Hellimination RP
Oct 30, 2018 19:42:41 GMT -5
via mobile
Odin Balfore, Alex Richards, and 2 more like this
Post by Bonnie Blue on Oct 30, 2018 19:42:41 GMT -5
Thick fog swirls around bare ankles, sends wispy tendrils twining up slim, toned legs to dissipate at the hem of an over-large and slightly faded UCI Guardians t-shirt. Bonnie Blue shuffles down rain-slick pavement, autumn leaves crunching beneath her feet like brittle bones. The tree-lined avenue is idyllic and still, the crisp night air subtle and chill. Each deep porch boasts festive decorations of the season: black cats and witches on broomsticks, skulls and spiders, scarecrows sit on hay bales, while bats flutter overhead. Jack O’Lanterns beam cheerfully from every home. And one by one, as she passes them by, lights flicker into darkness; smiling pumpkin faces turn dour and grim.
At a house numbered 1428, Bonnie Blue steps onto the path and walks to the house, filled with an inexplicable sense of trepidation. Here, the broad front porch is a study in the macabre and the tacky. Nylon spider web covers every available surface, replicas of severed fingers and toes woven among the fibrous strands. Strings of orange and purple lights trim the edge of the roof, and spiral around support columns, lending everything a dim, eerie glow. Ahead of the young blonde, the front door stands ajar in welcome -- or in warning.
Silently, she steps across the threshold; nearly losing her balance as her bare foot slips in something wet and warm, and she looks down -- to find a pool of fresh-spilled blood. Sea-blue eyes trace the spreading gore to its source. Bonnie gasps in horrified shock.
Sprawled across the tiled foyer lies the inert form of Rebecca Thatch -- Alex Richards’ longtime girlfriend -- her head nearly cloven from her shoulders, crimson eyes sightless once more. Trembling in fear, Bonnie Blue searches the rest of the house: from the living room, up a flight of stairs, and in each of three modest bedrooms. Aside from Becky’s body, nothing seems out of place.
As Bonnie descends the steps again, she notices dull red spots dotting the carpet. With a slight frown, she continues along her way, scouting the darkened kitchen for clues. Broken plates and a bent carving knife indicate a struggle. Wooden shards litter the floor where a battered basement door hangs listless on broken hinges. Red spots lead down into the darkness, like some gruesome game of connect-the-dots. Morbid curiosity leads her down the creaking steps, senses alert to any sign of the murderer.
Swinging back and forth on a dangling cord, light from a single naked bulb casts moving shadows. Each arc reveals new, ghastly details of the scene below. A single, denim-clad leg. Arms spread like a bird's wings. More blood, the coppery scent heavy on the still night air. Face down, the crushed skull leaking red, she nevertheless recognizes Alex’s half-brother Shaun. Stifling a cry of terror, she rushes back up the stairs.
Where is Alex? Is he among the victims, yet undiscovered? Or is it possible that he could have snapped, and -- ?
Bonnie shakes her head vigorously to dispel the thought. Not Alex. No way. He might play rough in the ring; he might be damaged in ways no one ever truly heals from; but the one thing he isn't is a cold-blooded killer. The young woman reaches for her phone, patting down her legs as she comes to the realization that she's wearing nothing but a t-shirt.
Swallowing a rising sense of panic, Bonnie hurries out the back door, stumbles through a flower bed, and rounds the corner of a detached garage. The scene that greets her in the driveway is enough to drop her to her knees in despair. Her tag partner and best friend lies pinned beneath the wheel of his own van, the white exterior sprayed liberally with blood. Alex’s severed head gazes at her from the dashboard with an accusing glare.
Bonnie's stomach turns. She raises both hands to cover her mouth -- fingers stained bright red, slick with ichor; one gripping the shaft of a bloodied hatchet. Fingers open reflexively, dropping the weapon to the ground. Numb and weary, she forces herself to her feet, still staring at the macabre tableau… when a tap on the shoulder startles her. She whirls around, suddenly defensive --
-- to find herself face-to-face with Damian Kaine, his face a mask of concern as he looks into her troubled eyes.
