Please Login or Register to get full access to the forums.

Lost Password?
Current time: 03-29-2024, 12:49 AM (time should display as Pacific time zone; please contact Admin if it appears to be wrong)                                                                


X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » War Games 2019 RP Board
Thread Rating:
  • 0 Vote(s) - 0 Average
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Deacon goes to Hell
Author Message
Deacon Offline
Registered but either hasn't added self to a roster yet or doesn't RP



XWF FanBase:
Drug addicts, rebels, weirdos

(the villain you love to hate; has cult following; may deal drugs on side)


#1
05-18-2019, 10:26 PM

"What is this place?" Through clenched teeth and heaving chest, the words barely escape from Deacon's bloodied mouth. A mouthful of blood pours out afterwards, dropping him to his knees. A man seated before him leans in, with a smile on his face.

[Image: 16586938-352-k594845.jpg]


"This--" he cuts himself off with an exaggerated clearing of his throat. "Forgive me. Old habits die hard, as they say."

"This place is...Well, let's think of it as an exit exam, shall we?"

Deacon wipes the blood from his mouth and stares at the man, agitated. "Exiting what?"

"Oh, awkwardddd. You don't remember the...?" He throws his head to the side with his eyes rolled back and his tongue hanging out as his hand raises, tightening an imaginary noose. "Let's just say you're...existent impaired?"

"I'm not--" Deacon struggles to make it to his feet, but collapses back to the ground. "I didn't--"

The man exhales loudly as he forces himself up from his seat and walks to the downed Deacon. He pulls a bag of popcorn from behind him and places a finger on Deacon's forehead. "Please respect your neighbors and silence your cellphones during tonight's feature. For brevity's sake we're just going to skip past the opening previews--although i hear Bridge to Terabitha 3 looks phe-nom-e-nal. Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present to you: Deacon Definitely is Dead."

Deacon's eyes widen and just as he summons the air in his lungs to cry out in pain, the scene goes black.

Simone Taylor sits on the cold, concrete floor. Her head sways as she gazes into the unlit abyss that has imprisoned her for weeks. Every few moments she grits her teeth and tugs with what little might she has left at the two steel chains restraining her wrists. They don't budge. They never do. Frustrated, she throws her hands back against the wall behind her, the shackle on her right wrist creating a small spark. She looks up toward her hand emotionless, noticing the small scrape on the wall behind her. A tear rolls down her cheek as she slams the cuff against the wall. Another spark. She slams her wrist repeatedly against the wall, she can feel the friction heating up the metal cuff. She pulls her arm away from the wall, tightening the chain and the cuff against her wrist. She slowly turns her wrist inside of the cuff; the sharp burrs on the cuff dig into her wrist. She gasps in pain as the blood trickles down her wrist and coats the inside of the shackle. She furiously tugs her arm downward, crying out in agony with each pull. The blood begins to stream down her forearms yet she persists, pulling with everything she has until finally her hand manages to slide through the cuff. She excitedly jumps to her feet and coats the inside of the other restraint with the blood still pouring from her gashed wrist. With a surge of adrenaline she manages to free herself of both restraints and throws herself at the door, desperately clawing at the locked handle.

And then with a loud 'click,' the door opens.

Simone hugs the wall, sticking her neck out briefly to catch a glimpse of what lurks beyond the door. Nothing. She cautiously proceeds into the darkness, carefully surveying her surroundings. As she moves down the dark corridor the camera pans back to reveal this footage being reviewed by Deacon on a security monitor. He watches intently as he watches Simone clumsily navigate the darkened corridors, tracking her every move until she finally manages to escape the building. Deacon sits back in his seat, stroking his chin with a smile on his face. "You'll be back."

