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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "C*nt Fest" RP Board
La commedia è finita! Part 7: Under The Hood
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Corey Smith Offline
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Some of everyone

(cheered; very rarely plays dirty but isn't lame either; many likable qualities)


#1
01-22-2020, 06:03 PM



Now....Australia


[Image: 10581238-3x2-940x627.jpg]

Black boots tread silently on a bed of ash as The Engineer cuts a slim figure like a darkened splinter set against the ruin. The devastation was nearly total, with only the top most bounties of foliage escaping the greedy reach of the flames. Every so often he could hear the distant crack of another dead tree collapsing under it's own desiccated weight. It sounded like a massive limb being shattered, and the resounding peal raced throughout the desolation like a grim omen to the other remaining trees of the fate that awaited them.

He breathed in deep, the air still carrying the slight stench of smoke. And just below that odor, a cloying hint of burnt flesh. Charred mounds in the distance told tales of some poor creature's final moments of panic and agony. The Engineer took a moment to reflect on that, that incomprehensible terror of knowing and understanding nothing save for the fact that the entire world is burning and everything hurts.

Everything burns....everything hurts.....

He continued to wade into the devastation. Yet another cracking echoed from afar, carrying a second deathly toll to him in as many minutes. A cruel sight made The Engineer stop in his tracks. A large dead bird, burnt beyond recognition, lay spread out before him. Its flesh stripped wings were open in a mockery of flight, the ghostly chalk white gleam of it's exposed skull standing in contrast to the soot about it. And within those empty sockets, The Engineer imagined a spiteful wisdom lurked. This creature knew the significance of the nihil, it had seen the power of unchecked mindless destruction and in it's final shrieking moments came to embrace it as truth. It had come to know that this was the final answer.

Everything burns....everything hurts.....

Reaching down to scoop up some of the ash from beside the corpse of the bird, The Engineer rolled the granules about on his finger tips, spreading it about and drinking in its consistency and meaning. This ash, a sort of cosmic denominator, that Biblical alpha and omega. Looking up once again, he is then struck by the sheer totality of the silence. The unfettered peace amidst all that death. And in that moment, something inside him ground to a halt and it wasn't until then that he realized he had spent the entirety of his brief existence in a perpetual state of motion, insatiably devouring experience. By necessity, of course, as he had much to learn. But here and now, it was almost as though he had slowed to a homeostatic serenity, finding something akin to what human beings called ecstasy or nirvana.

Everything burns....everything hurts.....

And he knew that this landscape of apocalyptic upheaval, the totality of this ruination, and the blissful silence it engendered was HIS Heaven. THIS was the way the world was supposed to be. And before he was even fully aware of it, he found a single coal black tear cresting his cheek. Unthinkingly, he brought his fingers up to touch it, smearing the ash there as well. So overcome was he with the stark truthfulness of it all. Life rendered base. With all pretension and delusion stripped away.

In time, he became aware of another tread behind him. Less reverent. Quicker in pace. He turned towards the intrusion.

Give me a moment longer, please? The Engineer spoke dreamily.

Last week....


You ready? The Engineer inquired.

Give me a moment, please. Malcolm hissed back, voice fraught with tension. He leaned over on the sofa, burying his face in his hands.

The Engineer knelt on the floor beside Malcolm as the young man sat and fretted on the threadbare furniture. They appeared to be in a living room, which was quite a world away from the lavish hotel accommodations they had been saying at. All the lights were off in the apartment, with the only illumination being provided by the sterile light of the champion's cell phone, which rendered the proceedings in an eerie ghostly glow.

This is how you free yourself Malcolm.

Malcolm slides his hands away from his face, and the light from the phone highlights the liquid glass brimming in his eyes. I can't take it back after it's done....

No. You can't. The Engineer concurred.

I won't ever be the same.

No. You won't.

I'm scared. Malcolm shuddered.

I know. It's fine. It's normal. But think of all that pain you'll be shedding. The terrible viciousness of a father who beat you because by sheer chance you came out gay. A factor you had no control over, and yet you were punished and cast out capriciously.

Think of how free you'll be of all that sadness and shame. You'll touch the void and embrace the stillness of the wide awake nothing. All it takes is one final act of horrific violence. One moment of utter abasement, a lasting fuck you to the collective social mores of a world that forgot you and a father that refused to love you.

The Engineer removes the eerie white hood with the black triangle sewn into the face. Malcolm is wracked by a sob and he looks down to the floor. With his free hand he reaches up and intertwines his fingers with Malcolm's, a loving embrace rendered in a chilling pallid light. It's all just hurt, punctuated by fleeting glimpses of false happiness that only serve to amplify MORE hurt, more pain, more needless suffering.

