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Post by The BombTrax on Aug 14, 2016 5:46:22 GMT
SEAT OF POWER - Chapter 5
MARKET STREET POWER PLANT 365 Canal St # 3100 - New Orleans, LA 08/11/2016 – 1:18 AM
The Market Street Power Plant was over a hundred years old, built in 1905, it was a fine example of the early 20th century’s ingenuity and desire for expansion. Unfortunately, the grounds were abandoned in 1973, long before Katrina came in and ruined things further. The Hurricane had taken a mostly intact structure full of steel beams and huge aluminum power casings, and turned it into a building full of rot and decay. Now it was a hot bed for thrill seekers, urban spelunkers, and industrial historians, despite the yellow caution tape over all the gate entrances, and the trespassing signs plastered all over the grounds.
Besides those few visitors, the old place hadn’t seen many signs of life, other than those vermin who always took up residents in abandoned places. But tonight, there was something going on, and the hobos that had set up shop near the gates could hear all sorts of moaning and rattling coming from within the confines of the dark building. A particularly loud crash made the street people jump, and they looked expectantly out into the pitch with nervous, twitching eyes. Something unnatural was going on in there, and they were on the verge, despite the hour, of packing up and getting as far away as they could.
Curiosity, however, held them in place, and no matter the urging they felt from deep within their conscious, they found that they’re need to know out weighted their survival instincts.
INSIDE
Press was thrown clear through the rusted surface of one of the huge DC units, and now found himself sitting amongst a pile of copper colored powder and long since broken machinery. The shot that he had taken to put him in this position had been considerable, and he could already feel his cheek starting to swell from where the knuckles of the beast had struck his face. Didn’t matter much to him, as it would mingle in with the ones he had received at WICKED#16.
He reached through the makeshift opening his body had created, and gripped the side of the metal casing, testing it to see if it would give way. Once satisfied, he pulled while pushing forward, and stepped out, back into the fray.
The first thing he saw upon his exit was Youth, wearing dark tactical gear, his batman like utility belt, and heavy biker boots. In his left hand was a trash can lid, and he wielded it like a shield, using it to push back or to block swiping attempts when necessary. In his other hand, he held a katana whose blade had been blessed by at least eighteen religions at this point, and had one of the keenest edges that you could possibly hope to achieve. Currently, he was dancing around the main utility area, using his speed and agility to keep one step ahead of the monster.
The monster was a lycanthrope, otherwise known in modern times as a werewolf. These creatures had a storied history, one in which spanned almost every known culture around the world. Surprisingly enough, however, North America is believed to be where the werewolf was born, somewhere amongst the Native American tribes in what is modern day Wisconsin.
The story went that the spirit-god Wisakachek was roaming the woods and stumbled upon two native boys who had just tagged a deer while hunting. The god appeared to the boys as a starving wanderer, and asked if he might get something to eat. The boys shared their haul with him, and he went on his way bemused by the experience.
Months later he was near the same spot, and he came upon the boys again, but this time they looked tired and haggard. He asked them what had befell them, and they told him that hunting had become so scarce that they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Wisakachek told them that he couldn’t provide them food, but could give them the tools within which to find it, and shared some of his power with the two so that they could transform into wolves. The only condition of this great gift, was that they could never use their wolf form to harm another human being.
The boys agreed, and Wisakachek went on his way. In the years that followed, the two boys caught enough deer to feed their village many times over. The chieftain, however, felt threatened by the boys and their power, so he confronted them one day in front of the entire village. One of the boys, Matchitehew, grew angry, and transformed into a wolf and killed his chieftain.
When Wisakachek heard of this, he grew furious, and came to the village where he held the two boys accountable. Seeing that the villagers were terrified of the two boys, he banished them from the tribe. Since the one was innocent, he allowed him to keep control of his power so that he may survive in the woods as a wolf. Matchitehew, however, was cursed with no control. He would roam the day as a man, but be forced into wolf form with no control over himself at night, so that most assuredly he would never know kindness and love again for fear of destroying it.
What no one really realized, that like with all the old mythical gods, Wisakachek was an eight tier demon, one of those who had been cast out alongside Lucifer. He birthed the lycanthropes so that when a normal person became infected, they would play host to the demon that would eventually take control of the body.
Luckily for everyone, demon’s had to abide by the rules, and Legends dictated what those rules would be. Even if they were completely made up and arbitrary. Silver was the bane of many a supernatural creature, but it had a special bite for werewolves thanks to modern fiction and movies. Those were the rules, and this beast had to play by them.
