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Post by The BombTrax on Sept 18, 2016 3:22:31 GMT
One (1) Role Play Max
Final Role Play Deadline: Wednesday September 28th, 2016 @ 10:59 PM CST
Segment/Match Deadline: Wednesday September 28th, 2016 @ 11:59 PM CST
Singles Match
Deus versus Johnny Raike |
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Deus
PAW Cub
Posts: 6
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Post by Deus on Sept 25, 2016 20:14:47 GMT
Bombtrax.
Bombtrax.
Bombtrax.
This is Deus Speaking.
The invitation is sent.
The table is set.
Your arrival is anticipated.
But this invitation comes with strings.
If you don’t show up then you’re no more than the pussies that idiot Harris makes you out to be.
It takes one to know one, they say, but that's as incriminating as it is insightful.
Or, to put it another way, you’re the cowards you take me for.
A coward for wearing a mask, Press?
Really?
A coward for playing to my strengths, of which it should come as no surprise that I know your Pure Arena better than you do. I won't hesitate to use that to my advantage the way you use surprise, dirty pool and political strings to yours.
May as well call the spider lazy, you walking mental defects.
I’m not hiding.
This is my face, asswipe.
You know that.
If you don’t know that then what comes next is going to hurt.
And if you do show up you’re my bitches for coming when called, for responding to a pathetic summons that says more about your vanity than any violent act you perpetrate.
But, now I'm just repeating the useless inanity of "Mercy" and "Sin".
The point is, I'd hate to make you two look weak.
Your penchant for responding to even the most nattering of pests does that well enough for you.
So come, hounds, wag that tail at the arrogant little mosquito I presumably represent.
I’ll feed you if you’re good too, little doggies.
You get to beat down that "monster" you beat down a year ago and everyone will look at you... yawn... and go about their damn business because is anything you two do of any true significance at this point?
But, one thing?
Make it hurt this time.
I mean really fuck me up.
Spare me your love taps.
Because you failed the last time.
At least make it meaningful.
Give me something I can use.
And another thing, make it a message you’d like a response to cause we haven’t even begun yet.
Camera on.
Blurry images shift into focus viewing through pine tree branches onto a suburban street at nighttime lined with houses and lit by streetlamps.
They seem to have a problem with heroes in this industry, Johnny.
A couple, a man and woman, pass on the sidewalk walking their dog. A golden retriever puppy almost a year old. She moves off the sidewalk to sniff at the tree and lift a leg. The camera lowers, and a gloved hand extends to gently stroke the dog's fur, then eye out through the bushes at the man holding the leash. The man frowns into the bushes, investigating right into the camera, then looks nervous and uneasy and tugs at the dog leash to compel the dog back onto their walk.
I’ve noticed it since my return, John, just as I’m sure you have too.
The view steps out from the trees and watches the backs of the couple striding quickly down the sidewalk. The man glances back over his shoulder to see if he’s being followed, eyes us, and then walks quicker.
I saved the day, Raike. That's what I do now.
The view drifts smoothly across the otherwise empty suburban street towards a specific house whose numbers are conveniently unseen. Standing at the door, one gloved hand reveals a key.
I’m a goddamn hero.
The key is inserted and unlocks the door. And we enter, closing the door silently behind us.
You know all about heroism because you’re something of a hero too, aren’t you Johnny?
The door is locked once more and then a panoramic view of the neat and tidy living room of the quaint home is surveyed. The view fixes on a television and moves towards it.
When you’re not getting your shit kicked in, (twice, as the bargain bin Harley Quinn Halloween Costume is so apt to record for posterity,) you’ve taken it upon yourself to inform the masses that I wasn’t there all those main events you headlined so valiantly before the new class showed up and started degrading you.
That’s where you’re wrong.
I was there.
The view glances down at the darkened torso of the figure the camera is attached to. From inside the zipped up suit comes a DVD Box Set Collection of Wicked, #1 to 16. Gloved fingers slide lovingly along hard to discern black letters across the face of the DVD collection. At best, in the glare of light shining through the front windows, are the words: signed, your biggest fan....
I even got mine signed, John.
I watched every episode.
Over. And over. And Over.
I know these matches better than the people who fought in them.
Even your favorite episode, Raike.
