The Beauty of Seeing his Last Breath
Jan 31, 2016 4:47:04 GMT -5
Joey Flash, Lilith, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Jan 31, 2016 4:47:04 GMT -5
Clarice awakens to noises in the kitchen, as she looks over in her bed to see her husband is up and about. The clock on the night stand reads 8:14, which makes her groan a bit. She had at least 30 more minutes of sleep ahead of her, but she gets up, knowing if she procrastinates, she'll end up late for work.
She continues to hear more clattering of pots and pans as she puts a bathrobe on over her pajamas, as it has proven this morning to be a colder than average Seattle morning. As she walks down the hall to the bathroom, she uses the toilet, as she thinks about the upcoming day being confined in a room with a confessed "serial killer", as they were called back then. She wondered what today would bring as she flushed the toilet and got up to wash her hands and examine her face in the mirror, taking extra care to examine her eyelids for dark rings and wrinkles.
After having to take down the confessions of this madman, she almost expected that her dealings with Michael Connor Ellison, assumed to be Ryan Winters, and before that, David Ferryman, would begin to age her, if not overnight. Thus far, her interrogation of the 97 year-old had given her more than a few nightmares. And they haven't even been at this confession for very long. Yet with those in the know, they have already began calling it "The Confessions of Charon", after they learned of his previous name and profession as a much younger man.
Charon the Ferryman. One who ferried souls across the River Styx into the Realm of Hades. If what he had said is true about most of his victims, who were abusive to others in one way, shape, or form, they may have deserved it. Though Clarice Brink had never thought that anybody deserved to be executed for even the most heinous of crimes. If anything, they were sick people, and they needed help. Though if the last few days have taught her anything, there are exceptions for everything, to include the Death Penalty. She could not wait to put this all behind her. If only to end the nightmarish recollections he dredged up from his past.
She turned off the faucet after washing her hands and dried them on her bathrobe, before she goes out into the kitchen. She smells omelettes being made before she rounds the corner, only to see her husband bleeding out from a wound to his throat, as a gentleman stood where he would normally be, finishing what she assumes to be the omelettes that her husband started. Her gasp alerts the intruder, and he turns around, with the face of the younger Michael Connor Ellison, as he says in his Scots-Irish brogue...
Michael Connor Ellison: Top o the morning to ya! Do you take salsa with your omelette?
Clarice wakes up screaming in her bed, startling her husband with the terror in her voice. He shoots up in bed and grabs a hold of her, as she begins to fight back against him, as he reassures her that...
Adam Brink: Baby, baby, it's me... It's me... Calm down...
She calms when she hears his voice, but she is still terrified. She clings on to him and holds him tight, knowing that he is here, and not dead, as her dream depicted this time. She had other dreams that consisted of encountering him on the way to work on public transportation, at the grocery store, and even while she got a manicure/pedicure! He was EVERYWHERE! And now he was in her home! Standing over her husband, no less! THAT terrified her more than the other murders he had committed against those whom she held in some sort of high regard.
Instead of trying to discern what these dreams meant, she merely said...
Clarice Brink: Hold me. Hold me, and don't let go...
He did just that, and held her, as she looked at the clock on the night stand. It read 3:03, and it was still dark. She snorted, as David said without letting her go...
Adam: Are you crying? Was it Charon the Ferryman again?
Clarice: Oh God... You're calling him that, too?
Adam: It makes sense. After you told me about him, I did some archive research on that murder of the Regimental Sergeant Major of that Special Boat Service. Seems that when they scraped up the remains of the Sergeant Major, they found a very damaged copper coin along with the refuse.
Clarice: Really? You're working this, too?
Adam: I was asked to dig up some information based on his alleged movements associated with his previous aliases. It seemed that David Ferryman was in operation prior to the start of World War III, when he was put under suspicion for several deaths that surrounded the organization he was working for. There were plenty of violent and dangerous individuals in this World Championship Federation, which was a voluntary gladiator organization that was known then as "professional wrestling". The difference is that they were mostly staged improvisational actors, and not outright fighters. There was a thing called "mixed martial arts" that was more in line with actual fighting at the time.
Clarice: Hmm... Well, I was going to dig into his military background, but this could be more significant. People die in wars all the time, but during his travels, that would be more in line with his murderous nature than warfare. Though I think war triggered his inability to value life...
Adam: Are you surprised? Military members were conditioned and trained to take life, and place as little value on said life as they could to gain the ability to kill without remorse. And when said person has a demographic he sees as the enemy, and it can be found anywhere and often, then we have a dangerous situation. Thank God we don't have military forces anymore.
Clarice: Instead, we have Death Squads, for when a group of people don't want to adhere to the status quo of society. Not much better, I'm afraid. It's worse, in some cases...
Adam: At least its on a much smaller scale than it used to be. Warfare was so ugly, and affected the planet so much. Look at how much this guy may have gotten away with when engaged in warfare? Need I say more about armies and warfare? As for Death Squads, sometimes cancer has to be removed before it becomes malignant and begins another round of warfare. Hence why the Death Penalty is still around, for those who would force the world and its societies into all out warfare yet again.
Clarice nodded, but she still did not agree with State sanctioned death being dealt out in order to avoid conflict. At least now, there were options for such people that were condemned to go elsewhere that may adhere more to their way of life. This led to most of the world's population to scatter, and helped end "racism", as the world allowed for people to move to places where they would be readily accepted based on their personal beliefs. This also ended "nationalism", where people were not associated with a country or their way of government. Rather, this worldwide society was based on "humanism", and the best way to allow for everyone to live in relative harmony within their communities.
But in some cases, these communities would sway against the majority of the world societies, and had to be put down by Death Squads. And sometimes individuals would not be accepted by any other community in the world, based on their crimes against their previous communities, and fear that such behavior would spread to their own communities. Especially in cases where psychological evaluation would determine that said offender meets the standards of a "serial killer", such as the man she was interrogating these days.
Rather than continue this banter on the subject of State sanctioned death, Clarice says...
Clarice: I got to try and get back to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be another ugly day. Just wished you told me that you were working the Charon case, as well.
Adam: I just started yesterday, after your initial disposition of Charon. I would have told you last night, but you came home in a mood, so I didn't want to bring it up. In case he was the reason for your mood.
Clarice: It was, and this guy is starting to bring out my bad side. Thanks for that consideration, but maybe today I'll follow another line of inquiry rather than the warfare angle. I appreciate the insight on his disappearance during World War III.
Adam: You know I'll do anything to help my best and brightest. Main reason why I asked you to marry me.
That brought a smile to Clarice's face, despite the topic of conversation. It brought her back to her college days, when she met him as her professor during his required public service days teaching psychology methods in criminal justice. Prior to him, she thought that all criminal justice majors were just dumb brutes that wanted to impose their will on others, as she had seen most in her classes speak and act in such a manner. He proved that he was not in that league, and strove to be more like him in terms of trying to think around problems, rather than attack them outright with little to no game plan.
He then says...
Adam: Try to get some sleep, sweetheart. And remember, I'm right here next to you. Nothing is going to happen to you while I'm here...
She laid her head down and closed her eyes. And while his words provided some comfort, she still couldn't shake this man from her thoughts that easily...
Michael Connor Ellison had awakened once again in his cell, somewhat disappointed that he did not perish in his sleep. The 97 year-old man coughed and snorted as he sat up and moved himself to the stainless steel toilet/sink combination that had become the standard in prison living since his days as a youthful offender. After hocking up what he felt was what was left of his lungs, he settled himself down on the steel porcelain and began his day as most do when they wake up.
As he was settled in, he reached for his vapor pen, activated the fluid, and took a long, hard pull off of the implement. He held the vapor in for awhile, before expelling it from his lungs. As he did, a smile crossed his face, as his mind became more peaceful within. He lamented the fact that THC was illegal for so many of his younger years, when it was this same product that produced such feelings of peacefulness within him, and many other violent criminals in the world. Alas, it seems to be that the only place you can get said drugs before you are executed or moved to another part of the planet. The latter is more of a draw of luck than the former.