“Bonnie! I've been looking all over for you. Are you alright?” he asks.
With a shake of her head, she gestures behind her.
“It's my fault,” she whispers.
“What is?”
“I killed them.”
“Killed who?” he says, confusion coloring his words.
“Everyone! Alex and Becky and --"
“Don't be silly, Bonnie,” Kaine tells her. “Their doom was written by another hand, long ago.”
“What?”
He waves in a negligent gesture.
“Nevermind. It doesn't matter now. Everything is fine. See?”
Slow and reluctant, Bonnie turns her head to look where he points. The van is still on the driveway, pristine white, neither body nor severed head to be seen. Her hands are clean, the hatchet vanished, and only the evening fog remains, closing in to envelop the pair in a sea of white.
When it clears again, Bonnie Blue and Damian Kaine are in a parking lot behind some unidentified sports venue. The roar of a charged crowd filters through steel doors. Bonnie leans against the grill of her emerald-green Ranchero, a half smile on her lips as she looks up at her fellow Guardian.
”How long have we known each other, Damian?”
“Couple of years, I think. Ever since just after Dethwar.”
Still smiling, Bonnie nods in agreement. She pushes away from the car and steps toward him, blue eyes glittering in mischievous intent.
”And in all that time, have ya ever thought about you and me? What it would be like…?” she purrs.
Taken aback at her unaccustomed forwardness, Kaine frowns, puzzled.
“I don't know --"
”Yeah, ya do. Y'know exactly what I mean.”
Another step forward, a lioness stalking, voice low and filled with seductive promise. Sea-blue eyes fix him with a penetrating gaze, rooting him to the spot.
“Bonnie, what are you…?”
Silence falls as she puts an arm around Damian’s neck, pulling him down until their lips meet. His resistance is slight and quickly overcome. She kisses him again, deeply, then pulls back. A slow smile slithers across her face. Lips trace delicate kisses along the line of his jaw, down his neck, feeling the surging pulse just beneath his skin.
A moment's anticipation, savored; he shivers, and a soft plea dies before it can form. Pointed fangs pierce tender flesh. A splash of crimson colors the pavement at her feet. Kaine had trusted her, too implicitly, too often -- his greatest And last mistake. When she is through with him, Bonnie gently lowers the lifeless form to the ground, then turns to vanish into a rolling white fog.
It was the slow, discordant chime, like the sound of a warped ring bell, that roused the young goddess from a fitful, haunted slumber. Sea-blue eyes opened, taking in a scene that puzzled her: instead of the Haddonfield Marriott, where she had gone to bed, Bonnie Blue was waking to walls of rough-hewn stone, eerily lit by reflected light from a dancing, whirling cosmos just beyond the wide cavern entrance. The soft hiss of an upward-flowing hourglass was counterpointed by the steady tick-tick-tick of hundreds of clocks and pocket watches. A sundial kept time by some obscure means she couldn't quite determine.
The Rock of Ages, once home of the immortal entity known as the Timekeeper -- though history had given him many names, Kronus among them -- and now the often sought refuge of Time’s daughter, Bonnie Blue. But on this occasion, she hadn't come by choice; someone had summoned her here, to a realm she'd previously considered inviolate. At least, until Noble Savage had somehow found a way to breach the dimensional barrier keeping the Rock separate from perceived reality.
How was a question that would plague her yet, but the more immediate one was: Who? Who could not only break into her sanctum, but physically summon the Hardcore Queen to it with neither her knowledge nor consent? That wasn't the hand of Savage at work, nor her silent companion, Lady Abernathy. This was the doing of someone far more powerful, and infinitely more dangerous.
