Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Mar 20, 2016 16:23:34 GMT -5
"...The perennial Trilogy Cup Choke Artist in Benjamin." -Tiffany White
That'll be the first line in the bible of the Mad God. It'll be the Book of Truths 1:1.
Do not confuse it. This is not a book to be understood. This is a book to be read only by its subject. These words, when read in a linear order, give the appearance of a code, a sort of unsolvable encryption, but when given the essential information (being that of Atreyu's perspective) the code is solved and becomes a narrative of struggle, introspection, and improvement.
Excerpts from the bible of the Mad god will be littered throughout this story, in spots that will hopefully grant the reader a close enough context to understand what little he/she has been granted the chance to read.
-MG-
I bleed in times of idleness. -Book of Truths 1:2
I sit deep in a dark room pondering a great number of things. Music plays through my headphones (Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima - Krzysztof Penderecki) at a tame volume, loud enough to drown out most noises. I feel ill at ease, but in a sort of lethargic drift as vague spirals and streams are projected against the ill-define spaces in absence of information.
The mind drifts.
...i wanna be an unmistakable force - how do i fix the past [lost in the backwash of my old mistakes; no redo; i'm drowning in it] when time is coming at me full speed - these weeks are flashing before my eyes [tick. its monday. tick. its wednesday. its saturday. tick. its the end times as fist of a celestial force crashes down upon the earth wiping out billions for the sake of destroying the sinful waste. tick. i wake to find a new week has started] - days ends before they begin - kill vulgar - have to make an example out of jared/tiberounes/sixgod/whatever'the'fuck - kill jenson - restless - its not enough to be a mad god - they must know - they must understand - i feel like my muscles are crawling over my bones - i wanna break out - i wanna destroy everything - i want catharsis for no reason - kill bad new benson - kill all bad news...
Something flinches in the dark. Just a cat. I feel my heart twist a bit in shock. I try to slip back into a sullen calm.
I don't like thinking bad thoughts, but I think them anyways. Left to idle in my own mind, where I sink when the world takes its blinding light off of me, I find room and time to destroy the complacent lie I build for myself. It is a constant failing I face each week, but there is no fixing what the brain does out of instinct.
In the dark, where I cannot see, with my hearing obscured by an unwavering wall of sound, a figure could sneak into my dwelling. Unbeknownst to me, he could slip open the door behind my chair. Each step would go undetected as he creeps under the cover of night until I was in his view. Then, without warning, two bullets would get unloaded into my chest.
I do not question the pain, for it would be there. My mind goes elsewhere.
...what would the suddenness of that kind of pain be like - in movies the end is always dramatic and drawn out much like anything wcf does - what is it like to be dead before you know it - what is it like for it to be too late before the bullet hits you - would i scream or due to being caught off guard would i fade to black in silence - at any moment it could happen - one second BANG - the next second BANG - if not this second then maybe the next...
What a pathetic way that would be for a god to go out.
I feel a little heat in my chest as I imagine the bullets ripping through flesh and bone, as if fighting layers and layers of cells, to make its way to my heart. There are plenty would want to do it. Never short on enemies. I could be hurting now. I could be screaming now. I could be dead now.
Despite all that, I feel no anxiety. Instead, I snort in frustration and mumbled. Tired. Too restless to sleep. In a moment of agitation, a crude and ghastly part of my mind welcomes the assault, likening it to something of a final sleeping pill. No more unending nights like this one. No more jumbled thoughts. No more high minded questions. No more mismatched ideas clattering against each other. No more WCF.
Throwing off my headphones, I roll chord around my phone and place them on the desk. I rise from my seat and exit my mental seclusion into a living room where several men sit, chatting with each other, idle in action as they await instruction or intrusion. No, there is no chance of an actual gunman. I was safe all along. Just an exercise in cerebral masturbation. Another sardonic hypothetical crushed without whimsy or fanfare.
Texas. I hate staying in Texas. The unworthy ass crack of the United States, and here I am, stuck. A few times I've wondered what would happen if the state finally pulled of its want of secession and separates from the Union to form is own weak failure of a country. I, being without my passport, would be trapped in this anus of a state, subject to the whims of the ridiculous henchmen and goons that run under the lonestar flag like vultures waiting to kill every liberal and queer who steps foot on their beloved Earth. Would House of Ophelia get me out? Would they even think about me?
...More bullshit thoughts. None of it important. It would never happen, because it would be a retarded plan. Thank goodness for the incompetence of others in order to follow through with an idea.
Though, either way, I am still stuck here until the next Slam. "Why?" You may ask? Did House of Ophelia put me here? No, dear reader. I put myself here. My vices. My hate. My need for proper revenge and closure has put me here. I have made my own island and now here I remain until my wish is granted.
What is that wish? Well a history lesson is in order. But first...
"Let's roll out," I yell as I peer around the room. Gein Spector's men, the ones he has granted me, all stand to attention. At one in the morning, when most of the world finds a temporary death between night and morning, it is the perfect time. We file out the front door, the decaying head quarters of The Master and Margarita nightclub, and make our way through the night to a distant storage space in East Houston.
Now for a history lesson.
Man made god... -Book of Truths 3:23
-Feb 9, 2016-
Burn down home and build something better... were the last words I heard before the bag was thrown over my head. It came from a blown out speaker in a passing car, screamed at the top of the lungs of some disgruntled singer attempting to make the world feel sorry for his pathetic existence. Despite the contrived emotional musicality it was delivered with, the words stuck with me.
Several masked men moving in sequence as they took hold of my body and tossed me into a passing van which promptly fled the area. I crashed onto a hard floor, sliding around for a moment before someone grabbed me and braced me against a van wall. I tried to reach up to rip the bag off of my head, but someone must have snapped hand-cuffs on me as they nabbed me, because I felt the metal dig into my wrist.
