"If a #fuccboi falls in Detroit" and Other Musings
Mar 19, 2016 20:53:09 GMT -5
Lilith, Wade Moor, and 4 more like this
Post by 6ix God on Mar 19, 2016 20:53:09 GMT -5
The moon pierced through the bars of the cramped and damp San Quentin cell, casting thin beams of light upon the concrete floor. Laying on the thin mattress pad, Hunter’s eyes glided from the beams of light on the ground to the cracks running along the wall and finally to the ceiling, his gaze resting upon a single beading of water which dripped perpetually. In the stone silence of the concrete prison, the voice of Hunter Updegraff undulated upon the air as he softly sang to himself.
Hunter Updegraff: Words are flowing out, like endless rain into a paper cup…
Somewhere in the bowels of the facility, the soft thud of a head hitting a desk was heard by no one. As the corpse of the guard was turned over, its assailant’s gloved hands ran over its pockets, riffling through. The sight of bulged, cold eyes had become a familiar sight to the assassin; once, perhaps, they haunted him. Now, not so much. A shell. A doll. An empty vessel which could harbor no anger or hatred or judgement. What mattered was the objective; the guard’s badge and keys were the spoils. Turning from the corpse, the assassin left the office and proceeded back to its team.
It had been a longer and hard year for Hunter in prison; one intensified by the absolute abandonment by his friends. He’d heard talk of T-shirts and legal campaigns, but he rarely saw any results. In the past few months, even Jared had stopped visiting him. Alone and cold, Hunter kept his eyes on the beading drop before its weight became too much and it splashed to the ground, a new bead forming in its place. That’s all he’d been; a bead waiting to be dropped before it could be replaced and follow in his footsteps.
Hunter Updegraff: They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe…
The gloved hand pressed the badge to the sensor, the little red light on the panel turning green as the door audibly unlocked. Gripping the handle, the door was pulled open, and the trio of figures in black continued into the halls of the prison. They walked calmly and confidently – their eyes ahead as numbers and letters demarcating block and cell flashed past them. For the most part, the prison slept soundly.
Hunter’s eyes drifted from the crack to the moon outside, hanging fat and white as cocaine in the sky. Jared and Wade had spoken so fondly of the moon – they all had a fascination with the night sky. It was Jim who’d always waxed so longingly (as well as a Slovenian who struggled with English) about the night sky. He’d taught them of constellations and distant galaxies. Planets with funny names and the vastness of space. Something swelled in Hunter; a hope that maybe there was more than just eccentricity to Thuggin. Maybe his crackpot talk of “not being alone” could be true; maybe that time would finally come when the light would strike his window and he’d be free again. He closed his eyes, grimacing and tightening his face as he tried to send out some sort of signal. After a moment, he opened his eyes – the cell was still dark.
Hunter Updegraff: Pools of sorrow, waves of joy, are drifting through my open mind, possessing and caressing me…
A voice called from a cell.
Prisoner: Nice tits, sweet thing.
The trio stopped, turning in unison to the voice. The prison reclined on his bed, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight save the dark and jagged form of the swastika tattooed on his pectoral. He grinned, teeth yellowed and rotting from a flagrant disregard of hygiene and years of chewing tobacco. His hands rested behind his head, his stomach flexed to pull himself to a sitting position. He grinned like a mad dog.
Prisoner: Yeah, you in the middle. Other two of ya can piss off. Whatcha doin’ here in the night, darlin’? You wanna bring me a present?
The woman in black smiled, red lips parting to reveal pearly white teeth. The prison continued to grin in return, though the grin slowly faded as the woman leveled the silenced pistol. The prisoner pushed himself back in panic, his mouth dropping open to scream – the bullet penetrated him through the forehead and left the cry stuck in his throat. As his blood pooled on the cot and began to soak through to the floor, the trio turned back to the hall and continued towards their destination.
Hunter Updegraff: Jai Guru Deva. Om. Nothing’s gonna change my world…
As they turned the corner, the voice floated into their ears. Looking to the figure on her right, the woman smiled and nodded in affirmation. They continued down the corridor, their pace now quickened in excitement. As they flocked to the cell, Hunter hardly noticed.
Hunter Updegraff: Nothing’s gonna change my world…
The click of shoes upon the pavement (perhaps a moment of enthusiastic recklessness), made him pause. Joy swelled in him as a tear rolled down his cheek, his head turning to gaze once more upon the friends who’d come to liberate him after so long. But as he turned to his visitors, it was not Jared nor Thursday nor Wade nor Andre nor Jimophy Thuggin who greeted him. A raven-haired woman stood between two men, all three of them garbed in plain black clothing with hooded sweatshirts. The woman locked eyes with Hunter, her own eyes large and gold sitting above full cheeks and elegant red lips. She smiled, her hands coming to the hood to draw it down from her head.
Minerva: Hello Hunter.
Hunter pushed himself up in bed, his hands coming to his face to rub his eyes. No, not a hallucination – he turned from the woman to the man on her right and then to the man on her left. His lips parted, but before he could speak, the woman drew a finger to her lips.
Minerva: Henry, the door, please.
The man on her right stepped forward, raising the dead guard’s key and sliding it into the lock. With a click, the door was open and the Owls entered the cell, circling Hunter.
Hunter Updegraff: Have you come to free me?
Minerva crouched down, a gloved hand coming to Hunter’s cheek.
Minerva: From this prison? Yes.
Pain seared through Hunter’s body as the Owl plunged the syringe into his shoulder, the plunger pressing down to inject the drug into his body. His jaw clamped immediately, his limbs going rigid and his eyes widening in horror. Minerva’s lips parted into a toothy grin – the look of a hungry lioness.
Minerva: But you are far from free.
Detroit slept alone tonight, not that I sleep much. From the balcony of my hotel, I look down on the glow of lights downtown, the last embers of cars and stores grasping for life after the bars had closed. It was a city gasping for air, desperately flailing and failing to stay above the crashing waves of the modern era – only a few rats stayed aboard the decaying ship. From my balcony, I watch the remaining insomniacs and drunkards lumber towards their cars or down the sidewalks, their eyes darting feverishly at every alley as if waiting for some vicious gangster or dope fiend to spring at them. Detroit was a near-dead animal; it was begging to be put down.