I feel like I'm going insane! Malcolm croaks plaintively.

You're not going insane, Malcolm. You're seeing what's behind the curtain! You're seeing that there is no purpose, no form, no function. We're all just cast out to flounder, dazed and confused, and angry and constantly bouncing off one another in an endless race whose finish line is a cliff face. Psychopaths and grifters run the world with impunity, love is a misnomer applied to a cold transaction with millions of years of evolution behind it, religion is a farce and God is LAUGHING about it. And we all sit and pretend that none of that is true, even as the flames lick our heels and the encroaching darkness of that final lap draws ever closer. And that self delusion, that prideful empty self talk that everything is going to be okay...THAT is the REAL insanity. No Malcolm...you're not going insane. You're going SANE. The Engineer is alerted to a text on his phone. We don't have much time. His voice dips lower. Are you ready for this?

Malcolm nods. He looks up and runs his forearms across his face, banishing his tears. The Engineer releases Malcolm and gets up painfully. It had been less than 48 hours since he had been stabbed, and while Shane's concoction was having a numbing effect it wasn't complete. He walks around the couch to scoop something up off an end table before making his way to the door. Malcolm also rises, back straight, pose defiant.

Be strong. The Engineer whispers as he slides into the darkness beside the door. Before long, the distinctive sound of keys rattling in the lock can be heard. The door is cast open, allowing dim auburn light to pour in from the hall. A figure eclipses the door frame momentarily, steps inside and turns his back to the Engineer. The light from the hall is drowned out as the door slips shut, but abruptly the apartment is a lit as the new arrival slides his hand up a light switch.

The man appears as a more creased and weathered version of Malcolm. Silver has just started to winnow it's way onto his temples, his face bearing signs of struggle in advance of his 50 years on this Earth. But his body is solid, strong and tall, with the tell tale indicator of musculature not long buried by age. His lips part when he sees Malcolm, expression first registering surprise before quickly dipping into anger. ….the hell are you doing here?

It wasn't right. Malcolm utters. What you did, it wasn't right.

The man stops, agog at the shock of it all, or maybe just the boy's temerity. That all you came to say? Huh?

Malcolm matches his gaze, but doesn't reply.

You come to do somethin' to your old man? That what this is? You feelin' some kinda way? The man scowls. Good. But that don't change the fact that f*ggots don't make first string at Miss U.

I was never anything but the sum total of your unrealized dreams.

The man responds with a raspy, condescending laugh. The fuck does that even mean? You been practicing that in the mirror all day, boy? He starts to unbuckle his belt. You come to get you some I ain't going down without a fight. I ain't no bitch like you. He slides the belt off, coiling it with the buckle prominently exposed.

Malcolm's eyes dart over to meet The Engineers. He nods imperceptibly.

The Engineer hits the power button on the stereo system remote control, and the small living space is instantly alive with music: the melodic voice of Luciano Pavarotti from Pagliacci.



Malcolm's father, suddenly sensing the presence of the second intruder, wheels about on The Engineer. ….fucker! He spits, his boxer's instinct instantly springing to life as he lunges in with a right cross. The Engineer ducks out of the way, dipping up and under the bigger man and landing a shoulder check to his ribs that sends him stumbling back. Malcolm deftly springs over the couch, taking hold of his father from behind in a head lock, but the elder is able to squeeze out and land an elbow to his son's stomach. He again wheels on The Engineer, just in time to watch the needle as it barrels into his neck. The needle's full payload is pressed into his flesh and his hand snaps up to the site of the injection.

It's over...it's over.... The Engineer presses the words out as he fights his own pain, dropping down to a single knee as fresh blood stains his shirt.

The man drops the belt as his feet wobble and betray him. He looks dumbly about the room, it starts to spin and spin and spin. Both Malcolm and The Engineer give him a wide berth. He opens his mouth to yell for help but all that comes out is Pavarotti's laughter. No, no, that's not right. His throat burns....everything BURNS....

Malcolm catches him as he falls backwards into his arms. The Engineer finds the young man's eyes once more, and what he sees there almost takes his breath away.

You're beautiful.

NOW


We arrive back at Australia's desolation. The Engineer still stands amongst the ashes, but we have a slightly different perspective than before. Not one, but two figures are behind him. Malcolm is there, wearing black pants and a black muscle shirt. There is something different about his countenance, his entire bearing. Like he has finally grown into his powerful frame, finding a wellspring of confidence beyond himself.

