Post by DVS on Jan 24, 2015 4:23:33 GMT -5
|The Songs of Jest [Pt. 3] | Payback Roleplay No. 3 | Continued from The Songs of Jest Series [Pt. 1] - [Pt. 2] |
The Adventures of the Super Deviant
The Adventures of the Super Deviant
Janice Copeland is 77 years old. She wakes up at 4:35 am every morning as this is a ritual she's used to since her late husband, Royce, would wake up at this time to get ready for his morning commute. Royce passed away 22 years ago to a heart attack. Janice sits at the small kitchen table in a flowered night gown and finishes yesterday's newspaper before the current paper arrives. She sips hot black coffee from a cream colored mug decorated with blue oriental designs. Her spectacles slide down the wrinkled ridges and stop at the hump of her plump Polish nose. She's complimented by the grapevine wallpaper behind her that separates a wood-paneled wall. She watches the morning news, and sometimes the Bible Channel, on an outdated portable television with bent antennae.
The timid and precious old gal finishes her morning routine and starts another – an afternoon route about town to visit friends, purchase a latte, and buy fruit she'll eat tonight for her ritualistic dinner. Janice travels from storefront to storefront and visualizes memories of her childhood, and marriage. With every step she takes comes another reminder of who she was, and is.
Janice, a creature of habit, exits Bill's Convenient Store and adjusts a small cap atop her fluffy white hair. She tucks a bag of fruit beneath her arm and stares down the side walk. The small town city is empty. A rare, yet proverbial, tumbleweed brushes passed in the distance. It's quiet, as if this place took its final breaths years ago. The death of the small town to the bleakness of the monopolistic conglomerate and crooked politicians. Janice sighs, and puts her head down as she takes a step toward the curb to cross the street where her maroon 1999 Ford Crown Victoria is parked.
A swoosh! A gust of wind nearly sidelines the elderly woman but she maintains balance and fearfully turns to a man standing beside her dressed like Superman. He has his fists placed promptly on his hips. His wide smile is a portrait of confidence. His greased curls glisten. He's unshaven, with a decent black beard masking his face. His cape rests at his back. The super SD logo almost shines like gold on the man's chest.
“Who...” Janice catches her breath and adjusts the tiny flower tipped cap atop her salted hair-sprayed puff, “...who the HELL are you?” She questions as she places a hand on her chest to hopefully slow her already outrageous heart rate. “Where the HELL did you come from?” She continues.
“Maam,” the man states, “I am the soon-to-be Wrestling Championship Federation Hardcore Champion. I hail from a distant planet in the Hardcorous Constellation called Hipton. I am...THE SUPER DEVIANT,” and he slams his fists into his waist as a random large gust of wind blows passed his cape, nearly derailing the elderly Janice. His voice echoes down the main boulevards of the ghost town. He looks back at the woman and smiles. “I am here to help you safely cross the street,” and he begins to reach for her.
“No, no thank you,” her voice shakes as she steps forward and attempts to pick up the pace. The Super Deviant's speed is too quick. He bolts forward and stops the woman in her place with a vice grip around her left arm.
“Just let me guide you, maam!” He shouts at her. She stares down at his hand that might eventually cut off her circulation. She tugs lightly, not to pull hard enough that she breaks her feeble bones on his bear-like strength.
“Let go of me!” She screams, “help! Help! RAPE!” The Super Deviant lets her go. She immediately spins toward him and slaps him in the face. She points her finger at him. The Super Deviant looks down at her with widened sad puppy dog eyes. “You son of a bitch...” she scowls, “...if all you wanted was a little Leave It To Beaver poon then all you had to do was ask!” She glares at the Super Deviant, then relaxes and stares him up and down before licking her lips. “I haven't been Swiffer shoppin' in a while,” and she catches a glimpse of the Intergalactic bulge coming from the Super Deviant's tights, “so I'm certain I could use a little...dustin'....” The couple stand in the road, and Janice bats her eye lashes at the Deviant. Dan takes a step back and his eyes widen.
