Brutus Seductus [Pt: I] (Slam U.S Title RP)

[David Sanchez]

I: The Dancing Bear

With Slam having concluded some twenty minutes ago the Chicago crowd has thinned to a mere social gathering. The stragglers and left-behinds browsing at the merchandise stands and watching the ring crew take the stage apart. An aura of excitement lingers in the air after not only the conclusion of the main event but also the expectations for next week’s broadcast. So much seems to have happened in such a short show; Howard Black’s broken arm, the masked man’s attack at the culmination of the main event and not forgetting the crowning of the first contender to the United States Championship, presented in the form of the man we greet in the locker rooms; David Sanchez. Lady Knives flutters around her wounded husband like a moth to a flame, enraged at the intrusion of this cameraman. The show was over she had thought, why must they always be filmed? Still in his wrestling gear, David disarms her fury with a calming smile as he pulls his black shorts up a little and hands her surgical bandages to wrap around his knotted quadricep. Having spent the last few minutes of his match ensnared in his own Devil’s Advocate submission hold, his left leg had been twisted and pulled to such dis-comfort that for a few moments he had honestly considered hitting the canvas, tapping three times and giving Spencer Adams the submission victory. Harder heads prevailed though, his stubbornness kept him in the fight and allowed him to prevail. No interference had salted his victory, no melodrama with the audience, no hardcore rules. He had won a match that was his to lose by the sweat of his own brow.

“Didn’t think you’d be seeing me so soon, did you Thomas?”

A smile of all-knowing, shit-eating arrogance splashes across his face as David speaks into the camera; no fancy footage, no creative setting and certainly no symbolism of any kind. This was simple, something which was foreign to Sanchez, he had always preferred to keep himself simple in the ring and appeal to the extraordinary when it was time to tell a story or to terrorize his opponents. Sammantha twists the bandage around his thigh, ties the end and applies pressure on the ligament, delivering a deep-tissue massage on the aching limb as David continues to smile into the camera. This had been an interesting week for him and easily his most rewarding to date in the Wrestling Championship Federation. That was only half of the battle though, he had also given up the sweet release of his painkiller addiction, freeing himself from this vice before it further ravages his mind.

“For those of you who don’t follow my work, I’d like to take you back to Ultimate Showdown, not quite to the destruction of Teo Del Sol, but back to shortly after that encounter. I was sitting in a room, a room not unlike this room, a little bigger perhaps and certainly a little busier. I sat on a bench, as I sit on one now and I looked to rest, to let those little pills do their job and dull the senses, make me forget about the anguish and agony I had just endured. I had no interest in watching the rest of the show, why would I? I wasn’t going to be competing again, but then a shadow crept over me, and a man appeared before me. Except this man was not any ordinary specimen, he was six feet and nine inches, best I could tell at the time, and that wasn’t even the immediate thing to draw my attention. This motherfucker was huge, he looked like something from a poorly depicted exert of a Herculean adaption. I mean the man was just flat out intimidating on first glance, then he ruined it all with one fatal mistake… He spoke.”

“All things considered he could still have been a threat, but at that moment, all I could do was laugh when it became obvious that this man, nay this juggernaut in front of me was none other than Thomas Uriel Bates. Those thick Southern tones booming from his mouth as he greeted me with what I’m led to believe is somewhat of an acceptable introduction if you happen to have grown… nay been dragged up in Memphis. A weight-lifting, flag worshiping, motor-cycle owning giant. The same man who would go on that night to over-achieve in the main event and walk away with second place, much to the dismay of any pundit, fan or bookmaker. He continued on to tell me of his movement, the Dark Riders Motorcycle Gang, speaking like a child with a super-secret tree-house that you needed a password to gain access to. Then he dropped the bombshell I had been expecting since he approached me. The invitation came as no surprise, so when he asked me if I’d like to join it didn’t take me but a few moments to notice the flaws in this plan. For you see, Thomas didn’t want to form a gang, a faction, a force to be reckoned with. He wanted to be the top man in a human pyramid, he wanted to be that force to be reckoned with, and he wanted me to join the ranks of such nobodies as ‘Indecisive’ Danny Anderson, ‘Dead Guy’s Brother’ Doug Murdoch, ‘The Permanent Midcarder’ Gemini Battle and not forgetting ‘The Choke-Artist’ Mikey eXtreme.”

David leans forward on the bench, pulling his shorts back down over the bandages and lighting a cigarette. He takes a hesitant drag at first, followed by a much deeper one. Sammantha can be seen moving away as the puff of smoke fights to engulf her.

