Post by W A L T E R on Jun 7, 2019 21:36:51 GMT -5
A waning moon peeks out between the sheets of gray clouds floating stark in contrast to the crimson roof of the cheap motel. “Red Roof Inn” they call it as though adding “inn” to the end were to make it cozy and inviting instead of a cross-section of the citizenry prone to varying degrees of undesirability. Few are more undesirable than an occupant the dilapidated door 127.
Loretta Bennett approaches the door with a newly filled bucket of ice under arm. She had taken to choosing these motels with the individual entrances instead of hotels where she’d have to be seen alongside her charge, Walter. Even though she’d resigned to being seen with him on Action Wrestling’s national programming every week, it seemed somehow worse in the smaller space of day-to-day reality.
She was always reluctant to leave him alone even if for only the 240 seconds to fetch ice. Even knowing that device sits there on his brain stem, even having seen it immobilize him on more than one occasion, even then leaving him made her uneasy. She worried that he’d claim a victim in her absence and then that would be on her conscience. Bennett pauses at the door a moment, head hung low. She sighs deep worrying that he won’t be in there. Or perhaps hoping that he won’t? She signals for the camera to follow her in and swings open the door.
Walter is there, of course; he’s always there, never waxing nor waning. Legs stretched out in front of him, he doesn’t look up from his book when his baritone breaks the silence.
Does the ice comfort you?
I ain’t sore.
Of course not. I mean, does the idea of the ice comfort you, Loretta?
Now how in the shit would the idea of ice comfort me you fuckin cunt hair?!
She did her best to remain cordial in speaking with people for the most part. She even had some reasonably respectful entanglements on twitter of all places this week. But tonight--as she is on most nights not requiring an appearance of some sort--she was in the bag. And she didn’t count Walter amongst people and therefore forewent being “cordial.”
Does putting ice in your drink give you some comfort or mental distance from the fact that you’re simply imbibing whiskey straight and alone?
I should be so lucky as to be alone for two goddamn seconds of my day.
You’re not MY prisoner, Loretta.
Ain’t that a perspective. Two things bein’ able to be true at once, I do agree. In a certain manner I ain’t your prisoner but then seen in the other light...Well even if I’m walkin’ a dog, I’m still attached to that dog ain’t I?
Walter let out a pleased “hmph,” pleased by either her logic or the way her West Virginian accent flares up when supplemented by booze or high emotions. The former of which almost always leading to the later. She clangs the ice bucket down onto a rickety desk, grabs her glass and scoops it full of ice. The bottle of Four Roses next to her is already half gone when she twists the cap and pours herself more of the forgetfulness.
Since a requirement of our recently gained employment is to promote the upcoming slaughter via audio and/or visual communications I saw it fit to invite the camera here to our current domicile.
She extends her hand and the camera pans briefly around the sad sack of a hotel room. Paint peeling. Carpet stained. The bed sheets so worn and aged you can smell them as easily as looking.
Ain’t it a fucking sight? Anyways, I spin a yarn now in hopes to better illuminate all of the A Dubya on the particulars of my situation, how I came to be the mongrel’s keeper and how the we two came to be employed here. I don’t believe I can properly recount every odd detail of this journey in just this sitting but I’ll blather every so often, hoping to answer the myriad queries anyone paying half an ass’s attention is likely to have, maybe even before they ask ‘em.
Not long ago by the calendar but in what feels like a different lifetime, I didn’t even know the name of the filth I know travel the country with…
Women.
Smash cut to Walter sitting on the bed with a smile. We’re snapped back to the hotel room now.
Legally perhaps you degenerate cocksucker but I ain’t interested in technicalities as much as I am informing the whole damn world what a depraved piece of shit you are.
A depraved piece of excrement? Not as per your dear justice system. I have nothing to do with those depictions of vile gore you showed me back then. No, I am released back into the wild, free as a bird, found to be a truly gentle giant. Do not spread your half-truths to the good people of Action Wrestling. To my eye, those pictures you showed me in that holding cell were of full-grown women. Though I do admit I could be mistaken as I certainly had no other interaction with those “victims” than just perusing those photographs that day.
The word victims dripped with insincerity as it left his lips. No, it was different than simple insincerity, something more like malignant sarcasm.
Have faith in the fine fans of this federation to form their own opinions, to create in their own mind a picture of who we are and who we could be. Do not lay at their feet your beliefs of who we SHOULD be. You are no holy woman, no judge nor jury. And certainly no executioner.
