Post by Deleted on Dec 20, 2013 2:32:28 GMT -5
We now find the so-called "hero" of this story now in Los Angeles. He got himself a new truck, a white Volvo, but it wasn't the same. The cab was smaller, the storage was totally different, and the previous owner had left stains all over the cab from whatever the fuck he did inside of the truck. It wasn't the same as his old Peterbilt, so he made a few calls in an effort to get something as close to possible to what he used to have. Not that he would have to if a certain person could let bygones be bygones. Now this fucker is going to pay with blood, teeth, and hopefully a visit to the nearest ER...
It was funny that after putting out the video, raYne fell dead silent. Maybe raYne has figured out that he indeed fucked with the wrong trucker. MD was ready to tear the eyes out of his head and piss in his dead skull. He had never been more ready for anything in his life. Not even when he knew his mom was terminal and he had to watch for four agonizing months as cancer took her piece by piece. In the end, she didn't know who she was, let alone anybody else. That was painful to watch.
But a week and a half at the Ranch provided wonders that most wouldn't know about, such as their state-of-the-art gym, the saunas, and everything else that catered to whatever the guest would desire. All that cake and pudding he was putting away on the road was melted off, and he was back to his fighting weight. His confidence was growing, and he felt the strength in the air as he drew nearer and nearer, while he felt raYne's confidence wane in the coming days. His show failed to materialize, which didn't hurt Mod's feelings in the least. That windbag has already said too much, and now his ass wrote a check that will be paid in full, with buckets of blood.
The final "fuck you" to raYne has already been put in place. Needless to say, it was a busy week of filming for Mod Deuce. At least this other film was filled with laughs. And with any luck, this video would make raYne's blood boil with rage. Good. Makes the blood flow faster when it starts to run.
But now is not the time to think about such things. Instead, MD is saddled up to a bar, a scotch in hand, as he watches everyone coming to and from the bathroom like there's a carnival going on in there he didn't know about. Los Angeles. Strange place. Only in LA do people go to the clubs to do drugs rather than drink. His companion for the evening, a gentleman by the name of Roger Niles, noticed the same thing, and both have made a game of figuring out what drug everyone coming out of the bathroom is on. Roger, in a heavy Scottish accent, says...
Roger: Check out those tarts over there. I'm going to go with "E" for this one.
MD: I'll buy that for a dollar. All touchy-feeley with each other. But they could possibly be lesbos.
Roger: No fucking way. Those chicks want the dick. Too bad they're too fucked up to even score a decent fuck in a place like this.
MD: Dude coming out is totally on meth.
Roger: No fair! Bastard's grill is more fucked than my own. Oh God, he's walking over this way...
The guy walks by, and he wreaks of the ammonia smell that is associated with the drug. Mod nods his head, while Roger shakes his, throwing back his 21 year-old Glenfiddich. He sets the glass down on the bar, as he says...
Roger: Another one, mate?
MD: Of course...
Roger: Barkeep!
A rather disinterested young man comes over and pours them another scotch. He then walks away briskly, before zooming in on the three girls that both men noticed were probably on ecstacy. The three girls order drinks, before the bartender starts making them. It was at this time that Mod noticed him slip his hands into his skinny jeans, pulling out God knows what. The kid dusts the glasses, before making whatever concoction these girls were aching for at this time. It was sad, because these girls probably didn't need any more chemical courage to sleep with the next thing that presented itself. Mod drains the glass of scotch, and abruptly gets to his feet. The drinks had taken some effect, but his judgement was sound on what he was going to do next. At least, until Roger grabs his shoulder. Mod turns around to an astounded Roger...
Roger: Where the hell you taking off to?
MD: I think I got a chance with these chicks. You want in?
Roger: Personally, I think a cheese grater would have something more interesting to show me than those tarts, but...
MD: They're about to get drugged, and I have a way to stop this.
Roger sighs, as he says...