He had no idea what time it was, but knew that with the vapor pen being full, it was past 6:00 AM, as he had seen the medical staff at such times and inquired about the time on numerous occasions, with the prevailing answer being 6:00. He stood back up and pulled his blaze orange jumpsuit up, as he flushes the toilet and washes his hands, the vapor pen still dangling from his teeth. He then walks back to his rack and takes another pull from the pen, as he experiences more and more inner peace as his mind released all those negative feelings.
This plant was one of the few things that he disagreed with the rest of the Veterans on, as they fought hard to preserve all plants that had medical properties in favor of the natural cures and remedies. This put pharmaceutical companies on the outs with society, but it was honestly, in his opinion, a better option than stating they have cures, when instead they had the treatment for symptoms of larger issues. Alas, in the case of marijuana, such negative connotations were placed on the plant generations before, and many could not overlook such prejudiced behavior derived from said connotations.
Looks like they found a use for it, after all. He found it funny that this was the consolation prize for those who would probably be condemned from the world. They can get high for however long they have left on Planet Earth. It might even be a better consolation than the "Last Meal" that many societies still offer to those condemned. Maybe he can get himself a "Monster's Ball" as well. Though at his advanced age, there are not many people who can attend that he would want at such a shindig. Most of his friends were dead, while the others sat in critical care. Some party that would be...
As he enjoys his vapor while contemplating such a party, the Corrections Officer of the Day came up and knocked on the SteelGlass doors to get his attention. He says in a respectful tone...
Corrections Officer: Sir, it's time for Interrogation.
Michael: Splendid! Can I bring my vapor pen?
Corrections Officer: Please leave your pen in the space, sir. It will be refilled, and another pen will be waiting for you at Interrogation. Please step into the boots...
Michael nods, as he takes on last pull on the vapor pen, before tossing it on to his rack. He gets up and walks over to the "Space Boots" on the ground. Magnified to the ground in case he got indignant with the C.O.'s, but also heavy enough to impede his movements if he managed to avoid magnetic lockdown to mount any effective escape. He steps into them and maneuvers his feet inside of them for a comfortable fit, before he gives the C.O. a thumbs-up, indicating his feet are securely inside of the boots.
The C.O. remotely locks the shoes on to his feet, before activating the sliding SteelGlass door, as it descends into the floor rather quickly. The C.O. then says...
Corrections Officer: Please step out of your cell, and follow the Officer to my right.
Michael nods, as he labors to move his feet in such heavy footwear. As it was the day before, and the days before that, he took a different route to Interrogations in an effort for him to not gain familiarity with the facility. Such familiarity may give a Detainee the opportunity to mount an escape effort, thus such long periods of walking around before he goes to Interrogations. Even the entry points to Interrogations varied every day, and he rarely seen the same people twice. Even those who tended the facilities where he was locked down. At least all of them were pleasant enough and respectful. One good change that used to not be the standard in Corrections.
He finally made it to Interrogations, where he was settled into a room with a resistor chair, his footwear kept on, as he proved during his initial Interrogation to be a "Man of Passion". This "Passion" necessitated that he be kept in resistors and shoes, in case he was to attack his Interrogator, the beautiful and young Clarice Brink. Though lately his interrogations had begun to bore him. They were talks of his wartime exploits, where she would try to discern which deaths were the result of actual warfare, and which ones were murder. It was hard for her to comprehend that EVERYONE he killed during the wars were enemies, regardless of the situation in which they died.
Hence his want for a THC vapor pen. And she had the audacity to claim how difficult he was at Interrogation. She's asking the wrong questions, and it was proving to be a difficult concept that she was not grasping. Michael guessed that some things in law enforcement just do not change. To include their thick-headed nature in asking questions that there are no clear answers to.
With him settled in the resistor chair, he takes his right hand and moves for the vapor pen on the table. It was the one part of his body that was allowed movement, in case he needed to write or do another task that required his hand. At lunch, his upper body was freed, and was allowed a 15 to 30 minute walk every hour or so, when Interrogation took awhile and his body would cramp up from being in place for so long. Overall, this was not as bad of an experience as he would have suspected.
As he takes his initial pull on the pen, the door to Interrogations opens up and in walks Detective Clarice Brink, his interrogator for the last week. He was surprised she kept returning, as she wore an expression on her face most of the time that resembled pain and anguish. At least she wasn't weak, he would give her that. Hopefully she grows a brain and figures out that wartime exploits are just a waste of time.
He pulls the vapor pen away from him and offers a smile to her, as he says...
Michael: Top o the morning to ya! Ready to ask more pointless questions about the war?
She responds with a scowl, as it was apparent to him by the dark bags forming under her eyes that she wasn't getting much sleep. He then says...
Michael: Melatonin will probably help you with your sleeping problems. Might turn that frown upside down.
Clarice: Today we're going to talk about your time as David Ferryman. You said before that you had left the U.K. after killing your Regimental Sergeant Major, getting papers to go to Canada, where you resided in St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador. Care to comment on this and your actions during this time?
Michael: Finally! Something other than war talk! Okay, I'll talk about this time...
I had some friends back in Ulster who were sympathetic to my cause, and helped forge me some papers that indicated that I was a Canadian citizen. This even included some backstory on my time in Ulster, and a working history to match. I got to St. John's and started working as a private detective. Basically doing investigative work that the Mounties couldn't or wouldn't touch due to whatever reasons. Some of that work included undercover work uncovering evidence of wrongdoing, but also for private interests, such as missing people and the settlement of private debts.
Clarice: What about your time as a gladiator? When did WCF become a prominent part of your life?
Michael: (smiling) Ah, the WCF... My pro wrestling days. I guess I can avail that story if you care not to hear about me first years as a Newfie. Those years were slow and boring, as it was. So here goes...
70 years earlier...
The sun shined in on the trailer sitting on the edge of the Avalon Peninsula, as the phone rang over and over again. David Ferryman, as he was known as now, arose among piles of papers around him, as he shook the sleep from his face. He reached for the phone and picked it up, stating...
David: Cage Ferryman Investigations. Ferryman speaking. What can we do to help ya?
Lady: Oh, is this a bad time? Were you sleeping? Or are you hung over?
David: Work's been slowed a bit. Winter does that, round here. But I say, what can we do to help ya?
Lady: You search around for missing bears and other stuffed animals, right? There's lots of cookies in it for you if you can find my Sarah Bear.
David wrinkles his forehead in confusion, as he says to the lady on the phone...
David: You want me to go look for a stuffed animal by the name of Sarah Bear? You sure that isn't her name?
Lady: She's a California Bear, but we looked everywhere in that place. I heard that she was somewhere in Canada. Maybe in Eastern Canada. Its very important that I get my Sarah Bear back. This job pays plenty in milk and cookies.
David: If that means you got cash money, and you got a decent lead, I can help. But are you certain I'm looking for a stuffed animal?
Lady: No, silly! Her name is Sarah Twilight, and I heard tales that she may be in Canada. You're Canadian, I can hear it in your voice.
David: Yah, but Canada's a big place. You got a computer handy? I can give you an e-mail address, and you send me some info about what you want found. Believe you me, I may not be a Mountie, but I always find what I look for. My rate is $50 an hour, plus expenses incurred. And mind you again, Canada is a big place. So say I find her in Vancouver, and I work on the other side of Canada? Well, that be plenty of beaver pelts you'll be tossing my way...
Lady: I will be sparing no amount of cookies or any other baked goods for you to find my little Sarah Bear. Believe you, me. And if you get this done, I may have more permanent work for you, if you and I can agree to terms.
David: Ain't gonna lie, but its been slow round here. Maybe a nice walkabout is in store. And Cage has been kinda painful to deal with. I may consider that offer.
