Post by provocateur on Oct 18, 2019 10:37:07 GMT -5
A familiar voice called out from the darkness.
Ravaged.
Defeated.
And yet, happy?
“My name is Arthur Pleasant.
I am… a liar.
I am a… practiced… and VENERABLE liar.
I am a practiced and venerable liar who holds the delicate masses in the palms of my hands.
I am a practiced and venerable liar who holds the delicate masses in the palms of my hands… with NOTHING to lose.
You know what that also makes me?
Dangerous.
So… so… fucking… dangerous.
I'm also bored, as it happens.
No more superfluous aspirations like winning a tournament. Shucks.
No more pressure on running roughshod on a pathetic roster of talent immediately after signing on the dotted line. Darn.
No more bullshit rhetoric about facing Smith Jones at HellKore. Well, fuck it all and woe is me. The world is ending.
Thank… God.
Because… here's the deal.
Smitty? Champ?
… friends?
Ermmm… maybe.
We’ll get there. But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.
First, you might as well call me Jigsaw because I want to play a game.
And if you’re any good at it? Well, then maybe we can be afterwards.”
As those lingering words echoed into the nothingness of our Netflix stream, the camera faded into the crowns of five individuals from a difficult-to-capture ceiling point of view. This impressive angle showed us five figures, all unmoving, holding what looked to be colorful little barrels of dice. From right to left, the colors were purple, blue, pink, brown, and then green. Underneath each one was a stiff right hand -- more like a fleshy placeholder than resembling anything human. The effect of which made one person holding said barrel in his left hand stand out from the rest. Almost like a lone domino that wouldn’t have dared to dive between a sea of its fallen comrades.
Suddenly, that very left hand (one of a malish quality), rattled the green barrel of dice. Hm. Interesting. Okay, sure, let’s see where this goes. Noticeable scars traveled up the forearm until they disappeared underneath an unbuttoned orange and grey flannel button-up sleeve. Ghostly wisps of smoke floated up towards the overhead camera, giving it a natural dirty filter. A lone spotlight shone down upon this strange quartet, leaving the room’s perimeter to perish quietly in the shadows.
“I love this game. Ever play it?”, said Arthur, having already spilled the barrel’s ivory contents onto the green felt of what looked like a worn and tattered poker table.
“Though we are playing on a poker table, I’m not actually talking about poker. Poker’s fucking boring. People are so easily manipulated that it’s hard… nigh… as impossible as a Whopper, not to win. Probably why I’ve been banned from most of the casinos all up and down the midwest and northeast. Heh. Whatevs. Least I still got the Excalibur!”
Coiling a set of snake-like lips into a disturbing smirk with his tongue suctioning against his cheek, Arthur silently enumerated the dots on the dice with his beady, sinister, and -- let’s call a spade a spade here -- psychotic, dark brown eyes.
“No, Sm-”, he stops himself immediately. “Well, respect where respect is due here. May I call you Smitty? Everyone else seems to say it with with such admiration, as well as patronization, that I really can’t tell what you’d prefer. Since you like to spell it out for us like we’re a bunch of Jerry’s Kids every fucking time you’re in front of a camera, I s’pose I could just call you the APW World Heavyweight WRESTLING Champion! It’s a mouth full, (that’s what she said), but let’s try it anyway.”
He held his hand up at a mannequin that sat to his left. It was as if Arthur believed this lifeless form had spoken out of turn. Riiiight. The albino-esque fiberglass coating gave the mannequin’s plastic skin a striking gleam; as if it, or ‘he’ to be more accurate, was stolen right from the showcase window of an Abercrombie and Fitch. The name Clyde had been cut into a spot right above the twenty-pack of abs he was blessed with. The brown barrel remained unmoving in his grasp -- probably due to being fused into the mannequin’s skin by what could only be a welder’s torch.
“No, APW World Heavyweight WRESTLING Champion. My good pal Clyde here agrees with me that I’m talking about a much different game than poker. I’m talking about… liar’s dice. A game much more suited to someone’s, shall we say… innate…yes, innate ability to deceive and distort reality. It’s quite fun, once you get the hang of it. Isn’t that right, Doris?”