She drinks again as he smiles. The camera frames on Walter who has set his book down across his lap and peers through the lens into each of you.
I on the other hand...In a place where such inevitabilities are agreed upon by all parties...I have no problem donning the hood and manning the guillotine. Perhaps that will be Action Wrestling’s first impression of me: a man worthy of wearing all three of those hats. A man by whom the world needs be measured anew, a man by whose hand the feckless herd will be culled. A Man: Evolved.
Whatever your first impressions of us will be, we’ve already taken some of the opponents. Harold Diderot belongs no longer inside the squared circle. This is not news, even Harold is aware of this, currently embarking on a “retirement tour.” So while I impart upon you all my first impression, Harold paints his last. Does he want to finish a loser? Does a man of such imposing stature wish to finish his career in a pile of his own piss and blood? It’s rare that I ask these questions; I know most men would hope, in fact, to avoid The Culling. But you Harold? Even your self-preservation instincts seem to have failed you.
I am not the writer of histories nor an arbiter of legacies, I cannot say with any certainty how your name will be regarded upon your imminent retirement, Harold. That “impression” is left to lesser men, the ones who only write of the boutts that men like you and I partake in. I can give you only my “impression” of you. That impression, Harold, is of a dunce. A clown. A jester here to provide levity in a business where some would argue men like me cast a long and macabre shadow.
You embarrass your race, Harold. You, who should be a strong, proud black man, spitting in the eye of an America that marginalizes your people...A people to whom this pathetic country owes an unpayable debt. You are their jester. You are nothing more than a minstrel show, spouting catch phrases and referencing your sizable manhood to reinforce their stereotypes. To keep an overbearing, oppressive machine of white supremacy entertained and placated. I hope you’ve enjoyed dancing while the masters called you an ape behind closed doors.
Etta interrupts from off-camera.
Minsterley or not, Harry’s been here a sight longer than either one o’ us. And not only does the Hippo have a longer tenure at this level of competition than you, oh great and Evolved piece of fucking shit, he’s every bit o’ sizable a creature as you. Shit, I’d be prone to argue--judging by his competitions that I’ve seen you watchin’--he’s more athletic than you by a long and steady shot too. Maybe you ought to ponder on whether or not this herd will be culled with the ease you anticipate.
A smile again across Walter’s face.
If that’s the case...if Harold were to prove some manner of difficulty in being Culled...then good. I would be thankful for the opportunity to test myself, to measure my own worthiness in Evolution. But your judgement is clouded by that drink, Loretta. Harold stands no chance. Harold offers no resistance. Harold is a beast of burden, a simple working animal that was assigned the work of tap dancing and doffing his hat to the paying customers of Action Wrestling. He lacks the intellect to best me in competition, physical or otherwise.
Allow him to show off his superior “athleticism” as you have it so pegged, Loretta. A man of over three hundred pounds hurrying to remove his feet from stable ground and instead place in them in precarious and elevated positions has been trying to cull himself without help from us. This week I ease the burden of this pack animal. I lift from him the responsibility of entertaining the half-witted hordes here in Action Wrestling. I lift from him the responsibility of grovelling at the shoeshine of professional wrestling, a black man in gold chains.
The smile has shifted now into a sneer and Walter has leaned forward toward the camera. His words come now through gritted teeth, his eyes burning.
How long did your great grandparents pray to be free of chains just for you to sling them from your neck again? At what cost? Your dignity? Your pride? Your self-respect? Or perhaps just the restful slumber of your ancestors, maybe that’s all that’s lost as they assuredly roll over in their graves. Perhaps you are a lowly creature, too unintelligent to realize what you’ve done or what you’re about to do. But I promise to make you realize.
Walter’s chest heaves as he strains through his words.
I promise that when I wrap my hand around your neck….and feel the air struggling through your unworthy windpipe...As I consider escorting your from this mortal co--
Walter grabs his neck instinctually and his body convulses briefly into a prone position. He lost himself for a moment, his heart rate and blood pressure raising ever so slightly as he imagined the violence to come. As his body indicated the rising excitement, the device on his brain stem snapped awake, dormant no longer. Walter does not discuss the pain it sends out from inside him as warning, but it certainly appears unspeakably tortuous. He contorts briefly, no breath to yell anymore than his initial grunt. Etta has seen it dozens of times now. But it still makes her smile.