Lady: Excellent. All of my information should be going to your email. You're Bill Cage, correct?
David: No, I be David Ferryman. Cage is my partner. He won't leave Newfoundland, considering what happened to him bout 10 years ago.
Lady: Fudge! I thought he would be a sure bet! He was a pro wrestler back in the day, and figured he could handle whatever Sarah Bear would toss at him! What about you? Can you handle a fighter like my Sarah Bear?
David: Probably. Did some military time with the Special Boat Service in the U.K.
Lady: Special boats? Like what?
David: Its like the U.K. equivalent to the U.S. Navy SEAL's.
Lady: Oh! Well, in that case, I'll send the information to you. David Ferryman? Okay! I'll have my assistant send it to you right away.
David: Okay. I'll be here.
The phone clicked off, as he shook his head at the absurdity of the call. He half expected it to be a prank call and didn't bother to follow up on the email that was promised of this particular client. Instead, he went about his business for later on tonight, having met someone who had stoked his ire two weeks before at the fights. David Ferryman, in order to supplement his income as a private investigator, also did some underground fighting to keep himself sharp. This particular night, he had managed to defeat his opponent, though afterwards was met with some undue abuse by his manager.
David felt that this gentleman, who fought decent enough, if not outright dirty like most, did not deserve such treatment. Especially when said man had never set foot inside of a fighting pit for his own interests. He lived off of the toil, sweat, and blood of others, and when faced with a setback, resorted to abusing his workforce.
It was apparent to David that this man deserved his worst, as all abusers deserve the worst that he could offer. This was made apparent when he took it upon himself to follow the man, as he disposed of the man he had broken in the ring off the coast of Avalon Bay, on the other side of the peninsula that he lived. If anything, this was revenge for a man that had no means to avenge himself. Prompted by the feelings that David was partly responsible for his death, but then again, the man might be alive if he wasn't there to begin with. And David would not feel sorry that he had outclassed another man inside of the ring.
David had prepared his outfit for the evening, which consisted of all black, to include a trenchcoat loaded with secret pockets and implements used to disable, hurt, and even kill the quarry he would be hunting this evening. To include those that may stop him from attaining the vengeance of his opponent. They did not deserve his vengeance, though they did need to be stopped. If anything, David was doing them a favor by ridding them of such a shitbag boss.
After he prepared his weapons and implements, he went on the computer and checked his emails, which consisted of an email by one KPhoenix@WCF.Org. He wrinkled his forehead in wonder, before opening the email, as it reads...
Mistur Fairyman,
Heer iz in4mashion konsurning mi Sarah Teddy. Thare iz a pikture inclosed in thiz email ov wut she luks lik. Plente ov kookees in this 4u if u kan find mi Sarah Teddy. Talkin 100,000 in wutever kinda kookees u lik. Thank u verie much!
David rubbed his eyes and read the email over and over again. Was she illiterate? Or retarded? He questioned the legitimacy of the email more and more, until he opened the picture file and saw the picture of the redhead that had been tearing it up in some of the underground fights in a few cities in Canada. Last he had heard she was still in Atlantic Canada, but with a chick like that, who knew where she would be.
Maybe this chick wasn't as retarded as he took her for, and decided to place a call to his fighting agent. After a few rings, he gets an answer...
Phil: Hey Charon! What's kicking?
David: You remember that redhead chick who was up in St. John's a few weeks ago?
Phil: Yah. You wanting a date, cause I hear she's chasing tail, too...
David: Nah, nothing like that. People be looking for her from some wrestling organization, and there's plenty of cash to be had bringing her in. You interested in finding out where she may be?
Phil: What kind a cash? And how you plan on bringing her in? You saw her fight as much as I did.
David: Lots and lots of cookies. The lady who brought this to me is brain dead, but after looking her over, she's good for the money. If not, well, sometimes blood is just as good as money.
Phil: I hear that. Well, I can make a few calls, and maybe get you booked to fight in an event she should be present at. May be time to gas up the Winnie and take her on a trip, eh? But what about taking her down?
David: She may be a good fighter, but she ain't electric-proof. I got stuff to put her down and remind her she's human. That, and duct tape. Lots and lots of duct tape.
Phil: Okay. Well, I'll see if and where she's stomping around. See you later.
David: Later...
David hangs up his phone, as he goes to the refrigerator for a grape Powerade. He cracks it open as he thinks about tonight, when he finds that asshole and permanently puts him out of the fighting management game. He thinks about how he'll be doing the world a favor as he watches the life leave this shitbag's face.
Then there's this whole Sarah issue, and what an issue that's going to be. The broad was tougher than a two-dollar steak, and she looked like she'd been beaten with an ugly stick since that picture was taken. Hell, this could be just a wild goose chase he's on, but with this much money on the line, why the hell not?
He just waits for the call from Phil, or maybe another potential client, as he contemplates all of these happenings going on...
Later That Evening...
The broken screaming body of Lance Thibedeaux laid in front of David Ferryman on the other side of the Avalon Peninsula, where a few weeks ago he had no problem laying low permanently the former opponent of the latter man. He laid there with his legs broken with a sledgehammer that Ferryman had used in his initial attack, breaking the kneecaps of the man as he stumbled out of a bar he frequented to pick up prostitutes.
After chasing the whore away with a threat to attack her, he carried the son of a bitch to the back of his old 1975 Ford F-100 rust bucket, before bringing him to the same small point on the Avalon Peninsula where he had taken Jeremy weeks before. He had to have known that nobody would come, as he had the same thing done to that fighter before, right here. But Lance was stupid enough to ask the question, as he screamed...
Lance: WHY!? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!?
David: Let's not play stupid. You know EXACTLY why you are here tonight. I know you really like this particular stretch of the Peninsula, so I figured why not bring you out here so you can enjoy what is left of your life screaming for help that will not come. After all, isn't that why you chose this place for Jeremy Funderburke? You know? The guy I fought a few weeks ago?
Lance: HE OWED ME MONEY!
David: Dead men cannot pay their debts. So what is it? Did you drum his old lady into selling her snatch for money so you can get yours? Or was it maybe his children you stole? Tell me. What was it that you took from him to settle your debt? Besides his life? Come on, you can tell me! Your God knows that you will not be talking to anybody else for what little is left of your life on this planet. So square with me, unless you want this to go slow.
Lance: NOTHING!!! I TOOK NOTHING!!!
David: That answer doesn't sit right with me. No sir! But fear not! I'm not going to hit you with a sledgehammer anymore. I think its time for the shears to come out.
David reached into his trench coat and pulled out a pair of pruning shears, letting them pop open as he releases the safety that holds the blades together, before saying...
David: Now to figure out what to cut off of you first. How do you feel about your dick? That was what the prostitute was for, yes? Or perhaps I should take your balls. Not like you have any use for those. Considering you didn't even have the heart to kill the guy yourself...
Lance: NO!!! NO!!! OKAY!!! I WANTED HIM DEAD BECAUSE I FUCKING HATED HIM!!! HE WAS ALWAYS IN DEBT TO ME, AND HE FUCKED ME FOR THE LAST TIME!!!
David: Wow! Hatred! And you hated him so much you didn't even have the heart to kill him yourself? You had to ORDER someone else to do it for you! What kind of boss are you? You must have idiots on your crew, to do your killing for you when you can't even do it yourself! God Almighty!
Lance: I'VE DONE ENOUGH KILLING FOR A LIFETIME!!! AND YOU BETTER HOPE MY CREW NEVER FINDS YOU!!!
David: Oh believe me, they won't even know you're dead...
David then places the shears back into his jacket, and instead pulls out a Colt .45 and fires a single round into the skull of Lance Thibedeaux. The man falls silent, as David looks at the last breath that emanates from the mouth of his latest victim in the cold St. John's climate. David thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd seen since he had turned his Regimental Sergeant Major into a grease spot at the front door of his flat.