She could sense the presence, lingering in every pore of rock, each mote of dust, and every atom in the air around her. A sense unlike that of the Timekeeper or his dark counterpart, foreign, yet familiar all the same. As of the presence had been by her side in those nightmares, observing without judgment.
“Show yourself!” the young goddess demanded, but was answered only with echoes of her own voice.
“Who are you?” she tried again, impatience creeping into her tone. “I got better things to do than play games with you.”
Soft laughter seemed to emanate from everywhere at once.
“Indeed you have, Daughter of Time. Better things, yet here we are, playing.”
“Maybe you are,” she retorted. “I got more important shit to deal with.”
“More important than the key to defeating Odin Balfore?”
A shimmering, silver-blue portal, half-formed, vanishes in a shower of sparks as the offer piques Bonnie's attention.
“Ain't nothing more important than that, but I reckon that's what ya was counting on. I'm listening.”
“You've already witnessed a foretaste of Odin’s true power, when he unleashed a preview of Ragnarok on the world earlier this year. The event that forced you to embrace Horrorkore, and set you on the path to becoming that which you had so long feared. And fear, my sweet Time Witch, will be your undoing so long as you refuse to confront it.”
Bonnie frowned as the full force of the vivid nightmare returned, nearly overwhelming her senses as she sought to deny it, to cast it from her mind. She saw again the bodies of her friends, gruesomely murdered by her own hand; and in a flash of insight, she understood. It wasn't that Bonnie would cause harm to her friends intentionally, but she was afraid that her reckless ambition might lead them all to ruin. The Guardians had such faith in her, the temptation to use that faith to her own ends could one day prove too much; and the worst of it was that she could already imagine the justifications she would make, each impeccable in logic and reason.
“Yes,” the presence murmured, with the barest hint of approval. “Now you begin to understand. If you hope to stand against Odin and his forces, you must accept your fear, nor deny it.”
“Who are you?” Bonnie asked again.
“One long ago betrayed by the All-Father. Murdered. Dismembered. Put further to ill use when my bones became the earth itself, my blood the very oceans in which all life began. But Ymir is my name, and I live now only as vague memory. Less than a ghost, save for in this place, where your own father was gracious enough to allow my spirit to reside.”
Bonnie knew from long experience that spirits rarely offered help without an ulterior motive. Her mind raced, weighing her options. Accepting the offer would be risky; rejecting it could be worse. For all the claims of being weakened, Ymir had been powerful enough to draw Bonnie to the Rock of Ages, to influence her dreams, and even to force her to experience them again while she was fully conscious. The young goddess didn't want to see what he might be capable of if angered.
“What's in it for you?”
Again, the soft chuckle that filled the deep cavern.
“Aside from seeing Odin Balfore humbled, you mean? There is one other thing: to help the Guardians, I require a vessel. A means to make my presence manifest. I will lend you each a portion of my power -- all but you, Bonnie Blue. You're quite powerful enough as it is. In return, when Odin Balfore is defeated, all I need is a physical body. Someone willing. If you can arrange that, I am at your service.”
It was about what she'd figured the price would be. And I'm the end, one she would pay herself, if necessary. She nodded.
“Done. Ya got y’self a deal, Ymir.”
“Good. Then gather your army. The time for Hellimination draws near.”
Odin Balfore.
A legend.
A god among men.
The very name makes lesser mortals tremble and weep.
But not me, sugar. You and me done this too many times, and yeah, it usually don't turn out in my favor. But that edge, that fear -- it dulls after a while. Blunt as a butter knife. I ain't scared, Odin. You got nothing left for me.
I mean, besides that shiny belt.
I still want it. Ain't shit you can do to stop me coming for it. Put me down this week, and I'll come back the next; stronger, hungrier, more prepared.
You want to act like it was nothing. But the fact is I beat you once. And not with a sucker punch. Not with anything so pedestrian as pinning your shoulders to the canvas.
Nah, Big All-Daddy -- ya girl made you tap.
Submission, ya feel me?
Yeah, I know ya do.
