Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

SpineTwister · **01-01-2015, 06:25 AM**

OOC, mainly to mods: This hopefully goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway because it's easy for things to be misinterpreted on the Internet.

My character, among other things, is a bitchy elitist technical wrestling purist. He hates hardcore, weapons, multiple-person, etc. matches, like the Shove-It gauntlet match and the triple threat. So when he's booked in these, he's going to whine and moan and heel it up and slag all over the booking and the matches as stupid and low-rent and a circus and whatnot.

Please do not interpret this as in any way reflective of my actual feelings as a player. No passive-aggressiveness here, just RPing a douchebag heel. I had a great time at Shove-It, am awestruck by the amount of hard work put into it, and look forward to the upcoming triple threat.

Now back to your regularly scheduled (and, post New Year’s Eve, brutally hungover) trash-talking.

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

Bakersfield, California. XWF House Show -- the preliminary circuit before converging on the Staples Center in L.A. for Monday Madness.

The X-Tron lights up. A video package begins to play, a recently assembled series of footage to mark SIMON LYSTER, "THE SPINE TWISTER'S" Monday Madness debut.

LYSTER, not scheduled to wrestle, emerges from the back. His 6'2", 265# blocky frame is shrouded in a long black overcoat. Underneath he wears a Prada dress shirt, Versace pinstripe slacks, Italian shoes. Accompanying him are his three SUBMISSIVE valets. #1 wears a white latex nurse's uniform and surgical mask, the whole ensemble splattered with blood and accoutered in bloody bandages reminiscent of Japanese guro-lolita subculture. #2 wears a fairly classic fetish getup of black PVC corset, red latex thong, fishnet stockings, and latex fuck-me boots, but accentuated with a full cervical brace and neck collar. #3 wears a full zippered gimp-style hood and latex bodysuit, all in dark electric blue. She lurches to the ring on open-cuff forearm crutches and wears a body brace.

LYSTER enters the ring, the SUBMISSIVES getting in with greater or lesser ease according to their gear. LYSTER takes the mic from STEVE SAYORS.

"Dismissed," SUBMISSIVE #1 says to SAYORS.

"Dismissed," SUBMISSIVE #2 says to SAYORS.

"Dismissed," SUBMISSIVE #3 says to SAYORS.

SAYORS takes the hint, leaving the ring to LYSTER. LYSTER begins to speak.

"Once again, despite being a submission specialist, I am booked in a ludicrous spectacle more conducive to idiot brawling than to the display of actual wrestling technique.

"I'd almost suspect conspiracy, but I'm a believer in Hanlon's Razor: 'Never ascribe to malice what can be explained away through incompetence.'

"Might be irrelevant, though, because I'm not sure where my opponents are.

"Perhaps the Secret Masters of Atlantis swooped down in their UFOs and abducted DUNCAN B. DEADLY to the Bermuda Triangle along with Bigfoot and the cryogenically preserved head of Elvis.

"Perhaps TYROIL SMOOCHIE-WALLACE went out to his local and got his arse kicked in a bar fight against rugby players. You know: real men playing a real sport." [CHEAP HEAT BOOS from the US audience.]

"I am a professional, though, and I have done my due diligence on my opponents. Looked at the footage, tried to ascertain their motivations.

"Needn’t have bothered. Predictable. Titles. Pride. Dominance. The usual lowest-common-denominator squirt of reality-TV feculence. Mister DEADLY vomits some New Age psychobabble atop it, but same old, same old, really.

"Gentlemen: Perhaps this little cat-spray of territorial pissing is significant against the previous competitors whom you have faced.

"You have not faced me.

"Confucius said, 'The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right name.' So let me impart some wisdom to you.

"I am a sadist. That's not especially noteworthy in a place like the XWF: a stinking reptile house of emotionally crippled sociopaths trying to alpha-hump one another.

"Specifically, in my case, though, I am a sexual sadist with a paraphilia to inflict debilitating neck and back injuries.” LYSTER pauses momentarily, embraces SUBMISSIVES #2 and #3, taps them affectionately on their back and body braces.

"I know, accept, and embrace this. To this end, I have acquired black belts in sambo, judo, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. As I mentioned, I am a submission wrestler first and foremost. While a man cares little for the reverence of worms, I am typically ranked among the elite in my chosen category. At Christmas Shove-It, I submitted a dangerous fighter in a three-way match, while the third opponent was still up and fighting, and came within a tenth of a second of breaking an immortal.

