Post by Zachariah Blood on Sept 17, 2013 21:53:15 GMT -4
Chaos should not visit such a peaceful, idyllic place as this. We've all seen the type in movies, or perhaps even when we were lost on a country road when the GPS failed us in one of the southern states. A well-kept church in pristine white set within nature. No paved, neatly-lined parking lots for the worshippers but instead a wide property of soft grass for them to leave their vehicles and seek guidance. Whether the skies are gloomy or sunny and bright, the yearly-refreshed white outer walls of the edifice, likely to be more than a century old based on the design alone, stands as a monument to all that is good in the world in the eyes of some religions. The peace is ever-present, hanging in the air like a sweet scent, luring in those who hurt and seek a way to alleviate their pain.
Yet chaos is what has been visited upon it. And it may never be the same again. Several police cars are parked in the soft grass, much of it beaten down or otherwise torn, no doubt thanks to hasty retreats from people who were fleeing what we now see only the aftermath of. A few uniformed officers are blocking off the area around the main building with yellow tape while a few street-clothes detectives are trading notes. A couple of white-coated lab techs are trying to glean evidence from walls, the cobblestone walkway...wherever they might lie. There's one man that stands out from the others, however. Maybe it's the neatness of his black suit or the striking silver hair that's pulled back into a neat ponytail. It might be the lack of lines on his oddly-youthful features or the way his wire-framed glasses magnify his bright, blue-green eyes. Either way, he's the only one not bustling about. He's leaned against a black, unmarked sedan, arms folded across his chest...staring. It isn't until one of the boys in blue comes up to him and speaks that he actually moves.
Officer: "Sir, there's a...um...call for you."
The gray-haired man looks incredulous for a moment but it passes. His expression becomes impassive again and he extends his hand. The officer presses a small pre-paid cellular phone into it, which the man puts to his ear. When he speaks, we realize that we've heard his tone once before...
Grigori: "Sir."
A voice on the other end of the phone, low, accented and severe, responds.
?: "You are there?"
Grigori: "Yes, sir."
?: "Tell me."
Grigori lifts his glasses by virtue of putting his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, pinching it to try and relieve some lingering pressure.
Grigori: "Minimal interior and exterior damage. A few very scared witnesses. One young parishoner and several employees going to the hospital..."
He is cut off by the stern voice on the other end of the line.
?: "The records?"
Grigori: "...taken."
?: "And the witnesses?"
Grigori: "Claim that there were four. Two male, two female. All masked, swathed in black. They entered during service, brushed past pew and body alike, making a straight path for the antechamber. The guardsmen were battered by the males while the women sought out and acquired the records..."
We're shown scattered images and clips of this...benches lined with well-dressed people sitting for the sermon, listening to the soft singing of the choir in the background while the preacher spoke of living well and forbidding sins. Four people in black storming down the aisle, past the preacher, their very presence disrupting the services. Well-trained men standing in their way but being cast down by vicious physical assaults that leave them laying and barely conscious. The feminine, black-clad interlopers enter a room and exit with a few leather-bound books and as they do, the males fall into step with them and head for the main chapel. One young man stands before them, his voice shaking.
Young Parishioner: "You...can't be here! You are evil, what you did to those others below...!"
One of the males snarls, grabbing the young man by the neck and throwing him to the ground. The other joins him in delivering a brief beating but the urging of the females makes them stop before the damage is great or lasting. They depart in a rush, the roar of an engine and the tearing of the earth under spinning wheels heard. We cut back, now, to the present.
Grigori: "...before attacking a young worshiper on the way out. Their identities are not known, however..."
?: "We need not guess."
Grigori: "No, sir."
?: "I expected this from the start, but the sting of betrayal is no less sharp. Take the required steps, Grigori. I will be in touch."
The call cuts out before the gray-haired man can respond but he was already taking the phone from his ear. He places it in the hands of the officer and enters the black sedan. Moments later he's driving down the gravel-and-dirt path as we fade briefly to black.
Upon returning to the present, or somewhere close to it, we center on Zachariah Blood, the Masochist, as he sits back on a comfortable-looking armchair. Legs crossed at the ankle as they rest upon the matching ottoman, the vicious half (odd as that sounds, considering) of The Unforgiven has his attention engrossed by the large sketch pad held up by his left hand. A charcoal pencil is clutched in his right as he scratches away at the heavy paper, his eyes narrowed which offsets just how serene his expression is. His peace is destined to be interrupted, though, and considering the source it is highly unlikely that he would make issue of the diversion.