The sound of a truck's horn as a hand lies upon it. Janice turns to see a set of oncoming lights heading directly for her. The screeching of breaks. A large white delivery truck skids, smashes into Janice Copeland, and barely misses the Super Deviant. The truck slides off into the distance with the 77 year old elderly woman trapped, and probably dead, underneath.
The Super Deviant's eyes are wide. His face blank. He dry heaves twice. His eyes flash from left to right, right to left, left to right, and then he blankly stares into the distance.
“Didn't see that comin',” the Super Deviant says before wishing he had the ability to run at the fastest of speeds. He leaves the scene at the fastest sprint he can muster; the rate of an Olympian.
Shittacawka Police reports indicated the truck driver, Irvin Myers, 48, of Nashville, Tennessee, was under the influence of alcohol when the event occurred. He's been taken into custody and placed behind bars at $250,000 bail, cash only. Detectives do not plan to investigate further and believe Mr. Myers is safe where he sits – behind bars. It was Myers description of a third individual at the scene, a man dressed like Superman, that gave Law Enforcement every reason to deny him his innocence. Janice Copeland was pronounced dead at the scene.
As for Janice Copeland? Tomorrow morning may be different for the first time in over 22 years for the Smokey Mountain lonely soul. Tomorrow – Janice has breakfast with Royce for an everlasting eternity.
“State Marshalls will be involved in an ongoing investigation of the Superman,” a brunette female news anchor states with a super imposed image of the super SD logo beside her, “a tall man, about 6'5”, and dressed like a super hero,” her red lips smack together, and her eyes focus intently at the script monitor. “The man was last seen outside Bill's Convenient Store...”
Oh yeah, the Police forgot to scan the scene, and a few days later took it upon themselves to acquire tape from cameras atop Bill's Convenient Store. That's right! Even ghost towns still have what it takes to solve mysteries. There's the Super Deviant, plain as day, and not just from Bill's angle either. The police obtained video from several buildings in the crypt of the small town. There's the Super Deviant, albeit a tad blurry, in every video.
“He's also been involved at the scenes of several major events throughout the American east coast,” the adorable brunette correspondent continues. Images, some in black and white, some in color, are displayed. Each image displays the Super Deviant in ways the young woman will describe. “At the Sunoco Gas Station explosion on W. 77th in Yorktown; and here at the beginnings of what became one of the worlds greatest political protests in Atlanta where he may have startled over 350 young African Americans and created a mass outrage encouraging over 2,000 angry blacks to trample the streets of Atlanta and take back their city. Here he is at a Pennsylvania High School running from the scene as a young teenage male is throwing a molotov cocktail toward the school window. And again – here an image of the man running from the ten car pile-up in Southern Vermont. The largest amount of lives lost in the state's history. Whatever the story – one thing is true – something isn't right here. Whoever this man is – he's dangerous...” and she goes on until a screen displays a 1-800 number dedicated to contacting Federal Marshalls for his cease and capture. Wanted alive, but preferably dead.
“Wake up, Dan,” the female news anchor states as she blankly stares. “Dan, wake up,” and the Super Deviant wakes.
The reflection in the mirror is Dan Van Slade. No, not the Super Deviant, but Dan Van Slade – the man, the outspoken originator of deviance; something the WCF has waited 14 long-hard years to see. He's not wearing a leather super hero outfit. He's not attaching a long red cape to buttons on his shoulders. There's no red leather boots strapped to his lower knee. No – it's just Dan – wearing a pair of saggy gray sweat pants, and a torn white t-shirt advertising the band White Snake, and a raggedy pair of moccasin slippers. His hair is a bed-head nest of mess, and his beard unkempt.
“Fuckin' mornings, man,” Dan says as he brushes his hands through his thick curly hair and continues to revel in his vanity. He yawns. “Let's whoop some ass,” he nonchalantly states, and he walks over to the window to lift up the blinds.
