Post by phrq on Apr 19, 2022 14:35:33 GMT
There is nothing. No sound. No sight. Just nothing. A void exists around us or perhaps is us. There is nothing. Nothing but a feeling. Dare we call it a ‘vibe’ out of fear of being associated with the type who use it to describe everything. From colors to cars. But this vibe isn’t something you post a photo of on the gram. This doesn’t get you likes. It gives you chills.
We exist in this darkness, this lack of anything true, for what seems like an eternity. And then it dissipates. Light breaks in a straight vertical line, forming two horizontal ones at the base and peak of the original line, and then it fills out into an oblong column of white light. And then something, or someone, darkens the center of it.
Moving closer toward us, the silhouette becomes defined by the light behind it, and it is massive. 6’4, over 200 pounds, and built for suffering. Not it’s. But others.
It’s lengthy arms reach out in front of it and the familiar click of a pullstring light is heard, but no further light is supplied. His arm twists as his hand adjusts the bulb, and again, the introduction of light effects. This time not as strongly, but more revealing.
Standing with his arm still in the air, Vincent Black looks about the area at his feet, scanning the random boxes, duffle bags, briefcases, and other containers littered about. This bunker, as some would refer to it, was built behind his home in REDACTED, so as to keep certain items safe from his children, and vice versa.
Just by looking he knew what was in the particular container. The round green one with the lock on it was the bear trap he’d dropped ‘whats-his-face’ into back in WFNW. The long thing tube held the barbwire cane he had slapped that one dude in the mouth with back in MWA. Each container held an item and each item told a story. And he could see them all and hear them all. All except the one he came to retrieve.
Vincent placed his hand on the back of his head, and pushed back with his head as he pushed forward with his hand. It was a neat little trick a chiropractor had showed him, and it often cracked his neck while also clearing his mind. And it did just that. Both of just that.
Pushing boxes and bins and bags out of his way, Vincent stepped into the dark, and after a beat, emerges with a small black case about as long as a femur.
“What’s that?” says Vhodka Black, who had walked down the stairs quietly the second Vincent stepped into the shadows. “Did I scare you?”
“Not currently. And this is my first love.”
“I am this close, Vincent.”
“It’s my axe handle. Back when I first started, every deathmatch idiot had his own weapon. This guy had a martial arts stick, this asshole had a crutch. One guy used to bring a garbage can of them, because one wasn’t enough. But me, I had this. Figure I should at least bring it out with me, if nothing else.”
“What else is in here?”
“All my deathmatch shit. That container…” Vincent says, pointing to a large bulbus plastic container on the floor. “That’s a toothless bear trap. Just two large pieces of metal that snap together, won’t cut your leg off but might just fracture it a few times. And that…” he points to a small case, abou the size you’d expect a handgun to be in. “That’s my tenderizers. Two knuckledusters with steel plates on ‘em. Perfect for swelling a mother fucker up. And that, over there…” Vincent points to two very large green hands, sitting in the corner covered in dust. “Those are hulk hands I bought my son, and literally 14 minutes later both of his sisters had fat lips. You can have those if you want.”
Vhodka slowly nods and then quickly grabs them and puts them on. “There is a lot of shit down here.”
“Yea well. We all have stuff in our basement. Mine just happens to be shit to hurt people with. When the kids were born, I had all of this in the house. Didn’t think it was wise. So I moved it to here when I had the chance.”
“Are there any other fun things down here? Besides you, I mean.”
“We’re not fucking down here, it’s disgusting. Plus I never cleaned most of this stuff so there’s definitely some super disease from all of the people who bled on them.”
“Ok fine. I’m gonna go wait in the car then and google where we can get a decent slushie.”
“Yes it’s so very hard to find good syrup over ice.”
Vincent smiles. That’s it. He smiles. This isn’t something he’s used to or anyone who knows him is used to. See Vincent has spent a very good amount of time denying himself things that he wants because it was drilled into him that he didn’t deserve it. Or that he simply was mistaken for believing it was possible. But mostly the first one. But not anymore.
Now, Vincent is married to a woman he loves. He’s back in a business that he had thought left him behind. And he’s genuinely a happier person.
And now that he’s happy it’s time for someone else to be fucking miserable.