The half man, half wolf, lunged at Youth, and the smaller man held his trash can lid up as the snapping jowls crashed against it.
“A little help over here?!?” He yelled in a terse voice, being forced back into a wall by the beast in front of him. It was trying to leave him nowhere left to go so that one of his infamous jives to the side would prove his last.
Press snorted, shaking the dust from his hair, and came stalking in behind the beast while reaching into his vest pocket. When his hand emerged it held a pair of brass knuckles with spikes on the end that had been dipped in silver. The werewolf was so preoccupied with the meal in front of him that he didn’t notice the big man was no longer out of the equation.
He took his time as the lycan snapped at the edges of the trash can lid, steadying his aim, and finally swinging with all his might to connect with the wolf’s ribs. The spikes dove into the flesh, and the sound of bone splitting could be heard from inside the fur. The werewolf arched in surprise from the blow, unadulterated rage echoing out of its upturned mouth.
At that same moment, the trash can shield came down, and the katana flashed out in front of Youth, opening up a sizeable gash in the beasts stomach. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound, while pieces of soft pink entrails wormed its way out of the werewolf’s body.
Youth paid the sick splatter no mind as he moved into the slippery substance to get even closer, having repositioned the katana from a slashing stance, to a piercing one. With a snarl of his own, he thrust the blade forward, catching the man-wolf between its sternum and breast bone. It slid forward like a knife cutting through butter until striking the spine, and ricocheting violently to force itself out the other side.
Another howl, this one more pain than rage, came from the beast, but Youth didn’t get the chance to appreciate his crippling blow before a fur covered elbow caught him dead center of the chest and sent him sailing back into the wall with a thud without his weapon.
Press moved forward for another hit, but the beast made a desperate bound to the left before whirling around so that it could keep both men in its sights. Two ferocious yellow eyes bored into the big man as the beast pawed at the hilt of the sword lodged in its body. Blessed or not, they couldn’t afford to make that blade silver, and if the werewolf managed to get it out, that wound would quickly heal.
Press reached down at his side and snapped to attention a Colt Python, a .357 magnum pistol that was known for putting a hole in something the size of a shotgun blast. The chamber held six silver bullets that they had crafted by a man in low town that would never ask questions. He had hoped to use this as a last resort, as the bullets were precious, and expensive, but it looked like they had just reached that impasse.
The wolf eyed the gun with a flicker of intelligence, the demon realizing that a Redeemer wouldn’t pull a weapon unless it was meant to kill. It turned suddenly to bolt, but the first shot rang out, catching it in the thigh and shattering the femur bone.
The beast dropped to the floor, mewling, looking over its shoulder in shock, contempt, and anger. But as Press moved forward at a leisurely pace, he could see something else. Terror. This bitch knew it was going back to hell courtesy of The BombTrax.
Just as Press leveled the large gun towards the beasts head, a call from behind froze him in place.
“HOLD, GOD DAMN IT!”
Press, the gun still trained at the lycan’s head, risked a glance over his shoulder where his partner was back on his feet, and wore a comically angry expression considering how he was bent over clutching his lower back.
Youth shook his head in annoyance as he straightened up with a grimace, and then strolled past the big man while simultaneously pulling a knife from his belt. The knife, like his knuckles, was coated in silver, and Press realized that Youth intended on saving some bullets, not to mention money.
As he got closer to the Lycan, it first tried to roll over and pull itself along the floor, but clawed hands on cement made for lousy hand holds, so it abandoned that to try it’s best to make one final, desperate attack. It gave a few test swipes to try and keep the Redeemer at bay, but he would have none of it as he easily used footwork to avoid the lumbering blows. Finally, when he saw his moment, he bore down on the beast, driving the business end of the knife hilt deep within its skull.
The werewolf made a whimpering sound much akin to a dog, turned it’s head to the side, and then went limp.
Youth looked over his shoulder at Press, and the big man wasn’t sure what that expression meant. Accusation. Bewilderment. Anger. Appreciation. When he finally stood up, certain there would be no more trouble out of this beast, he yanked both knife and sword free, and placed them back in their sheaths. That look, however, never left his face as he did so.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Press asked testily, staring to get aggravated.
“We can talk in the fucking car. Somebody decided to fire a gun, so we need to get the hell out of here before the cops come.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, are you kidding me? You’re pissed cause I popped one off in that ugly bastard? You have got to get over the idea that we can’t afford to do shit anymore. We’re both making really good money in PAW, especially since I became Champion, so what’re you bitching about.”