The alphabet falls into a ceramic bowl. The wheat puffed letters clash against each other like a burial mound for the English lexicon. Milk is poured on top as the mountain of letters begin to slowly rise. Dan sits at a small table within a tiny well-organized and absurdly clean kitchen.
Dark coffee is poured into a mug. Sugar falls like a stream into the coffee, and it's enough sugar to give any man a heart attack. One scoop of Coffee Mate creamer. Tan, like a sexy Brazilian. Dan takes a sip of coffee, and follows this with a spoonful of alphabet cereal.
“Mission Control, this is Van Danger. Come in,” says a voice coming from the flat panel television mounted on a nearby wall. Dan blankly stares at the T.V., and slowly chews his cereal. “Mission Control. Come in, Mission Control. This is Van Danger, mayday! Mayday!” and then Dan reaches for the remote control and presses the power button. He sighs, and begins pulling letters of the top of a soggy mound of cereal.
“Boring,” Dan says as he digs for another letter and then sets it on the table before him. “Boring, boring, fucking boring,” and he takes a sip of coffee, “MAYDAY, MAYDAY – FUCKING BORING!” and then he looks at what he's spelled. The alphabet cereal spells 'FUCK YOU MAELSTROM' across the table. “Morning television is fucking boring,” Dan says.
Weapon No. 2: Heart
Editor's Note: It is true that a deviant has a heart. They obviously use it in a different way. I've gone through and edited this section of the dossier, much like the last, so that we can zoom in on what makes professional wrestling a passion for the Deviant.
P.L.
January 23, 2015
“I think that it is true that there are as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts,” - Leo Tolstoy
“The heart has its reasons which reasons knows not,” - Blaise Pascal
“Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape,” - Charles Dickens in 'Great Expectations'
“You've a good heart. Sometimes that's enough to see you safe wherever you go. But mostly, it's not,” - Neil Gaiman in 'Neverwhere'
“Life will not break your heart, it will crush it,” - Henry Rollins
“One love. One heart. One destiny,” - Bob Marley
When we talk about heart – we're not talking only about the organ that gives us oxygen, and nutrients. We're discussing the courage, and passion that is dedicated to the destruction of an enemy. We're talking about the soul, and natural beauty of the fight. We're talking about love, and great power. We're talking about life.
If the brain is the greatest weapon the Deviant offers then it's heart that follows. Sure, there have been plenty of superstars that have passed through these halls that displayed a sense of pride everywhere they went. There's an entire list of names that make the latter statement true. However, and we look at the first quote that opened this article – there truly are many different variations of love as there are hearts. The Deviant's heart is as unique as any.
The key word in the entire last graph was 'pride.' Sure, the Deviant is many negative things. Many. He's your average asshole who thinks he's the second coming of Jesus Christ, but he does this with a sense of pride that is unmatched. In contrast – everybody has this sense of pride, but it's different. For the Deviant – pride is in the pleasure to pack a punch, win a fight, and do whatever it takes to get a reaction. The Deviant is all pride. Sometimes – too much pride.
The Deviant's reason to love professional wrestling does not stem from any dark and desperate past. No, the Deviant was born to a good family in Missoula, Montana. The reason doesn't stem from any mental instability, or attraction to violence. That's because Dan is fully conscious of what he does, and understands it. This bean stalk grows from the ground into the clouds by seeds planted in a soil of athleticism. The 'don't give up' attitude. The only idea in the back of the stalks mind is that it's OK to reach for the Sun and have everything – but, you're going to burn up in the process. The Deviant understands that in order to do this, and do this right, he must have confidence that the love he has for this industry will eventually flourish. Flame out? Probably, but not for a long time. The heart tells the Deviant to take small bites. Baby steps. Many years of success is imminent. He loves his sport because he understands it. It defines him. He's majored in it.
Battered, beaten, and torn – the Deviant fights on. Pain enlightens him. The code of rules known as wrestling – his teacher. Every beat down brings a new dent, and with every dent brings a new way to identify the journey the Deviant is taking to reach the pinnacle. He's reborn after every pin; after every submission. A new man emerges to wage war against his adversaries. The Deviant doesn't stop for nobody. No one.
