Tightening Tension (Killdozer Cup)
Mar 14, 2023 18:52:37 GMT
Casanova English, Jonathan Bacchus, and 2 more like this
Post by Max f'n Daemon on Mar 14, 2023 18:52:37 GMT
Max Daemon clenches his fist. The bandages around his hand from his breaking of the monitor in the DC airport prior to his match with Holmes last month still lingering as a reminder.
Of course, the bandage covering his forehead following his war with Roddy Zalez paints a picture as well.
He stares out the window of the Nashville hotel. He releases a breath, looking down at the floor from the sixth story he’s currently residing on.
Max glances towards the television, the visual of his match with Holmes long since passed. The feed kept autoplaying Bangers and Mash and is currently on the Classic Championship match.
He sees Johnny Bacchus standing in the ring and all Max can do is narrow his eyes.
With a growl, he sends the bandaged fist crashing into the window.
Unexpectedly, the entire thing shatters. Shards surround Max, hitting the carpet and out onto the concrete down below.
Max stares into the now opened void with wide eyes.
Just as quickly, he catches his bearings, eyes flicking to the reddening bandages.
He leans over the window sill, peering down at the empty parking lot.
Huh.
Long fall…
…
…
Max glances back towards the television where Johnny Bacchus continues to preen.
“Hey…hey…Johnny…”
The mutter is buried under the sounds of the Nashville night air blowing into his room.
He shakes his head and starts to lift his leg over the sill.
Before he can get it over the ledge though, his cellphone rings.
Max growls to himself before answering his cellphone. He sets himself back on his feet as he speaks.
“Yo.”
There are a few moments of pause with Max just listening to the other person. He seems to get angrier the longer the conversation lasts.
“No.”
Another few moments pass.
“Wuya, no, I’m not doin it.”
With his bloodied hand, he grips the phone tighter. He hears a crack, but it’s when something unheard is said that causes him to snap.
“Tell Holo ta' meet me in Denver. I’ll be there in a week. If I ever get back ta' Baltimore and you’re still there…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
The conversation doesn’t continue, and judging by the third growl that emanates from his throat, it doesn’t conclude either.
He removes the phone from against his ear and looks down at the name of his lover…girlfriend…partner…confidante…who the fuck even knows. He looks down at Her name and with strength he hasn’t used in years, the phone folds in on itself. The screen turns colored and glitched as it splinters into shards.
He turns and tosses the phone out the window.
Better the phone than a body, I guess…
Using the hand that isn’t dripping red on the floor, he picks up the landline phone near his bed. He dials a number and waits for a response.
“Yeah, this is Max from room 605. I just wanted ta' see if there was any bars or anythin nearby that were still open.”
It takes a few moments, but when a record setting fourth growl cracks through his throat, he quickly reverts paths.
“Fine then. Is there any place still open at 3 in the mornin?”
--------------------------------------------------------
Max leans against the back of the Waffle House booth. He sips his Coke from the plastic cup. He takes a piece of his shit-tasting burger and scorfs it down.
“I’ve…given a lot for this thing we call a business.”
Before he can continue, a waitress approaches.
“Before you start talking to yourself, can I get you anything?” she asks.
Max raises an eyebrow at her nonchalance.
“Nah.”
With a shrug, she returns to passing time until she’s off the clock.
Max shakes his head before continuing.
“I’ve expressed my own remorse towards companies like CU:LT before, but it really is pretty fuckin indicative that I got this place’s logo branded on my fuckin chest. Yet I have ta’ keep on givin it more. My blood isn’t enough. My body isn’t enough. What, want my heart too?
Sorry Cas, that doesn’t belong ta’ ya’.
But…alright…even if it means facin people like Glum or Junko or Kade or even douchecocks like Datura, Killie, or Veronica, I’m more than willin ta’ do so.
But like most people when put in a situation of an unknown where they just don’t know who what they're up against, my eyes are ultrafocused on only a few names.
Sure, people like Grace and Craig can stand out as any sorta potential threat, much like a rat can still be deadly if it’s taken too lightly, but given I only know so much about all of these fuckos, I’m gonna keep my time on 'em brief.
Nobody in this company has given more than I have for Cas, barrin JD, and where the fuck did that cock-hole go? He’s not fuckin here, is he?
Dude split after givin Cas some of the best shit this company will ever see, but even he realized the cost wasn’t worth the benefit.
