01-15-2015, 06:11 AM
Night. London, England. A warehouse on the Thames, in one of the rougher waterfront neighborhoods.
SIMON LYSTER, “THE SPINE TWISTER” stands in an ostensibly normal warehouse space, at the top of the stairs descending to his Room 101 compound.
He addresses the assembled camera.
“Congratulations, Mr. HOLLYWOOD.
“As I had half expected. As I had fully hoped.
“The fact that DUNCAN B. DEADLY is inexplicably catapulted ahead of us on the Turning Point card is something I did not expect. What’s the saying, though: ‘Fail upward’?
“Well, men such as we can work only with what is in our control. And, given the stipulations of our match, you will soon be very much in my control.”
He gestures downward, begins descending the stairs.
“I was en route from London to Seattle and didn’t see your final Monday Madness commentary. Under our current circumstances, though, some observations you made simply must be addressed.
“If one can call a steaming compost heap of pothead gibberish ‘observations.’”
SIMON reaches the bottom of the stairs, the foyer leading to the dojo area. His three SUBMISSIVE valets, clad in their typical mix of fetish attire and medical support gear, wait for him.
He stops, considers, sniffs, looks at the camera.
“Far be it from me of all people to tell a man to temper the pleasures that get him through the day in this broken world...
“...but you really need to scale back on the ganja, Mr. HOLLYWOOD.”
C.C. Hollywood said:
"I am a man of pride, but that pride doesn't own me. I have seen me at the depths and trust me when I say that you can't break me because at those depths, I can't save me. I have a legacy and you have a collection. Mine is permanent. I'm the king of the briar, which will be proven on Monday. You are just another bird in the fire. I won't feel the least bit bad for humanity. You are the lock and key, I am the beast at peace. Lyster, go fetch my stars."
“Some of that tripe made you sound almost as inane as DEADLY. 'Go fetch my stars'? 'King of the briar'? 'The beast at peace'? Seriously?”
LYSTER flashes the peace sign. “That's a really groovy trip you're layin' on me there, Mr. Mojo Risin'.
“Never thought I'd see the day when a child-crippling BDSM paralysis-fetishist was the sympathetic protagonist of anything...
“...but my God, man, between the wake-and-bake weed habit and the atrocious free verse, I now realize you're a viler and more unnatural abomination than anything I could ever hope to ‘collect’ or to be.
“You're a...”
LYSTER's face curdles in disgust, and he chews on the word several seconds before spitting it out:
“...hippie.”
The SUBMISSIVES gasp and recoil, flinching from the awful word.
"Am I facing C.C. HOLLYWOOD or C.J. PARKER? I thought I smelled patchouli when I stepped in the ring for the battle royal, but I wrote it off as some kind of sensual body spray used by BIG JOE. He seems like that type.
“Now it's more than just about me. I have to end you as an altruistic duty to the human species.
“But you go ahead and bring all the bud and all the angsty retro Jim Morrison poetry you like to Turning Point. You’ll still learn that the Lizard King really can't do everything, least of all submit a submission specialist in a submission match.
“Unlike you, this is the first fair fight I've had here. You won your debut match, yes, and in impressive fashion. But it was in an even fight and you had the help of the…” Snort. “…son of God.”
“Since arrival I've been booked in a menagerie of triple threats, three-way eliminations, battle royals. Every match since arrival, the odds against me. Every match since arrival, a win, a draw, or a submission scored.
"And now I finally, finally, finally fight my fight. Under my rules.
“You’d have a better chance against a great white shark in open water.
“You threw some back at me on Monday. You're skilled, I grant you. Your technique I’d rate as downright excellent.
“Against me, excellent is not even on the board.”
LYSTER opens the door to the dojo area, a spare space of mats surrounded by mirrors. Dozens of rubber- and latex-suited GIMPS stand on the mats, like a weird ninja porno film.
“I got a good feel for you when I locked on the Paralyzer at Monday Madness. I’m going to tailor it to you like a Saville Row suit. It was a good fit as is. Just add on another 4.1 degrees or so to compensate for all those stoner-munchies waffles you’ll eat between now and next week.
“As for all the rest, I don’t have much to add. You’re babbling about birds and fire and how your depths can’t save you. I speak in facts. I stopped trying to show how deep I was through cryptic metaphors after my freshman year at university. There are easier ways to get in girls’ skirts.
“Your depths are your own, but I know the refs can’t save you, and that’s enough for me.
“There's a saying, though: Get enough monkeys typing randomly and eventually you get Shakespeare. And out of your doped-out tardive-dyskinetic word salad can be drawn one profound truth:
“I am indeed the lock and the key.”