Arthur leaned in and looked directly across the table. It was another mannequin. Doris was adorned in a dramatically pink bow-tie floppy hat with a pair of Jackie Kennedy’s duct taped to her porcelain facade. Lipstick had been smeared all over her lips like Michael J. Fox had been applying it while riding an ATV through a field of potholes. The pink barrel had been half-melted by the same flame that had mutated the brown one.
In fact, as the second camera panned around the room, every colored barrel had been melded into the mannequin’s hand that held it.
“Why, Doris…”, he said, bulging his eyes out as big as he could, changing the style of his voice to that of a British person (it sounded Mexican, quite honestly), “... that’s highly inappropriate. Perhaps latah, Mamacita?”
Definitely Mexican.
“Just in case you’re not familiar with it, let me give you a quick lesson. It’s a dice game of high probability. And lying… obviously. Something that even someone as beautifully smug and self-aware as you are would be familiar with. So, what you do is this. You roll your dice...”
Arthur paused and proceeded to turn his barrel upside down and slammed it against the poker table. A thick(ish) piece of cardboard that had been acting as a makeshift table blind rattled a bit, causing a miniature keychain Funko Pop of Dean Wolf to wave back and forth on the filthy syringe it had been hanging from. The piece of cardboard had wild black marker strokes painted all over it as it stood upright against a broken, rust-bathed toaster.
“... and turn the barrel upside down. Now, take a quick look at the five dice you have in front of you. But here’s the thing… don’t spend too much time doing it. See, it is essential to have a good memory and a certain cognizance about you in order to capture the finite details that others may ignore. Otherwise? Your opponents will see right through you.”
A laugh escaped his lips and echoed across the room.
“So, once you’ve seen your dice? Now it’s time to read the room and fucking play. Right at the gate you got a couple of options at your disposal. Option A, you could start off by saying there are 3 eights when you really have 4 eights. Doesn’t really matter though because it’s not about what YOU have… it’s about what the pool has. Option 2, if you’re feeling ballsy enough, you could amp up the fibbing a degree or two and say there are 0 eights in the pool. Now, THAT wouldn’t be recommended since, as you can see, everyone has five dice in their barrels. Someone’s BOUND to have at least 1 eight in their set. Right? Right. And the more people you have playing? The bigger chance that someone will call you out on your bullshit. Or, for Option Artichoke, you could even say there are 12 eights in the pool when you DON’T EVEN HAVE A SINGLE FUCKING EIGHT TO BEGIN WITH. Crazy, right!?”
Arthur fist bumped an African fellow to his right, holding the blue barrel. Taking a page from Clyde’s book, this mannequin was also bare-chested and had an obscene amount of abs. Fucking body shaming, much? Geez. Unlike Clyde’s knife treatment though, the name Paul had been burned into blackened letters across his chest. But the fun didn’t stop there, oh no! He winked to an Asian woman sitting to Paul’s right. She held, by process of elimination, the purple barrel. Color-coordinating purple marker had been scrawled across her forehead and crossed out giving the nameTsukiko. Across her throat, written in dried blood, was the name Wendy.
“So, at this point… a bid it goes around, clockwise, to each player.”
Thinking for a moment, he continued.
“I’m feeling cute. Might call 5 sevens later, I dunno. Paul here? I think he said there’s 6 sevens. Oh, what’s that Wendy!? You’re calling Paul a lair!? Well, it’s time to show ‘em, folks!”
Arthur got up and looked at each player’s imaginary dice that they just pretended to reveal. I was wondering how this was gonna work. Oh boy. With the wave of his right hand, embers scattered and smoldered to the wet floor like fireflies on a humid summer night.
“Huh. How about that. I have 3 sevens. Paul’s got 2 sevens. Wendy has no sevens!! Oh… it’s up to you Clyde to put this fucking bitch in her place.”
He waited a moment for dramatic effect.
“Clyde has 4 sevens!! What a turn of events!! That means Wendy has to remove one of her dice since she called bullshit on someone who wasn’t bullshitting.”
Arthur’s smile faded. Consequently, Arthur sighed and put his cigarette out on the green felt, burning a hold into its frayed texture.