After allowing time to contemplate the beauty of what the last breath of a man looked like in the cold of St. John's, he got to work on the body. He removed all clothing and jewelry from the corpse, before taking off "identifiers" on the body. Such identifiers were the teeth, which he bashed out easily with the sledgehammer, while also doing a number on the face. He also cut off the fingertips of each hand, which proved to be harder than anticipated in the cold. But the real problem was that Lance Thibedeaux was tattooed up quite a bit. David had his own tattoos, but not a whole body full of them!
David then decided that perhaps a cremation was in order. The warmth from a fire would also suit him at this time, as well. So he got a few pallets from the back of his truck and broke them down, taking care to set up the pieces of wood over the body in a way that they could still get air in to fuel the fire. He tossed the clothing on top of the wood, before he soaked everything in lighter fluid. The only pain in the ass to the entire process was lighting a matchbook on fire and tossing it on the soaked wood, but it all went up, and the fire raged once the wood was completely engulfed by the flames.
Yet another beautiful sight to behold for the evening! Hell, Lance had never smelled better, either! He'd smelled like a Parisian hooker before when he captured and incapacitated him, but now he was starting to question his thoughts on cannibalism, as the essence of Lance caught the air and went into his nose. Instead, David squirted more flammable liquid on to the fire, as it responded with raging flames. Satisfied that identification of this body would be very difficult, barring maybe a DNA test, David walked to the truck as the flames continued to engulf the body of Lance Thibedeaux. The scumbag who couldn't even kill the man he hated himself...
Two Weeks Later... Present Time
The roar of the crowd is deafening at the Wells Fargo Arena in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, as he awaits the announcement and his entrance into his first match in the WCF. How he got himself wrangled into this situation is beyond him, but he's not complaining. Not after the beaucoup American dollars he just brought in for himself. All to bring in an all too willing redheaded firebrand who really seemed more interested in putting Katherine Phoenix, my benefactor, through her paces.
Then, by some odd stroke of luck, he ran into Seth Lerch, the owner of the WCF, who promptly told his security to throw him out of the building. Not to be done like that when he was already leaving, he put the security officers on their asses in a rather brutal way. Some bones were broken, teeth were lost, and even an eye might not be fully functional ever again, but it impressed Seth Lerch, and he signed him to a contract. Was that all it really took to become a professional wrestler? Kick the shit out of the right people in front of the right person?
He later called Bill Cage and told him of the development, which earned David an ass chewing from a guy who was bitter by his own time as a professional wrestler. But David wasn't discouraged. Hell, he had a job! And it took him place to place, away from The Fuzz whenever he did something that would make them want to hunt him. Never mind he was doing the world a favor when he would end the lives of so many shitty people who deserved to be ended.
Then Hank Brown came along. A weasel of a man would be the best description that Charon could come up with. He came bearing questions that he felt needed answers to, as he says...
Hank Brown: You must be Charon! Hi, I'm Hank Brown. Nice to meet you...
Charon looks at him with his hand extended, as his piercing blue eyes gaze into Hank's own brown eyes. He scowls as he says...
Charon: What do you want, Hank Brown? Do you wish to be ferried across the River Styx along with the others that I am to be matched up with tonight?
Hank: No, I just wanted to ask you some questions about how it feels to have your first match in the WCF being on the 15th Anniversary of Operations here in Philadelphia...
Charon: My feeling is the same as if it was my very first time on the battlefield. There's always nerves. Fear would be the accurate word to describe it. But that fear is what keeps you grounded. Keeps you smart. Keeps you from making stupid mistakes. Much like some of my opponents have already made by spewing crap from the sewers they call a mouth. But I'm ready, much like I've been ready for every battlefield that I have set foot upon for as long as I've been around. Ready to ferry the Dead across the River. And there will be plenty of Fallen when this evening is over...
Hank: There have been some strong words about you so far from CJ Phoenix, no relation to Katherine...
Charon: Yes, I saw his rant. Poor ignorant uneducated fool he is to make assumptions about me and my past. I've graced many battlefields with my presence, and many have been ferried across the River Styx personally by Yours Truly. Nature of warfare, sad to say, but it was what it was. He thinks he can get into my head and play so-called "mind games". The only real "game", if you're ignorant enough to call it that, that truly matters is the one out there in the ring. He can talk all he wants, but his best case scenario tonight with all the trash that has fallen out of his garbage truck mouth is that he has made himself enemies in the ring that would love nothing more than to shut his mouth before more refuse can come from it. But such is life in that you have to learn this the hard way.
So get ready CJ Phoenix, because you are about to be taken to school. Get ready to eat a lot of knuckle sandwiches and shoe leather as your colleagues in the ring take their turns working your ass over like a government mule. And maybe, just maybe, you'll be lucky to avoid my grasp tonight. And trust me when I say that my grasp is something you will want to avoid at all costs. But if you wish to be within Hades Clutch, you will get your chance this evening. Then I will ferry you away, along with all the other lost souls in this match, as it proceeds.
Just like the lost soul that is Bad News Benson. If anything could be said about you is that your name is indeed true to its word. You're bad news, though that is true mostly to yourself. What do you plan to do tonight? Stumble through another match, hoping to your God that you may just be lucky enough to topple someone within this match? Wish in one hand, and fill your other with excrement, and I guarantee your excrement hand will fill first. Bad news, indeed, for you.
Then we have the "Life Coach". As I once heard, life is tough, but its a lot tougher if you're stupid. And that is just what you have done. Surrounded yourself with stupid people in your life. Like David Wells, the former Major League baseball pitcher who's just another Quarter Pounder with Cheese away from a massive stroke or heart attack. Or maybe it was Melody Taylor, the skank who gave you VD before running off with the guy who gave it her to begin with. Even Montoya and Jacobs are fools, as if some liquor can change the fact that your life was ruined by some skank. Well, maybe not. Because after this match, you WILL need that liquor to forget just how badly you got worked over this evening at the Fifteenth Anniversary of the WCF.
Even worse about you Mr. Life Coach, is that you fail at realizing the true threat you face. You worry about the loudest schmuck in the match, but fail to see the silent threat that lurks. The one that waits for you to blow your load all over the one person who made himself a target. Mark this down in your calendar as the saddest day you have ever experienced, because when it is over, even Melody Taylor will not measure close to the disappointment you are going to suffer tonight. That will be my gift to you, the erasure of that horrid memory with a tramp of a woman you thought you loved.
Oh, and then there's Travis Tusk, who's probably drenched in Jovan Musk for Men. That was an 80's thing, right? Perhaps in the hopes that his shenanigans from whatever unmemorable 80's flick will drive us away from the ring. Well, here I am, about to step into the ring, ready to endure the trash that comes from the mouth of CJ Phoenix, the idiocy that is the life of the Life Coach, and the Bad News that Benson is going to deliver to himself, so I guess your Jovan Musk can be tolerated for the evening. Though you may get a new scent added to that horrid cologne you drench yourself in. Care to take a guess?
Probably garbage, if it was up to CJ Phoenix, as he has a lot of that coming from his mouth. Or maybe you'll wind up with the smell of poo on you from all that crap that accumulated in the hand of Bad News Benson wishing for a win tonight. Or you may smell like a hangover that the Life Coach has been on after getting dumped by his bae for the twelfth time this year for a guy with VD. But with me? You will smell like blood and death when the night is over, as you kiss your career goodbye along with your life before it even starts! Sucks to be you, but then again, it sucks to be all of you inside of that ring with me.
So feel free to pass that along to the others within this match. I know you will, Mr. Brown, because that is what you do. Shimmy up to someone just to run off and talk about what they all say about each other, like a weasel in human form. You survive by doing what you can do in this den of snakes that is the WCF. And like you will survive this particular encounter with this particular embodiment with Death. Quick, go forth and pass along this information, before I change my mind. Because you and many others may think that this is it after tonight? They are all sadly mistaken, for Death cares NOT who they were in life.
