Post by Vulgar on May 17, 2015 15:30:07 GMT -5
Last Week in Mexico City
Somewhere deep in the festering, debris-strewn innards of Mexico City, a woman lets out a muted cry. Pinned to an alley wall by some Mongoloid in a filthy tank top, the horrified female limply struggles and writhes as each and every article of her clothing is lecherously ripped off of her trembling body. Several men pass, but none get involved. Not JUST out of cowardice, mind you… But also sheer apathy. It’s 2 a.m. in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, what do you expect to see? For a few passersby, this is the third rape they’ve witnessed tonight.
It’s only just beginning to dawn on the bleating woman how real this situation is. She’s being attacked. She’s powerless to stop it. Nobody is coming to help her. For as long as she could remember, her well-being has always been precariously balancing atop a knife’s edge. It was only a matter of time before this wretched monster of a city would swallow her whole. Now that this fate is finally upon her, she can only close her eyes and accept her morbid destiny.
But then…
Spencer Adams: You piece of shit!
From the void of night, a figure emerges… One markedly different from those that passed by the alley before him. This man is strong. This man is plucky. This man actually gives a shit about other people, even the denizens of a violent urban wasteland where lethargic self-interest is the norm. He is Spencer Adams, and he’s here to dole out a righteous ass-whooping to this perverted clod.
The goon in the wife-beater laughs. Producing a rusty blade, he lunges at the wrestler like a rampaging bull trying to gore a hapless matador. For a frothing-at-the-mouth cutthroat like him, this is a bonus; he gets to commit murder AS WELL AS rape tonight. Once in range, he zealously jabs his formidable sticker straight into his youthful adversary’s chest… But, to his great astonishment, Spencer Adams’ body is suddenly nowhere within reach.
Spencer Adams: Fucking asshole!
Uncanny speed.
Near-superhuman reflexes.
Energy enough to power a freight train.
The next thing the would-be rapist knows, he’s on the floor getting pummeled into a quivering mass of pussy. This is all he can comprehend before darkness overtakes him like the rising tide devouring a sleeping sunbather.
The ravaged woman is frozen in place, mouth agape. This stranger had dispatched her assailant as easily as one would crush an ant. What does someone do after being saved in this manner? Burst into tears of gratitude? Shower the hero with praise? When Spencer Adams catches glimpse of her trembling in the corner of the alley, he gives her the answer she’s looking for.
Spencer Adams: Go!
The shaken lady doesn’t have to think twice about it. Bursting out of the mouth of the alley, she takes off down the road like a jackrabbit and doesn’t look back. The destination isn’t the police station, where she’d be met with just as much apathy as she was by the passersby before. Just home. Home, where she’s always known a measure of comfort in this smoldering bog of depravity and bloodshed. Home, where she can recoup and contemplate telling her family about what had happened this night. Home, where she can kneel next to her bed and thank God for sending that babyfaced angel to rescue her.
When she turns a corner, however... There It is, waiting for her. A creature more vile than anything this city has ever seen before.
Vulgar: Do you know what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
The woman’s throat is crushed to the size of a pinhole as she finds herself being violently hoisted above the Earth like a dog being yanked in the air by his leash. She can’t process what’s going on right now, nor does she want to.
Vulgar: … Let me show you.
Her sanity evaporates in the span of a nanosecond as pain like she’s never conceived erupts on each and every square inch of her exposed fleshed. The woman doesn’t want to know what he’s doing to her. She doesn’t even want to look at him; that one initial glimpse was enough. The Beast snarls and growls like something not of this Earth as he goes about his horrid business. Even while she’s not looking at him, the ravaged female can tell he’s enjoying this a great deal.
And it’s in this awful moment that the woman actually wishes she were back in the arms of the rapist.
Theoretically I should hate this man, Spencer Adams. In the years to come, when I position myself as the absolute Big Bad of the WCF (And later the Supreme Leader of the Autocratic People’s Republic of America), men like him will be the only ones leading the charge against me. Not the mendacious dregs of the Earth that make up the bulk of the roster, nor the self-interested “neutral” athletes who don’t fight for anything, but the Good Guys. The altruistic ones, the people who try to build society up rather than tear it down. These are the men who will comprise the opposing army. Yes, theoretically, I should hate this man a very great deal…
And yet, no matter how deep within my nethermost pits I reach, the only emotion I can muster for him is… Lukewarm pity.
