Is Death a Requirement for This Match? (vs. JD)
Apr 8, 2022 21:14:59 GMT
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Post by Max f'n Daemon on Apr 8, 2022 21:14:59 GMT
Max Daemon is standing in the parking lot of the Glenview, Illinois Casey’s.
In one hand, he is grasping a bottle of water with the top off.
In the other, he is grasping his own palm as the water pours over the exposed wounds of his right set of knuckles.
He switches hands and begins to pour the ice-cold water on his left knuckles, also exposed in a similar manner.
He finishes the bottle by drinking the remainder of it. He tosses it into a nearby trash can before shaking off his fists.
One of the police officers approaches him, scratching their forehead.
The cop offers Max a roll of bandages.
With a grunt of thanks, Max takes them, wrapping them around his knuckles as he winces a bit from the pain.
“So…mind giving your side of things?” the cop asks.
Max sighs, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he glances up at the cop.
Huh.
Nice tits.
“I was just gettin some pizza, cigarettes, and booze when those fuckers decided ta' rob the wrong Casey’s. When I noticed the cashier had no way ta’ defend themselves, I stepped in,” he says.
The cop raises her eyebrow. She points towards Rebellion, my sword, sitting in the backseat.
“You travel with a sword like that often?” she asks.
“Only when I’m on the job. Or movin. Which I am. Movin, I mean,” he says.
She makes a noise.
“Look, we can’t technically arrest you or anything, but we can definitely advise you to get that looked at,” she says.
“Noted,” Max says with a grunt.
“And you’re going to ignore my advice, I’m assuming,” she follows.
“Not only attractive, but also smart,” he says.
The cop rolls her eyes before getting out a steno notebook. She writes some stuff on the piece of parchment before tearing it out. She hands it over to me.
“If you just so happen to take my advice, there’s the address for the nearest clinic. They should be able to get you in and out fairly quickly. No guarantees, but they’ll be able to see you within the hour, at least.”
Max takes the piece of paper, slipping it into his pocket without looking at it.
“What kind of pizza did you want?” she asks.
“Oh,” he says.
Well that was unexpected.
“Um…whatever has the most meat, is fine,” he says.
“Any preference on cigarettes?”
I thought Chicago cops were supposed to be hard asses?
Or maybe they were just thinking of something hard when one looked at their asses?
“Whatever’s cheapest is fine.”
She raises her eyebrow but nods and turns around to walk into the convenience store.
Max falls back and leans against his new car.
Why the fuck Kat decided to leave him with a 2020 Camaro is anybody’s guess, but he sure as shit isn’t complaining now.
He winces as he grips his fists.
Shit.
“Apparently Casanova has already decided that JD Driftwood is somebody ta' put the cart before the horse on.
I guess I get it. He seems ta' fit the definition of what this place is lookin for. Violent for violence’s sake. Crude and crass. Able ta' take a beatin and give one out all the same.
Shame it had ta’ come from such an inconceivably ignorant piece of shit like JD.
I can’t say I hate him like other people disgracin this roster with their presence, but unlike them, JD isn’t entirely hopeless.
No, there’s still some hope for him.
Even if he’s the kinda guy I’d only be able ta' share a fist bump or handshake with after we’ve both beaten the shit outta each other for half an hour and we’re both bleedin all over the other.
Not that I wanna do that. I might respect the guy for what he is and what he represents, but I sure as fuck ain’t gonna pin praise all over the guy.
I’ve never shied away from violence, but I’ve never outright praised the idea like I’m gettin hard over it.
I’ve never looked at the concept and reveled in executin it.
Well, I have, but only ta’ specific people
Suffice ta’ say that JD is not one of those people.
If ya’ look up one-dimensional in a dictionary, ya' probably wouldn’t find a definition, and if ya’ did, it probably wouldn’t give a picture of JD next to it, but at that point, JD has already taken the dictionary and started beatin some dude’s face in with it.
That’s how one-dimensional he is.
I mentioned it on Twitter that the dude seems ta' advertise a lotta edgelord shit.
As somebody who repped that shit constantly for years, ya’d think people would realize how out of style it is. But not JD, oh no, he revels in bein overdramatic.
If somebody isn’t talkin shit about ya’ 24/7 or thinkin on ya’ 24/7, then you’re a pussy.
If somebody isn’t in a fight with ya’ than you’re a coward.
If somebody isn’t thinkin bad things about ya’ than you’re a pansy.
Probably.
That’s the kinda fucker JD thinks he is. Or wants ta' be. I’m sure he dreams at night, and in between visions of bustin somebody’s face open and then bustin a nut nocturnal style, he sees himself as some king of carnage, some visionary of violence, some god of gore.