But look, man, I ain't trying to bring up embarrassing, painful memories. Even though I absolutely dominated you that night -- and don't even try to pretend ya didn't like it, just a little -- I still respect ya. Or at least, I respect who ya used to be.
What I can't respect is someone who had to lower himself to go begging Gravedigger, of all people, for help. I mean, you know how many matches he can chalk up in the Dubya column against me?
I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with beer-oh.
As in one less victory than I have over you.
If the math is too complicated, what I mean is, Gravedigger ain't never won a match against me, and this week ain't about to be any different.
Bee-Tee-Dubs, Gravey, you need to fire whoever does your research. The Guardians have produced no less than three World Champions in You-See-Eye: myself, Alex Richards, and Preecha Kamon. Andre Holmes don't count cause he tried to kill us. Not only that, I held both the tag and intercontinental titles -- simultaneously -- on two separate occasions. Twice a dual champion, three times a tag champion, and as a tag champion undefeated right to the close of You-See-Eye. And the “Guardians” ya got in that shithole company of yours are the B-team. So fuck you, you useless sack of assholes!
Bad enough that you went groveling to Gravedigger, Odin, but your judgement in recruiting Kaz Mazy ain't much better. Maybe you weren't paying attention, but ya boi Kaz was once one half of the You-See-Eye tag champs, for a couple of weeks, with our mutual friend Zombie McMorris. Right up until they found themselves across that ring from me and Alex, with them tag titles on the line. Then ya boi Kaz, well… he kinda choked. I mean, might as well have not even showed up, maybe Ol’ Z woulda had a better chance not trying to carry two hundred pounds of deadweight.
And speaking of ineffectual tag champs, honestly, Sammy Not-Dune? Shit, least ya coulda done was get the smart one. I'mma feel real bad kicking the shit out of a retard.
And of course, Samuel McPherson will fail to get the job done, just as he did at War. He ain't nothing to worry about. He can hold a conversation better than he can hold a wrestling match. Ain’t no reason for anyone to take him seriously, and I'm here for actual competition, not to play mold the clay with a depressing lump of skin under a gas mask... That's one special ed student that really needs some help. The poor guy thinks muscles matter in the art of war. But Noble Savage won that, so what does that say? He’s proven time and time again that he really oughta be in an adult day care facility, with a personal CNA changing his soiled diapers instead of in a wrestling ring. His abilities in the ring are equivalent to a snail on a pile of salt. Please someone do him a favor and guide him back to the handicap tour he strayed away from... But before you go back to your daycare, I got some advice: Check your girl, Sammy... Your life mate Lord Raab is clearly obsessed with our Noble Savage.
At the fallout from War SLAM, your bride to be, Little Raab had a fatal four way scheduled... Against two anarchists and a pervert... But instead of keeping his head in the game, he chose to dedicate forty-seven percent of his promo time to little ol Brandi, when she had nothing to do with his lackluster performance at War OR his elimination. I couldn't care less about his involvement in the War match, or yours Sammy, because simply put... You're both non-factors. Ineffective, unimpressive, illiterate, limited, primitive little etceteras. At War Noble aimed to prove to Jayson Price that no one on that match was in her league, and that she had have already PROVEN what everyone else in the match would try to prove that night. Mission accomplished, Noble. But Samuel's fiancée Little Raab took offense at the fact that she barely even mentioned you in her pre-war promotional video.
Then again, what should any of us expect from someone who thinks I'm going outta my way to avoid taking his precious tag titles from him? Just consider yourselves fortunate me and Alex got better things to do. Don't worry. Y'all fixing to get your turn to get humiliated by the Guardians. Maybe just enjoy being champs while y'all still can.
And believe me when I say, I done saved the worst for last. Y'all know who I mean. James Wolf. Honestly, is there anything left to say? How many more times can I call out this delusional, misogynistic, sister-fucking failure?