I like to consider myself a man of patience and quiet dignity, but as that Van burned rubber down that road, I was cussed up a storm. The number of threats I gave them, the number of names I called them and their mothers, the number of things I told them they could go do to themselves and their buddies...I am hesitant to repeat such things for the sake of recollection.
As I spat such horrendous hatred in the direction of my faceless kidnappers, I ran through a list of possible suspects. This brain truly never stops.
"You cock sucking sons-of-bitches can take a hot spiked rod..."
...michael easton - nah i paid him his damn blackmail money...
"I swear to all that is holy, I will make every one of you beg for forgiveness..."
...blake updegraff IV - last i heard he had dropped the world of sports management to grow gmo-free vegetables with a group of traveling folk musicians...
"They will have to surgically remove my size fourteen boot..."
...john gable - could he really be that angry that I didn't go to his movie premier
"Laugh now, because its gonna be hard when they have to stitch your mouth shut from the..."
...roy speede - you know, i always wondered what happened to him after i put him out of commission...
"Every seen a man eat his own goddamn face? Well, you're gonna get to see it, along with..."
...waylon Cash - ...possibly dead?...
"You better have done everything on your bucket list, you shit-gargling fucknuts, because as soon as I get free..."
biohazard - ...
"They won't even be able to identify your corpses..."
"Hello Benjamin," the buzzing in my head came to a dead stop. I could leave for a million years, but I'd always know that voice; K.L. Henson.
That was it. I knew I was dead. Ded Benjy. D E fucking D. The next time anyone would see me was at in a ditch off of high way sixty-six in a suitcase Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer style. I would be cut up into itty-bitty pieces, divided with precision and care so that each piece weighed an even amount. I would no longer be "International Wrestling Super Star and Stud Muffin" Benjamin Atreyu (one of my lesser known nick names). I would, instead be, "OH DEAR GOD, WHAT THE FUCK?! WHO WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT? THAT'S SO FUCKED!" Benjamin Atreyu. Life hadn't always been great to me, but the art was nice and I quite liked the food, and now it was going to end. What a way to go, in a van, trapped in a weak cliche; just like my uncle Jack.
Sitting in silence, I waited for him to continue. For a while the only sound was that of the low hum of the Van rolling down the highway. Thank goodness, for pure silence would've been unbearable. When I realized he was not going to continue, I swallowed, realizing how dry my mouth had become. In this world, I feared few wrestlers, but this man was no wrestler. He wasn't some brooding roided freak-bitch that snarled to get attention. He wasn't a walking hyperbole that drenched himself in Gothic and macabre imagery. This man was the real thing, pure terror, the kind of thing you spend your whole life trying to tell yourself you'll never see. You didn't have to know everything he had done to know that he posed a serious threat to anyone around him. There I was, in his van with a bag over my head. An painting that made me feel quite sick.
"Mister Henson," I spoke, keeping my voice as together as possible. Thank goodness I couldn't look at him.
To sum up what unnerved me about it, let's jump forward for a moment to last week when I had taken Easton to The Master and Margarita. I had mentioned how my family instilled a sense of civility in us at a young age, it was second nature.
...When I look at Henson, I don't see anything like that...
He has fallen of the edge of the world and it wasn't a far enough drop for him.
"No need for formalities," Henson replied, "None of this 'Mister Henson' business, Henson will do just fine."
We relapsed back into silence. Hummmmmmm went the car.
"Henson," I spoke with great hesitance, "whats the meaning of this?" I really didn't, and I feared that he could hear that in my voice. When you deliver a line like that, it has to be given with a sort of Cary Grant sense of gusto. Shaken as I was, I didn't have it in me to show that level of stability.
"No point in explaining it," he responded, the voice of the eternal shrug, "you'll find out when we get to it." There was a ping deep in my chest as I worried we would once again let the car fill with nothing but air. However, much to my surprise, Henson continued to talk, "Know much about me, Benjamin?" I admitted that I did not.
This was a mistake.
The next hour was spent listening to Henson rattling off stories. Not wins, not titles gained, but instead a series of grotesque exploits from his personal endeavors. Some of which I promise I will never repeat to another soul 'til the day I die.
By the time the drive was over, my head was swirling with so many images of Henson-derived carnage that I felt dizzy. I heard Henson chuckle,
The van came to a stop. Pulled to my feet, I was forced out and into the open. My head buzzed with countless questions and guesses. I kept demanding they pull the bag off of my head so I could see where I was going lest I trip and smash my face into the ground, but every request was met with silence, making the walk feel all that much longer. Beyond the fact that we had entered a building of some sort, I was blind.
I picked up whatever clues my senses would offer me, trying to build a map in my head in case I needed to make an escape. I followed out movements meticulously until we reached a room where I was sat down in a cold metal chair like a man about to be waterboarded and interrogated for secrets he didn't have (WHERE IS THE REBEL BASE!?). I wasn't sure how many guards they had around me, but I was confident if I could somehow find a way around them, I could find my way out.
Time kept passing. Robbed of my senses, the one thing I felt was the hours melting away. There was nothing I wanted more than to get up and move around, anything to work the anxious blood out of my body, but there I remained like a good detainee, staring at the inside of my cozy little face-prison.
I heard the door open, a number of men shuffling in, and then a quick slam. Woosh just like that, the bag was pulled off my head.
Whatever thoughts I had of escape fled to the back of my mind
There is some saying out in the world about how your ghosts will always come back to haunt you, and, from personal experience, I'm inclined to agree. In my case, his name was Gein Spector. My former (and first) tag team partner. The one I ditched in Japan. The one I had forgotten about. Somehow the world had brought us together via sociopaths and handcuffs, as is the world of WCF.
