Post by ๐๐ข๐ฅ๐๐ฌ ๐๐๐๐๐ on Nov 12, 2021 21:36:08 GMT -5
A soft glow from a cell phone illuminates the dark hotel room. The curtains are pulled aside, neon lights send multicolored reflections onto the floor of the room, through the pouring rain droplets outside. The man holding the cell phone hits the bed hard, sitting with a thud and obvious frustration.
It says, the aforementioned emojis ending the Tweet. Within seconds, a like. Then a retweet. Corey Black hits the power button, dimming the device and once again bathing in darkness. He looks to his right, an actual tuxedo - still in the protective plastic - hangs on the standing closet rack beside the bed. Lightning flashes outside, as does the notification indicator of his cell phone. The lightning was white, the LED was red. He presses the power button, illuminating the screen. There it is. In plain English.
He drops the phone without responding. He's anywhere but here. Still wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair and beard unkempt. The hotel room, while relatively swanky, lacks any kind of emotion at all. A bleak setting for what is, apparently, a bleak human. He places both hands upon his brow, pressing hard enough to achieve a guttural groan. He's trying to push it out. Physically.
The mirror across from the bed laughs.
He thought that was weird as well, his ears perked up as his eyes darted forward. There, on the dresser, the mirror reflecting not an image of Corey Black - but of a soulless husk. White eyes, throwing fanged teeth, ears coming to a point. Laughing.
Corey's eyes don't deceive him, nor does his arm. In a swift move, he kicks a shoe up from the side of the bed into his hand and hurls the footwear through the mirror, sending it every which way in countless splintered pieces. Each one, though, laugh as they fall toward the Earth. Some ricochet off the dresser, some the wall, but eventually all come to a rest. Finally, silence.
But tonight's the night.
The phone on the ground again flashes red, sending the hue to the ceiling and back. He grabs it, looking at the message.
"Fuck," he says aloud to nobody in particular. Just himself. Begrudgingly, he sheds his loungewear and turns his attention to the formal outfit. He stands there, in his underwear, just looking at it. Wondering what he should do. His moral compass aligns. Pants first, then under shirt - tucked in, of course. Tie, knotted in a jiff and then the coat. He's done this before. The shoes, though. One is caked in hilarious mirror dust. Surely he can't put his foot into that. As if his body hasn't been pierced with foreign objects enough, but not on this night.
Tonight's the night.
Classic Converse All-Stars sit beside the door, he whips those on and heads out into the hallway. Corey skips the elevator, instead quickly navigating the staircase down toward the ground floor. As he gets to the lobby, a long limousine pulls up. The drive steps out, holding a sign. 'Corey Black' it says. His eyes meet the sign as he leaves the hotel, nodding to the driver and getting into the back. The drive gets in, puts the car in gear, and away he goes.
New York City is a bustling place at all hours of the day. People walking in the street, traffic, it's all so very anxiety inducing. So, in the back of every limo in town is a fully stocked minibar. Every spirit you could ask for. Corey Black doesn't drink. A medium sized bottle of whiskey is ripped open and poured down his throat. Then another. On the third, he stops. He slowly puts the cap back on the bottle and places it back in place at the minibar. Shaking his head, his tongue navigating outside his mouth unintentionally. The dividing window slowly rolls down, the driver cheerful as can be.
"We're almost there sir!" he shouts with vigor. As the destination emerges, droves of people line a red carpet. People with cameras line this velvet roped walkway, snapping dozens of pictures of whomever is stepping out of the next limo. Corey is three cars away. He can see the commotion, the glitz. His hand grips the seat as one car pulls away, inching ever closer to the carpet. A canopy is overhead, blocking the guests from the pouring rain but that doesn't stop the crowd of fans that have gathered to witness. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, turns it on and turns it to selfie mode - a quick photo snapped. It takes agonizing seconds that seem like a millennia to go from black to showing the photo but as it does, it's clear. In the picture, Corey's eyes are lifeless. And on that red carpet, there's noting but flash photography.