The joint burns between my fingers, casting the only visible light from the balcony. Inside, Thursday breathes peaceful, her eyes closed and lips turned to the faintest smile. I turn my head from the streets to the sliding glass door, gaze lingering on her for a moment: the curve of her milky white breast exposed by the sheets, the handsome sharpness of her chin, and the faint curl of her slender fingers, topped with black nail polish. Raising the blunt to my mouth, I take a long drag before turning from my prize and looking back at the city beneath me.
I inhale slowly through his nose before exhaling, letting the smoggy and stale Detroit air seep into his lungs with a smile.
I love the smell of decaying urban refuse in the middle of the night.
I take a last drag of the blunt before flicking it off the balcony, my eyes following it as it descended to the pavement far beneath me. My hands come to the rail of the balcony, gripping it tightly as I lean forward and leer down at the street, a mad prophet in the night shrieking at the top of his lungs for the imaginary camera.
“If a #fuccboi gets murdered in Detroit but no one gives a shit about his screams, does he really make a sound? I guess Seth’s as curious as I am, considering the booking this week; you six must’ve really pissed him off to get thrown into an absolute shitshow like this. I’d normally chalk this one up to drunken stupidity, but the sheer scale of incompetence being demonstrated here almost suggests malice, doesn’t it? I can’t think of any other reason why Seth would put six people with no business being on the same team in a no disqualification match against the best stable in the history of the WCF.
I’m sure you’re shitting your Pampers over this one, aren’t you, Teo? Have you missed me? It’s been, what, almost half a year since I kicked around your head for fun? My, how times have changed, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. I mean, last time we fought I had a luchador mask on and you were in a team that could’ve been somewhat relevant with a little time. I’m glad to say my luchador days were just a phase – it’s a shame the same can’t be said for you. Then again, you also didn’t grow out of the “lower card talent” phase, either. So there’s that.
Man, oh man, Teo, I’ve been waiting for this again. I’ve even gotten a little hard and contemplated jerking off thinking about it. Truth be told, there’s not a single person in this match I want to hurt more than you. I’ll put it out on the table: it’s all pettiness. It’s all grudge shit. Yeah, go ahead, call me obsessed, but I’m not over that shit at WAR – I’ll never be. It doesn’t matter that I was your first championship loss. It doesn’t matter that I won WAR after slaying your team. It doesn’t matter how many times my boys kick your head in. I want to absolutely fuck you up because every time I do anything, I have to deal with this stupid fucking “Teo beat Jared at WAR” shit.
I’m finally starting to realize why Flash hates the mention of Grime so much; you have one shitty fluke bad day, and you never live it down. I could beat you down here and end your career, and I still won’t hear the end of it. Maybe that’s not your fault. I’m sure you want to give me some dumb speech about trying hard and not blaming others for your problems, but you have such a punchable face, I think I’m just going to take the low road.
And don’t get it twisted – I will win this match. I’m sure you, of all people, are looking at this situation and realizing the absolute rubbish it is. Which one of your boys is going to let you down first, Teo? Is it Mikey eXtreme, the man who harbors rapists and abuses pedestrians? Will it be Katherine Phoenix, my girlfriend’s newly adopted stray? Will it be Zombie McMorris, the fallen Hardcore Champion who shits the bed in anything not internet related? Will it be Shadowlove, the young new guy? Or will it be you, Teo?
Is your hand on that belt around your waist? I hope you kiss and tuck that thing in every night before bed because it’s literally all you have going for you. You are not on my level. You are not on Wade’s level or Rabid’s level. You’re not even close to the #BeachKrew B-tier in a match not about that belt. You are a worthless, single-direction opponent who has been exposed again and again as someone who isn’t ready to hang yet. And the worst part of you beating me at WAR was watching the absolute string of failure that has been the TV Title division until Beaver entered it. Not even a moment after the dust settles between us, you screw the pooch against Andre Jenson. Seriously, Teo? Andre-fucking-Jenson? THAT is what Fly giving you the rub was meant to do? Put over Andre-fucking-Jenson? And then what did the TV Title division become? A parade of unwarranted Bonnie Blue title shots and Bad News Benson.
You had one job: be a fighting champion. You couldn’t do it: you blew your load on your feud with me and ended up damaging the prestige of the title worse than you would’ve by losing. Now we have a dead division because Teo couldn’t cull the shit talent from the good until Slane came along. And what does Teo do? Slink back into his shuck-and-jive role as laughable idiot of the WCF. Mister fucking Rodgers. I’m going to beat you unconscious with your belt on Sunday, Teo. I’m going to shove the People so far up your ass you get liver failure. Losing to you at WAR is a bigger embarrassment to me than Corey Black putting me through a table, Dune trying to end my career, or Johnny Rabid leading #BeachKrew. It’s something I’m going to take out on you every time I have a chance.
Speaking of sleeping and one-dimensional pushes, Zombie McMorris is in this match as well. I’d like to clear up this myth that Zombie McMorris was ever a member of #BeachKrew: our position of washed-up veteran with a stupid gimmick was already filled by Oblivion.
I’m sorry, Z, I’m being unfair, aren’t I? We had some good times, yeah? Like that time you tagged me in to help you body Dag Riddik? Or the other time I sent my bitch to keep Kathy P busy while you were gonna body her?
Yeah, you really screwed the pooch there, Z. Losing one title and barely clinging to the other against “Teo 2.0” the Griffin. Give it to me straight up here, Z: the fuck are you even doing lately?
I’m starting to feel bad for not actually dragging you into the #BeachKrew fold – we seem to have a real knack for turning aborted careers around. Then again, I have no idea what you’d call an aborted career which spans multiple years. Now that I think about it, I’m not Christ and you’re not Lazarus. Yeah, you’re a zombie. You can’t die and that dumb shit. Your shit genetics are the reason Corey Crane won’t stay in his grave like he’s supposed to. But who can resurrect a career that dead? I’m not Doctor Frankenstein – Oblivion proved that much.
What the fuck happened, Z? If Ultimate Showdown were a month ago, you’d be walkin’ in stacked as Kaz Mazy – instead you went a pulled a Kaz Mazy by shittin’ the bed and fucking everything up. You were lulz, Z. You were dank. Were I stupider man, I’d make some idiotic “Dank to stank” joke, but maybe this will sum it up better.
That’s a reverse gif for those of you playing at home with shitty spatial perception.
There’s a reason why no-names like Punkin Calibad and Spencer BAdams bodied you in singles matches – you’re shite outside of your domain. A fucking hermit crab of the internet who is naked and vulnerable outside his shell of old memes and references from the early 2000’s. A Napoleon Bonaparte if there ever was one; the midget general at Waterloo. Not that I imagine you can read, but here’s a few quotes to get that through:
How’s that for the “intellectual hipster swag” you dumb #fuccboi?