Walter you know better than to lose control of your faculties. Or at least I’d think someone of your “intellect” would have learned that lesson by now. Perhaps your “intellect” ain’t exactly what you’ve represented it as thus far. Imagine that. This “Evolved Man” just another dumb fuckin’ animal that can’t even figure to stop pissin’ on the electric fence. Heh. Well anyways, maybe I’ll give you a few ticks to gather your bearings while I finish my story….
But I wasn’t.
Back into the hotel room and Walter again addressing Etta.
You could’ve drawn your gun right there, in that moment, and done the deed, Loretta. But you didn’t. You make these fantastical claims as to what you knew in that moment, as to discerning man and demon...But yet you did not put me down as you claimed I deserved. You left it to your system...An iron-clad system which you’d devoted the entirety of your life time, a system which failed you and exonerated me. A system which, in this case, found the truth.
That system ain’t so iron-clad as I thought. And maybe the truth ain’t neither.
She tosses back another drink. The bottle nears its end.
Provoking thought, Loretta. It’s a sad state of affairs but I often do find you a more intriguing companion when pontificating up from the bottom of a bottle. But your point is made clear: YOUR first impression of me was that I am something less than a man. That I did those awful things to those poor women. And that I deserve to die for it. I’d beg you to reconsider all of these things but alas, you only get one chance at a first impression.
With that caveat I have also set forth on gaining a first impression of one Nicholas Halden. To call the one he left upon me underwhelming is to call Everest a hill. Nicholas, you’re exactly the type of “man” that has survived too long. You’re less a man than you are a weed. Look around you at this company, look at what blooms.
You stand amongst true competitors, bastions of bruising and battle. You are amongst men and women dangerous and potent. And you...you are a child. You’re 195 pounds of soft flesh careening from rope to rope and turnbuckle to turnbuckle in hopes to make those dullards in the audience cheer. In hopes to make your opponent...what? Dizzy? That is likely your safest bet in our coming bout, Nicholas. Do your best to dizzy this Man Evolved, run your circles and do your flips. Hope that I tire of your shenanigans and end it quickly with a Mark of the Beast and send you on your way.
Or don’t. Try the other route. Attempt to be the 195 pound and six foot one “brawler” you purport to be. Explain to me, your inferior intellect and physicality, explain to me exactly how you’re going to “brawl” your way to victory against me. Explain to me what’s going to keep me from catching a punch you throw--Wait. First, explain to me where you’re throwing the punch. Are you straining to reach up toward my chin or playing it smarter and striking my midsection? These are the things to consider when you’re giving up half a foot and over a hundred pounds. Regardless of where you throw your ill-fated punch, explain to me what’s keep me from catching it in my own, crushing your fist like an empty soda can and then discarding you like the refuse you are?
Nothing. Nothing is keeping me from doing that, Nicholas. You have no means to stave off destruction at my hands.
I heard you lodging your complaint about not appearing on the the show the week last. Do you want to know why? Why the blue chip, chisel-chinned Roger Payton Jr was booked but you were left to cry to a bartender even after you pulled the upset a week prior? Because everyone can take one look at you and know: you’ll always be trash. Payton has upside. Payton has athletic talent and skills and a pedigree.
You? You had a lucky week and a misleading first impression. Management, as I, saw directly through that smoke to determine there is, in fact, no fire. You further made clear how out of your depth you are here by name checking half a dozen talents FAR your better, boasting that you will “wreck everybody and everything.”
Quaint. You almost remind me...oh who is it I’m thinking of? You know...Oh that’s right! Every wrestler who’s ever been had a camera pointed at them and had nothing of value to say. You’re too generic for The Dollar General to carry you. So I guess that means I’ll carry you. I’ll carry you through a match this week and then I’ll carry your carcass to whatever shallow grave your shallow mind and shallow existence warrants. No one is throwing spades up, Nicholas. But at Evolution, I’m throwing the Kingspade out.
This week I make my first impression, Action Wrestling. You all get to form your first true opinion of me based on something more than the internet chatterings of my cohort here. I do hope that I don’t disappoint. I hope that you can all see the gift I bring, the growth that I, Man Evolved, brings upon this federation. Granted, I bring it upon you via force but there is no more efficient way for evolution is there? For the fittest to survive, there must be tests, there must be measuring sticks and challenges with the most fatal of stakes. I am that measuring stick. I am the challenge, the force of nature itself that forces evolution upon all of you, the herd I have come to cull.
First impressions are often deceptive. Harold’s physical appearance alone would deem him formidable but reality sees him a punchline. Nicholas’ victory implies talent but it was hollow, meaningless, and soon to be wiped from collective memory. Loretta’s first impression of me was that I was a demon.