The car that was at the carpet pulls forward, Corey's limo is now directly behind the one offloading a gaggle of celebrity folk. Singers, actors, hell there's even an athlete in this one. Corey looks around, unsure of what he can do. The car pulls away. Corey's pulls up. The driver leans back and turns, facing Corey. "This is your stop!" he says, big smile on his face.
"Drive," Corey says under his breath. A shameful expression upon his face.
"Drive?" he's asked.
"Please, drive," Black retorts, sitting back in his seat and looking at the floor.
"But tonight's the night," the driver responds. Corey's eyes widen. Rage filled, would be glowing red.
"GฬธฬอEฬถฬอฬฑTฬดอฬ ฬฎฬฃ ฬดอฬ ฬผTฬธฬฬฬHฬถฬอฬซEฬถอฬฟอ ฬตฬฬฏฬฃFฬทฬอฬชUฬดฬฬอCฬทฬฬKฬถฬฬฉ ฬทฬฬกฬคOฬธฬอฬกUฬธฬฬฬฆTฬทอฬ ฬ ฬทฬอฬฬOฬดอฬฬฎFฬทฬอ ฬถฬฬฬHฬตอฬฬฃEฬถอฬฬRฬธฬฬฬฏEฬทอฬฬฆ!" Corey shouts, his voice with a twinge of demonic flare. The driver surprised and fearful slams the limo into drive and it squeals off, leaving the red carpet behind and a bunch of bewildered people at the theater. Corey is tossed around in the back, pinballing off the door and his own arm stopping his momentum, but the limo slips and slides along the busy New York City street. A few blocks pass, before the car comes to a sudden stop. No words are exchanged between the two, only looks.
The driver, shaking, eyes welling up. Corey - dead. Broken. He snarls silently, reaching for the door latch. Rain begins cascading into the limo as Corey steps out, shutting the door without slamming it, but as soon as the sound echoes off the buildings in this alley, the limo speeds away with vigor. A crimson wash coming from a neon sign on the opposite side of the street gives this alley a horror vibe. No matter, what's a seedy place to a King?
Corey begins walking along this building divider, unsure of where he even is. But it doesn't matter, he's muttering to himself. Tuxedo surely ruined by the foreign water falling all upon it. Hair and beard drenched, hanging low.
A sign up ahead catches Corey's eye and finally a smile, however slight and forced it may be. He slithers up, taking his sweet time. The door is unlocked. In a back alley. In New York City. The whiskey walk. The door closes behind him, the sign hardly visible beyond the rain.
The thumping bass begins to overwhelm, strobe and colored lights flash through a single doorway. Corey heads down a dark hallway toward the music and as he crests the threshold, a wave of people rush by. A lone man stands up on a stage wearing obnoxious headphones, pressing buttons on a computer. An admittedly impressive light show adds to the surely drug fueled frenzy happening on the dance floor as dozens and dozens of people dart in one big circular track, dancing and spinning away. The same neon sign as outside rests above the stage, this time a much larger scale, as The Slaughterhouse turns out to be an underground club. But Corey isn't having fun. In fact, quite the opposite. A woman takes notice, she walks over and beckons him out the door where the music is muffled. He joins her. Her hair a neon pink and blue split down the middle, pulled into pigtails. Glow sticks affixed to her barely there shirt and skirt, boots that seem to reach the heavens on her feet.
"Why so gloomy, friend?" she asks, still swaying to the distant music.
"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," Corey says, leaning in to get close to her ear.
"This is The Slaughterhouse, baby, that doom and gloom stops at the door!" she expresses with glee. "Here, try this!" She reaches into what appears to be an M&Ms Mini vile attached to her belt but produces something smaller and less colorful. She places the 'hard candy' on her tongue and moves in close. Corey hesitates.
"It's fine, it's the fun provider!" she says, again exuding nothing but positive energy. Corey's hand, in a flash, wraps around her throat. She pulls her tongue in and swallows the object, Corey releasing without squeezing.