"Atreyu," there was a chill in his voice, a tone that he loved to used when addressing me.
We talked for hours, but it boiled down to two things: my career, and their vision. Gein knew my career was begging for traction and they wanted me to join house of Ophelia. If not for the presence of Henson and my prisoner-like presence, I imagine I would have turned them down immediately.
"Convince me," said I.
Gein, knowing me all to well, gave me the word I was looking for: change.
"No more God Given Greatness. I want to make you a god." Gein smiled as he spoke, "that Trilogy Cup is coming, and its time that you won it. Break the trend, become something new. Start on a new path."
Burn down home and build something better... My hesitance wavered, and that was enough to let Gein in. We continued to talk. They made it clear that I was not only change my image, but they would give me a platform to become what I needed to become.
"Benjamin, look to the man on my right." It was a guard, one of the many faceless I would come to hold dominion over. "That's you right now."
I shrugged.
"Benjamin, look to the man on my left." It was Henson. I made no reaction. His eyes pierced me. "That's who you need to be. No, not do what he has done, but to let go of what pretense you hold dear."
My hesitance returned. It was natural. I was raised to behave in society a certain way, and Gein challenged that. The evolutionary process has formed the human psyche to fight such things. I knew it, I indulged in it, because to change was to admit everything I did was wrong, which no one wishes to do. I knew I had been wrong for sometime, but good luck getting anyone to admit that.
Gein kept talking, but a war began to rage inside my head. A nebula of feelings tried to claim dominance over the other as tension and anxiety swirled and spread through my body.
No. This is insanity.
Its what you need. Its what you must have. Think of all the years you've fought what is so natural.
You are a scholar. You are an intellectual.
And you will still be one, but it isn't civility that keeps you in the dirt, it is fear.
Fear of decaying into a psychotic mess.
Fear of admitting that you are already a mess. Your repression is what will kill you. Your need to be neat and proper is why Katherine Phoenix beat you. It is why so many before her have beat you.
It isn't you.
IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOU! This isn't some new part to be formed. This is already you. You put pretty stickers and clothes on it to make it seem nicer, but of all the nights you spent laying awake, your brain killing itself over the structure of the human condition, are you going to play like you never knew it was there. THIS ISN'T YOU! God Given Greatness isn't you! You are something else! this isn't a matter of gathering what it takes, but instead deleting the chains, erasing the lines, and accepting you as you are.
Be.
The.
Mad.
God.
Kill.
Eat.
Be Praised.
"What say you?" Gein interrupted. He motioned to a guard who took the handcuffs off of me.
For a moment I just sat there.
And now my chains come off. -The Unparadoxed Heart 1:1
I reached out and shook his hand, and like that, I was in the House of Ophelia and the old Benjamin, the steel skin keeping everything in Benjamin, the prometheus Benjamin tied to a rock and feasted upon year after year was gone.
Then I told Gein of my one problem. My Michael Easton problem. He told me to bring him to the Master and Margarita and it would be taken care of.
-Feb, 18th 2016 (Or; what you didn't see in the RP "Because I Need to Do Something This Week.")-
As quoted: Benjamin could of sworn he smelled blood in the air.
That's because I did. Before I uttered the words "I can't wait to watch their spirit break," while standing next to my problem by the name of Michael Easton (for those of you bored enough to read it), I stood in the main office (the one which would become the dark room I sat in earlier in this little story of ours) discussing the details with Armand, the owner of the club.
"...and where will he be put."
"In a storage unit on the East side of Houston. I will give you the address if you wish to know exactly where," he said disdainfully. It was very apparent that he dreaded fulfilling such a favor for me, being that it was an order from Gein Spector, a man whom he resented, but sat under.
My mind, as always, was still at it.
...this has to happen - i need to make easton suffer - fontaine better not fuck this up - if easton gets away i'm fucked...
"Good," I replied, I looked out the window down at Easton. This would be my first attempt to rid the world of God Given Greatness. Destroy Easton. Become what I need to be. I exited the office and made my way downstairs and everything ensued as written...until we walked about.
As quoted: Benjamin walked away from the bar, Easton quick to follow him. Upon exiting the building, Easton turns around and flips off the establishment, reading it glistening neon lights Armand De La Fontaine's The Master and Margaritas. Benjamin didn't turn back. The smell of blood was still there, deep in his mind, but it didn't bother him. To him, it was the perfect smell, a driving smell. It was the smell of the kill that was coming.
Then without turning around, I heard men approach from behind. HI heard the muffled yells of Michael Easton and as no point did I try to save him. This needed to happen
Burn down home and build something better... I kept walking and drove off like nothing ever happened.
-Feb, 28 2016-
Without having to worry about Easton. Without having to worry about the old me. It was the first night of the Mad God, and I made it apparent. Poor Occulo. Candlestick to the back of the head. Various elbow strikes. Knee to the face. Black Eye Sonata AND the Seraphim's Call.
I wanted that win. I needed that win, and I got it without hesitation. Poor Occulo, it wasn't him I wanted to kill. It was God given Greatness, and killed it I did.
Lesson over. We're now all caught up.
...and then man made God angry. -The Book of Truths 3:24
My first ricochets off of Easton's orbital, sending him to the concrete floor of the storage unit. His hands are handcuffed behind his back.
...cry you fuck - i want to see you beg for you life - make me feel strong - let me break the great michael easton - give me what i want - give me catharsis...
"Isn't this what you wanted?" I yelled at him, "You kept trying to fuck me, what did you think would happen?!"
I stand over him, looking down at his bloody mug, but even as he spits out a tooth, I feel nothing. This is my third trip to the unit. This is the hundredth time I knocked him to the ground, but I feel no relief. No sense of superiority. He looks up at me and smiles.