I will collect my souls in the WCF, and I'm just getting started...
She continues to hear more clattering of pots and pans as she puts a bathrobe on over her pajamas, as it has proven this morning to be a colder than average Seattle morning. As she walks down the hall to the bathroom, she uses the toilet, as she thinks about the upcoming day being confined in a room with a confessed "serial killer", as they were called back then. She wondered what today would bring as she flushed the toilet and got up to wash her hands and examine her face in the mirror, taking extra care to examine her eyelids for dark rings and wrinkles.
After having to take down the confessions of this madman, she almost expected that her dealings with Michael Connor Ellison, assumed to be Ryan Winters, and before that, David Ferryman, would begin to age her, if not overnight. Thus far, her interrogation of the 97 year-old had given her more than a few nightmares. And they haven't even been at this confession for very long. Yet with those in the know, they have already began calling it "The Confessions of Charon", after they learned of his previous name and profession as a much younger man.
Charon the Ferryman. One who ferried souls across the River Styx into the Realm of Hades. If what he had said is true about most of his victims, who were abusive to others in one way, shape, or form, they may have deserved it. Though Clarice Brink had never thought that anybody deserved to be executed for even the most heinous of crimes. If anything, they were sick people, and they needed help. Though if the last few days have taught her anything, there are exceptions for everything, to include the Death Penalty. She could not wait to put this all behind her. If only to end the nightmarish recollections he dredged up from his past.
She turned off the faucet after washing her hands and dried them on her bathrobe, before she goes out into the kitchen. She smells omelettes being made before she rounds the corner, only to see her husband bleeding out from a wound to his throat, as a gentleman stood where he would normally be, finishing what she assumes to be the omelettes that her husband started. Her gasp alerts the intruder, and he turns around, with the face of the younger Michael Connor Ellison, as he says in his Scots-Irish brogue...
Michael Connor Ellison: Top o the morning to ya! Do you take salsa with your omelette?
Clarice wakes up screaming in her bed, startling her husband with the terror in her voice. He shoots up in bed and grabs a hold of her, as she begins to fight back against him, as he reassures her that...
Adam Brink: Baby, baby, it's me... It's me... Calm down...
She calms when she hears his voice, but she is still terrified. She clings on to him and holds him tight, knowing that he is here, and not dead, as her dream depicted this time. She had other dreams that consisted of encountering him on the way to work on public transportation, at the grocery store, and even while she got a manicure/pedicure! He was EVERYWHERE! And now he was in her home! Standing over her husband, no less! THAT terrified her more than the other murders he had committed against those whom she held in some sort of high regard.
Instead of trying to discern what these dreams meant, she merely said...
Clarice Brink: Hold me. Hold me, and don't let go...
He did just that, and held her, as she looked at the clock on the night stand. It read 3:03, and it was still dark. She snorted, as David said without letting her go...
Adam: Are you crying? Was it Charon the Ferryman again?
Clarice: Oh God... You're calling him that, too?
Adam: It makes sense. After you told me about him, I did some archive research on that murder of the Regimental Sergeant Major of that Special Boat Service. Seems that when they scraped up the remains of the Sergeant Major, they found a very damaged copper coin along with the refuse.
Clarice: Really? You're working this, too?
Adam: I was asked to dig up some information based on his alleged movements associated with his previous aliases. It seemed that David Ferryman was in operation prior to the start of World War III, when he was put under suspicion for several deaths that surrounded the organization he was working for. There were plenty of violent and dangerous individuals in this World Championship Federation, which was a voluntary gladiator organization that was known then as "professional wrestling". The difference is that they were mostly staged improvisational actors, and not outright fighters. There was a thing called "mixed martial arts" that was more in line with actual fighting at the time.
Clarice: Hmm... Well, I was going to dig into his military background, but this could be more significant. People die in wars all the time, but during his travels, that would be more in line with his murderous nature than warfare. Though I think war triggered his inability to value life...
Adam: Are you surprised? Military members were conditioned and trained to take life, and place as little value on said life as they could to gain the ability to kill without remorse. And when said person has a demographic he sees as the enemy, and it can be found anywhere and often, then we have a dangerous situation. Thank God we don't have military forces anymore.
Clarice: Instead, we have Death Squads, for when a group of people don't want to adhere to the status quo of society. Not much better, I'm afraid. It's worse, in some cases...
Adam: At least its on a much smaller scale than it used to be. Warfare was so ugly, and affected the planet so much. Look at how much this guy may have gotten away with when engaged in warfare? Need I say more about armies and warfare? As for Death Squads, sometimes cancer has to be removed before it becomes malignant and begins another round of warfare. Hence why the Death Penalty is still around, for those who would force the world and its societies into all out warfare yet again.
Clarice nodded, but she still did not agree with State sanctioned death being dealt out in order to avoid conflict. At least now, there were options for such people that were condemned to go elsewhere that may adhere more to their way of life. This led to most of the world's population to scatter, and helped end "racism", as the world allowed for people to move to places where they would be readily accepted based on their personal beliefs. This also ended "nationalism", where people were not associated with a country or their way of government. Rather, this worldwide society was based on "humanism", and the best way to allow for everyone to live in relative harmony within their communities.
But in some cases, these communities would sway against the majority of the world societies, and had to be put down by Death Squads. And sometimes individuals would not be accepted by any other community in the world, based on their crimes against their previous communities, and fear that such behavior would spread to their own communities. Especially in cases where psychological evaluation would determine that said offender meets the standards of a "serial killer", such as the man she was interrogating these days.
Rather than continue this banter on the subject of State sanctioned death, Clarice says...
Clarice: I got to try and get back to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be another ugly day. Just wished you told me that you were working the Charon case, as well.
Adam: I just started yesterday, after your initial disposition of Charon. I would have told you last night, but you came home in a mood, so I didn't want to bring it up. In case he was the reason for your mood.
Clarice: It was, and this guy is starting to bring out my bad side. Thanks for that consideration, but maybe today I'll follow another line of inquiry rather than the warfare angle. I appreciate the insight on his disappearance during World War III.
Adam: You know I'll do anything to help my best and brightest. Main reason why I asked you to marry me.
That brought a smile to Clarice's face, despite the topic of conversation. It brought her back to her college days, when she met him as her professor during his required public service days teaching psychology methods in criminal justice. Prior to him, she thought that all criminal justice majors were just dumb brutes that wanted to impose their will on others, as she had seen most in her classes speak and act in such a manner. He proved that he was not in that league, and strove to be more like him in terms of trying to think around problems, rather than attack them outright with little to no game plan.
He then says...
Adam: Try to get some sleep, sweetheart. And remember, I'm right here next to you. Nothing is going to happen to you while I'm here...
She laid her head down and closed her eyes. And while his words provided some comfort, she still couldn't shake this man from her thoughts that easily...
Michael Connor Ellison had awakened once again in his cell, somewhat disappointed that he did not perish in his sleep. The 97 year-old man coughed and snorted as he sat up and moved himself to the stainless steel toilet/sink combination that had become the standard in prison living since his days as a youthful offender. After hocking up what he felt was what was left of his lungs, he settled himself down on the steel porcelain and began his day as most do when they wake up.
As he was settled in, he reached for his vapor pen, activated the fluid, and took a long, hard pull off of the implement. He held the vapor in for awhile, before expelling it from his lungs. As he did, a smile crossed his face, as his mind became more peaceful within. He lamented the fact that THC was illegal for so many of his younger years, when it was this same product that produced such feelings of peacefulness within him, and many other violent criminals in the world. Alas, it seems to be that the only place you can get said drugs before you are executed or moved to another part of the planet. The latter is more of a draw of luck than the former.