But I guess I’m just a sucker for punishment, or at least desperate enough. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get another blood in a bucket match or whatever and just use my own blood or some shit. Wouldn’t that be somethin…”
“Want a refill on that?” the waitress asks.
Max doesn’t realize he’s been sucking on air through the straw for the last five minutes.
“Fuck yes I do.”
His Coke is refilled, and he resumed monologuing.
“Nobody else in this tournament, from top ta' bottom, can say they bleed CU:LT, they live CU:LT, they are CU:LT.
That’s reserved for me, and even if I have ta' force myself ta' even show up, the fact that I’m still fuckin here is much more indicative of what I’m capable of versus what all of you fuckos are.
Let’s start with the World War pastiche since he’s the only one of the three left ta’ talk about that I don’t give much of a shit about.
So Killroy is here.
Is that the gimmick? Is that the pun? The wordplay?
Did I do it right or will the big scary masked guy come find me and beat me up?
Please. I’ve knocked out bigger pieces of shit in five seconds.
Hell, I’ve shat bigger pieces of shit after a bad night at that taco place down that one alleyway near Norfolk.
If the goal is intimidation ya’ve failed it. If the goal is size ya’ve failed it. The only thing ya’ didn’t fail at doin is gettin my attention, and as Johnny (don’t worry I’ll get ta’ ya’) or Lis can tell ya’, my attention is the last fuckin thing anybody wants.
So good job. I wanna beat ya' so bad that your eye holes start pourin out blood like a water fountain at your local elementary school.
Congratulations Killroy, ya' waste of fuckin airtime.”
Max finishes off his plate of a cheap-ass burger and hash browns. He uses his glass to wave to the waitress for more Coke.
“So…let’s talk about Addy instead.
The ballistic bitch who can wander inta’ hell and make Henry Kissinger piss his pants.
We’ve been through this before. She’s overly sexual, I wanted ta’ tap that, it’s like with what I went through with Lis only more overt and less…controversial.”
He hums to himself at the choice of words, but opts to continue despite his pause.
“I know Addy. I’m not worried about the two of us if we cross paths. I’m just worried about everyone else around us.
Addy ain’t no JD. There won’t be a massacre afterwards and both guys won’t have ta' pick glass outta their foreheads, but she can give her own in a situation like this.
But quite frankly, Killroy nor Addy are the people I’m inherently worried about.”
“Hey Johnny.
In case ya’ve been completely blind ta’ everythin in your brief absence (ya’ haven’t), than ya’ know I’ve been keepin my eyes on the two of ya’.
Honestly, my curiosity currently coalesces on you in particular.
That’s why we’re in the Killdozer Cup together.
That’s why I got back in with PWV despite me despisin that company’s very existence.
It’s nothin pers—
Fuck it. Yeah, it’s personal. But it’s not just beca—
Yeah, actually, it has somethin ta’ do with ya’.
Ta’ do with Holmes.
Ta’ do with…Ashley.
Ta’ do with Lis.
Quite frankly, the only reason I’m sippin Coke right now at a shitty Waffle House instead of at a bar is cause the very idea of goin back ta' these headaches and twitches and cold sweats keeps me from relapsin.
Meanwhile, the sight of a broken open window on a sixth story is lookin mighty fascinatin, ya’ know?
Whatever, ya’ don’t care. Nor should ya’. I’ve never given either of ya’ a reason ta’, yet here I am tryin ta’ get your attention like John Cusack playin Peter Gabriel. Not even sure why. Not like my career is anywhere near yours. You've got the 'big return' vibe goin still and I'm the...the stale hat.
I haven’t changed since our last meetins, so don’t expect flowers or anythin, but there’s a reason I’ve been followin ya’ around and cold-stalkin the both of ya’ for about a year now.
Somethin needs ta’ change cause this is...not workin. Not since the very moments that defined my career and my return ta’ wrestlin have revolved around the lot of ya’.
Heh.
Fuckin pathetic, right?
Yeah, what else is new for Max fuckin Daemon.
Whatever. I’m not the kinda cat ta’ not fight for somethin. And we all know what I’d be willin ta’ do ta’ win a fight, even if it’s one I don’t want.
I don’t know if I’m gonna be facin Addy or Johnny or Killroy at all. I could only be facin the scrubs I glossed over earlier.
But given I’m quickly runnin outta things ta’ lose?”
