Post by DVS on Jan 25, 2015 12:53:13 GMT -5
|The Songs of Jest [Pt. 5] | Payback Roleplay No. 5 |
| Continued from The Songs of Jest Series [Pt. 1] - [Pt. 2] – [Pt. 3] – [Pt. 4] |
| Continued from The Songs of Jest Series [Pt. 1] - [Pt. 2] – [Pt. 3] – [Pt. 4] |
Weapon No. 4: The Steel Chair
Let's face it – I'm going to use it. Nobody gets away with being a real professional wrestler without taking one of these puppies to the frontal lobe. There's no ascension to the top if you can't eat a fuckin' shot to the dome from the same chair that felt the warmth of a fan's ass – the same ass we bring to shows on a weekly basis. The steel chair, oh – if only I could have had Longfellow, Wadsworth, or Whittier write some bad ass poetry on the subject.
Chair, oh chair, I can't wait to introduce you to the biggest ass – the head of thy enemy. I shall fucketh them upeth with you, oh steel chair. Crush thine skulls with one fatal swoop. Chair, oh chair, you have always been there when we felt most desperate.
Desperation, it's truly the necessary reason to use the chair. Pacification is the consequence. Typically – one shot to the forehead with a steel chair is going to stun the opposition. Depending on the person – it's almost an instant concussion. Some men have been conditioned to the steel chair. That of course results in several of these shots. Now, imagine taking plenty of these steel chairs to your skull. Yes, of course you're probably going to suffer from some form of brain damage; eventually. Of course – this depends. There's been so many chair shots in the art form of professional wrestling that the Lord only knows how many brain dead psychopath's run amok. Case in point – majority of the WCF roster.
The Deviant uses the chair, and of course it's out of desperation. He's even modified his finishing maneuver to use the chair as the proverbial nail in the coffin. The Intergalactic Super Deviant Driver with a Chairy on Top is dedicated to a desperate attempt to shut down the opponent; a devastating cut-throat driver onto a steel chair. He could use this to end any hardcore match, or say – when the official is interrupted by something else – if you give the Deviant ample time then he's bound to use this if it be clearly necessary. The point is that the Deviant will use the steel chair as a strategy. He's a soldier, and if hand-to-hand combat won't suffice, then it's onto the artillery. There will eventually be a weapon capable of silencing the opposition whether it be a steel chair, or a bowling ball.
The steel chair, regardless of desperation, tends to be the first weapon a professional wrestler leans on. The wrestler uses any tactic that may result in their favor, but the steel chair is ranked pretty high on the list when it comes to faithful cheats. Don't quote me on this, but if there were to be a pie chart – you'd see the chair taking 50% of the graph, while a table takes 15%, a ladder 10%, and the rest divided up into fairly even cuts dedicated to a variety of weapons sometimes used but not often considered.
OK, you get it. So, why is the chair the fourth best weapon in the Deviant's arsenal? That's because there's much power in many, and if there's an army of steel chairs then there's no doubt in my mind the opposition will fall because of it. One strike of the steel chair to Steve Orbits skull, a man who eats a steel chair for every meal of the day, will be less likely to put him down for the pinfall. The same could be said for two, three, and maybe four stiff and crucial blasts to Orbit's dome. As already mentioned – you're nothing in this profession if you haven't felt the sheer wrath of one of these babies. But, you only need many if all you're doing is using a steel chair. You can't win a professional wrestling match only notably performing with a steel chair and nothing else. The Deviant doesn't need a steel chair to win, but he rules nothing out in the victory combinations that win him matches. At some point – if his powerful fists and unbelievable strength can't bring someone to submitting – then it's necessary to take it to the next level. It's strategy.
What else is cool about the steel chair? It can be modified. Dangerously modifiable. Wrap the sum'bitch in barbed wire and you not only have a steel surface capable of crushing the average man's skull, but now you have the same purpose wrapped in relentless razor sharp barbed wire. Coat the chair in an industrial paste capable of gluing two Boeing 747 jets together, and then pour shards of glass on top; make it Muay Thai. Dip it in kerosene and then light it a blaze. Use that industrial paste and glue a bunch of chairs together so that the impact of four chairs stacked together simply hammers the opposition into the canvas like a cartoon. Make a steel chair table out of several steel chairs. Tape, or secure, a few fluorescent light tubes to the chair. Now you're thinkin'! The possibilities and ingenuity is endless. Hell, you could think outside the box and pull the chair apart so that you have MORE weapons!