Lady Rayne comes into view, leaning against the door jamb with her slender yet powerful arms folded across her chest. Her black peasant blouse and tight blue jeans are a departure from the usual black leather or latex ensembles she's often seen in on television, as are the bare feet with toes painted fire engine red. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders and despite her not being 'in character' for the cameras, her beauty is not mitigated in the least. The soft clearing of her throat causes Zachariah's eyes to avert from the paper to her.
Zachariah Blood: "You need something, Mistress?"
Lady Rayne: "An explanation."
The Masochist's brow quirks before he turns back to the paper.
Zachariah Blood: "With all due respect, Mistress, you know why."
Lady Rayne: "Yes, but do they?"
Zachariah Blood: "Whether they do or don't, they'll move soon. We will be ready, though. Our friends are now closer than ever, something our enemies will learn to fear the realization of."
Rayne shakes her head and moves further into the room. The view pans around a bit, showing many framed pieces of artwork on the walls...but not classical pieces. These are hand-drawn and autographed works by prominent comic and manga artists of the day. Characters ranging from Daken and Taskmaster of Marvel fame to DC characters such as Deathstroke and Lobo. On the manga side of things, Zaraki Kenpachi is the most prominent subject with more than one blown-up manga page emphasizing him posted on the walls. This small half-studio, half-lounge room is something of a sanctum for Zachariah away from the wrestling life and not the kind of place he wants to have to take anything besides his artistic passions seriously.
Unfortunately, the only person alive with the power to overrule that desire is exercising that power.
Lady Rayne: "I think you underestimate them, but that is not of what I speak. Had I misgivings about severing our ties elsewhere, I would not have been at your side during the situation as it stood. No, I speak of our partners."
All at once, Zachariah goes from content to bored. He shoots Rayne a stale look, indicating his lack of caring about the matter she's talking about, but she doesn't relent.
Lady Rayne: "You made him look a fool and her appear a liar. I don't think you're aware of what that means, pet."
Zachariah Blood: "I did what was necessary. That oversized man-beast Shadow was taking everything Sentinel could dish out and coming back for more. I don't regret going out there and putting in my two cents. And remind me again, if you would, Mistress...who got tossed into the Pacific and ended up looking like a jackass in front of the world?"
It was not a smile, but a sneer...evil and pleased at the same time. Rayne fights back a smile and rolls her eyes.
Lady Rayne: "That may well be, but..."
Zachariah uncharacteristically cuts her off.
Zachariah Blood: "There are no buts. Not this time. Another few minutes with Shadow and our tag team title shot would have been in jeopardy. No, I did what was necessary to preserve our eventual golden success and if either your sister or her Destroyer has issue with it...they'll find us in Stockholm in a few days as we send a message to the champions and the so-called 'other top contenders'. Were I them, however, I would put more focus into the rematch. Shadow, it seems, can't take a hint. He bitched and moaned loud enough to the right people and now he has Sentinel one more time, falls-count-anywhere with our presence banned lest we lose our opportunity to be champions."
Lady Rayne: "And you don't feel that you brought that on your partner even a little? The matter could have been settled had you not stepped in, pet."
She's trying to be gentle about reproving Blood, but the Masochist is still bristling at being questioned...even by the woman whom he serves.
Zachariah Blood: "We sent a message, Mistress. Shadow will be so blinded by rage now that he won't even be able to string together a coherent sentence, much less defend himself against a focused Sentinel. And with no rules to hold him back, I'm sure the Silent Destroyer can make him regret thinking he had the nuts to hang with the real monster in this company. And even if Sentinel does lose the match, which I admit is more likely than not..."
Rayne winces at these words...
Zachariah Blood: "...Shadow has no chance of coming out of it without a few new scars and some sense knocked into him. Two birds with one stone: we hurt one of the giants of Asylum and show the rest of our opponents that even the less-dangerous half of our group is still more than they can hope to overcome. If you want to worry about their business, Mistress, then I shall not tell you to not do so. My attention, however, is on Jace Savage and Anthony Bailey."
