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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
Myth of Sisyphus
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Abaddon Offline
Life's a game, life's a joke.


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(booed by casual fans; hurts people; often angry)
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#1
12-14-2015, 05:03 PM



Do you feel that, Mike?

That hand wrapping around your throat, ready to squeeze.  Ready to cut off your supply of oxygen and look you in the eye as your struggle, gasping, before ultimately fading away completely.  How does it feel?  Rough?  Calloused?  Cold?  

Maybe it's the opposite.  Smooth.  Soft.  Warm.  Maybe you're ready to give yourself over to the other side because you know that every second you spend walking this earth, every single breath you take, you're one second closer to the one you dread the most.  

The very second where your entire worldview crumbles until it's nothing but ash and dust.  Where your body of lies and boasts lies face down in the dirt in the middle of the desert picked cleaned by the vultures.  Where you have to look yourself in the face and admit what you have to have always known.  

You're a nobody acting like a somebody.

You found an image you think works for you and you clutched onto it as hard as you possibly could, because you were under the mistaken impression that if you just projected that attitude enough, people would roll over and concede.  Maybe you even bought into it, if only for a second.  

Call it wishful thinking if you must.

I call it a delusion.

Just like Sisyphus.  

Don't know who that is?  Allow me to explain.

See, in the days of Ancient Greece, Sisyphus was a King.  He was thought to be the craftiest of men.  One day he traded one of Zeus' secrets in exchange for a spring to flow in his domain.  Zeus found out of course, and ordered him bound by chains in the depths of Tartarus by the hand of Death itself; Thanatos.  

What followed was almost a comedy of errors.

After asking Thanatos how the chains worked, he managed to trap Death itself in his place, and since Death was chained no one could die since it could not claim their souls.  Now, this made war pointless, pissing off everyone's favorite omnicidal maniac, Ares.  So, as any responsible War God would do, Ares freed Thanatos and then handed Sisyphus over.

See what I'm getting at?

It didn't matter how smart Sisyphus was.

It never did.  

He was a man who crossed a God and thought he could win.

A nobody who thought he could beat a somebody.

Just like you.

For all your big talk and your bravado, you aren't anything that hasn't been seen a million times before.  You're not anything that won't be seen a million times after you're rotting six feet underground.  You're the same old story told over and over again.

It's old.  It really is.  

Mr. Big Shot with the cocky demeanor and the puffed out chest stained red from constant beating who strolls around like his dick's the size of the Golden Gate Bridge all the way up until the moment he gets to live up to his inflated ego. 

They all fall the same way.

Straight to the ground.

The expression the bigger they are, the harder they fall doesn't even apply to you, Mike.  You were never even the big fish in a small pond.  Ever since the day you were born you've been nothing more than a minnow in the ocean.  

And despite this, I was content to just show up and lay an impersonal smackdown on your less-than-stellar ass then go about my business without any hard feelings because hey, ain't like ya did something to me.  

Then you did.

You opened your mouth and you decided to lob a few words my way.  

What was it you said?

I don't want to get in your way?  

Well, now I do.

Want to know what happened to old Sisyphus?

For his hubris, Zeus condemned him to an eternity of pushing a boulder up a mountain.  The catch being, every time he got close to the top, the boulder rolled away, all the way back down.  

Every.

Single.

Time.

You should've thought about that before you decided to open your mouth about me.

Because then you wouldn't have to be the Sisyphus.

And I wouldn't have to be the Zeus.

If it's any consolation, I'll take no joy in what I'm going to do to you.

Okay, alright.  I'm lying.  I will.

I'm going to take so much joy in it.

***

A trail of smoke floats upwards off the cigarette between the young man's lips.  He looks the hooded man sitting across from him over, taking a drag and depositing the ashes in a crystal Versace ashtray.  A boastful smile dots the corners of his mouth as he sees his guest look down at the ashtray, and persists as he gets a good look at his office, lavishly furnished from the Persian rugs on the polished hardwood floor all the way to the palace-like curtains that cover the windows and the sparkling chandelier hanging over the room.  

"Where's the girl you always have hangin' around ya?" he asks, his dignified appearance betrayed by his informal language.  

"Busy," the hooded man offers in response.

"That's too bad..."  The young man takes another drag before snuffing out the cigarette and tossing it in the waiting pit of the ashtray.  "Suppose we ought to get down to business, eh?"

The hooded man nods, his eyes aimed at the desk.

"You know why you're here, right?"

Seemingly annoyed, the guest looks up from the desk and locks eyes with his host, before blinking.

For a split second, the office vanishes from his field of vision, replaced instead with the site of a butchery.  In that split second, he could feel the sweltering Mexican sun overhead as it threatened to cook him alive under his trademark get up.  He could feel the weight of a knock off AK-47 in his hands, the rhythmic thumping of recoil against his shoulder as he opened fire on anything that got in his sights.  The last day in what would soon be known as seis días de sangre; Six Days of Blood.  

In that split second the sound of gunfire and screams fill his ears.  The odor of booze and gunpowder tickle his nostrils.  The sight of body after body; gangster, police, civilian, falling indiscriminately to the ground, faces twisted in fear and pain, stained red.

In that split second he feels the impotent wrath of God himself weigh down on him.

Then, as his eyes open and he stares across from the man who called him to this world of luxury, he shrugs, stonefaced behind the cowl.

"Have a pretty good idea."

"Good, good," the young man nods, glancing curiously at the man known simply as Abaddon.

"I think it's high time I introduce myself.  My name is Richard Weston Kielich, and I need you to take care of a little problem, for me.  I'll definitely make it worth your time, Mister..."

"Just call me Abaddon."

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