“Of course, there was another man in their little social gathering at that time. The same man I just defeated this evening, Spencer Adams. It would seem however that since that night, Mr Adams has had an epiphany. That’s where I differ from this man, you see; a few months ago when Spencer first came into this company, you approached him in the same manner and promised him great things, to nurture his potential and help him elevate his standing in this business. That wasn’t what you wanted to do at all though, was it Thomas? I seen straight through your offer. You thought you could use him to swat some challengers, all-the-while keeping him from becoming a valid threat to your ascension himself. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. It’s good logic Thomas and perhaps your recruitment methods are the only thing we can agree on, because in your shoes, with that kind of weight to throw around; I might have done the same thing. It’s clever really, bring the competition into your fold and set them to work doing your bidding. You’re no better than a paedophile luring children into the back of a white van with promises of candy, and deliverance of sodomy. Instead you bring in fresh talent and promise them opportunity, only to grant them obscurity and a crisis of identity.”

“You done it to Spencer, but he was just a whelp when you caught him, you might as well have been poised with a catcher’s mitt at Betty’s womb, waiting to make the grab, slash the cord and disappear into the night. You tried to sell me that same bill of goods Thomas, the promise that my career would escalate simply by associating myself with your merry band of marauders. Except you didn’t take into account that my career has already scaled the grand old face of the plateau, so high infact that you now find yourself across the ring from me next week, with that gold-plated strap on the line. You’ll probably already be hunting again, browsing the new talent to find your Andy Dufresne. Just the next wrestler to be cornered in the showers and have the credibility held, gagged and stripped from them while you metaphorically fuck their career in the ass.”

“You see, the thing that really annoyed me with this, is not that you came to me with an olive branch, but the fact that when I rejected you, I was forthcoming with ideas of my own. I was open to working with you, in spite of the fact that I find you to be, quite frankly; the worst kind of human being on the face of the earth. I swallowed my pride though and made my propositions, only for you to turn and sniff in my direction, like I was a fucking piece of gum stuck to the sole of your boot. You dismissed me as non-entity Thomas, and I am not the type to take such disrespect in my stride. In hindsight, perhaps I should have struck then and there. I’m a patient man though, and above all else Bates… I’m a talented man. I knew in that moment that I had to find a way to get my hands on you when the world was watching, not by breaking your tibia in the corridor when the cameras were off. After-all; if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is around, does it ever really make a sound? Sure I could tell people what I had done, but I’ve always been a very visual person. I want them all to see it, all seventeen of your fans. I want them to witness the moment this man brings you to your knees and kicks that backwards brain right through the side of your thick cranium... and the worst thing Thomas? The thing that I hate just as much as you? The people will fucking love me for it.”

David’s thoughts drift a week into the future, he can hear the crowd cheering for him and begins to shudder under the weight of their applause. He was never any good at accepting praise, adoration or general approval of any kind. He had love of his wife and son. That was always enough for him. The feeling of people relying on him was not something he wished to carry but if it meant he could take that belt and hold it up as his own he would walk into Minnesota as the people’s elected agent of change. Sure they had wanted Adams in this match, everybody had done, and this was no secret. Deep down though, would Spencer have been willing to do what was necessary to fix this mistake? This dirty mark on the history of the United States Championship. He would have given it his whole heart, sure but David was the one who didn’t suffer the burden of moral righteousness. He would do anything to satisfy his own lust for success, that golden belt calling out to him already, begging him to write his first page in the history books of this particular organization.

“You still don’t seem to understand it though do you? You seem to have this illusion of yourself that clouds the man looking back in the mirror. I don’t get it either Thomas, I honestly don’t understand how you can expect to preach about your particular political standings and still expect people to cheer for you, and it’s a mystery to me. I promised myself I wouldn’t go down this road though, I swore I wouldn’t fall into the trap of political ranting and I’m going to stick by my promise at least for now, at least for tonight. Not because I agree with your morals and opinions, no but instead because quite frankly, I don’t give a fuck what you believe in, you could be flying the flag of ISIS and it would pale in comparison to your other distinguishing attributes. All I need to do is look at you. Nobody can deny that you’re a beast Thomas, not one man on the roster, but those men aren’t seeing the bigger picture here. If I stood at your size, with your backwoods education, your strength and a gang of thugs, psychos and crippled sociopaths to keep the common man at bay; I would be king of the fucking world. Yet, you can’t seem to see your own potential. You put the brain of any man into that tank of a body and the world becomes a much more manageable maze. You waste your time with your biker buddies, throwing back beers and discussing the Civil War when in reality you could be plowing through the roster as if they weren’t even there. Instead your left holding your dick week in, week out while guys like Deuce, Hatcher and now even Joey Flash skip in front of you to take their shot at Dune and lifting that World Heavyweight Championship. It’s pathetic, and do you know the worst part of it Thomas? You can strive to get to the top on your merit, you can keep on trucking through mediocrity and probably do so with not but a few blemishes on that record of yours but while you build your grounds for a just and honest way to get yourself on Dune’s radar. The rest of us are laughing at you as we pass you buy, flip you the bird and leave you to it; dis-heartened and domesticated like the dancing fucking bear you are.”

