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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "C*nt Fest" RP Board
Unlikely savior
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Dillinger D'Marco Offline
Registered but either hasn't added self to a roster yet or doesn't RP



XWF FanBase:
Hardcore, psycho fans

(cheered for breaking rules and bones; excessively violent; creative with weapons)


#1
01-18-2020, 09:27 PM

The hour is late and while a great majority of the planet known as Earth, brave the frosty temperatures associated with the month of January, those that reside in New Orleans, enjoy a comfortable evening roughly in the range of mild, sixty degree weather. A perfect night to venture out on a stroll. Which is precisely what Dillinger D'Marco finds himself doing. Accented by the overhead, enchantingly eerie illumination of the waning crescent moon, he is on a mission of sorts. His destination, the local corner gas station, where he plans to acquire a pack of cigarettes. Specifically, Marlboro Reds, 100's. The one vice that might have an equal ensnarement over him, next to his blood lust and the enjoyment of murder.


Although, one could never really commit to killing, without the indulgence of smoking a cigarette afterwards. The two just went hand in hand together, perfectly. Sort of in the same sense like when someone smokes after sex, with the exception of an extremely lasting and far more permanent, end result. That would be the very intimate and highly personal act of taking someone's life. Rather than simply showing them a good time. Still, there are some out there, that refer to the sensation of post orgasms as being akin to death. "La petite mort" or "the little death" has been used to describe the post-orgasmic state of unconsciousness, some find themselves subdued by following their sexual experiences, so maybe both occurrences have more in common, than one would assume. How very morbid.


Stepping forth from the darkened parking lot, to the bright interior of the gas station, Dillinger approaches the counter. What happens next is a transaction of few words. Really, in all honesty, zero words are spoken aloud, at all. Dillinger tosses down the cash and the man behind the counter, retrieves a pack of cigarettes. It is a silent exchange of money, traded for goods and services, that has been repeated a great many times, throughout the past year and six months (give or take) that Dillinger has spent living in New Orleans. Once the sale is complete, Dillinger takes his leave and fires up a cigarette, almost instantly, after passing through the door. The parking lot is uninhabited, utterly deserted and there's an odd, unnatural aura that seems to have manifested during Dillinger's time in the gas station. A curious sensation now accents the air that wasn't there before. Very close by, it wields an evil energy. Somewhere out there, a wicked presence is currently on the prowl, lingering just out of the range of sight, unbeknownst to fellow night travelers.


An otherworldly sense of awareness allows Dillinger to pick up on it right away; however, when a quick scan of his surrounding area offers no further insight, he chooses to shrug it off. The streets of New Orleans were often ripe with supernatural activity, especially at night. Tack on the fact that Dillinger had the ability to observe spirits and traces of the dead, no matter where he went, and this set of circumstances becomes old hat. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Dillinger exhales a cloud of smoke and journeys onward, towards home, doing his best to shake off the sensation of something stalking the shadows. He cuts down the nearest alley, boots echoing on the pavement as he marches forward to his destination.


He doesn't manage to make it past the end of the alleyway, before he's halted in his tracks, by a blood curdling scream. The kind of shriek he's heard many times in the past. Someone is either about to be murdered or they're getting killed, right now. There's no denying it and the instant burst of sound is enough to send his pulse pumping as he becomes exhilarated in the way, only a true serial killer, could ever grow to be enticed. It was downright intoxicating. Arousing. Nothing like the horror filled hollers of homicide to really get the heart racing. It is this desire that pushes him. An intense need overtakes him like an obsession, moth to flame style and it fuels him to turn down the road at the end of the alley. Veering to his left, he's immediately hit by a woman racing down the street. She collides directly into him, causing him to stumble back a bit but he does not fall.


"Whoa. Lady. Where's the fucking fire?"


The woman looks at Dillinger with wide eyes and an expression of pure fear. Her hair is a frenzy of tangles and the clothes she's wearing are fancy but disarranged and rumpled up, obviously from running for her life, she's missing both of her shoes and absolutely hysterical. Dillinger arches a brow in inquiry and opts to ask...


"Are you okay?"


Out of all the individuals to ask such a question, the irony is not lost on Dillinger. In spite of that, it isn't like he has the words serial killer, stamped on his forehead, so the woman doesn't recognize him for what he truly is. For all she knows he's a concerned citizen and nothing more. Shaking her head frantically, she looks behind her and then back to Dillinger.


"Is someone after you?"


This question is given a nod in affirmation as a reply.


"Who? Who's after you?"


