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

Lost Password?
Current time: 03-29-2024, 12:09 AM (time should display as Pacific time zone; please contact Admin if it appears to be wrong)                                                                


X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » High Stakes Battle Royale RP Board
Haus: Part 1
Author Message
Corey Smith Offline
Active in XWF



XWF FanBase:
Some of everyone

(cheered; very rarely plays dirty but isn't lame either; many likable qualities)


#1
11-05-2020, 04:50 PM

Last Week

Corey Smith arrived at night when the house breathed easiest. He dropped his bags at the door and spent nearly an hour wandering it’s halls like a revenant, drinking in the feeling of utter absence there. It was antithesis to the gratifying absence he felt when he awoke from his coma and found The Engineer gone. No, this was a different kind of absence. A stultifying absence that insisted on itself, feeling like a paltry oily sheen concealing something vile beneath.

Indeed, the measure of the house resonated on an almost subsonic level. Beneath the spectrum of human sensation the house worked at you, tweaking your nerves, blanketing you in unease. The place just felt haunted, but without the trappings of Victorian era stylings, cobwebs, and candelabra’s. No, this place was all whites, blacks and polished chromes, a modern brutalist infliction on the land that screamed of the sort of soulless ambivalence that mirrored directly the life of it’s former inhabitant.

Corey didn’t open any of the doors, not at first. First, he got the general lay of the land, circling the property until he found himself back again in the sleek main room with it’s leather sectional sofas and immense modern looking fireplace. A portrait of Madison hung above the fireplace, a naturally tacky ode to egomania that featured her sitting in a large golden chair, spine stiff and haughty, with a white bear skin rug beneath her feet and dim laurels above her head. Corey canted his head as he looked at it. As he HATED at it. He had to turn away when he found his teeth starting to ache from all the grinding his anger wrought.

The dark flow of the house carried him back into the expansive kitchen area. The place Madison was shot and killed. It was preternaturally clean, all signs of the violence that occured here seemngly undone, stricken from the record in a manner of speaking. Though Corey knew that was untrue. He spotted something then, a pinpoint , a speck, over one of the kitchen cabinets. It was high up. He first thought of clambering onto the countertops, but soon thought better of it given the tenuous nature of his leg’s recovery. After about 10 minutes, he happened upon a large step stool in a pantry just off the hall jutting out from the kitchen. It was tall enough to afford Corey a closer view of this aberration. It was a speck of blood, no more than half a centmeter at the center. The boy scowled at it, hastily dismounting the step ladder in a way that resonated deep and painfully up his leg. Girding against the pain, he was taken by a frenzy of frustrated action, flipping open cabinets until he found a bottle of cleaner beneath the sink. Ripping a paper towel from the dispenser then, he remounted the step stool and set to work on erasing the speck of blood, plunging it back into the great nothing where the rest of the murder resided. Corey put his back into it, scrubbing furiously at the tiny area, intent on it’s utter extinction. He was ultimately successful.

He took a moment to consider the cleaned area from the ground before tossing the paper towel haphazardly onto the counter. It was about then that the resonance returned, something deep and indescribable about the environment that stood counter to his body’s rhythms, a stymying vague discomfort that pulled Corey again further, deeper into the house. For some reason he could feel his frustration building again. He found himself walking the halls and throwing open doors now, scanning the interior of the rooms before moving on, looking for something but not knowing quite what he was looking for. But with each door pulled open, he found his dread mounting, as though he was getting closer and closer to some unknown destination. The house wanted him to SEE. Surely the notion was absurd, and Corey tried to purge the absurdity all the while he fervently obeyed it under the rational guise of checking the lay of his land. But who was he kidding.

It still wasn’t his.

Open. Shut. Open. Shut. The manse held 30+ rooms, but he felt as though he had opened so many more doors than that. As though he was caught in some kind of nightmare where the house just kept growing and expanding to accommodate the full range of his anxiety. An anxiety that continued to climb as he was pulled closer and deeper inside.