Roger: And who's to say that they don't want that?
MD: It's a hunch I have. Come with me.
Roger scowls, but he downs his scotch and and says...
Roger: Lead the way, Superman...
Mod and Roger approach the ladies as the bartender finishes up with the drinks. Deuce gets up close with the nearest girl, a blonde with a body that didn't look like it was going to quit anytime soon. He slightly nudges her, as some of her drink spills. She looks over at Deuce and says...
Blondie: Watch it, King Kong!
Mod: Sorry. What you drinking there?
Blondie: Fuzzy Navel...
Mod grabs the drink from her and throws it over the bar. Roger does the same with the other two ladies, as Mod says in his most boistrous voice...
Mod: Unacceptable! Honeys as fine as you three totally need the royal treatment. How's about a few bottles of Cristal, or some Dom P?
Blondie: With you two losers? I mean, what are you, a trucker? And what's snaggle-tooth over there?
Roger: I've banged hotter in the back of a livery, so don't flatter yourself, honey.
Blondie: You're British?
Roger: Banged smarter in the loo, as well...
Her face crinkles, as she slowly figures out that he caller her both ugly and dumb. Before she can connect all the dots, Mod says...
Mod: Hey you, with the face behind the bar! I want a couple bottles of Cristal! Make it snappy...
The bartender gives both men the stink eye, as he makes his way to the cooler. He pulls out two bottles of Cristal, and starts working at opening the bottles. Deuce says...
Mod: Just give me the bottles, I'll open them myself.
Bartender: I've got to open the bottles...
Mod: Bullshit. Give me the fucking bottles. Last thing I want to get is a mickey from you, fuck-face.
Bartender: What did you call me?
Mod: I called you fuck-face, fuck-face.
Blondie: What are these two talking about?
Roger: Something about Mickey and drinks.
This other, smoldering beauty in the group finally puts it together, as she says...
Smoky: That guy spiked our drinks!
Curly: That dick!
It was at this point that Deuce reaches over the bar and grabs him by the shirt, dragging him over the bar and slamming him down to the ground. One of the bottles in his hand explodes open, the cork flying upwards into the club, landing God knows where. Meanwhile, Deuce slams himself into the bartender, before gaining the mount and slamming his ham-like fists into the gaping maw of this sleazy barkeep. Satisfied that his point was made, he pulls the scumbag to his feet, picking him up overhead, before flinging him back over the bar, smashing him into several overhead glasses. Mod then pulls out his billfold, while Roger comes from behind the bar with an armful of bottles, to include an unopened bottle of Glenfiddich and three bottles of Cristal. Mod drops a wad of bills on the bartender, as he says...
Mod: This should cover everything, but if you even bother reporting this, I will find where you live, and I'll destroy you and everything you own. It'll be like you never fucking existed! You understand, fuck-face?
He got no response, not even movement. Dude was out cold or worse. He didn't care.
He signals for the others to start leaving, and nobody gives them any static as they left. Everyone was too stoned to care, and this wasn't the type of place that had bouncers. As he made his way to his truck, to which Blondie finally felt smart, noting earlier how she called him a trucker, he got to thinking about what raYne had said before.
Mod never considered himself a hero. He was just another working stiff getting up and earning a paycheck anyway and everyway he knew how to. But maybe there was something there...
Perhaps because of the time we all live in, doing the right thing constitutes being a hero. It used to be something that was expected of everyone. Now everyone just keeps their heads down in fear of reprisal from bad people. Mod remembered his grandfather talking about how in his day, if someone was known to be bad, they did something about it. No fear of the police protecting their so-called "rights". Hell, the Nazi's were crushed by the entire WORLD because everyone knew just how bad they truly were.
Well, if that's the case, then I guess "The Upgrade" Mod Deuce is a bona fide hero. A blue-collared, hard-talking, even harder-drinking, whore-chasing, cake-eating, pudding-pounding hero.