Honestly, Odin, what were ya thinking, tapping this fool for your team? Are ya trying to hand the Guardians an easy win? That's sweet and all, I sure do appreciate the gesture, but sugar -- the Guardians don't need that kinda help. We're multiple time champions and this year's War winner, and if Bonnie Blue don't take that World Title off ya first -- Noble Savage sure as hell about to.
I thought I had more to say, but your lame-ass excuse for a team speaks for itself, and what it's saying is that your time as World Champion is coming to an end.
At a house numbered 1428, Bonnie Blue steps onto the path and walks to the house, filled with an inexplicable sense of trepidation. Here, the broad front porch is a study in the macabre and the tacky. Nylon spider web covers every available surface, replicas of severed fingers and toes woven among the fibrous strands. Strings of orange and purple lights trim the edge of the roof, and spiral around support columns, lending everything a dim, eerie glow. Ahead of the young blonde, the front door stands ajar in welcome -- or in warning.
Silently, she steps across the threshold; nearly losing her balance as her bare foot slips in something wet and warm, and she looks down -- to find a pool of fresh-spilled blood. Sea-blue eyes trace the spreading gore to its source. Bonnie gasps in horrified shock.
Sprawled across the tiled foyer lies the inert form of Rebecca Thatch -- Alex Richards’ longtime girlfriend -- her head nearly cloven from her shoulders, crimson eyes sightless once more. Trembling in fear, Bonnie Blue searches the rest of the house: from the living room, up a flight of stairs, and in each of three modest bedrooms. Aside from Becky’s body, nothing seems out of place.
As Bonnie descends the steps again, she notices dull red spots dotting the carpet. With a slight frown, she continues along her way, scouting the darkened kitchen for clues. Broken plates and a bent carving knife indicate a struggle. Wooden shards litter the floor where a battered basement door hangs listless on broken hinges. Red spots lead down into the darkness, like some gruesome game of connect-the-dots. Morbid curiosity leads her down the creaking steps, senses alert to any sign of the murderer.
Swinging back and forth on a dangling cord, light from a single naked bulb casts moving shadows. Each arc reveals new, ghastly details of the scene below. A single, denim-clad leg. Arms spread like a bird's wings. More blood, the coppery scent heavy on the still night air. Face down, the crushed skull leaking red, she nevertheless recognizes Alex’s half-brother Shaun. Stifling a cry of terror, she rushes back up the stairs.
Where is Alex? Is he among the victims, yet undiscovered? Or is it possible that he could have snapped, and -- ?
Bonnie shakes her head vigorously to dispel the thought. Not Alex. No way. He might play rough in the ring; he might be damaged in ways no one ever truly heals from; but the one thing he isn't is a cold-blooded killer. The young woman reaches for her phone, patting down her legs as she comes to the realization that she's wearing nothing but a t-shirt.
Swallowing a rising sense of panic, Bonnie hurries out the back door, stumbles through a flower bed, and rounds the corner of a detached garage. The scene that greets her in the driveway is enough to drop her to her knees in despair. Her tag partner and best friend lies pinned beneath the wheel of his own van, the white exterior sprayed liberally with blood. Alex’s severed head gazes at her from the dashboard with an accusing glare.
Bonnie's stomach turns. She raises both hands to cover her mouth -- fingers stained bright red, slick with ichor; one gripping the shaft of a bloodied hatchet. Fingers open reflexively, dropping the weapon to the ground. Numb and weary, she forces herself to her feet, still staring at the macabre tableau… when a tap on the shoulder startles her. She whirls around, suddenly defensive --
-- to find herself face-to-face with Damian Kaine, his face a mask of concern as he looks into her troubled eyes.
“Bonnie! I've been looking all over for you. Are you alright?” he asks.
With a shake of her head, she gestures behind her.
“It's my fault,” she whispers.
“What is?”
“I killed them.”
“Killed who?” he says, confusion coloring his words.