“Poor Wendy. I… know what that's like. I called bullshit on someone last week and I lost, too. Tough break. But you know what? The game is still going and though I may have lost one of my dice my chances are still pretty fucking good at winning this thing.”
Looking into the camera lens for several moments, he licked his lips. It was like he had been savoring the thoughts that rattled around his skull like the dice in one of those barrels.
“Life imitates art. Art imitates life. Etcetera, etcetera. Isn’t is amazing how that works, Smitty?”
Arthur ripped upwards from his seat without any sort of warning and roundhouse kicked Paul so hard that his big brown plastic head popped off his faux body. It fell to the flooded floor with an emphatic squish. If their mouths could move, the others in attendance for tonight’s unique gathering would be absolutely agape. Looking around at the rest of the players all situated around the table, Arthur nodded.
“I’m sorry, Clyde. I know he was your friend and all, but it had to be done. I just… didn’t like the cut of his jib.”
Shrugging, he continued.
“Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Arthur Pleasant, and it’s so nice to finally meet you. But, at this point, let’s cut the shit. What I just instilled upon your self-absorbed, amoeba-sized brain is what the cool kids these days call a metaphor. Not just for you, but for the other dumb-witted, twenty-one flavored scoops of pure fucking afterbirth that are watching this with baited breath. You see, I am a liar, Smitty. Z$ saw it. And like the pro that he is, he took advantage of it. If only Jaice could have opened his eyes a little better... then maybe… dot dot dot. But now? The truth is out… and so am I.
Out of the tournament.
Out of patience.
And out… FOR THE BLOOD THAT I AM FUCKING OWED.
Or am I lying again?
Say I'm telling the truth here. That means... for every malevolent shot I took and was denied a receipt for? No thanks to that squeamish little cunt-face they call Spanky, who simply couldn't handle the sight, sound, and scent of flesh gnashing against flesh? It’s coming straight for that fancy mush of yours, Smitty. Whether you like violence or prefer the mat wrestling… whether you’re feelin’ like a wrestler or feelin’ like a fighter come Monday Night… I’ll be your huckleberry, bitch. You can bank on it.”
He chuckled.
“Don’t think for one single, solitary second that I didn’t hear it, Smitty. Because I did… EVERYONE did. It being, of course, that sweet sigh of relief. It was deafening, quite honestly. Because, be honest with yourself now… I’m the one guy… you did… not… want… to defend that title against. For a lot of reasons. None more paramount than the fact that you’ve already beaten my best friend. And… let’s face it. He was the ONLY credible threat left in the tournament not named ME. But when that bell was called and I was left looking like a John Travolta meme as to why the match was ending when I was not pinned or submitted? Sweet, sweet relief for you, Smitty. Deservedly so.
Rest assured, I will stop at nothing to get the blood that I am owed. The fact that we meet WITHOUT the title being on the line? It simplifies things, really. Because now I can humble you and LET you keep your trinket… which only further serves to exacerbate the embarrassment of defeat. Deep down, or perhaps right there on the surface, you know to a fucking certainty that what you might have seen thus far pales in comparison to what I am actually capable of. And you don’t have to take me at my word. No, no. As I said, I am an admitted liar.
All you have to do is ask Doc.
Or Jaice.
Or Zebediah ZackMorris.
Or that little pissant ref, even.
Because I am not to be trifled with.
And after last week? Brother, I’m feeling a bit… trifled.”
He placed his hands down around Wendy’s nipple-less breasts. Closing his eyes, he moaned ever so slightly.
“Think about it, Smitty. What would it mean for you to win this match? Nothing. For you, it’s just another match until you have to defend your title. It means even less than your frivolous Champion Vs Champion match that you lost. You beat me and… nothing changes. You’re still the APW World Heavyweight Wrestling Champion. Sure, I may fall down the ladder a bit and probably end up begging the powers that be for a dark match on HorrorKore. But ask yourself this, friend. What would it mean for you if I win this match?
Everything.
Abso-fucking-lutely… everything.
You remain at the top. But… think about it. Two in a row? Yeesh.
Credibility. Window. Out the.