Now dreams…dreams are for pussies. Dreams are for cowards. Dreams are for pansies.
Dreams are what get ya’ killed, what get ya’ beat in this game.
And speakin of games, that’s all this is ta’ a guy like JD. He doesn’t give a fuck about money or success. I wouldn’t be surprised if Casanova picked him up off the side of the highway with the promise of bein able ta’ beat some poor schmuck’s eye out of their socket. He probably just got outta the penitentiary too, probably escaped and was allowed ta’ because nobody else wanted ta' fuckin deal with him.
I sure as shit don’t.
Ya’ think all of this shit’s intimidatin? That I’m scared?
Motherfucker, I have stared death in the face and spat right on its nose.
I have looked my enemies in their eyes and slapped them right in the tear duct.
I’ve seen scarier shit in my toilet after a bad night at Taco Johns.
You’re predictable. And who knows, maybe you’ll bust out some shit nobody expects and flip the script…
I’m not a soldier. I’m barely a mercenary. I guess ya’ could call me a fighter.
But above all else, I’m a survivor.
Know what that means JD?
Well if ya’ open the dictionary ya’ nearly murdered somebody with earlier, and peel back the bloodstained pages, you’ll find it means ‘ta' remain alive after the death of’ or ‘ta' continue ta' exist or live after’.
After what though?
Well, what do you think JD?
A fight? A war? A battle? A match? A massacre?
Name it, ya’ bloodstained dick flavored bitch.
I’ve been through it all and I will continue ta' go through it all again. My one consistency is that I’ve survived 'em all and will continue ta' survive 'em all.
Again.
I’ve faced demons and angels and won.
I’ve faced hordes of nobodies and won.
I’ve faced wrestlers in a match designed ta’ fuck one up, and I managed ta' survive even after gettin a vendin machine crushed on me.
JD is a fuckin farce.
All he has goin for him is this type of shit. This…violent sorta shit.
Yeah, my knuckles hurt now. They sting from fuckin up a coupla assholes' noses.
But I stood toe-ta'-toe with the best fighter in the world and went three rounds with him. I’ve literally been trainin for the last five months on how ta’ throw a punch and make it count.
A little scratch won’t keep me down. Combine that with glue and, what, glass?
Yeah, this whole idea is stupid, but fuck it, I signed up for deathmatch shit, that’s what I’ll get.
Just don’t be surprised if ya’ get what ya’ asked for.
Keyword is ‘death’, after all.
Death is nothin for me.
I mean, I’m Max fuckin Daemon.
A shitstain like JD Driftwood might pack a punch, he might be able ta' withstand a lotta punishment, but he hasn’t ever stood face-ta'-face with a fucker like me before.
And if that’s what it’ll take, than he’ll never stand face-to-face with anyone ever again.”
Max interrupted by a box of Casey’s pizza with a box of cigarettes placed on top of it being pushed into his face.
Max blinks a couple times before grabbing them.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
He sets the box on the roof of his new car. He takes the box of cigarettes and pops it open. He offers one to the cop, who shakes her head.
“Can’t smoke on the job. Thanks though,” she says with a smile.
Max smirks, putting the shit stick as his dad would call them into his mouth. He pulls out his zippo and strikes a flame, lighting the end. Once both the box and the zippo have been put back, he sucks in some smoke. He lets the smoke releases into the shitty Chicago suburb air.
He opens the box and takes a piece of sausage pizza. He offers one to the cop.
With a small noise of thought, she grabs one of the slices.
“Not that this isn't riveting, but I’m sure this isn’t the first time somebody wants ta' get away from ya' as quickly as possible, especially when you’re on the clock,” Max says.
She loses her a smile through her taking a bite of her slice.
After chewing and swallowing, she hands him a business card from one of her belt pouches.
“You should be good to go. If you have anything else you need to tell us, give me a call on that number right there,” she says, pointing to a number for her personal line. “Otherwise, you might get a call to testify on what happened here, though I doubt they’ll plead innocent to trying to rob the place when cameras have them threatening the cashier and they had guns on their person.”
Max nods, handing the cop the box of pizza. After finishing his slice, he enters his car.
She makes a confused noise as he starts the Camaro.
Max rolls down his window to let the smoke of the cigarette billow out.
“Keep it. Consider it thanks for not causin me a hassle. See ya’ around.”
Without much thought, Max drives out of the Casey’s parking lot, leaving the cop alone with a pizza box in her right hand and a slice in her left.
