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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
Black Christmas
Author Message
Mercy Offline
Registered but either hasn't added self to a roster yet or doesn't RP



XWF FanBase:
Hardcore, psycho fans

(cheered for breaking rules and bones; excessively violent; creative with weapons)


#1
12-28-2021, 04:23 PM

Recap

Mercy, Amari, and Razors are followers of Madison Dyson and her mysterious new patron, Mammon. Mercy had turned on Madison, shooting her in the head after being manipulated by Doc D’Ville to do so (he, in turn, took advantage of Mercy at Corey Smith’s behest). Razors is one of Madison’s paid killers, and Amari, the clan’s newest addition, seems destined to be the next Engineer, a pseudonym that has become a title of sorts representing the cream of Madison Dyson’s foul crop.

Mercy escaped Madison’s wrath for a time (Madison has somehow hung on to life in a state that’s not quite dead or alive), but was found, captured, and lobotomized by Razors into being a docile unquestioning servant. Now, Mercy seems to have stepped up her activity in the XWF, though for what purpose remains to be seen. And, perhaps more importantly, is Mercy as pacified as Razors thinks?

And what of Amari's beef with Corey? Well, its just the small matter of Corey dropping Amari's father out of a helicopter to guarantee that Mammon left his friends and loved ones alone.



Eat my ass Thomas Kinkade.

Razors turns away from the massive veranda window overlooking gentle slopes of snow swept hills. A cabin-esque chateau is our interior shot, complete with a roaring fire in the fireplace and rustic looking furniture. He sets the binoculars he had been using to look upon the picturesque scenery down on a nearby table and walks over to the living area. Razors is wearing a shirt that reads “Power Bottoms Do It Better”, and a black leather skirt. His face is a garish assembly of painted on makeup, blackened lips and harsh red eyeliner.

In the living area, a brooding slim figure is seated at the couch, hunched over. He cuts a striking profile, with swept back braids banded together and a number of tasteful facial tattoos.

[Image: xxxtentacion.jpg?width=796&height=420&mode=stretch]


Razors sits across from Amari, hands folded onto his thighs with a vicious yet playful smile cutting into his features. Are we brooding again? Do you want some hot cocoa?

Stop it. Amari’s voice is a harsh whisper. He cants his head to the side, lost to a distant place. Go hang with your girl if you’re gonna be like that.

Mercy? Oh she’s having plenty enough fun without me.

What’s she doin’ anyway?

Razors smiles, and again it’s a profoundly unsettling thing. Chopping down the perfect Christmas tree. Happy holidays, Whisper.

Don’t call me that. Again, the low tone of voice. And it is then that you notice the haphazard scar just barely peeking up from the edge of his turtleneck. It runs across his throat like a jagged lightning strike. Look, you gonna help me or not?

“Or not.”

Fuck you, man. Amari abruptly rises to a standing position, looking as though he’s fixing to leave.

Oh come on! Surely you appreciate the difficult position you’re putting me in!

Amari meets his gaze for the first time, with deep brown eyes that smolder with a barely repressed rage. You and your fuckin’ games! Your fuckin’ head games!

This isn’t a game, Amari! Razors sounds genuinely plaintive now. You expect me to defy Mammon. Mammon, Amari!

I want Corey Smith dead! It was the closest approximation to a shout he could muster, and somehow it was no less intimidating. He clears his throat and winces painfully.

Razors takes a moment to check himself before responding. I understand that you’re…

He dropped my father out of a helicopter.

The other can’t conceal his surprise. He looks at Amari, and mouths “yikes” with the barest hint of playfulness.

So you see why this is a bit personal for me.

Razors gets up now, tossing his arms out as he makes his way towards the kitchenette. I do. But it’s no less an impossible situation. Mammon brokered a deal with Smith. My hands are tied.

You can talk to Madison.

Madison is having a hard enough time sucking oxygen, much less discussing office politics involving a scorned prince of hell. He holds up a mug. You sure on the hot cocoa?

Amari just sneers and again starts to head for the door.

You’re leaving?

Yeah. You got nothin’ for me.

Oh come on. I’m sure there are still some amusements to be had…. But the door slamming puts a period on his train of thought. Your loss… He starts to fill the mug with hot water and grabs for a packet of Swiss Miss out of the cupboard. Then, without turning around, He’s going to be a problem.

No, he won’t.

Another figure is now standing in the entryway to the kitchen. There is something unearthly about him, as though reality itself is itching to peel back from his presence.