The most marked man in all of APW suddenly has an asterisk next to his name. He goes from the well respected legend… to the beatable one. Me? It doesn’t matter. Two in a row for me and, like fucking magic, I’m still the man to be feared around here. Nothing to live up to when you’re dead meat spoiling in the gallows.
And that very point right there? THAT is what makes me so dangerous.
Because standing toe to toe with a man who does not feel pity or remorse on top of having nothing to lose… is a winless situation for everyone else.
But if you refuse to believe that? Then you’re as blind as a mannequin.”
Arthur placed his hands across Wendy’s eyes and rested his head atop her dome. Withdrawing a hand from her eyes, he then placed it on her cheek. Then, with a simple tug of his right arm, he twisted her head off. Watching it fall to the inches-deep water of the flooded basement, Arthur cocked his head. He knelt down next to Wendy’s hollowed out cranium. Studying his kill.
“I’m going to enjoy this more than I should.
The pain.
The horror.
Those shocked gasps of relief slowly evolving into an aspirated choking of disbelief.
It’s all so gift-wrapped for me that I want to question what I accomplished to earn this...
… but I won’t. A commissioner of chaos never stares a gift corpse in the mouth.
So I’ll take it.
And I’ll run with it.
And I'll have fun with it.
Because a provocateur never questions the blood on his hands.
Nor does he notice the rubble that surrounds him.
So whadda ya say, bitch? Let’s get a little Metal, shall we!? Hahaha... mm.”
Static. Followed by… elevator music!?
The sound coming from a voicemail put on speaker immediately supplanted the white noise.
“You have… one unheard message in your mailbox. First new message:
“Good morning, Arthur. This is Doctor [redacted] and I’m just calling to check on you. You’ve missed two appointments in a row now and I’m just checking to see if you are okay.
To answer your question when you stormed out of my office? I do indeed have Netflix.
Saw it, Arthur. I saw everything. I’m glad the referee stopped the match. I’ve seen that look in your eyes before and I know what was about to happen.
Under no circumstances can you let it happen again. I can’t help you if you --REDACTED-- again. It’ll be out of my hands completely.
Um… please call me back at --REDACTED-- once you listen to this.
Take care of yourself, Arthur.”
"To save this message, press one. To delete this message, pr-
Message deleted."
Fade to black.
Ravaged.
Defeated.
And yet, happy?
“My name is Arthur Pleasant.
I am… a liar.
I am a… practiced… and VENERABLE liar.
I am a practiced and venerable liar who holds the delicate masses in the palms of my hands.
I am a practiced and venerable liar who holds the delicate masses in the palms of my hands… with NOTHING to lose.
You know what that also makes me?
Dangerous.
So… so… fucking… dangerous.
I'm also bored, as it happens.
No more superfluous aspirations like winning a tournament. Shucks.
No more pressure on running roughshod on a pathetic roster of talent immediately after signing on the dotted line. Darn.
No more bullshit rhetoric about facing Smith Jones at HellKore. Well, fuck it all and woe is me. The world is ending.
Thank… God.
Because… here's the deal.
Smitty? Champ?
… friends?
Ermmm… maybe.
We’ll get there. But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.
First, you might as well call me Jigsaw because I want to play a game.
And if you’re any good at it? Well, then maybe we can be afterwards.”
As those lingering words echoed into the nothingness of our Netflix stream, the camera faded into the crowns of five individuals from a difficult-to-capture ceiling point of view. This impressive angle showed us five figures, all unmoving, holding what looked to be colorful little barrels of dice. From right to left, the colors were purple, blue, pink, brown, and then green. Underneath each one was a stiff right hand -- more like a fleshy placeholder than resembling anything human. The effect of which made one person holding said barrel in his left hand stand out from the rest. Almost like a lone domino that wouldn’t have dared to dive between a sea of its fallen comrades.
Suddenly, that very left hand (one of a malish quality), rattled the green barrel of dice. Hm. Interesting. Okay, sure, let’s see where this goes. Noticeable scars traveled up the forearm until they disappeared underneath an unbuttoned orange and grey flannel button-up sleeve. Ghostly wisps of smoke floated up towards the overhead camera, giving it a natural dirty filter. A lone spotlight shone down upon this strange quartet, leaving the room’s perimeter to perish quietly in the shadows.