I am no demon. But I present to all of you some type of apocalypse I am sure. I am Man Evolved, and you are all being held to a new standard. Cull the herd. Salt the earth. Evolution comes for us all.
Loretta Bennett approaches the door with a newly filled bucket of ice under arm. She had taken to choosing these motels with the individual entrances instead of hotels where she’d have to be seen alongside her charge, Walter. Even though she’d resigned to being seen with him on Action Wrestling’s national programming every week, it seemed somehow worse in the smaller space of day-to-day reality.
She was always reluctant to leave him alone even if for only the 240 seconds to fetch ice. Even knowing that device sits there on his brain stem, even having seen it immobilize him on more than one occasion, even then leaving him made her uneasy. She worried that he’d claim a victim in her absence and then that would be on her conscience. Bennett pauses at the door a moment, head hung low. She sighs deep worrying that he won’t be in there. Or perhaps hoping that he won’t? She signals for the camera to follow her in and swings open the door.
Walter is there, of course; he’s always there, never waxing nor waning. Legs stretched out in front of him, he doesn’t look up from his book when his baritone breaks the silence.
Does the ice comfort you?
I ain’t sore.
Of course not. I mean, does the idea of the ice comfort you, Loretta?
Now how in the shit would the idea of ice comfort me you fuckin cunt hair?!
She did her best to remain cordial in speaking with people for the most part. She even had some reasonably respectful entanglements on twitter of all places this week. But tonight--as she is on most nights not requiring an appearance of some sort--she was in the bag. And she didn’t count Walter amongst people and therefore forewent being “cordial.”
Does putting ice in your drink give you some comfort or mental distance from the fact that you’re simply imbibing whiskey straight and alone?
I should be so lucky as to be alone for two goddamn seconds of my day.
You’re not MY prisoner, Loretta.
Ain’t that a perspective. Two things bein’ able to be true at once, I do agree. In a certain manner I ain’t your prisoner but then seen in the other light...Well even if I’m walkin’ a dog, I’m still attached to that dog ain’t I?
Walter let out a pleased “hmph,” pleased by either her logic or the way her West Virginian accent flares up when supplemented by booze or high emotions. The former of which almost always leading to the later. She clangs the ice bucket down onto a rickety desk, grabs her glass and scoops it full of ice. The bottle of Four Roses next to her is already half gone when she twists the cap and pours herself more of the forgetfulness.
Since a requirement of our recently gained employment is to promote the upcoming slaughter via audio and/or visual communications I saw it fit to invite the camera here to our current domicile.
She extends her hand and the camera pans briefly around the sad sack of a hotel room. Paint peeling. Carpet stained. The bed sheets so worn and aged you can smell them as easily as looking.
Ain’t it a fucking sight? Anyways, I spin a yarn now in hopes to better illuminate all of the A Dubya on the particulars of my situation, how I came to be the mongrel’s keeper and how the we two came to be employed here. I don’t believe I can properly recount every odd detail of this journey in just this sitting but I’ll blather every so often, hoping to answer the myriad queries anyone paying half an ass’s attention is likely to have, maybe even before they ask ‘em.
Not long ago by the calendar but in what feels like a different lifetime, I didn’t even know the name of the filth I know travel the country with…
As she speaks, the scene cross-dissolves to a flashback, re-enacting with a dream-like vagueness and lack of detail the scenes she describes. It’s a bustling police station, a Loretta of more or less the same age standing in a large office with gruesome photos pinned to a bulletin board. For a brief moment the photographs flash in front on the screen, taking it over but too quick to make out any details. It’s just shapes and parts covered in crimson, detached from their purpose to form a human. All looked mauled, taken apart. Barely recognizable. We hear Etta in voice over.
I was working out of the Annapolis office with the Bureau, having been called there to track a killer. It wasn’t often we received these assignments but when the victims were strewn across as many states as these and the particulars so grotesque, then it warranted our involvement. And I assure you, dear viewer, these particulars were grotesque. So much so, in fact, that the the locals thought first they had an animal on the loose, it was some rabid beast. The yokels passed stories of a chupacabra or cerberus or the like but as the murders spread, it become clear our killer was a human, at least technically so. Still, that’s what the yokels called him, ‘the beast.’ The locals were hopeless, and God’s honest, we weren’t much better. Then this monster managed to somehow get worse.