[Image: latest?cb=20120518182813]


Why DON'T we just kill Smith anyway? He’s just a simple human boy.

You and I both know that’s not true. He is Lux’s chosen successor. She left her gifts with him. If a voice could be said to be acrid, his is. And besides, the requisite pieces are not yet in place. Killing him would garner unwanted attention at a time we are not yet equipped to deal with it.

Razors scowls, dropping the packet of hot cocoa mix into the sink as a disgusted expression plies its trade. Why him? Why Amari?

His rage.

Razors spins around, gesturing at himself. I have rage! I have plenty of rage!

Not like him. The beast’s face twitches, not so much an infirmity as a sign of unfamiliarity with the confines of his present flesh. He wants to watch the entire world burn. You want it for a playground. There’s a difference.

I don’t see much of one.

Well I do. Spoken with finality. Amari will be our Engineer. He is ready. And he is vengeful. He smiles, and it looks positively alien. It’s beautiful, in a way. I would think you of all people would recognize that much.

A Little Later….

Razors, now bundled in winter weather gear and trudging down a hilltop, spouts quick bursts of white smoke as he goes. The snow makes a satisfying crunch beneath his feet. And above his head he holds a tiger print umbrella, though there is no longer any snow falling. You’ve been out here quite some time my dear, you’re going to catch your death.

I doN’T feeL aNyThinG.

A growl of a voice trickles his way. Razors comes to a stop, looking satisfied at whatever it is he sees before him. Marvelous. Simply Marvelous. He pauses. Thomas Kinkade, Mercy. Are you familiar with him?

nO….

I wouldn’t expect you to be. He was an…”artist”....the concession looks painful for him….of some renown. The Painter of Light they called him. One of the most commercially successful artists of all time, in fact. Which should tell you something right there. In truth, he was a hack who specialized in motel artwork and feel good pablum for dullard housewives looking for a pretty thing to hang in their painfully middle class living rooms.

OH….

The only thing I can truly respect about him is that he took himself out of this world with a cocktail of booze and valium. He breathes out another bout of cold air, playfully trying to create a smoke ring out of it. But he wasn’t like us, Mercy. He wasn’t a true artist.

The shot cuts back to disclose a truly horrific sight. A middle aged man has been stripped nude, gagged, and tied up to a post. He’s shuddering for the cold so hard it looks as though he has been beset by a terrible palsy. Mucus draining from his nose has set into a fine sheen over his duct taped mouth. And, most sacrilegious of all, he has been decorated like a Christmas tree. Ornaments have been hooked and sewn into his flesh, the sharp contrast between festivity and horror creating a scene that is almost beyond sanity’s ken. Atop his head is a crown of thorns in the shape of a star. Truly a perversion of the holiday spirit in every sense of the word.

Behold! Razors gestures theatrically at the man. A truer masterpiece I have yet to see. Mercy, how are we doing?

FiNE. She reaches down and picks up a hatchet. The man, though fighting to stay conscious, takes note of this and a newly found struggle for life takes hold. He moans beneath the tape, writhing in place.

Hello Lycana. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but even my penchant for masochism can only withstand so much. You know, earlier I was talking about good old Thomas Kincade, a man who was utterly peerless at commercializing feel good pablum and passing it off as “art”. And of course, the masses, being a tasteless and banal sort, ate it up. They supped of his vapidity, gorged themselves on it. And for them, it sufficed as a meal. But for those of us who like to challenge ourselves, to reach deep within and bring forth a purer flower of artistry well….men like him are woefully insufficient.

I see a great deal of parallel between Thomas and you, Lycana.

Mercy seems to peruse the hatchet for a moment before crouching down to thigh level on the bound man. Then, winding back the weapon, she plunges it deep into his calf. The man screams beneath his trappings, his rapid breaths sucking the tape in and out in a frenzy. Razors makes a playful show of wincing at the scene before returning his attention to you, gentle viewer.

You sure you want that one Mercy? Seems a little spartan about the middle.

She doesn’t reply, instead reeling back for another thwack, and this time, you hear the distinctive crunch of the blade on bone. The man screams again, sobbing and pushing more snot from his weathered sinuses.