“Are you familiar with dancing bears Thomas? Let me tell you where I draw these similarities. In the wild, young bears are captured, ripped from their mothers and taught by a trainer to perform in from of audiences by the medium of extreme cruelty. The young animals are forced onto sheets of glowing hot metal and, in order to escape the pain, the bears alternate lifting up one paw and then another while a music is played. The process is repeated again and again until the animals automatically begin to raise their paws or ‘dance’ in fear of the pain, even when there are no metal sheets. As the bears get older the trainers keep them under control by inflicting pain. They do this by putting rings through the bears' highly sensitive noses and jaws. No anaesthetic is used for this painful process. Chains are attached to the rings so that the trainers can control the animals, which weigh up to 350 kilograms, with only a slight tug on the chains. The bear’s claws are trimmed several times a year and their teeth broken or removed so they can’t injure their trainer. The bears also suffer with an inadequate diet that usually consists of white bread, sugar and alcohol. All these cause serious physical health problems for the bears. Many also display stereotypical behaviors such as swaying, pacing and self-mutilation as they can’t follow natural behavioral patterns and instincts. In the wild though, the bear is a force to be reckoned with, mauling its prey without fear of reprimand, so as you can imagine, it’s a sad sight when you see one of these beasts confined to a cage and made to perform for the public. It makes me pity you in truth Thomas, to see you standing in that ring with a goofy fucking smile on your face, lifting people up and pressing them overhead like they were nothing only to be met with jeers and hatred. The bears at least get applause from the crowd which pays to see them, whereas you just seem to carry on dancing long after the show stops. Oblivious to the thought that the trainer is dead, the cage doors are open and deep down, you’re still as savage as mother nature made you.”

David pushes himself up from the bench and smiles into the camera first before turning to Sammantha who passes him a T-shirt which he puts on right away. The locker room door flies open now as cleaning and maintenance staff enter the enclosed space, obscuring the shot slightly before being urged by the cameraman to wait a few moments. David scoffs at this intrusion, this was why he never liked to give these staged video packages in arenas; other people. He much preferred talking from his own home, or better yet from a neutral, private venue where he could rant and rave ‘til his heart was content. In an ideal world he thought as he smooths out the creases in his top and takes Sammantha’s hand into his own. Looking back into the camera to deliver his parting message and let the custodial crew do their job.

“Thomas ‘The Dancing Bear’ Bates, it’s actually got quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think Mister Mountain? I need you to sit down this week and take stock of your options, there’s nothing in this life I detest more than a man who complains about the outcome after being offered an alternative way to do things. I put it to you that next week Thomas, you can either come out to the ring as a wild beast looking to maul, maim and mutilate me. Or you can dance down the ramp like you always do, make a pitiful roar at the crowd and find yourself put out of your misery, out of a championship and out of this business. I’m not as nice as Howard Black was Thomas, and I’m certainly not as inclined towards mercy. If you underestimate me, I will make you the sorriest sack of opinionated shit this side of the Mason-Dixie Line. You come at me with anything less than you gave to Dune at Showdown, or to Black at Blast and I will leave you beaten, broken and belt-less in that ring, just another big man in the wrestling business brought to his knees by the inability to free the beast we all know you have inside. It’s time to stop dancing Thomas, stop the charade. Stop wondering why people don’t like you, why nobody takes your little bicycle club seriously and why Dune won’t acknowledge your existence. Stop behaving like such a bitch and be a real bear, or you’ll end up stuffed.”

II: A Grand Design

“They say that on the seventh day, God sat back at marveled at his creation.”

David’s voice is somewhat distant, yet still it manages to penetrate the din of smashing and crashing as the scene opens up to a stone mason’s workshop. The chiseling of rock is an art that most people don’t really give much notice today but once upon a time, this dying vocation was a booming industry granting hundreds of thousands of jobs in America alone. The tools of his trade in hand; his chisel and his trusty mallet. This architect of sculpture is withered and frail, yet he still smashes down on the statuesque and mostly veiled sculpture in front of him with such force and precision that one does not think twice about questioning his choice of later life activities.