Because Happiness is a zero sum game to Vincent. He believes that is why pursuit of happiness is promised instead of the achievement of happiness. Because the obtaining of happiness, is not so easy. If it was, you would not have to find it, it would find you. But there is a limit to the amount of happiness in this world, and the more others deplete it the less there is for you. That’s why you’ve got to claw your way to it. Rend flesh from bone until the happiness you seek and the laugh that bellows from you drowns out the screams and cries of those who dared to interfere.
A fooll would concentrate on the quantity without considering the quality, so let’s not be foolish. Your happiness is for one reason and his is for another. Does your happiness lessen his? Does your ability to smile devalue his? To you, maybe not. But to him, maybe so. You are smiling because you have won a vacation, and he is smiling because he got a good cup of coffee. Certaintly we can’t both be ‘happy’, can we? No. We can’t. He can.
If anything in this world was going to explain Vincent Black, this was it. This was what drove him. To not only achieve what he wants but to make it very clear that no one else was to, either.
Coming to terms with that, Vincent Black pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it onto a container. He opened the camera and hit record.
“I’d ask you forgive me for the low quality of my location, but I don’t care for forgiveness. And I don’t care for your displeasure in my surroundings, either. It’s a basement. They’re meant to be dark. I say it’s ‘a’ basement, because it is not my basement. Not anymore. Friend of mine owns this property now, and lets me keep this storage cellar. He ‘lets’ me because he doesn’t know it is here, but that’s no ones concern but my own. The only concern we share is what exists in the basment. And there is a lot.”
“I first joined this business out of neccessity. Like most of us, I’m sure. I was unhappy with the MMA promotion that I was working for, on account of them firing me and banning me for life, which was rude to say the least. So I came to wrestling. Wrassling, as I once referred to it exclusively. I can remember being disapointed in myself. This was foolishness. It wasn’t fighting. It was slap boxing with theater kids that also took steroids. It was performative.”
“I was wrong, obviously. What I actually sought, I found here. Amongst the performers and the rejects. I found a calling. And then one day, I stopped answering. It wasn’t needed anymore, I told myself. I had surpassed my use for it. I had kids now. Children. I had a successful book, a very well liked band that played the best shitholes on the east coast, and I’d even taken up painting. And had been incredibly successful at it. I made just as much money out of wrestling than I had in it. And I was happy. And then, I ran into a…problem.”
“You see, when you write a book, you can hit the keys as hard as you want, and you can really put all of your anger and violent tendencies into it. And when you write songs you can make them sound like the devil itself rose from the flames to chant these lyrics for you forever. When you paint you can push that brush into the canvas like a knife into flesh and it will send red oil based paint in seperate directions just like…just like…you know.”
“But they don’t scream, do they? The keys you hit, they don’t beg you to stop. There is no expression of sheer horror upon the face of the canvas as you press the brush against it. There is no reaction, no reward for your effort. Not like this. Not like this at all.”
“So I came back. I came back and I tried. I ‘tried.’ Tried to do what all the others were doing. I became the fan favoirte. I became the guy that sold t-shirts. Or my impression of him, anway. It was a bad impression. And the more I tried, the less i wanted to. See, the new guys, they are all about feelings. They wanna connect with people. They want to be seen as the guy next door only he does fighting, too! Wooo. What a guy. That ain’t me. I ain’t it. And I am just about tired of pretending it is.”
“You want feelings from me? How about rage? Rage is a feeling. How about Hatred? And blood lust? And absolute joy over the fact that your bone is now visible through your flesh!? That is who I am, and who I was always meant to be. It took me far too long to realize it. I admit that. But here’s another thing I admit; You’re going to wish it took me longer.”
“When they look at the climb that I’ll make here they’ll tell tales of it. Should I shoot to the top, that will tell one story. The story of easy successes and simple victories. But should you, or any of you, find the ability to slow me. Then that will tell a much different tale. A tale of a man who could not be stopped. Who could only be slowed. And even then, only to a pace that was still too fast for any other to deal with. That’s the new legacy I plan on building. And it starts with you, Caleb.”
“Caleb who I know nothing of, other than his name. Caleb who I am sure is a legend somewhere, somehow, yet is on the undercard with me. Caleb who has torn through this many or that many fearsome opponents, yet is against me in a stipless match for nothing but a confidence boost. Caleb Hart, who isn’t aware that to me, he is not a concern. He’s a distraction.”
“A distraction from the person I came here for. A pitstop on the way to being the man I once was. You wear suits nicely, Caleb. I think you’ll wear a full body cast just as well.”