"Its a mystery you made it to the second round," Easton says, "when you punch like a bitch."
"Pull him up to his goddamn feet!" Two guards grab hold of him and raise him to eye level. I let loose another right hand and knock him in the jaw. The guards let go and Easton stumbles backwards and crashes into a wall.
...stop smiling you son of a bitch - i wanna break you - i need you to break - how can i be a god if i can't smash you like the bug you are - give me what i'm looking for - beg for forgiveness you fuck - i want you to fear me - tell me to stop...
"I bet Vulgar ain't gonna go down when you hit him like that," he smiles again.
...stop fucking smiling you cock sucker...
"That's right, these goons of yours do like to talk," he continues. He tries to use the wall to keep himself up, but his feet slip out from under him, "You got Jenson, Bad new Benson, and Vulgar this week, and then Jared mothafuckin' Holmes for the pay-per-view, but here you are, occupied with little ole' me."
I stare over at the men at the door, the ones who watch over him when no one is here, but I will deal with them later.
"They're nothing," I reply, cracking my neck as I move towards him. I squat down to meet him eye to eye "didn't you hear, I'm part of House of Ophelia now. Nothing is out of my reach. I'm-"
"The Mad God, I remember that. I remember you saying that right before these fucks grabbed me," he spits in my eye, forcing me to reel backwards, "everyone is a god in their own head. Doesn't mean much does it? Its a title, an image, its all voodoo and smoke in the end. You're going to bit it hard this week, and then get eaten alive the next."
I wipe his blood-laced spit out of my eye, and when I look back at him, he manages to make it back onto his feet.
"Why don't you take these cuffs off, and I'll show you just how it'll go down. I'll finger fuck your eye sockets like Jenson, pummel you like Benson, and rape you like Vulgar. Then I'll take my time and pick you apart, muscle by muscle, like Jared Holmes."
I consider it.
...maybe that is what I need to do to break him - give him a shot and then take it from him - show him I am truly the better being - i am the god who reigns over me - i'll take that smug smile off of his face...
No. Knowing how he works, he will take a cheap shot. I can't risk anything this close to the pay-per-view.
"I don't feel like it," I smile back at him. An empty smile. It means nothing, its simply to take the wind out of his sails. He doesn't have control over this situation.
"Oh, sure you don't," he replies, blood and saliva dripped down his chin, "I wasn't always a better fighter than you. If you want to give me what I want, let this be an actual fight. Give me a shot-" I jam my fist into his gut, knock the air out of his lungs.
"You sure love talking," I reply. He drops to the ground, unable to talk. His mouth agape as I kick him in the chin, "if you want to know whats going to happen. I'm going to beat Jenson...again. I'm going to take that Space-Elf-Wanna back to Fuck-yourself-island, and I'm going to shatter his reality and fantasy, because, as The Mad God, a title you think means nothing, I have the power to do both.
"Then I'm going to walk right through Bad New Benson and decimate his sense of self-worth without batting an eye on my way to Vulgar.
"Then it is Mister Vulgar's turn. The man of big reputation. The stain of what primordial ooze left behind. The inferior mutation of human existence. He isn't a person, he is barely a full creation under the eye of the heavens. He is bits and pieces that came together in order to survive, barely sentient, he survives week to week by the good graces of pure chaos, but in every other respect, he is a hollow little joke. I will remove the veil and reveal that nothing sits beneath. Nothing to fear. As a god, I will decimate the shadow that he is, and leave a vague inkling of his former existence.
"Then, at Explosion. I tear down the false god that is 'The 6ix God' Jared Holmes, and I recapture my spot in the finals of the Trilogy Cup for the third time in a row, and at that point, there will be no doubt."
I place the bottom of my shoe against his chest and press my weight against him, but he chuckles and shakes his head slowly. "Perennial Trilogy Cup choke artist..." he says.
He is right to shake his head. It was all hot air. Spoken to intimidate, but in the end, it all means nothing. Despite my every wish to win, my connections to do so, I still feared the worst. Despite being The Mad God, I still felt powerless to fate, to chaos, to the unknown.
...goddamn it - i'm tired of this - i'm not a scrub - i'm one of the greats - i am a future hall of famer - i'm one of the best to have yet win the world title - but that'll change - give me the confirmation i need - i need your fear to feel like a god...
Without knowing it, I take my foot off of his chest and lay fist after fist into his cheeks and skull. Screaming at him;
"THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!
"THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!
"I'LL SMASH YOU INTO THE GROUND!
"I'M NOT A JOKE!
"I'M A GOD!
"YOU WILL WORSHIP ME!
"YOU WILL CRY AS I LAY WASTE TO YOUR WORLD!
"TALK NOW, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!
"WHY AREN'T YOU SAYING ANYTHING NOW!"
They have to pry me away to keep my from killing him. My breath moves in and out rapidly. I can feel my muscles tighten, my fists clenched to the point of white knuckles under blood stains.
"TAKE ME SERIOUSLY, YOU COCK SUCKING SON OF A BITCH!
"YOU ARE GOING TO ROT HERE!
"WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SMILE ABOUT?!
"I'M GOING TO BE YOUR DEATH!"
As they drag me away, I'm seething with violent hatred. Why won't he crack? I'm winning. I've got one over him. It isn't until I the unit is no longer out of sight that I can finally calm down. I take a deep breath and walk back to my car in silence, the faceless goons and thugs following my example as they refuse to say a word.
"After Slam and Explosion, if I win my matches, feel free to tell him," I tell one of the men.
...am i a god yet?
I must kill. I must eat. I must do what Gods do. There is no alternative to consider. -The Unparadoxed Heart 1:2
...The perennial Trilogy Cup Choke Artist in Benjamin. -The Book of Truths 1:1
That'll be the first line in the bible of the Mad God. It'll be the Book of Truths 1:1.