The location is unknown. A dark room somewhere that the light seems not to be concerned with but for the crackling of a fire and the faint buzzing of a single light-bulb which dangles over the piece itself. Not taking his eyes off of his project, the old man sniffs a sad breath through his nose, looking not like he is enjoying this particular use of his skills. Under pressure he continues to shape the stone

“When they built you Thomas, in whichever laboratory had the time, money and resources to do so; they well and truly broke the mold. It’s almost like they watched Rocky Four, seen how successful Ivan Drago was, and thought; ’you know what? I bet we could do this with a wrestler’… the naivety of man never ceases to amaze me. They hit the six foot mark and decided nine more inches were necessary, stacking you so tall that the shadow you cast on the rest of us is enough to inspire terror in the hearts of men. Then it was time to handle the weight distribution, all four-hundred and thirty pounds of it. This man could have no body fat though, for any negative numbers on a body-mass index would surely indicate a failure in their creation, and so he was sent to work. Power-lifting, dragging cars, curling tree trunks or whatever it is you guys do to stay in shape down in Memphis. Regardless they set you to work and you didn’t disappoint, did you? We can just ask Gemini Battle who had the unfortunate privilege of meeting you in your first encounter here. He was easily tossed thirty-feet into the crowd whilst you managed to pick up the victory with that boot of yours, creating a triumphant debut that you still like to bring up to this day. What happened in the past Thomas, must stay in the past, lest we are doomed to repeat our mistakes. Now I’m not Mr Amazing, and I’m certainly not Gemini Battle, although at least I can see the similarities in that comparison but if you think that you are going to throw me like a lawn dart or send me to the hospital with a single boot, then you my gargantuan friend are sadly mistaken. I still don’t really understand how the whole friendship with Gemini came into play, what did he just start following you around after that match, scared that you’d hit ‘roid rage and powerbomb him through a brick wall? The relationships we form in this business of ours are always intriguing to me, but your choice of companions is a discussion for another day. I don’t want to spend my time talking about the DRG, at least not at this point. I’ve never been an advocate of kicking a man when he’s already down, and your little club Thomas, is so far down it’s began to fertilize the soil. No today we are here to discuss you and you alone.”

David comes into view of the camera now as the elderly man continues to chisel away at the sculpture in front of him. He sits against a side wall, upon a rickety wooden stool with no back support. Though he does not look comfortable, in this light he is still seen to be somewhat happy, still bearing his teeth a little as he smiles the sick grin of a salesman off-loading dilapidated timeshares.

“Now Thomas, they say a man’s family is what makes him who he is, and given what I’ve found in digging through your past, I can attest that you are no exception to this rule. Wrestling is in your blood and you have been bred for the business. So, you didn’t quite measure up to dear old dad. That must have been disappointing for him; a true giant, looking down at his half-breed son, unable to decide if you were the fruit of his own loom or if sweet Pandora had been getting her box filled by the boys on those long out-of-town shows. Never trust a woman who will voluntarily fuck a near eight-foot man though, that’s what I always say. Mommy must have had her share of kinks, although I suppose it must have made child birth a breeze. I imagine you could have strolled out of the womb, twirling a cane by the time your mutant father was done with that once sweet little slice of hers. Still though, your mother’s wrecked pussy and smashed back door aside… That sweet, gentle idiot of a man raised you as his own. I’m sure you seen a lot of things during your childhood that helped sculpt you into the colossus you are today; I can’t imagine you understood much of them at such a young age but understand; those screams coming from the room next door were not those of pain, Thomas. That was just dear old dad fucking that succubus of a woman half to death whilst she held onto the headboard and begged for more.”

“Staying with your roots though; I happened to stumble upon your family history. I have to ask, what the fuck happened there? You have so many different bloodlines it’s almost as though you were conceived during a United Nations gangbang. That mother again, what a promiscuous little slut she must have been Thomas. If I was twenty years older I’d have tossed my own DNA into that soup bowl of a womb so then you could claim to have some Hispanic heritage too, but perhaps you’d not be so keen to share that history, a little too close to the border I assume. I have to wonder though, given that the majority of America doesn’t want you in the country, let alone holding the belt that would suggest you as it’s representative, why don’t you do the noble thing and really follow your ancestry; follow it the fuck out of these United States and back to Scotland where they can marvel at you in the Highland Games as you bench press a tractor wheel. Or why not hit up those Asian connections? You’ve got a sure fire career in front of you pulling rickshaws around town, fuck you could probably pull two at once, you’d have the market cornered. Ireland always needs extra hands on the farm, just imagine how many potatoes you could pick Thomas? You selfish bastard, squandering your talents in wrestling when you could be helping your distant relatives avoid another famine.”

The old man wipes perspiration from his brow as David continues his sermon, speaking not to the man, and not to the camera but rather simply filling the room with his words in the interest of soaking in his own voice. The lighting is terrible, a single flickering bulb cascades down from the ceiling near to where the stone mason grafts and a coal fire burns in the most distant corner of the room, allowing for only enough heat in this old, stone building to avoid frostbite. Sanchez folds his arms in front of him, watching as this man continues to craft. Nothing other than a single patch of the project is visible from under the tarpaulin, although the entire article itself is close to seven feet in height.