"Alright, I get it, I get it," she says, putting her hands up. "But here in a few seconds I'm gonna need you to catch me!"
Corey's head cocks to the side and his eyes sharpen as hers roll back in her head, like a freshly cut tree she timbers forward right into Corey's waiting clutches. He drags her deeper into the building, past the pounding music and to a chair in a corner. Gingerly, he places her down. She comes to a little bit as Corey is going to stand up, she grabs his tie.
"Are you an angel?" she asks, smiling wide.
"Far from it," he responds, pulling his tie away from her grasp and walking away. He gets to the outside door and hears her yelling from behind.
"Bye bye Satan!" she says, he kicks the door open and heads into the thunderstorm pounded New York City. As it closes behind, the view stays black. The music fades to silence, the tripping woman's maniacal laughter seems to get more and more distant until nothing is heard or seen.
Moments pass. Corey Black sits up out of bed in a panic, sweat pouring down his face. He's back in the hotel room in NYC, his tuxedo on the floor, bunched up and in a puddle beside his bed. Daylight peeks through the curtains, his heart beating nearly out of his chest. It's Saturday. He breathes in deep, sucking oxygen into his lungs like it was his last breath.
His phone lights up, the red LED lets him know exactly who it's from. He hits the power button, turning his screen on to dozens of missed calls and texts. The last one, displayed brightly right before his eyes.
He sighs. Drops the phone onto the bed. Collapses back. Sits back up and begins typing away.
Before hitting send, Corey hears something from the foot of the bed. Laughter. He sits forward, looking at the floor and deletes the message.
"Fuckin'.. tuxedo guy and a red dress dancer. Alright that works," he says, typing away on his phone.
'Tonight's the night!'
It says, the aforementioned emojis ending the Tweet. Within seconds, a like. Then a retweet. Corey Black hits the power button, dimming the device and once again bathing in darkness. He looks to his right, an actual tuxedo - still in the protective plastic - hangs on the standing closet rack beside the bed. Lightning flashes outside, as does the notification indicator of his cell phone. The lightning was white, the LED was red. He presses the power button, illuminating the screen. There it is. In plain English.
'I'm about to leave, you have about half an hour!'
He drops the phone without responding. He's anywhere but here. Still wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair and beard unkempt. The hotel room, while relatively swanky, lacks any kind of emotion at all. A bleak setting for what is, apparently, a bleak human. He places both hands upon his brow, pressing hard enough to achieve a guttural groan. He's trying to push it out. Physically.
The mirror across from the bed laughs.
He thought that was weird as well, his ears perked up as his eyes darted forward. There, on the dresser, the mirror reflecting not an image of Corey Black - but of a soulless husk. White eyes, throwing fanged teeth, ears coming to a point. Laughing.
Corey's eyes don't deceive him, nor does his arm. In a swift move, he kicks a shoe up from the side of the bed into his hand and hurls the footwear through the mirror, sending it every which way in countless splintered pieces. Each one, though, laugh as they fall toward the Earth. Some ricochet off the dresser, some the wall, but eventually all come to a rest. Finally, silence.
But tonight's the night.
The phone on the ground again flashes red, sending the hue to the ceiling and back. He grabs it, looking at the message.
'Car's on the way, be ready!'
"Fuck," he says aloud to nobody in particular. Just himself. Begrudgingly, he sheds his loungewear and turns his attention to the formal outfit. He stands there, in his underwear, just looking at it. Wondering what he should do. His moral compass aligns. Pants first, then under shirt - tucked in, of course. Tie, knotted in a jiff and then the coat. He's done this before. The shoes, though. One is caked in hilarious mirror dust. Surely he can't put his foot into that. As if his body hasn't been pierced with foreign objects enough, but not on this night.
Tonight's the night.
Classic Converse All-Stars sit beside the door, he whips those on and heads out into the hallway. Corey skips the elevator, instead quickly navigating the staircase down toward the ground floor. As he gets to the lobby, a long limousine pulls up. The drive steps out, holding a sign. 'Corey Black' it says. His eyes meet the sign as he leaves the hotel, nodding to the driver and getting into the back. The drive gets in, puts the car in gear, and away he goes.