“This time -- despite Mr. DEADLY's claim of being heir to Atlantis' secrets -- I see no immortals here. And I need only one submission, not two, to win.”

LYSTER looks directly into the camera.

"Thing is, though, I'm not really here to win. As you define win.

"I am in this federation for one reason: Being a professional wrestler allows me the luxury of indulging my urges free of legal entanglements. Plausible deniability.

"That is all. Breaking men is my sole motivating drive.

"I don't care about my spot on the card. A shark doesn't care at what depth in the ocean it hunts so long as prey is to hand.

"I don't care about win-loss records. Victory is ephemeral, quadriplegia is forever. If I face you ten times and you beat me nine of those times... which will, of course, never occur... then you're 9-1 and in a wheelchair and I'm 1-9 and being fellated while sexually aroused by your MRI scans.

"I don't care about titles. Tawdry, smegma-stained little trinkets passed back and forth like cheap rentboys in a desperate circle-jerk for validation. You princesses can play with your tiaras all you like. The only belt count of any meaning to me is the number of medical support braces I make the NHS haul out of inventory.

"In short: WALLACE, DEADLY: You have no means of psychologically dominating me. No means of physically intimidating me. And nothing to offer me except 33 cartilage-encased chunks of bone stacked from your neck to your arse."

LYSTER raises his large, callused hands, extends the fingers.

"My finishing hold, a modified jiu-jitsu spine lock incorporating a neck crank, doesn't have a catchy, flashy, marketable name. It's called the Paralyzer, and it does exactly what it says.

"I don't want to leapfrog you on the title-chase daisy chain. I don't want to embarrass you. I don't even especially want to hurt you -- quite the opposite, I only give you pain to take away your pain. I want your mobility. Your agency. I want to prove to you that you are not men, just soft spineless invertebrates.

"Sometimes it's fun to prolong the game. Sometimes an opponent's plea of submission scratches my itch for the day." (At this point the SUBMISSIVES begin chanting in unison, in a cold hollow whisper, a barely audible background refrain: "Submit... submit... submit... submit...." This continues for the rest of the promo.) "Sometimes my kink runs to psychological instead of physical ruin: A man up and walking around but forever knowing the fact he's still up and walking was entirely at Simon's whim.

"Therefore, sometimes I'll release the Paralyzer at the five-count.

"And sometimes I won't.

"You'll know. The referee's admonishment, the crowd's gasp, the announcers' outrage drowns in the throb of your trapped blood pounding like a jackhammer in your skull and then that delicious wet grinding snap-snap-snap.

"I'll press my crotch into the small of your back, modifying the hold so that the spasm from the dislocation of your lumbosacral vertebrae ripples through your pelvic meat in such a way as to bring me to orgasm at the moment you rupture.

"To bring us to orgasm, actually. As the hangmen of old knew well, acute crippling trauma to the neck and spine induces immediate and powerful sexual release. 'Angel lust,' the ultimate orgasm. It'll be our little intimacy, my gift to you gentlemen, one last spurt of life and vigor before you fall into the living tomb of your own flesh. We'll lie on the mat together, covered in sweat and jism – slugs wallowing in our slime, at peace with what we are.

"Then for you, alas, to the emergency ward and on to the care of the state. A vegetable, warehoused for decades, forgotten. All your dreams of victories and titles and awestruck fans traded for a catheter, a bedpan, and a morphine drip.

"Actually, not entirely forgotten: I'll keep your footage. It'll be archived for posterity. From time to time I'll play it on my dojo wall while one of my entourage assumes its role before me, servicing me from the front. Another will insert a finger, tongue, or other object into my rectum to stimulate my prostate gland. A third will take the cat-o'-nine-tails off the wall and flagellate me until my back is in tatters. And I'll think fondly of you, rotting away, a number on a nurse's chart in a nameless disability ward.

"But prior, right at the end, as the first tingle of neurogenic shock hums through your soon-to-be-useless flesh, as the last orgasm you'll ever have cracks through your cooling meat, I'll whisper into your ear your name.

"Not DUNCAN B. DEADLY.

"Not TYROIL SMOOCHIE-WALLACE.

"Your right name. The name Confucius would give you:

"'Cripple.'"

The SUBMISSIVES change their chant to: "cripple... cripple... cripple... cripple.... cripple…", continuing as LYSTER leaves the ring and slowly walks back up the ramp.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode 33
Author	Message