“It’s a beautiful thing, you know. To take something from nothing and nurture it, raise it and shape it into something the world can marvel at. I should know Thomas, I have a son, and I am a son. The son of a butcher and a receptionist; no giants or mythical beasts in my background I’m afraid. Nothing but transcendent, abject normality. I’m a man of simple taste, a normal up-bringing and only the most basic of belief systems. I believe I can beat you. I believe I can do it because I don’t believe you really see me as a threat, if you see me at all. You would think that Blast might have taught you something in looking past an opponent, but I witnessed it on Slam. You didn’t care about the United States Championship standings, all you wanted to do was show Dune how big your boot was. I am invisible to you, not perhaps as invisible as this Christian God you seem to worship, but no more noticed than the air we breathe. I don’t claim to understand religious or political affairs, but then again I’m not the one with the degree in history. I wonder though, how far back do you need to study before it becomes apparent that God is nothing more than a scale by which to weigh ourselves against or a comforting entity to confide in for the wrongs we have done in our lives. I don’t worship Thomas and I don’t believe in a higher power than myself. Every Sunday I wake up, I shave, I kiss my family and I go to the gym while you go sit in a stuffy church somewhere in Alabama and prepare for the rapture which will spare your soul and rid the world of all the heathens and… I’m sorry but I can’t even finish that sentence, it feels like I’m reading a nursery rhyme. It’s all so make-believe, but who am I to judge? Anything that helps you sleep at night.”

“From the ground up Thomas, you are everything a professional wrestler should be. You have the size, the strength, the lineage and a reasonable level of intelligence. It’s like they carved you out of stone in a workshop not unlike this one. Beyond that, it’s like they carved you out of stone and then granted you three wishes. You have the money, the education and a level of talent that far exceeds most men of your stature. You know what I’m talking about, those lumbering Neanderthals like your father who simply step over the ropes, take a few kicks to the leg then squash their opponent with a press-slam. You’ve done your best to avoid that stereotype, although it might be perhaps the only stereotype you’ve chosen to avoid but still; good for you big man! The money from your uncle’s little company is probably enough to buy yourself out of any lawsuits your ‘backwards preaching’ might find you faced with but deep down just know, and trust me on this: money cannot buy you peace of mind. There will come a time where a man will reckon you for the words you spit out like acid, but fear not; for that man is not me. I give zero fucks, I just want that belt before you kill it like you killed the Trios titles. You do remember where you put those right? Gathering dust in your war room somewhere I figure, only to be defended on the seventeenth Sunday of the year. I won’t let you do the same to the United States Championship Thomas, mark my words, if I can’t take it from you on Sunday, I’m going to keep winning, keep chipping away at you. I will wear you down over time like a thorn in your side until the time comes that I can simply roll you over, and put my boot on your chest like you’ve done to so many others and pin you in the center of the ring. Hell, maybe I’ll even do one better and Howard Black your ass. I must say it’s rather embarrassing to watch a man of your size screaming in pain as he submits, a little bit of my respect for you died that night, and the rest of it shortly followed when you couldn’t redeem yourself. Now in my eyes, you are not the Impassable Mountain you claim to be, but rather a pointless walk up a slight slope, which quite frankly nobody can be bothered hiking because the view from the top, from above your defeated body, is not so much impressive as it is underwhelming.”

“May we talk shop though for a second Thomas? I really feel like I should be focusing more on the competitor and less on the man he is outside of the ring. I’ve watched the tapes and done my homework. I know how to beat you Bates, I’m going to do it in the same way that Bobby Cairo, Jay Omega, Howard Black and Dune did, but unlike those men; I’m not going to let you get back to your feet when the bell rings to signify my victory, instead I’m going to stalk around your lifeless body and wait patiently for you to get back to your knees, and then I’m going to begin the beating from scratch. This is how the evening will end Thomas, it will end when you stay down on the canvas whilst I hold up MY United States Championship with a boot on your chest and a smug, I told you so look on my face. These people don’t deserve me as a champion, but you’ve left me no other choice. If I don’t take the belt from you, how long before the stars and stripes are removed and we get a second confederate title? How long will it be before you turn into another fucking novelty item like the Trios?”

The mood of the room turns to expectant dread as the sculptor turns to David, perspiration streaming from his wrinkled brow. Standing from his rickety stool, Sanchez approaches the man and pats him on the back with such force that he drops the mallet and immediately scurries to pick it up, straining his withered spine and decrepit knees as he does so while the Plague simply watches him struggle with a smile. He peeks underneath the blanket that covers the stone statue which was being worked upon until a mere few moments ago and turns back to the stone mason with a smile.

