Post by FPV on Sept 27, 2013 13:09:00 GMT -5
FRANK VENABLE PRESENTS...
OLD MAN FRANKY
(Act II)
The Year is 2028.
The moon was out and full as Frank drove down the highway. It had been a long drive from his apartment to here, but if what Eye-Six had was right, then this was where everything was supposed to come together. The deaths would be explained to him here, hopefully. A tinge of doubt still lingered in his brain. Eye-Six was about 18 years out of date, it might have been having a case of the fritz he hadn't known about. Little guy was known to do that from time to time. He eventually decided to trust on the little guy, as Eye-Six had gotten his ass out of multiple situations, and if he really was going on the fritz, then let this be his final hurrah.
Frank stepped to the double doors, pushing them open and stepping into the prestigious company of his former comrades and enemies. Almost everyone he knew worth something had found themselves inducted into this hall of wonders. In the first room of the building Frank found himself taking a small walkthough, looking the memorabilia that made up the contents of this first room. He found a lot of things from his past career, Nathan's pet rat which had been the cause of his feud with Polar Phantasm, now taxadermied and lifeless inside a glass box. Around the corner in a display case was Logan's "Sarah Twilight" outfit. Seeing this get-up for the first time in over 20 years brought back old memories in Frank he had assumed had been wiped from his brain by sheer age. That night in 2012 where Logan and he had gotten into a scuffle with people at a Green Day concert, only to be saved in the nick of time by none other than Motherfucking Danny. Franky knew Danny would never get into the hall of fame, but at least he had done some good for mankind. To Frank's delight, on the counter next to Logan's get-up was an old ToT shirt, he picked up and turned it to it's back...yep, it was the "#ROYSPEEDEISABOUDLE" shirt. A smile the size of Texas grew on Frank's face, he would need to go back home and find his old shirt like this, no doubt tore up from years of use and abuse. Some feet away from the display was the entrance into the hall itself. The WCF Hall of Fame wasn't just some fake group of people who did shit...no, this an actual motherfucking HALL of people. Frank walked in and begun looking at all the paintings of everyone.
He eventually stopped at one Bobby Cairo. Poor, poor motherfucking Cairo. Found dead of the coast of Poon Guinea eaten up by sharks. The only part of his body that made it back was his left arm. Ironically, Cairo had stated in his will he would like to have his ashes spread in the same sea that eventually saw his demise, and though only his arm remained, his wish was carried out like he had asked. Some had said that he was "pushed" by someone off his yacht, with all these dead wrestlers Frank thought it could've been true after all. He carried on with his little tour.
He stared face-to-face with a ridiculously photogenic bust of Jonny Fly. The light gray marble eyes stared into his, almost seeming to suck up Frank's soul and absorb it. The once great legend of the WCF. No one believed that anyone could top Logan's 5 World Title reigns, but Jonny did it. Many considered him THE greatest competitor in WCF history. That's why when it was reported that been found dead in his apartment, an empty bottle of booze in his hand, the world let out a collective cry of despair. Frank had been at the man's funeral, and just like Jonny, the service was grandiose, comparable to the funeral of a president or pope. Frank briefly rubbed the head of the bust before walking away.
Next to Fly stood a large painting of the one and only mack daddy himself, Steve Orbit. Out of all the people Frank had met in his WCF travels, Steve became one of, if not his closest friend. in an industry where back stabbing was such a prevalent thing, through Genesis, Cryogenix, and everything in-between, somehow these two managed to remain friends. Out of everyone in the roster, Steve's death had destroyed FPV the most. Unlike the other deaths, which were relatively quick and instant, Steve came down with a bad case of bronchitis which eventually turned to full blown AIDs. Frank had tried to make it to the hospital Steve was being treated at, but he was too late, as soon as he walked into the room the doctors were pulling the white sheet over his old friends face. Steve's funeral was more low-key, only his girls and a few more loved ones along with Franky. No one could see it behind his dark shades, but Frank was actually shedding a few tears seeing his old friend off like this. He was chosen, along with a few others, to be one of Steves pallbearers, and along with winning the World Title and other such accomplishments, Frank considered it an honor to bring Steve to his new home. He stood there looking at the painting a few seconds longer before giving it a military style salute. He missed Steve greatly, but he knew he couldn't just stay here reminiscing about him. He had a job to do. He gave the painting one last glance and moved on.
