Post by Crow McMorris on Apr 17, 2016 17:00:45 GMT -5
Act I:
Bury Me Deep
Zombie McMorris has a resume that speaks of three things: wrestler, coked up manic; and professional immortalist. These three, strange spheres of influence hold McMorris in equal high regard; for he rarely falters in any of them. Hundreds of years of casual practice has granted “ZMAC” a spacious window to excel; and excel he does, though fields of hardcore insanity; across the bloody plains of title reigns and career ending matches. He is unstoppable.
A blanket of crack smoke inevitably acts as the distress signal for a roll call of names that are no longer spoken; for McMorris has smashed them all upon the rocks of history. All with glee. All with a smile and a “job well done”. The Evil Incarnate suffers no fool or broken heart story; he finds weakness and stamps it out with a curb stomp. Mid-card cockroaches with slender life spans attempt to scurry away; but they always end up under the Madman’s boot. A percussion of inevitability; from one destroyed dream to another. Tears are shed, recriminations are uttered; but the result remains the same.
And onward the madman walks.
But when and where did this journey begin? There’s fragments of knowledge; a man named Conrad among them, but in all honesty? Nothing is certain. Truth and ZMAC have only a passing acquaintance.
ZMAC may be on point when it comes to his adversaries, but his own past is a cracked mosaic Mac seemingly has no intention to fix. And why should he? The whole of humanity exists in negative equity compared to McMorris; we all welt and die without exception. Why offer us trust or friendship? Why bother with compassion when you’re dealing with a motley race of fragile, expendable lives? After all; we’re all going to be dead in eighty years anyway. Soon, they’ll be a whole new batch of suckers to con in a few blinks of time, so why ruin the fun?
Maybe the answer to that lies in Texas.
Yet on this night?
The madman, he walks.
He walks while carrying a bagged and tagged body over his shoulder. A large, humanoid frame. A familiar hero to many, now lifeless and still. Blood dripping from the corpses cold, purple mouth. The remains of the Scarecrow. Dead. Murdered by a deranged Bobby Cairo as Crow fought like hell against his childhood enemy, “The Brosideon” - a swamp creature named Wade Moor; Crow's seemingly final, fatal adversary at Revenge. The match that screamed in shock around the world. A match that made those of a certain “type” a target.
Post contest, and Crow's lungs are punctured and split, his spine is smashed. The fall from the balcony that The Godfaddah had orchestrated managed to snap the Murder Machine's bones, the resulting impact splintering them into invading scalpels of jagged death; tearing flesh, and causing massive internal injuries.
This mangled carcass has been rescued from becoming a trophy strapped to the front of #beachkrew's WINEebago by the coked up madman, by an undead fiend who has rarely shown remorse or compassion before, yet is now strangely demonstrating both as Zombie reaches his destination and carefully places the burlap sacked corpse of Crow down on the ground; breaking the sod of the earth with a shovel, digging deep as a misplaced rose garden lies scattered from the intrusion.
Deeper does ZMAC dig; focused and determined. As deep as he digs when ripping apart his adversaries; these fly by nights and effete legacies. These so called “Daughter's Of Time”, and ,“Darkitects”, that buzz and hum, all damaged and blind; forever searching for that elusive light, that slither of brutal truth about ol' Zee that will lead them to gold.
Yet in truth? All they'll ever find is the cold sting of defeat. This Sunday there's a whole parade of Icarus's dancing around ZMAC, blissfully unaware that they're about to get their collective wings clipped. All fall down when faced by the maniac. The Shadowlove's of this world, too idiotic in their hubris to see the danger; flying too close to the sun; smile and watch as they burn, while their bodies wither and fall into an empty abyss of their own ignorant creation.
Their abyss however, pales in comparison to Crow's. His body is dropped now into a shallow grave. Smothered with dirt as incantations are whispered. Concealed from sight as the roses are carefully replanted above by hands that have only ever dealt out pain.
A few moments later, and ZMAC mutters something new under his breath, it's not for our ears. Then, the Coked up maniac turns and walks away. He's patient, he'll wait.
And so the sun rises, drenching those flowers with warmth. Days pass. Weeks. Rain washes away ZMAC's footprints as time ticks on. Months upon months now as #beachkrew dominate, destroying what's left of a fractured and lost Pantheon. Taking over the WCF, re-branding Slam, emasculating it's roster, facing down a twisted and possessed Dune; now a monster hellbent on fulfilling Crow's nightmarish vision of the future. Of a company sinking inextricably beneath the sand.
The sun rises, and sets...faster and faster until seasons change and spring arrives. A Christian dies at the foot of an alter. WAR comes and goes. Owls circle as petals bloom. The Scarecrow is a memory, not a man. He is a ghost, not a warrior. He is a legend, not a wrestler.