Until finally, he inexplicably knew he was where he was supposed to be. Standing behind a door quite like the others. Corey thought he could hear a contented sigh in the distance and his heart skipped a beat. Before conscious thought could dictate action, Corey found his hand wrapped around the door handle and inside….inside…..

….he knew he had arrived at the house’s black heart.

[Image: 8a5e35ede20fcad3b4b1a90b6bb742251-thumb-medium.jpg]


It was a paean to hate. A dark organ pumping bile through the veins of the house. Corey started to sweat, overcome by a dizzying array of feelings as he tentatively stepped into the room. The walls seemed to bow in and out, ever so slightly, as though BREATHING now. The blood rushing in the young man’s ears started to sound disturbingly like a heartbeat, his own or the house’s he wasn’t sure. He almost ran headlong into a mannequin wearing an officer’s uniform. It tottered but didn’t fall. Glancing up at the mannequin’s stoic face, it seemed as though it’s lips were gently upturned into a mocking smile, its hollow eyes twinking with a vindictive malice that seemed to say “look upon these works and despair”. With a spike of anger, he pushed the mannequin aside, and this time it hit the floor, one of it’s arms coming out of socket in a display that now seemed somehow ghoulish.

Again, like a dazed spectre, he walked amongst the rows. Glass cases stretched out before him wih more Fascist memorabilia and he found his anger continuing to grow the more entrenched he came to be. And then he was upon it. A single glass case. Off by itself. The young man came closer, at first unable or unwilling to understand what was within. It was a pile of small shoes and slippers, tattered and yellowed with age. No one piece of footwear seemed to have a match. And they were so, so small. So...so….so…..

Corey’s chest heaved, and he was caught off guard by a deep sob that seemed to rend him from the inside out. Tears filled his eyes and he opened his mouth to speak out against the horror but no words would or could suffice. The rage took hold again then, blinding and indiscriminate. Like a whirlwind he threw himself into the wanton destruction of this room. And every so often the twinkling of broken glass sounded like jeering laughter beneath the pitch of his rage fueled howls.

After an hour or so of lost time, he was once more facing Madison’s portrait. Corey’s arms were pockmarked with small cuts where the glass from the cases bit him. He was drenched in warm fluish sweat, fists balled tightly at his sides as he beheld the portrait of Madison again. But something was off, something was not right. Because now there was the head of a serpent peeking out from beneath her throne ever so slightly. The rest of it’s coiled body was lost to shadow, just that sleek angular head and penetrating eyes. It had to have been there before...it had to have….

He stumbled back towards the kitchen for a glass of water, and to his horror saw that the small spot of blood he had scrubbed away was back. With another slightly larger spot to its left now as well. Corey braced himself on the counters as his entire world spun. Gasping and feeling as though he was about to vomit, he threw himself at the double doors leading to the outer terrace where he was sick in the yard.

When he finally turned back to the house, the lights from within seemed akin to hellish embers, as though the whole of this place was burning from within. But always JUST burning, never to be destroyed.

Corey shivered and felt like he had inherited hell.

NOW


We see Corey dragging the aforementioned portrait of Madison Dyson out onto the lawn. Behind him, a raging bonfire licks the night sky.

Hey folks, don’t mind me, just taking care of some trash.

Reaching the bonfire, we see a Nazi flag charring and curling at the edge of it. Corey tosses the portrait into the flames, causing them to engorge for a moment. He tosses his arm up and takes a step back from the heat. Then, taking a seat in a lawn chair, he addresses us while watching the flames.

First off, house has been going GREAT. His eye twitches.But we’re not here to talk about the house, nosiree. It’s everybody’s favorite time: IT’S TRASH TALK TIME! He turns towards the camera now, his tired expression now alighting with genuine enthusiasm.