Outside of the internet board, your career has been dick-shit since being on the team that knocked out the Sentinels. That’s almost a whole year away: what the fuck comes after that? Well, you got fed to Dune. Then you got fed to Flash. Then you got fed to Spencer. Then you got fed to Katherine fuckin’ Phoenix. Good job, ZMac, you’re just like your Church of the Dark Saints partners, Oblivion and Night Rider. Fuck it, you’re right there with Terry Richards. How the hell weren’t you in Angels of Destruction, or whatever they were called? Or maybe Imperium was the perfect spot for you: the jumping-off platform for Joey Flash in a group of otherwise fetid and festering careers.
Oh, ICE Beckman is coming back? Good. You can stand next to him and look average in your shared mediocrity.”
I pause, my hands coming from the railing to slide along the sides of my face, reminding myself of any feeling I may have in my nerve endings despite the serpentine embrace of intoxication coursing through me. My pointer fingers press in the divots between my nose and eye sockets, sending that sort of wonderful tingle through my cheeks. After tapping my teeth a few times to insure my jaw is still working, I continue to preach my gospel.
“When you beat Wade for that Internet Title, some of us actually thought it was funny. Fuck it, show of hands: who got a kick out of ‘dat roast’? Hell, Swagrid is my boy, and I’ll cop a chortle or two. But then comes the problem: we’re starving for that #dankness and you aren’t delivering.
You fucking peasant, we’ve had enough ShiaClap.gif! I could swim in ShiaClap! Next thing we know, you’re scraping WadeLaugh.gif off the man you’ve beaten. Then you’re locked into repeated jousts with Calibad. Then you’re stuck with Dagvald fukken Riddik taking you to the limit. Now Griffin has only barely managed to lose to you.
I’m not angry; I’m just disappointed. Dad! would be proud. Where’s the OC? Where’s the lulz? I swear to fuck if you drop a ShiaClap.gif on me in you promo, I’m going to kick you in the balls. Just like your career, your Internet Title run has become a one-trick pony. Your head is above water because you’ve lacked legitimate challengers to your belt who could take you to the limit. But in your non-Internet Title work? You’re a fucking job-stain. You’re a taint – the nadir of this federation’s talent. You’re so abysmal that I don’t even see Buddy Roman hyping you.
But you’re not a total inbreed like Mikey eXtreme – you’re smart enough to deuce out of this match. You see the competition before you, Z. You see the team you’re on and the team you’re against. You know you’re not winning this, and that’s why I’m telling you to walk away. Get out. Scram. There’s no sense in you eating the pin this time.”
I can feel my eyes widening, even in the dark. Some sort of mania is sitting on my shoulders like two fat ravens, pecking at the back of my neck. I’m absolutely twisted from the revelry of tonight, and some sort of animalistic bloodlust is coursing through me. Maybe this is the natural reaction from being so close tohim him? HIM him Him.
“And I think you know this too, Teo. Who the fuck are you supposed to count on? ‘The Handsome Halfbreed’ Shadowlove? Hey there, newbie, welcome to the firing line. You’ve been a dumb and pitiful little faggot lately, so I can only say I’m thrilled to have this chance to break all those ‘handsome’ bones in your face and send you back to the lowercard where you belong.
Congratulations, Shadowlove: like every other dumb #fuccboi in this federation, you’ve tried to step to #BeachKrew right off the bat. At this point, I’m fucking sick of making you people relevant by nearly crippling you or even turning my eye. What the fuck have you done to deserve facing me in the ring? You spouted some incoherent nonsense about Papa Johns and some mouth-breather Pulp Fiction references? Bully for you.”
I raise my hands and clap, slow and decidedly. My lips tighten as my smile widens.
“I want to know what makes you think you’re any different than Beaver or Andre Holmes before you. Why do you think you’re going to be the one to topple Slane? I bet you’re sitting at home right now, your shoulders getting kneaded and your rubber johnny getting tugged by that Gook manager of yours, trying to desperately assure yourself that a win over #BeachKrew will put your career on the map. Maybe, you even think, this is a portent for your eventual run at the Television Title.
I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t like Howard Black and Occulo bending the Poondock Saints over a table. There’s no Spencer Adams on this team for you to get an easy win over; there’s not even a Mikey eXtreme. You’re facing three upper carders and the best set of mid-carders in this federation. You’re fucked; you don’t even stack up against a single one of us.
Your mind isn’t on this; why are you here? Don’t you have something better to do like take pot-shots at Dagvald? You’re bordering on Andre Holmes level of pathetic; at least he’s on Dag’s level. Hell, I don’t even like Dag, but if you think anyone will put money on you to beat him, you’re a dumbed #fuccboi than imagined. The worst part is your mind isn’t even on Slane; you’re obsessed with calling out Dag and riding his coat-tails to relevance.
Here’s some friendly advice: it’s not working. None of us consider you ‘one of the boys’. You don’t get to come to our parties. You don’t get to shower with us. You don’t get to sit at our table during lunch. I’d much rather have Dag sitting at that fucking table a million times over than bother myself with you. At least Dag has earned some semblance of dues, even he joined a shit faction and got on the wrong side of me multiple times. I’d sooner unblock Dag on Twitter and have joyful discussion about politics or trains or whatever stupid shit he likes than bet money on you to beat him or Slane. You’re the most recent incarnation of the tired trope of overhyped loser who doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell at succeeding. Seth fucking hates you if he’s throwing you into this match before your big shot; he knows you have no momentum and won’t win either matches. Congratulations, Shadowlove: you’re eating the pin.”
I stop to straighten myself, my eyes running up and down the peaks and valleys of the Detroit skyline. I turn, pacing the cramped confines of my balcony before I hoist myself onto the rail, my hand darting for the small plastic table which contains the opened bottle of Remy Martin I’d been pouring on Thursday’s ass earlier. I take a long swig, my head tilting back to gulp the sweet yet fiery cognac down before I lob the bottle off the rail and lean forward, literally teetering over the abyss.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Teo? You’re fucked! You were fucked from the moment the card dropped, and now you’re probably spreading salt along the floors of your shitty little bone yard in Beanerville as you wonder how you’ll make it out of this alive. Who do you have to depend on? Not Zombie McMorris or Shadowlove; who?! Are you gonna try to come at me with Katherine Phoenix?”