The sounds of ice on teeth and the throat muscles gulping break up our voice over. Back in the hotel our narrator swallows complete her healthy pour. She fills up again and continues.
That shitstain started leaving them alive. His poor victims, they were clinging to dear life when the locals would get there. But the girls--always girls by the way. With little exception, these victims were girls.
I was working out of the Annapolis office with the Bureau, having been called there to track a killer. It wasn’t often we received these assignments but when the victims were strewn across as many states as these and the particulars so grotesque, then it warranted our involvement. And I assure you, dear viewer, these particulars were grotesque. So much so, in fact, that the the locals thought first they had an animal on the loose, it was some rabid beast. The yokels passed stories of a chupacabra or cerberus or the like but as the murders spread, it become clear our killer was a human, at least technically so. Still, that’s what the yokels called him, ‘the beast.’ The locals were hopeless, and God’s honest, we weren’t much better. Then this monster managed to somehow get worse.
The sounds of ice on teeth and the throat muscles gulping break up our voice over. Back in the hotel our narrator swallows complete her healthy pour. She fills up again and continues.
That shitstain started leaving them alive. His poor victims, they were clinging to dear life when the locals would get there. But the girls--always girls by the way. With little exception, these victims were girls.
Women.
Smash cut to Walter sitting on the bed with a smile. We’re snapped back to the hotel room now.
Legally perhaps you degenerate cocksucker but I ain’t interested in technicalities as much as I am informing the whole damn world what a depraved piece of shit you are.
A depraved piece of excrement? Not as per your dear justice system. I have nothing to do with those depictions of vile gore you showed me back then. No, I am released back into the wild, free as a bird, found to be a truly gentle giant. Do not spread your half-truths to the good people of Action Wrestling. To my eye, those pictures you showed me in that holding cell were of full-grown women. Though I do admit I could be mistaken as I certainly had no other interaction with those “victims” than just perusing those photographs that day.
The word victims dripped with insincerity as it left his lips. No, it was different than simple insincerity, something more like malignant sarcasm.
Have faith in the fine fans of this federation to form their own opinions, to create in their own mind a picture of who we are and who we could be. Do not lay at their feet your beliefs of who we SHOULD be. You are no holy woman, no judge nor jury. And certainly no executioner.
She drinks again as he smiles. The camera frames on Walter who has set his book down across his lap and peers through the lens into each of you.
I on the other hand...In a place where such inevitabilities are agreed upon by all parties...I have no problem donning the hood and manning the guillotine. Perhaps that will be Action Wrestling’s first impression of me: a man worthy of wearing all three of those hats. A man by whom the world needs be measured anew, a man by whose hand the feckless herd will be culled. A Man: Evolved.
Whatever your first impressions of us will be, we’ve already taken some of the opponents. Harold Diderot belongs no longer inside the squared circle. This is not news, even Harold is aware of this, currently embarking on a “retirement tour.” So while I impart upon you all my first impression, Harold paints his last. Does he want to finish a loser? Does a man of such imposing stature wish to finish his career in a pile of his own piss and blood? It’s rare that I ask these questions; I know most men would hope, in fact, to avoid The Culling. But you Harold? Even your self-preservation instincts seem to have failed you.
I am not the writer of histories nor an arbiter of legacies, I cannot say with any certainty how your name will be regarded upon your imminent retirement, Harold. That “impression” is left to lesser men, the ones who only write of the boutts that men like you and I partake in. I can give you only my “impression” of you. That impression, Harold, is of a dunce. A clown. A jester here to provide levity in a business where some would argue men like me cast a long and macabre shadow.
You embarrass your race, Harold. You, who should be a strong, proud black man, spitting in the eye of an America that marginalizes your people...A people to whom this pathetic country owes an unpayable debt. You are their jester. You are nothing more than a minstrel show, spouting catch phrases and referencing your sizable manhood to reinforce their stereotypes. To keep an overbearing, oppressive machine of white supremacy entertained and placated. I hope you’ve enjoyed dancing while the masters called you an ape behind closed doors.
Etta interrupts from off-camera.
Minsterley or not, Harry’s been here a sight longer than either one o’ us. And not only does the Hippo have a longer tenure at this level of competition than you, oh great and Evolved piece of fucking shit, he’s every bit o’ sizable a creature as you. Shit, I’d be prone to argue--judging by his competitions that I’ve seen you watchin’--he’s more athletic than you by a long and steady shot too. Maybe you ought to ponder on whether or not this herd will be culled with the ease you anticipate.