Boy there were a lot of people who had something to say about yours truly. But once again, I’m making a distinction between people just playing the game and…...DOUCHEBAGS. Hell some of the people who said mean things about me I’d be fine with as Universal Champion. Some of them are just confused. Like Robbie Bourbon, who pronounced “months of grueling physical therapy” like “vacay” or Champ Sportsman who pronounced “months of grueling physical therapy” like “ducking Sarah Lacklan.” Or guys like Barney Green who called me a twink. Actually, Barney isnt confused. He called me pretty. I mean, I’ve always considered myself a twunk personally, but I’ll take what I can get. Thanks ‘Barn.

Good shots guys.
Corey flashes them a thumbs up. But it’s on to the meat and patatahs, because it’s time foooooorrrrr…...

THE TOP FIVE DOUCHEBAGS COREY WANTS TO ELIMINATE


Now, I can’t NOT start with the guy who soiled his diaper so hard when he watched my promo that he cut his ENTIRE trash talk on ME. I’ll try not to use too many swears so as to not offend thine virgin ears.

So, James, it seems like you may have a case of the dummy dumbs, because that whole “frame of reference” dealio? Had nothing to do with your respect for the XWF old days and everything to do with you rolling in here with part 13 of 300 of your requisite “wrestle angst” back story. You want to talk about cliche? Maybe we should dial back on social services because child abuse so consistently pumps out badass wrestlers like you. Was EVERYBODY abused? EVERYBODY?!

Corey throws his hands out in exasperation. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe you can’t help being what you are because of your trauma. I know the feeling. Minus the fact that you get nervous when it’s time to make change and I don’t.

In fact, while we’re waiting for you to rember that quarter=”big” and nickel=”little big”, let’s talk about another of your dummy dumbs. Like despite your wealth of knowledge of the XWF you honestly believe you’re “the only real competition I have.” Which is just PATHOLOGICALLY incorrect. I’ll tell you who my real threats are in this match. In order of badassery.

1)Doctor Louis DeVille
2)Dead tie between Robbie Bourbon and Thad Duke.
3)Champ FUCKING Sportsman. Did you know he’s the champ of EVERY sport?! Jesus, we’re all doomed!
4)Atara Themis. Because it’s really hard for me to wrestle with a teepee in my pants.
5) Maybe that Alias guy...? He might even make the list soon. Fingers crossed!

Where are you on the list? Probably where the rest of the “angst ridden dull as dishwater trash talkers” go. At the BOTTOM. Because you have slipped down to number five on my list.


Corey casts a quick glance at the fire to make sure it’s not out of control. He scoots his seat back a few paces though because it’s getting hot.

I’m gonna stop talking to James Evans because he can’t hear me anymore because I lied about the swears and his ears are full of blood. Instead, I’m gonna give a shout out to Louis DeVille, who is now number ONE on the douche list!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. DeVille’s been quiet lately. But that’s the point. The creepy bastard is so confident he doesn’t need to say anything. And anyone who knows ANYTHING about the XWF knows this monster threads destruction whenever he wants. I’m not fellating him, I’m stating a fact. And anyone who doesn’t see that and prepare for that is going over that top rope, or into the phantom zone or wherever the fuck that guy comes from.

He’s a beast. But he comes clad in a sheep skin’s now. Telling us he’s here to save us from Chris Chaos. But we don’t need saving from Chris Chaos. The fact is that Chris Chaos is the Diet Coke of YOU. You’re the threat. You always have been and god damn ME for not making you number one on the list to start with. But it seems like I’m the only one respecting that history, respecting just who and what you are. Lux knew. And she beat you once. And now everything Lux knew, I know. You feel me?
Corey cants his head and narrows his eyes, and the fire reflects off them for a moment before he shifts his position and it’s gone.

Who else do we have? Oh KEEEE-RIST Chris Page. The man who has multiple personalities and somehow each one has all the entertainment value of long smoke laden car rides with Grandma as she drives to the Rez for the cheap cigarettes.