“It’s magnificent, the resemblance… it’s… it’s uncanny!”

“Thank you young man, now if you don’t mind I’d like to…”

“Jesus, it’s just one thing after another with you old-timer, how about you get the fuck out of the scene and go sit on the stool in the corner like a good old geezer, huh? Fucking leech.”

Dis-heartened, the old man backs away from David, hobbling over to the now vacant stool in the corner and taking his time to sit down in just the right manner to avoid hip displacement. The cold air in the workshop only becomes more frigid as he stares back at his work, his efforts and his lifeblood being molested, judged and ogled by this discomforting, mysterious man. David smiles and fights back a chortle, finding something to be hilarious but not willing to share the joke quite yet. He turn back to the camera and begins to speak again, completing ignoring the presence of any other life in the vicinity.

“It’s beautiful, you’ve really outdone yourself Alexander. I mean, the attention to detail, the way you’ve captured his image in its rawest, most honest form. I feel like I’m standing right next to him.”

The old man looks down with disappointment, which comes across as worrying even given the emptiness of David’s praise. Smiling that smile, that sick and twisted smirk of malice and mocking, David continues on.

“You see Thomas, I’m not a man bound by the shackles of hate and envy. I know that a talent such as yourself needs to be recognized and appreciated, commemorated almost so that after I beat you on slam your legacy lives on for future generations to gaze at with awe. So I came here, to a place and a trade that specializes in erecting monuments that will outlast us all, halfway across the country to a craftsman who has created architectural beauty and likenesses of famous and revered characters for decades. Monuments that will stand true as the day they were sculpted long after his bones are buried in the ground. It’s a gift Thomas, from me to you. So that after the dust settles on Sunday you will always have something to remember this encounter by, to look at fondly and reminisce on the time that you almost defeated David Sanchez. I searched the business directory for hours before I tracked down a stone mason worthy of such a feat, but I must say; Alexander here has exceeded even my own expectations, and it is with great honor that I reveal this to you today: the Thomas Uriel Bates Monument.”

David grabs a hold of the sheet which had obscured the entirety of the sculpture and pulls it away with one hand to reveal the statue as a whole. No towering dedication to Thomas Bates stares back at the camera though, instead the camera is greeted by the characterization of a six foot, nine inch male reproductive organ, complete with spherical, stone testicles and a confederate flag which extends out of a bronze pole buried deep in the urethra. Although, this is clearly a mocking jab at Bates, the workmanship itself is breath-taking: the detail on the veins, the way the flag has been starched to appear flowing even in a room with no wind and not forgetting the plaque at the very cusp of giant stone balls which reads: Thomas Uriel Bates – May the world never forget a dick of this magnitude.’ With one hand David salutes the flag, and straightens his back with the other hand firmly placed over his heart, taking a moment to bask in the symbolic beauty of his own creation. The elderly stone mason sinks his head into his hands, ashamed that his trade has become so under-appreciated that there was no way he could turn down David’s financial incentive to complete this abstract work of art. He sobs a little, all dignity stripped from the very fiber of his being as David turns back to the Camera and begins to hum softly, before beginning to sing Confederate Anthem by Johnny Rebel in a poorly imitated Southern accent and wiping a faux-tear from his right eye, whilst saluting the statue with his left as harmonic backing vocals begin to fill the room with music and the scene fades to black.

“Oh, I'm a good ol’ rebel,
now that’s just what I am,
and for this Yankee nation,
I do not give a damn.
I'm glad I fought again'er,
I only wished we won.
I aint asked any pardon for anything I've done.
I hates the Yankee nation and everything they do.
I hates the declaration of independence, too.
I hates the glorious union, tis' dripping with our blood.
I hates the striped banner, and fit it all I could”

III: Brutus Seductus (Part 1)

The crowd was electric, not quite the same voltage one might find in a wrestling arena, nor a football match but still generating enough buzz to know that excitement was in the air. Some seven thousand people had packed into the small-scale stadium to witness the two-thousand and fifteen American Freestyle Weight-Lifting Championships. The audience is hopeful, this is due to the emergence of their hometown hero, from right here in Memphis; Mark Adamson. It had been years since they last had a champion, in any sport but tonight was going to be different, or so the atmosphere would suggest. Fans of all ages, mostly from right here in town hold up makeshift signs and banners, fashioned at home out of cardboard box sides and old duvet covers. Though every state was represented in the first rounds, it was down to crunch time today; the semi-finals this afternoon and the finals tomorrow. It had come down to Tenessee, Illinois, IOWA and Texas; each state strongman representative having won a quarter final yesterday. The competitors are already center-stage, preparing for a dead-lift that would break the average man’s spine into two entirely separate pieces. It is not the actual show which we are drawn to though, but rather a particularly swanky balcony with only two occupants; a Mr and Mrs Sanchez of WCF fame.