A smile again across Walter’s face.
If that’s the case...if Harold were to prove some manner of difficulty in being Culled...then good. I would be thankful for the opportunity to test myself, to measure my own worthiness in Evolution. But your judgement is clouded by that drink, Loretta. Harold stands no chance. Harold offers no resistance. Harold is a beast of burden, a simple working animal that was assigned the work of tap dancing and doffing his hat to the paying customers of Action Wrestling. He lacks the intellect to best me in competition, physical or otherwise.
Allow him to show off his superior “athleticism” as you have it so pegged, Loretta. A man of over three hundred pounds hurrying to remove his feet from stable ground and instead place in them in precarious and elevated positions has been trying to cull himself without help from us. This week I ease the burden of this pack animal. I lift from him the responsibility of entertaining the half-witted hordes here in Action Wrestling. I lift from him the responsibility of grovelling at the shoeshine of professional wrestling, a black man in gold chains.
The smile has shifted now into a sneer and Walter has leaned forward toward the camera. His words come now through gritted teeth, his eyes burning.
How long did your great grandparents pray to be free of chains just for you to sling them from your neck again? At what cost? Your dignity? Your pride? Your self-respect? Or perhaps just the restful slumber of your ancestors, maybe that’s all that’s lost as they assuredly roll over in their graves. Perhaps you are a lowly creature, too unintelligent to realize what you’ve done or what you’re about to do. But I promise to make you realize.
Walter’s chest heaves as he strains through his words.
I promise that when I wrap my hand around your neck….and feel the air struggling through your unworthy windpipe...As I consider escorting your from this mortal co--
ARRRGGGGGHHHH!
Walter grabs his neck instinctually and his body convulses briefly into a prone position. He lost himself for a moment, his heart rate and blood pressure raising ever so slightly as he imagined the violence to come. As his body indicated the rising excitement, the device on his brain stem snapped awake, dormant no longer. Walter does not discuss the pain it sends out from inside him as warning, but it certainly appears unspeakably tortuous. He contorts briefly, no breath to yell anymore than his initial grunt. Etta has seen it dozens of times now. But it still makes her smile.
Walter you know better than to lose control of your faculties. Or at least I’d think someone of your “intellect” would have learned that lesson by now. Perhaps your “intellect” ain’t exactly what you’ve represented it as thus far. Imagine that. This “Evolved Man” just another dumb fuckin’ animal that can’t even figure to stop pissin’ on the electric fence. Heh. Well anyways, maybe I’ll give you a few ticks to gather your bearings while I finish my story….
We're back to a voice over and the police station, now in a state of excited agitation.
As I was saying, that arrogant fuckstick started leaving them alive. Or better said, he left them dying. Those poor souls were so near to crossin the river Styx that they couldn't put two damn syllables in the way of assistance to us. But not being as intelligent as he purports--just recently evidenced by his electric boogie there on the bed--he left one with enough of her bearings to give us a sketch.
A hospital room now. Etta Bennett stands behind a sketch artist feverishly illustrating according to the words the bed-ridden victim is straining to vocalize. We see Etta’s lips moving, no doubt trying to soothe or calm the victim, encouraging her to recall details of her assailant’s face. Not for a moment, however, do Etta’s eyes leave the sketch.
When that poor woman was done describin’ his mug that even his mother couldn’t love, we posted that mural on every telephone pole, brick wall and bulletin board across four fuckin’ states. Soon enough we there was a tip from Severna Park, not far from Annapolis. He was at the same place everyday. He’d been showing up at the Severna Park Library for weeks now.
The hospital room is replaced with a humble local library. We see Walter’s back, his head tilted down as though he’s reading a book. Feet to his left are children playing with a train set. He doesn’t look at them. We see the action described by Etta in her voice over.
We had him. Months of squeezin’ blood from turnips and then all of a sudden, because of his own vile inclinations, we’ve fuckin’ got him. I was ecstatic. Every flatfoot or agent that had been turnin’ stones over all these months was ecstatic. Half of ‘em showed up at that peaceful little library, bustin in to take in that killer. Probably scared those poor kids half to death. For whatever it is or ain’t worth, that demon there didn’t look one bit of surprised. Sumbitch calmly set his book down and put his hands on his head and got marched out of there in cuffs. Zip ties actually. Cuffs didn’t fit.