He sets the sketch pad aside and moves lithely past Rayne, leaving his studio lounge and entering the living room of his Lafayette, Louisiana home. Passing through the kitchen, Zachariah walks out onto the back deck, to the railing upon which he leans. Shirtless and clad only in comfortably-worn black jeans, the tattoos and scars alike are prominent on his flesh in the waning light of sunset...right down to the Japanese incantation running the full length of his spine. He takes a moment to draw an unfettered breath, then speaks as he stares out into the swamps beyond the trees, his back to the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "And speaking of one-half of the World Tag Team Champions...how is your head, Bailey? Strange how I haven't heard a whole lot of shit-talk from you and your jackass partner lately. After that Sadistic Warlock you took though, champ, I'd be damn surprised if you could speak at all, much less speak without drooling. Then again, I've sorta fallen off the Twitter train and put my mind to more entertaining and intellectual pursuits so you may very well be flapping gums and fingers without my knowing. Which is just as well because I don't care to hear a damn thing either of you say.
That is, unless it's screaming for mercy as I squeeze the life out of you with my Masochistic Vice. Think that's farfetched? You would."
Blood makes a sound of disdain as he turns to the camera now, leaning back on the railing with his hands gripping it.
Zachariah Blood: "If it weren't for Savage and Hollywood, Bailey would be laid up in traction somewhere courtesy of Sentinel's Black Sunset. You, Hopkins, got off light. Consider yourself fortunate that you didn't roll out of the ring with your jaw hanging loose after trading shots with me. I've said it before and I'll say it again: we are the most dangerous group in APW today. We prove it every time we step in the ring, be it a match or a message. Ask Shadow. Ask Terry Marvin. Ask Sang Réal, Chris Madison and every other so-called wrestler who's run afoul of us. One run-in with The Unforgiven and you're NEVER the same. In a few days a quarter of the way across the world in Sweden, Bailey is going to drag his half-crippled ass into OUR ring, followed by that overamped jackass Jace Savage. And when the final bell tolls, I'll be wearing their blood like a badge of honor.
Maybe you, too, think I'm talking a lot of shit here, Savage. And if that's the case then ask your partner, Brian Hollywood, what happened the first time he got in the ring with us. Ask about how he was so scared he tripped over the fucking ropes and was, five seconds later, pinned for the one-two-three. Oh, he'll blame it on someone drugging him, coming up with all the excuses in the world as to why he didn't flake the fuck out in front of a superior wrestler. And why? Because that's what losers do. It's what cowards do. Yeah, he 'redeemed' himself in another match later down the line if that's what you want to call it, but one fluke win won't erase that embarrassing bullshit he was a part of the first time around. And that's your partner, Jace. That's who you have to carry at One Night in Hell as you try...and OH, MY GOD do I emphasize TRY...to not make an ass of yourself against us as we dismember the Dying Breed for our first APW World Tag Team Championship."
He snorts quietly, shaking his head as if in disbelief of what he has to go through to get what he feels that he's destined for: gold. Zachariah almost laughs...but swallows that down and glares at the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "Not the first of many. The first and damn well only if we have anything to say about it. When we get our hands on those straps, and you can bet your life on that happening one way or the other, we will carry them proud and defend them as if our life is on the line every damn time we're in the ring. Anyone looking to lift that gold from our shoulders had better be prepared to fight to the death because that's the only damn way we'll EVER let them go. The Unforgiven WILL NOT go down as some hokey, multiple-time tag team championship team. Terry Marvin and his World Heavyweight Championship reign will look small in comparison. Only when WE decided that we're done being champions will someone else have those belts. No sooner, no later. But...first things first."
Yes, focus...Blood is full of that right now.
Zachariah Blood: "First, I will take Savage and Bailey apart in front of the world. Mere days later, my partner will decimate Shadow. And for every damn show as we cut a path of bloody pain to the pay-per-view, we will take another piece of your hides. By the time One Night in Hell is a reality, there won't be enough of either of you two, or your partners, left to challenge us. How is it going to feel as you're staggering down the ramp and rolling into the ring, looking upon the two faces of terror standing poised to start a new reign of darkness in APW? A lot like how it's going to feel in Stockholm, boys, that's how."
Pushing off from the railing, Blood makes sure his presence fills the camera's lens.
Zachariah Blood: "We fear nothing and will fight anyone, anywhere, anytime. You may not like how we do things, but you cannot deny that we get shit done. Messages get sent and bodies are carted off to medical centers every goddamn week. Champions fear for their health and their lives when they know we're in the building. Losses are lessons which never halt our stride and victories are warnings to the next poor souls on the wrong end of a contract bearing our names. Pain is my art and destruction is my partner's calling. I can't make it any more fucking clear than that unless I'm already beating it into you...and hey, what do you know! That's happening in a day or two!"