He calls himself the Antidote. He actually thinks he can help people, make a difference… Be a role model. What he doesn’t realize is that he’s wading into a cesspool of malice and debauchery, and when you’re doing that alone you’ll never get through unscathed. It’s like trying to fight an oil spill with your bare hands; either you climb out stained black, or you choke on the pollution and drown. A Diluted Antidote doesn’t help anybody.
Climbing through the ventilation shafts here in the Gran Hotel Ciudad de México, I look around and all I see is scum:
Mikey eXtreme, a creature seemingly ripped straight from a slasher movie. God knows how many people he and his hideous pet Freakshow have eaten over the years.
Celeste and Katherine Phoenix, a tandem of succubi who would probably be drowning babies together if they weren’t so busy fighting with one another.
Killian Dawson, reckless pillager of booty and wenches.
Logan, an imbecile so broken he considers stabbing his friends in the back a point of pride.
And then there’s me… The absolute bottom of the barrel. I’m fucked in ways most people would never think possible. If you gave me a gun and ordered me to shoot someone, I’d be liable to fire the pistol into my own taint and then break into a stranger’s house to scream a toddler to sleep in clown makeup. Not but ten minutes I ago, I injected a bubble of stink bomb fluid underneath my eye just so the ringside doctor will end up smelling bad when he tries to cut what he thinks is a hematoma.
This kid Spencer doesn’t stand a chance in this three-ring shit show. A few years in the WCF and he’ll be just as fucked as all the other lowlifes cocksheathes around here. You can’t fight for truth and justice when the opposition ignores the rules entirely without repercussion. After a while you realize you have to use the Devil’s tools just like they do to get anywhere, thus initiating your own inevitable corruption. Slowly but surely the cause you once fought for becomes blurred when your own needs and desires come into the picture, and after a while you begin to forget what it was you were trying to achieve in the first place. Avarice and bloodshed become your driving forces in the end, perverting you more and more until you’re not even a ghost of the man you used to be.
Yes, I’ve seen this happen before… Although I don’t quite remember where…
(What was I before?)
What I do know, however, is that it would be a sin if I let a spunky young scrapper like Spencer Adams be consumed by that evil. The kid is a wealth of talent and has his whole life ahead of him; I can’t let him be ruined by this deranged caricature of reality people call “sports entertainment.”
To save him, though… I’m going to have to scare him.
Rattle him.
Maim him.
Scar him.
Make him experience so much pain and fear in one sitting that he’ll never want anything to do with this putrid business again. That’s the help he needs right now. A kid with heart like him wouldn’t take to being reasoned with (Certainly not from someone like me). He needs to FEEL what his future is going to be.
Like always, I’m really going to enjoy hurting this man… But, for once, I hate myself for that.
The Scariest Promo of All Time
Vulgar: Hello, Mr. Adams. You're probably wondering how I broke into your hotel room and had this tape rigged up inside your VCR so it would turn on when you opened the door That is something you will never learn, but what I will give you right now is a message concerning our match later on this evening. I just want to let you know that I've been meeting with several associates of mine... Former associates of yours, if you catch my drift. I've just been assessing what you're all about, what your strengths and weaknesses are. How you're made up, you know? And I just want you to understand that I'm not going to be wasting time and energy when we get into the ring tonight. There won't be any fucking around on my part, buddy, not for a second. As soon as the bell sounds... I am going straight for the groin.
All.
Night.
Long.
You heard that right, buddy. But in case you don't entirely understand what I'm going to do to you, let me just illustrate my plans a little further.
Vulgar pulls two brown eggs out of his coat pocket.
Vulgar: These are your balls.
Vulgar carefully places the eggs on the concrete in front of him.
Vulgar: ... And this is your future.
Taking an awkward step forward, Vulgar launches himself head-first to the ground straight into the eggs. Blood shoots out from his face in every direction as his noggin smashes the eggs in dual splashes of yolk, splattering the concrete with a mingle of yellow and red slime. After laying motionless face-down on the floor for several seconds, the grey-haired madman picks himself up and looks back into the camera with a hideous crimson grin. Following several seconds of maniacal laughter, the camera cuts out and switches to home footage of a child's birthday party from 1995.