Chris, how the fuck you gonna dawg actual honest to God Universal Champions all the while your return here has been underwhelming, to be polite. I mean, even a hypothetical title holder who had the Universal Championship for a DAY would have more clout than you. Oh, oh, but I’m sorry Chris Page “raises the bar”, which is really just code for “loses pretty”. Good job Chris. Here’s your participation trophy. At least you’re “reliable” at that.

You say you got a lot more to say when “the time is appropriate”? What time Chris? Because there ain’t a more appropriate time than right goddamn now! You need a bit to think about what you’re gonna say? How you gonna make me shook? See, that right there is the problem. Chris Page needs TIME. He’s gotta PONTIFICATE.
Corey holds his arms out.Dude, I am the easiest target in this match. I’m an 18 year old twink (thanks again, ‘Barn) stroke victim trying desperately to distance myself from the complete fucking HORROR SHOW I used to be. PLUS, I kinda sorta used to be a lady! *snorts* The material writes itself. But Chris Page “needs a minute”. He’s gotta think about it. Just like how his reckoning is always right around that corner. Next week. Next month. Next year.

Just stick to standing in Robert Main’s shadow, ‘bro. Because God knows the bottomless pool of mediocrity that is YOU won’t ever be standing in front. Not so coincidentally, you’re still number 2 on my list.


Corey taps his fingers on the edge of the chair, the rush of adrenaline pouring out through his finger tips as he moves to the edge of the seat.
Who we got, whoooooo we got? Witness! The man who single handedly cleared out his local Spirit Halloween store the second that shit went half price. So now, we’ve been through spot number two with this Witness guy and...can anybody PLEASE tell me what this cult is about? I mean, it’s just all this vague talk of war, and light, and maybe Sunday School. I dunno, man. This is, like, the most confusing cult ever. And maybe that’s the point. To get in our heads. Make us question our preconceived notions of them. Make us uncertain just who and what they are?! GASP! Corey puts his hand to his mouth. And maybe they’re already in my head. All that “young lions” talk...do….do you think he meant me and Thad?! Oh shit! He’s right! And what is going to happen if it comes down to me and him? WHAT, WHAT, WHAT?! Corey rocks in his seat, spazzing out. Finally, he goes stock still. His features go completely flat. Oh yeah. I uhhhh, said I was giving the win to Thad. He shrugs. Simple as that. And sure, maybe you don’t believe I’m that kind of benevolent. But then again, isn’t that what all cult leaders need their flock to believe? That true benevolence is a fantasy? That others are a danger, an unpredictable quotient, whose only salvation lies oh so conveniently in YOUR arms?

Save it. I WAS that guy. Or was forced to be his passenger at any rate. And it’s all horse shit. All of it. You’re not some enlightened scion supping from some hitherto unknown font of knowledge. You’re just another man. A dangerous one. Number 3 to be exact.


Corey perks up, as though reacting to something off camera.

What’s that? “Who’s number four?” Ah shit. Number four….number four….

And then, it hits him.

Graves. He scrunches his nose up. EW! For posterity.

He collapses back into the chair. Now I must rest, for I grow weary of talk of douchebags. He settles into the seat, and as the camera pans back to include the fire. You see something rising in the smoke that Corey doesn't seem to notice. It's....it's....no, it's nothing....

[Image: animated-smoke-gif-tumblr-10.gif]

[Image: CoreySig6A.png?width=270&height=406]
Edit Hate Post Like Post
[-] The following 8 users Like Corey Smith's post:
(11-06-2020), "Loverboy" Vinnie Lane (11-05-2020), ALIAS (11-06-2020), Atara Raven (11-05-2020), Doctor Louis D'Ville (11-05-2020), HeavensToBetsy (11-19-2020), Marf (11-05-2020), Thunder Knuckles™ (11-05-2020)




Users browsing this thread: 2 Guest(s)