Two men stepped down the stairs, ‘Gray’s moving company’ embroidered on their shirt.
“What are we taking, Mr. Black?”
“All of it.”
We exist in this darkness, this lack of anything true, for what seems like an eternity. And then it dissipates. Light breaks in a straight vertical line, forming two horizontal ones at the base and peak of the original line, and then it fills out into an oblong column of white light. And then something, or someone, darkens the center of it.
Moving closer toward us, the silhouette becomes defined by the light behind it, and it is massive. 6’4, over 200 pounds, and built for suffering. Not it’s. But others.
It’s lengthy arms reach out in front of it and the familiar click of a pullstring light is heard, but no further light is supplied. His arm twists as his hand adjusts the bulb, and again, the introduction of light effects. This time not as strongly, but more revealing.
Standing with his arm still in the air, Vincent Black looks about the area at his feet, scanning the random boxes, duffle bags, briefcases, and other containers littered about. This bunker, as some would refer to it, was built behind his home in REDACTED, so as to keep certain items safe from his children, and vice versa.
Just by looking he knew what was in the particular container. The round green one with the lock on it was the bear trap he’d dropped ‘whats-his-face’ into back in WFNW. The long thing tube held the barbwire cane he had slapped that one dude in the mouth with back in MWA. Each container held an item and each item told a story. And he could see them all and hear them all. All except the one he came to retrieve.
Vincent placed his hand on the back of his head, and pushed back with his head as he pushed forward with his hand. It was a neat little trick a chiropractor had showed him, and it often cracked his neck while also clearing his mind. And it did just that. Both of just that.
Pushing boxes and bins and bags out of his way, Vincent stepped into the dark, and after a beat, emerges with a small black case about as long as a femur.
“What’s that?” says Vhodka Black, who had walked down the stairs quietly the second Vincent stepped into the shadows. “Did I scare you?”
“Not currently. And this is my first love.”
“I am this close, Vincent.”
“It’s my axe handle. Back when I first started, every deathmatch idiot had his own weapon. This guy had a martial arts stick, this asshole had a crutch. One guy used to bring a garbage can of them, because one wasn’t enough. But me, I had this. Figure I should at least bring it out with me, if nothing else.”
“What else is in here?”
“All my deathmatch shit. That container…” Vincent says, pointing to a large bulbus plastic container on the floor. “That’s a toothless bear trap. Just two large pieces of metal that snap together, won’t cut your leg off but might just fracture it a few times. And that…” he points to a small case, abou the size you’d expect a handgun to be in. “That’s my tenderizers. Two knuckledusters with steel plates on ‘em. Perfect for swelling a mother fucker up. And that, over there…” Vincent points to two very large green hands, sitting in the corner covered in dust. “Those are hulk hands I bought my son, and literally 14 minutes later both of his sisters had fat lips. You can have those if you want.”
Vhodka slowly nods and then quickly grabs them and puts them on. “There is a lot of shit down here.”
“Yea well. We all have stuff in our basement. Mine just happens to be shit to hurt people with. When the kids were born, I had all of this in the house. Didn’t think it was wise. So I moved it to here when I had the chance.”
“Are there any other fun things down here? Besides you, I mean.”
“We’re not fucking down here, it’s disgusting. Plus I never cleaned most of this stuff so there’s definitely some super disease from all of the people who bled on them.”
“Ok fine. I’m gonna go wait in the car then and google where we can get a decent slushie.”
“Yes it’s so very hard to find good syrup over ice.”
Vincent smiles. That’s it. He smiles. This isn’t something he’s used to or anyone who knows him is used to. See Vincent has spent a very good amount of time denying himself things that he wants because it was drilled into him that he didn’t deserve it. Or that he simply was mistaken for believing it was possible. But mostly the first one. But not anymore.
Now, Vincent is married to a woman he loves. He’s back in a business that he had thought left him behind. And he’s genuinely a happier person.
And now that he’s happy it’s time for someone else to be fucking miserable.
Because Happiness is a zero sum game to Vincent. He believes that is why pursuit of happiness is promised instead of the achievement of happiness. Because the obtaining of happiness, is not so easy. If it was, you would not have to find it, it would find you. But there is a limit to the amount of happiness in this world, and the more others deplete it the less there is for you. That’s why you’ve got to claw your way to it. Rend flesh from bone until the happiness you seek and the laugh that bellows from you drowns out the screams and cries of those who dared to interfere.