The steel chair has been used in many ways, and in my forms. Lean it against the turnbuckle and monkey flip your opponent into it; Irish whip into a drop toe onto the chair; put that mother fucker on the outside steel steps and do what Jayson Price should have did to Chelsea Armstrong, but better. The Deviant will drop back in the pocket and Tom Brady a frozen rope pass with the steel chair that grinds your face up; we'll have to give you a burlap sack to wear. He'll toss you the chair so that you take the brutal ass-kickin' of a Van Sladinator, which is completely ripped off from the Van Daminator.
The steel chair is many things, and can be used in many ways. There are words that describe it, but the best are reliable, loyal, and timeless. The downside is that it's also cheap, amateur, and mindless. The Kierkegaardian Either-Or. Next to the Deviant's Brain, Heart, and overall athleticism – the steel chair is the fourth best weapon in his arsenal. The steel chair is about as trusty as the often issued Beretta; put it in a holster and unleash a clip! One last reminder – this catalog is in no order, so we're not saying the Deviant will go to the steel chair first when it's time to bring in the cavalry. This is simply an analysis of the many different and unique ways the Deviant will whoop your ass. Take it with a grain of salt, or take a chair shot like a fuckin' man. Let's just say the former can be used as a weapon, too. Ever take salt to the eyes? Hmmm.
Adventures of the Super Deviant
“Bud...listen, bud,...” the Super Deviant sits at a large oak dining room table surrounded by several opened and empty bottles of booze. The classic 'Life's Been Good' by Joe Walsh plays on loop soft in the background. He leans his head onto a cell phone. His body is wrapped in athletic tape. His forehead is bruised and certain spots covered in bloodied guaze. He tightens his right fist as blood trickles from a few open wounds on his knuckles and streams between his fingers. “...No, bud, listen bud, I want you to write dis' chit down,” he says in a drunken warble, and slurring some of his words, “bud, write dis chit down, k? Write – the Super Deeeeviant is comin' after your ass, bud. Got that? After his ASS. Look – you made a mistake, that's all there is to IT. A mistake, and we get that, but I'm not lettin' THAT mother fucker come at ME the way he has, bud. THAT mother fucker thinks he's better than ME? WHOA, brother, WHOA. No...no...FUCK FREDDY WHOA. No, listen bud, I want you to write dis down. Write – THIS mother fucker aint gonna let ANY mother fucker come at him like THAT mother fucker did, bud,” and he pauses. His eyes widen. He smiles. “No, wait...NO...wait...”
The Super Deviant pauses once more. He listens to the voice on the other end, a voice unheard at this perspective. The drunken Deviant cracks his neck to the right and left. Dan lifts an empty bottle of Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout and realizes there's nothing in it, so he sets it next to several empty bottles of the same brew. He begins to dice a line of cocaine sitting in front of him as he continues to listen to whomever he's speaking with. He grabs a rolled hundred dollar bill and bends forward to initiate snort, but he grunts doing so from some of the pain he's endured through his training this week. He instantly sucks the line of cocaine through his nose; he leans back and consequently whips his head.
“WAHHHHHHHHHH!” The Deviant shouts, and it's apparent the person on the other line is interrupted. “FUUUUUUUCK YOU,” the Deviant continues, and then begins to sniffle. He wipes his nose clean of any residue. “Listen, bud, how many times I gotta tell you – write dis chit down – how many times I gotta tell you bud that...NO...” and the Deviant is interrupted. He's angered. “...NO...shut the fuck up for a second, bud – write – if YOU personally think that THIS mother fucker isn't going into PAYBACK with a PLAN then THAT mother fucker is probably a FUCKIN IDIOT, bud. Plain and fuckin' simple, guy. Plain and fuckin' simple,” and he stops, he looks confused and then removes the phone from his ear. He stares at the phone as if he's never seen it before, and then puts it back to his ear. “Am I drunk? AM I DRUNK? NO. No, bud. Nobody drunk here. Write dis chit down, bud...” and then the Deviant removes the phone from his ear and looks at it, “...fuckin' asshole hung up...”
Dan stares at his cell phone. He glides his index finger against the touch screen. He presses a button, and then puts the phone to his ear. He licks his lips, and then pops open a small mason jar with a piece of masking tape on it that simply reads: 'moonshine'. The Super Deviant takes a deep swig, clenches his eyes, and then pops open his mouth to release a sound of refreshment. Whomever he is calling has answered. Dan grins, and almost goes limp.