DVD #4 is slid out of the box. The stark BANNED logo emblazons across the customary images. It is inserted into the player. The view activates the television and shifts over to the couch and sits down to watch the taping begin.
I've watched from beginning to end, Johnny, marathon style, like the kids and their netflix, from the very first episode when you raged against Constance Church’s commentary crimes not paying you your dues or putting you over, all the way to the time Calvin Harris pretended not to know your name and refused to put you over the second time, and you raged like you always do, cried, bitched and moaned.
I love coincidences, Johnny, don't you?
The Tapanga Britt versus Tyler Keenan match goes into full swing as the gloved hand finds the Fast Forward button on the remote and speeds to the end where Lola slides into the ring to help raise Keenan's arm in victory.
This bit is my favorite.
On screen, Tapanga Britt hurries to exit the ring only to get her hair caught by Lola, who promptly straightes Tapanga Britt up and tosses Tyler Keenan some brass knuckles.
Oh well. Such is the unforgiving life of a hero, right Johnny? Such is the mantle you took up when you chose to be the source of adulation for all the freaks, fuckbois, and faeries and seemingly lost your happy thought.
You remember, the forgotten, don't you?
On the screen, Keenan has dropped the brass knuckles and decided to exit the ring instead leaving Lola to drop Tapanga Britt and begin shouting at Tyler Keenan to return.
The ones who fall by the wayside, John.
On the screen, at the top of the ramp, Tyler Keenan comes face to face with Stevie Harris holding his noose.
The voiceless you claim to be the voice for.
Stevie continues down the ramp threatening violence to the cornered Tapanga Britt. Former PAW Security Chief 4Loco storms down the ring to put a stop to it before it begins and sends Stevie and Lola away from ringside.
The problem is, Raike, their story is your story, and you’ve always chafed against that fact, cowered in a metaphorical bomb shelter of expected and assumed accolades and self-fashioned pedestal.
Is it not ironic then how many of your opponents and those who cross your path treat you the same way those you represent are treated, and every time you rage against it, is it not also no small coincidence that you're just as ignored and cast aside like those who look up to you?
The real question is, do you even have a right to complain or rally against anything anymore, Raike, especially now that you’ve got your title shot?
The one you told me I couldn’t have before you had your turn, because you earned it after all, and then went ahead and lost it.
Like every single one of your opponents before me you fail to give me appropriate credit. I played good little house monster, I gave you your turn. I stood conveniently aside and gave you your due at Press’ vaunted title. I even cleared the path to ensure you could move for it unimpeded.
I'm a fucking hero.
On screen, the PAW logo has cut to Johnny Raike roaring through a megaphone at his kissing booth. The view rises off the couch to get closer to the television.
I was there through every single match and segment. I watched the slow, gradual decline of Johnny Raike, how dare you accuse me of anything less.
Johnny on screen is advertising, the volume on the television is low.
Johnny Raike: “The time to hesitate is through, ladies and gentleman, listen to the words of Jim Morrison, step right up to the booth and let us light your fire! That's right, the kissing booth will be hosting it's star attraction, the American Wet Dream, me, for the next fifteen minutes.
I watched as the man who insisted on everyone remembering his name, the man who could dance verbal circles around any comers and do the same in the ring and trade blows with the best of them, became the man who let himself get overshadowed by lesser minds and talents.
I saw it all, Johnny.
I'm the Christof, and you my Truman.
The gloved fingers slide along the screen, along Johnny Raike's face as he strikes up a conversation with "Hungry" Jack Swanson.
But for fucks sakes, Johnny…
The gloved fingers clench into a fist.
Nova Wonder?
Twice?
The clenched fist looks ready to smash the screen, instead politely shuts off the television.
Here's leniency for you:
I never claimed to be the best.
I never wanted to be the best, I told you that title comes second to this little feud you've swept yourself into uninvited.
I walk back into this business with a winning record, but also a glaring loss that is low-hanging fruit for anyone paying attention.
I recognize that losses happen, John.
It’s not the loss that bothers me, it’s the attitude that gave birth to it.
The view scans the room more slowly. A passing car outside on the street stops the survey dead in it's tracks and peeks out through the window to see the vehicle's taillights down the road.