“Everyone! Alex and Becky and --"
“Don't be silly, Bonnie,” Kaine tells her. “Their doom was written by another hand, long ago.”
“What?”
He waves in a negligent gesture.
“Nevermind. It doesn't matter now. Everything is fine. See?”
Slow and reluctant, Bonnie turns her head to look where he points. The van is still on the driveway, pristine white, neither body nor severed head to be seen. Her hands are clean, the hatchet vanished, and only the evening fog remains, closing in to envelop the pair in a sea of white.
When it clears again, Bonnie Blue and Damian Kaine are in a parking lot behind some unidentified sports venue. The roar of a charged crowd filters through steel doors. Bonnie leans against the grill of her emerald-green Ranchero, a half smile on her lips as she looks up at her fellow Guardian.
”How long have we known each other, Damian?”
“Couple of years, I think. Ever since just after Dethwar.”
Still smiling, Bonnie nods in agreement. She pushes away from the car and steps toward him, blue eyes glittering in mischievous intent.
”And in all that time, have ya ever thought about you and me? What it would be like…?” she purrs.
Taken aback at her unaccustomed forwardness, Kaine frowns, puzzled.
“I don't know --"
”Yeah, ya do. Y'know exactly what I mean.”
Another step forward, a lioness stalking, voice low and filled with seductive promise. Sea-blue eyes fix him with a penetrating gaze, rooting him to the spot.
“Bonnie, what are you…?”
Silence falls as she puts an arm around Damian’s neck, pulling him down until their lips meet. His resistance is slight and quickly overcome. She kisses him again, deeply, then pulls back. A slow smile slithers across her face. Lips trace delicate kisses along the line of his jaw, down his neck, feeling the surging pulse just beneath his skin.
A moment's anticipation, savored; he shivers, and a soft plea dies before it can form. Pointed fangs pierce tender flesh. A splash of crimson colors the pavement at her feet. Kaine had trusted her, too implicitly, too often -- his greatest And last mistake. When she is through with him, Bonnie gently lowers the lifeless form to the ground, then turns to vanish into a rolling white fog.
===============================
It was the slow, discordant chime, like the sound of a warped ring bell, that roused the young goddess from a fitful, haunted slumber. Sea-blue eyes opened, taking in a scene that puzzled her: instead of the Haddonfield Marriott, where she had gone to bed, Bonnie Blue was waking to walls of rough-hewn stone, eerily lit by reflected light from a dancing, whirling cosmos just beyond the wide cavern entrance. The soft hiss of an upward-flowing hourglass was counterpointed by the steady tick-tick-tick of hundreds of clocks and pocket watches. A sundial kept time by some obscure means she couldn't quite determine.
The Rock of Ages, once home of the immortal entity known as the Timekeeper -- though history had given him many names, Kronus among them -- and now the often sought refuge of Time’s daughter, Bonnie Blue. But on this occasion, she hadn't come by choice; someone had summoned her here, to a realm she'd previously considered inviolate. At least, until Noble Savage had somehow found a way to breach the dimensional barrier keeping the Rock separate from perceived reality.
How was a question that would plague her yet, but the more immediate one was: Who? Who could not only break into her sanctum, but physically summon the Hardcore Queen to it with neither her knowledge nor consent? That wasn't the hand of Savage at work, nor her silent companion, Lady Abernathy. This was the doing of someone far more powerful, and infinitely more dangerous.
She could sense the presence, lingering in every pore of rock, each mote of dust, and every atom in the air around her. A sense unlike that of the Timekeeper or his dark counterpart, foreign, yet familiar all the same. As of the presence had been by her side in those nightmares, observing without judgment.
“Show yourself!” the young goddess demanded, but was answered only with echoes of her own voice.
“Who are you?” she tried again, impatience creeping into her tone. “I got better things to do than play games with you.”
Soft laughter seemed to emanate from everywhere at once.
“Indeed you have, Daughter of Time. Better things, yet here we are, playing.”