Youth turned his back on the big man, which infuriated Press even more than if he had been rebuked with a scathing comment. The beast at the young man’s feet was starting to disintegrate, but not before reverting to human form to show the two men who the person used to be. That was the demon’s way of getting one last joke in before departing back to hell.
Once the process was complete, there was nothing left but a pile of goop that would eventually sink into the concrete and look like any one of the many stains across its surface. Youth knelt down beside the mess, and stuck his hand into the goop that had once been the beast’s lower half, and fished around until he found what he was searching for.
When his hand emerged, he opened his fingers to see a rock in his palm. He spit on it, wiped the goop away with his pant leg, and when he stood he held it up to the moonlight filtering in from outside to reveal a silver nugget.
“I’ve got the bullet, so let’s get out of here.”
He walked away without giving Press a chance to say anything, and the big man huffed loudly in the darkness as he came into step behind his partner.
“You know, you’re starting to be a real pain in the ass lately.” Press surmised behind him, an edge lacing his tone.
Youth false laughed out into the darkness as they approached the exit, popping the silver nugget into one of his compartments. “Eight fucking years we worked out of flea ridden motels and ramshackle apartments, running up and down the roads without barely a nickel between us, all because you didn’t want to risk returning to a wrestling ring. You said that if we did that, we’d draw too much attention to ourselves, and it’d be a risk to the mission. Yet now, here we are, in the heart of New Orleans, big time wrestlers again, and you seem to have thrown caution completely out the window.”
By the time Youth had ended his speech, they had passed through the exit, and were making their way to the chain link fence line where they had used wirecutters to gain entry. The Pontiac was parked on the other side in an alley, and Youth could already see the moonlight reflecting off of its windshield. The glimpse didn’t last long, before a massive hand caught him by the arm, and spun him around front and center.
“That was your big idea to get back into wrestling, remember? You all but fucking begged me back in Vegas to go check out EW, and against my better judgement that’s what we did. Up until then, all I ever heard out of you was bitching and moaning about how we didn’t have anything to show for ourselves, and how I needed to loosen up and live a little. Well, god damn, here we are kid! We’re on the cusp of a wrestling revolution in PAW, T.V.’s around the corner, and we’ve got possession of their main championship. What more do you fucking want from me?”
Youth stepped up to get in the big man’s face, unsuccessfully, and spouted his retort instead into his chest. “You’re damn right I wanted you to get out and live a little and have some cash in our pockets for a change, but I didn’t know that by asking for that one concession that meant you would just fail to use any common sense. In wrestling, we’re only ever going to garner a certain amount of attention from a specific group of people. I’m fine with that notoriety, it keeps things simple. But now we’re on the front page of the newspaper, getting arrested, putting our faces out there in a negative light. Now the whole town is paying attention to where we live, what we’re doing, and no matter how good that is for PAW, it’s not good for us.”
He paused to take a step back, shaking his head while placing his hands on his hips, and wondering how in the world his partner couldn’t get what he was trying to say. “So what happens if someone see’s us out here? You fired a gun, you drew unnecessary attention to us, and now we can almost guarantee that the cops are on their way. How the fuck do we explain ourselves and all this shit we got on us. We look like something out of a fucking Rambo movie, for Christ’s sake!”
Press rolled his eyes, and stepped past his partner, continuing on towards the car in silence. Youth let his hands fall to his side, and his shoulders slumped as he turned and followed. Once they were through the fence, and back in the car, Press made his way down Canal Street in the opposite direction of the sirens that were now clearly echoing through the streets. When he snuck a glance at his partner, Youth had the look of someone who was well past vindicated.
“You don’t know that those were for us.” Press claimed.
“You don’t know that they aren’t.” Youth chided.
“Look,” Press began, irritation almost at a boiling point. “Can we not just focus on the positive every once in a while? We killed a fucking demon, sent it back to hell, came away with minimal bruises and no permanent scars, and only had to waste one bullet which you recovered and can be remade. I mean, shit, I’m on the verge of the biggest match of my career, and I can’t even catch a break from you?”
Youth snorted, sucking the spit further into his mouth that was forming around his teeth. “You’re not the only one who’s got a big match coming up. I’ve got to go up against Cross, a man who has a major hard on for the both of us, mostly because of shit you did to him. Thanks for that, by the way.”
Press couldn’t help but to snicker, as he cast a sidelong glance over at his partner. “You scared of Recoba or something?”
Youth shot the big man a dark look, and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not what I said, and you know it. For a guy who just cut a promo on Calvin Harris about his intelligence, you sure are a dumb ass. Maybe you two have more in common than you’re willing to admit.”