Do not confuse it. This is not a book to be understood. This is a book to be read only by its subject. These words, when read in a linear order, give the appearance of a code, a sort of unsolvable encryption, but when given the essential information (being that of Atreyu's perspective) the code is solved and becomes a narrative of struggle, introspection, and improvement.
Excerpts from the bible of the Mad god will be littered throughout this story, in spots that will hopefully grant the reader a close enough context to understand what little he/she has been granted the chance to read.
-MG-
I bleed in times of idleness. -Book of Truths 1:2
I sit deep in a dark room pondering a great number of things. Music plays through my headphones (Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima - Krzysztof Penderecki) at a tame volume, loud enough to drown out most noises. I feel ill at ease, but in a sort of lethargic drift as vague spirals and streams are projected against the ill-define spaces in absence of information.
The mind drifts.
...i wanna be an unmistakable force - how do i fix the past [lost in the backwash of my old mistakes; no redo; i'm drowning in it] when time is coming at me full speed - these weeks are flashing before my eyes [tick. its monday. tick. its wednesday. its saturday. tick. its the end times as fist of a celestial force crashes down upon the earth wiping out billions for the sake of destroying the sinful waste. tick. i wake to find a new week has started] - days ends before they begin - kill vulgar - have to make an example out of jared/tiberounes/sixgod/whatever'the'fuck - kill jenson - restless - its not enough to be a mad god - they must know - they must understand - i feel like my muscles are crawling over my bones - i wanna break out - i wanna destroy everything - i want catharsis for no reason - kill bad new benson - kill all bad news...
Something flinches in the dark. Just a cat. I feel my heart twist a bit in shock. I try to slip back into a sullen calm.
I don't like thinking bad thoughts, but I think them anyways. Left to idle in my own mind, where I sink when the world takes its blinding light off of me, I find room and time to destroy the complacent lie I build for myself. It is a constant failing I face each week, but there is no fixing what the brain does out of instinct.
In the dark, where I cannot see, with my hearing obscured by an unwavering wall of sound, a figure could sneak into my dwelling. Unbeknownst to me, he could slip open the door behind my chair. Each step would go undetected as he creeps under the cover of night until I was in his view. Then, without warning, two bullets would get unloaded into my chest.
I do not question the pain, for it would be there. My mind goes elsewhere.
...what would the suddenness of that kind of pain be like - in movies the end is always dramatic and drawn out much like anything wcf does - what is it like to be dead before you know it - what is it like for it to be too late before the bullet hits you - would i scream or due to being caught off guard would i fade to black in silence - at any moment it could happen - one second BANG - the next second BANG - if not this second then maybe the next...
What a pathetic way that would be for a god to go out.
I feel a little heat in my chest as I imagine the bullets ripping through flesh and bone, as if fighting layers and layers of cells, to make its way to my heart. There are plenty would want to do it. Never short on enemies. I could be hurting now. I could be screaming now. I could be dead now.
Despite all that, I feel no anxiety. Instead, I snort in frustration and mumbled. Tired. Too restless to sleep. In a moment of agitation, a crude and ghastly part of my mind welcomes the assault, likening it to something of a final sleeping pill. No more unending nights like this one. No more jumbled thoughts. No more high minded questions. No more mismatched ideas clattering against each other. No more WCF.
Throwing off my headphones, I roll chord around my phone and place them on the desk. I rise from my seat and exit my mental seclusion into a living room where several men sit, chatting with each other, idle in action as they await instruction or intrusion. No, there is no chance of an actual gunman. I was safe all along. Just an exercise in cerebral masturbation. Another sardonic hypothetical crushed without whimsy or fanfare.
Texas. I hate staying in Texas. The unworthy ass crack of the United States, and here I am, stuck. A few times I've wondered what would happen if the state finally pulled of its want of secession and separates from the Union to form is own weak failure of a country. I, being without my passport, would be trapped in this anus of a state, subject to the whims of the ridiculous henchmen and goons that run under the lonestar flag like vultures waiting to kill every liberal and queer who steps foot on their beloved Earth. Would House of Ophelia get me out? Would they even think about me?
...More bullshit thoughts. None of it important. It would never happen, because it would be a retarded plan. Thank goodness for the incompetence of others in order to follow through with an idea.
Though, either way, I am still stuck here until the next Slam. "Why?" You may ask? Did House of Ophelia put me here? No, dear reader. I put myself here. My vices. My hate. My need for proper revenge and closure has put me here. I have made my own island and now here I remain until my wish is granted.
What is that wish? Well a history lesson is in order. But first...
"Let's roll out," I yell as I peer around the room. Gein Spector's men, the ones he has granted me, all stand to attention. At one in the morning, when most of the world finds a temporary death between night and morning, it is the perfect time. We file out the front door, the decaying head quarters of The Master and Margarita nightclub, and make our way through the night to a distant storage space in East Houston.
Now for a history lesson.
-MG-
Man made god... -Book of Truths 3:23
-Feb 9, 2016-
Burn down home and build something better... were the last words I heard before the bag was thrown over my head. It came from a blown out speaker in a passing car, screamed at the top of the lungs of some disgruntled singer attempting to make the world feel sorry for his pathetic existence. Despite the contrived emotional musicality it was delivered with, the words stuck with me.
Several masked men moving in sequence as they took hold of my body and tossed me into a passing van which promptly fled the area. I crashed onto a hard floor, sliding around for a moment before someone grabbed me and braced me against a van wall. I tried to reach up to rip the bag off of my head, but someone must have snapped hand-cuffs on me as they nabbed me, because I felt the metal dig into my wrist.