Hmmm, suit yourself. Anyhoo, Lycana, lotta parallels here. Lotta parallels. You like to fashion yourself as some “queen of darkness”. A paragon of evil, spitting in the face of virtue. But like Thomas, you are a hollow and commercialized thing. Print that pretty face on a t-shirt, baby, and sell it at a trendy boutique because honey, there is not a single thing about you that is not woefully contrived, trite pap trash. Every week you bombard us with your pretty white girl problems dressed in the trappings of cheap melodrama and faux menace. You scream from the mountain tops that your avarice knows no bounds, that you are something to be feared. But we both know that’s not true, don’t we?

Not even your trenchant diarrhea of the mouth could save you from another woefully inadequate performance. How many opportunities, Lycana? How many opportunities have you let spoil and rot on the vine?

Another whack, and this time the hatchet has buried itself halfway through the mans calf. Somehow, he is still conscious, but no doubt praying for the sweet release of the void. Mercy muscles the hatchet out of the flesh,dragging out clotted blood and bits of viscera and bone that splatter on the pristine snow. iT’S duLL. She notes, holding up the hatchet.

Well, you’re supposed to sharpen the blade between axe murders, have you learned NOTHING?! He sighs. Go get the chainsaw.

The man moans woefully. Mercy leaves the shot, leaving Razors alone to continue his ruminations. Hells bells woman, you’ve been in the XWF for over a year now and what do you have to show for it? A paltry XTreme championship reign that has been overshadowed by countless others? An aggressively below average record? A faction that flopped so spectacularly it will go down in the annals of XWF history as a self serious joke that failed to understand its own punchline? You’re no “Dark Vixen of Violence”, you’re a painfully inadequate trollop who substitutes hair dye for a personality.

And I know what’s passing through that tumbleweed factory you call a consciousness. “Hasn’t Mercy been around for much longer and accomplished less?” Well, that’s debatable. Because in her time, she’s competed far less often than you, and yet maintained a level of dominance in those few bouts that you could only fantasize about.

I’ve seen your promos Lycana, stretched for time as they are and chock full of petty little preening nothings about how you’re going to show the world your nothing to be trifled with. You waxed endlessly against Alias about how his time was up, how you were the key to terminating his reign, about how nothing would stand in your way.

Lies.

Falcifications.

Utter BULLSHIT.

Because just like you as a whole, your words were just as devoid of meaning. You proved NOTHING. You showed the world NOTHING aside from the fact that what everyone predicted would happen was true: that Lycana can’t beat Alias without help from her sidepiece and a blow torch.

Oh but at least you TRIED, right Lycana? At least you TRIED. Heh. Well from where I stand, I see less a woman who tried than I did a woman who was too wholescale ignorant to know when she was treading water and growing weaker by the second.

Mercy returns with a chainsaw. The man’s eyes flutter open as she revs it to life and his terrified squirming resumes anew. Mercy brings the blade to bear on his calves, and his life’s blood is rendered into a fine mist carried on the chill breeze. Finally, he succumbs to unconsciousness as she saws all the way through both his legs. He tumbles over, the ornaments affixed to his body crunching and piercing his skin as he hits the ground.

TIMBERRRRRRR! Razors called out, mimicking an echo. So, is he the one?

Mercy considers the prostrate form before her. Finally, she renders a verdict. nO.

Oh, well what a shame. He frowns. Mercy moves off camera, but the shot doesn’t follow her.

The fact is Lycana, that unlike you, Mercy has never truly been given the chance to shine. She’s spent the entirety of her existence living in Madison Dyson’s shadow, a lap dog trained to bark on command while her master paraded her about the show floor but never gave her the spotlight. Ohhhh yes Mercy did eventually rebel. A little too hard, admittedly. But now, under my careful cultivation, she is reborn anew. Stripped of the doddering humanity that tethered her to weakness. And yes, yes….she is a truly ugly, terrible thing. To you. But to me, I see the unraveling of a burgeoning rose.

Because you see Lycana, Mercy is something REAL. She is the casual horror of life on this planet writ large. There’s nothing fetching or pretty about her. She’s not some china doll with it’s legs splayed open and a gentle titter of false chastity. She’s not YOU, you shameless daft quim!

Mercy is the barest brutality. She is violence made flesh, viciousness made bone. She is the standard you WANT to reach and fail to live up to day in and day out.

We would respect you more if you were ugly. Ugly is honest. Ugly is real. Ugly is beauty. But instead you present this false face, this painterly whore’s visage, suitable for mass consumption. Welcome to TikTok girly. Fucking pathetic.

