Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2014 3:17:58 GMT -5
He pulled his truck into the Siegal Center in Richmond, Virginia after a long drive. With a traffic pile-up outside of Memphis, and a few other minor delays because of the tremendously bad weather that has plagued most of the United States, Mod was unable to make it to the Wednesday Night show. It was too bad, because he really wanted to take a crack at Caleb for the blatant disrespect and the underhanded tactics that he has displayed since arriving in WCF.
At least while he was on the road, it helped him get reaquainted with WCF. He had to. Several stars had left, and had been replaced with a whole new crowd in the process. Some had changed names, and some had returned. It seemed to be a very tumultuous time to be in WCF, and all of this occurred in two weeks time.
First, there was Sarah Twilight returning to active wrestling, rather than running the show. Mod had no clue how bad this could get, considering what a loose cannon she was behind the desk. Eric Price had mostly departed company, though he did spend plenty of time throwing barbs at Twilight and her cadre of twisted ladies. Mod chuckled to himself at the irony of the whole situation. He was just as twisted himself, but he packaged himself differently. Something more presentable to the rest of the world. Good packaging or not, it really doesn't matter. Everyone will eventually look inside and see the rot for what it truly is.
The question remained on whether or not Violet was truly rotten or was just made that way through systematic abuse. Lilith was made that way through years of neglect and abuse. Had Violet really snapped? For that matter, Sarah couldn't have been born this way, either. Surely it was the result of a terrible sibling rivalry, something that Mod had to deal with growing up, and like Sarah, lost that battle with his own siblings in the pursuit of his parents love.
Deep down inside, Mod should be just as rotten to the core as those he had mentioned above. With everything that had transpired, he should be a walking, talking conduit of death and destruction. So what was holding him back? What kept him from straying from the path of a "hero", as a certain individual once put it?
Mod led the life of a care-free young man. Constantly in pursuit of his next drink, his next woman, and his next cheap thrill. Was it his youth that kept him from completely going "dark side"? Perhaps that youth provided him the resiliance to overcome all of these attacks and all the pain that he has endured throughout his life. Something that apparently most of the wrestlers in the WCF seem to lack. Something that ties everyone here together, regardless of their ideals and methods.
Everyone in the WCF was broken in some way, shape, or form. Even Dr. Remus Micayle, who has put his incredible intelligence into perfecting the ultimate fighting style. He had found corruption through the mantle of winning at all costs. Mod understood the concept of the phrase "If you ain't cheating, you ain't trying hard enough." But there had to be some measure of honor to live by. If you cheat enough people, it will eventually bite you in the ass, and you will truly be broken.
Another truly intelligent individual made her way to the WCF recently. Her name was Valentina Madison. A truly gorgeous woman with a lot going on for her. Why she is pursuing this life is an absolute mystery to Mod. This life is and has destroyed what she once was, and she seems to revel in the fact. Mod knew a thing or two about self-destruction. He'd been trying like hell subconciously to do that to himself, but the copious amounts of alcohol, unprotected sex, and unnecessary risks have yet to derail him. Must've been that whole Titan thing. What a curse that was in every sense of the word.
But could Mod ever put these things that he had thought about into perspective for everyone to comprehend?
Never.
He was just as broken as all of them. The constant physical attacks by hordes of bullies growing up. The constant fear that his parents had of him in fear that he would destroy the house if angered bad enough. Perhaps they showed love and kindness just to appease him, and maybe it was all a lie. What was left of his family had basically blown him off and pinned all the blame of everyone's death on him. A walking scapegoat, if you will. And everywhere he went, there was yet another person there, just waiting to take a shot at Mod because of what he is. Never mind the mind and soul of the man who happens to inhabit the body.
The truck had cooled down enough and he turned off the engine, leaving the generator on to provide heat in the cab. He could just leave the trailer here and drive on down the road to the hotel, but he was abolutely beat. And the bed in this cab was more comfortable than any he had recently laid his head upon. Even the nice, plushy down feather beds he had encountered while in Thailand, or the memory foam beds in Nevada, for that matter.
Perhaps that is what the difference was between what makes people good or bad. Its the enjoyment of the little things. Sarah Twilight had spent her life assembling items and other things to fill the void that her parents left in her. But the big house, the Bentley or whatever the fuck she drives, and even Lilith will probably never fill the void in her, so she will continue to consume. For Caleb, its about taking as much as you can and how much you can get away with, even if you don't need it. His sin was greed, pure and simple. And with others, knowledge was its own reward, such as the case with Valentina. But the way in which she used this knowledge was misguided. At least the way Dr. Remus used his intelligence made some sort of sense, if only for a selfish motive.