Max finishes off his final glass of Coke. He stands up, tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the table and heading towards the door.
“I’m kinda curious how many more losses I can get before I finally fuckin break.
And which one will break first: the whiskey in the bottle or the sixth-floor window.”
Of course, the bandage covering his forehead following his war with Roddy Zalez paints a picture as well.
He stares out the window of the Nashville hotel. He releases a breath, looking down at the floor from the sixth story he’s currently residing on.
Max glances towards the television, the visual of his match with Holmes long since passed. The feed kept autoplaying Bangers and Mash and is currently on the Classic Championship match.
He sees Johnny Bacchus standing in the ring and all Max can do is narrow his eyes.
With a growl, he sends the bandaged fist crashing into the window.
Unexpectedly, the entire thing shatters. Shards surround Max, hitting the carpet and out onto the concrete down below.
Max stares into the now opened void with wide eyes.
Just as quickly, he catches his bearings, eyes flicking to the reddening bandages.
He leans over the window sill, peering down at the empty parking lot.
Huh.
Long fall…
…
…
Max glances back towards the television where Johnny Bacchus continues to preen.
“Hey…hey…Johnny…”
The mutter is buried under the sounds of the Nashville night air blowing into his room.
He shakes his head and starts to lift his leg over the sill.
Before he can get it over the ledge though, his cellphone rings.
Max growls to himself before answering his cellphone. He sets himself back on his feet as he speaks.
“Yo.”
There are a few moments of pause with Max just listening to the other person. He seems to get angrier the longer the conversation lasts.
“No.”
Another few moments pass.
“Wuya, no, I’m not doin it.”
With his bloodied hand, he grips the phone tighter. He hears a crack, but it’s when something unheard is said that causes him to snap.
“Tell Holo ta' meet me in Denver. I’ll be there in a week. If I ever get back ta' Baltimore and you’re still there…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
The conversation doesn’t continue, and judging by the third growl that emanates from his throat, it doesn’t conclude either.
He removes the phone from against his ear and looks down at the name of his lover…girlfriend…partner…confidante…who the fuck even knows. He looks down at Her name and with strength he hasn’t used in years, the phone folds in on itself. The screen turns colored and glitched as it splinters into shards.
He turns and tosses the phone out the window.
Better the phone than a body, I guess…
Using the hand that isn’t dripping red on the floor, he picks up the landline phone near his bed. He dials a number and waits for a response.
“Yeah, this is Max from room 605. I just wanted ta' see if there was any bars or anythin nearby that were still open.”
It takes a few moments, but when a record setting fourth growl cracks through his throat, he quickly reverts paths.
“Fine then. Is there any place still open at 3 in the mornin?”
--------------------------------------------------------
Max leans against the back of the Waffle House booth. He sips his Coke from the plastic cup. He takes a piece of his shit-tasting burger and scorfs it down.
“I’ve…given a lot for this thing we call a business.”
Before he can continue, a waitress approaches.
“Before you start talking to yourself, can I get you anything?” she asks.
Max raises an eyebrow at her nonchalance.
“Nah.”
With a shrug, she returns to passing time until she’s off the clock.
Max shakes his head before continuing.
“I’ve expressed my own remorse towards companies like CU:LT before, but it really is pretty fuckin indicative that I got this place’s logo branded on my fuckin chest. Yet I have ta’ keep on givin it more. My blood isn’t enough. My body isn’t enough. What, want my heart too?
Sorry Cas, that doesn’t belong ta’ ya’.
But…alright…even if it means facin people like Glum or Junko or Kade or even douchecocks like Datura, Killie, or Veronica, I’m more than willin ta’ do so.
But like most people when put in a situation of an unknown where they just don’t know who what they're up against, my eyes are ultrafocused on only a few names.
Sure, people like Grace and Craig can stand out as any sorta potential threat, much like a rat can still be deadly if it’s taken too lightly, but given I only know so much about all of these fuckos, I’m gonna keep my time on 'em brief.
Nobody in this company has given more than I have for Cas, barrin JD, and where the fuck did that cock-hole go? He’s not fuckin here, is he?
Dude split after givin Cas some of the best shit this company will ever see, but even he realized the cost wasn’t worth the benefit.
But I guess I’m just a sucker for punishment, or at least desperate enough. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get another blood in a bucket match or whatever and just use my own blood or some shit. Wouldn’t that be somethin…”
“Want a refill on that?” the waitress asks.