“I love this game. Ever play it?”, said Arthur, having already spilled the barrel’s ivory contents onto the green felt of what looked like a worn and tattered poker table.
“Though we are playing on a poker table, I’m not actually talking about poker. Poker’s fucking boring. People are so easily manipulated that it’s hard… nigh… as impossible as a Whopper, not to win. Probably why I’ve been banned from most of the casinos all up and down the midwest and northeast. Heh. Whatevs. Least I still got the Excalibur!”
Coiling a set of snake-like lips into a disturbing smirk with his tongue suctioning against his cheek, Arthur silently enumerated the dots on the dice with his beady, sinister, and -- let’s call a spade a spade here -- psychotic, dark brown eyes.
“No, Sm-”, he stops himself immediately. “Well, respect where respect is due here. May I call you Smitty? Everyone else seems to say it with with such admiration, as well as patronization, that I really can’t tell what you’d prefer. Since you like to spell it out for us like we’re a bunch of Jerry’s Kids every fucking time you’re in front of a camera, I s’pose I could just call you the APW World Heavyweight WRESTLING Champion! It’s a mouth full, (that’s what she said), but let’s try it anyway.”
He held his hand up at a mannequin that sat to his left. It was as if Arthur believed this lifeless form had spoken out of turn. Riiiight. The albino-esque fiberglass coating gave the mannequin’s plastic skin a striking gleam; as if it, or ‘he’ to be more accurate, was stolen right from the showcase window of an Abercrombie and Fitch. The name Clyde had been cut into a spot right above the twenty-pack of abs he was blessed with. The brown barrel remained unmoving in his grasp -- probably due to being fused into the mannequin’s skin by what could only be a welder’s torch.
“No, APW World Heavyweight WRESTLING Champion. My good pal Clyde here agrees with me that I’m talking about a much different game than poker. I’m talking about… liar’s dice. A game much more suited to someone’s, shall we say… innate…yes, innate ability to deceive and distort reality. It’s quite fun, once you get the hang of it. Isn’t that right, Doris?”
Arthur leaned in and looked directly across the table. It was another mannequin. Doris was adorned in a dramatically pink bow-tie floppy hat with a pair of Jackie Kennedy’s duct taped to her porcelain facade. Lipstick had been smeared all over her lips like Michael J. Fox had been applying it while riding an ATV through a field of potholes. The pink barrel had been half-melted by the same flame that had mutated the brown one.
In fact, as the second camera panned around the room, every colored barrel had been melded into the mannequin’s hand that held it.
“Why, Doris…”, he said, bulging his eyes out as big as he could, changing the style of his voice to that of a British person (it sounded Mexican, quite honestly), “... that’s highly inappropriate. Perhaps latah, Mamacita?”
Definitely Mexican.
“Just in case you’re not familiar with it, let me give you a quick lesson. It’s a dice game of high probability. And lying… obviously. Something that even someone as beautifully smug and self-aware as you are would be familiar with. So, what you do is this. You roll your dice...”
Arthur paused and proceeded to turn his barrel upside down and slammed it against the poker table. A thick(ish) piece of cardboard that had been acting as a makeshift table blind rattled a bit, causing a miniature keychain Funko Pop of Dean Wolf to wave back and forth on the filthy syringe it had been hanging from. The piece of cardboard had wild black marker strokes painted all over it as it stood upright against a broken, rust-bathed toaster.
“... and turn the barrel upside down. Now, take a quick look at the five dice you have in front of you. But here’s the thing… don’t spend too much time doing it. See, it is essential to have a good memory and a certain cognizance about you in order to capture the finite details that others may ignore. Otherwise? Your opponents will see right through you.”
A laugh escaped his lips and echoed across the room.
“So, once you’ve seen your dice? Now it’s time to read the room and fucking play. Right at the gate you got a couple of options at your disposal. Option A, you could start off by saying there are 3 eights when you really have 4 eights. Doesn’t really matter though because it’s not about what YOU have… it’s about what the pool has. Option 2, if you’re feeling ballsy enough, you could amp up the fibbing a degree or two and say there are 0 eights in the pool. Now, THAT wouldn’t be recommended since, as you can see, everyone has five dice in their barrels. Someone’s BOUND to have at least 1 eight in their set. Right? Right. And the more people you have playing? The bigger chance that someone will call you out on your bullshit. Or, for Option Artichoke, you could even say there are 12 eights in the pool when you DON’T EVEN HAVE A SINGLE FUCKING EIGHT TO BEGIN WITH. Crazy, right!?”