“Maybe you are,” she retorted. “I got more important shit to deal with.”
“More important than the key to defeating Odin Balfore?”
A shimmering, silver-blue portal, half-formed, vanishes in a shower of sparks as the offer piques Bonnie's attention.
“Ain't nothing more important than that, but I reckon that's what ya was counting on. I'm listening.”
“You've already witnessed a foretaste of Odin’s true power, when he unleashed a preview of Ragnarok on the world earlier this year. The event that forced you to embrace Horrorkore, and set you on the path to becoming that which you had so long feared. And fear, my sweet Time Witch, will be your undoing so long as you refuse to confront it.”
Bonnie frowned as the full force of the vivid nightmare returned, nearly overwhelming her senses as she sought to deny it, to cast it from her mind. She saw again the bodies of her friends, gruesomely murdered by her own hand; and in a flash of insight, she understood. It wasn't that Bonnie would cause harm to her friends intentionally, but she was afraid that her reckless ambition might lead them all to ruin. The Guardians had such faith in her, the temptation to use that faith to her own ends could one day prove too much; and the worst of it was that she could already imagine the justifications she would make, each impeccable in logic and reason.
“Yes,” the presence murmured, with the barest hint of approval. “Now you begin to understand. If you hope to stand against Odin and his forces, you must accept your fear, nor deny it.”
“Who are you?” Bonnie asked again.
“One long ago betrayed by the All-Father. Murdered. Dismembered. Put further to ill use when my bones became the earth itself, my blood the very oceans in which all life began. But Ymir is my name, and I live now only as vague memory. Less than a ghost, save for in this place, where your own father was gracious enough to allow my spirit to reside.”
Bonnie knew from long experience that spirits rarely offered help without an ulterior motive. Her mind raced, weighing her options. Accepting the offer would be risky; rejecting it could be worse. For all the claims of being weakened, Ymir had been powerful enough to draw Bonnie to the Rock of Ages, to influence her dreams, and even to force her to experience them again while she was fully conscious. The young goddess didn't want to see what he might be capable of if angered.
“What's in it for you?”
Again, the soft chuckle that filled the deep cavern.
“Aside from seeing Odin Balfore humbled, you mean? There is one other thing: to help the Guardians, I require a vessel. A means to make my presence manifest. I will lend you each a portion of my power -- all but you, Bonnie Blue. You're quite powerful enough as it is. In return, when Odin Balfore is defeated, all I need is a physical body. Someone willing. If you can arrange that, I am at your service.”
It was about what she'd figured the price would be. And I'm the end, one she would pay herself, if necessary. She nodded.
“Done. Ya got y’self a deal, Ymir.”
“Good. Then gather your army. The time for Hellimination draws near.”
===============================
Odin Balfore.
A legend.
A god among men.
The very name makes lesser mortals tremble and weep.
But not me, sugar. You and me done this too many times, and yeah, it usually don't turn out in my favor. But that edge, that fear -- it dulls after a while. Blunt as a butter knife. I ain't scared, Odin. You got nothing left for me.
I mean, besides that shiny belt.
I still want it. Ain't shit you can do to stop me coming for it. Put me down this week, and I'll come back the next; stronger, hungrier, more prepared.
You want to act like it was nothing. But the fact is I beat you once. And not with a sucker punch. Not with anything so pedestrian as pinning your shoulders to the canvas.
Nah, Big All-Daddy -- ya girl made you tap.
Submission, ya feel me?
Yeah, I know ya do.
But look, man, I ain't trying to bring up embarrassing, painful memories. Even though I absolutely dominated you that night -- and don't even try to pretend ya didn't like it, just a little -- I still respect ya. Or at least, I respect who ya used to be.
What I can't respect is someone who had to lower himself to go begging Gravedigger, of all people, for help. I mean, you know how many matches he can chalk up in the Dubya column against me?
I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with beer-oh.
As in one less victory than I have over you.