From friend to enemy just like that. Even in painting form Sarah gave of an air of total bitchy-ness had not seen before and never seen since. Letting her into Genesis was probably the biggest mistake Frank had ever made. He had thought that she had changed, but as he soon found out, she was still the same old bitch as ever, only now he actually had a good reason to hate her. Her era of the WCF was a complete disaster right from the start, attendance records were some of the lowest the company had ever seen, even lower then the late 2011 era of the WCF. Many attributed this to Sarah firing off many of the companies biggest draws for the most delusional reasons possible. Many fans had even begun to turn rabid. Twilight's death was the only one Frank had taken actual pleasure in hearing about. A number of angry fans had cornered her into her own house, trapping her inside as they fetched multiple jerry cans from the backs of their vehicles and began to dowse the entire house in gasoline. One struck match later, and the entire house was engulfed in flames. As the foundations crumbled and the walls fell apart, one single sentence came from their collective mouths. "Burn the witch." In unison, almost in perfect, terrifying harmony. "Burn the witch." Hours on end, and as the night drew longer, the chants grew louder...and louder...and louder...until the police were forced to come and handle the situation. Many were arrested that day, but Frank considered their sacrifices noble. He didn't even hesitate to walk away from Sarah's painting. He felt if he had stayed there any longer he would've puked. No doubt if he did then it would probably increase the paintings value.
Frank was surprised to find that Eric Price's painting didn't depict his pants stained like spilt milk. Frank had met many bitches in his time, but Eric was probably one the bigger ones. Of the many pranks Frank pulled on him, the most famous was the infamous "squirt gun" incident. Frank could recall in the detail Eric's look of horror as the urine flowed freely onto his pants, dark as night and as smelly as warm, flat Monster. Ever since that one little incident, Eric's life just seemed to spiral out of control. Most of his fortune was lost in terrible investment deals and attempts to repair his image that flopped in the most spectacular ways. The worst of these was "Honeybabe", a romance film that Eric funded out of his own pocket, as well starred in. The story went that a middle-aged billionaire met a young poor woman from the slums and fell in love with her. His most defining trait was constantly referring to her as "Honeybabe", even in their first scenes together. The word was used over 150 times during the course of the three hour movie. Costing over $9,000,000 and suffering setback after setback, the film finally premiered during the summer season....and barely made back $5,000. After that Eric completely lost it, and stopped taking care of himself. He died in the streets penniless of a urinary tract infection, a fitting end to one of the WCF's biggest rich bitches. Frank had to laugh at the guy, he was pathetic in every way, but at least he was the laughable kind of pathetic, and not the just plain sad kind of pathetic.
A bit further down Frank stumbled upon the one and only Gravedigger. Already aging considerably when Frank first met him in his rookie days, Gravedigger spent much of his later years running his multiple businesses. Both his nightclub and WCF developmental territory did fairly well under him, but reports of corrupt business management soon sprang forward, and was forced to shut down 6 years after his retirement from the WCF. Soon after that, it became very clear that 'Digger was beginning to suffer from early-stage dementia. He would spend long nights keeping his neighbors awake as he ranted to himself about how he was going to beat wrestlers who had not been involved in the WCF for over 10 years. His neighbors then managed to get him checked into a nursing home, where he remained for the rest of his life. He died in his sleep one rainy night of natural causes. It was the way he was destined to die. Not with a bang like many had thought years ago, but with a whimper like that of a dog about to be put to sleep. Thoughts of Al Bundy conjured in Franks brain as he recalled his multiple encounters with Gravedigger, pitying his death more then anything else. There wasn't much else the man deserved besides that.