New York City is a bustling place at all hours of the day. People walking in the street, traffic, it's all so very anxiety inducing. So, in the back of every limo in town is a fully stocked minibar. Every spirit you could ask for. Corey Black doesn't drink. A medium sized bottle of whiskey is ripped open and poured down his throat. Then another. On the third, he stops. He slowly puts the cap back on the bottle and places it back in place at the minibar. Shaking his head, his tongue navigating outside his mouth unintentionally. The dividing window slowly rolls down, the driver cheerful as can be.
"We're almost there sir!" he shouts with vigor. As the destination emerges, droves of people line a red carpet. People with cameras line this velvet roped walkway, snapping dozens of pictures of whomever is stepping out of the next limo. Corey is three cars away. He can see the commotion, the glitz. His hand grips the seat as one car pulls away, inching ever closer to the carpet. A canopy is overhead, blocking the guests from the pouring rain but that doesn't stop the crowd of fans that have gathered to witness. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, turns it on and turns it to selfie mode - a quick photo snapped. It takes agonizing seconds that seem like a millennia to go from black to showing the photo but as it does, it's clear. In the picture, Corey's eyes are lifeless. And on that red carpet, there's noting but flash photography.
The car that was at the carpet pulls forward, Corey's limo is now directly behind the one offloading a gaggle of celebrity folk. Singers, actors, hell there's even an athlete in this one. Corey looks around, unsure of what he can do. The car pulls away. Corey's pulls up. The driver leans back and turns, facing Corey. "This is your stop!" he says, big smile on his face.
"Drive," Corey says under his breath. A shameful expression upon his face.
"Drive?" he's asked.
"Please, drive," Black retorts, sitting back in his seat and looking at the floor.
"But tonight's the night," the driver responds. Corey's eyes widen. Rage filled, would be glowing red.
"GฬธฬอEฬถฬอฬฑTฬดอฬ ฬฎฬฃ ฬดอฬ ฬผTฬธฬฬฬHฬถฬอฬซEฬถอฬฟอ ฬตฬฬฏฬฃFฬทฬอฬชUฬดฬฬอCฬทฬฬKฬถฬฬฉ ฬทฬฬกฬคOฬธฬอฬกUฬธฬฬฬฆTฬทอฬ ฬ ฬทฬอฬฬOฬดอฬฬฎFฬทฬอ ฬถฬฬฬHฬตอฬฬฃEฬถอฬฬRฬธฬฬฬฏEฬทอฬฬฆ!" Corey shouts, his voice with a twinge of demonic flare. The driver surprised and fearful slams the limo into drive and it squeals off, leaving the red carpet behind and a bunch of bewildered people at the theater. Corey is tossed around in the back, pinballing off the door and his own arm stopping his momentum, but the limo slips and slides along the busy New York City street. A few blocks pass, before the car comes to a sudden stop. No words are exchanged between the two, only looks.
The driver, shaking, eyes welling up. Corey - dead. Broken. He snarls silently, reaching for the door latch. Rain begins cascading into the limo as Corey steps out, shutting the door without slamming it, but as soon as the sound echoes off the buildings in this alley, the limo speeds away with vigor. A crimson wash coming from a neon sign on the opposite side of the street gives this alley a horror vibe. No matter, what's a seedy place to a King?
Corey begins walking along this building divider, unsure of where he even is. But it doesn't matter, he's muttering to himself. Tuxedo surely ruined by the foreign water falling all upon it. Hair and beard drenched, hanging low.
A sign up ahead catches Corey's eye and finally a smile, however slight and forced it may be. He slithers up, taking his sweet time. The door is unlocked. In a back alley. In New York City. The whiskey walk. The door closes behind him, the sign hardly visible beyond the rain.
