Oh, how the knife's blade shone. Bright, practically glistening in the notably cold light peering in through the window behind the desk that Kinwrathi and his ensemble crowded themselves around. In that moment, with three mouths breathing chilled air on him, assaulting his neck with frostbitten expulsions of air and staining it with bursts of saliva that rolled quickly down his shirt to smear somewhere on his back, he regretted bringing them along slightly. Only slightly, because as he took a look back at the three, each displaying different levels of anxiety, did his complete and utter calm seem to be an accomplishment. He always loved the small things. The minor details, the inconsequential things, that let him know just how much control he had over any given situation. And right now, he had everything and everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Three of his fellow Chieftains looking upon him like he were the Lady-in-Name-Only, sitting up completely straight with his back pressed lightly into the back of a glorified dining room chair, with a kitchen knife laying on his lap, shining brighter and more brilliantly than the sun. There was nothing else that he could think of that could match this level of control. Nothing whatsoever. He shook his head, chuckling in a mutter as he slid the blade back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, making sure to keep a hold on the handle.

The door swung open, and in stepped Mr. Black.

Mr. Black wasn't his real name, of course. However, it was the one he'd insisted upon when he and Kinwrathi first met; all the way back when he was known mainly as Derrick Montenegro. Mr. Black was a scrawny man in a long, black coat that covered most of his body and gave the impression that he was much bigger than he actually was. He had his head at angle, looking down at the wooden floor beneath his feet, that obscured his face from view; blocked by the garish fedora he had resting on the top of his head. In effect, he looked more like a caricature of a Film Noir lead than an actual person in 2014. He paid no attention to the three as he made his way past them to his seat on the side of the desk opposite his guest. It was only when he finally made it there, pulling out his chair and taking a seat, did he finally look up and reveal his face to the party. His face was long and narrow, with an underbite visible even with his jaw clenched. His skin was pale and splotched with patches of red that almost covered up a long scar that ran across from one cheek to the other in a perfectly straight line. He cleared his throat and let out a crackling, cough filled laugh.

"You added someone else to your harem? I have to say, this one's much uglier though I'd bet some people are into the deformity shit."

Briarth tried to speak up, before Arellia tugged at his arm to get him to hold his thought. Through gritted teeth, he glared and the smirking Mr. Black and turned his attention to the ground, half wanting to spit in disgust.

"I'd hope. After all, it'd be a shame to die a virgin."

Briarth smiled at the comment as Mr. Black squirmed in his chair before deciding to be a good sport and chuckle. Kinwrathi's grip on the blade he had in his jacket tightened for a second as he studied Black's eyes. One was glass, and was stuck peering off to the right while the other darted from the inside of his own coat to the man in front of him. After a few seconds of intent silence, both men pulled their attention away from each other, both choosing to look down at the desk that separated them.

"So, I doubt you'd come in just to joke Derrick--"

"Daniel," Kinwrathi interjected, smile on his face as his grip loosened. "Doctor Daniel Montenegro."

"Doctor? Which school did you get a fake diploma from?"

"Stanford, if you must know. However, you're right. I'm not here to joke or make small talk. I need to ask you a favor, Black."

"A favor? Please, you must be kidding."

Black began to laugh again, this time with much more confidence as Kinwrathi slowly unsheathed the blade and let it lay in his lap. The smoking hyena in front of him was too oblivious to notice and too arrogant to care; two personality flaws the Chieftain was loving at the moment. Smiling a faux-good-natured grin, he gripped the handle and sat forward in his seat, looking down at the desk where Black's right hand lay.

"You're right. It was silly of me to ask a favor."

He followed that statement by driving the blade into the back of Black's hand. The steel tore through his hand until it wound up lodged in the wood of the desk below, the handle practically stuck inside the wound. Black was, in effect, trapped. With his other hand, he pulled hard on the handle but it didn't budge. His eyes widened in shock as the gravity of the situation began to sink in, looking up at Kinwrathi his mouth agape.

"What the fuck, you fucking psycho?!"

It was hard for Black to get the words out as he winced and moaned with each minor movement and disturbance of the blade. Kinwrathi laughed and pressed his hand on the top of the handle and moved the blade around, keeping eye contact on Black at all times.

"I really should've went the forceful route right away. You're going to help us, Black."

"Fuck you!"

"Are you really going to get snippy with the guy who's digging a knife through your hand? If it weren't for your connections, I wouldn't even bother with you, Black. I really, really wouldn't."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity to the agonized Mr. Black, Kinwrathi took his hand off the handle of the blade, before smashing the blade further into the desk with a closed fist. Mr Black screamed at the top of his lungs before collapsing as much as he could with his hand pinned above the rest of his body. Struggling to move anything at all with the surging pain in his hand, he pulled himself up to his knees so his head was visible over the top of the desk. Tears stained his cheeks as he pleaded with his eyes for freedom. For reprieve. For anything but this. Kinwrathi wasn't listening, and neither where his colleagues.

"Okay, fine. I'll help! Just, tell me what you need."

"I knew you'd see it my way, Black."

Kinwrathi grabbed the handle of the blade one more time and Black shot his eyes up. He closed them, waiting for the moment to come when he was no longer impaled. A moment that didn't seem to come. He opened his eyes again to see Kinwrathi's mug taking up all of his field of vision. He jumped back, which sliced up his hand further and caused another scream to escape his lips.

"I've killed little girls that didn't cry this much," Briarth muttered under his breath, earning a cold snicker from Arellia.

"Don't you want to know what I'm asking for?"

"Fine, fine."

"Your secrets."

"What?"