Across from Gravedigger stood another familiar figure...the so-called God of Hardcore, Oblivion. Frank had fought Oblivion so many times that fearing him was almost non-existant. Oblivion tried to keep his devilish persona for years, but eventually the WCF had had enough after he murdered Steeltoe Joe on an edition of Slam in late 2015. They strapped him down and had him driven to The Facility where he came from, where after years of having him terrorize the WCF, they finally managed to extract the Oblivion personality from the body of Stephan Johnson...but at great cost. The extraction had taken too much of a toll on Stephans body, and he died soon afterwards. Frank was just glad that at the very least he had not died the monster he had been for so long, but as himself.
A little further down Frank once again met an old friend, Mr. WCF himself. Out of all Franks colleagues, Logan had suffered probably the most bizarre death. The night before a big WCF PPV event in which he would've fought for one last World Title reign, his hotel maid had found him dead in the corner of the room, naked as a jaybird. In his left hand was his still creepily-erect penis, a river of semen leaking out of it, and in his right was a hot dog that appeared to have been jammed down his throat. In front of him was a print-out of Seth Lerch from around 2007. Early investigations suggest that Logan had begun masturbating when he tried to eat the dog at the same time, not carefully chewing and began to choke. They also suggested that as he began to choke, Logan made no attempt to try and stop masturbating, and continued until in one last explosive climax, he ejaculated what seemed like the rest of his life out of himself, dying right after the vinegar stroke. A case of accidental auto-erotic asphyxiation, that's the toxicologists had said. The match was soon cancelled and the belt vacated, but there was no tribute show the next week, as the circumstances of his death were quite awkward to talk about. Frank tried not to make eye-contact withe painting as he passed it up.
As he walked down towards the end of the hall, one other person sprung to his mind. Nathan von Liebert. He had never forgiven him for what he did to Johnny Nova, as time went on Frank seemed to only hate him more and more. He had heard reports that Nathan was steadily beginning to lose control over his other half, Vladmir. The two sides seemed to locked in an internal struggle over control of Nathans body, and his insanity only increased as a result. Bodies began piling up, and the police never came close to finding him. Finally, one cold night on the docks, things came to a head. Nathan had been given a gun by some anonymous individual, and as the two sides wrestled over what to do with it, Nathan finally took control of the situation. In the shine of the moon, at almost 10 after midnight, Nathan von Liebert shot himself in the side of his head, sending his sick, demented brain into the water to become fish food. His suffering was finally over. Frank would've taken great pleasure in being the one to have pulled the trigger, but he was glad that at last Nathan was finally-
*SCURRAAAAGH*
Franks foot stepped on one of the floor tiles and depressed it further down, opening up some kind of trap door, sending him tumbling into the unknown depths, as he screamed with terror as the door closed and his world turned to nothing.
Voice: Well well well....look who decided to drop on by.
Frank awoke, feeling sick to his stomach. He could still feel the pain of the fall in his entire upper body. Even with most of it numb, Frank could still register that he had been tied to some chair and was now being illuminated by a single light-bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Voice: I should've expected you would be the one to find out...you were always smarter then you let on.
Frank could not put a face to the voice that was speaking to him, even as his vision cleared up.
Voice: Well, I guess you've already figured it out, haven't you? That all these deaths were connected. Good job Sherlock, would you like a pipe for your troubles?
Frank: Who...who the hell...?
Frank could finally begin to see the figure in front of him, dressed in a nice little suit. His head, however, did not appear to be a head, as it resembled a multitude of different colors.
Voice: Oh where are my manners, I forgot to introduce myself?
The figure turned around, and on his head was a familiar lucha libre mask...
Frank: BIOHAZARD?!