Mock excitement quickly turns back to cold malice.
Zachariah Blood: "Welcome to our pain, boys. Get used to it. Because until you go to hell and back with us, suffering is the only thing you'll know."
He shoves the camera aside and walks back into the house as the camera fades to black for the final time.
Yet chaos is what has been visited upon it. And it may never be the same again. Several police cars are parked in the soft grass, much of it beaten down or otherwise torn, no doubt thanks to hasty retreats from people who were fleeing what we now see only the aftermath of. A few uniformed officers are blocking off the area around the main building with yellow tape while a few street-clothes detectives are trading notes. A couple of white-coated lab techs are trying to glean evidence from walls, the cobblestone walkway...wherever they might lie. There's one man that stands out from the others, however. Maybe it's the neatness of his black suit or the striking silver hair that's pulled back into a neat ponytail. It might be the lack of lines on his oddly-youthful features or the way his wire-framed glasses magnify his bright, blue-green eyes. Either way, he's the only one not bustling about. He's leaned against a black, unmarked sedan, arms folded across his chest...staring. It isn't until one of the boys in blue comes up to him and speaks that he actually moves.
Officer: "Sir, there's a...um...call for you."
The gray-haired man looks incredulous for a moment but it passes. His expression becomes impassive again and he extends his hand. The officer presses a small pre-paid cellular phone into it, which the man puts to his ear. When he speaks, we realize that we've heard his tone once before...
Grigori: "Sir."
A voice on the other end of the phone, low, accented and severe, responds.
?: "You are there?"
Grigori: "Yes, sir."
?: "Tell me."
Grigori lifts his glasses by virtue of putting his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, pinching it to try and relieve some lingering pressure.
Grigori: "Minimal interior and exterior damage. A few very scared witnesses. One young parishoner and several employees going to the hospital..."
He is cut off by the stern voice on the other end of the line.
?: "The records?"
Grigori: "...taken."
?: "And the witnesses?"
Grigori: "Claim that there were four. Two male, two female. All masked, swathed in black. They entered during service, brushed past pew and body alike, making a straight path for the antechamber. The guardsmen were battered by the males while the women sought out and acquired the records..."
We're shown scattered images and clips of this...benches lined with well-dressed people sitting for the sermon, listening to the soft singing of the choir in the background while the preacher spoke of living well and forbidding sins. Four people in black storming down the aisle, past the preacher, their very presence disrupting the services. Well-trained men standing in their way but being cast down by vicious physical assaults that leave them laying and barely conscious. The feminine, black-clad interlopers enter a room and exit with a few leather-bound books and as they do, the males fall into step with them and head for the main chapel. One young man stands before them, his voice shaking.
Young Parishioner: "You...can't be here! You are evil, what you did to those others below...!"
One of the males snarls, grabbing the young man by the neck and throwing him to the ground. The other joins him in delivering a brief beating but the urging of the females makes them stop before the damage is great or lasting. They depart in a rush, the roar of an engine and the tearing of the earth under spinning wheels heard. We cut back, now, to the present.
Grigori: "...before attacking a young worshiper on the way out. Their identities are not known, however..."
?: "We need not guess."
Grigori: "No, sir."
?: "I expected this from the start, but the sting of betrayal is no less sharp. Take the required steps, Grigori. I will be in touch."
The call cuts out before the gray-haired man can respond but he was already taking the phone from his ear. He places it in the hands of the officer and enters the black sedan. Moments later he's driving down the gravel-and-dirt path as we fade briefly to black.
Upon returning to the present, or somewhere close to it, we center on Zachariah Blood, the Masochist, as he sits back on a comfortable-looking armchair. Legs crossed at the ankle as they rest upon the matching ottoman, the vicious half (odd as that sounds, considering) of The Unforgiven has his attention engrossed by the large sketch pad held up by his left hand. A charcoal pencil is clutched in his right as he scratches away at the heavy paper, his eyes narrowed which offsets just how serene his expression is. His peace is destined to be interrupted, though, and considering the source it is highly unlikely that he would make issue of the diversion.
Lady Rayne comes into view, leaning against the door jamb with her slender yet powerful arms folded across her chest. Her black peasant blouse and tight blue jeans are a departure from the usual black leather or latex ensembles she's often seen in on television, as are the bare feet with toes painted fire engine red. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders and despite her not being 'in character' for the cameras, her beauty is not mitigated in the least. The soft clearing of her throat causes Zachariah's eyes to avert from the paper to her.