I like to consider myself a man of patience and quiet dignity, but as that Van burned rubber down that road, I was cussed up a storm. The number of threats I gave them, the number of names I called them and their mothers, the number of things I told them they could go do to themselves and their buddies...I am hesitant to repeat such things for the sake of recollection.
As I spat such horrendous hatred in the direction of my faceless kidnappers, I ran through a list of possible suspects. This brain truly never stops.
"You cock sucking sons-of-bitches can take a hot spiked rod..."
...michael easton - nah i paid him his damn blackmail money...
"I swear to all that is holy, I will make every one of you beg for forgiveness..."
...blake updegraff IV - last i heard he had dropped the world of sports management to grow gmo-free vegetables with a group of traveling folk musicians...
"They will have to surgically remove my size fourteen boot..."
...john gable - could he really be that angry that I didn't go to his movie premier
"Laugh now, because its gonna be hard when they have to stitch your mouth shut from the..."
...roy speede - you know, i always wondered what happened to him after i put him out of commission...
"Every seen a man eat his own goddamn face? Well, you're gonna get to see it, along with..."
...waylon Cash - ...possibly dead?...
"You better have done everything on your bucket list, you shit-gargling fucknuts, because as soon as I get free..."
biohazard - ...
"They won't even be able to identify your corpses..."
"Hello Benjamin," the buzzing in my head came to a dead stop. I could leave for a million years, but I'd always know that voice; K.L. Henson.
That was it. I knew I was dead. Ded Benjy. D E fucking D. The next time anyone would see me was at in a ditch off of high way sixty-six in a suitcase Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer style. I would be cut up into itty-bitty pieces, divided with precision and care so that each piece weighed an even amount. I would no longer be "International Wrestling Super Star and Stud Muffin" Benjamin Atreyu (one of my lesser known nick names). I would, instead be, "OH DEAR GOD, WHAT THE FUCK?! WHO WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT? THAT'S SO FUCKED!" Benjamin Atreyu. Life hadn't always been great to me, but the art was nice and I quite liked the food, and now it was going to end. What a way to go, in a van, trapped in a weak cliche; just like my uncle Jack.
Sitting in silence, I waited for him to continue. For a while the only sound was that of the low hum of the Van rolling down the highway. Thank goodness, for pure silence would've been unbearable. When I realized he was not going to continue, I swallowed, realizing how dry my mouth had become. In this world, I feared few wrestlers, but this man was no wrestler. He wasn't some brooding roided freak-bitch that snarled to get attention. He wasn't a walking hyperbole that drenched himself in Gothic and macabre imagery. This man was the real thing, pure terror, the kind of thing you spend your whole life trying to tell yourself you'll never see. You didn't have to know everything he had done to know that he posed a serious threat to anyone around him. There I was, in his van with a bag over my head. An painting that made me feel quite sick.
"Mister Henson," I spoke, keeping my voice as together as possible. Thank goodness I couldn't look at him.
To sum up what unnerved me about it, let's jump forward for a moment to last week when I had taken Easton to The Master and Margarita. I had mentioned how my family instilled a sense of civility in us at a young age, it was second nature.
...When I look at Henson, I don't see anything like that...
He has fallen of the edge of the world and it wasn't a far enough drop for him.
"No need for formalities," Henson replied, "None of this 'Mister Henson' business, Henson will do just fine."
We relapsed back into silence. Hummmmmmm went the car.
"Henson," I spoke with great hesitance, "whats the meaning of this?" I really didn't, and I feared that he could hear that in my voice. When you deliver a line like that, it has to be given with a sort of Cary Grant sense of gusto. Shaken as I was, I didn't have it in me to show that level of stability.
"No point in explaining it," he responded, the voice of the eternal shrug, "you'll find out when we get to it." There was a ping deep in my chest as I worried we would once again let the car fill with nothing but air. However, much to my surprise, Henson continued to talk, "Know much about me, Benjamin?" I admitted that I did not.
This was a mistake.
The next hour was spent listening to Henson rattling off stories. Not wins, not titles gained, but instead a series of grotesque exploits from his personal endeavors. Some of which I promise I will never repeat to another soul 'til the day I die.
By the time the drive was over, my head was swirling with so many images of Henson-derived carnage that I felt dizzy. I heard Henson chuckle,
The van came to a stop. Pulled to my feet, I was forced out and into the open. My head buzzed with countless questions and guesses. I kept demanding they pull the bag off of my head so I could see where I was going lest I trip and smash my face into the ground, but every request was met with silence, making the walk feel all that much longer. Beyond the fact that we had entered a building of some sort, I was blind.
I picked up whatever clues my senses would offer me, trying to build a map in my head in case I needed to make an escape. I followed out movements meticulously until we reached a room where I was sat down in a cold metal chair like a man about to be waterboarded and interrogated for secrets he didn't have (WHERE IS THE REBEL BASE!?). I wasn't sure how many guards they had around me, but I was confident if I could somehow find a way around them, I could find my way out.
Time kept passing. Robbed of my senses, the one thing I felt was the hours melting away. There was nothing I wanted more than to get up and move around, anything to work the anxious blood out of my body, but there I remained like a good detainee, staring at the inside of my cozy little face-prison.
I heard the door open, a number of men shuffling in, and then a quick slam. Woosh just like that, the bag was pulled off my head.
Whatever thoughts I had of escape fled to the back of my mind
There is some saying out in the world about how your ghosts will always come back to haunt you, and, from personal experience, I'm inclined to agree. In my case, his name was Gein Spector. My former (and first) tag team partner. The one I ditched in Japan. The one I had forgotten about. Somehow the world had brought us together via sociopaths and handcuffs, as is the world of WCF.