Arthur fist bumped an African fellow to his right, holding the blue barrel. Taking a page from Clyde’s book, this mannequin was also bare-chested and had an obscene amount of abs. Fucking body shaming, much? Geez. Unlike Clyde’s knife treatment though, the name Paul had been burned into blackened letters across his chest. But the fun didn’t stop there, oh no! He winked to an Asian woman sitting to Paul’s right. She held, by process of elimination, the purple barrel. Color-coordinating purple marker had been scrawled across her forehead and crossed out giving the name
“So, at this point… a bid it goes around, clockwise, to each player.”
Thinking for a moment, he continued.
“I’m feeling cute. Might call 5 sevens later, I dunno. Paul here? I think he said there’s 6 sevens. Oh, what’s that Wendy!? You’re calling Paul a lair!? Well, it’s time to show ‘em, folks!”
Arthur got up and looked at each player’s imaginary dice that they just pretended to reveal. I was wondering how this was gonna work. Oh boy. With the wave of his right hand, embers scattered and smoldered to the wet floor like fireflies on a humid summer night.
“Huh. How about that. I have 3 sevens. Paul’s got 2 sevens. Wendy has no sevens!! Oh… it’s up to you Clyde to put this fucking bitch in her place.”
He waited a moment for dramatic effect.
“Clyde has 4 sevens!! What a turn of events!! That means Wendy has to remove one of her dice since she called bullshit on someone who wasn’t bullshitting.”
Arthur’s smile faded. Consequently, Arthur sighed and put his cigarette out on the green felt, burning a hold into its frayed texture.
“Poor Wendy. I… know what that's like. I called bullshit on someone last week and I lost, too. Tough break. But you know what? The game is still going and though I may have lost one of my dice my chances are still pretty fucking good at winning this thing.”
Looking into the camera lens for several moments, he licked his lips. It was like he had been savoring the thoughts that rattled around his skull like the dice in one of those barrels.
“Life imitates art. Art imitates life. Etcetera, etcetera. Isn’t is amazing how that works, Smitty?”
Arthur ripped upwards from his seat without any sort of warning and roundhouse kicked Paul so hard that his big brown plastic head popped off his faux body. It fell to the flooded floor with an emphatic squish. If their mouths could move, the others in attendance for tonight’s unique gathering would be absolutely agape. Looking around at the rest of the players all situated around the table, Arthur nodded.
“I’m sorry, Clyde. I know he was your friend and all, but it had to be done. I just… didn’t like the cut of his jib.”
Shrugging, he continued.
“Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Arthur Pleasant, and it’s so nice to finally meet you. But, at this point, let’s cut the shit. What I just instilled upon your self-absorbed, amoeba-sized brain is what the cool kids these days call a metaphor. Not just for you, but for the other dumb-witted, twenty-one flavored scoops of pure fucking afterbirth that are watching this with baited breath. You see, I am a liar, Smitty. Z$ saw it. And like the pro that he is, he took advantage of it. If only Jaice could have opened his eyes a little better... then maybe… dot dot dot. But now? The truth is out… and so am I.
Out of the tournament.
Out of patience.
And out… FOR THE BLOOD THAT I AM FUCKING OWED.
Or am I lying again?
Say I'm telling the truth here. That means... for every malevolent shot I took and was denied a receipt for? No thanks to that squeamish little cunt-face they call Spanky, who simply couldn't handle the sight, sound, and scent of flesh gnashing against flesh? It’s coming straight for that fancy mush of yours, Smitty. Whether you like violence or prefer the mat wrestling… whether you’re feelin’ like a wrestler or feelin’ like a fighter come Monday Night… I’ll be your huckleberry, bitch. You can bank on it.”
He chuckled.