-----------------

The thick smoke suffocates. The bright flashes are blinding. The popping noise is deafening. They brought war to his doorstep. SHE brought war to his doorstep. His followers scattered, the few who remained loyal fought back and were quickly cut down in an unmerciful barrage of gunfire. This was personal to these invaders, he had taken one of their own and justice was going to be served through a cold, steel barrel. The police made their way from room to room, clearing them with violent efficiency. Deacon remains in his hold, standing defiant with an hand axe in one hand and a .45 in the other. As smoke slowly billows into the room, a smile creeps across his face. Deacon raises his weapon and squeezes the trigger, unloading the full clip into the dense fog.

For a moment, there is silence.

And then a hail of gunfire is returned. Deacon convulses as the bullets tear through his abdomen; he stumbles backwards, squeezing the trigger of his empty firearm. Each click of the empty weapon is met with another bullet piercing his flesh. He falls to the ground, crawling on his hands and knees away from the door. Simone Taylor emerges from the doorway, bandaged and bruised but very much ready to end what Deacon started. She stalks him, raises her firearm and squeezes the trigger.


Click.


Amused, she tosses her firearm aside. She marches over to Deacon and turns him over with a kick to the ribs. She reaches down and pries the axe from his hand. "You son of a bitch. I'm going to enjoy this." She raises the axe high above her head and swings it downward toward his chest.






"Aaaaaaaaand you're dead." The man says with a smile as the two suddenly return to the room. Deacon sits in stunned silence, staring at the ground as the man repeatedly mimics swinging an axe.

"Then where...am I?"

"Well, that's kind of a good news/bad news scenario. The bad news? This would be Hell. Hellfire, brimstone, Joan Rivers. The whole 9."

"I don't believe in Hell."

"Yeah, that's a pretty big part of why you're down here. That and all the drugs and murdering people. Management kind of frowns on that kind of stuff. But hey, personally I think it was a great show. That one time you caved that guy's head in!? Masterful! His eyeball popped right out! And that's the good news: You may be here, but you're kind of a VIP. Most of the poor schmucks around here are just your garden variety asshole. But you? You know how to work a crowd. When I see that look in your eyes I get all moist in my nether-parts. And if you can keep me entertained, you maybe get a little less of 'ol stabby stabby over there." He motions to a bloodstained pitchfork leaning up in the corner.

Deacon scoffs as he surveys the pitchfork.

"I know, it's a little corny. But I started seeing all those cartoons where I look like a sunburned goat man and while I felt like that didn't really do me justice, the pitchfork was kind of a nice touch. So I took that sword that -he- gave me, melted it down in the fires down here, and I made that little beauty. The powers of heaven and hell, combined into one giant kitsch eating utensil."

"You like it?"


"What do you want from me?"

"What did I just say? Do you have any idea just how boring it is down here? Nobody interesting ever comes down to Hell, asshole up there always gets first pick. I haven't gotten to have any fun since I sent my nephew Barack up a few years back, I still can't believe that worked. So! Let's see if you've got what it takes. You could win gold! Prizes! Skipping sodomy Sunday! What does your little black heart desire?"

"I want to go back."

"How cliche. Nobody ever wants to stay dead. It's really not that bad, you don't have to pay rent and all the vegans have their own special wing so you don't have to put up with their bullshit. I know it's Hell and all but nobody deserves to listen to that for eternity."

"You can bring me back?"

"Theoretically, yes. But honestly I don't really want to. That over there though?" He points back to the pitchfork "That'll do it. But you've gotta earn it."

"How?"

"Well we could compare dong sizes but I doubt you have enough blood left to pump 'er up and I have guys literally worshiping mine, so that seems a little unfair. You're not a fiddler are you? Got tricked by one of those once. Hmm...how about this: I scare you, I win. You scare me, you win."


"What do you win?"

"I've already won. If I wanted to disassemble you piece-by-piece, day-after-day, I would. You belong to me, you always have and you always will, this little game of ours changes nothing. But I'm going to humor you."


"Go on then."

"Oh joy! I'll go first!"

The man leans back into the darkness and immediately a large, three-headed beast lunges out and at Deacon. The creature gnashes its fangs, saliva dropping down each set of jaws. Deacon coldly stares at the creature who grows bored and wanders off.

