Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

Mr. Oz · (06-02-2016)

Ghost Tank woke up Thursday morning, grunting a little bit, inside his room, feeling the burn mostly from lifting the Reevekozuna time and time again.

"Man. That actually is making my muscles burn a little."

He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his neck, then swung his legs over the edge of his bed, and stood up. He looked at his wife, smiling as she slept. He didn't hear a peep on the baby monitor, so he went to check on Fuzen, who was also sleeping as heavily as a baby could. So he went to his kitchen, passing by the entertainment room, and when he saw the head chef, ordering a large stack of pancakes, some sausages, a small stack of french toast, and a steak with eggs. He was going to be training, and needed all the energy he could get. Training on top of special plans later in the day.

A couple hours later, he is seen in his gym, grabbing a large monster truck tire. He bent down, grabbed the edges, and then began to flip the tire, side to side. He'd do this across the entire gym, twenty times one way, twenty another. He'd do a five sets of forty reps, and then taking a break, grabbing one of those water fountain jugs, and began to drink from it, downing at least half a gallon worth and setting it down.

Next would be one two hundred pound weight with his right hand, and one with his left, and began to lift them, turning his body from a lowercase l(L) to a lowercase t as he raised the weights. He'd end up three sets of ten reps for this exercise before resting and drinking a couple cups worth of water before placing the container down.

Ghost Tank sat upon the rooftop of some cabin in a forgotten country side, drinking from a large container of water. He wore his skull mask, his scythe held upright and with the position of the scythe and the moon, if someone were to look at him, it would look like the moon had been cut in half.

Ghost Tank wasn't at this little cabin in the woods for no reason, however. This cabin was more than a tiny place in the woods where kids could go to escape and have parties and fuck. Oh no. Inside was guns, and deep below the ground, and placed in the ground near the cabin was a massive vent. The reasoning? Below ground, deep inside, was a meth lab. All the chemicals needed a place it could get sucked into and out above ground.

He saw in the distance a few trucks, and the large man laid back, both him and scythe resting against the roof. He'd hear the tires coming to a halt, kicking rocks and dirt apart. The sounds of doors slamming shut. He moved to watch them walk inside, and he'd slid off the front of the roof, dropping almost entirely silently. He stood tall, scythe held so that the blade touched the ground.

"Little pigs, little pigs, let me in..."

He shouted as he heard clicks of guns

"Who the fuck is that?"
"I don't know, I haven't heard that voice before!"
"No one?!"
"SHOOT HIM DEAD!"

Ghost Tank raised his scythe, digging the blade into the roof, and yanking himself up to the roof as bullets were fired in rapid succession, which caused the fools to shoots and eventually wreck their own vehicles, causing tires to be shot flat, bullets to pierce vital parts of making the trucks usable. He soon heard some lead footed man walk out onto the porch and scream out

"NO! WE KILLED DAHLIA! DAVE, WE SHOT YOUR TRUCK TOO!"

An upset cry sounded out

"NOOOOOO! YOU MANIACS! YOU KILLED HER! WHY GOD?! WHY DID MY TRUCK HAVE TO BE SHOT!? SHE WAS TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR THIS WORLD!"

Ghost Tank dropped down onto the shoulders of the man that went out onto the porch, and he had stood in such a way, so that when GT dropped onto him, his neck snapped upon the edge of the porch, killing him instantly. Without wasting them he rushed into the cabin, pivoting to the left and leaping towards them, and swung the scythe, cutting one man in half, and the tip of his scythe severed a second man's spine, leaving him paralyzed from the neck down.

He turned to the right, and ran fast, able to be caught by the naked eye, surely, but faster than some of them could react, as he began to rush through the cabin, charging some into the wall, slamming his shoulder so hard into one man, that his breastplate and shoulderblades had been broken, causing him to turn into a writhing and screaming mess upon the ground.

One man as Ghost Tank swung his scythe, vertically from the ground to the ceiling, slicing him in half, causing organs to spill out. When he got into the kitchen area, he had to ditch his scythe, because of how small the kitchen area was.

Ghost Tank relished the sight of blood and bits of skull were plastered upon his knuckles, and his face began to be coated in blood as he used his fists to mash faces, and with one man, he wrapped his hands around his throat, and squeezed until not only he began to asphyxiate, but his spine began to crack and break from the force being applied by those massive hands.