"Atreyu," there was a chill in his voice, a tone that he loved to used when addressing me.
We talked for hours, but it boiled down to two things: my career, and their vision. Gein knew my career was begging for traction and they wanted me to join house of Ophelia. If not for the presence of Henson and my prisoner-like presence, I imagine I would have turned them down immediately.
"Convince me," said I.
Gein, knowing me all to well, gave me the word I was looking for: change.
"No more God Given Greatness. I want to make you a god." Gein smiled as he spoke, "that Trilogy Cup is coming, and its time that you won it. Break the trend, become something new. Start on a new path."
Burn down home and build something better... My hesitance wavered, and that was enough to let Gein in. We continued to talk. They made it clear that I was not only change my image, but they would give me a platform to become what I needed to become.
"Benjamin, look to the man on my right." It was a guard, one of the many faceless I would come to hold dominion over. "That's you right now."
I shrugged.
"Benjamin, look to the man on my left." It was Henson. I made no reaction. His eyes pierced me. "That's who you need to be. No, not do what he has done, but to let go of what pretense you hold dear."
My hesitance returned. It was natural. I was raised to behave in society a certain way, and Gein challenged that. The evolutionary process has formed the human psyche to fight such things. I knew it, I indulged in it, because to change was to admit everything I did was wrong, which no one wishes to do. I knew I had been wrong for sometime, but good luck getting anyone to admit that.
Gein kept talking, but a war began to rage inside my head. A nebula of feelings tried to claim dominance over the other as tension and anxiety swirled and spread through my body.
No. This is insanity.
Its what you need. Its what you must have. Think of all the years you've fought what is so natural.
You are a scholar. You are an intellectual.
And you will still be one, but it isn't civility that keeps you in the dirt, it is fear.
Fear of decaying into a psychotic mess.
Fear of admitting that you are already a mess. Your repression is what will kill you. Your need to be neat and proper is why Katherine Phoenix beat you. It is why so many before her have beat you.
It isn't you.
IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOU! This isn't some new part to be formed. This is already you. You put pretty stickers and clothes on it to make it seem nicer, but of all the nights you spent laying awake, your brain killing itself over the structure of the human condition, are you going to play like you never knew it was there. THIS ISN'T YOU! God Given Greatness isn't you! You are something else! this isn't a matter of gathering what it takes, but instead deleting the chains, erasing the lines, and accepting you as you are.
Be.
The.
Mad.
God.
Kill.
Eat.
Be Praised.
"What say you?" Gein interrupted. He motioned to a guard who took the handcuffs off of me.
For a moment I just sat there.
And now my chains come off. -The Unparadoxed Heart 1:1
I reached out and shook his hand, and like that, I was in the House of Ophelia and the old Benjamin, the steel skin keeping everything in Benjamin, the prometheus Benjamin tied to a rock and feasted upon year after year was gone.
Then I told Gein of my one problem. My Michael Easton problem. He told me to bring him to the Master and Margarita and it would be taken care of.
-Feb, 18th 2016 (Or; what you didn't see in the RP "Because I Need to Do Something This Week.")-
As quoted: Benjamin could of sworn he smelled blood in the air.
That's because I did. Before I uttered the words "I can't wait to watch their spirit break," while standing next to my problem by the name of Michael Easton (for those of you bored enough to read it), I stood in the main office (the one which would become the dark room I sat in earlier in this little story of ours) discussing the details with Armand, the owner of the club.
"...and where will he be put."
"In a storage unit on the East side of Houston. I will give you the address if you wish to know exactly where," he said disdainfully. It was very apparent that he dreaded fulfilling such a favor for me, being that it was an order from Gein Spector, a man whom he resented, but sat under.
My mind, as always, was still at it.
...this has to happen - i need to make easton suffer - fontaine better not fuck this up - if easton gets away i'm fucked...
"Good," I replied, I looked out the window down at Easton. This would be my first attempt to rid the world of God Given Greatness. Destroy Easton. Become what I need to be. I exited the office and made my way downstairs and everything ensued as written...until we walked about.
As quoted: Benjamin walked away from the bar, Easton quick to follow him. Upon exiting the building, Easton turns around and flips off the establishment, reading it glistening neon lights Armand De La Fontaine's The Master and Margaritas. Benjamin didn't turn back. The smell of blood was still there, deep in his mind, but it didn't bother him. To him, it was the perfect smell, a driving smell. It was the smell of the kill that was coming.
Then without turning around, I heard men approach from behind. HI heard the muffled yells of Michael Easton and as no point did I try to save him. This needed to happen
Burn down home and build something better... I kept walking and drove off like nothing ever happened.
-Feb, 28 2016-
Without having to worry about Easton. Without having to worry about the old me. It was the first night of the Mad God, and I made it apparent. Poor Occulo. Candlestick to the back of the head. Various elbow strikes. Knee to the face. Black Eye Sonata AND the Seraphim's Call.
I wanted that win. I needed that win, and I got it without hesitation. Poor Occulo, it wasn't him I wanted to kill. It was God given Greatness, and killed it I did.
Lesson over. We're now all caught up.
-MG-
...and then man made God angry. -The Book of Truths 3:24
My first ricochets off of Easton's orbital, sending him to the concrete floor of the storage unit. His hands are handcuffed behind his back.
...cry you fuck - i want to see you beg for you life - make me feel strong - let me break the great michael easton - give me what i want - give me catharsis...
"Isn't this what you wanted?" I yelled at him, "You kept trying to fuck me, what did you think would happen?!"
I stand over him, looking down at his bloody mug, but even as he spits out a tooth, I feel nothing. This is my third trip to the unit. This is the hundredth time I knocked him to the ground, but I feel no relief. No sense of superiority. He looks up at me and smiles.