Once Max is back on the highway, he lets the half-smoke cigarette fly out of the window before rolling it back up.
He grips the steering wheel tighter before turning up the car’s radio to a more than acceptable level.
In one hand, he is grasping a bottle of water with the top off.
In the other, he is grasping his own palm as the water pours over the exposed wounds of his right set of knuckles.
He switches hands and begins to pour the ice-cold water on his left knuckles, also exposed in a similar manner.
He finishes the bottle by drinking the remainder of it. He tosses it into a nearby trash can before shaking off his fists.
One of the police officers approaches him, scratching their forehead.
The cop offers Max a roll of bandages.
With a grunt of thanks, Max takes them, wrapping them around his knuckles as he winces a bit from the pain.
“So…mind giving your side of things?” the cop asks.
Max sighs, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he glances up at the cop.
Huh.
Nice tits.
“I was just gettin some pizza, cigarettes, and booze when those fuckers decided ta' rob the wrong Casey’s. When I noticed the cashier had no way ta’ defend themselves, I stepped in,” he says.
The cop raises her eyebrow. She points towards Rebellion, my sword, sitting in the backseat.
“You travel with a sword like that often?” she asks.
“Only when I’m on the job. Or movin. Which I am. Movin, I mean,” he says.
She makes a noise.
“Look, we can’t technically arrest you or anything, but we can definitely advise you to get that looked at,” she says.
“Noted,” Max says with a grunt.
“And you’re going to ignore my advice, I’m assuming,” she follows.
“Not only attractive, but also smart,” he says.
The cop rolls her eyes before getting out a steno notebook. She writes some stuff on the piece of parchment before tearing it out. She hands it over to me.
“If you just so happen to take my advice, there’s the address for the nearest clinic. They should be able to get you in and out fairly quickly. No guarantees, but they’ll be able to see you within the hour, at least.”
Max takes the piece of paper, slipping it into his pocket without looking at it.
“What kind of pizza did you want?” she asks.
“Oh,” he says.
Well that was unexpected.
“Um…whatever has the most meat, is fine,” he says.
“Any preference on cigarettes?”
I thought Chicago cops were supposed to be hard asses?
Or maybe they were just thinking of something hard when one looked at their asses?
“Whatever’s cheapest is fine.”
She raises her eyebrow but nods and turns around to walk into the convenience store.
Max falls back and leans against his new car.
Why the fuck Kat decided to leave him with a 2020 Camaro is anybody’s guess, but he sure as shit isn’t complaining now.
He winces as he grips his fists.
Shit.
“Apparently Casanova has already decided that JD Driftwood is somebody ta' put the cart before the horse on.
I guess I get it. He seems ta' fit the definition of what this place is lookin for. Violent for violence’s sake. Crude and crass. Able ta' take a beatin and give one out all the same.
Shame it had ta’ come from such an inconceivably ignorant piece of shit like JD.
I can’t say I hate him like other people disgracin this roster with their presence, but unlike them, JD isn’t entirely hopeless.
No, there’s still some hope for him.
Even if he’s the kinda guy I’d only be able ta' share a fist bump or handshake with after we’ve both beaten the shit outta each other for half an hour and we’re both bleedin all over the other.
Not that I wanna do that. I might respect the guy for what he is and what he represents, but I sure as fuck ain’t gonna pin praise all over the guy.
I’ve never shied away from violence, but I’ve never outright praised the idea like I’m gettin hard over it.
I’ve never looked at the concept and reveled in executin it.
Well, I have, but only ta’ specific people
Suffice ta’ say that JD is not one of those people.
If ya’ look up one-dimensional in a dictionary, ya' probably wouldn’t find a definition, and if ya’ did, it probably wouldn’t give a picture of JD next to it, but at that point, JD has already taken the dictionary and started beatin some dude’s face in with it.
That’s how one-dimensional he is.
I mentioned it on Twitter that the dude seems ta' advertise a lotta edgelord shit.
As somebody who repped that shit constantly for years, ya’d think people would realize how out of style it is. But not JD, oh no, he revels in bein overdramatic.
If somebody isn’t talkin shit about ya’ 24/7 or thinkin on ya’ 24/7, then you’re a pussy.
If somebody isn’t in a fight with ya’ than you’re a coward.
If somebody isn’t thinkin bad things about ya’ than you’re a pansy.
Probably.
That’s the kinda fucker JD thinks he is. Or wants ta' be. I’m sure he dreams at night, and in between visions of bustin somebody’s face open and then bustin a nut nocturnal style, he sees himself as some king of carnage, some visionary of violence, some god of gore.