And while we’re on the topic of pathetic, Lycana, you’ve taken quite the tumble haven’t you dear heart? Main eventing pay per view bloodsport one moment and then jerking the curtain the next. It does beg the question: at what point does Lycana TRULY bottom out? Are we at your floor yet, dear? Or do you have even further to tumble? I can’t wait to see.


Razors turns back to look at the background, which is still at this point indistinct. Then, he gives a little start. Oh my goodness Mercy, I almost forgot there is a whole other competitor in this match! Here I got so busy numbering Lycana’s failings that I almost forgot.

hE’S meaT.

Oh, I don’t doubt it, but I think it would be…erm…discourteous not to at least mention him. Jay…. Razors snaps his fingers, and then grins….Omega. Our space cowboy. Greco-Roman Han Solo. Oh yesss…an interesting one. How REMISS I would have been.

Mercy, I’m loathe to admit it, but this one might actually be trouble.


HE won’T.

Ehhhh…I don’t know. I’ve heard that he’s got access to all sorts of cybernetic doodads and alien technology whatsits. He’s truly one of the strange and unusual. Admittedly, I like him better than Lycana already.

I DoN’T.

Must you be so negative? He returns his attention to the camera.

Welcome to the freak show, Jay. Would it surprise you to learn that you aren’t the strangest one here? Why Mercy herself is a model turned surgical addict with a penchant for blades who betrayed her master and was turned over to me for neurological “domestication”. Say that five times fast.

…..

Now I’m sure, this being your initial outing and all, you’re looking to make a splash! He accompanies the statement with some jazz hands. But, even with the technical wizardry at your disposal, you’re fixing to run headlong into a brick wall of pain and suffering. I can guarantee you, in all your travels, as diverse as they’ve been, you’ve never run across something like Mercy. This isn’t the product of space faring derring do. Oh no, no, no….she’s an entirely different genre.

He takes a moment to release a gust of mist from his mouth before proceeding.

You do know the origin of the term “Omega”, don’t you? It being the 24th and final letter of the Greek alphabet. And how fitting it is that you should be named after something so final. Because this is the end of your fledgling momentum before it could even start. Wrestling career in the XWF: Dead on Arrival. Sounds like something Lycana would slap on her merch.

Razors takes in a deep satisfied intake of air and turns about to look at the background. Well Mercy, should we try for another one?

YeS…. It comes out as a foul hiss.

The shot finally pans back now to reveal what had thus far been concealed. And if you had already inured yourself to the horror, well, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Because beyond Mercy’s poor misbegotten Christmas tree victims are a score of other people strung up in similar fashion, all with glistening ornaments and crowns of thorns atop their heads. A good half of them have already succumbed to the cold, their bodies now inert bags of frostbitten flesh sagging with the flow of gravity. Others are simply unconscious. And the freshest ones are wide awake, gasping in horror at what was done to victim number one.

Mercy revs the chainsaw and starts stalking towards one of the lived ones, which draws out a muffled scream. Razors looks on, satisfied. He splays his hand out in front of him, widening the space between his thumb and forefinger as though he’s living up the perfect photograph.

Marvelous!

Later….


The helicopters blades kick up plumes of fresh snow in their wake as final preparations are made for takeoff. Amari pulls his jacket about himself tighter as he crosses the helipad to his waiting transport. He throws open the door and is surprised to see Mercy seated within already.

I thought you were staying.

I Am. nEeD tO talK.

Amari climbs into his seat, slamming the door shut to cease the assault from the elements outside. Okay, let’s talk. He considers Mercy with a sort of wariness.

cOrEY SMIth.

He pauses. Yeah. And?

mAKE him SUFFER!

He leans back in his seat, smirking. I’d like nothing more. But it seems targeting him puts us at cross purposes with our patrons.

mAKE hIm wISH for DEAtH.

And how do we do that?

Mercy pulls something out from behind her. It’s a crumpled ball of paper. Amari looks at it quizzically as she hands it to him.

dESTRoY WHat he LoVeS.

Catching the hint, Amari starts to unfold the paper. On it, is a shot from afar of a young man walking down the street.

[Image: anthony-ramos-96000-in-the-heights-04.jpg]


Amari’s grin widens. It’s Corey’s boyfriend, Christian. I’ll see what I can do.

Mercy lunges for him. Amari jerks backwards in his seat, about to sputter a curse before tamping it down. Mercy places a hand on his knee.

WhAT WE cAN dO….

[Image: tumblr_pf5gevNFKB1s05hv8o3_1280.png]
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