The Trapper and the Furrier
Nov 13, 2019 21:24:59 GMT -5
Alex Richards, Lissie Hope, and 3 more like this
Post by "The Devourer" Felix Fortain on Nov 13, 2019 21:24:59 GMT -5
Tense hands ball into trembling fists.
Trembling fists pound against a cluttered desk, scattering pens, spilling papers from folders. A framed portrait of happier times — a smiling wife and beautiful children — collapses, tumbling over the edge. Eyes dart to the sound of a crash, glass shards raining into the floor. Muttered swearing.
The nervous chirp of a beleaguered secretary rings out: "Your three o'clock's here. Should I send them in?"
A deep inhale. An exasperated sigh.
"Go right ahead."
The door swings open. Head tilts upwards, eyes tracing a willowy figure from the heeled bottoms of her black leather boots up to the mourning veil covering her sneering face; a living shadow in ephemeral flesh. Behind her stands the behemoth, his massive, gloved hands resting on her shoulders.
For a moment, eyelines match. Then her's shift from the man at the desk, to the portrait hung behind him: a personalized vanity piece, Michaelangelo's The Creation of Adam with a twist. In Adam's spot rests the grinning, bearded mug of one Roy Speede. And in the role of God sits the only man with the chutzpah to claim it, the man at the desk.
She approaches the desk, taking the seat across him, the behemoth following in lockstep. Her eyes shift from the painting to the nameplate mere inches away from her, to the man who so warmly ushered her in.
"Good afternoon, Torture. It's a pleasure to finally meet."
Her voice is low, deadpan, as if anything resembling human emotion had been vacuumed out. The same cold sneer remains glued to her lips. Her head cocks, eyes unblinking, studying Torture's face. Her words, ostensibly welcoming, feel like acid as they roll around in Torture's ear canal. Nevertheless, he forces a plastic smile to his face and outstretches his hand.
"Likewise."
Beat. An uneasy silence hangs like a chill in the air. Torture's outstretched hand is not met until he begins to pull away, at which point she reaches for it, interlocking fingers before returning her hand to her lap. He offers the same to the brute, who does not reciprocate.
"I take it you got my messages, then."
"Would security have let us up to see if you we didn't?"
Torture shrugs, looking over to the masked man.
"Would security have stopped you if you really wanted to see me?"
Her eyes follow his, her grin softening as she looks over the beast. "Maybe, maybe not."
"I just wondered because you didn't return any of—"
"We're here, aren't we? Isn't that the response you were really looking for?"
His eyes return to her, the corners of his mouth betraying a smile. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the blaring ring of the landline phone on his desk. Rolling his eyes, he holds up an index finger to his guests before reaching for the phone.
"Yeah?
"Woah-woah-woah calm down there.
"Well, I don't know! This is in your job description duder. This is what I'm payin' you for!
"Just get it handled! I don't care how."
He slams the phone back into place and forces a weak chuckle as his attention turns back towards the pair in front of him.
"See? The stuff I gotta deal with. I'm stuck putting out fires all day because the people I trust to do their jobs can't take a piss without running it by me first. My co-president's a gangbanger who'll try and stab me in the back the second it'd be useful to him. Some big dumb bastard wants my head on a pike because his daddy didn't hug him enough as a kid. Another big bastard is going on a rampage of his own. And to top it off, the longest reigning world champion this company's ever seen has likely been kidnapped by a gang of sixth graders! Great. Perfect. Just another day in Torture-world!"
Beneath the veil, her face lights up. A mischievous twinkle forms in her eye as she leans forward, hands on the edge of the desk.
"And so you need us. Him."
"Pardon?" he asks, ears perking up.
"The, as you say, 'big dumb bastard' who means you harm. You wish to sic us upon him."
Torture shakes his head, drumming his fingers along the edge of his desk. "Nah, nah. Gotta teach him a lesson myself."
"So it's the other one you want put down. The one running roughshod."
He cocks his head, pursing his lips. "Not yet, but put a pin in that one."
"Then why reach out? I'm sure you weren't looking for a therapist."
His glance returns over the desk where the picture had fallen. Glass crinkles under her boot. His face hardens.
"All I've done for this company. All I do. I built this company from scratch like the mob etched this very city out of a hole in the desert. My blood. My sweat. My tears. Every single day I'm out there, making deals, wooing sponsors, soothing investors' anxieties. All in the name of Action Wrestling. And for what? So I can get disrespected, treated like some out of touch suit by talent I made like they've even come close to outdrawing me? So I can be the bad guy when some dorks on the internet wanna complain about every little thing. 'Oh, AW totally sold out with the CBS deal. It was much rawer when Clash was on Viceland.' No respect.