He had no idea what time it was, but knew that with the vapor pen being full, it was past 6:00 AM, as he had seen the medical staff at such times and inquired about the time on numerous occasions, with the prevailing answer being 6:00. He stood back up and pulled his blaze orange jumpsuit up, as he flushes the toilet and washes his hands, the vapor pen still dangling from his teeth. He then walks back to his rack and takes another pull from the pen, as he experiences more and more inner peace as his mind released all those negative feelings.
This plant was one of the few things that he disagreed with the rest of the Veterans on, as they fought hard to preserve all plants that had medical properties in favor of the natural cures and remedies. This put pharmaceutical companies on the outs with society, but it was honestly, in his opinion, a better option than stating they have cures, when instead they had the treatment for symptoms of larger issues. Alas, in the case of marijuana, such negative connotations were placed on the plant generations before, and many could not overlook such prejudiced behavior derived from said connotations.
Looks like they found a use for it, after all. He found it funny that this was the consolation prize for those who would probably be condemned from the world. They can get high for however long they have left on Planet Earth. It might even be a better consolation than the "Last Meal" that many societies still offer to those condemned. Maybe he can get himself a "Monster's Ball" as well. Though at his advanced age, there are not many people who can attend that he would want at such a shindig. Most of his friends were dead, while the others sat in critical care. Some party that would be...
As he enjoys his vapor while contemplating such a party, the Corrections Officer of the Day came up and knocked on the SteelGlass doors to get his attention. He says in a respectful tone...
Corrections Officer: Sir, it's time for Interrogation.
Michael: Splendid! Can I bring my vapor pen?
Corrections Officer: Please leave your pen in the space, sir. It will be refilled, and another pen will be waiting for you at Interrogation. Please step into the boots...
Michael nods, as he takes on last pull on the vapor pen, before tossing it on to his rack. He gets up and walks over to the "Space Boots" on the ground. Magnified to the ground in case he got indignant with the C.O.'s, but also heavy enough to impede his movements if he managed to avoid magnetic lockdown to mount any effective escape. He steps into them and maneuvers his feet inside of them for a comfortable fit, before he gives the C.O. a thumbs-up, indicating his feet are securely inside of the boots.
The C.O. remotely locks the shoes on to his feet, before activating the sliding SteelGlass door, as it descends into the floor rather quickly. The C.O. then says...
Corrections Officer: Please step out of your cell, and follow the Officer to my right.
Michael nods, as he labors to move his feet in such heavy footwear. As it was the day before, and the days before that, he took a different route to Interrogations in an effort for him to not gain familiarity with the facility. Such familiarity may give a Detainee the opportunity to mount an escape effort, thus such long periods of walking around before he goes to Interrogations. Even the entry points to Interrogations varied every day, and he rarely seen the same people twice. Even those who tended the facilities where he was locked down. At least all of them were pleasant enough and respectful. One good change that used to not be the standard in Corrections.
He finally made it to Interrogations, where he was settled into a room with a resistor chair, his footwear kept on, as he proved during his initial Interrogation to be a "Man of Passion". This "Passion" necessitated that he be kept in resistors and shoes, in case he was to attack his Interrogator, the beautiful and young Clarice Brink. Though lately his interrogations had begun to bore him. They were talks of his wartime exploits, where she would try to discern which deaths were the result of actual warfare, and which ones were murder. It was hard for her to comprehend that EVERYONE he killed during the wars were enemies, regardless of the situation in which they died.
Hence his want for a THC vapor pen. And she had the audacity to claim how difficult he was at Interrogation. She's asking the wrong questions, and it was proving to be a difficult concept that she was not grasping. Michael guessed that some things in law enforcement just do not change. To include their thick-headed nature in asking questions that there are no clear answers to.
With him settled in the resistor chair, he takes his right hand and moves for the vapor pen on the table. It was the one part of his body that was allowed movement, in case he needed to write or do another task that required his hand. At lunch, his upper body was freed, and was allowed a 15 to 30 minute walk every hour or so, when Interrogation took awhile and his body would cramp up from being in place for so long. Overall, this was not as bad of an experience as he would have suspected.
As he takes his initial pull on the pen, the door to Interrogations opens up and in walks Detective Clarice Brink, his interrogator for the last week. He was surprised she kept returning, as she wore an expression on her face most of the time that resembled pain and anguish. At least she wasn't weak, he would give her that. Hopefully she grows a brain and figures out that wartime exploits are just a waste of time.
He pulls the vapor pen away from him and offers a smile to her, as he says...
Michael: Top o the morning to ya! Ready to ask more pointless questions about the war?
She responds with a scowl, as it was apparent to him by the dark bags forming under her eyes that she wasn't getting much sleep. He then says...
Michael: Melatonin will probably help you with your sleeping problems. Might turn that frown upside down.
Clarice: Today we're going to talk about your time as David Ferryman. You said before that you had left the U.K. after killing your Regimental Sergeant Major, getting papers to go to Canada, where you resided in St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador. Care to comment on this and your actions during this time?
Michael: Finally! Something other than war talk! Okay, I'll talk about this time...
I had some friends back in Ulster who were sympathetic to my cause, and helped forge me some papers that indicated that I was a Canadian citizen. This even included some backstory on my time in Ulster, and a working history to match. I got to St. John's and started working as a private detective. Basically doing investigative work that the Mounties couldn't or wouldn't touch due to whatever reasons. Some of that work included undercover work uncovering evidence of wrongdoing, but also for private interests, such as missing people and the settlement of private debts.
Clarice: What about your time as a gladiator? When did WCF become a prominent part of your life?
Michael: (smiling) Ah, the WCF... My pro wrestling days. I guess I can avail that story if you care not to hear about me first years as a Newfie. Those years were slow and boring, as it was. So here goes...
70 years earlier...
The sun shined in on the trailer sitting on the edge of the Avalon Peninsula, as the phone rang over and over again. David Ferryman, as he was known as now, arose among piles of papers around him, as he shook the sleep from his face. He reached for the phone and picked it up, stating...
David: Cage Ferryman Investigations. Ferryman speaking. What can we do to help ya?
Lady: Oh, is this a bad time? Were you sleeping? Or are you hung over?
David: Work's been slowed a bit. Winter does that, round here. But I say, what can we do to help ya?
Lady: You search around for missing bears and other stuffed animals, right? There's lots of cookies in it for you if you can find my Sarah Bear.
David wrinkles his forehead in confusion, as he says to the lady on the phone...
David: You want me to go look for a stuffed animal by the name of Sarah Bear? You sure that isn't her name?
Lady: She's a California Bear, but we looked everywhere in that place. I heard that she was somewhere in Canada. Maybe in Eastern Canada. Its very important that I get my Sarah Bear back. This job pays plenty in milk and cookies.
David: If that means you got cash money, and you got a decent lead, I can help. But are you certain I'm looking for a stuffed animal?
Lady: No, silly! Her name is Sarah Twilight, and I heard tales that she may be in Canada. You're Canadian, I can hear it in your voice.
David: Yah, but Canada's a big place. You got a computer handy? I can give you an e-mail address, and you send me some info about what you want found. Believe you me, I may not be a Mountie, but I always find what I look for. My rate is $50 an hour, plus expenses incurred. And mind you again, Canada is a big place. So say I find her in Vancouver, and I work on the other side of Canada? Well, that be plenty of beaver pelts you'll be tossing my way...
Lady: I will be sparing no amount of cookies or any other baked goods for you to find my little Sarah Bear. Believe you, me. And if you get this done, I may have more permanent work for you, if you and I can agree to terms.
David: Ain't gonna lie, but its been slow round here. Maybe a nice walkabout is in store. And Cage has been kinda painful to deal with. I may consider that offer.
Lady: Excellent. All of my information should be going to your email. You're Bill Cage, correct?
David: No, I be David Ferryman. Cage is my partner. He won't leave Newfoundland, considering what happened to him bout 10 years ago.