"Ooh unflappable! Your turn!"

"I don't have a dog."

"Just tell me what you're thinking, I'll be able to picture it. Ruler of Hell and all, comes with a certain set of privileges."

Deacon smirks.

"Diana MAXINE Ball"

[Image: avatar_2264.jpg?dateline=1552442172]

"Alright let me just search the ol' devilweb and---FUCK! What the hell is that!?" he screams as a small stream of vomit spills from the corner of his mouth.

Deacon stands and walks toward the pitchfork. The man falls to the floor, vomiting all over himself.

"Bullshit that wasn't fair!" the man cries out as Deacon wraps his hand around the staff of the pitchfork. The pitchfork begins to glow red and bursts into flames; they engulf Deacon's hand but he seems unbothered by them. His eyes begin to burn a bright red as he looks back at the man and taps the pitchfork against the ground.
-----------------

And then with a loud 'click,' the door opens.

Simone hugs the wall, sticking her neck out briefly to catch a glimpse of what lurks beyond the door. Nothing. She cautiously proceeds into the darkness, carefully surveying her surroundings.

She takes a step forward, right into the sharp points of Deacon's pitchfork. She gasps as he drives the fork into her abdomen, pushing her back into the room and down to the ground. She screams out in pain as Deacon twists the pitchfork and pulls it from her now lifeless body. Deacon hoists the pitchfork up over his shoulder and walks away as Simone draws her final breaths.

This time there would be no war.
-----------------

The man sits back in his chair, laughing to himself as a dark figure approaches from behind.

"Sir I do not wish to question you, however, that power in a human's hands...it could destroy everything. He could build an army, he could even challenge you."


"He doesn't want Hell. He wants Earth, humans are short sighted like that. And I want him to have it, I want him to raze it to the ground. We both know that I can't step foot up there, but he can. And I'm going to let him do all the heavy lifting for me. And you're going to see to it that his tiny human brain doesn't fuck this all up for me. Get up there, keep an eye on my investment."

"Sir...Earth, I've never been there."

"I recommend the sushi." He says before snapping his fingers. The entity behind him disappears into a cloud of smoke.
-----------------

"My soldiers!" Deacon sits upon a throne in front of nearly one hundred men, all hanging off his every word. "We are on the eve of war! You have all served me faithfully and I do not expect that to change. In the coming week we shall make our presence known to the world when we spill the blood of the unworthy at War Games."

"You are faithful. You are loyal. But, you are not enough." The men quietly murmur to themselves. "But fear not! I can make you better. I can turn you into warriors with no equal! You will face your enemies and they soil themselves in fear at the very sights of you. Your sacrifice, each and every one, will not go unrewarded. First we wage war against those who would oppose us, and then we wage war against those who would oppress us. My brothers, we will rule Heaven and Earth. We are the new gods. Take a knee my brothers, and from you I will create an army the likes of which this world has never seen before."

With a roar, the room of men simultaneously drop to one knee. Taking pleasure in their allegiance, Deacon's eyes glow red as he taps the pitchfork against the ground. The men all drop. Deacon sits in silence as a small figure emerges, stepping in-between the bodies of the fallen comrades.

[Image: MV5BMjcxMDYzNjc1OF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMjgw...17_AL_.jpg]

"And you are?"

"Kinda tough to explain. I did a little research on the way up here to try and familiarize myself with you humans. You know what the Stanley Cup is? Some big silver thing that gets won in a sportsball game, but there's a keeper of the cup. Makes sure it goes where it's supposed to. Think of me like that, minus the white gloves."


"I don't need your help."

"Well I don't really answer to you so..." The small man shrugs his shoulders. "I'm just gonna go 'head and make sure you don't do anything stupid." He points to all the lifeless bodies on the ground. "What's with all these--"

With the sound of cracking bones and inhuman groans, the bodies slowly start to raise from the ground. The men's faces are twisted and jagged, their eyes pitch black. "Oh, that's cool" says the small man.