Having heart, pride, passion, or love, doesn't stop the world from crushing you when you're down. Life will be the first to kick you in the testicles as soon as you fall. But, heart knows that when situations get wild – it's time to bring in the big guns. The world doesn't only stand for love. The Deviant's heart knows this, and acts accordingly. Sometimes – love needs an asskicking, and that's what the Deviant is here to do.
One destiny – to win, and to never stop winning. The Deviant will take a loss at the sacrifice of others, but when it comes to life – the Deviant does not tolerate quitting. That's because he has the heart of a warrior, a God, the confidence that in the end – he will be feared.
That's because there's no stopping him.
| Re-Introduction: Snatch the Mountain |
A single 60 watt incandescent light bulb is screwed into a socket hangs from a wire to illuminate a work bench from above. Below – Dan Van Slade works on a few...projects. He sits shirtless wearing a pair of worn-and-tattered blue jeans. The table is the focal point, the rest of the area is engulfed in darkness.
Dan wraps barbed wire around an aluminum Louisville Slugger using his bare hands. He tightens it, twists it, and then lifts it to his lips and kisses it. He sets the baseball bat on a table surrounded by other objects now wrapped in the jagged razor-sharp wire. Dan grabs a cricket bat and a strand of barbed wire.
”They're callin' it Payback? Fuck that, I'm not satisfied.
They should be callin' it Dan Van Slade fucks up Maelstrom Part Two. With a cameo from Steve Orbit. This isn't just a pay-per view for me, this is just another night that I get to display the best wrestler in WCF history, and that'd be me. This is like...my birthday...IN A GODDAMN DAY. The shitty fuckin' smarks. Another vag tap to the Vapor Queens. Another victory against my plush wrestle buddy – Maelstrom; ya'fuckin' bastard. Then – me drenched in all their blood with wounds deeper than the black on Steve Orbit's skin and the shit Maelstrom is standing in – holding the WCF Hardcore Championship after pinning both of them at the same time and spreading my name like a vandal all over this business. It'll be like the scene in Tim Burton's Batman when the Joker destroys the art gallery. Deal with it.
They're paying me for this? I could have been President of the United States, but instead I chose the path that consequently yields the same result. I get to beat down idiots and hold back the black man. Sure – I'll take a salary for that. Payback, mother fucker.”
He places the cricket bat next to the Louisville Slugger. He positions the objects so that they're displayed like they're in a sales window. Then – he doesn't hesitate to move on to the three foot 2x4 asking to be wearing barbed wire.
”For those of you just tuning in – I'm that guy who's going to decimate Maelstrom and Steve Orbit on February 1st, so let me introduce myself. The name's Dan Van Slade, but you can call me The Deviant, the Super Deviant, His Royal Deviousness, His Righteous Deviousness, the Intergalactic Bad Ass, the Rascally Deviant, Ole' Dirty Deviant, and I'm now often called the Man Who Ends Careers. I've ended quite a few in three months, and I have no problem sweeping Maelstrom and Orbit under the rug as well. I don't have many stamps on my passport, but have you seen my knuckles? What about my knee? Maelstrom has seen these stamped across his face quite a few times. Luckily – he hasn't met the feared mushroom stamp.
I don't know if I was born for this, but I could give a rats ass. I'm here, and I'm beating ass, so that's all that matters. I've been beating a lot of ass all my life, so I can't complain. I love taking a fist blindly to the face, or listening to my jaw unhinge after I eat a clothesline. Nothing makes me smile after a long night's rest than knowing I fell on my head several times the night before – or heard my knee pop after connecting a super kick to some random fool's jaw. I absolutely love the music my ribs make when I fly off the turnbuckle to land something spectacular. Ah, the wonderful songs of jest – the lyrics of brutality orchestrated by the maestro himself – Dan Van Motherfuckin' Slade.”
Dan finishes twisting the barbed wire on the 2x4 and then places it in line with the others. He moves on to five kendo sticks already held together with zip ties to make one behemoth bludgeoning weapon. He grabs some barbed wire. Time to wrap.
