Chris, I gotta ask you something. It's a big something, actually. The most important thing I can think to ask after hearing you talk about me.
Where did I ever make it a point to try and impress you? Or is it that Millennial mentality of yours? Everyone exists to entertain you, and when they fail to, you lash out and throw a temper tantrum like a little goddamn girl? I'm honestly curious here. Because all I heard you say were variations of, "Oh, Abaddon's generic" over and over again. Nothing with claws. Nothing with meat. Nothing that made you sound like you had any kind of functioning testicles. Just, the same, funnily enough generic argument that anyone could formulate so long as they have a fucking pulse.
See, the saying goes "those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones" for a reason. You chucked the first stone at your window, but since you don't have the strength to even crack it, I gotta go and destroy your whole house for you.
Thank you.
On that, I'm being sincere. Believe me. See, after waiting and waiting for you to pop up and run your mouth like the idiot I knew you were the first time I listened to you spew out half formed insults and cockamamie bullshit I just about gave up on the hope that you'd air anything. See, I'm not the type to fire the first shot in these petty little verbal battles because they're ultimately pointless in the grand scheme of things.
Then you opened your mouth.
And gave me cause to fire back.
But unlike you, I ain't popping off at the mouth with an itty bitty cap gun. No, I'm coming locked and loaded with a shotgun, pointed right at the head that's housing that poorly functioning brain of yours.
Therein lies the difference between us. You're the small name, big ego type. The type to brag about every breath you take like it's some kind of grand accomplishment when the only thing you've accomplished is somehow, some way, not ending up a recipient of a Darwin Award. Then again, you did come at me with words, acting like the hard tough guy you desperately wish you could be so you can't say it's for lack of trying.
I look at you, and I see a man who has the worst of both worlds. Not big and bad enough to let your actions do the talking for you, and not smart enough to make people buy into your every word. See, if you were the latter, every single word in your little diatribe against me wouldn't ring so... hollow. There'd be a smidgen of doubt as to whether or not I'm going to destroy you come Warfare instead of the resounding "Of course I am" that exists now.
But, Chris here doesn't focus on that. He doesn't want to think too hard about the inevitable dissection that awaits him. Who would? Instead, he focuses on my antics because again, he has it in his head that I exist to entertain him. See, he talks this big game about how again, I'm generic, that actors could pull off certain things about me better than I can, that I exist for entertainment and that somehow any of that matters.
Maybe it hasn't crossed your mind yet that it doesn't. And it never will.
No matter how many times you puff your chest out and say "you're generic", "you're cliched", "you're this, that and the other thing" it doesn't matter in the slightest because this is wrestling. Beating some fucking idiot over the head with a blunt object is hardly creative, but that's exactly what I'm going to do to you and you know what you're going to do?
You're going to hit the mat, hard.
You're going to be busted open.
You're going to lose teeth.
You're going to lose the match.
Why?
Because it doesn't matter how innovative it is, getting your face beaten in with a blunt object is going to drop you like a bad habit because that's how it works. Wrestling isn't about creativity. This isn't some art competition where the most creative presentation wins, this is a bloodsport where you win by beating your opponent until they can't compete any more and then pinning their shoulders to the ground for three seconds.
You pretentious, spoiled, Millennial pussy, you want the answer for why I didn't say anything about you first? Aside from it not being my style? It's because you aren't worth my time. You weren't then and you aren't now. The only reason I'm even bothering trying to educate you here is because I don't take kindly to having some incompetent fuck poorly attempt to run my name through the mud for the stupid bullshit you called me on, like you actually expected it to work. To have any kind of impact in the slightest.
Do you think anything you've ever said was in the slightest bit original, or clever, or cutting? I ask because you've got a hard on for calling me generic.
Answer: no. Nothing that hundreds of men before you haven't already said and said better. Nothing that hundreds after you will say and say better.
You wanna see somebody who's the essence of generic? Look in the mirror.
Oh, and if you really wanted to mention my antics like they were in any way important, you'd do well to get the events right. I didn't poison no damn bartender, you . Just a heads up in case I ever get the privilege of stomping some sense into you again.
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
The reporter's eyes slid open and he jumped damn near out of his skin when he saw Abaddon kneeling over him, hand closed tightly around a fistful of his curly hair. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but he suddenly wished it'd been longer. Behind the hooded man, he could see Lilith fiddling with a brown leather wallet; his wallet.
"Wake up, Christian. It's show time."
She tossed the wallet back to him.
Abaddon let go of his hair and helped him up, leading him out of the back of the van.
A crescent moon floated in the sky, the most noticeable light in a sea full of them. Christian couldn't help but do a double take at the change of scenery. Last he remembered, they were smack dab in the middle of Ciudad Juarez and for all intents and purposes, he figured the pair didn't operate too far outside of the city limits, if at all. The last thing he expected was to wake up in a ghost town in the Chihuahuan Desert.
He didn't have much time to gawk. Lilith smacked him in the back of the head, gesturing for him to follow him as they approached an old, decrepit jailhouse. The windows had long since been broken, the glass scattered far away by winds, never to be seen again. The wooden door creaked loudly as Abaddon pushed it open, sending a shiver down Christian's spine. He backpedaled just a step, contemplating breaking into a full sprint away from these two.