The same guy who stood there at Addiction and called ME out like you were standing atop some high ground and looking down at me is the same guy who had his chance to be the man he claims to be and instead just…
Gave. Up.
The view steps away from the window, switches to night vision, and proceeds into the house, towards the upstairs.
To a woman who claims to have defeated Bryan Williams…
Bryan… Fucking… Williams, Johnny.
The guy who eliminated himself from the Royal Rumble before the bell rang.
This is a woman who looked back at the match booking because fuck if she knew who any of them were, saw the participants, and claimed each of them as her personal body count in spite never touching 90% of them.
Her own bitch of a boyfriend wouldn’t honor that kind of hypocrisy, Johnny, as surprising as that sounds.
But you did.
You just took it while she accused you of being all the things she is.
That's not the Johnny Raike that fought in all those main events you're so proud of.
So here I am, once again the hero, here to save the day.
The view walks silent and ghostly up the stairs and turns towards open bedroom doors.
Here to restore the man who should have pulverized that cunt into the fucking mat before she could unite the sailor scouts.
I’m a hero, Johnny.
And I’m going to save you.
The view stalks into the first empty bedroom and glances around before moving vacantly past jewelry, and opting instead to open a drawer revealing women's underwear.
Now, I don’t need to tell you it’s not an ethical industry we operate in, Johnny.
The gloved hands reach into the drawer and begin rooting through the contents. Lifting panties up to investigate and hold close to the camera.
People lie, cheat, and steal all the time.
Sometimes while being cheered.
I’m thankfully not one to shy away from operating unethically.
As the gloved fingers grip a sexy pair of thong panties and shifts towards a full-length mirror, on the dresser in a frame is a photograph of smiling Calvin Harris and Nova Wonder.
I had keys copied.
I looked up addresses.
You know me, John.
I’m resourceful. I'm creepy. I'm also a rulebreaker.
In the full-length mirror, our view now is the reflection of Deus holding up a pair of Nova Wonder's undies as if to try them on.
I figured, if I’m going to fight Johnny Raike, I may as well get into the mind of the person who beat Johnny Raike. Twice. Can't forget that important detail.
Seemingly displeased, Deus turns way from the mirror, the first-person view shifts back to the underwear drawer. The gloved hands grip a handful of panties and lift them out and pile them inside of the suit's pockets then closes the drawer.
Now, I know Nova Wonder doesn’t pay attention to anything other than herself.
It’s why she and Calvin Harris make such a lovely couple.
The picture is lifted off the dresser and viewed callously before set back down facing the wall.
I wanted to see if these two fucks would notice me fucking with their life, and what they’d do if they did notice.
The view exits the bedroom and moves into the hallway.
How badass are the baddasses, you know?
It's one fucking thing to talk, for hours, about how badass he is, but I'm not entirely unconvinced that Calvin Harris isn't just another William Henry Harrison waiting to happen all over again, you know?
If you don't know, I'm sure Calvin won't look that up, he's too smart for legitimate research.
So, I had the keys copied, and I made my way to their quaint little lovenest.
Do you think they’ll sell my actions, John?
Should I get upset when they choose not to put me over for entering their home while they're away?
Or will they call the police?
The view shifts into the unmistakable setting of a little girl's room
Big bad Nova fucking Wonder and the true supreme Badass of Pure Amusement Wrestling reduced to settling something so trivial as a tour of their home by relying on outside sources to deal with their problems?
The view drifts into the closet and shifts itself behind some hanging little girl clothez and peers out into the room, at the little girl's bed.
Could get a lot done from this hideaway, John.
And you'd still represent a freak like me, wouldn't you?
Because you're a hero like me, right?
The gloved hands slide along the little girl's hanging clothes before the view shifts out of the closet and sits down on the little girl's bed to glance around the room.
See, I’m not just summoning the big bad Bombtrax to come get me, John.
I’m aiming to bring the whole house down.
I’ll make bitches out of the lot of them, won't they be surprised, John-boy?
And then, for my next trick, I’ll bring you back from the dead.
The sound of the door downstairs opening brings the view to a stand, shifting towards the little girl's window. The gloved hands silently slide the window open, and the view climbs out, and slides the window shut before the feed cuts completely.