“MA!” Dan shouts, and continues to salute his mother, “MA, it's Daniel, ma – listen ma, do you know what I do now?” Dan pauses after the question and smiles. The smile suddenly fades as he continues to listen to his mother speak. “WHAT? Bitch, no. No. Ma – no. I don't even remember....WHAT? NO,” and then he stops as his mother interrupts. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN? I called you WHAT? DRUNK? NO!” He continues to angrily shout into the phone. “Well that's 'cause you ARE A BITCH! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU, BITCH!” He stops momentarily. His anger seems to fade. “I don't have mommy issues. What? No. What? Oh. I'll probably be home for Easter. Ham? Sure. Fuck. Ok.” The Super Deviant pulls the phone from his ear and yells into it. “I LOVE YOU TOO, BITCH!” Then he ends the call.
He begins to scroll through a list of contacts stored in his phone. His eyes light up and then a toothless deviant grin. He presses the green phone and then places his Galaxy S5 to his ear. He whips his long black curls back, and listens as whomever he's calling seems to be leading to a voicemail. He pulls the phone off his ear and presses a button. Suddenly – speaker phone.
Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Dan guffaws, holds in the last laugh, but accidentally shoots snot out of his nose in a drunken mess. The ringing stops as Dan wipes the almost toxic-glowing green glop from his nostrils, but still leaving an noticeable glaze over his nose. The ringing leads to a voicemail.
“WHOA!” The man in the voicemail shouts, and it's clearly noticeable who the person is, “you've reached Freddy! Leave a message at the WHOA!” and that's followed by an obnoxious beep. Dan sniffles, crusty white snot still coats some of his jet black mustache, and he leans forward to confront his cellular phone.
“FREDRIC!” Dan shouts, and nearly botches. “Freddy, listen bud, and write dis chit down, k? Listen – bud – listen – OK – I've been meaning to tell you this for a long time, bud. Listen. k. Listen. I think your commentary, bud – I think your commentary fuckin' sucks. Hard. Sucks real hard. Hard as a fuckin' brick hard. Shoots brick hard. Hard as a fuckin' rock. Rock hard. Not a fan, Freddy Whoa. Simply not a fuckin' fan. How you got a job, bud? How you - how you get hired, bud? TELL ME YOUR SECRET. WHOATORIA'S SECRET. Write dis chit down, bud. Write – THIS mother fucker, the Deviant mother fucker, THIS mother fucker, bud, he's comin' into Payback and he's fuckin' some mother fuckers UP, bud. Takin'em to Space mother fuckin' MOUNTAIN, bud. Freddy Whoa! Whoa! Bud, whoa, listen...” he's cut off by a computer generated female voice.
“If you're satisfied with your message, press one,” and Dan looks confused, and annoyed, at his Galaxy S5 as the female continues to list options to complete the transaction. “...to listen to your message, press four...”
“FUCK YOU!” Dan shouts, and he presses one, or so he thinks.
“Re-record your message after the beep...” the female suggests, which clearly means Dan has deleted the original message and did not press one. The beep is heard, but Dan isn't having this. He is dissatisfied, and begins to say a few strange things under his breath. He immediately ends the call, which does save what he's recorded to Freddy Whoa's inbox, so his voicemail sounds a lot like this:
Static. Random movement. Static. “Fuck this chit, mother fuckers, cock suckin' technology fuckin' goat ass sniffin' fuck...fuck...” Static. Random movement. “Bud,” and then it ends.
The Super Deviant, drunk as a skunk, throws his phone at the table. He leans back in a chair and looks passed the empty bottles of booze, the opened jug of 'shine, and the huge vase filled with kendo sticks that creates the centerpiece of the grandiose table. The room, pure white, has barren walls. The table and its chairs are the only objects that makes this a possible dining area. The Super Deviant leans back. His hand has a mind of it's own as it raises a finger to his nostril, and he snorts a small bit of coke from his fingernail. He briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and then dramatically exhales as his eyes snap open. He stares at the large space above the entrance way to the dining room. He studies it for a moment. Lightbulb. The Deviant instantly smiles, and nods.
“Imma mount their fuckin' heads, Orbit, Maelstrom – gonna mount their fuckin' heads above the doorway. Gonna mount'em. Take'em to the mountain. Gonna mount'em,” and then he snickers, and chuckles to himself, “gonna...mount'em...” and then he begins to sway. His eyes grow tired. He slowly rocks back and forth. “...Bud...” and then he falls face first into the table.
[To Be Continued in the Songs of Jest Part Six]