Post by Corey Black on Jan 11, 2006 23:56:02 GMT -5
The scene opens up with darkness. Nothing can be seen. Slowly, but surely, light comes through, and it is revealed that the setting is a hotel room. The television is on, tuned to a SIRIUS Satellite Radio channel, Octane 20. Hard ass metal. Currently, "Change (In the House of Flies)" by Deftones is on. In the background, a familiar voice is heard having a conversation.
The camera pans over, and Creeping Death is sitting at the table, facing away. His hand is up to his ear, holding a cell phone in place.
Creeping Death: Oh yeah, I'm so pumped for WCF again. I had about thirty different offers, and took one, knowing full well that stupidass Seth Lerch would start WCF back up. I took my time.
Seth? I have no idea what his plans are. I checked my e-mail earlier, and it said that he's thinking about another War match.
Yeah yeah, I know I've never won a War. I have officially been in one of them. Guess I have no choice this time.
I don't know about him, either. Last time I saw him, he was broken in half laying in the rubble of that pool table in that club across the street from the WCF Arena. Mad is a delicate guy. One minute he'll want to help someone kill you, the next, he'll be my best friend again. I guess time will tell.
Yeah, but hang on babe, call waiting.
Creeping Death looks at his phone, checking the number.
Creeping Death: Uh ... yeah, it's a restricted call. I have no idea. They can deal with my voicemail. Anyways.
I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. Idea have been floating around, and I want to break out some of these new moves. It'll be pretty sick when I take someone out with that stomp. Dimebag Drop, indeed. Perfect tribute, I must say.
Well alright babe, go to bed. Whoever left me a voicemail, so I'll check that. Goodnight.
Creeping Death closes his phone, and opens it again, dialing his voicemail. As it picks up, he places is on Speakerphone.
Voicemail: Please enter your password.
Creeping Death types in some numbers.
Voicemail: You have one voicemail message. To listen to this message, press one.
Creeping Death, naturally, presses one.
Voicemail: New message. Wednesday, January eleventh. The call back number is restricted.
Creeping Death sighs to himself. The message starts, obviously a woman's voice.
Voice: Well, well, well. It's been a while. WCF is back, and of course, you were one of the first to get back in the mess of things. Don't get used to it. I'm bringing him back, Corey. He will be your downfall. Who would it be? Hellz Angel? Gravedigger? Azrial? Pennywise? You'll never guess. Never. The entire world will be shocked. It'll be a cold night in Death Valley.
The message ends, and Creeping Death just sits there. Slowly, he takes the phone away from his ear and closes it.
Creeping Death: What ... the ... fuck ...?!
The camera pans over, and Creeping Death is sitting at the table, facing away. His hand is up to his ear, holding a cell phone in place.
Creeping Death: Oh yeah, I'm so pumped for WCF again. I had about thirty different offers, and took one, knowing full well that stupidass Seth Lerch would start WCF back up. I took my time.
Seth? I have no idea what his plans are. I checked my e-mail earlier, and it said that he's thinking about another War match.
Yeah yeah, I know I've never won a War. I have officially been in one of them. Guess I have no choice this time.
I don't know about him, either. Last time I saw him, he was broken in half laying in the rubble of that pool table in that club across the street from the WCF Arena. Mad is a delicate guy. One minute he'll want to help someone kill you, the next, he'll be my best friend again. I guess time will tell.
Yeah, but hang on babe, call waiting.
Creeping Death looks at his phone, checking the number.
Creeping Death: Uh ... yeah, it's a restricted call. I have no idea. They can deal with my voicemail. Anyways.
I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. Idea have been floating around, and I want to break out some of these new moves. It'll be pretty sick when I take someone out with that stomp. Dimebag Drop, indeed. Perfect tribute, I must say.
Well alright babe, go to bed. Whoever left me a voicemail, so I'll check that. Goodnight.
Creeping Death closes his phone, and opens it again, dialing his voicemail. As it picks up, he places is on Speakerphone.
Voicemail: Please enter your password.
Creeping Death types in some numbers.
Voicemail: You have one voicemail message. To listen to this message, press one.
Creeping Death, naturally, presses one.
Voicemail: New message. Wednesday, January eleventh. The call back number is restricted.
Creeping Death sighs to himself. The message starts, obviously a woman's voice.
Voice: Well, well, well. It's been a while. WCF is back, and of course, you were one of the first to get back in the mess of things. Don't get used to it. I'm bringing him back, Corey. He will be your downfall. Who would it be? Hellz Angel? Gravedigger? Azrial? Pennywise? You'll never guess. Never. The entire world will be shocked. It'll be a cold night in Death Valley.
The message ends, and Creeping Death just sits there. Slowly, he takes the phone away from his ear and closes it.
Creeping Death: What ... the ... fuck ...?!