The thumping bass begins to overwhelm, strobe and colored lights flash through a single doorway. Corey heads down a dark hallway toward the music and as he crests the threshold, a wave of people rush by. A lone man stands up on a stage wearing obnoxious headphones, pressing buttons on a computer. An admittedly impressive light show adds to the surely drug fueled frenzy happening on the dance floor as dozens and dozens of people dart in one big circular track, dancing and spinning away. The same neon sign as outside rests above the stage, this time a much larger scale, as The Slaughterhouse turns out to be an underground club. But Corey isn't having fun. In fact, quite the opposite. A woman takes notice, she walks over and beckons him out the door where the music is muffled. He joins her. Her hair a neon pink and blue split down the middle, pulled into pigtails. Glow sticks affixed to her barely there shirt and skirt, boots that seem to reach the heavens on her feet.
"Why so gloomy, friend?" she asks, still swaying to the distant music.
"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," Corey says, leaning in to get close to her ear.
"This is The Slaughterhouse, baby, that doom and gloom stops at the door!" she expresses with glee. "Here, try this!" She reaches into what appears to be an M&Ms Mini vile attached to her belt but produces something smaller and less colorful. She places the 'hard candy' on her tongue and moves in close. Corey hesitates.
"It's fine, it's the fun provider!" she says, again exuding nothing but positive energy. Corey's hand, in a flash, wraps around her throat. She pulls her tongue in and swallows the object, Corey releasing without squeezing.
"Alright, I get it, I get it," she says, putting her hands up. "But here in a few seconds I'm gonna need you to catch me!"
Corey's head cocks to the side and his eyes sharpen as hers roll back in her head, like a freshly cut tree she timbers forward right into Corey's waiting clutches. He drags her deeper into the building, past the pounding music and to a chair in a corner. Gingerly, he places her down. She comes to a little bit as Corey is going to stand up, she grabs his tie.
"Are you an angel?" she asks, smiling wide.
"Far from it," he responds, pulling his tie away from her grasp and walking away. He gets to the outside door and hears her yelling from behind.
"Bye bye Satan!" she says, he kicks the door open and heads into the thunderstorm pounded New York City. As it closes behind, the view stays black. The music fades to silence, the tripping woman's maniacal laughter seems to get more and more distant until nothing is heard or seen.
Until a beat. Then another. A third. A continuous rhythm, but it isn't music. A dozen or so televisions screens of all sizes begin to light up and give vision to this place. It isn't the building, no, it's somewhere else. A figure stands at a table, the screens fading from darkened glow to photos of Regan Voorhees. Corey Black looks up, his eyes once fixated on the table, now looking forward. He's wearing a long sleeved black shirt and a tan apron. In his hand, a cleaver that glistens from the light behind him. "The irony isn't lost on me. A nihilistic brat with a hatred for anyone that isn't her. Her way is the only way. Her outlook is the only point of view. Coming into a professional wrestling company not to compete, but to release her desire to maim. A deep seeded, generational fantasy of spilling the blood of the innocent and weak. I'm not going to stand here and tell you everything you already know. You'll brush that shit off like it was morning dew on your loafer. No, I'm not going to tell you how you've evolved and turned into a feared competitor. I'm going to tell you exactly the opposite. You fucking THINK you know what you're walking into. You THINK you've got the psyche of Corey Black nailed down because 'haha popstar, haha clowns' but Regan, I'm here to tell you that YOU are in fucking DANGER. Possibly the most dangerous situation you have been in, and that's saying something to a woman that was just in an Execution Cage Match. All that integrated mutilation ecstasy that's been written into your DNA - that's nothing more than the 201 and Fun division. You can oink oink choppy choppy bullshit until the cows come home and get led to their slaughter but Regan, these eyes have seen true horror." A gloved hand comes up to Corey's eye socket and grasps the flesh below, pulling down in a grotesque show. "This eye was nearly taken from me by a guy that was hardly a burnout surfer. For what? Because that's how I fight. That's the lengths men and women have to go to ensure victory. Where a sus scrofa domesticus can be shown a nulling captive bolt pistol and still happily slurp up the slop on the ground none the