A fooll would concentrate on the quantity without considering the quality, so let’s not be foolish. Your happiness is for one reason and his is for another. Does your happiness lessen his? Does your ability to smile devalue his? To you, maybe not. But to him, maybe so. You are smiling because you have won a vacation, and he is smiling because he got a good cup of coffee. Certaintly we can’t both be ‘happy’, can we? No. We can’t. He can.
If anything in this world was going to explain Vincent Black, this was it. This was what drove him. To not only achieve what he wants but to make it very clear that no one else was to, either.
Coming to terms with that, Vincent Black pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it onto a container. He opened the camera and hit record.
“I’d ask you forgive me for the low quality of my location, but I don’t care for forgiveness. And I don’t care for your displeasure in my surroundings, either. It’s a basement. They’re meant to be dark. I say it’s ‘a’ basement, because it is not my basement. Not anymore. Friend of mine owns this property now, and lets me keep this storage cellar. He ‘lets’ me because he doesn’t know it is here, but that’s no ones concern but my own. The only concern we share is what exists in the basment. And there is a lot.”
“I first joined this business out of neccessity. Like most of us, I’m sure. I was unhappy with the MMA promotion that I was working for, on account of them firing me and banning me for life, which was rude to say the least. So I came to wrestling. Wrassling, as I once referred to it exclusively. I can remember being disapointed in myself. This was foolishness. It wasn’t fighting. It was slap boxing with theater kids that also took steroids. It was performative.”
“I was wrong, obviously. What I actually sought, I found here. Amongst the performers and the rejects. I found a calling. And then one day, I stopped answering. It wasn’t needed anymore, I told myself. I had surpassed my use for it. I had kids now. Children. I had a successful book, a very well liked band that played the best shitholes on the east coast, and I’d even taken up painting. And had been incredibly successful at it. I made just as much money out of wrestling than I had in it. And I was happy. And then, I ran into a…problem.”
“You see, when you write a book, you can hit the keys as hard as you want, and you can really put all of your anger and violent tendencies into it. And when you write songs you can make them sound like the devil itself rose from the flames to chant these lyrics for you forever. When you paint you can push that brush into the canvas like a knife into flesh and it will send red oil based paint in seperate directions just like…just like…you know.”
“But they don’t scream, do they? The keys you hit, they don’t beg you to stop. There is no expression of sheer horror upon the face of the canvas as you press the brush against it. There is no reaction, no reward for your effort. Not like this. Not like this at all.”
“So I came back. I came back and I tried. I ‘tried.’ Tried to do what all the others were doing. I became the fan favoirte. I became the guy that sold t-shirts. Or my impression of him, anway. It was a bad impression. And the more I tried, the less i wanted to. See, the new guys, they are all about feelings. They wanna connect with people. They want to be seen as the guy next door only he does fighting, too! Wooo. What a guy. That ain’t me. I ain’t it. And I am just about tired of pretending it is.”
“You want feelings from me? How about rage? Rage is a feeling. How about Hatred? And blood lust? And absolute joy over the fact that your bone is now visible through your flesh!? That is who I am, and who I was always meant to be. It took me far too long to realize it. I admit that. But here’s another thing I admit; You’re going to wish it took me longer.”
“When they look at the climb that I’ll make here they’ll tell tales of it. Should I shoot to the top, that will tell one story. The story of easy successes and simple victories. But should you, or any of you, find the ability to slow me. Then that will tell a much different tale. A tale of a man who could not be stopped. Who could only be slowed. And even then, only to a pace that was still too fast for any other to deal with. That’s the new legacy I plan on building. And it starts with you, Caleb.”
“Caleb who I know nothing of, other than his name. Caleb who I am sure is a legend somewhere, somehow, yet is on the undercard with me. Caleb who has torn through this many or that many fearsome opponents, yet is against me in a stipless match for nothing but a confidence boost. Caleb Hart, who isn’t aware that to me, he is not a concern. He’s a distraction.”
“A distraction from the person I came here for. A pitstop on the way to being the man I once was. You wear suits nicely, Caleb. I think you’ll wear a full body cast just as well.”
Two men stepped down the stairs, ‘Gray’s moving company’ embroidered on their shirt.
“What are we taking, Mr. Black?”
“All of it.”