"So, fuck it. Let them eat war."
She removes the veil, setting it down on the desk before draping her hands on his traps, interlocking her fingers along the back of his neck. Her smile widens, baring sharp canines. Her eyes wide. His eyes match hers, mouth agape in surprise.
"I just have one question."
"Do you know the story of Sabbatai Zevi?"
Dainty fingers wrap around the stem of a wine glass. The deep burgundy liquid swirls as Aurora brings the rim of the glass up to her nose and takes a deep inhale. A grim smile creeps across her face as she lowers the glass and takes a sip, focus locked on the camera eye. She leans back in her seat, the front legs of the chair dangling precariously in the air.
"I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Movements such as his inspire the masses, yet ultimately lead to crushing disappointment. Does that sound familiar, Malachi? Something out of a nightmare, maybe?"
Another sip. A pallid pink tongue laps up liquid pooled in the corner of her mouth.
"There's two characters in this drama of sorts: Sabbatai and the Sultan. Sabbatai Zevi was a Sephardic rabbi who fancied himself the new Messiah. And when he arrived in Constantinople, he was captured and imprisoned. But he wanted this. He believed, his followers believed, that when he had an audience with the Sultan, the Sultan would recognize him for what he was and would then abdicate the throne on the spot.
"Then he stood face to face with the Sultan, who gave him two options: convert to Islam or die. The Messiah, ever so fervent in his belief, chose life. Elijah stayed in heaven. Isn't that right, messenger?"
In one gulp she downs the rest of the glass, setting it back on the table.
"There's two characters in this drama as well. Two clashing forces, diametrically opposed. Incompatible. Destined for collision. On Monday, November 18th, Malachi White will come face-to-face with my Devourer, theDead God himself, Felix Fortain. And Felix will offer him but one choice: death. Minds are already made up. Fate has already chosen. An inevitability. This conversation, one sided it may be, is just a formality.
"You can choose to fight, Malachi. To give the crowd who will no doubt throw themselves in your corner something to root for. An underdog story to end all underdog stories. I don't expect you to go softly into that good night like Zevi did. But you know why that story holds weight here, don't you? And you know why you don't have the same choice.
"Because you are our antithesis. The bitter frost and ice of the tundra shall melt under the harsh heat of the desert. The bright light snuffed out by the darkness. The naive purity suggested by your name twisted and perverted as all things ultimately are. And, if you wish to play the game of morality, good vanquished by evil. That's what this is all about, isn't it? The nice narrative of this encounter. Same as it ever has been: good vs. evil since the first book of Genesis. You're the hero. The White knight in shining armor, coming to slay the Parasite before it becomes too powerful.
"But there's a reason why those are mere stories. There's a reason those stories exist. Those narratives play themselves out in the world of fiction as a means of escapism. Because reality doesn't work like that. If you cast him a villain, cast me a villain for speaking on his behalf, then it's a badge we shall wear with honor.
"Because the underdog and the hero don't win in reality. You know who does? The trapper and the furrier. The owner and the manager. The lawyer and the pharmacist. And then they flip the shallow narrative weak men like you need to survive and rewrite themselves in your role. It too is an inevitability. One I don't believe you're ready to face. So go on, go out fighting. When my Devourer breaks you like he did to wittle Evelyn Kozel, when you find yourself consumed, you'll realize the truth.
"But until then, start swinging. Unleash all the power you can muster. What are you planning to do? Batter him? Strike him into submission as if one caught punch isn't the only thing separating you from Evelyn? Are you going to throw him around? How do you plan on lugging him up for your cleverly-titled little finisher? Do you even have a plan?
"Are these questions pointless? Perhaps, but I'm curious, Malachi. When you're staring down the barrel, your life flashing before your eyes, how do you think you're going to get out of this one? I know you aren't going to answer, that you'll reveal whatever grand strategy you've cooked up once the match has begun, but I can't help but feel you'll go the way of old Sabbatai Zevi.
"A bunch of pomp and circumstance, ultimately for naught."
A scowl forms.
"You should have stayed up north. In the sparse obscurity of Alaska, you could still live out your delusions. You could still play dress up and act as if the heroes prevail. You could've been the man you want to be as opposed to the small, pitiful man you are.
"But you're here. You stand before my Devourer, his first true test. And for that, you'll become a milestone. The warning shot. Your carcass drained of energy and left strewn as a warning. You'll finally live up to your name, Malachi. You'll be the messenger for the great return. Elijah returns at long last. False Messiahs burn to ash and in your entrails the message will be read, clear as crystal:
"TheDead God lives. The Parasite consumes. The Devourer feasts.
"Lo, I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes. Does that sound familiar to you? Like something you'd say?