wiser, I will know the weapon you believe to be bringing to the fight before even you do. That is, of course, unless you operate outside the bounds of the sacred ring. As you do, Regan. You care not for sanctity nor honor. Two reasons why I have battled against a group of people since before you even showed up in Action Wrestling. It's been nearly a year for you now and beyond feeble vague barbs on Twitter and your reluctance in stepping up to Clash, well, your vested rule of an entire division shouldn't go to waste, should it?" The cleaver is brought to Corey's ear and back down into the table, sending a splatter of blood across the screens, sitting pretty on Regan's face. "I, too, once sat atop a division. Many divisions, in fact. None sweeter than the World Championship, but perhaps overshadowed by my dominance in the Hardcore Title realm. Not even a proverbial slaughterhouse, Regan, as you may. In the Action Wrestling ring, there is no greater butcher than I. No more skilled with a blade or without. I even showed your old comrade Atara Themis what it was like to step up from CruiserClash and attempt to knife a King. She was dispatched with the grace of ten thousand maniacs. So while you speak out the side of your mouth, surely in jest, I want you to know that I admire your dedication. Not many survive more than a few months here. Let alone with some.. man servant? Constant source of attention? The role is frankly unclear but, truly, who fucking cares all the same? The nose in the air, 'holier than thou' attitude may have got you this far in life but at Clash, that shit gets broken. You step into that ring and you're in my world, Regan. My circus. I rule this roost and you're simply some chicken that's been fucking off in the corner with all the other small, hardly worth their weight poultry. Your dedication is truly tested when you're standing face to face with someone that could truly give a shit if you live or die. You always feel the need to flippantly wish doom upon when human race, well Regan, now's your chance to dance with the fucking Doombringer. I can be your 'escape' from this putrid planet you so despise. None more equipped than I. You'd never take up the offer because that would ensure your own expiration. Instead, you'd rather climb the ladder to your ivory tower and look down upon those who hold different values, who aren't in your tax bracket and those who view life as a gift rather than a curse. But you, you live this life beyond the means of many. You don't have the insecurities of flawed people. You don't know what it is like to have to scratch and claw and fight for everything you have. You aren't cursed with the knowledge that you'll never be good enough because you believe you are. You aren't shit, Regan. I'm vulnerable. I'm a flawed man. But I know it. I see it every single fucking day. I don't look into a mirror and see righteous perfection, I see a husk that once had it all but slowly, yet surely, piece by piece is letting it all fall. I've been living a cursed life since the day I was born, Regan. A curse that I wouldn't wish upon anyone else. Except maybe a cunt like you." Corey takes a step back and the faces on the screens all fade, now showing just dripping blood. A lamp is turned on, affixed to the table, where the cleaver is slammed once again. A mist of blood sprays from the head resting on the table. It's Corey Black's head. Cut nearly in two. Panning up the bloodied apron to the face of the body chopping, it is revealed to be the same man - just lifeless behind the white eyes. He lurches toward the device filming him as the TV screens all turn to black once again. |
Moments pass. Corey Black sits up out of bed in a panic, sweat pouring down his face. He's back in the hotel room in NYC, his tuxedo on the floor, bunched up and in a puddle beside his bed. Daylight peeks through the curtains, his heart beating nearly out of his chest. It's Saturday. He breathes in deep, sucking oxygen into his lungs like it was his last breath.
His phone lights up, the red LED lets him know exactly who it's from. He hits the power button, turning his screen on to dozens of missed calls and texts. The last one, displayed brightly right before his eyes.
'Last night was the night.'
He sighs. Drops the phone onto the bed. Collapses back. Sits back up and begins typing away.
'Look, I know I haven't been myself lately. Ever since I was taken, I haven't been able to sleep through the night. I can't eat. I can't even look at myself in a mirror. I haven't been able to do anything except the one thing I do best. Wrestle. I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you.'
Before hitting send, Corey hears something from the foot of the bed. Laughter. He sits forward, looking at the floor and deletes the message.