Post by Zachariah Blood on May 21, 2013 22:42:08 GMT -4
[ Edit: Posted under the wrong name. ]
A leather-jacketed form lies languidly on the hood of a blue Corvette, hands folded under his head and eyes on the sky above. Streetlights placed in rows within the otherwise-empty parking lot rob him of the sight of the stars above which is an annoyance. A night breeze tosses about his unruly, red-streaked black hair, sending it into his face a time or two. His face hasn’t experienced a razor in a week or two by the scruffy look of his face. The only thing sharp and clear on that face is his green eyes. Animalistically sharp, in fact…darting this way and that like a predator seeking out prey.
He exhales an irritable breath and sits up on the hood, sliding down to the asphalt, thick-soled boots making a heavy thump upon his landing. Chains jingle, hanging both from his black cargos and the aforementioned leather footwear. As he turns to face the camera, the open jacket shows a black mesh shirt beneath, held close to his chiseled torso. Taking one look at the camera, he snorts angrily and walks around to the trunk of the cobalt ‘Vette, popping it and reaching inside. He roots around for a few moments and seems to find what he’s looking for. As he draws up to a proper posture, a female voice speaks from off-camera.
Woman: “Pet, the news we just got a few hours ago was actually good. Are you sure you wish to ruin things with that?”
The interruption stopped those watching from seeing what the man was pulling out of the trunk. But as he turns toward the female voice it comes into view: a long, black cane with a leather-wrapped handle at one end. His attention turns to the camera again, teeth bared in a grimace, but he relents and holds up the weapon reverently. Into the frame steps a brunette, her athletic figure swathed in a ‘little black dress’ composed of silk and lace, the strappy heels causing her steps to click and taking her standard 5’10” height up to nearly six feet even…which gave her an inch or two over the ill-looking man. Still, she smiled and accepted the cane from him, walking past as she shot the camera a look. As her hand set upon his shoulder, the man’s eyes closed and he murmured a name.
Man: “Lady Rayne…”
Lady Rayne: “Say what needs to be heard, do what must be done. If the situation warrants, you can have this back. If you do well you can…’have’ it.”
She smiled, propping the weapon up on her shoulder, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.
Lady Rayne: “Make them suffer, Zachariah.”
And thus the mystery ends. Zachariah Blood, one of the two newest signees to the APW brand, grimaces again though it kinda looks like a smile. That’s how Lady Rayne takes it as she walks past him, digging a phone out of her small clutch purse and making a call as Zachariah closes the trunk and leans against it, arms folded. Drawing in and releasing a cleansing breath, he shifts his attention to the camera without the bloodlust in his eyes.
Zachariah Blood: “That time again…”
Gathering up the disdain from deep within, Zachariah expresses it by spitting on the pavement before the cameraman.
Zachariah Blood: “…time to stand and address the drones. Both the masses paying for tickets while shelling out for pay-per-views and merchandise and the majority of the locker room…all of them are drones. The former sit there stuffing their faces with greasy food and pouring cheap booze down their gullets while the other half can barely bother to improve their game for when they’re in the ring. People like this, the grand majority of the slime on this planet, make me sick. And to have to waste my time addressing them, they won’t even understand half of my meaning, is an utter waste of time. Time that should be spent further mastering the art of pain.
And make no mistake: dealt by the will of the Patron Saint of Suffering, pain is art; beautiful, exquisite, life-altering art.”
The noise sounded like laughter but it was more of a bark than an outright laugh. Zachariah rarely smiled and seldom showed anything other than anger and cold indifference. He waves a hand dismissively at the camera as though shrugging off an unheard retort.
Zachariah Blood: “You can save whatever bile you’re dredging up to throw back at me. Whether I like it or not, half of this business us running our mouths and if I have to make the effort then my words are going to cut deeply. I’m going to make each and every one of you bleed figuratively with the acidic blade that is my tongue. Once the bell rings, I’ll beat, grind and tear the blood out of you literally…and if you’re unlucky enough to draw mine then so much the better. Pain is my fuel as you’ll soon understand. Whether it’s from an opponent trying to kick my skull in or my dear lady and her weapon of choice…”
He gives a brief queue to his right, causing Rayne’s musically-wicked laughter to peal out a bit.
Zachariah Blood: “…it has the same effect. It invigorates. It makes my nerve endings throb with energy. It heats the blood in my veins and makes my pulse race. It is…sublime.”
Closing his eyes, Zachariah’s head tilts back and he sucks in a hissing breath, drinking in the phantom sensation of something striking his taut body. He can already feel the warm trickle of non-existent blood flowing along his perspiring flesh. Licking his lips, those cold eyes open and orient on the camera again, brows narrowing together.
Zachariah Blood: “All the more reason to tag up with someone who shares my taste for violence in at least one direction. I would not have considered working with him in the past but someone with a better eye for the business gave us the hard sell. And I thought…why not? We’re both of the mind that talk is cheap, though he takes it to an obscene degree. That approach works for him. It’s led him to his share of gold and his woman is more than happy to deliver his message for him. If he wants to be the ‘silent partner’, I can deal with that so long as he lives up to being the ‘Silent Destroyer’ in the ring.”