LYSTER hits the mats, launches himself at a GIMP, takes him down with a BJJ double-leg takedown, assumes the mount position, twists the man's arms into a keylock hold. Wrenches the hold past its tolerance point.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master," the broken GIMP groans and rolls to the dojo perimeter, where the SUBMISSIVES begin treating its injury.
"I’m the lock, the key, and the locksmith all in one."
LYSTER rolls to another GIMP, executes a single-leg takedown, locks in a kimura.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Omoplata.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Octopus hold.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Americana.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Kneebar.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Crossface.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Single-leg Boston crab.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Twister neck crank.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Cloverleaf.
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
Dozens of submission holds and variants of holds, all flawlessly executed.
“Your Fujiwara armbar. Applied correctly.”
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
“Your STF. Applied correctly.”
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
“DEADLY’s Mortal Engine. Applied correctly.”
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
“That skeevy hobbit’s move – the Demi Moore’s Sexy Knickers or whatever. Applied correctly.”
CRACK!
"As it pleases the Master."
LYSTER lies on the mat, scanning the walls. The perimeter of the dojo is a beached whale graveyard of flopping, injured GIMPS, groaning, latex bodysuits sheening under the dim UV lights.
LYSTER rolls into a sitting position, faces the camera.
“Oh, dear. I'm out of GIMPS, and still one hold to practice. The most important hold.
“Ms. LORDER… your would-be trophy wife… isn’t about. So it looks like I'm in need of a different trophy wife. For a trophy kill.”
LYSTER's head swivels like a praying mantis', tracking across the dojo to where the SUBMISSIVES tend to the GIMPS.
He makes an "eenie-meenie-minie-moe" gesture, and then his index finger extends toward SUBMISSIVE #2.
“You.” He crooks his finger. “Come here.”
SUBMISSIVE #2 looks up from her work. Her brow wrinkles in confusion. "As it pleases... I don't understand..."
"You. Come here." LYSTER motions inward, toward his waiting open arms and legs.
SUBMISSIVE #2 turns ghastly pale. She stares at the Master in disbelief.
“I. Said. Come. Here.”
SUBMISSIVE #2 trembles uncontrollably. She shakes her head from side to side, mouth open in silent shock. The other two girls pull away, dismay etched on their faces.
"Come here, sweetness." LYSTER’s icy blue eyes transfix her like a butterfly pinned to a mounting board. "I'm not commanding again."
SUBMISSIVE #2's mouth opens, closes, opens, closes. "As it... as it pleases the Master," she chokes out, then reels forward on unsteady legs, like a condemned prisoner to the electric chair.
The GIMPS slouch against the dojo walls, injuries forgotten, watching one of the few beautiful things in their lives take the last walk.
LYSTER beckons SUBMISSIVE #2 downward into his embrace.
She collapses more than sits.
He loosely applies his hands in the neck crank position of the Paralyzer, strokes her hair, kisses her ear.
"Your service has been much appreciated, my dear."
"As it pleasessssss..." She breaks down before she can finish the ritual courtesy.
Dutiful to the end, she tries again.
"As it...
"Pleases...
"...pleases... please... please!... pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!!!" SUBMISSIVE #2 is sobbing wildly now, tears streaming down her cheeks, gagging with terror.
SUBMISSIVES #1 and #3 spin away, face the wall, nails digging into palms, drawing blood.
He whispers something into her ear. Then locks in the body vise, gently stilling her shaking.
LYSTER faces the camera.
“Submission is about technique. Technique is about focus.
"An object lesson, then, in focus and priorities, Mr. HOLLYWOOD.
"You have your pride. You have your friend. You have your hope for love. Distractions all.
“I have nothing else but my skill and my strength.
"And, to keep that supremacy, nothing I won't sacrifice."
LYSTER lies back, head dropping out of the frame, a crocodile submerging for the death roll.
Closeup on SUBMISSIVE #2's moist eyes, whites huge as the moon around dilated pupils.
Picture fades. No image, only sound.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
A firecracker string of wet snapping sounds. 33 if you're counting. One... by one... by one.
Against the rhythm, a woman’s agonized scream, turned to retching moan, turned to silence halfway through the count.
Something pushed to the mat, a meaty thud.
The sounds of two women softly sobbing.
A deep, cold, refined British voice: "Like all the rest."
[transmission ends]
![[Image: 3RAC6l.jpg]](http://imageshack.com/a/img661/7158/3RAC6l.jpg)
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