Now dreams…dreams are for pussies. Dreams are for cowards. Dreams are for pansies.
Dreams are what get ya’ killed, what get ya’ beat in this game.
And speakin of games, that’s all this is ta’ a guy like JD. He doesn’t give a fuck about money or success. I wouldn’t be surprised if Casanova picked him up off the side of the highway with the promise of bein able ta’ beat some poor schmuck’s eye out of their socket. He probably just got outta the penitentiary too, probably escaped and was allowed ta’ because nobody else wanted ta' fuckin deal with him.
I sure as shit don’t.
Ya’ think all of this shit’s intimidatin? That I’m scared?
Motherfucker, I have stared death in the face and spat right on its nose.
I have looked my enemies in their eyes and slapped them right in the tear duct.
I’ve seen scarier shit in my toilet after a bad night at Taco Johns.
You’re predictable. And who knows, maybe you’ll bust out some shit nobody expects and flip the script…
I’m not a soldier. I’m barely a mercenary. I guess ya’ could call me a fighter.
But above all else, I’m a survivor.
Know what that means JD?
Well if ya’ open the dictionary ya’ nearly murdered somebody with earlier, and peel back the bloodstained pages, you’ll find it means ‘ta' remain alive after the death of’ or ‘ta' continue ta' exist or live after’.
After what though?
Well, what do you think JD?
A fight? A war? A battle? A match? A massacre?
Name it, ya’ bloodstained dick flavored bitch.
I’ve been through it all and I will continue ta' go through it all again. My one consistency is that I’ve survived 'em all and will continue ta' survive 'em all.
Again.
I’ve faced demons and angels and won.
I’ve faced hordes of nobodies and won.
I’ve faced wrestlers in a match designed ta’ fuck one up, and I managed ta' survive even after gettin a vendin machine crushed on me.
JD is a fuckin farce.
All he has goin for him is this type of shit. This…violent sorta shit.
Yeah, my knuckles hurt now. They sting from fuckin up a coupla assholes' noses.
But I stood toe-ta'-toe with the best fighter in the world and went three rounds with him. I’ve literally been trainin for the last five months on how ta’ throw a punch and make it count.
A little scratch won’t keep me down. Combine that with glue and, what, glass?
Yeah, this whole idea is stupid, but fuck it, I signed up for deathmatch shit, that’s what I’ll get.
Just don’t be surprised if ya’ get what ya’ asked for.
Keyword is ‘death’, after all.
Death is nothin for me.
I mean, I’m Max fuckin Daemon.
A shitstain like JD Driftwood might pack a punch, he might be able ta' withstand a lotta punishment, but he hasn’t ever stood face-ta'-face with a fucker like me before.
And if that’s what it’ll take, than he’ll never stand face-to-face with anyone ever again.”
Max interrupted by a box of Casey’s pizza with a box of cigarettes placed on top of it being pushed into his face.
Max blinks a couple times before grabbing them.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
He sets the box on the roof of his new car. He takes the box of cigarettes and pops it open. He offers one to the cop, who shakes her head.
“Can’t smoke on the job. Thanks though,” she says with a smile.
Max smirks, putting the shit stick as his dad would call them into his mouth. He pulls out his zippo and strikes a flame, lighting the end. Once both the box and the zippo have been put back, he sucks in some smoke. He lets the smoke releases into the shitty Chicago suburb air.
He opens the box and takes a piece of sausage pizza. He offers one to the cop.
With a small noise of thought, she grabs one of the slices.
“Not that this isn't riveting, but I’m sure this isn’t the first time somebody wants ta' get away from ya' as quickly as possible, especially when you’re on the clock,” Max says.
She loses her a smile through her taking a bite of her slice.
After chewing and swallowing, she hands him a business card from one of her belt pouches.
“You should be good to go. If you have anything else you need to tell us, give me a call on that number right there,” she says, pointing to a number for her personal line. “Otherwise, you might get a call to testify on what happened here, though I doubt they’ll plead innocent to trying to rob the place when cameras have them threatening the cashier and they had guns on their person.”
Max nods, handing the cop the box of pizza. After finishing his slice, he enters his car.
She makes a confused noise as he starts the Camaro.
Max rolls down his window to let the smoke of the cigarette billow out.
“Keep it. Consider it thanks for not causin me a hassle. See ya’ around.”
Without much thought, Max drives out of the Casey’s parking lot, leaving the cop alone with a pizza box in her right hand and a slice in her left.
Once Max is back on the highway, he lets the half-smoke cigarette fly out of the window before rolling it back up.
He grips the steering wheel tighter before turning up the car’s radio to a more than acceptable level.