"We have a war to fight."

"Yeah, I know. I did a little deep dive on you as well. War Games right? Give a guy a power greater than anything beyond human imagination and he goes to wrestling match, go fucking figure."


"The more eyes, the better."

"Look I don't care if you win or lose. It really has no bearing for what we need you for, but it's going to be really hard to hit the recruitment trail if you look like a fucking idiot in front of thousands of people. So, I'm going to help you get ready. I don't know much about wrestling but I do know character flaws and this team of babbling simps has so many I'm a little worried that they might be contractible. Can I recommend wrestling in a full body condom?"

"You already beat one of the Blackwater guys, and from what I can tell, they're all equally untalented--they're self-righteous, self-important, undeservingly entitled bags of fermented cow shit, who are too lazy to make any solid points so they resort to bushleague trickery, and they can't even manage to get that right. If I came out of a vagina with the last name of Blackwater I'd squirm out of the doctor's hands and swan dive onto the linoleum and pray my gray matter spread further than Donovan's asscheeks every time he was in the presence of Lux. Or Zane. Or Thaddeus. Holy shit this guy rides more dick than Jenna Jameson when rent's due."

"And then we have our avant-garde schizophrenic Lux. 1 body, 2 personalities, 0 reasons for anyone to give even a semblance of a fuck about anything they have to say. The one-and-only thing that sticks out about Lux is his/her/xers inability to call out a worthy challenger. Lux wishes to face EVERYONE but those who have earned it. Super pumped to see Lux versus Hector the custodian in the main event of Savage in two weeks. He/she/it stays back in the shadows until he/she/it sees a newbies who struggles signing his own name to a contract and THEN pounces like some conquering, fighting champion. I'm fairly certain there's an Indeed.com post for the XWF that states if your IQ is under 85 that Lux will challenge you before the ink will even dry on your contract."

"Brian Storm looks like he fucked his sister and then ate their lovechild. Holy shit if this guy could be any more of a hillbilly piece-of-shit caricature he'd be driving a Silverado with truck nuts and a confederate flag decal. I would be 100% shocked if he wasn't prostate deep in a billy goat and actually showed up to this match."

"Scully; I'm going to have to consult the books but I'm pretty sure God didn't intend to make human beings -this- inept. I know there are unintelligent, fat, poor, ugly ones like Robbie Bourbon whose sole existence is to make your average, balding, dad-bodded generic asshole not look like a complete piece of shit--but Scully is something different. If God truly intended to make a cretin as genetically disastrous as Scully then he needs to be judged by a jury of his peer because that is an abomination. I've spent an eternity in Hell, seen the most twisted, fucked up shit you could ever imagine--and then I heard Scully speak. Forget nails on a chalkboard, hearing him talk is like listening to your grandmother getting assfucked by a wild boar. And the fact that he and Robbie Bourbon have this adorable little blood feud is hilarious. I couldn't imagine going public with your feud against a chromosomal disaster like Scully and then not even getting the best of him. I have a very limited understanding of what Walmart is but Robbie Bourbon is definitely the kind of denizen that stalks around the clearance racks looking for cheaply made clothing while dodging name brands like he does daily showers. I don't even want to make fun of him for being fat because you can see on his face that he's ashamed of himself, rightly, but I almost want to reach out to him in private and suggest that he cut out carbohydrates and maybe get his heart rate up once or twice a month."


"Are you done?"


"Look man, far be it from me to stop you from raising your zombie army or whatever the fuck these guys are, you just need to make sure you're ready for this shit."

"I am ready. And soon, Aicha shall be too."

[Image: BiSEewb.png]
Edit Hate Post Like Post
[-] The following 2 users Like Deacon's post:
Corey Smith (05-19-2019), Rebel Star (05-20-2019)




Users browsing this thread: 2 Guest(s)