David is dressed for business as usual, the suit he seems to own several thousand reincarnations of donned on his back even here, on this sweltering hot day with the fierce sun beating down on him. A pair of Giorgio Armani sunglasses cover his pale blue eyes from exposure to the camera but even through the thick tinted glass his facial expressions seem to tell a story of sadness and anger. His skin was tanning quicker than it had done in usual, he blamed the traveling for that. Four years of sitting at home in his mansion drinking scotch and playing with the kid hadn’t exactly left him much time to remember his Hispanic roots. Still true as the day he was born though, his skin pigmentation was darkening by the day, even now the visible portions of his flesh could be somewhat mistaken for that of a Latino. In complete contrast to his black suit, black shades and open-buttoned white shirt though Sammantha seemed to create the effect that these two were together simply to amplify the others characteristics. She was stunning as always, her black hair cascading down past her shoulders and resting upon her exposed, pale-but-burning shoulders. She was the image of sunshine, also in a pair of Armani sunglasses to match her husband, though hers a much more slender, feminine design. The dress she wore was pail blue and cut off just at the very extent of her thigh. They both seen to sip from iced coffees, a rare non-alcoholic beverage never did anybody any harm after all. As the hustle and bustle of children and middle-class America continues beneath them they stare at each other completely disinterested in the event they have chosen to attend. The hometown boy takes to the dead-lift and mages it with ease before dropping it to the ground with a boom that seems to shake the very stage they stand upon.

“So, remind me again why I have to do this?”

“Because you love me?”

“Try again darling”

“The guy’s the closest thing I could find to Bates, unless you want to actually try abducting the man himself, I say we stick to the plan.”

“Okay so, are you sure these backstage passes are going to work?”

“They fucking better work with what I paid for them, but remember, if anything goes tits up I’m on my mobile.”

“You’re going to owe me oh so much for this David.”

“I know, I know… Just name your price.”

Sammantha drifts off into thought as David’s eyes fall back onto the matter at hand. He scans his prey up and down: six feet, eight inches and around four-hundred and fifteen pounds. It wasn’t quite Thomas Uriel Bates for all intents and purposes it would have to do. He was panting a little, breathless from the lift he had just performed as he watched his rival from IOWA complete the same feat he had accomplished moments ago, executing the dead-lift perfectly but having taken more time than had Mark. The giant man judges his competition with an expression of confidence whilst he himself is being judged by David, the circle of bad intentions had completed its revolution. Sammantha tugs at David’s arm a little as the stadium announcer introduces the man representing Texas, though his name is rather obscured by the Memphis crowd’s jeers and boos, as has every other name barring that of their own contestant. Mark was a well-known lifter and had been competing nationally for ten years. Although he had never quite made a name for himself on the big stage, this was tipped to be his year, even the bookmakers agreed; refusing to give gamblers any higher than a two-to-one stake on this monster of a man winning the entire competition outright. This just made him all the more attractive of a prize to David though, who licks his lips thoughtfully as Sammantha continues to pull at his arm, trying anything to break his gaze and get her husband’s attention.

“David, stop checking out the man meat for a minute and look.”

Sammantha points down for a second to where the contestant from Illinois had been warming up just a few moments ago but was now doubled over on the ground, writhing in agony as medical staff flutter around him. The announcer begins to speak again, this time though it is not a jovial declaration but that of disappointment to all but the crowd who applaud, knowing that this injury will send their man on a direct route to tomorrow’s finals.

“I regret to inform everybody that Sam Waites from Illinois has suffered what the doctors are suggesting to be a hernia of his lower abdomen and will be unable to compete any further. As they have the fastest times: Mark Adamson from Memphis and Dwight Sanford from Iowa will progress to the finals, to be held here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well my dear, it appears as though the universe requires us to act a little quicker than we had planned.”

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot when I’ve got it sweetheart, love you.”

“Love you too, break a leg.”

Sammantha leaves the balcony after a quick and subtle peck on the cheek from her husband, slaloming through the fans that are already trying to leave whilst David stands stationary, staring down at the stage, his retinas following Adamson through the double doors which will lead him back to the locker rooms, and with any luck, the beginning of his demise.