I can’t help but laugh, my body twisting back as my head falls to cackle at the moon like a hyena.
“Of course, I’ve got that bitch wrapped around my finger. You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you? I snap my fingers, and Thursday goes and buys her news clothes or an apartment. I clap my hands, and Katherine Phoenix’s life is dramatically improved. Don’t you see the irony in the whole thing? The humor? I’m doing your job! I’m filling your role of ‘good guy’ after the whole lot of you kicked her to the curb! She wanted to get better! She wanted to do something with her life! The dumb bitch was stuck in an abusive relationship and worked up the strength to move on – what was waiting for her?
Nothing! The poor girl is hurt and confused and latches onto Andre Holmes. Instead of anyone empathizing with her or trying to help her, you all kick the bitch while she’s down. You’re all so stupid and arrogant and pig-headed you proved I was right all along: you’re as morally bankrupt as any of us. It’s all an act, Teo: from you to Andre Holmes to Bonnie Blue to Tiffany White. You’re all creatures of self-interest. Whether it’s Tiff looking for a carpet to munch or you looking for that space in your self-esteem to be filled or Andre looking for someone to fight to get his dick hard, none of you are better than #BeachKrew.
At this point, I could probably have Thursday ask Kathy P if she’s down to threesome and get a doe-eyed, moist-cunted ‘YES!’ In fact, I may literally call her up after I’m done screaming at the moon and get this right now. Just because I can. We’re her friends, Teo; why the fuck would she fight her friends as opposed to the guys who call her “cookie pussy” or “slut’ or whatever? I’ve given her a home and emotional support and friends; I don’t even think you’ve given her the patented Teo pep-talk. Man, you really dropped the ball on this one, Teddy. That’s three down, and two to go.”
Letting my legs unhook, I fell back, landing hard on the concrete balcony. It didn’t hurt – much. That tends to happen when you can’t feel your extremities because you’re so drunk. Staring up at the stars, my mouth continued to move; the heavenly camera was still on me.
“Vengeance and Mikey eXtreme. Two enemies locked in combat over a worthless little belt. Have you ever wondered why #BeachKrew never bothered with the United States title? Because it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s a worthless belt, lacking the endurance of the Television Title or sheer strength of the World Championship. That’s both of you two: the me-too faggots who ankle bite. You’re a step above Dagvald Riddik and Teo when it comes to belt prestige. You’re a step below Dune and Occulo. When the Trio Belt is more elevated than your belt, you’ve fucking failed.
Poor Mikey eXtreme: always the bridesmaid and never the bride. It started in the DRG, didn’t it? You spend all your time ‘paying dues’ as ‘Prospect’ while Gemini Battle and Gonzo Murdock jump straight in. You watch as Danny Anderson steals your title shots and shits the bed. You’re such a scrub that even Caraid doesn’t partner with you for Trios. Then you get handed the best thing that ever happened to you: your #fuccboi friend gets his head cut off ISIS-style by the cartel, and you’re suddenly driven. You get some big retard Oblivion knock-off to follow you around, steal a belt from Kaz Mazy, and you’re living in Fat City.
Then Ultimate Showdown happens: your chance to prove all the doubters and nay-sayers wrong. Your whole stable is a laughing stock: Bates has lost to Howard Black, Gonzo has lost to Dune, Gemini is Gemini, Spencer Adams has quit, and Danny Anderson approves LOL. Your definition of seizing a chance: failure. Abysmal failure. Walking in the former champion of the number two belt against a staggered Kazbelt and leaving with … nothing – passing the strap to be another instrument wrapped around Bates’s microcock.
You had a second leash on life, taking the belt from Gayson Pierce and holding it against Bernard Core. I won’t knock that, even if he was the only guy who was stupid enough to try to rehabilitate Wolf. Then? You lose it. To Vengeance. Fucking Harley Rhodes. And if you don’t think that’s a more embarrassing failure than Ultimate Showdown, I don’t know what is. We know the real Mikey eXtreme. We know the toothless challenge who can’t step up to the next level. Enjoy your pursuit of the belt again; it’s the high water mark of your career.
Oh, and Vengeance? Don’t think beating Mikey is an achievement. If anything, losing to you is a stain on his career. Where’ve you been all this time, Harley? You spent months doing shit; toiling away in loser factions and jobbing to Mejor Redemption or other nobodies. You’ve been tagging with Night Rider and Apocalypse and all these other tools. Now you’re on your own; you think you’ve made a name for yourself because you’ve got a belt and you’ve taken some big names. Newsflash: I don’t think you’re shit.
In fact, I’d wager that no one really thinks you’re shit. You’ve made it in your division and built a reputation because we’re dealt with a pool of minnows nipping at the fins of one another. I suppose when there are no bigger fish, everyone thinks they’re a biggun. No, not you Vengeance. You’re another schizo who thinks he’s a monster; a man torn between his persona and the real world. When the paint comes off, Harley? I break your nose. No hardcore legend. No seven demons. Just two men, one of whom is going to be bloodied.
If you two can even cooperate enough to fight us. I don’t buy that; do you, Teo? Nah, you know the truth: Vengeance and Mikey will start swinging the moment a thing goes wrong. And that leaves you with Shadowlove. Poor, poor Teo and Shadowlove. This really is a feeding frenzy, isn’t it? This isn’t even fair at this point. No, Seth just hates you. I hate you. And I’m going to bury the both of you. You’re at sea. Flailing. Drowning. And Katherine Phoenix, Zombie McMorris, Vengeance, and Mikey eXtreme won’t throw you a life ring.”
I pause, staring at the moon: that big, beautiful alabaster bastard above me. I’ve forgotten my train of thought – it doesn’t matter; I have a booty to call. I push myself up on my haunches, shoving to my feet as I turn to the sliding glass door. As I pull it open, the Owl who’d been watching me from the balcony above swings down onto my balcony. These guys are a particular breed of bad – Foot Clan-level failures; my elbow crashed back to break his nose as his feet his the concrete. He stumbles back, and I’ve turned. I lunge forward to shove him, pushing him over the railing and sending him careening down towards the sidewalk, screaming the whole way. With an audible crunch, he goes silent; an old woman steps over his lifeless form as she continues he way down the sidewalk. The city still sleeps. I turn back inside to wake Thursday up and pitch the idea of her and I double-teaming Katherine.
If a #fuccboi falls in Detroit, but no one bothers to respond to his screams, does he make a sound?