God help us all...
____________________________________________________
Mod: I really have nothing to say to you, about you, or anything at all...
A camera is fixated on Mod. Only a profile view of his head and part of his shoulders is seen in the shot. He's in his wrestling attire, with his trucker hat fixed backwards on his head, as he continues to speak...
Mod: Seriously, you've got nothing else to say, windbag? I'm shocked. I'm even hurt that you can't come up with anything else to say. You have SOOOOOOOOO much to say about everybody else here, I was certain you were going to say something derrogatory about what I've said so far. Maybe another round of calling me "Mod Douche". You're such an original guy coming up with something like that. I'm sure you're not the first person ever to spell your name with a random capital letter in your name. You're something else, I say...
The camera pans out even more, and we see that Mod is talking to what appears to be a sex doll, dressed like raYne. The weirdest part is that in the pants of raYne is an obvious poking implement coming from the crotch area. Mod continues to talk to the doll...
Mod: I know you've got a little hard-on for me. That was painfully obvious from the very first day you arrived here. I just don't dig you like that. And I don't dig whiny little bitches that get up in my shit. From the very moment you arrived here, you've just stirred up shit left and right. Its amazing you're still drawing breath. Oh, don't worry. I'll save your execution for out there. I want the whole world to see just what I'm going to do to you.
The doll just stands there, as the camera pans in on it. The face is obviously from a sex doll. There's no definition whatsoever, just a big "O" where the mouth is...
Mod: I know, I know, you're scared. I see the look on your face. But don't worry. Rape will NOT be involved in this match, just a brutal beating where copious amounts of blood loss and a potential trip to the ER. I wouldn't think of touching your sanctimonious ass with ANY part of my body, with the exception of my foot. You're on a whole different level than I am sexually. I'll just have to stick to what I know, while your "evolved" self goes and pollutes both the male and female population. Dr. Frank N. Furter would be so proud.
Anyways, if you got something else to say, I'll be around. But seriously, that look on your face is so PRICELESS! I don't know whether to unzip or bust your lip. I'll see you around...
Mod turns around slowly, before he fakes like he's about to hit the doll. The doll doesn't move, because its just a doll. Mod walks away after the show, keeping an eye on the doll as the scene fades out...
It was funny that after putting out the video, raYne fell dead silent. Maybe raYne has figured out that he indeed fucked with the wrong trucker. MD was ready to tear the eyes out of his head and piss in his dead skull. He had never been more ready for anything in his life. Not even when he knew his mom was terminal and he had to watch for four agonizing months as cancer took her piece by piece. In the end, she didn't know who she was, let alone anybody else. That was painful to watch.
But a week and a half at the Ranch provided wonders that most wouldn't know about, such as their state-of-the-art gym, the saunas, and everything else that catered to whatever the guest would desire. All that cake and pudding he was putting away on the road was melted off, and he was back to his fighting weight. His confidence was growing, and he felt the strength in the air as he drew nearer and nearer, while he felt raYne's confidence wane in the coming days. His show failed to materialize, which didn't hurt Mod's feelings in the least. That windbag has already said too much, and now his ass wrote a check that will be paid in full, with buckets of blood.
The final "fuck you" to raYne has already been put in place. Needless to say, it was a busy week of filming for Mod Deuce. At least this other film was filled with laughs. And with any luck, this video would make raYne's blood boil with rage. Good. Makes the blood flow faster when it starts to run.
But now is not the time to think about such things. Instead, MD is saddled up to a bar, a scotch in hand, as he watches everyone coming to and from the bathroom like there's a carnival going on in there he didn't know about. Los Angeles. Strange place. Only in LA do people go to the clubs to do drugs rather than drink. His companion for the evening, a gentleman by the name of Roger Niles, noticed the same thing, and both have made a game of figuring out what drug everyone coming out of the bathroom is on. Roger, in a heavy Scottish accent, says...