Suddenly a cackle can be heard and it calls Dillinger's attention immediately to the source. At the other end of the empty, secluded street that went vacant, hours ago, there stands a man in a white suit and a black skull mask. At least one would assume it's a mask.


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"Interesting. I'm going to go out on a limb here and conclude that's the guy that is currently after you. Would I be correct in that deduction or is the crackhead in the mask, nothing more than a coincidence?"


"What??? No! Wait! I mean, yes! Yes! That's the guy! I think it's a guy anyway. He moves a lot faster than a regular man though. Sometimes it seems like he's able to disappear and reappear, several paces ahead of me. I've been running for over an hour and just when I think I've lost him, he's in front of me and I have to run in the opposite direction. I don't know who he is or what he wants, I've never encountered him before tonight. See, I was leaving this party and while I was walking away, I heard something odd. This sick sort of maniacal laughing. It made me think of a villain or monster in a scary movie, so I turned around and when I did, I saw him. Standing off in the distance and staring at me. I took him for a prankster or a drunk that wandered off from a costume party. So I didn't pay him much mind, then the next thing I heard was his feet, pounding against the pavement. I briefly glanced over my shoulder and saw him racing towards me. Fast. Faster than I seen anyone run. Aside from those that take part in the Olympics. That's when I ran. Ran. For my life. He's been chasing me ever since. Christ! I'm exhausted, I feel like I may pass out! Please! You have to help me! I don't want to die! Don't let him hurt me!"


"You have no idea the levels of irony that are attached to this entire situation."


"What?!? What do you mean???"


"Nothing. Nevermind. Lets establish what we're dealing with here."


Dillinger places his focus firmly on the man in the mask.


"Hey! Are you a dude in a mask or something more supernatural and spooky? Like a demon or some kind of monster? Perhaps an eldritch entity from another realm or other plain of existence?"


Nothing. Not a single sound or word in response. Instead the man rapidly jerks his head to the left and right, appearing to be somewhat confused. His body moving in an unnatural, spastic mannerism, almost as if he momentarily forgot how to control his limbs. This makes it seem like he's an animatronic puppet, being controlled by an outside source, while it also simultaneously malfunctions, no matter how much the puppeteer struggles to regain proper command. Which forces a sigh from Dillinger as he shakes his head.


"Yo! Skeletor! You high? What's your deal?"


Silence and twitching. Sort of in the same way a body experiences shocks of electricity. Jolts that cause spasms and spurts of activity. Uncontrollably.


"Look, here's the deal, you had your fun but now you're going to find a nice gutter to sleep your drugs off in. Trust me. That's the best option here. All the other alternatives, won't end well for you. Most, if not all, will lead to death. Specifically, your death. In other words, scram freakshow. Wow. I never thought I'd get to say that to someone."


Upon hearing Dillinger's words, the man in the skull mask, tosses his head back and laughs, long and loud. It resounds with a thunderous boom that echoes and radiates all around, in a way no human could ever make a sound. Then, thrusting his head down forcefully, he glares at Dillinger and lurches forward a few paces. His eyes the burning embers that embody, the piercing fury of hellfire and brimstone. He advances towards Dillinger, faster than any mere mortal. Each sprinted step, swifter than the one before it, they produce a brittle, cracking noise from his limbs, like dry twigs or leaves being crunched beneath shoes. Hoarse gasps slip past the exposed teeth, that reflect the glare of the pale, silvery moon. Making the sight all the more minacious to behold. In a matter of seconds, the man in the mask, reaches Dillinger. Yet, the validity of it actually being nothing more than a man in a mask, seems extremely unlikely. A reality Dillinger comes to terms with quickly.


With a snap of his wrist, Dillinger reaches to the side and summons The Heart of Darkness. The black blade with the blood-red stone, manifests from nowhere. Held tightly in the grasp of Dillinger's hand. One swift swing is all it takes, to slice the mysterious and menacing man in a mask's head, clean off. His head soars from his shoulders and hits the sidewalk, where it rolls several inches. Its momentum continuing, well after the body drops to the ground in a heap. It is not the only form to plummet to the pavement. Shortly after it crashes to the cement, the woman faints, leaving Dillinger the sole conscious being standing on the street. A brief survey of his weapon, induces instant disappointment, not a single ounce of life essence was transferred into it. Sighing, Dillinger sends his hand off to the side and his sword vanishes from sight. Strange. Why wasn't the Heart of Darkness fed the power it needs to consume, in order to grant it the ability to slice through reality? What exactly did Dillinger behead?