“Don’t think for one single, solitary second that I didn’t hear it, Smitty. Because I did… EVERYONE did. It being, of course, that sweet sigh of relief. It was deafening, quite honestly. Because, be honest with yourself now… I’m the one guy… you did… not… want… to defend that title against. For a lot of reasons. None more paramount than the fact that you’ve already beaten my best friend. And… let’s face it. He was the ONLY credible threat left in the tournament not named ME. But when that bell was called and I was left looking like a John Travolta meme as to why the match was ending when I was not pinned or submitted? Sweet, sweet relief for you, Smitty. Deservedly so.
Rest assured, I will stop at nothing to get the blood that I am owed. The fact that we meet WITHOUT the title being on the line? It simplifies things, really. Because now I can humble you and LET you keep your trinket… which only further serves to exacerbate the embarrassment of defeat. Deep down, or perhaps right there on the surface, you know to a fucking certainty that what you might have seen thus far pales in comparison to what I am actually capable of. And you don’t have to take me at my word. No, no. As I said, I am an admitted liar.
All you have to do is ask Doc.
Or Jaice.
Or Zebediah ZackMorris.
Or that little pissant ref, even.
Because I am not to be trifled with.
And after last week? Brother, I’m feeling a bit… trifled.”
He placed his hands down around Wendy’s nipple-less breasts. Closing his eyes, he moaned ever so slightly.
“Think about it, Smitty. What would it mean for you to win this match? Nothing. For you, it’s just another match until you have to defend your title. It means even less than your frivolous Champion Vs Champion match that you lost. You beat me and… nothing changes. You’re still the APW World Heavyweight Wrestling Champion. Sure, I may fall down the ladder a bit and probably end up begging the powers that be for a dark match on HorrorKore. But ask yourself this, friend. What would it mean for you if I win this match?
Everything.
Abso-fucking-lutely… everything.
You remain at the top. But… think about it. Two in a row? Yeesh.
Credibility. Window. Out the.
The most marked man in all of APW suddenly has an asterisk next to his name. He goes from the well respected legend… to the beatable one. Me? It doesn’t matter. Two in a row for me and, like fucking magic, I’m still the man to be feared around here. Nothing to live up to when you’re dead meat spoiling in the gallows.
And that very point right there? THAT is what makes me so dangerous.
Because standing toe to toe with a man who does not feel pity or remorse on top of having nothing to lose… is a winless situation for everyone else.
But if you refuse to believe that? Then you’re as blind as a mannequin.”
Arthur placed his hands across Wendy’s eyes and rested his head atop her dome. Withdrawing a hand from her eyes, he then placed it on her cheek. Then, with a simple tug of his right arm, he twisted her head off. Watching it fall to the inches-deep water of the flooded basement, Arthur cocked his head. He knelt down next to Wendy’s hollowed out cranium. Studying his kill.
“I’m going to enjoy this more than I should.
The pain.
The horror.
Those shocked gasps of relief slowly evolving into an aspirated choking of disbelief.
It’s all so gift-wrapped for me that I want to question what I accomplished to earn this...
… but I won’t. A commissioner of chaos never stares a gift corpse in the mouth.
So I’ll take it.
And I’ll run with it.
And I'll have fun with it.
Because a provocateur never questions the blood on his hands.
Nor does he notice the rubble that surrounds him.
So whadda ya say, bitch? Let’s get a little Metal, shall we!? Hahaha... mm.”
Static. Followed by… elevator music!?
The sound coming from a voicemail put on speaker immediately supplanted the white noise.
“You have… one unheard message in your mailbox. First new message:
“Good morning, Arthur. This is Doctor [redacted] and I’m just calling to check on you. You’ve missed two appointments in a row now and I’m just checking to see if you are okay.
To answer your question when you stormed out of my office? I do indeed have Netflix.
Saw it, Arthur. I saw everything. I’m glad the referee stopped the match. I’ve seen that look in your eyes before and I know what was about to happen.
Under no circumstances can you let it happen again. I can’t help you if you --REDACTED-- again. It’ll be out of my hands completely.
Um… please call me back at --REDACTED-- once you listen to this.
Take care of yourself, Arthur.”
"To save this message, press one. To delete this message, pr-
Message deleted."
Fade to black.