"Don't worry about a thing, Messenger. On the 18th, you and I shall embrace and speak those rotten words into existence."
Concern washes over her face as the last words leave her mouth. Her head turns towards something off screen.
"Doesn't this feel like it's happened before?"
Off her face, blackness.
Trembling fists pound against a cluttered desk, scattering pens, spilling papers from folders. A framed portrait of happier times — a smiling wife and beautiful children — collapses, tumbling over the edge. Eyes dart to the sound of a crash, glass shards raining into the floor. Muttered swearing.
The nervous chirp of a beleaguered secretary rings out: "Your three o'clock's here. Should I send them in?"
A deep inhale. An exasperated sigh.
"Go right ahead."
The door swings open. Head tilts upwards, eyes tracing a willowy figure from the heeled bottoms of her black leather boots up to the mourning veil covering her sneering face; a living shadow in ephemeral flesh. Behind her stands the behemoth, his massive, gloved hands resting on her shoulders.
For a moment, eyelines match. Then her's shift from the man at the desk, to the portrait hung behind him: a personalized vanity piece, Michaelangelo's The Creation of Adam with a twist. In Adam's spot rests the grinning, bearded mug of one Roy Speede. And in the role of God sits the only man with the chutzpah to claim it, the man at the desk.
She approaches the desk, taking the seat across him, the behemoth following in lockstep. Her eyes shift from the painting to the nameplate mere inches away from her, to the man who so warmly ushered her in.
"Good afternoon, Torture. It's a pleasure to finally meet."
Her voice is low, deadpan, as if anything resembling human emotion had been vacuumed out. The same cold sneer remains glued to her lips. Her head cocks, eyes unblinking, studying Torture's face. Her words, ostensibly welcoming, feel like acid as they roll around in Torture's ear canal. Nevertheless, he forces a plastic smile to his face and outstretches his hand.
"Likewise."
Beat. An uneasy silence hangs like a chill in the air. Torture's outstretched hand is not met until he begins to pull away, at which point she reaches for it, interlocking fingers before returning her hand to her lap. He offers the same to the brute, who does not reciprocate.
"I take it you got my messages, then."
"Would security have let us up to see if you we didn't?"
Torture shrugs, looking over to the masked man.
"Would security have stopped you if you really wanted to see me?"
Her eyes follow his, her grin softening as she looks over the beast. "Maybe, maybe not."
"I just wondered because you didn't return any of—"
"We're here, aren't we? Isn't that the response you were really looking for?"
His eyes return to her, the corners of his mouth betraying a smile. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the blaring ring of the landline phone on his desk. Rolling his eyes, he holds up an index finger to his guests before reaching for the phone.
"Yeah?
"Woah-woah-woah calm down there.
"Well, I don't know! This is in your job description duder. This is what I'm payin' you for!
"Just get it handled! I don't care how."
He slams the phone back into place and forces a weak chuckle as his attention turns back towards the pair in front of him.
"See? The stuff I gotta deal with. I'm stuck putting out fires all day because the people I trust to do their jobs can't take a piss without running it by me first. My co-president's a gangbanger who'll try and stab me in the back the second it'd be useful to him. Some big dumb bastard wants my head on a pike because his daddy didn't hug him enough as a kid. Another big bastard is going on a rampage of his own. And to top it off, the longest reigning world champion this company's ever seen has likely been kidnapped by a gang of sixth graders! Great. Perfect. Just another day in Torture-world!"
Beneath the veil, her face lights up. A mischievous twinkle forms in her eye as she leans forward, hands on the edge of the desk.
"And so you need us. Him."
"Pardon?" he asks, ears perking up.
"The, as you say, 'big dumb bastard' who means you harm. You wish to sic us upon him."
Torture shakes his head, drumming his fingers along the edge of his desk. "Nah, nah. Gotta teach him a lesson myself."
"So it's the other one you want put down. The one running roughshod."
He cocks his head, pursing his lips. "Not yet, but put a pin in that one."
"Then why reach out? I'm sure you weren't looking for a therapist."
His glance returns over the desk where the picture had fallen. Glass crinkles under her boot. His face hardens.
"All I've done for this company. All I do. I built this company from scratch like the mob etched this very city out of a hole in the desert. My blood. My sweat. My tears. Every single day I'm out there, making deals, wooing sponsors, soothing investors' anxieties. All in the name of Action Wrestling. And for what? So I can get disrespected, treated like some out of touch suit by talent I made like they've even come close to outdrawing me? So I can be the bad guy when some dorks on the internet wanna complain about every little thing. 'Oh, AW totally sold out with the CBS deal. It was much rawer when Clash was on Viceland.' No respect.
"So, fuck it. Let them eat war."