Kinwrathi jiggled the knife once more before Black shook his head furiously to get his unexpected captor's attention.

"There's no way someone like you, working as a PI could get all this. Your own fucking office building, that isn't run out of your apartment? No. There's something else here."

"The, the eyes to watch the world."

"The what?"

"The eyes to watch the world. Eyes everywhere. Eyes on everything, everyone."

[align=center][color=#FFFFFF]The Stupid & The ]

Holy shit. Morbid Angel literally thinks everyone's going to scale down their intellect to match his glaring fucking deficiency in that department. How do I know this? How do you not? Have you even heard half of the shit he spews on a regular basis? Not even talking about the special brand of stupid shit he talked on me, but just in general. He does it all the time. Bangs his head against a brick wall until he's barely able to say words and then decided to sit down and talk about his match because that's what he's known for. Being a fucking . Being a fucking who's so delusional that he can't accept the fact that he's lost way more times than he can even count. Then again, he can't count past five so there's really no way for him to be able to count all the times he's actually lost. And in the real world; not his delusional fantasy world where he's undefeated and anyone aside from Ghost Tank is afraid to be facing him. Right, you strike fear into the heart of fucking Ghost Tank. What an accomplishment, Morbid. What a fucking accomplishment and you sure needed one after you and Peter Gilmour failed at beating a single man last week. Then you got handed a trinket for the sole purpose of Shane feeling the sinking ship that are the new trios champions are worth watching crash and fucking burn.

And yet he's talking down to me.

Who literally can't even remember something I went over already. My last match. Again, something [b]I literally went over at the start of the last thing I aired! You didn't have to remember anything, Morbid. It was right out there in the open and yet because you don't know how to listen, you missed it entirely in favor of acting like I disappeared without doing something much more impressive than you could ever dream of doing. Namely, beating Theo Pryce in a one on one contest. Unlike you, who has to settle for beating a team headed by him with him not even in the match. Right. And then thinking I'm someone else because hilarity, despite the fact that you're not clever enough to pull of the whole "I'm so edgy because I mistook you for someone else hahahaha" thing. Though you then decide to fucking shoot yourself in the foot. I'm filler, and yet I'm facing you. You're filler, by your own fucking logic. You fucking stupid bastard. Wait, it gets even better.

Yes, you beat Team Theo, in a match that Theo himself didn't even participate in. Whereas I actually beat him, one on one. But wait, Azrael's Shove It? The one where we were stuck in pods and transferred into one another's bodies to have matches? The one where you weren't you and I wasn't me? Where my body was being controlled, quite literally, by a hormonal cunt on the fucking rag? Again, what a victory for you, when you weren't even in your own body. What's next? You took a breath in thirty thousand miles of me and somehow that means you beat me in a wrestling match?

Then crying about me being unoriginal like I give a fucking shit, because with all his whining about it, it's obvious they hurt his wittle feelings and I don't feel like staining myself with his tears and vomit. Though he says something about how I shouldn't really think beating Theo Pryce, the one time King and current Universal Champion to be a huge accomplishment after arguing with me about how his beating the man's team means he beat him. Fucking brilliant Morbid. Fucking brilliant.

And of course you took it easy on your partner. Of course that's what your fucking mind would come up with as a goddamned retort. You have an ego the size of Russia which you wouldn't want damaged.

So, you cry when you get called out on your shit. That's it. You're crying. Throwing a little fucking temper tantrum and going through all of my words despite me not being important. You sure are defensive for someone who couldn't care less about me. But you do care, and that's why you're crying tears of anger and tears of shame. You want to believe that I'm nothing. But you can't. So you lash out like a child. Pathetic.

Now, I do care about every word that falls out of your idiotic mouth, so long as we're opponents. And you're downright terrified of my words despite your tough talk.

And then there's Gilmour.

Gilmour, Gilmour, Gilmour.

The man who's been in the wrestling industry much longer than me, calling me old. Though hypocrisy is Gilmour's thing just like crying and delusion is Morbid's. Okay, crying and delusion's also Gilmour's thing and there's Morbid crying about wrestler's stealing things when his whole shtick is, in essence, gargling Gilmour's smegma and hoping people latch onto him like they do Gilmour.

But here's the kicker with Gilmour. He doesn't understand how anything works. He thinks Ghost Tank drug me up out of some makeshift grave, when he didn't even know who I was when he saw my name on the card as his partner. Or how he thinks that his accomplishments over the past millennium in the XWF are somehow the thing people remember about him. Of course that's the case Gilmour. It's totally not the fact that you're literally too to stop talking even when someone has your fucking balls in a vice grip, metaphorically speaking. Which wouldn't be too egregious if it weren't for the fact that anyone, and I mean literally any-fucking-one can hammer you into submission with words and when it comes to wrestling you're only capable of consistently defeating people like Pest and Frodo Smackins, jokes in their own right.

But I'm an old man who lives in a nursing home. Right, brilliant. You got me all figured out, Gilmour. You and Morbid both. You got me. Everything you said was right.

Hahahahahahaha.

I'm joking. I feel I have to add that, lest you fucking idiots think for a second I'm being sincere.

Christ, I may have had some words for Ghost Tank but looking at these two in front of us, there's no doubt that he'd even be a hindrance. Hell, he could beat these two on his own. Just like Loverboy. Who, as it turns out Morbid and Gilmour don't see eye to eye on. Morbid says the match was a farce, whereas Gilmour tries to claim it was legitimate. In that order. See, Morbid. Not even your own partner's willing to buy your bullshit.

Idiot.

Oh wait, I really shouldn't call you that. You might start crying again.