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Post by johnnyraike on Sept 29, 2016 1:03:11 GMT
Johnny Raike sits in the harsh yellow light of his Pure Amusement Park apartment, face dark but body bright, wearing a long nightshift in paisley. "Hi Deus. You like speaking, yeah? Well, now it's my turn to speak again. See, as an adult with dignity and respect, I can use my words without having to incapacitate someone. You'll see no use of me donning the weapon of a former conqueror, and not just because I can't remember what if anything was the weapon of Doc Powerful. The tool. Seriously, fuck that guy."
From inside comes the voice of Lorie Beth Daughton, aka Pound Cake. "You're losing the thread."
A half shadeful eye from The American Wet Dream toward the porch door. "I said listen, not commentate."
"Kay. But you are. And it's not like you can't fix it in post."
"Not when I have better shit to do- just take notes, we can discuss afterward." The Beautiful Nightmare picks up a half burned cigarette and lights up. "I heard what you said. I heard the message behind the correction of my biblical misappropriation; my atheism is well know, I swear by Freddie Mercury, Bowie dammit. You don't really care if I can give you chapter and verse. If you did, you wouldn't have noosed me into listening. Not that you needed to. If I read a letter, I'll listen up just fine if you talk to me. But you don't want that. If you talked to me, I might start to see you as human. And you can't have that."
Another drag, slow, methodical.
"See, once the initial panic subsided, once I could spare the thought to you, -I had a championship I very much wanted to win that night- I started to figure out what it is that makes you, well, you, Deusy. All this hiding in darkness, the masks, choosing a noose as a weapon against me. The fact that you always seem to have someone around to help, like a cult, oh, I can put two and two together. You're terrified Deus. That if you just came out and tried then you might not win. You're so terrified that you've gone and pulled out the ghost of Stevie Harris. Thought you could get in my mind by riding someone else's dime, huh? Yeah, not buying it."
Raike finishes his cigarette, chaining it into a fresh one. Once more a voice from inside.
"Slow down there John-boy, Deus is waiting to kill you. No need to do it to yourself."
A shuddering look from the Sissyboy Saviour. "This ain't the fuckin' Walton's, don't call me John-boy. And I was on a roll there. On topic even."
"Just saying, got to be better ways of dealing with nerves than smoking like a nuclear reactor."
"That's steam," come the thigh high thriller's not entirely patient response. "Deus, you would have me believe you are that little record skip in my memory, the escaped felon cult leader with a thing for rope. Or at least you would have me thinking of him as I fight you. But...you aren't Stevie. Say what you will about Stevie, I sure have, but he always came right at me. You guessed right that I have a space inside my brain with Harris's name on it, but you don't seem to really get why."
Johnny stubs out the cig, half smoked and sits back in his chair. He is silent for an uncomfortably long moment.
"Stevie Harris dropped me on my head three times. He left the ring, grabbed a noose, and hung me up like so much strange fruit. And I couldn't do anything about it. Not because he paid off a janitor to cut the lights, but because he had beaten me insensate. You...would if you could. I don't quite think you can."
Raike leans forward, entering better light, and begins counting on his fingers. "You don't do much face to face, you work well with fear and terror, see earlier point. You hide not just your face, but also your body. My guess is you are a women. A women with a possibly...Heavenly body? After all, it's hard for women to get taken seriously in this business. Even harder to really scare people. But get a mask, a costume, some schmucks to be seen as you a few times... why, you can have everyone looking over their shoulders. Thinking about when you mean might try to get us. You would have us be prey, darling, but we prey know how to fight back."
Johnny returns to sitting, half smirking again.
"See, I got what it meant that you attacked the French Mime Assassins. You never thought they were a danger. You just want me to know how easy it is to get to me. That my friends can't help me. But I disagree. You keep pissing off a lot of people, people who have enough professional pride to get together and take you out if need be. The Mimes, the Bombtrax, Cake and Raike. That's six right there. Think you can fight a war from the shadows once you piss everyone off?"
A little laugh from Raike.
"I first fell into all this cause a friend wanted some help against Deus. Now here I am, thinking about bringing some friends together. But first, I'm thinking about fighting the short girl in the body suit. Tata honey. See you in the funny papers."
"Funny papers, those are dead. Keep up, dude."
A roll of the eyes from Johnny.
"It's an affectation, it adds color..."
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