Lady: Fudge! I thought he would be a sure bet! He was a pro wrestler back in the day, and figured he could handle whatever Sarah Bear would toss at him! What about you? Can you handle a fighter like my Sarah Bear?
David: Probably. Did some military time with the Special Boat Service in the U.K.
Lady: Special boats? Like what?
David: Its like the U.K. equivalent to the U.S. Navy SEAL's.
Lady: Oh! Well, in that case, I'll send the information to you. David Ferryman? Okay! I'll have my assistant send it to you right away.
David: Okay. I'll be here.
The phone clicked off, as he shook his head at the absurdity of the call. He half expected it to be a prank call and didn't bother to follow up on the email that was promised of this particular client. Instead, he went about his business for later on tonight, having met someone who had stoked his ire two weeks before at the fights. David Ferryman, in order to supplement his income as a private investigator, also did some underground fighting to keep himself sharp. This particular night, he had managed to defeat his opponent, though afterwards was met with some undue abuse by his manager.
David felt that this gentleman, who fought decent enough, if not outright dirty like most, did not deserve such treatment. Especially when said man had never set foot inside of a fighting pit for his own interests. He lived off of the toil, sweat, and blood of others, and when faced with a setback, resorted to abusing his workforce.
It was apparent to David that this man deserved his worst, as all abusers deserve the worst that he could offer. This was made apparent when he took it upon himself to follow the man, as he disposed of the man he had broken in the ring off the coast of Avalon Bay, on the other side of the peninsula that he lived. If anything, this was revenge for a man that had no means to avenge himself. Prompted by the feelings that David was partly responsible for his death, but then again, the man might be alive if he wasn't there to begin with. And David would not feel sorry that he had outclassed another man inside of the ring.
David had prepared his outfit for the evening, which consisted of all black, to include a trenchcoat loaded with secret pockets and implements used to disable, hurt, and even kill the quarry he would be hunting this evening. To include those that may stop him from attaining the vengeance of his opponent. They did not deserve his vengeance, though they did need to be stopped. If anything, David was doing them a favor by ridding them of such a shitbag boss.
After he prepared his weapons and implements, he went on the computer and checked his emails, which consisted of an email by one KPhoenix@WCF.Org. He wrinkled his forehead in wonder, before opening the email, as it reads...
Mistur Fairyman,
Heer iz in4mashion konsurning mi Sarah Teddy. Thare iz a pikture inclosed in thiz email ov wut she luks lik. Plente ov kookees in this 4u if u kan find mi Sarah Teddy. Talkin 100,000 in wutever kinda kookees u lik. Thank u verie much!
David rubbed his eyes and read the email over and over again. Was she illiterate? Or retarded? He questioned the legitimacy of the email more and more, until he opened the picture file and saw the picture of the redhead that had been tearing it up in some of the underground fights in a few cities in Canada. Last he had heard she was still in Atlantic Canada, but with a chick like that, who knew where she would be.
Maybe this chick wasn't as retarded as he took her for, and decided to place a call to his fighting agent. After a few rings, he gets an answer...
Phil: Hey Charon! What's kicking?
David: You remember that redhead chick who was up in St. John's a few weeks ago?
Phil: Yah. You wanting a date, cause I hear she's chasing tail, too...
David: Nah, nothing like that. People be looking for her from some wrestling organization, and there's plenty of cash to be had bringing her in. You interested in finding out where she may be?
Phil: What kind a cash? And how you plan on bringing her in? You saw her fight as much as I did.
David: Lots and lots of cookies. The lady who brought this to me is brain dead, but after looking her over, she's good for the money. If not, well, sometimes blood is just as good as money.
Phil: I hear that. Well, I can make a few calls, and maybe get you booked to fight in an event she should be present at. May be time to gas up the Winnie and take her on a trip, eh? But what about taking her down?
David: She may be a good fighter, but she ain't electric-proof. I got stuff to put her down and remind her she's human. That, and duct tape. Lots and lots of duct tape.
Phil: Okay. Well, I'll see if and where she's stomping around. See you later.
David: Later...
David hangs up his phone, as he goes to the refrigerator for a grape Powerade. He cracks it open as he thinks about tonight, when he finds that asshole and permanently puts him out of the fighting management game. He thinks about how he'll be doing the world a favor as he watches the life leave this shitbag's face.
Then there's this whole Sarah issue, and what an issue that's going to be. The broad was tougher than a two-dollar steak, and she looked like she'd been beaten with an ugly stick since that picture was taken. Hell, this could be just a wild goose chase he's on, but with this much money on the line, why the hell not?
He just waits for the call from Phil, or maybe another potential client, as he contemplates all of these happenings going on...
Later That Evening...
The broken screaming body of Lance Thibedeaux laid in front of David Ferryman on the other side of the Avalon Peninsula, where a few weeks ago he had no problem laying low permanently the former opponent of the latter man. He laid there with his legs broken with a sledgehammer that Ferryman had used in his initial attack, breaking the kneecaps of the man as he stumbled out of a bar he frequented to pick up prostitutes.
After chasing the whore away with a threat to attack her, he carried the son of a bitch to the back of his old 1975 Ford F-100 rust bucket, before bringing him to the same small point on the Avalon Peninsula where he had taken Jeremy weeks before. He had to have known that nobody would come, as he had the same thing done to that fighter before, right here. But Lance was stupid enough to ask the question, as he screamed...
Lance: WHY!? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!?
David: Let's not play stupid. You know EXACTLY why you are here tonight. I know you really like this particular stretch of the Peninsula, so I figured why not bring you out here so you can enjoy what is left of your life screaming for help that will not come. After all, isn't that why you chose this place for Jeremy Funderburke? You know? The guy I fought a few weeks ago?
Lance: HE OWED ME MONEY!
David: Dead men cannot pay their debts. So what is it? Did you drum his old lady into selling her snatch for money so you can get yours? Or was it maybe his children you stole? Tell me. What was it that you took from him to settle your debt? Besides his life? Come on, you can tell me! Your God knows that you will not be talking to anybody else for what little is left of your life on this planet. So square with me, unless you want this to go slow.
Lance: NOTHING!!! I TOOK NOTHING!!!
David: That answer doesn't sit right with me. No sir! But fear not! I'm not going to hit you with a sledgehammer anymore. I think its time for the shears to come out.
David reached into his trench coat and pulled out a pair of pruning shears, letting them pop open as he releases the safety that holds the blades together, before saying...
David: Now to figure out what to cut off of you first. How do you feel about your dick? That was what the prostitute was for, yes? Or perhaps I should take your balls. Not like you have any use for those. Considering you didn't even have the heart to kill the guy yourself...
Lance: NO!!! NO!!! OKAY!!! I WANTED HIM DEAD BECAUSE I FUCKING HATED HIM!!! HE WAS ALWAYS IN DEBT TO ME, AND HE FUCKED ME FOR THE LAST TIME!!!
David: Wow! Hatred! And you hated him so much you didn't even have the heart to kill him yourself? You had to ORDER someone else to do it for you! What kind of boss are you? You must have idiots on your crew, to do your killing for you when you can't even do it yourself! God Almighty!
Lance: I'VE DONE ENOUGH KILLING FOR A LIFETIME!!! AND YOU BETTER HOPE MY CREW NEVER FINDS YOU!!!
David: Oh believe me, they won't even know you're dead...
David then places the shears back into his jacket, and instead pulls out a Colt .45 and fires a single round into the skull of Lance Thibedeaux. The man falls silent, as David looks at the last breath that emanates from the mouth of his latest victim in the cold St. John's climate. David thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd seen since he had turned his Regimental Sergeant Major into a grease spot at the front door of his flat.