Max doesn’t realize he’s been sucking on air through the straw for the last five minutes.
“Fuck yes I do.”
His Coke is refilled, and he resumed monologuing.
“Nobody else in this tournament, from top ta' bottom, can say they bleed CU:LT, they live CU:LT, they are CU:LT.
That’s reserved for me, and even if I have ta' force myself ta' even show up, the fact that I’m still fuckin here is much more indicative of what I’m capable of versus what all of you fuckos are.
Let’s start with the World War pastiche since he’s the only one of the three left ta’ talk about that I don’t give much of a shit about.
So Killroy is here.
Is that the gimmick? Is that the pun? The wordplay?
Did I do it right or will the big scary masked guy come find me and beat me up?
Please. I’ve knocked out bigger pieces of shit in five seconds.
Hell, I’ve shat bigger pieces of shit after a bad night at that taco place down that one alleyway near Norfolk.
If the goal is intimidation ya’ve failed it. If the goal is size ya’ve failed it. The only thing ya’ didn’t fail at doin is gettin my attention, and as Johnny (don’t worry I’ll get ta’ ya’) or Lis can tell ya’, my attention is the last fuckin thing anybody wants.
So good job. I wanna beat ya' so bad that your eye holes start pourin out blood like a water fountain at your local elementary school.
Congratulations Killroy, ya' waste of fuckin airtime.”
Max finishes off his plate of a cheap-ass burger and hash browns. He uses his glass to wave to the waitress for more Coke.
“So…let’s talk about Addy instead.
The ballistic bitch who can wander inta’ hell and make Henry Kissinger piss his pants.
We’ve been through this before. She’s overly sexual, I wanted ta’ tap that, it’s like with what I went through with Lis only more overt and less…controversial.”
He hums to himself at the choice of words, but opts to continue despite his pause.
“I know Addy. I’m not worried about the two of us if we cross paths. I’m just worried about everyone else around us.
Addy ain’t no JD. There won’t be a massacre afterwards and both guys won’t have ta' pick glass outta their foreheads, but she can give her own in a situation like this.
But quite frankly, Killroy nor Addy are the people I’m inherently worried about.”
“Hey Johnny.
In case ya’ve been completely blind ta’ everythin in your brief absence (ya’ haven’t), than ya’ know I’ve been keepin my eyes on the two of ya’.
Honestly, my curiosity currently coalesces on you in particular.
That’s why we’re in the Killdozer Cup together.
That’s why I got back in with PWV despite me despisin that company’s very existence.
It’s nothin pers—
Fuck it. Yeah, it’s personal. But it’s not just beca—
Yeah, actually, it has somethin ta’ do with ya’.
Ta’ do with Holmes.
Ta’ do with…Ashley.
Ta’ do with Lis.
Quite frankly, the only reason I’m sippin Coke right now at a shitty Waffle House instead of at a bar is cause the very idea of goin back ta' these headaches and twitches and cold sweats keeps me from relapsin.
Meanwhile, the sight of a broken open window on a sixth story is lookin mighty fascinatin, ya’ know?
Whatever, ya’ don’t care. Nor should ya’. I’ve never given either of ya’ a reason ta’, yet here I am tryin ta’ get your attention like John Cusack playin Peter Gabriel. Not even sure why. Not like my career is anywhere near yours. You've got the 'big return' vibe goin still and I'm the...the stale hat.
I haven’t changed since our last meetins, so don’t expect flowers or anythin, but there’s a reason I’ve been followin ya’ around and cold-stalkin the both of ya’ for about a year now.
Somethin needs ta’ change cause this is...not workin. Not since the very moments that defined my career and my return ta’ wrestlin have revolved around the lot of ya’.
Heh.
Fuckin pathetic, right?
Yeah, what else is new for Max fuckin Daemon.
Whatever. I’m not the kinda cat ta’ not fight for somethin. And we all know what I’d be willin ta’ do ta’ win a fight, even if it’s one I don’t want.
I don’t know if I’m gonna be facin Addy or Johnny or Killroy at all. I could only be facin the scrubs I glossed over earlier.
But given I’m quickly runnin outta things ta’ lose?”
Max finishes off his final glass of Coke. He stands up, tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the table and heading towards the door.
“I’m kinda curious how many more losses I can get before I finally fuckin break.
And which one will break first: the whiskey in the bottle or the sixth-floor window.”