"Its a mystery you made it to the second round," Easton says, "when you punch like a bitch."
"Pull him up to his goddamn feet!" Two guards grab hold of him and raise him to eye level. I let loose another right hand and knock him in the jaw. The guards let go and Easton stumbles backwards and crashes into a wall.
...stop smiling you son of a bitch - i wanna break you - i need you to break - how can i be a god if i can't smash you like the bug you are - give me what i'm looking for - beg for forgiveness you fuck - i want you to fear me - tell me to stop...
"I bet Vulgar ain't gonna go down when you hit him like that," he smiles again.
...stop fucking smiling you cock sucker...
"That's right, these goons of yours do like to talk," he continues. He tries to use the wall to keep himself up, but his feet slip out from under him, "You got Jenson, Bad new Benson, and Vulgar this week, and then Jared mothafuckin' Holmes for the pay-per-view, but here you are, occupied with little ole' me."
I stare over at the men at the door, the ones who watch over him when no one is here, but I will deal with them later.
"They're nothing," I reply, cracking my neck as I move towards him. I squat down to meet him eye to eye "didn't you hear, I'm part of House of Ophelia now. Nothing is out of my reach. I'm-"
"The Mad God, I remember that. I remember you saying that right before these fucks grabbed me," he spits in my eye, forcing me to reel backwards, "everyone is a god in their own head. Doesn't mean much does it? Its a title, an image, its all voodoo and smoke in the end. You're going to bit it hard this week, and then get eaten alive the next."
I wipe his blood-laced spit out of my eye, and when I look back at him, he manages to make it back onto his feet.
"Why don't you take these cuffs off, and I'll show you just how it'll go down. I'll finger fuck your eye sockets like Jenson, pummel you like Benson, and rape you like Vulgar. Then I'll take my time and pick you apart, muscle by muscle, like Jared Holmes."
I consider it.
...maybe that is what I need to do to break him - give him a shot and then take it from him - show him I am truly the better being - i am the god who reigns over me - i'll take that smug smile off of his face...
No. Knowing how he works, he will take a cheap shot. I can't risk anything this close to the pay-per-view.
"I don't feel like it," I smile back at him. An empty smile. It means nothing, its simply to take the wind out of his sails. He doesn't have control over this situation.
"Oh, sure you don't," he replies, blood and saliva dripped down his chin, "I wasn't always a better fighter than you. If you want to give me what I want, let this be an actual fight. Give me a shot-" I jam my fist into his gut, knock the air out of his lungs.
"You sure love talking," I reply. He drops to the ground, unable to talk. His mouth agape as I kick him in the chin, "if you want to know whats going to happen. I'm going to beat Jenson...again. I'm going to take that Space-Elf-Wanna back to Fuck-yourself-island, and I'm going to shatter his reality and fantasy, because, as The Mad God, a title you think means nothing, I have the power to do both.
"Then I'm going to walk right through Bad New Benson and decimate his sense of self-worth without batting an eye on my way to Vulgar.
"Then it is Mister Vulgar's turn. The man of big reputation. The stain of what primordial ooze left behind. The inferior mutation of human existence. He isn't a person, he is barely a full creation under the eye of the heavens. He is bits and pieces that came together in order to survive, barely sentient, he survives week to week by the good graces of pure chaos, but in every other respect, he is a hollow little joke. I will remove the veil and reveal that nothing sits beneath. Nothing to fear. As a god, I will decimate the shadow that he is, and leave a vague inkling of his former existence.
"Then, at Explosion. I tear down the false god that is 'The 6ix God' Jared Holmes, and I recapture my spot in the finals of the Trilogy Cup for the third time in a row, and at that point, there will be no doubt."
I place the bottom of my shoe against his chest and press my weight against him, but he chuckles and shakes his head slowly. "Perennial Trilogy Cup choke artist..." he says.
He is right to shake his head. It was all hot air. Spoken to intimidate, but in the end, it all means nothing. Despite my every wish to win, my connections to do so, I still feared the worst. Despite being The Mad God, I still felt powerless to fate, to chaos, to the unknown.
...goddamn it - i'm tired of this - i'm not a scrub - i'm one of the greats - i am a future hall of famer - i'm one of the best to have yet win the world title - but that'll change - give me the confirmation i need - i need your fear to feel like a god...
Without knowing it, I take my foot off of his chest and lay fist after fist into his cheeks and skull. Screaming at him;
"THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!
"THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!
"I'LL SMASH YOU INTO THE GROUND!
"I'M NOT A JOKE!
"I'M A GOD!
"YOU WILL WORSHIP ME!
"YOU WILL CRY AS I LAY WASTE TO YOUR WORLD!
"TALK NOW, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!
"WHY AREN'T YOU SAYING ANYTHING NOW!"
They have to pry me away to keep my from killing him. My breath moves in and out rapidly. I can feel my muscles tighten, my fists clenched to the point of white knuckles under blood stains.
"TAKE ME SERIOUSLY, YOU COCK SUCKING SON OF A BITCH!
"YOU ARE GOING TO ROT HERE!
"WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SMILE ABOUT?!
"I'M GOING TO BE YOUR DEATH!"
As they drag me away, I'm seething with violent hatred. Why won't he crack? I'm winning. I've got one over him. It isn't until I the unit is no longer out of sight that I can finally calm down. I take a deep breath and walk back to my car in silence, the faceless goons and thugs following my example as they refuse to say a word.
"After Slam and Explosion, if I win my matches, feel free to tell him," I tell one of the men.
...am i a god yet?
-MG-
I must kill. I must eat. I must do what Gods do. There is no alternative to consider. -The Unparadoxed Heart 1:2
...The perennial Trilogy Cup Choke Artist in Benjamin. -The Book of Truths 1:1