She removes the veil, setting it down on the desk before draping her hands on his traps, interlocking her fingers along the back of his neck. Her smile widens, baring sharp canines. Her eyes wide. His eyes match hers, mouth agape in surprise.
"I just have one question."
***
"Do you know the story of Sabbatai Zevi?"
Dainty fingers wrap around the stem of a wine glass. The deep burgundy liquid swirls as Aurora brings the rim of the glass up to her nose and takes a deep inhale. A grim smile creeps across her face as she lowers the glass and takes a sip, focus locked on the camera eye. She leans back in her seat, the front legs of the chair dangling precariously in the air.
"I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Movements such as his inspire the masses, yet ultimately lead to crushing disappointment. Does that sound familiar, Malachi? Something out of a nightmare, maybe?"
Another sip. A pallid pink tongue laps up liquid pooled in the corner of her mouth.
"There's two characters in this drama of sorts: Sabbatai and the Sultan. Sabbatai Zevi was a Sephardic rabbi who fancied himself the new Messiah. And when he arrived in Constantinople, he was captured and imprisoned. But he wanted this. He believed, his followers believed, that when he had an audience with the Sultan, the Sultan would recognize him for what he was and would then abdicate the throne on the spot.
"Then he stood face to face with the Sultan, who gave him two options: convert to Islam or die. The Messiah, ever so fervent in his belief, chose life. Elijah stayed in heaven. Isn't that right, messenger?"
In one gulp she downs the rest of the glass, setting it back on the table.
"There's two characters in this drama as well. Two clashing forces, diametrically opposed. Incompatible. Destined for collision. On Monday, November 18th, Malachi White will come face-to-face with my Devourer, the
"You can choose to fight, Malachi. To give the crowd who will no doubt throw themselves in your corner something to root for. An underdog story to end all underdog stories. I don't expect you to go softly into that good night like Zevi did. But you know why that story holds weight here, don't you? And you know why you don't have the same choice.
"Because you are our antithesis. The bitter frost and ice of the tundra shall melt under the harsh heat of the desert. The bright light snuffed out by the darkness. The naive purity suggested by your name twisted and perverted as all things ultimately are. And, if you wish to play the game of morality, good vanquished by evil. That's what this is all about, isn't it? The nice narrative of this encounter. Same as it ever has been: good vs. evil since the first book of Genesis. You're the hero. The White knight in shining armor, coming to slay the Parasite before it becomes too powerful.
"But there's a reason why those are mere stories. There's a reason those stories exist. Those narratives play themselves out in the world of fiction as a means of escapism. Because reality doesn't work like that. If you cast him a villain, cast me a villain for speaking on his behalf, then it's a badge we shall wear with honor.
"Because the underdog and the hero don't win in reality. You know who does? The trapper and the furrier. The owner and the manager. The lawyer and the pharmacist. And then they flip the shallow narrative weak men like you need to survive and rewrite themselves in your role. It too is an inevitability. One I don't believe you're ready to face. So go on, go out fighting. When my Devourer breaks you like he did to wittle Evelyn Kozel, when you find yourself consumed, you'll realize the truth.
"But until then, start swinging. Unleash all the power you can muster. What are you planning to do? Batter him? Strike him into submission as if one caught punch isn't the only thing separating you from Evelyn? Are you going to throw him around? How do you plan on lugging him up for your cleverly-titled little finisher? Do you even have a plan?
"Are these questions pointless? Perhaps, but I'm curious, Malachi. When you're staring down the barrel, your life flashing before your eyes, how do you think you're going to get out of this one? I know you aren't going to answer, that you'll reveal whatever grand strategy you've cooked up once the match has begun, but I can't help but feel you'll go the way of old Sabbatai Zevi.
"A bunch of pomp and circumstance, ultimately for naught."
A scowl forms.
"You should have stayed up north. In the sparse obscurity of Alaska, you could still live out your delusions. You could still play dress up and act as if the heroes prevail. You could've been the man you want to be as opposed to the small, pitiful man you are.
"But you're here. You stand before my Devourer, his first true test. And for that, you'll become a milestone. The warning shot. Your carcass drained of energy and left strewn as a warning. You'll finally live up to your name, Malachi. You'll be the messenger for the great return. Elijah returns at long last. False Messiahs burn to ash and in your entrails the message will be read, clear as crystal:
"The
"Lo, I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes. Does that sound familiar to you? Like something you'd say?
"Don't worry about a thing, Messenger. On the 18th, you and I shall embrace and speak those rotten words into existence."
Concern washes over her face as the last words leave her mouth. Her head turns towards something off screen.
"Doesn't this feel like it's happened before?"
Off her face, blackness.