[Image: father-son-holy-gore-slasher-gabriel-dar...=720&h=395]

But at the same time, there is an undeniable absence too. Something gained, and something lost.

The doddering acolyte stands five feet to his left. In stark contrast to the boy's power, the acolyte is a testament to weakness. His shoulders are bowed inward, his stance unsteady and wavering. In fact, the bottom of his hood seems crusted over in dried vomit. Sickly sweat stains mar the pristine white of the robe. Somehow he has managed to maintain his grasp on a red gas container.

The Engineer approaches the acolyte and takes the gas container from him. The acolyte hands it over limply, and now that we're closer to him we can make out raspy, labored breathing from beneath the hood. The champion smirks in that hooded face before looking back at the camera.

You don't know me at all Robbie. He gestures back at Malcolm. You think I'm ignorant to promise when I see it? Like I'm some moustache twirling, stereotype of a super villain, all blind anger and wasted resources? You don't waste people like Malcolm by putting them under a hood.

Malcolm smiles a bit in response to the praise.

See, this isn't just some “gotcha” moment, Robbie. It doesn't surprise me how grossly you underestimated my vision. I know I can't grow this movement without help. I need the Malcolm's of the world. I need their hurt and their righteous anger! But this isn't about USING them, this isn't about manipulation. You see Robbie, Malcolm, and others like him, are my partners in this. I don't LOVE Malcolm, and I've been very honest about that. But I respect his strength, his fearlessness, and most of all....his fury.

The thing you still don't seem to get, even after all these conversations we've had, is that your view of the world is wholly INADEQUATE. You don't tell the Malcolm's of the world to just “shrug it off”....you don't opt to just “not focus on” his kind of pain. His scars are REAL. His hurt is REAL. His rage is REAL. And no amount of idiot cartoon hijinks and no amount of fun and games absolves that. Oh sure, you have your supporters. Fellow wrestlers. Celebrities. Your Bourbon Men. You even have your common folk who support you. But everyone loves candy before dinner, Robbie. And that's all you're offering. A shades on, gilded view of the world. An airy confection, a distraction from the truth!

You come from a place of FUN Robbie, because you are privileged. You're not mired in crushing poverty. You're a straight white man who gets to hide behind a mask and play pretend. You know NOTHING of people like Malcolm. Nothing, that is,until they come and drag you down out of your high tower.

And how fucking condescending it is that you mug for those cameras mere months after trying to bilk them of their money...after a career spewing half assed platitudes about being a man of the people as you seesawed between playing hero and sacrificing your credibility at the altar of fear, and pride, and sloth. Hell Robbie, you even deride people's pain as mere drama. Like you're somehow above another person's hurt. But just because you can't conceive of it doesn't mean it's not real! And every time you try to paint yourself as some mature adult in the room, scoffing at the petty “overwrought” emotionality that I put on display you just prove over and over how alienated you are from the pain and base corruption that suffuse this world. We heard it loud and clear Robbie! You don't care about the desperate and their petty hurts and longings. They don't factor into the Robbie Bourbon Rainbows and Sunshine schema!

Robbie, there are MILLIONS upon MILLIONS of people out there who already see the truth. They see how powerless they are in the face of governments, systems, and institutions that will use them up and spit them out. They see the small petty everyday evils that surround them and feed off them. They see the world for the perverse, nihilistic, cynical SHIT SHOW that it really is. And they're ready to do something about it. They're ready to burn it down!

Behind him, the acolyte bows and drops to his hands and knees. His wheezing breaths become louder and more labored.

Malcolm considers him demurely. He's septic. He's dying. The words are uttered without feeling.

The Engineer stalks up to him, grabbing him under the arm and wrenching him to his feet. Then, reaching around the back of his head, he pulls the hood off revealing the swollen mess of Malcolm's father's face. The area around his eyes are engorged and black and blue. His chapped lips work moronically but nothing escapes save more ghastly mindless braying. The Engineer's face twists into pure contempt. You sound like a pig squealing.

Malcolm sidles up next to his father and takes his weight off of The Engineer. He starts to manuever him away from the camera. The Engineer also starts to turn away when at the last second he notices something else on the ground, something that escaped him before.

[Image: 135533.jpg]


It's the tiniest sprout peeking up from the ash. He considers it for a moment, canting his head and tensing. Suddenly, his boot lashes out and crushes it. The Engineer's face contorts into a vicious sneer and he picks up his foot to ensure the sprout has been completely obliterated before turning his back on the camera.

Tune in next time for the shocking conclusion! Hope you have a strong stomach!

[Image: CoreySig6A.png?width=270&height=406]
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