Zachariah Blood: "You need something, Mistress?"
Lady Rayne: "An explanation."
The Masochist's brow quirks before he turns back to the paper.
Zachariah Blood: "With all due respect, Mistress, you know why."
Lady Rayne: "Yes, but do they?"
Zachariah Blood: "Whether they do or don't, they'll move soon. We will be ready, though. Our friends are now closer than ever, something our enemies will learn to fear the realization of."
Rayne shakes her head and moves further into the room. The view pans around a bit, showing many framed pieces of artwork on the walls...but not classical pieces. These are hand-drawn and autographed works by prominent comic and manga artists of the day. Characters ranging from Daken and Taskmaster of Marvel fame to DC characters such as Deathstroke and Lobo. On the manga side of things, Zaraki Kenpachi is the most prominent subject with more than one blown-up manga page emphasizing him posted on the walls. This small half-studio, half-lounge room is something of a sanctum for Zachariah away from the wrestling life and not the kind of place he wants to have to take anything besides his artistic passions seriously.
Unfortunately, the only person alive with the power to overrule that desire is exercising that power.
Lady Rayne: "I think you underestimate them, but that is not of what I speak. Had I misgivings about severing our ties elsewhere, I would not have been at your side during the situation as it stood. No, I speak of our partners."
All at once, Zachariah goes from content to bored. He shoots Rayne a stale look, indicating his lack of caring about the matter she's talking about, but she doesn't relent.
Lady Rayne: "You made him look a fool and her appear a liar. I don't think you're aware of what that means, pet."
Zachariah Blood: "I did what was necessary. That oversized man-beast Shadow was taking everything Sentinel could dish out and coming back for more. I don't regret going out there and putting in my two cents. And remind me again, if you would, Mistress...who got tossed into the Pacific and ended up looking like a jackass in front of the world?"
It was not a smile, but a sneer...evil and pleased at the same time. Rayne fights back a smile and rolls her eyes.
Lady Rayne: "That may well be, but..."
Zachariah uncharacteristically cuts her off.
Zachariah Blood: "There are no buts. Not this time. Another few minutes with Shadow and our tag team title shot would have been in jeopardy. No, I did what was necessary to preserve our eventual golden success and if either your sister or her Destroyer has issue with it...they'll find us in Stockholm in a few days as we send a message to the champions and the so-called 'other top contenders'. Were I them, however, I would put more focus into the rematch. Shadow, it seems, can't take a hint. He bitched and moaned loud enough to the right people and now he has Sentinel one more time, falls-count-anywhere with our presence banned lest we lose our opportunity to be champions."
Lady Rayne: "And you don't feel that you brought that on your partner even a little? The matter could have been settled had you not stepped in, pet."
She's trying to be gentle about reproving Blood, but the Masochist is still bristling at being questioned...even by the woman whom he serves.
Zachariah Blood: "We sent a message, Mistress. Shadow will be so blinded by rage now that he won't even be able to string together a coherent sentence, much less defend himself against a focused Sentinel. And with no rules to hold him back, I'm sure the Silent Destroyer can make him regret thinking he had the nuts to hang with the real monster in this company. And even if Sentinel does lose the match, which I admit is more likely than not..."
Rayne winces at these words...
Zachariah Blood: "...Shadow has no chance of coming out of it without a few new scars and some sense knocked into him. Two birds with one stone: we hurt one of the giants of Asylum and show the rest of our opponents that even the less-dangerous half of our group is still more than they can hope to overcome. If you want to worry about their business, Mistress, then I shall not tell you to not do so. My attention, however, is on Jace Savage and Anthony Bailey."
He sets the sketch pad aside and moves lithely past Rayne, leaving his studio lounge and entering the living room of his Lafayette, Louisiana home. Passing through the kitchen, Zachariah walks out onto the back deck, to the railing upon which he leans. Shirtless and clad only in comfortably-worn black jeans, the tattoos and scars alike are prominent on his flesh in the waning light of sunset...right down to the Japanese incantation running the full length of his spine. He takes a moment to draw an unfettered breath, then speaks as he stares out into the swamps beyond the trees, his back to the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "And speaking of one-half of the World Tag Team Champions...how is your head, Bailey? Strange how I haven't heard a whole lot of shit-talk from you and your jackass partner lately. After that Sadistic Warlock you took though, champ, I'd be damn surprised if you could speak at all, much less speak without drooling. Then again, I've sorta fallen off the Twitter train and put my mind to more entertaining and intellectual pursuits so you may very well be flapping gums and fingers without my knowing. Which is just as well because I don't care to hear a damn thing either of you say.