Roger: Check out those tarts over there. I'm going to go with "E" for this one.
MD: I'll buy that for a dollar. All touchy-feeley with each other. But they could possibly be lesbos.
Roger: No fucking way. Those chicks want the dick. Too bad they're too fucked up to even score a decent fuck in a place like this.
MD: Dude coming out is totally on meth.
Roger: No fair! Bastard's grill is more fucked than my own. Oh God, he's walking over this way...
The guy walks by, and he wreaks of the ammonia smell that is associated with the drug. Mod nods his head, while Roger shakes his, throwing back his 21 year-old Glenfiddich. He sets the glass down on the bar, as he says...
Roger: Another one, mate?
MD: Of course...
Roger: Barkeep!
A rather disinterested young man comes over and pours them another scotch. He then walks away briskly, before zooming in on the three girls that both men noticed were probably on ecstacy. The three girls order drinks, before the bartender starts making them. It was at this time that Mod noticed him slip his hands into his skinny jeans, pulling out God knows what. The kid dusts the glasses, before making whatever concoction these girls were aching for at this time. It was sad, because these girls probably didn't need any more chemical courage to sleep with the next thing that presented itself. Mod drains the glass of scotch, and abruptly gets to his feet. The drinks had taken some effect, but his judgement was sound on what he was going to do next. At least, until Roger grabs his shoulder. Mod turns around to an astounded Roger...
Roger: Where the hell you taking off to?
MD: I think I got a chance with these chicks. You want in?
Roger: Personally, I think a cheese grater would have something more interesting to show me than those tarts, but...
MD: They're about to get drugged, and I have a way to stop this.
Roger sighs, as he says...
Roger: And who's to say that they don't want that?
MD: It's a hunch I have. Come with me.
Roger scowls, but he downs his scotch and and says...
Roger: Lead the way, Superman...
Mod and Roger approach the ladies as the bartender finishes up with the drinks. Deuce gets up close with the nearest girl, a blonde with a body that didn't look like it was going to quit anytime soon. He slightly nudges her, as some of her drink spills. She looks over at Deuce and says...
Blondie: Watch it, King Kong!
Mod: Sorry. What you drinking there?
Blondie: Fuzzy Navel...
Mod grabs the drink from her and throws it over the bar. Roger does the same with the other two ladies, as Mod says in his most boistrous voice...
Mod: Unacceptable! Honeys as fine as you three totally need the royal treatment. How's about a few bottles of Cristal, or some Dom P?
Blondie: With you two losers? I mean, what are you, a trucker? And what's snaggle-tooth over there?
Roger: I've banged hotter in the back of a livery, so don't flatter yourself, honey.
Blondie: You're British?
Roger: Banged smarter in the loo, as well...
Her face crinkles, as she slowly figures out that he caller her both ugly and dumb. Before she can connect all the dots, Mod says...
Mod: Hey you, with the face behind the bar! I want a couple bottles of Cristal! Make it snappy...
The bartender gives both men the stink eye, as he makes his way to the cooler. He pulls out two bottles of Cristal, and starts working at opening the bottles. Deuce says...
Mod: Just give me the bottles, I'll open them myself.
Bartender: I've got to open the bottles...
Mod: Bullshit. Give me the fucking bottles. Last thing I want to get is a mickey from you, fuck-face.
Bartender: What did you call me?
Mod: I called you fuck-face, fuck-face.
Blondie: What are these two talking about?
Roger: Something about Mickey and drinks.
This other, smoldering beauty in the group finally puts it together, as she says...
Smoky: That guy spiked our drinks!
Curly: That dick!