Chelsea Armstrong is a memory. So is Omega. Those petals scattered upon the wind. Too delicate in reality to sustain strength in this harsh, new environment. While a brooding, remorseful Corey Black allows the Creeping death persona within rash dominion over his faltering, fractured life. Transforming a once stable leader into a damaged one man “Pantheon” all his own.
Meanwhile, across town in a dingy tattoo parlor, after a night of mescaline and whores, Wade Moor decides that what his life really needs now is a giant Crow etched into his bulbous chest, his skin branded forever more by what he perceives as a permanent reminder of his enemies final downfall. It's wings outstretched, unable to fly free; trapped within the folds of skin that heaved with laughter as Crow's eyes glazed over months previous as he lay in the ring. Dying.
Mistakes, we all make them.
Wade made his the day he tattooed his body. Easy mistake to make in truth. Death is death. It's usually the final curtain call; but not within the WCF. The odds are always skewed towards the impossible. The insane. The unimaginable.
Clones rise and assume old identities. Atoms reform and reconfigure, and blood...
Holds secrets.
Decades old secrets, that when combined with one friends unwavering loyalty, has lead to a night like no other in that rose garden. An arm is severed, a blood pact made; and out there, among the cosmos, a hack within the fabric of reality is torn asunder once again. The clocks are reset. The sun refuses to set. An hour of insanity is upon us.
Kaz Mazy; a greater friend a man could not find, a man resolute in his unwavering pursuit of an answer none should seek...has found that answer, and in a moment of painful, enormous sacrifice, has discovered the courage to pay the price for it.
And so, the unthinkable begins. Skin knows warmth, blood knows life. A heart, beats again. Flesh reforms and knits itself together as a man screams though the whole prolonged process; his cries isolated by six feet of muddy dirt and shit as a heavy blanket of rain cascades down.
While above on the surface, those roses welt in the storm. Consumed in unnatural time lapse speed by the miracle occurring below. Drained of life as the earth is consumed; the flowers die...one, by one.
All must offer tribute to the Crow; as the earth moves, as a hand.
Reaches out.
Act II:
Damaged
Crow gripped the wheel of the SUV of doom a little tighter as ZMAC clamped an icepack on the back of his head. Their day had been eventful. A team of crack mercenaries had pursued them half way across town, over rooftops and down back alleyways. Kaz's cybernetic arm had taken a knock in the escape and required repair. Crow was up for the task, but he'd need parts to carry out the procedure. Right now the armature was working after a quick solder, but Crow could clearly see Kaz was in some pain as his friend rode shotgun, dah Monstah making a fist as he tried to manually reset the wrist servos himself with a screwdriver.
Kaz Mazy: fuck!
The screwdriver slipped from Kaz's left hand. It was at this moment that Kaz's sacrifice became more pronounced; sharper in focus now to Crow than ever before. Kaz had given up his arm. His career for his friend. No matter what happened now, they would be brothers. This was Crow's vow. And if he could, after this adventure was done? Crow would find a way to get Kaz his career back.
The Scarecrow: You okay?
Kaz shrugged
Kaz Mazy: I dunno, it hurts man. Arm feels like it's on fire.
The Scarecrow: Dat's your nerve endings dropping sync with dah wiring. I can fix dat. I just need dah time.
Crow checked the rearview mirror. For the first time in days the road ahead seemed safe, at least for now. He caught Kaz smiling.
The Scarecrow: What?
Kaz Mazy: You got some Poon Guinea in dat voice now.
Crow shrugged.
The Scarecrow: Dats dah trade I guess. I'm back, but ya used dah Baron to get me here. My linage is a little...mixed up. I'm cool wit it doe.
Kaz Mazy: Yeah, kinda suits ya doe man. Drop some of dat chip of ya shoulder.
The Scarecrow: Droppin' sheeit? Hah...look who's talking.
Kaz smirks.
Kaz Mazy: Dat's low man, now I know you're back.
The Scarecrow: Yeah, well...time will tell.
Kaz Mazy: Or dis' Conrad fella, you think he has dah answers?
The Scarecrow: I don't know, my man. Dis' is Pop's call. If dis grandfather of mine--
Buddy Roman: Ahem
The Scarecrow: If dis' OTHER grandfather of mine can help, dat's gotta be our play. Right now we don't have very many options left.
Zombie DankMorris: There's always options, Son. Keep driving, we're almost there. In Texas there's Conrad an' answers, plus dah summary rape and murdah of seven unfortunate FGT's
Crow shrugs.
The Scarecrow: Dat's wat I love about you, pop's. Always with dah optimism.
Buddy Roman: Absolutely! My son is a man who dreams, little Crow. A man with dreams of stone. A man whose dreams this great nation was built upon! He is the mount Rushmore of this business. And no matter what, this Sunday? At Slam 351? Those dreams...
Will. Live. Again.