Press gripped the steering wheel tighter, and his jaw set. He decided to let that one go, and was content for this car ride to continue in silence until they got home for fear that they might both say something they would really regret. Youth had other plans.
“I told Munin that you loved her.”
The car came to screeching halt right in the center of Canal Street, and oncoming traffic laid on their horns as they zoomed by and around the car. Press stared straight ahead like he had just seen a ghost, and gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. They sat there for several minutes in silence, the cars passing them by spitting curses and sign language in equal turn.
When Press spoke, he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound upset. He didn’t sound like any of his usual bravado and swagger. He just sounded hollow.
“What did she say?”
Youth sighed, and hung his head. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling at the moment, perhaps shame, perhaps regret, perhaps relief. He certainly wasn’t proud of himself. Either way, the cat was out of the bag, and he might as well see it through.
“She got really upset. She wanted to know what she was supposed to do about it. She….” He paused, swallowing hard before saying this next bit. “Cried.”
Press blew out air that he had never taken in, and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Youth watched him out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to turn fully towards him for fear that he might burst into tears himself. He knew that this conversation was going to eventually take place, but he hadn’t expected it to be blurted out like a weapon. And that’s what it was. He was angry, wanted to hurt him in that instance, and so he pulled the trigger. For that he felt like opening the door and stepping into traffic.
After a while, the big man leaned back in his seat with no expression at all, and put the car back in drive. The car crept down the road until they reached the utility storage units near their apartments where they kept their gear.
Once everything was put away, they returned to the apartment at around 3:23AM. Press didn’t say anything further, but simply went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard, and went to his room. The sound of the door shutting, and the lock engaging put an exclamation point on everything that hadn’t been said.
Youth sighed again, a trait he was becoming too accustomed to, and grabbed a beer from the fridge before sitting down on the couch to watch television. He needed something to distract him from what just happened. Hell, he wasn’t exactly sure what just happened. The only thing he knew for sure, was that wasn’t the best way for Press to find out, and he only prayed that it wouldn’t affect his decisions going into Bad Moon Rising. With a sip of beer, Youth laid his head back, and felt sorry for himself.
PURE AMUSEMENT PARK Studio Production Room – Purity, Louisiana 8/13/2016 – 6:00 PM
The scene opens up to Youth sitting on the edge of the announce desk in the studio interview room in The Pure Arena. He wore a white tank top, and baggy black pants, and his P1 Flyers banged against the front of the desk as he swung his legs like an impatient kid.
His legs came to a stop, and he looked up at the camera with a disappointed expression.
“Cross Recoba. What the hell do you say about a guy like that? The BombTrax and you have history going all the way back to WICKED#2, and even then you were trying to buy your way out of things. Who in the hell would have ever thought, in your grand debut, you’d go out and buy yourself a couple of dip shits like Calvin Harris and Jack Nomad. Was it your intention to use them to help you finish what you started way back when, or was it just for the obvious shock value?”
Youth smirked a bit, shaking his head.
“I mean, everyone around these parts knows that you love shock value, Cross. Back when you would beat up helpless fans, and put them in your submission hold right in front of their kids just for your own grins and giggles. Hell, you got so good at shocking crowds, that even injured, PAW saw the value of keeping you around with your own talk show. Something to propel those storylines forward that you were no longer really a part of.”
Youth shrugged, an expression of mock sympathy crossing his features.
“Man, I bet that really ate at you, didn’t it? Seeing guys like Calvin Harris, CJ O’Donnell, Johnny Raike, even Jack Nomad, get top spots while all you could muster was standing their like a disc jockey holding a microphone. Even better were those desperate attempts to try and pay someone off to topple Press. Every time a challenger would come through the door, there you were showing them that loaded briefcase, prophesying the end of the PAW Heavyweight Champion.”
Youth chuckled, shrugging again.
“It must have been real disappointing to see Press walk away with victory time and time again. But, Cross, what you need to understand is that was preparing you for this match of ours at Bad Moon Rising, because when your music plays, and you come walking down that aisle, I promise you, the only thing waiting in that ring for you is disappointment. Disappointment in the fact that after seven months on the sidelines, you haven’t learned a damn thing about how to deal with us. Disappointment in the form of ring rust and lack luster performance. Disappointment after taking a Slow Burn, and a three count trip to Defeat Land.”
Youth’s eyes light up, and the trademark boyish grin finally makes it onto his face.