“But, this is why they called on the Deviant. Save us! They screamed. It was buzzing on the internet, in the bars, on the streets – the WCF needed a hero. Well, they got one. Seth Lerch isn't an idiot, he's an absolute genius, and I've yelled this ad nauseum I don't know how many fuckin' times. He see's that all I need to do is take a few whacks at that sack of mashed taters called a Maelstrom, and that California Raisin called a Steve Orbit. The rest is history. I don't need to play nice to do that. I need to play the game Maelstrom's been playing for YEARS. You know better, and you know that this game doesn't end with playing nice. Seth Lerch knows that. This game ends when Dan Van Slade ruins you at Payback. Play nice? Ha. Ha. Shut the fuck up.
A lot of people want me to lose. They don't like me. They want to see Maelstrom rip my throat out and gnaw on it for a while. They want to see my heart thumping in the palm of his hand while my lifeless body bleeds from a crater his fist created in my chest. The world wants to see Maelstrom – that energy drink japanese piss chuggin' fuck – defeat the Super Deviant and end it. Well, I'd be a dimple on the fat ass cheek of Seth Lerch before I let that happen.
But, what I've got before me is the ultimate redemption package. For some odd reason – I've let Steve Orbit get to me since November. Yet – he's done nothing to me. All he is to me is another reason why I'm the next best thing this company has. Not ICE. Not ZMAC. Not Bobby Cairo or the next Internet Champion, Kaz Mazy. We're talkin' about the fuckin' Devious Dan Van Slade here. Steve Orbit – sure, you're beginning to fade like the tattoos on Maelstrom's elderly skin, but there will still be a limp figure present in the ring at Payback; we aint talkin' about your dick either. You got real greedy and wanted to stare into the eyes of the future. Big balls, player. Big balls. It's too bad the future doesn't give a fuck about your watermelon nuts, fella. So, let me see you try to pimp out this baseball bat, or this beastly fuckin' pipe wrench. How about this big ass mallet? Each one has been designed to find your crotch – because pimpin' won't be so easy when you aint got that third leg to lean on. Don't worry – I'm gonna pretty much break every bone in your body. Fuck Steve Orbit.
Man, you guys are SO fucked. Fortunately – the both of you have time on your side. Experience. Scars. False teeth. Time. You've both reached pinnacles, and have seen glory. That's the best flip of this coin, because I've got all the time in the world to gain experience, and it doesn't stop at Payback. Regardless of what happens – I take you old fuckers to the grave. A part of you will always be with me when I wear that hardcore title with pride. Maelstrom's ear will be stapled to the leather. I'll crazy glue a few of Steve's teeth as substitute gems. Hell – I'm sure a few of your fingers would look great somewhere, and I'm not talkin' about the thumbs still shoved up your asses, I'm talkin' about decorating this belt. Money. Time. Arbitrary. I'll never know what time it is, or whether it's the right time. I'd do this for free, but it doesn't seem to work that way; albeit I seem to be makin' great money at a discount – beatin' on washed up fools. Steve – man, it's been great knowing you. Maelstrom – it's been great defeating you, a lot. I appreciate the practice. I understand that time is valuable, so after Payback – you two can go back to slowly dying.
So, bring your kendo sticks. Bring all the fuel to start the fuckin' bonfire. Don't forget to bring marshmallows. I'm lookin' to roast the both of you, and I'd like to char a few 'mallows over your burned flesh. Bring every lesson you've learned from your stupid chink-eyed fan base. Bring your hoe army, hoe militia, and hoe nation. Shift the Earthly plates and set the Island of Japan right at my door step. Bring the corner to the ring. Bring Mr. Wakamoto, bring Buddy Roman, bring ICE Beckman, bring the entire WCF roster. Do whatever it takes to stop me, and I know you will. The sad truth is that – you won't, you can't; and you never will.
God, I love being me.”
[To Be Continued in The Songs of Jest Part Four]