It was at this point that Deuce reaches over the bar and grabs him by the shirt, dragging him over the bar and slamming him down to the ground. One of the bottles in his hand explodes open, the cork flying upwards into the club, landing God knows where. Meanwhile, Deuce slams himself into the bartender, before gaining the mount and slamming his ham-like fists into the gaping maw of this sleazy barkeep. Satisfied that his point was made, he pulls the scumbag to his feet, picking him up overhead, before flinging him back over the bar, smashing him into several overhead glasses. Mod then pulls out his billfold, while Roger comes from behind the bar with an armful of bottles, to include an unopened bottle of Glenfiddich and three bottles of Cristal. Mod drops a wad of bills on the bartender, as he says...
Mod: This should cover everything, but if you even bother reporting this, I will find where you live, and I'll destroy you and everything you own. It'll be like you never fucking existed! You understand, fuck-face?
He got no response, not even movement. Dude was out cold or worse. He didn't care.
He signals for the others to start leaving, and nobody gives them any static as they left. Everyone was too stoned to care, and this wasn't the type of place that had bouncers. As he made his way to his truck, to which Blondie finally felt smart, noting earlier how she called him a trucker, he got to thinking about what raYne had said before.
Mod never considered himself a hero. He was just another working stiff getting up and earning a paycheck anyway and everyway he knew how to. But maybe there was something there...
Perhaps because of the time we all live in, doing the right thing constitutes being a hero. It used to be something that was expected of everyone. Now everyone just keeps their heads down in fear of reprisal from bad people. Mod remembered his grandfather talking about how in his day, if someone was known to be bad, they did something about it. No fear of the police protecting their so-called "rights". Hell, the Nazi's were crushed by the entire WORLD because everyone knew just how bad they truly were.
Well, if that's the case, then I guess "The Upgrade" Mod Deuce is a bona fide hero. A blue-collared, hard-talking, even harder-drinking, whore-chasing, cake-eating, pudding-pounding hero.
God help us all...
____________________________________________________
Mod: I really have nothing to say to you, about you, or anything at all...
A camera is fixated on Mod. Only a profile view of his head and part of his shoulders is seen in the shot. He's in his wrestling attire, with his trucker hat fixed backwards on his head, as he continues to speak...
Mod: Seriously, you've got nothing else to say, windbag? I'm shocked. I'm even hurt that you can't come up with anything else to say. You have SOOOOOOOOO much to say about everybody else here, I was certain you were going to say something derrogatory about what I've said so far. Maybe another round of calling me "Mod Douche". You're such an original guy coming up with something like that. I'm sure you're not the first person ever to spell your name with a random capital letter in your name. You're something else, I say...
The camera pans out even more, and we see that Mod is talking to what appears to be a sex doll, dressed like raYne. The weirdest part is that in the pants of raYne is an obvious poking implement coming from the crotch area. Mod continues to talk to the doll...
Mod: I know you've got a little hard-on for me. That was painfully obvious from the very first day you arrived here. I just don't dig you like that. And I don't dig whiny little bitches that get up in my shit. From the very moment you arrived here, you've just stirred up shit left and right. Its amazing you're still drawing breath. Oh, don't worry. I'll save your execution for out there. I want the whole world to see just what I'm going to do to you.
The doll just stands there, as the camera pans in on it. The face is obviously from a sex doll. There's no definition whatsoever, just a big "O" where the mouth is...
Mod: I know, I know, you're scared. I see the look on your face. But don't worry. Rape will NOT be involved in this match, just a brutal beating where copious amounts of blood loss and a potential trip to the ER. I wouldn't think of touching your sanctimonious ass with ANY part of my body, with the exception of my foot. You're on a whole different level than I am sexually. I'll just have to stick to what I know, while your "evolved" self goes and pollutes both the male and female population. Dr. Frank N. Furter would be so proud.
Anyways, if you got something else to say, I'll be around. But seriously, that look on your face is so PRICELESS! I don't know whether to unzip or bust your lip. I'll see you around...
Mod turns around slowly, before he fakes like he's about to hit the doll. The doll doesn't move, because its just a doll. Mod walks away after the show, keeping an eye on the doll as the scene fades out...