The snarky comment is an allusion to Sentinel, who Zachariah has chosen to team with for this go-round. It’s a mystery that needs revealing but the Masochist changes the subject.
Zachariah Blood: “What’s our purpose here? Dominance. If you have a title, you’re marked. If you’re in our way, you’re doomed. If the hand that guides us decides that something or someone needs to be out of the picture to further out agenda…well, there’s no need to explain that one, right?”
Zachariah sneers at the camera.
Zachariah Blood: “I’ve made a career out of brutalizing opponents in and out of the ring. What I do to a man, or woman, in my way leaves future opponents wondering if they want to risk a match against me. Being exiled from companies because no one is willing to face me, having titles stripped from me because challengers can’t be found…just another day at the office. What else can be said about it? I work stiff in the ring. That’s the way I was taught and that’s what gets the job done. If it means someone spends a few months on the shelf with a broken bone, perhaps they should have been better prepared. If it means bitching from the producers because I leave someone in a puddle of red on the mat, maybe they should have struck first. I strike first, I strike hard. And when they fall down, I kick the hell out of them until they have the good sense to STAY down.
When the inevitable happens, when I prove my words right, there will be whining. There will be bitching and crying. And the bosses will come in beating down my door, talking about contracts and insurance costs…a lot of white noise. I’ve dealt with that drivel before. My response has been and will always be the same: I warned you all from the get-go. I told you exactly what would happen in that ring no matter who I faced from the top of the roster to the bottom. Hell, even my own partner wouldn’t be exempt. I’m in this business to hurt people. If a title comes my way, I’ll defend it like it’s my life. If someone crosses our group, I will make them suffer. ALL of us will see them beg for their livelihood in the moments before we leave them as a bloody pile in the middle of the ring, the street or wherever they’re unlucky enough to be found by us.”
The camera follows as he turns and walks to the right, to where Rayne is leaned against the passenger door, one fishnet-sheathed leg before the other, a stern look on her face as she speaks quietly into the phone cupped in her hand. When her eyes alight upon Zachariah, she ends the call and steps in behind him, her black-painted fingertips resting on his leather-clad shoulders. Her touch alone, even through clothing, seems to ignite the fire in Zachariah’s eyes. He reaches for the cane leaned against the car and examines its length before twirling it and directing the handle toward Rayne’s hand. She takes it with a feral grin and points the business end at the camera as Zachariah turns to look upon it one last time.
Zachariah Blood: “Enough said. When next you see me, there will be a tortured soul beneath my boot, begging for mercy I have no desire to give. Welcome, APW, to my pain.”
The scene fades to black.
A leather-jacketed form lies languidly on the hood of a blue Corvette, hands folded under his head and eyes on the sky above. Streetlights placed in rows within the otherwise-empty parking lot rob him of the sight of the stars above which is an annoyance. A night breeze tosses about his unruly, red-streaked black hair, sending it into his face a time or two. His face hasn’t experienced a razor in a week or two by the scruffy look of his face. The only thing sharp and clear on that face is his green eyes. Animalistically sharp, in fact…darting this way and that like a predator seeking out prey.
He exhales an irritable breath and sits up on the hood, sliding down to the asphalt, thick-soled boots making a heavy thump upon his landing. Chains jingle, hanging both from his black cargos and the aforementioned leather footwear. As he turns to face the camera, the open jacket shows a black mesh shirt beneath, held close to his chiseled torso. Taking one look at the camera, he snorts angrily and walks around to the trunk of the cobalt ‘Vette, popping it and reaching inside. He roots around for a few moments and seems to find what he’s looking for. As he draws up to a proper posture, a female voice speaks from off-camera.
Woman: “Pet, the news we just got a few hours ago was actually good. Are you sure you wish to ruin things with that?”
The interruption stopped those watching from seeing what the man was pulling out of the trunk. But as he turns toward the female voice it comes into view: a long, black cane with a leather-wrapped handle at one end. His attention turns to the camera again, teeth bared in a grimace, but he relents and holds up the weapon reverently. Into the frame steps a brunette, her athletic figure swathed in a ‘little black dress’ composed of silk and lace, the strappy heels causing her steps to click and taking her standard 5’10” height up to nearly six feet even…which gave her an inch or two over the ill-looking man. Still, she smiled and accepted the cane from him, walking past as she shot the camera a look. As her hand set upon his shoulder, the man’s eyes closed and he murmured a name.
Man: “Lady Rayne…”
Lady Rayne: “Say what needs to be heard, do what must be done. If the situation warrants, you can have this back. If you do well you can…’have’ it.”
She smiled, propping the weapon up on her shoulder, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.
Lady Rayne: “Make them suffer, Zachariah.”
And thus the mystery ends. Zachariah Blood, one of the two newest signees to the APW brand, grimaces again though it kinda looks like a smile. That’s how Lady Rayne takes it as she walks past him, digging a phone out of her small clutch purse and making a call as Zachariah closes the trunk and leans against it, arms folded. Drawing in and releasing a cleansing breath, he shifts his attention to the camera without the bloodlust in his eyes.