“Hey! I know, maybe I’ll talk to Lady Munin about that being a new attraction in the park. Defeat Land! We can put up statues of The Power Trio at the front entrance, and have rides like Jack Nomad’s Big, Dumb, and Ugly Play House! Calvin Harris’ Whine-O-Wheel! And finally, Cross Recoba’s Spinal Tap!”
Youth winces, sucking in air through his teeth.
“Oooo, too soon.”
Youth starts to chuckle, and holds up a single finger, going kayfabe in his own promo.
“Jack Nomad’s Big, Dumb, and Ugly Play House….It sounds like a fucked up toy for kids.”
Youth horse laughs for a minute before finally gaining control of himself, and spins his finger around in circles to signify that he’s ready to continue.
"Ok, maybe we’ll scrap all that. Bad idea. I mean, who in the hell would pay good money to see those three featured so prominently? Oh, wait, I bet you guys think that’s what’s happening at Bad Moon Rising, don’t you? You poor saps, the only reason people want so desperately to get their hands on those tickets, is because they want to watch as The BombTrax send your teeth down your throats. Damn! There I go getting your hopes up, and now we’re all the way back to disappointment.”
Wink.
“But seriously, I go back to the top of the subject matter. What do I say about a guy like Cross Recoba? I can’t just treat you like some of my past opponents, cause if we’re being honest, 100% real, you were pretty good in that ring before you got injured. That submission of yours is beastly, and can put someone out of action if they aren’t smart enough to tap. The things that people hate about you are obvious because you make them so, and in that vein, it makes it difficult to figure out exactly what to call you out on. Especially since we’ve yet to see you put your face to camera, which quite frankly, is surprising.”
Youth throws his hands out at his sides, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“You’d think a guy who’s been out for seven months plotting his revenge would be eager to get out here and tell everyone exactly what he’s going to do to me. Yet here we are, only five short days from the event, and not a fucking peep. God Damn it! It’s contagious! NOW I’m disappointed!”
Youth flashes the grin, and adds a wink to boot.
“But Cross, never fear. In my attempts to figure out what exactly I was going to say to you, I did come up with some gems that didn’t work out so well. Enjoy the following montage.”
The scene fades, with some masterful editing, to a scene of Youth standing outside the Pure Arena performing interpretive dance to the sounds of Enigma’s ‘Return to Innocence’. That, or trying to reenact the 90’s music video. Either way, a crowd has gathered, and they awkwardly chant along with the music with bemused expressions. That all changes, when he proceeds to twerk his way into a group of them, resulting in security being called to shut the production down.
The scene then fades to Youth standing in a recording studio, the microphone standing right in front of him, with a pair of headphones over his ears. He launches right into the song, and it’s obvious that it’s an altered version of ‘Back To One’ by Brian McKnight. Despite the sophisticated equipment, the voice singing sounds like a cross between a rooster and a kid with Down Syndrome.
“It's undeniable That we should fight together It's unbelievable
How I used to say that I'd fall never
The basis is need to know
If you don't know just how I feel
Then let me show you now that I'm for real
If all things in time, time will reveal
Yeah”
Eyes closed, he grasps at the air only to clutch it back with a fist.
“One You're like a bitch to me
Two
Just want to break your teeth
Three
Dude, it's plain to see
That you're never gonna be as good as me
And four
Repeat steps one through three
Five Make you bleed all over me If ever you believe my work is done Then I'll start back at one”
The scene fades once more, this time to Youth standing behind the counter of a kitchen wearing a lab coat, and holding an egg in one hand, and a frying pan in the other, just like those old PSA Commercials for the fight against drugs. Youth stares deadpan into the camera, placing the frying pan down on the burner, and turning the knob to high. He then looks at the egg.
“This is you right now Cross Recoba.”
He tosses the egg down onto the frying pan, where it shatters and begins to sizzle under the heat. His stare returns to the camera.
“This you after Bad Moon Rising. Any questions?”
Finally the scene returns to Youth in the studio, a giant grin on his face.
“Well, folks, I could try and bore you to death with more bullshit trash talk, and pointless anecdote’s, but I just don’t see how you top that.”
He throws his hands out and shrugs.
“August 18th, Bad Moon Rising, you can belittle me all you want, Cross, but when you’re staring up at the ring lights, try and remember that the idiot that put that montage together, is the same man that just put you on your ass for the 1. 2. 3! Look out, Purity, HERE WE COME!”
He tears past the camera like a crazy person, waving his hands above his head like a wacky inflatable tube man. Fade to black.
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