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When the scene returns we see Sammantha alone in a hallway. She is seen to be fixing her hair and removing the Armani sunglasses to reveal her alluring, emerald green eyes. All the better to charm you with. She leans against the wall, smoothing out her dress to flatter her curves all the more and pulling it up a little to reveal more thigh than was previously visible. Her demeanor is calm, cool and collected, after all this wasn’t the first time she and her husband had used the honey trap to their advantage. It had been a while though, since her return she’d only been directly involved in a few of his schemes and one of her own cooking. It still didn’t faze her though, as she practices her cutest smile, trying her hardest to mask the fangs which had been known to peek through her lips when she was grinning.

The door to the hallway swings open and Mark Adamson approaches, this huge behemoth of a man casting a shadow the length of the corridor itself as he walks towards her, sweating profusely from the day’s competition. She grimaces upon noticing this and shudders slightly, doing her best to appear as interested as she could in the matter at hand. As she begins to approach him, walking with an extra bounce in her step to give him a full view of her assets she is cut off by two security officers, who at first admonish her but are gestured to back off first by Sammantha’s backstage pass and secondly by the big man himself who motions for them to go ahead into the changing rooms whilst he deals with what he expects to be no more than a groupie.

“Hi there, Mark right?”

“That’s what they call me young lady, how can I help you?”

“I know you’re a busy man Mark so I’ll keep this short and sweet. I’ve always had this fantasy about a man your size…”

Though short, there was nothing sweet about the way she grinds her body up against his massive frame. A purr is present in her voice too, subtle enough that if you did not know her you might believe it to be her natural tone of voice. Flustered by this young woman, the towering bodybuilder sweats all the more, trying to mask his nervousness through the art of confidence.

“Oh really?... And what fantasy might that be?”

Sammantha leans into the behemoth and whispers some bad intentions gently into his ear, cauing the large man to blush and stammer a little as he slips a hotel room key into her hand. Receiving what she came for, Knives smiles. Not the fanged grin we have come to know and fear but rather a smile of suggestiveness. She turns and walks away from Mark, leaving him to stare at her ass as she walks calmly towards the corridor door, her husband and her true identity. No sooner does the door slam closed, preventing her prey from seeing her does she pull the dress back down to regular length, speed up her walking pace and continue down the hall, smiling her usual toothy grin and stuffing the room key she had just acquired into the front of her bra. The scene begins to fade out again as she is heard congratulating herself with some whispered comments to herself.

“Yep… still got it.”

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Crimson was the color of the evening, like the blood the brute she was about to face spilled on a regular basis. It was a subtle pattern of one and a half inch in diameter deep crimson roses which splayed across the tight-fitting dress. They did not protrude, but were stitched into the material throughout to create one whole, fluid pattern. The thorns were not visually present, but metaphorically there in the form of two geometric “thorn” shapes of black, see-through material strategically placed on both sides, just below her breasts.

The tightness of the dress did not warrant the wearing of a restrictive and ineffective strapless bra; that was not the plan tonight. Her pale breasts were pushed tastefully together by the dress to create cleavage that wasn't overwhelming, but just enough to tease the groin of any male who might see. There was, however, the bothersome need for underwear to protect herself from any immediate advances. She chose them mindfully, choosing yet again another transparent material of matching color to the dress. Attached to the panties were black garters and stockings which dawned a white up-side down cross down the entire back of each one. It was an “unholy” task ahead, and she would enjoy every moment of it.

Traveling up her calves were straps, circled up and tied neatly below her knee. They led down to a pleasant 5-inch closed-toe stilettos that held onto her feet with ease. Back into the heel, once again. Her make up would be a process tonight. She would become the painted whore she used to be, and use it to do exactly what she used to do. Playing the game was more fun than she could imagine now that she got to have the cake and eat it too, every damn time. Damn it felt good to be a gangsta for Samm Sanchez tonight.

Obsidian locks had been curled, tucked, and pinned up wet for about an hour before being released; she pulled them out one by one to reveal large, shining curls that fell down messily about her breasts. Her green eyes were lined with dark crimson, a casting of black glitter pressed delicately atop her eyelids. She allowed it to fall down onto her cheeks and above her eyes, and she spread it all around.

Craft herpes was her favorite, because she left her mark everywhere she went, dazzling all, everywhere. Fake, feathered eyelashes were pasted onto her already naturally long lashes, creating the dramatic look she was going for. Eyebrows were perfectly plucked in the curved, thicker to thin style, where the front starts like a teardrop then thins out, but not too thin for this woman; she was no sharpie-drawn-on chola from the barrio. They were naturally dark, and accompanied her eyes to give an almost-always surprised look of pleasantness when she smiled. It would make it easier to seem intrigued by everything tonight.

She stalks down the hallway, pausing in front of a hotel room door and slipping the key she had acquired earlier into the lock. It clicks open and in she walks, disappearing from the camera as the scene fades out.

To be continued…