Zachariah Blood: “That time again…”
Gathering up the disdain from deep within, Zachariah expresses it by spitting on the pavement before the cameraman.
Zachariah Blood: “…time to stand and address the drones. Both the masses paying for tickets while shelling out for pay-per-views and merchandise and the majority of the locker room…all of them are drones. The former sit there stuffing their faces with greasy food and pouring cheap booze down their gullets while the other half can barely bother to improve their game for when they’re in the ring. People like this, the grand majority of the slime on this planet, make me sick. And to have to waste my time addressing them, they won’t even understand half of my meaning, is an utter waste of time. Time that should be spent further mastering the art of pain.
And make no mistake: dealt by the will of the Patron Saint of Suffering, pain is art; beautiful, exquisite, life-altering art.”
The noise sounded like laughter but it was more of a bark than an outright laugh. Zachariah rarely smiled and seldom showed anything other than anger and cold indifference. He waves a hand dismissively at the camera as though shrugging off an unheard retort.
Zachariah Blood: “You can save whatever bile you’re dredging up to throw back at me. Whether I like it or not, half of this business us running our mouths and if I have to make the effort then my words are going to cut deeply. I’m going to make each and every one of you bleed figuratively with the acidic blade that is my tongue. Once the bell rings, I’ll beat, grind and tear the blood out of you literally…and if you’re unlucky enough to draw mine then so much the better. Pain is my fuel as you’ll soon understand. Whether it’s from an opponent trying to kick my skull in or my dear lady and her weapon of choice…”
He gives a brief queue to his right, causing Rayne’s musically-wicked laughter to peal out a bit.
Zachariah Blood: “…it has the same effect. It invigorates. It makes my nerve endings throb with energy. It heats the blood in my veins and makes my pulse race. It is…sublime.”
Closing his eyes, Zachariah’s head tilts back and he sucks in a hissing breath, drinking in the phantom sensation of something striking his taut body. He can already feel the warm trickle of non-existent blood flowing along his perspiring flesh. Licking his lips, those cold eyes open and orient on the camera again, brows narrowing together.
Zachariah Blood: “All the more reason to tag up with someone who shares my taste for violence in at least one direction. I would not have considered working with him in the past but someone with a better eye for the business gave us the hard sell. And I thought…why not? We’re both of the mind that talk is cheap, though he takes it to an obscene degree. That approach works for him. It’s led him to his share of gold and his woman is more than happy to deliver his message for him. If he wants to be the ‘silent partner’, I can deal with that so long as he lives up to being the ‘Silent Destroyer’ in the ring.”
The snarky comment is an allusion to Sentinel, who Zachariah has chosen to team with for this go-round. It’s a mystery that needs revealing but the Masochist changes the subject.
Zachariah Blood: “What’s our purpose here? Dominance. If you have a title, you’re marked. If you’re in our way, you’re doomed. If the hand that guides us decides that something or someone needs to be out of the picture to further out agenda…well, there’s no need to explain that one, right?”
Zachariah sneers at the camera.
Zachariah Blood: “I’ve made a career out of brutalizing opponents in and out of the ring. What I do to a man, or woman, in my way leaves future opponents wondering if they want to risk a match against me. Being exiled from companies because no one is willing to face me, having titles stripped from me because challengers can’t be found…just another day at the office. What else can be said about it? I work stiff in the ring. That’s the way I was taught and that’s what gets the job done. If it means someone spends a few months on the shelf with a broken bone, perhaps they should have been better prepared. If it means bitching from the producers because I leave someone in a puddle of red on the mat, maybe they should have struck first. I strike first, I strike hard. And when they fall down, I kick the hell out of them until they have the good sense to STAY down.
When the inevitable happens, when I prove my words right, there will be whining. There will be bitching and crying. And the bosses will come in beating down my door, talking about contracts and insurance costs…a lot of white noise. I’ve dealt with that drivel before. My response has been and will always be the same: I warned you all from the get-go. I told you exactly what would happen in that ring no matter who I faced from the top of the roster to the bottom. Hell, even my own partner wouldn’t be exempt. I’m in this business to hurt people. If a title comes my way, I’ll defend it like it’s my life. If someone crosses our group, I will make them suffer. ALL of us will see them beg for their livelihood in the moments before we leave them as a bloody pile in the middle of the ring, the street or wherever they’re unlucky enough to be found by us.”
The camera follows as he turns and walks to the right, to where Rayne is leaned against the passenger door, one fishnet-sheathed leg before the other, a stern look on her face as she speaks quietly into the phone cupped in her hand. When her eyes alight upon Zachariah, she ends the call and steps in behind him, her black-painted fingertips resting on his leather-clad shoulders. Her touch alone, even through clothing, seems to ignite the fire in Zachariah’s eyes. He reaches for the cane leaned against the car and examines its length before twirling it and directing the handle toward Rayne’s hand. She takes it with a feral grin and points the business end at the camera as Zachariah turns to look upon it one last time.
Zachariah Blood: “Enough said. When next you see me, there will be a tortured soul beneath my boot, begging for mercy I have no desire to give. Welcome, APW, to my pain.”
The scene fades to black.