Oooooooo yay fun times!!!
!!! I'll be there in a bit just gotta get dressed 
unless of course Jare Bear likes my hello kitty pajamas? xxxx
Hunter Updegraff: Words are flowing out, like endless rain into a paper cup…
Somewhere in the bowels of the facility, the soft thud of a head hitting a desk was heard by no one. As the corpse of the guard was turned over, its assailant’s gloved hands ran over its pockets, riffling through. The sight of bulged, cold eyes had become a familiar sight to the assassin; once, perhaps, they haunted him. Now, not so much. A shell. A doll. An empty vessel which could harbor no anger or hatred or judgement. What mattered was the objective; the guard’s badge and keys were the spoils. Turning from the corpse, the assassin left the office and proceeded back to its team.
It had been a longer and hard year for Hunter in prison; one intensified by the absolute abandonment by his friends. He’d heard talk of T-shirts and legal campaigns, but he rarely saw any results. In the past few months, even Jared had stopped visiting him. Alone and cold, Hunter kept his eyes on the beading drop before its weight became too much and it splashed to the ground, a new bead forming in its place. That’s all he’d been; a bead waiting to be dropped before it could be replaced and follow in his footsteps.
Hunter Updegraff: They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe…
The gloved hand pressed the badge to the sensor, the little red light on the panel turning green as the door audibly unlocked. Gripping the handle, the door was pulled open, and the trio of figures in black continued into the halls of the prison. They walked calmly and confidently – their eyes ahead as numbers and letters demarcating block and cell flashed past them. For the most part, the prison slept soundly.
Hunter’s eyes drifted from the crack to the moon outside, hanging fat and white as cocaine in the sky. Jared and Wade had spoken so fondly of the moon – they all had a fascination with the night sky. It was Jim who’d always waxed so longingly (as well as a Slovenian who struggled with English) about the night sky. He’d taught them of constellations and distant galaxies. Planets with funny names and the vastness of space. Something swelled in Hunter; a hope that maybe there was more than just eccentricity to Thuggin. Maybe his crackpot talk of “not being alone” could be true; maybe that time would finally come when the light would strike his window and he’d be free again. He closed his eyes, grimacing and tightening his face as he tried to send out some sort of signal. After a moment, he opened his eyes – the cell was still dark.
Hunter Updegraff: Pools of sorrow, waves of joy, are drifting through my open mind, possessing and caressing me…
A voice called from a cell.
Prisoner: Nice tits, sweet thing.
The trio stopped, turning in unison to the voice. The prison reclined on his bed, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight save the dark and jagged form of the swastika tattooed on his pectoral. He grinned, teeth yellowed and rotting from a flagrant disregard of hygiene and years of chewing tobacco. His hands rested behind his head, his stomach flexed to pull himself to a sitting position. He grinned like a mad dog.
Prisoner: Yeah, you in the middle. Other two of ya can piss off. Whatcha doin’ here in the night, darlin’? You wanna bring me a present?
The woman in black smiled, red lips parting to reveal pearly white teeth. The prison continued to grin in return, though the grin slowly faded as the woman leveled the silenced pistol. The prisoner pushed himself back in panic, his mouth dropping open to scream – the bullet penetrated him through the forehead and left the cry stuck in his throat. As his blood pooled on the cot and began to soak through to the floor, the trio turned back to the hall and continued towards their destination.
Hunter Updegraff: Jai Guru Deva. Om. Nothing’s gonna change my world…
As they turned the corner, the voice floated into their ears. Looking to the figure on her right, the woman smiled and nodded in affirmation. They continued down the corridor, their pace now quickened in excitement. As they flocked to the cell, Hunter hardly noticed.
Hunter Updegraff: Nothing’s gonna change my world…
The click of shoes upon the pavement (perhaps a moment of enthusiastic recklessness), made him pause. Joy swelled in him as a tear rolled down his cheek, his head turning to gaze once more upon the friends who’d come to liberate him after so long. But as he turned to his visitors, it was not Jared nor Thursday nor Wade nor Andre nor Jimophy Thuggin who greeted him. A raven-haired woman stood between two men, all three of them garbed in plain black clothing with hooded sweatshirts. The woman locked eyes with Hunter, her own eyes large and gold sitting above full cheeks and elegant red lips. She smiled, her hands coming to the hood to draw it down from her head.
Minerva: Hello Hunter.
Hunter pushed himself up in bed, his hands coming to his face to rub his eyes. No, not a hallucination – he turned from the woman to the man on her right and then to the man on her left. His lips parted, but before he could speak, the woman drew a finger to her lips.
Minerva: Henry, the door, please.
The man on her right stepped forward, raising the dead guard’s key and sliding it into the lock. With a click, the door was open and the Owls entered the cell, circling Hunter.
Hunter Updegraff: Have you come to free me?
Minerva crouched down, a gloved hand coming to Hunter’s cheek.
Minerva: From this prison? Yes.
Pain seared through Hunter’s body as the Owl plunged the syringe into his shoulder, the plunger pressing down to inject the drug into his body. His jaw clamped immediately, his limbs going rigid and his eyes widening in horror. Minerva’s lips parted into a toothy grin – the look of a hungry lioness.
Minerva: But you are far from free.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Detroit slept alone tonight, not that I sleep much. From the balcony of my hotel, I look down on the glow of lights downtown, the last embers of cars and stores grasping for life after the bars had closed. It was a city gasping for air, desperately flailing and failing to stay above the crashing waves of the modern era – only a few rats stayed aboard the decaying ship. From my balcony, I watch the remaining insomniacs and drunkards lumber towards their cars or down the sidewalks, their eyes darting feverishly at every alley as if waiting for some vicious gangster or dope fiend to spring at them. Detroit was a near-dead animal; it was begging to be put down.
The joint burns between my fingers, casting the only visible light from the balcony. Inside, Thursday breathes peaceful, her eyes closed and lips turned to the faintest smile. I turn my head from the streets to the sliding glass door, gaze lingering on her for a moment: the curve of her milky white breast exposed by the sheets, the handsome sharpness of her chin, and the faint curl of her slender fingers, topped with black nail polish. Raising the blunt to my mouth, I take a long drag before turning from my prize and looking back at the city beneath me.
I inhale slowly through his nose before exhaling, letting the smoggy and stale Detroit air seep into his lungs with a smile.
I love the smell of decaying urban refuse in the middle of the night.