If the math is too complicated, what I mean is, Gravedigger ain't never won a match against me, and this week ain't about to be any different.
Bee-Tee-Dubs, Gravey, you need to fire whoever does your research. The Guardians have produced no less than three World Champions in You-See-Eye: myself, Alex Richards, and Preecha Kamon. Andre Holmes don't count cause he tried to kill us. Not only that, I held both the tag and intercontinental titles -- simultaneously -- on two separate occasions. Twice a dual champion, three times a tag champion, and as a tag champion undefeated right to the close of You-See-Eye. And the “Guardians” ya got in that shithole company of yours are the B-team. So fuck you, you useless sack of assholes!
Bad enough that you went groveling to Gravedigger, Odin, but your judgement in recruiting Kaz Mazy ain't much better. Maybe you weren't paying attention, but ya boi Kaz was once one half of the You-See-Eye tag champs, for a couple of weeks, with our mutual friend Zombie McMorris. Right up until they found themselves across that ring from me and Alex, with them tag titles on the line. Then ya boi Kaz, well… he kinda choked. I mean, might as well have not even showed up, maybe Ol’ Z woulda had a better chance not trying to carry two hundred pounds of deadweight.
And speaking of ineffectual tag champs, honestly, Sammy Not-Dune? Shit, least ya coulda done was get the smart one. I'mma feel real bad kicking the shit out of a retard.
And of course, Samuel McPherson will fail to get the job done, just as he did at War. He ain't nothing to worry about. He can hold a conversation better than he can hold a wrestling match. Ain’t no reason for anyone to take him seriously, and I'm here for actual competition, not to play mold the clay with a depressing lump of skin under a gas mask... That's one special ed student that really needs some help. The poor guy thinks muscles matter in the art of war. But Noble Savage won that, so what does that say? He’s proven time and time again that he really oughta be in an adult day care facility, with a personal CNA changing his soiled diapers instead of in a wrestling ring. His abilities in the ring are equivalent to a snail on a pile of salt. Please someone do him a favor and guide him back to the handicap tour he strayed away from... But before you go back to your daycare, I got some advice: Check your girl, Sammy... Your life mate Lord Raab is clearly obsessed with our Noble Savage.
At the fallout from War SLAM, your bride to be, Little Raab had a fatal four way scheduled... Against two anarchists and a pervert... But instead of keeping his head in the game, he chose to dedicate forty-seven percent of his promo time to little ol Brandi, when she had nothing to do with his lackluster performance at War OR his elimination. I couldn't care less about his involvement in the War match, or yours Sammy, because simply put... You're both non-factors. Ineffective, unimpressive, illiterate, limited, primitive little etceteras. At War Noble aimed to prove to Jayson Price that no one on that match was in her league, and that she had have already PROVEN what everyone else in the match would try to prove that night. Mission accomplished, Noble. But Samuel's fiancée Little Raab took offense at the fact that she barely even mentioned you in her pre-war promotional video.
Then again, what should any of us expect from someone who thinks I'm going outta my way to avoid taking his precious tag titles from him? Just consider yourselves fortunate me and Alex got better things to do. Don't worry. Y'all fixing to get your turn to get humiliated by the Guardians. Maybe just enjoy being champs while y'all still can.
And believe me when I say, I done saved the worst for last. Y'all know who I mean. James Wolf. Honestly, is there anything left to say? How many more times can I call out this delusional, misogynistic, sister-fucking failure?
Honestly, Odin, what were ya thinking, tapping this fool for your team? Are ya trying to hand the Guardians an easy win? That's sweet and all, I sure do appreciate the gesture, but sugar -- the Guardians don't need that kinda help. We're multiple time champions and this year's War winner, and if Bonnie Blue don't take that World Title off ya first -- Noble Savage sure as hell about to.
I thought I had more to say, but your lame-ass excuse for a team speaks for itself, and what it's saying is that your time as World Champion is coming to an end.