After allowing time to contemplate the beauty of what the last breath of a man looked like in the cold of St. John's, he got to work on the body. He removed all clothing and jewelry from the corpse, before taking off "identifiers" on the body. Such identifiers were the teeth, which he bashed out easily with the sledgehammer, while also doing a number on the face. He also cut off the fingertips of each hand, which proved to be harder than anticipated in the cold. But the real problem was that Lance Thibedeaux was tattooed up quite a bit. David had his own tattoos, but not a whole body full of them!
David then decided that perhaps a cremation was in order. The warmth from a fire would also suit him at this time, as well. So he got a few pallets from the back of his truck and broke them down, taking care to set up the pieces of wood over the body in a way that they could still get air in to fuel the fire. He tossed the clothing on top of the wood, before he soaked everything in lighter fluid. The only pain in the ass to the entire process was lighting a matchbook on fire and tossing it on the soaked wood, but it all went up, and the fire raged once the wood was completely engulfed by the flames.
Yet another beautiful sight to behold for the evening! Hell, Lance had never smelled better, either! He'd smelled like a Parisian hooker before when he captured and incapacitated him, but now he was starting to question his thoughts on cannibalism, as the essence of Lance caught the air and went into his nose. Instead, David squirted more flammable liquid on to the fire, as it responded with raging flames. Satisfied that identification of this body would be very difficult, barring maybe a DNA test, David walked to the truck as the flames continued to engulf the body of Lance Thibedeaux. The scumbag who couldn't even kill the man he hated himself...
Two Weeks Later... Present Time
The roar of the crowd is deafening at the Wells Fargo Arena in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, as he awaits the announcement and his entrance into his first match in the WCF. How he got himself wrangled into this situation is beyond him, but he's not complaining. Not after the beaucoup American dollars he just brought in for himself. All to bring in an all too willing redheaded firebrand who really seemed more interested in putting Katherine Phoenix, my benefactor, through her paces.
Then, by some odd stroke of luck, he ran into Seth Lerch, the owner of the WCF, who promptly told his security to throw him out of the building. Not to be done like that when he was already leaving, he put the security officers on their asses in a rather brutal way. Some bones were broken, teeth were lost, and even an eye might not be fully functional ever again, but it impressed Seth Lerch, and he signed him to a contract. Was that all it really took to become a professional wrestler? Kick the shit out of the right people in front of the right person?
He later called Bill Cage and told him of the development, which earned David an ass chewing from a guy who was bitter by his own time as a professional wrestler. But David wasn't discouraged. Hell, he had a job! And it took him place to place, away from The Fuzz whenever he did something that would make them want to hunt him. Never mind he was doing the world a favor when he would end the lives of so many shitty people who deserved to be ended.
Then Hank Brown came along. A weasel of a man would be the best description that Charon could come up with. He came bearing questions that he felt needed answers to, as he says...
Hank Brown: You must be Charon! Hi, I'm Hank Brown. Nice to meet you...
Charon looks at him with his hand extended, as his piercing blue eyes gaze into Hank's own brown eyes. He scowls as he says...
Charon: What do you want, Hank Brown? Do you wish to be ferried across the River Styx along with the others that I am to be matched up with tonight?
Hank: No, I just wanted to ask you some questions about how it feels to have your first match in the WCF being on the 15th Anniversary of Operations here in Philadelphia...
Charon: My feeling is the same as if it was my very first time on the battlefield. There's always nerves. Fear would be the accurate word to describe it. But that fear is what keeps you grounded. Keeps you smart. Keeps you from making stupid mistakes. Much like some of my opponents have already made by spewing crap from the sewers they call a mouth. But I'm ready, much like I've been ready for every battlefield that I have set foot upon for as long as I've been around. Ready to ferry the Dead across the River. And there will be plenty of Fallen when this evening is over...
Hank: There have been some strong words about you so far from CJ Phoenix, no relation to Katherine...
Charon: Yes, I saw his rant. Poor ignorant uneducated fool he is to make assumptions about me and my past. I've graced many battlefields with my presence, and many have been ferried across the River Styx personally by Yours Truly. Nature of warfare, sad to say, but it was what it was. He thinks he can get into my head and play so-called "mind games". The only real "game", if you're ignorant enough to call it that, that truly matters is the one out there in the ring. He can talk all he wants, but his best case scenario tonight with all the trash that has fallen out of his garbage truck mouth is that he has made himself enemies in the ring that would love nothing more than to shut his mouth before more refuse can come from it. But such is life in that you have to learn this the hard way.
So get ready CJ Phoenix, because you are about to be taken to school. Get ready to eat a lot of knuckle sandwiches and shoe leather as your colleagues in the ring take their turns working your ass over like a government mule. And maybe, just maybe, you'll be lucky to avoid my grasp tonight. And trust me when I say that my grasp is something you will want to avoid at all costs. But if you wish to be within Hades Clutch, you will get your chance this evening. Then I will ferry you away, along with all the other lost souls in this match, as it proceeds.
Just like the lost soul that is Bad News Benson. If anything could be said about you is that your name is indeed true to its word. You're bad news, though that is true mostly to yourself. What do you plan to do tonight? Stumble through another match, hoping to your God that you may just be lucky enough to topple someone within this match? Wish in one hand, and fill your other with excrement, and I guarantee your excrement hand will fill first. Bad news, indeed, for you.
Then we have the "Life Coach". As I once heard, life is tough, but its a lot tougher if you're stupid. And that is just what you have done. Surrounded yourself with stupid people in your life. Like David Wells, the former Major League baseball pitcher who's just another Quarter Pounder with Cheese away from a massive stroke or heart attack. Or maybe it was Melody Taylor, the skank who gave you VD before running off with the guy who gave it her to begin with. Even Montoya and Jacobs are fools, as if some liquor can change the fact that your life was ruined by some skank. Well, maybe not. Because after this match, you WILL need that liquor to forget just how badly you got worked over this evening at the Fifteenth Anniversary of the WCF.
Even worse about you Mr. Life Coach, is that you fail at realizing the true threat you face. You worry about the loudest schmuck in the match, but fail to see the silent threat that lurks. The one that waits for you to blow your load all over the one person who made himself a target. Mark this down in your calendar as the saddest day you have ever experienced, because when it is over, even Melody Taylor will not measure close to the disappointment you are going to suffer tonight. That will be my gift to you, the erasure of that horrid memory with a tramp of a woman you thought you loved.
Oh, and then there's Travis Tusk, who's probably drenched in Jovan Musk for Men. That was an 80's thing, right? Perhaps in the hopes that his shenanigans from whatever unmemorable 80's flick will drive us away from the ring. Well, here I am, about to step into the ring, ready to endure the trash that comes from the mouth of CJ Phoenix, the idiocy that is the life of the Life Coach, and the Bad News that Benson is going to deliver to himself, so I guess your Jovan Musk can be tolerated for the evening. Though you may get a new scent added to that horrid cologne you drench yourself in. Care to take a guess?
Probably garbage, if it was up to CJ Phoenix, as he has a lot of that coming from his mouth. Or maybe you'll wind up with the smell of poo on you from all that crap that accumulated in the hand of Bad News Benson wishing for a win tonight. Or you may smell like a hangover that the Life Coach has been on after getting dumped by his bae for the twelfth time this year for a guy with VD. But with me? You will smell like blood and death when the night is over, as you kiss your career goodbye along with your life before it even starts! Sucks to be you, but then again, it sucks to be all of you inside of that ring with me.
So feel free to pass that along to the others within this match. I know you will, Mr. Brown, because that is what you do. Shimmy up to someone just to run off and talk about what they all say about each other, like a weasel in human form. You survive by doing what you can do in this den of snakes that is the WCF. And like you will survive this particular encounter with this particular embodiment with Death. Quick, go forth and pass along this information, before I change my mind. Because you and many others may think that this is it after tonight? They are all sadly mistaken, for Death cares NOT who they were in life.
I will collect my souls in the WCF, and I'm just getting started...