Biohazard: That's the name, don't wear it out.
TO BE CONTINUED
OLD MAN FRANKY
(Act II)
The Year is 2028.
The moon was out and full as Frank drove down the highway. It had been a long drive from his apartment to here, but if what Eye-Six had was right, then this was where everything was supposed to come together. The deaths would be explained to him here, hopefully. A tinge of doubt still lingered in his brain. Eye-Six was about 18 years out of date, it might have been having a case of the fritz he hadn't known about. Little guy was known to do that from time to time. He eventually decided to trust on the little guy, as Eye-Six had gotten his ass out of multiple situations, and if he really was going on the fritz, then let this be his final hurrah.
Frank stepped to the double doors, pushing them open and stepping into the prestigious company of his former comrades and enemies. Almost everyone he knew worth something had found themselves inducted into this hall of wonders. In the first room of the building Frank found himself taking a small walkthough, looking the memorabilia that made up the contents of this first room. He found a lot of things from his past career, Nathan's pet rat which had been the cause of his feud with Polar Phantasm, now taxadermied and lifeless inside a glass box. Around the corner in a display case was Logan's "Sarah Twilight" outfit. Seeing this get-up for the first time in over 20 years brought back old memories in Frank he had assumed had been wiped from his brain by sheer age. That night in 2012 where Logan and he had gotten into a scuffle with people at a Green Day concert, only to be saved in the nick of time by none other than Motherfucking Danny. Franky knew Danny would never get into the hall of fame, but at least he had done some good for mankind. To Frank's delight, on the counter next to Logan's get-up was an old ToT shirt, he picked up and turned it to it's back...yep, it was the "#ROYSPEEDEISABOUDLE" shirt. A smile the size of Texas grew on Frank's face, he would need to go back home and find his old shirt like this, no doubt tore up from years of use and abuse. Some feet away from the display was the entrance into the hall itself. The WCF Hall of Fame wasn't just some fake group of people who did shit...no, this an actual motherfucking HALL of people. Frank walked in and begun looking at all the paintings of everyone.
He eventually stopped at one Bobby Cairo. Poor, poor motherfucking Cairo. Found dead of the coast of Poon Guinea eaten up by sharks. The only part of his body that made it back was his left arm. Ironically, Cairo had stated in his will he would like to have his ashes spread in the same sea that eventually saw his demise, and though only his arm remained, his wish was carried out like he had asked. Some had said that he was "pushed" by someone off his yacht, with all these dead wrestlers Frank thought it could've been true after all. He carried on with his little tour.
He stared face-to-face with a ridiculously photogenic bust of Jonny Fly. The light gray marble eyes stared into his, almost seeming to suck up Frank's soul and absorb it. The once great legend of the WCF. No one believed that anyone could top Logan's 5 World Title reigns, but Jonny did it. Many considered him THE greatest competitor in WCF history. That's why when it was reported that been found dead in his apartment, an empty bottle of booze in his hand, the world let out a collective cry of despair. Frank had been at the man's funeral, and just like Jonny, the service was grandiose, comparable to the funeral of a president or pope. Frank briefly rubbed the head of the bust before walking away.
Next to Fly stood a large painting of the one and only mack daddy himself, Steve Orbit. Out of all the people Frank had met in his WCF travels, Steve became one of, if not his closest friend. in an industry where back stabbing was such a prevalent thing, through Genesis, Cryogenix, and everything in-between, somehow these two managed to remain friends. Out of everyone in the roster, Steve's death had destroyed FPV the most. Unlike the other deaths, which were relatively quick and instant, Steve came down with a bad case of bronchitis which eventually turned to full blown AIDs. Frank had tried to make it to the hospital Steve was being treated at, but he was too late, as soon as he walked into the room the doctors were pulling the white sheet over his old friends face. Steve's funeral was more low-key, only his girls and a few more loved ones along with Franky. No one could see it behind his dark shades, but Frank was actually shedding a few tears seeing his old friend off like this. He was chosen, along with a few others, to be one of Steves pallbearers, and along with winning the World Title and other such accomplishments, Frank considered it an honor to bring Steve to his new home. He stood there looking at the painting a few seconds longer before giving it a military style salute. He missed Steve greatly, but he knew he couldn't just stay here reminiscing about him. He had a job to do. He gave the painting one last glance and moved on.