I take a last drag of the blunt before flicking it off the balcony, my eyes following it as it descended to the pavement far beneath me. My hands come to the rail of the balcony, gripping it tightly as I lean forward and leer down at the street, a mad prophet in the night shrieking at the top of his lungs for the imaginary camera.
“If a #fuccboi gets murdered in Detroit but no one gives a shit about his screams, does he really make a sound? I guess Seth’s as curious as I am, considering the booking this week; you six must’ve really pissed him off to get thrown into an absolute shitshow like this. I’d normally chalk this one up to drunken stupidity, but the sheer scale of incompetence being demonstrated here almost suggests malice, doesn’t it? I can’t think of any other reason why Seth would put six people with no business being on the same team in a no disqualification match against the best stable in the history of the WCF.
I’m sure you’re shitting your Pampers over this one, aren’t you, Teo? Have you missed me? It’s been, what, almost half a year since I kicked around your head for fun? My, how times have changed, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. I mean, last time we fought I had a luchador mask on and you were in a team that could’ve been somewhat relevant with a little time. I’m glad to say my luchador days were just a phase – it’s a shame the same can’t be said for you. Then again, you also didn’t grow out of the “lower card talent” phase, either. So there’s that.
Man, oh man, Teo, I’ve been waiting for this again. I’ve even gotten a little hard and contemplated jerking off thinking about it. Truth be told, there’s not a single person in this match I want to hurt more than you. I’ll put it out on the table: it’s all pettiness. It’s all grudge shit. Yeah, go ahead, call me obsessed, but I’m not over that shit at WAR – I’ll never be. It doesn’t matter that I was your first championship loss. It doesn’t matter that I won WAR after slaying your team. It doesn’t matter how many times my boys kick your head in. I want to absolutely fuck you up because every time I do anything, I have to deal with this stupid fucking “Teo beat Jared at WAR” shit.
I’m finally starting to realize why Flash hates the mention of Grime so much; you have one shitty fluke bad day, and you never live it down. I could beat you down here and end your career, and I still won’t hear the end of it. Maybe that’s not your fault. I’m sure you want to give me some dumb speech about trying hard and not blaming others for your problems, but you have such a punchable face, I think I’m just going to take the low road.
And don’t get it twisted – I will win this match. I’m sure you, of all people, are looking at this situation and realizing the absolute rubbish it is. Which one of your boys is going to let you down first, Teo? Is it Mikey eXtreme, the man who harbors rapists and abuses pedestrians? Will it be Katherine Phoenix, my girlfriend’s newly adopted stray? Will it be Zombie McMorris, the fallen Hardcore Champion who shits the bed in anything not internet related? Will it be Shadowlove, the young new guy? Or will it be you, Teo?
Is your hand on that belt around your waist? I hope you kiss and tuck that thing in every night before bed because it’s literally all you have going for you. You are not on my level. You are not on Wade’s level or Rabid’s level. You’re not even close to the #BeachKrew B-tier in a match not about that belt. You are a worthless, single-direction opponent who has been exposed again and again as someone who isn’t ready to hang yet. And the worst part of you beating me at WAR was watching the absolute string of failure that has been the TV Title division until Beaver entered it. Not even a moment after the dust settles between us, you screw the pooch against Andre Jenson. Seriously, Teo? Andre-fucking-Jenson? THAT is what Fly giving you the rub was meant to do? Put over Andre-fucking-Jenson? And then what did the TV Title division become? A parade of unwarranted Bonnie Blue title shots and Bad News Benson.
You had one job: be a fighting champion. You couldn’t do it: you blew your load on your feud with me and ended up damaging the prestige of the title worse than you would’ve by losing. Now we have a dead division because Teo couldn’t cull the shit talent from the good until Slane came along. And what does Teo do? Slink back into his shuck-and-jive role as laughable idiot of the WCF. Mister fucking Rodgers. I’m going to beat you unconscious with your belt on Sunday, Teo. I’m going to shove the People so far up your ass you get liver failure. Losing to you at WAR is a bigger embarrassment to me than Corey Black putting me through a table, Dune trying to end my career, or Johnny Rabid leading #BeachKrew. It’s something I’m going to take out on you every time I have a chance.
Speaking of sleeping and one-dimensional pushes, Zombie McMorris is in this match as well. I’d like to clear up this myth that Zombie McMorris was ever a member of #BeachKrew: our position of washed-up veteran with a stupid gimmick was already filled by Oblivion.
I’m sorry, Z, I’m being unfair, aren’t I? We had some good times, yeah? Like that time you tagged me in to help you body Dag Riddik? Or the other time I sent my bitch to keep Kathy P busy while you were gonna body her?
#OH #WAIT
Yeah, you really screwed the pooch there, Z. Losing one title and barely clinging to the other against “Teo 2.0” the Griffin. Give it to me straight up here, Z: the fuck are you even doing lately?
Answer: Flailing.
I’m starting to feel bad for not actually dragging you into the #BeachKrew fold – we seem to have a real knack for turning aborted careers around. Then again, I have no idea what you’d call an aborted career which spans multiple years. Now that I think about it, I’m not Christ and you’re not Lazarus. Yeah, you’re a zombie. You can’t die and that dumb shit. Your shit genetics are the reason Corey Crane won’t stay in his grave like he’s supposed to. But who can resurrect a career that dead? I’m not Doctor Frankenstein – Oblivion proved that much.
What the fuck happened, Z? If Ultimate Showdown were a month ago, you’d be walkin’ in stacked as Kaz Mazy – instead you went a pulled a Kaz Mazy by shittin’ the bed and fucking everything up. You were lulz, Z. You were dank. Were I stupider man, I’d make some idiotic “Dank to stank” joke, but maybe this will sum it up better.
ZMac Before
ZMac After
That’s a reverse gif for those of you playing at home with shitty spatial perception.
There’s a reason why no-names like Punkin Calibad and Spencer BAdams bodied you in singles matches – you’re shite outside of your domain. A fucking hermit crab of the internet who is naked and vulnerable outside his shell of old memes and references from the early 2000’s. A Napoleon Bonaparte if there ever was one; the midget general at Waterloo. Not that I imagine you can read, but here’s a few quotes to get that through:
“…lacked the innate cohesion and staying power of the armies Napoleon had once commanded…”
“Obstinate, arrogant, and overconfident”
“There are yet some undeniable indications of deterioration in his overall ability”
How’s that for the “intellectual hipster swag” you dumb #fuccboi?