The woozy flashback snaps again, this time back to the station where those who didn’t go to the bust have been waiting with bated breath. The call came in that he was apprehended without incident, to the relief of some and dismay of others; when dealing with crimes like his there’s always a contingent of “peace” officers hoping for a bloodier outcome. Etta was holding a coffee mug in her left hand, leaning casually on her desk as he was paraded in.
That fuckin’ hooplehead was so calm, so confident, it was goddamn infuriating. His lips were pressed casually together with just enough of a smirk to let us all know what he already knew--he wasn’t stayin’ there. The damn room was silent, watching a man that size get marched in. A few of the flatfoots’ hands hovered just above their weapons, maybe out of self-preservation instinct, maybe out of conscious hate. Walter nodded at the men in the room. And then he craned that cinder block of a head over in my damn direction...His lips parted into a wide smile and his dark chocolate eyes met mine. I felt a sensation I ain’t felt before and dropped my glass, piecing it into a million and splash its contents in a few square foot radius. I knew when this monster looked at me, he just saw another one of them girls he’d cut up. He just saw another goddamn victim soon to be torn asunder like he’s a dog with a stuffed bear. His eyes stayed on me and I felt like I couldn’t move...couldn’t breathe. Two tours in Afghanistan and how many years in the bureau and I ain’t been froze like that. But I knew, hand to whatever God might be still watchin, I wasn’t in the presence of another human being, that this was some type of demon. That was a damn beast and he needed to be put down.
As I was saying, that arrogant fuckstick started leaving them alive. Or better said, he left them dying. Those poor souls were so near to crossin the river Styx that they couldn't put two damn syllables in the way of assistance to us. But not being as intelligent as he purports--just recently evidenced by his electric boogie there on the bed--he left one with enough of her bearings to give us a sketch.
A hospital room now. Etta Bennett stands behind a sketch artist feverishly illustrating according to the words the bed-ridden victim is straining to vocalize. We see Etta’s lips moving, no doubt trying to soothe or calm the victim, encouraging her to recall details of her assailant’s face. Not for a moment, however, do Etta’s eyes leave the sketch.
When that poor woman was done describin’ his mug that even his mother couldn’t love, we posted that mural on every telephone pole, brick wall and bulletin board across four fuckin’ states. Soon enough we there was a tip from Severna Park, not far from Annapolis. He was at the same place everyday. He’d been showing up at the Severna Park Library for weeks now.
The hospital room is replaced with a humble local library. We see Walter’s back, his head tilted down as though he’s reading a book. Feet to his left are children playing with a train set. He doesn’t look at them. We see the action described by Etta in her voice over.
We had him. Months of squeezin’ blood from turnips and then all of a sudden, because of his own vile inclinations, we’ve fuckin’ got him. I was ecstatic. Every flatfoot or agent that had been turnin’ stones over all these months was ecstatic. Half of ‘em showed up at that peaceful little library, bustin in to take in that killer. Probably scared those poor kids half to death. For whatever it is or ain’t worth, that demon there didn’t look one bit of surprised. Sumbitch calmly set his book down and put his hands on his head and got marched out of there in cuffs. Zip ties actually. Cuffs didn’t fit.
The woozy flashback snaps again, this time back to the station where those who didn’t go to the bust have been waiting with bated breath. The call came in that he was apprehended without incident, to the relief of some and dismay of others; when dealing with crimes like his there’s always a contingent of “peace” officers hoping for a bloodier outcome. Etta was holding a coffee mug in her left hand, leaning casually on her desk as he was paraded in.
That fuckin’ hooplehead was so calm, so confident, it was goddamn infuriating. His lips were pressed casually together with just enough of a smirk to let us all know what he already knew--he wasn’t stayin’ there. The damn room was silent, watching a man that size get marched in. A few of the flatfoots’ hands hovered just above their weapons, maybe out of self-preservation instinct, maybe out of conscious hate. Walter nodded at the men in the room. And then he craned that cinder block of a head over in my damn direction...His lips parted into a wide smile and his dark chocolate eyes met mine. I felt a sensation I ain’t felt before and dropped my glass, piecing it into a million and splash its contents in a few square foot radius. I knew when this monster looked at me, he just saw another one of them girls he’d cut up. He just saw another goddamn victim soon to be torn asunder like he’s a dog with a stuffed bear. His eyes stayed on me and I felt like I couldn’t move...couldn’t breathe. Two tours in Afghanistan and how many years in the bureau and I ain’t been froze like that. But I knew, hand to whatever God might be still watchin, I wasn’t in the presence of another human being, that this was some type of demon. That was a damn beast and he needed to be put down.