From friend to enemy just like that. Even in painting form Sarah gave of an air of total bitchy-ness had not seen before and never seen since. Letting her into Genesis was probably the biggest mistake Frank had ever made. He had thought that she had changed, but as he soon found out, she was still the same old bitch as ever, only now he actually had a good reason to hate her. Her era of the WCF was a complete disaster right from the start, attendance records were some of the lowest the company had ever seen, even lower then the late 2011 era of the WCF. Many attributed this to Sarah firing off many of the companies biggest draws for the most delusional reasons possible. Many fans had even begun to turn rabid. Twilight's death was the only one Frank had taken actual pleasure in hearing about. A number of angry fans had cornered her into her own house, trapping her inside as they fetched multiple jerry cans from the backs of their vehicles and began to dowse the entire house in gasoline. One struck match later, and the entire house was engulfed in flames. As the foundations crumbled and the walls fell apart, one single sentence came from their collective mouths. "Burn the witch." In unison, almost in perfect, terrifying harmony. "Burn the witch." Hours on end, and as the night drew longer, the chants grew louder...and louder...and louder...until the police were forced to come and handle the situation. Many were arrested that day, but Frank considered their sacrifices noble. He didn't even hesitate to walk away from Sarah's painting. He felt if he had stayed there any longer he would've puked. No doubt if he did then it would probably increase the paintings value.
Frank was surprised to find that Eric Price's painting didn't depict his pants stained like spilt milk. Frank had met many bitches in his time, but Eric was probably one the bigger ones. Of the many pranks Frank pulled on him, the most famous was the infamous "squirt gun" incident. Frank could recall in the detail Eric's look of horror as the urine flowed freely onto his pants, dark as night and as smelly as warm, flat Monster. Ever since that one little incident, Eric's life just seemed to spiral out of control. Most of his fortune was lost in terrible investment deals and attempts to repair his image that flopped in the most spectacular ways. The worst of these was "Honeybabe", a romance film that Eric funded out of his own pocket, as well starred in. The story went that a middle-aged billionaire met a young poor woman from the slums and fell in love with her. His most defining trait was constantly referring to her as "Honeybabe", even in their first scenes together. The word was used over 150 times during the course of the three hour movie. Costing over $9,000,000 and suffering setback after setback, the film finally premiered during the summer season....and barely made back $5,000. After that Eric completely lost it, and stopped taking care of himself. He died in the streets penniless of a urinary tract infection, a fitting end to one of the WCF's biggest rich bitches. Frank had to laugh at the guy, he was pathetic in every way, but at least he was the laughable kind of pathetic, and not the just plain sad kind of pathetic.
A bit further down Frank stumbled upon the one and only Gravedigger. Already aging considerably when Frank first met him in his rookie days, Gravedigger spent much of his later years running his multiple businesses. Both his nightclub and WCF developmental territory did fairly well under him, but reports of corrupt business management soon sprang forward, and was forced to shut down 6 years after his retirement from the WCF. Soon after that, it became very clear that 'Digger was beginning to suffer from early-stage dementia. He would spend long nights keeping his neighbors awake as he ranted to himself about how he was going to beat wrestlers who had not been involved in the WCF for over 10 years. His neighbors then managed to get him checked into a nursing home, where he remained for the rest of his life. He died in his sleep one rainy night of natural causes. It was the way he was destined to die. Not with a bang like many had thought years ago, but with a whimper like that of a dog about to be put to sleep. Thoughts of Al Bundy conjured in Franks brain as he recalled his multiple encounters with Gravedigger, pitying his death more then anything else. There wasn't much else the man deserved besides that.