Then it hit him. Where would he go? It wasn't like he knew where the hell he was with any more certainty than "in the middle of nowhere". So defeated, he followed the two into the old building.
The stench was what hit him first. Musk and death. He gagged, leaning his head out of the open door frame back into the night. He took a deep breath, and plunged his head back into the room.
For a few seconds, the room was practically pitch black. Only slightly illuminated through starlight flooding in through the holes that were once windows, which wasn't enough to make out much of anything in the room. Then, Abaddon flicked on a flashlight that Christian didn't remember seeing him carrying. The sudden flash of light blinded him for a second and he stumbled backwards, colliding with the dust drenched wall, rubbing his eyes.
He closed his eyes hard for a few seconds. He could feel his heart thumping all the way in his throat. There was no skating around it; he didn't want to look. But, he knew it'd happen to sooner or later. So, swallowing a mouthful of spit to keep from vomiting, he did.
There wasn't much to look at; the light wasn't all that bright. However, it pointed at only thing of note in the whole building. One of the holding cells, wherein sat a bound man dressed in dirty, torn clothes. His face was black and blue and red all over, swollen like a bodybuilder's bicep. As the light shone on him, he scurried to the back corner of the cell, screaming prayers in Spanish. The man's mouth wasn't in much better shape than his face; yellow and rotting, the teeth that remained hung from his bleeding gums and shuddered as his tongue pressed against them during his one-sided conversation with God.
"Hey!"
Lilith rattled the rusted iron bars to get the man's attention. He looked up at her, then immediately shot his gaze down to the floor and fell silent. She sighed in relief and reached into the waistband of her shorts, retrieving the key and sliding it into the lock. With a flicka da wrist, the cell was unlocked and she pushed the door open, stepping inside.
The man shot up to his feet and charged for the opening, catching a punch to the stomach for his troubles.
The blow dropped the man to his knees and he slumped over, sucking in as much are as he could.
"How many times have you tried that now?"
She shook her head, laughing.
"Que?"
Then, just like that, her mood shifted. Her smile morphed into a scowl and she glared down at the man, before backhanding him across the face.
A thick glob of mucus escaped his mouth and splattered across the ground. The man fell onto his side, writhing around like a spastic as she stomped over next to him, staring him down with a wildfire raging in her eyes.
"Rhetorical question, jackass."
She scanned the floor for his bound hands before slamming her foot down on his wrists, grinding the sole of her boot into his bruised and calloused flesh. With each scream that escaped his mouth, she dug her foot in further, until finally his screams bordered on deafeningly loud. Besides the screams, Christian could hear something else: laughter. She'd gone back to laughing at his futile pleas for help.
It was then that she relented. She could barely contain herself as she looked at his dumbfounded face. Christian was sure his expression wasn't far off from the hostage, except he wasn't in chains. Yet.
"Oh, I'm going to piss myself."
She wiped a tear away and took a deep breath, turning away from him for a brief second to regain her composure.
A couple of seconds later, with a smile still spread wide across her face she turned back to him, before letting her attention drift over to an empty water bottle on the floor. She pointed to it and nodded her head questioningly; her way of breaking the language barrier and asking if he was thirsty, which of course he had to be. However, he shook his head violently. Shrugging her shoulders, she stepped over him to pick up the water bottle, then did the same on her way out of the cell.
"Keep an eye on the poor bastard, will ya?"
Christian didn't even acknowledge her request, but Abaddon nodded his head and kept the flashlight pointed at the cell as she made her way out of the jailhouse. With his trembling and racing heart making him stammer, he choked out the first in his long line of questions. The most pertinent.
"Where'd she go?"
"To fill up the bottle. You enjoying the show?"
He shook his head no, almost as intensely as the man in chains.
"Looks like she wasn't right after all."
Abaddon chuckled.
"Who is he?"
"Remember what I told you about the police?"
That was only one bit of the night he wished he could forget. Before he could interject with any kind of response, Abaddon spoke up again.
"Living proof right here.
"See, this little piggy decided to play hero.
"Shot someone running with one of the cartels.
"They called us. Well, me."
"You're mercenaries?"
"I guess that's one way to look at it."
"And what's the goal?"
"Ransom.
So far, not working out so well.
Not complaining. Good learning opportunity for her.
This is her design, after all."
"You give me too much credit!"
Lilith waltzed back into the room, blushing underneath the face paint and carrying the bottle which was now filled half way with a yellow liquid. A couple seconds later she was back in the cell, unscrewing the top of the bottle and handing it to the officer. With shaky hands, he brought the bottle up to his lips and took a swig. Then immediately spat it out, gagging.
"Sabe a meada!"
She shot her eyes over to Abaddon with a questioning glance, to which he nodded.
"Drink up. It's all you're getting until we visit you again."
Giggling, she made her way out of the cell, pulling the door shut and locking it behind her. Immediately, she went for the door, shooting a wink at Christian and leaning into to whisper in his ear as she walked by.
"Just a teaser."
It wasn't until Abaddon jabbed the end of the flashlight into his back that he realized he was supposed to be going with them. As soon as that was made clear, he scrambled out the door and into the night, towards the van.
Ten minutes later they were going down the road, away from the desert ghost town and heading back towards the city.
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. Just a heads up in case I ever get the privilege of stomping some sense into you again.
