to do.
Trace drops the lighter into the bin, and it erupts in flames. The camera zooms in on the fire, and the face of Yukio Blaze can be seen burning. The screen goes back to static. Trace’s voice can still be heard, but no visual is shown.
Send it to every news site, and a special copy to everyone involved in the match. Let them see what they’ve got themselves into. I need another bottle of Tequila.
The screen goes completely black.