This is not something he can ponder for long, before his focus is brought swiftly to the headless body, when a soft sizzling noise begins to emanate from it... or rather, out of it. In a way, it sounds like meat searing in a scorching hot frying pan and it resonates, from deep inside the neck hole. As this transpires, steam slowly starts to seep out, while a mustard yellow ooze, bubbles forth. Similar to molten lava in consistency, it carries with it the foul stench of rotten eggs on a hot, sweltering, summer day. Dillinger steps back to avoid breathing it in but still winds up coughing and gagging in the process, which causes him to cover his face in an act of protecting himself. Powerful fumes packing a pungent, rancid odor, they waft up into the air like a noxious gas. Throughout the time that this occurs, a sort of transfigurement takes place. An enhanced disintegration or decaying effect consumes the decapitated form and it instantaneously melts away. Until nothing but sludge remains. Gurgling and festering on the concrete. This was disgusting even for Dillinger and he chokes back an urge to be sick.


Curious. If this is what happened to the body, did the head also meet with the same fate? Swaying his sights to what he believed was a head adorned in a mask, Dillinger notes that it's still fully intact. Stumbling a tad, he staggers over to it and risks lifting it from the ground. To be or not to be, that is the question. Further inspection causes him to conclude, that it isn't a normal human head in a mask at all. Oh it is wearing a mask and there's a chance that it could have belonged to a human, at some point in time but there's not a trace of flesh on it. Beneath the mask there exists only a skull. Even the eyes that once burned with the blazes of the infernal regions of torment, sat empty and dark. Vacant sockets. Chasms to the world of the dead. This was not the night Dillinger was anticipating and yet, his interest is ultimately sparked. There's only one person he wants to share this mystery with too. His lover and roommate, the entrancing sorceress, Nyx Nephthys.





"Greetings and salutations, my name is Dillinger D'Marco and you're here with me now."


"It's been a year since I wrestled in the XWF and what event do I opt in for... after all that time?"


"Cunt Fest."


"Hosted by Noah Jackson and Fuzz. Two people I've never personally met before. These guys are virtually random strangers to me. So why did I throw my metaphorical hat in the ring to wrestle? Huh? That's a good question. I wish I had an answer for you all."


"Just kidding."


"It's because I heard they're a couple of the sickest cunts around. It could be bullshit but I'm going to have faith and choose to believe it. Why not, right? I don't have any reason not to believe the rumors and hype. And since, the doctors seem to believe that I am one of the sickest, most disturbed, vile bastards around, clearly this is an event for me. If it's about embracing your inner sickness, count me in, I'm all for it."


"I'm even booked against a doctor... or rather, a docktor. Docktor Trust. A guy that wants the world to believe that he made it past medical school and yet, he fails to accurately spell a word from the first grade spelling bee. On top of that, this guy is clearly insane. I am a certified lunatic, that spent a large portion of my life, locked away in a sanitarium and I was imprisoned in the Realm of Madness by my step-mother, Queen Valeska. Yet, when I attempt to follow along with his words, it's like he's speaking gibberish. Wingdings. Nonsense even more bewildered and askew, than even I can perceive. Which is either saying a lot... or nothing at all. I'm not sure which but it is definitely, one of the two. With that being said, I'm still the better man in this battle cause I accept myself for who I am, I don't pretend to be something I'm not. Like Docktor Trust."


"So what if I enjoy a good killing spree? Oh and we're talking about multiple mass murders here, by the way because I don't pussyfoot around, I take my homicide very seriously. Okay, semi-seriously cause I do kill for sport and the fun of it but at the same time, my motto is go big or go home. If you're going to go out there and take lives, slaughter everyone in sight. Make it a massacre. If there's a crowd, kill 'em all. Why not, right? Now, that's not saying there's always going to be a massive group, there will be times when there isn't a large swarm of individuals, mulling about. For instance when the mail arrives or someone stops by to ask if you seen their friend or family member cause they've been missing since last Tuesday, due to the fact that you ended that person's life. Naturally, you execute the solitary individual but that doesn't mean, that's all you settle for. C'mon this is what separates the amateurs from the connoisseurs."


"Anyway, the point is this... just because I have an unconventional hobby, that doesn't make me a horrible person. Nor does it make me evil or a danger to the folks I don't intend to kill... that day. Wait. Scratch that claim. I am a danger to Docktor Trust, even if I let him live, I'm most assuredly going to destroy him in the center of the ring. It's been a while since I systematically dismantled a man. Utterly broken him and made him beg for his life. Made him cry and feel his true weakness for what it is, thus allowing him to realize he is the lesser species. That's simply another hobby of mine. Not a flaw. I get pleasure from inflicting pain. That's all. At least I'm not a liar."

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