Outside of the internet board, your career has been dick-shit since being on the team that knocked out the Sentinels. That’s almost a whole year away: what the fuck comes after that? Well, you got fed to Dune. Then you got fed to Flash. Then you got fed to Spencer. Then you got fed to Katherine fuckin’ Phoenix. Good job, ZMac, you’re just like your Church of the Dark Saints partners, Oblivion and Night Rider. Fuck it, you’re right there with Terry Richards. How the hell weren’t you in Angels of Destruction, or whatever they were called? Or maybe Imperium was the perfect spot for you: the jumping-off platform for Joey Flash in a group of otherwise fetid and festering careers.
Oh, ICE Beckman is coming back? Good. You can stand next to him and look average in your shared mediocrity.”
I pause, my hands coming from the railing to slide along the sides of my face, reminding myself of any feeling I may have in my nerve endings despite the serpentine embrace of intoxication coursing through me. My pointer fingers press in the divots between my nose and eye sockets, sending that sort of wonderful tingle through my cheeks. After tapping my teeth a few times to insure my jaw is still working, I continue to preach my gospel.
“When you beat Wade for that Internet Title, some of us actually thought it was funny. Fuck it, show of hands: who got a kick out of ‘dat roast’? Hell, Swagrid is my boy, and I’ll cop a chortle or two. But then comes the problem: we’re starving for that #dankness and you aren’t delivering.
‘Let dem eat ShiaClap.gif #LOL’
You fucking peasant, we’ve had enough ShiaClap.gif! I could swim in ShiaClap! Next thing we know, you’re scraping WadeLaugh.gif off the man you’ve beaten. Then you’re locked into repeated jousts with Calibad. Then you’re stuck with Dagvald fukken Riddik taking you to the limit. Now Griffin has only barely managed to lose to you.
I’m not angry; I’m just disappointed. Dad! would be proud. Where’s the OC? Where’s the lulz? I swear to fuck if you drop a ShiaClap.gif on me in you promo, I’m going to kick you in the balls. Just like your career, your Internet Title run has become a one-trick pony. Your head is above water because you’ve lacked legitimate challengers to your belt who could take you to the limit. But in your non-Internet Title work? You’re a fucking job-stain. You’re a taint – the nadir of this federation’s talent. You’re so abysmal that I don’t even see Buddy Roman hyping you.
But you’re not a total inbreed like Mikey eXtreme – you’re smart enough to deuce out of this match. You see the competition before you, Z. You see the team you’re on and the team you’re against. You know you’re not winning this, and that’s why I’m telling you to walk away. Get out. Scram. There’s no sense in you eating the pin this time.”
I can feel my eyes widening, even in the dark. Some sort of mania is sitting on my shoulders like two fat ravens, pecking at the back of my neck. I’m absolutely twisted from the revelry of tonight, and some sort of animalistic bloodlust is coursing through me. Maybe this is the natural reaction from being so close to
“And I think you know this too, Teo. Who the fuck are you supposed to count on? ‘The Handsome Halfbreed’ Shadowlove? Hey there, newbie, welcome to the firing line. You’ve been a dumb and pitiful little faggot lately, so I can only say I’m thrilled to have this chance to break all those ‘handsome’ bones in your face and send you back to the lowercard where you belong.
Congratulations, Shadowlove: like every other dumb #fuccboi in this federation, you’ve tried to step to #BeachKrew right off the bat. At this point, I’m fucking sick of making you people relevant by nearly crippling you or even turning my eye. What the fuck have you done to deserve facing me in the ring? You spouted some incoherent nonsense about Papa Johns and some mouth-breather Pulp Fiction references? Bully for you.”
I raise my hands and clap, slow and decidedly. My lips tighten as my smile widens.
“I want to know what makes you think you’re any different than Beaver or Andre Holmes before you. Why do you think you’re going to be the one to topple Slane? I bet you’re sitting at home right now, your shoulders getting kneaded and your rubber johnny getting tugged by that Gook manager of yours, trying to desperately assure yourself that a win over #BeachKrew will put your career on the map. Maybe, you even think, this is a portent for your eventual run at the Television Title.
I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t like Howard Black and Occulo bending the Poondock Saints over a table. There’s no Spencer Adams on this team for you to get an easy win over; there’s not even a Mikey eXtreme. You’re facing three upper carders and the best set of mid-carders in this federation. You’re fucked; you don’t even stack up against a single one of us.
Your mind isn’t on this; why are you here? Don’t you have something better to do like take pot-shots at Dagvald? You’re bordering on Andre Holmes level of pathetic; at least he’s on Dag’s level. Hell, I don’t even like Dag, but if you think anyone will put money on you to beat him, you’re a dumbed #fuccboi than imagined. The worst part is your mind isn’t even on Slane; you’re obsessed with calling out Dag and riding his coat-tails to relevance.
Here’s some friendly advice: it’s not working. None of us consider you ‘one of the boys’. You don’t get to come to our parties. You don’t get to shower with us. You don’t get to sit at our table during lunch. I’d much rather have Dag sitting at that fucking table a million times over than bother myself with you. At least Dag has earned some semblance of dues, even he joined a shit faction and got on the wrong side of me multiple times. I’d sooner unblock Dag on Twitter and have joyful discussion about politics or trains or whatever stupid shit he likes than bet money on you to beat him or Slane. You’re the most recent incarnation of the tired trope of overhyped loser who doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell at succeeding. Seth fucking hates you if he’s throwing you into this match before your big shot; he knows you have no momentum and won’t win either matches. Congratulations, Shadowlove: you’re eating the pin.”
I stop to straighten myself, my eyes running up and down the peaks and valleys of the Detroit skyline. I turn, pacing the cramped confines of my balcony before I hoist myself onto the rail, my hand darting for the small plastic table which contains the opened bottle of Remy Martin I’d been pouring on Thursday’s ass earlier. I take a long swig, my head tilting back to gulp the sweet yet fiery cognac down before I lob the bottle off the rail and lean forward, literally teetering over the abyss.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Teo? You’re fucked! You were fucked from the moment the card dropped, and now you’re probably spreading salt along the floors of your shitty little bone yard in Beanerville as you wonder how you’ll make it out of this alive. Who do you have to depend on? Not Zombie McMorris or Shadowlove; who?! Are you gonna try to come at me with Katherine Phoenix?”
I can’t help but laugh, my body twisting back as my head falls to cackle at the moon like a hyena.