But I wasn’t.
Back into the hotel room and Walter again addressing Etta.
You could’ve drawn your gun right there, in that moment, and done the deed, Loretta. But you didn’t. You make these fantastical claims as to what you knew in that moment, as to discerning man and demon...But yet you did not put me down as you claimed I deserved. You left it to your system...An iron-clad system which you’d devoted the entirety of your life time, a system which failed you and exonerated me. A system which, in this case, found the truth.
That system ain’t so iron-clad as I thought. And maybe the truth ain’t neither.
She tosses back another drink. The bottle nears its end.
Provoking thought, Loretta. It’s a sad state of affairs but I often do find you a more intriguing companion when pontificating up from the bottom of a bottle. But your point is made clear: YOUR first impression of me was that I am something less than a man. That I did those awful things to those poor women. And that I deserve to die for it. I’d beg you to reconsider all of these things but alas, you only get one chance at a first impression.
With that caveat I have also set forth on gaining a first impression of one Nicholas Halden. To call the one he left upon me underwhelming is to call Everest a hill. Nicholas, you’re exactly the type of “man” that has survived too long. You’re less a man than you are a weed. Look around you at this company, look at what blooms.
You stand amongst true competitors, bastions of bruising and battle. You are amongst men and women dangerous and potent. And you...you are a child. You’re 195 pounds of soft flesh careening from rope to rope and turnbuckle to turnbuckle in hopes to make those dullards in the audience cheer. In hopes to make your opponent...what? Dizzy? That is likely your safest bet in our coming bout, Nicholas. Do your best to dizzy this Man Evolved, run your circles and do your flips. Hope that I tire of your shenanigans and end it quickly with a Mark of the Beast and send you on your way.
Or don’t. Try the other route. Attempt to be the 195 pound and six foot one “brawler” you purport to be. Explain to me, your inferior intellect and physicality, explain to me exactly how you’re going to “brawl” your way to victory against me. Explain to me what’s going to keep me from catching a punch you throw--Wait. First, explain to me where you’re throwing the punch. Are you straining to reach up toward my chin or playing it smarter and striking my midsection? These are the things to consider when you’re giving up half a foot and over a hundred pounds. Regardless of where you throw your ill-fated punch, explain to me what’s keep me from catching it in my own, crushing your fist like an empty soda can and then discarding you like the refuse you are?
Nothing. Nothing is keeping me from doing that, Nicholas. You have no means to stave off destruction at my hands.
I heard you lodging your complaint about not appearing on the the show the week last. Do you want to know why? Why the blue chip, chisel-chinned Roger Payton Jr was booked but you were left to cry to a bartender even after you pulled the upset a week prior? Because everyone can take one look at you and know: you’ll always be trash. Payton has upside. Payton has athletic talent and skills and a pedigree.
You? You had a lucky week and a misleading first impression. Management, as I, saw directly through that smoke to determine there is, in fact, no fire. You further made clear how out of your depth you are here by name checking half a dozen talents FAR your better, boasting that you will “wreck everybody and everything.”
Quaint. You almost remind me...oh who is it I’m thinking of? You know...Oh that’s right! Every wrestler who’s ever been had a camera pointed at them and had nothing of value to say. You’re too generic for The Dollar General to carry you. So I guess that means I’ll carry you. I’ll carry you through a match this week and then I’ll carry your carcass to whatever shallow grave your shallow mind and shallow existence warrants. No one is throwing spades up, Nicholas. But at Evolution, I’m throwing the Kingspade out.
This week I make my first impression, Action Wrestling. You all get to form your first true opinion of me based on something more than the internet chatterings of my cohort here. I do hope that I don’t disappoint. I hope that you can all see the gift I bring, the growth that I, Man Evolved, brings upon this federation. Granted, I bring it upon you via force but there is no more efficient way for evolution is there? For the fittest to survive, there must be tests, there must be measuring sticks and challenges with the most fatal of stakes. I am that measuring stick. I am the challenge, the force of nature itself that forces evolution upon all of you, the herd I have come to cull.
First impressions are often deceptive. Harold’s physical appearance alone would deem him formidable but reality sees him a punchline. Nicholas’ victory implies talent but it was hollow, meaningless, and soon to be wiped from collective memory. Loretta’s first impression of me was that I was a demon.
I am no demon. But I present to all of you some type of apocalypse I am sure. I am Man Evolved, and you are all being held to a new standard. Cull the herd. Salt the earth. Evolution comes for us all.