That is, unless it's screaming for mercy as I squeeze the life out of you with my Masochistic Vice. Think that's farfetched? You would."
Blood makes a sound of disdain as he turns to the camera now, leaning back on the railing with his hands gripping it.
Zachariah Blood: "If it weren't for Savage and Hollywood, Bailey would be laid up in traction somewhere courtesy of Sentinel's Black Sunset. You, Hopkins, got off light. Consider yourself fortunate that you didn't roll out of the ring with your jaw hanging loose after trading shots with me. I've said it before and I'll say it again: we are the most dangerous group in APW today. We prove it every time we step in the ring, be it a match or a message. Ask Shadow. Ask Terry Marvin. Ask Sang Réal, Chris Madison and every other so-called wrestler who's run afoul of us. One run-in with The Unforgiven and you're NEVER the same. In a few days a quarter of the way across the world in Sweden, Bailey is going to drag his half-crippled ass into OUR ring, followed by that overamped jackass Jace Savage. And when the final bell tolls, I'll be wearing their blood like a badge of honor.
Maybe you, too, think I'm talking a lot of shit here, Savage. And if that's the case then ask your partner, Brian Hollywood, what happened the first time he got in the ring with us. Ask about how he was so scared he tripped over the fucking ropes and was, five seconds later, pinned for the one-two-three. Oh, he'll blame it on someone drugging him, coming up with all the excuses in the world as to why he didn't flake the fuck out in front of a superior wrestler. And why? Because that's what losers do. It's what cowards do. Yeah, he 'redeemed' himself in another match later down the line if that's what you want to call it, but one fluke win won't erase that embarrassing bullshit he was a part of the first time around. And that's your partner, Jace. That's who you have to carry at One Night in Hell as you try...and OH, MY GOD do I emphasize TRY...to not make an ass of yourself against us as we dismember the Dying Breed for our first APW World Tag Team Championship."
He snorts quietly, shaking his head as if in disbelief of what he has to go through to get what he feels that he's destined for: gold. Zachariah almost laughs...but swallows that down and glares at the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "Not the first of many. The first and damn well only if we have anything to say about it. When we get our hands on those straps, and you can bet your life on that happening one way or the other, we will carry them proud and defend them as if our life is on the line every damn time we're in the ring. Anyone looking to lift that gold from our shoulders had better be prepared to fight to the death because that's the only damn way we'll EVER let them go. The Unforgiven WILL NOT go down as some hokey, multiple-time tag team championship team. Terry Marvin and his World Heavyweight Championship reign will look small in comparison. Only when WE decided that we're done being champions will someone else have those belts. No sooner, no later. But...first things first."
Yes, focus...Blood is full of that right now.
Zachariah Blood: "First, I will take Savage and Bailey apart in front of the world. Mere days later, my partner will decimate Shadow. And for every damn show as we cut a path of bloody pain to the pay-per-view, we will take another piece of your hides. By the time One Night in Hell is a reality, there won't be enough of either of you two, or your partners, left to challenge us. How is it going to feel as you're staggering down the ramp and rolling into the ring, looking upon the two faces of terror standing poised to start a new reign of darkness in APW? A lot like how it's going to feel in Stockholm, boys, that's how."
Pushing off from the railing, Blood makes sure his presence fills the camera's lens.
Zachariah Blood: "We fear nothing and will fight anyone, anywhere, anytime. You may not like how we do things, but you cannot deny that we get shit done. Messages get sent and bodies are carted off to medical centers every goddamn week. Champions fear for their health and their lives when they know we're in the building. Losses are lessons which never halt our stride and victories are warnings to the next poor souls on the wrong end of a contract bearing our names. Pain is my art and destruction is my partner's calling. I can't make it any more fucking clear than that unless I'm already beating it into you...and hey, what do you know! That's happening in a day or two!"
Mock excitement quickly turns back to cold malice.
Zachariah Blood: "Welcome to our pain, boys. Get used to it. Because until you go to hell and back with us, suffering is the only thing you'll know."
He shoves the camera aside and walks back into the house as the camera fades to black for the final time.