“Of course, I’ve got that bitch wrapped around my finger. You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you? I snap my fingers, and Thursday goes and buys her news clothes or an apartment. I clap my hands, and Katherine Phoenix’s life is dramatically improved. Don’t you see the irony in the whole thing? The humor? I’m doing your job! I’m filling your role of ‘good guy’ after the whole lot of you kicked her to the curb! She wanted to get better! She wanted to do something with her life! The dumb bitch was stuck in an abusive relationship and worked up the strength to move on – what was waiting for her?
Nothing! The poor girl is hurt and confused and latches onto Andre Holmes. Instead of anyone empathizing with her or trying to help her, you all kick the bitch while she’s down. You’re all so stupid and arrogant and pig-headed you proved I was right all along: you’re as morally bankrupt as any of us. It’s all an act, Teo: from you to Andre Holmes to Bonnie Blue to Tiffany White. You’re all creatures of self-interest. Whether it’s Tiff looking for a carpet to munch or you looking for that space in your self-esteem to be filled or Andre looking for someone to fight to get his dick hard, none of you are better than #BeachKrew.
At this point, I could probably have Thursday ask Kathy P if she’s down to threesome and get a doe-eyed, moist-cunted ‘YES!’ In fact, I may literally call her up after I’m done screaming at the moon and get this right now. Just because I can. We’re her friends, Teo; why the fuck would she fight her friends as opposed to the guys who call her “cookie pussy” or “slut’ or whatever? I’ve given her a home and emotional support and friends; I don’t even think you’ve given her the patented Teo pep-talk. Man, you really dropped the ball on this one, Teddy. That’s three down, and two to go.”
Letting my legs unhook, I fell back, landing hard on the concrete balcony. It didn’t hurt – much. That tends to happen when you can’t feel your extremities because you’re so drunk. Staring up at the stars, my mouth continued to move; the heavenly camera was still on me.
“Vengeance and Mikey eXtreme. Two enemies locked in combat over a worthless little belt. Have you ever wondered why #BeachKrew never bothered with the United States title? Because it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s a worthless belt, lacking the endurance of the Television Title or sheer strength of the World Championship. That’s both of you two: the me-too faggots who ankle bite. You’re a step above Dagvald Riddik and Teo when it comes to belt prestige. You’re a step below Dune and Occulo. When the Trio Belt is more elevated than your belt, you’ve fucking failed.
Poor Mikey eXtreme: always the bridesmaid and never the bride. It started in the DRG, didn’t it? You spend all your time ‘paying dues’ as ‘Prospect’ while Gemini Battle and Gonzo Murdock jump straight in. You watch as Danny Anderson steals your title shots and shits the bed. You’re such a scrub that even Caraid doesn’t partner with you for Trios. Then you get handed the best thing that ever happened to you: your #fuccboi friend gets his head cut off ISIS-style by the cartel, and you’re suddenly driven. You get some big retard Oblivion knock-off to follow you around, steal a belt from Kaz Mazy, and you’re living in Fat City.
Then Ultimate Showdown happens: your chance to prove all the doubters and nay-sayers wrong. Your whole stable is a laughing stock: Bates has lost to Howard Black, Gonzo has lost to Dune, Gemini is Gemini, Spencer Adams has quit, and Danny Anderson approves LOL. Your definition of seizing a chance: failure. Abysmal failure. Walking in the former champion of the number two belt against a staggered Kazbelt and leaving with … nothing – passing the strap to be another instrument wrapped around Bates’s microcock.
You had a second leash on life, taking the belt from Gayson Pierce and holding it against Bernard Core. I won’t knock that, even if he was the only guy who was stupid enough to try to rehabilitate Wolf. Then? You lose it. To Vengeance. Fucking Harley Rhodes. And if you don’t think that’s a more embarrassing failure than Ultimate Showdown, I don’t know what is. We know the real Mikey eXtreme. We know the toothless challenge who can’t step up to the next level. Enjoy your pursuit of the belt again; it’s the high water mark of your career.
Oh, and Vengeance? Don’t think beating Mikey is an achievement. If anything, losing to you is a stain on his career. Where’ve you been all this time, Harley? You spent months doing shit; toiling away in loser factions and jobbing to Mejor Redemption or other nobodies. You’ve been tagging with Night Rider and Apocalypse and all these other tools. Now you’re on your own; you think you’ve made a name for yourself because you’ve got a belt and you’ve taken some big names. Newsflash: I don’t think you’re shit.
In fact, I’d wager that no one really thinks you’re shit. You’ve made it in your division and built a reputation because we’re dealt with a pool of minnows nipping at the fins of one another. I suppose when there are no bigger fish, everyone thinks they’re a biggun. No, not you Vengeance. You’re another schizo who thinks he’s a monster; a man torn between his persona and the real world. When the paint comes off, Harley? I break your nose. No hardcore legend. No seven demons. Just two men, one of whom is going to be bloodied.
If you two can even cooperate enough to fight us. I don’t buy that; do you, Teo? Nah, you know the truth: Vengeance and Mikey will start swinging the moment a thing goes wrong. And that leaves you with Shadowlove. Poor, poor Teo and Shadowlove. This really is a feeding frenzy, isn’t it? This isn’t even fair at this point. No, Seth just hates you. I hate you. And I’m going to bury the both of you. You’re at sea. Flailing. Drowning. And Katherine Phoenix, Zombie McMorris, Vengeance, and Mikey eXtreme won’t throw you a life ring.”
I pause, staring at the moon: that big, beautiful alabaster bastard above me. I’ve forgotten my train of thought – it doesn’t matter; I have a booty to call. I push myself up on my haunches, shoving to my feet as I turn to the sliding glass door. As I pull it open, the Owl who’d been watching me from the balcony above swings down onto my balcony. These guys are a particular breed of bad – Foot Clan-level failures; my elbow crashed back to break his nose as his feet his the concrete. He stumbles back, and I’ve turned. I lunge forward to shove him, pushing him over the railing and sending him careening down towards the sidewalk, screaming the whole way. With an audible crunch, he goes silent; an old woman steps over his lifeless form as she continues he way down the sidewalk. The city still sleeps. I turn back inside to wake Thursday up and pitch the idea of her and I double-teaming Katherine.
If a #fuccboi falls in Detroit, but no one bothers to respond to his screams, does he make a sound?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Katherine PhoenixOooooooo yay fun times!!!
!!! I'll be there in a bit just gotta get dressed 
unless of course Jare Bear likes my hello kitty pajamas? xxxx