Now it was time to look for the fucking secret passage to the bunker, not to invade, no. While he searched, he pulled out his cell phone from the left pocket, putting it into his right hand. He dialed a number and soon he began to talk

"Yeah. I found them. Thanks for the tip. Now, how the hell do I make a bomb? Just some chemicals, right?"

Ghost Tank shook his head,

"No, I'm not a fucking idiot."

He hung up on the person on the other hand with a grunt and placing his phone back in his pocket.He looks at all the moonshine and other alcoholic bottles inside with liquid still in. He begins to tear shirts that have cotton on them, placing the teared fabric next to the bottles, then going to the cupboards, grabbing a glass and going outside, gathering some of the motor oil leaking from bullet holes made earlier. After the glass has been filled, he goes back inside, opening the alcohol, drinking some of it, dampening the cloth with some as well, leaving a little under three quarters of alcohol left, then pouring the oil into each. He dips the cloth inside, and resumes looking for the entrance. It takes him nearly twenty minutes, but he ends up finding a spot in the floor, under a bed.

"Fuck that took too long."

Now with the entrance found, he opens it slowly, silently, and walks back outside with his scythe. He begins to cut bushes and limbs from trees, and begins clogging the vents, forcing the meth gas to be trapped.

He walks back inside, places five of the molotov cocktails at the edge of the "hatch" and yells down

"You should have chosen a better life! Death comes for all!"

And with that, he pulls out a lighter, then sets the alcohol coated fabric aflame, waiting for a few seconds, until the cloth was inches from the mouth of the bottles, before he nudges them into the hole, slams the lid and runs as fast as he can out of the cabin. Barely escaping by a few seconds, the entire lab and the cabin explodes behind him, some of the debris hitting his back, causing his tank top to be lit on fire, and scorch his back.

He growled as he pulled the tank top off, and notices that what hit him, a dick that, thanks to heat, looked like a sausage that was cooked for too long, so it split apart. He let the tank top stay on fire next to the dick, as he continued to move away and the fire begins to burn bodies as well and smoke begins to fill the air.

"There's a time in a person's life, where he has to decide whether he wishes to fight. Whether he wants to win or give up right away. The ones that stand and fight, even if it's a losing battle, are the legends people speak of. The ones that run, are called cowards. But, those that run away, from a battle that will be lost, but end up having a better life than most; are they truly cowards? They didn't die, but lived, and went on to have children, build businesses, make things that people love to use or admire in their homes. Fix the things that become broken.

Are they truly cowards? Or are they actually the people that knew they had a talent, and didn't waste it so they could die a senseless war or in some brawl?

Now, where am I going with this, some might ask.

Macbeth, you've been the only loss on my return record, thus far. The only one. Everyone else has been destroyed or broken.

Cain has not returned, or well, he's made his presence known. Emerick is dead, thanks to me. I killed Shade and Lane forced him and Hope into being my servants. I destroyed Anarchy, I claimed its title, I killed Reeve's brother, apparently. Don't know how that's not against the rules and even if he won, I should still be declared the victor, since Reeve didn't compete. Either way. I am finally going to be facing you for the second time.

This time, there's stakes. Not for me, though, because even if I lose to you, Macbeth, I still have a second guaranteed shot at any non-Universal belt.

You, on the other hand, you lose the Hart title. You go straight to the back of the line. Just like you've learned about the tag titles. You lost, time to go to the back of the line. The Hart championship, is the only thing left keeping your little group going. It's the only thing I feel, will keep you going.

And that is why I must take it, Macbeth.

Not just to be declared a double champion, but to let it be known that I am not a beast that should be trifled with. I am not some insignificant gnat that can easily be swat away. I am the alligator, hiding in his waters, barely seen, only to snap and tear apart your legs when you get to close.

I am a machine of Death. I am the the incarnation of Death, placed upon this tiny little world to do just one thing, and one thing only: destroy.

The screams are returning, Macbeth. This time, they're growing louder. Oh yes, they're getting louder.

Can you hear them, Macbeth?

CanYouHearTheScreams?

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Death Comes For All
Author	Message