Mod reached into his personal caddy next to his bed and pulled out a fresh fifth of Jack Daniels Green Label. He peeled off the wrapper and unscrewed the top, before taking a hefty pull from the bottle. It wasn't Soju, but it dulled him enough to quit thinking on these subjects a bit. The collective mental state of every wrestler in the WCF was starting to be too much to handle. That included his own mental state, for that matter.
At least the drinking silenced the voice for a short period of time, but that time was getting shorter and shorter. The amount of alcohol needed was getting to be more and more. Maybe it was the monster emerging from that deep, dark cave within him. The one who wanted to destroy everything in his path before it had a chance to hurt him in however way it could. Regardless, this was his cross to bear, and nobody else's. That was probably what made him different from everyone else. He did not burden anybody else with his problems, or made them suffer because of said problems. But the capacity to become a monster was there, and it was ready to emerge at a moments notice.
And that was what Mod feared the most. Becoming yet another garden-variety monster in a world full of monsters. One to be hunted and killed without regard. It was his choice, no, his DUTY to make it so that monster never saw the light of day. And it was his duty to destroy all the other monsters so they wouldn't destroy the rest of the world.
Perhaps the old cliche is correct. It takes a monster to destroy a monster.
Mod had taken his second pull, and thus, half the bottle down when he heard a knock on the cab. Mod was not expecting anybody to check on him or the load until morning. He reached back into his caddy and pulled out a Glock 22, before investigating the disturbance. He opened the door and shoved the gun right into the face of...
Roger: Oh bloody hell! You Yanks and your damn guns!
Mod lowers the pistol, as he says...
Mod: Where the fuck have you been? We were supposed to meet back in California!
Roger: About that, I had a hunt that took me up to Vancouver, Washington. I just got here myself. I don't suppose you've got a nip for me, do you?
Mod reaches into the caddy once more with the gun, and pulls out a bottle of Chivas this time. He passes the bottle to Roger, who cracks open the top and takes a hearty pull. He sighs with a bit of satisfaction, as he says...
Roger: Much better! But the scotch here in the States could really use some work.
Mod: It'll have to do for now until we do a European tour. So what's the 411 on everything?
Roger: Nobody's saying much. Pretty quiet and business as usual. I took down a werewolf in Vancouver, and that was interesting, to say the least. Half of the constibulary in Vancouver is still shitting bricks, but I think Tracy's got it under control.
Mod: Is she hot?
Roger: No he's not. He's 77 years old.
Mod: Awkward...
Mod takes a pull off the bottle of Jack, while Roger continues...
Roger: Anyways, after the funeral, the few in attendance have vouched for you, and that seems good enough for the rest of the hunter society. If anybody has aspirations to end you, its being kept under tight wraps. Those that have had something to say have said for you to keep whatever carnage you dish out on the television and in the wrestling ring, and there won't be any problems.
Mod: Easier said than done. Every swinging dick I usually encounter always has something they want to say or do. Even when I keep my mouth shut.
Roger: I'm just the messenger. And that is what they've laid out for the interim.
Mod: So I'm safe? I'm not going to wake up and find my truck in the middle of Afghanistan while an entire Special Forces team riddles it with bullets made of lead silver sodium nitrate and me inside of it?
Roger: I think you're safe for now.
Mod: Well, thanks for the info. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go to sleep. I've got a busy day ahead of unloading and assembling and all sorts of shit. And I've got to let the boss man know that I'm ready to return to action. Of course, I'm about a day late on my arrival, so I'm sure that will endear me to him that much more.
Roger: Alright then. I'll be sticking around for awhile longer. I may just take up residence with you for the short-term.
Mod: I wouldn't let you drink and drive. But residence? That might be pushing it.
Roger: Consider me your personal bodyguard from the monsters. If the hunters won't pursue you, I'm sure the monsters will. That is, if they haven't done so already. You would probably be considered some sort of traitor to their causes.
Mod: Never thought of it that way. Alright. For the time being. But don't get too damn comfortable. You might want to find something a little more accomodating than a BMW if that's the case.
Roger: Will do. Will do. Well, don't let me stop you from catching the sheep.
Mod: You mean counting sheep, right?
Roger: Whatever. I'll see you in the morning.
Roger moves to the front of the cab and reclines the passenger chair backwards into a sleeping position, while Mod drains the remainder of the Jack Daniels. He drops the bottle on the floor and rolls over, the machine in his head powering down for the night. The noise and the lights were out, and he could finally get the much needed rest he needs.