Across from Gravedigger stood another familiar figure...the so-called God of Hardcore, Oblivion. Frank had fought Oblivion so many times that fearing him was almost non-existant. Oblivion tried to keep his devilish persona for years, but eventually the WCF had had enough after he murdered Steeltoe Joe on an edition of Slam in late 2015. They strapped him down and had him driven to The Facility where he came from, where after years of having him terrorize the WCF, they finally managed to extract the Oblivion personality from the body of Stephan Johnson...but at great cost. The extraction had taken too much of a toll on Stephans body, and he died soon afterwards. Frank was just glad that at the very least he had not died the monster he had been for so long, but as himself.
A little further down Frank once again met an old friend, Mr. WCF himself. Out of all Franks colleagues, Logan had suffered probably the most bizarre death. The night before a big WCF PPV event in which he would've fought for one last World Title reign, his hotel maid had found him dead in the corner of the room, naked as a jaybird. In his left hand was his still creepily-erect penis, a river of semen leaking out of it, and in his right was a hot dog that appeared to have been jammed down his throat. In front of him was a print-out of Seth Lerch from around 2007. Early investigations suggest that Logan had begun masturbating when he tried to eat the dog at the same time, not carefully chewing and began to choke. They also suggested that as he began to choke, Logan made no attempt to try and stop masturbating, and continued until in one last explosive climax, he ejaculated what seemed like the rest of his life out of himself, dying right after the vinegar stroke. A case of accidental auto-erotic asphyxiation, that's the toxicologists had said. The match was soon cancelled and the belt vacated, but there was no tribute show the next week, as the circumstances of his death were quite awkward to talk about. Frank tried not to make eye-contact withe painting as he passed it up.
As he walked down towards the end of the hall, one other person sprung to his mind. Nathan von Liebert. He had never forgiven him for what he did to Johnny Nova, as time went on Frank seemed to only hate him more and more. He had heard reports that Nathan was steadily beginning to lose control over his other half, Vladmir. The two sides seemed to locked in an internal struggle over control of Nathans body, and his insanity only increased as a result. Bodies began piling up, and the police never came close to finding him. Finally, one cold night on the docks, things came to a head. Nathan had been given a gun by some anonymous individual, and as the two sides wrestled over what to do with it, Nathan finally took control of the situation. In the shine of the moon, at almost 10 after midnight, Nathan von Liebert shot himself in the side of his head, sending his sick, demented brain into the water to become fish food. His suffering was finally over. Frank would've taken great pleasure in being the one to have pulled the trigger, but he was glad that at last Nathan was finally-
*SCURRAAAAGH*
Franks foot stepped on one of the floor tiles and depressed it further down, opening up some kind of trap door, sending him tumbling into the unknown depths, as he screamed with terror as the door closed and his world turned to nothing.
Voice: Well well well....look who decided to drop on by.
Frank awoke, feeling sick to his stomach. He could still feel the pain of the fall in his entire upper body. Even with most of it numb, Frank could still register that he had been tied to some chair and was now being illuminated by a single light-bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Voice: I should've expected you would be the one to find out...you were always smarter then you let on.
Frank could not put a face to the voice that was speaking to him, even as his vision cleared up.
Voice: Well, I guess you've already figured it out, haven't you? That all these deaths were connected. Good job Sherlock, would you like a pipe for your troubles?
Frank: Who...who the hell...?
Frank could finally begin to see the figure in front of him, dressed in a nice little suit. His head, however, did not appear to be a head, as it resembled a multitude of different colors.
Voice: Oh where are my manners, I forgot to introduce myself?
The figure turned around, and on his head was a familiar lucha libre mask...
Frank: BIOHAZARD?!
Biohazard: That's the name, don't wear it out.
TO BE CONTINUED