Post by The Lost Breed on Sept 13, 2020 18:44:50 GMT -5
Trauma Ward 2B
Hartgrove Behavioral Health Center.
Chicago, Illinois, USA.
Friday, 11th September.
Two months ago the building in which the camera finds itself had still been littered with nurses and doctors, patients and next of kin alike. Nine months ago, those numbers were multiplied tenfold. Coronavirus had caused a considerable exodus of staff since then, and within a week of being reinstated as Chicago's domestic overlord, David Sanchez had used his sway to declare this shortfall in capable physicians as an excuse to cease operations here entirely.
"He's late."
Now though? Claire Hawkins' words echo as she saunters down the desolate corridor. Accompanied of course by her new brother in arms and the very elected city official responsible for the tumbleweed that took up residence where the testing kits once stood.
"Important men are never late my dear. Simply put… he's just not here yet."
Claire rolls her ruby red eyes and stops dead in her tracks as Sanchez swipes a keycard to open a door to a private room on the right.
"It somehow still astounds me how you have an answer for everythi--"
The Metal Witch can't quite complete her sentence on account of the lone hospital in front of her, it's occupier, the stench of rotting flesh and faeces.she takes.mental stock as the sliding door snaps shut behind her.
"When you said
"The problem this week my dear isn't Hilbert fuckin' Horton or Vincent Cross, it isn't even ol' bag carrier himself O.G Bishop, big as that black-faced Private Pile throwback is..."
Hawkins shoots Sanchez a look of confusion behind a veil of disinterest. Her focus still hadn't shifted from the withered shell of a man slowly dying on the bed in front of her.
"The problem… is everybody else, from Walter to Ash Blake to Torture himself. This little tune-up match is just a threadbare formality. A chance to show that the Lost Breed is more than just three villains going around beating up mentally ill perma-jobbers like Oblivion and toxic 'once upon a timers' like Jason O'Neal. We mustn't overlook these three non-entities though. Just because they're cannon fodder doesn't mean the gun can't backfire. James was right in everything he said last week you know. Due diligence is essential at every impasse. All the Nothing can be left to chance and nobody can be completely considered "
Tawny didn't understand him too well when he was on a tangent. She was new to this after all, it was only her third day as the Mayor's aide. This place, these people. It was all so foreign. So far removed from her role as Debonaire's mother before Quixote got custody of the little cherub. Her pen scribbles down the two words emphasized: 'due diligence' and absolutely nothing else. The Mayor's thick Colombian accent crept through the forced normality he applied to his every word, resulting in a stew of skewed English.
"Bishop is the only one of these soft motherfuckers who even flags up on my radar and it's not even a real flag, just one of those cocktail stick ones you get in hipster bars."
He looks Hawkins up and down, noting that she was paying more attention to the occupier of the hospital bed than she was to his warped words.
"Don't you recognize him? I do hope his being here doesn't prove to be too distracting. He denied you the Television Championship not too long ago… if I'm not mistaken, no?"
Hawkins' eyes open sharply. She hadn't noticed until now but before the Witch lay the very referee who had declared that her shoulders remained down for the three count and awarded Ash Blake the very same belt she still coveted to this day.
"... and I'm NEVER mistaken. This much is evidenced by your eyes, fair Claire. Tell me though, for all of his poor judgement, would you see this civil servant put to the sword like a knight in shining steel?"
Sanchez dangles the question like low hanging fruit, lighting a cigarette as the Witch looks up to meet his vacant stare.
"No I would not, he doesn't deserve such an honorable demise. If this were a battle of old, as you seem to suggest it is. Well then, then he would die in a manner most befitting his station in life."
The Mayor inhales a hearty drag of his Marlboro Red and holds it in for a second before showcasing his signature politician's smile.
"Splendid choice my friend! You hear that Earl? She agrees!"
Earl could not hear. Nor could Earl fight or flee, or even scream. So weak and frail was he that he couldn't even summon the strength to simply roll over and die. All he could do was lie there in the company of Witches and Savages. Paralyzed by medicines he didn't need and fear he'd never felt.
"Can he hear us? It doesn't look like he can hear us."
She seemed utterly entranced by this slab of living meat, barely glancing at her new partner. Completely motionless but for blinks and the heaving of his chest as he hauled air into his lungs, Earl Dean was as close to death as anyone had ever come without actually dying.
Why?
A single word in a questionnaire form that had ceaselessly been thrown her way through the vast void known as the sports entertainment world and it's legion of internet smarks that were unable to wrap their limited intelligence around the fact that she had thrown her lot in life alongside the like of David Sanchez and James Nightingale. For the last four days that was the predominant thought within their minds and an inquiry that continuously tasted temptation upon their lips. Yet, there had not been a single instance of an explanation provided in which could satiate the ravenous appetite that they possessed in their child-like demanding and questioning of her and her motives.
It amused her greatly.
Yet, despite her amusement at their bemusement, she found herself sitting within the confines of a large study that one might mistake for a small library if were not for the persistent crackling of a fire that currently raged within the hearth of the stone fireplace; a remarkable safety hazard from an era long past. With a sturdy lacquered Cherry desk at her back, she sat facing the fire with her legs sprawled out before her; watching the flames dance and entwine within itself.
"It's an interesting dichotomy; this concept of life and death can be applied to many things other than the accepted norm pertaining to human life. Take me for instance; in order to further myself within these gladiatorial constraints that we so affectionately call Professional Wrestling, I must first eradicate that which has become the accustomed norm so that something new can be brought forth.
Which is exactly what I did Monday night.
I broke through those constraints that so bound me so, but yet the masses seem to have this misconception that I have betrayed them when I chose to stand alongside two such as Sanchez and Nightingale; as if I had suddenly changed. Yet, the reality is quite the opposite; they're the ones that have changed. They are the ones that have continued to parade about with their hypocrisy as they simultaneously condemn the pillars as much as they praise the hapless.
It is almost sickening to witness."
Tearing her crimson gaze away from the flickering flames, she looked upwards as a breathless sigh left her blackened lips.
"In essence; I want more from my career than simply being considered one of the best Action Wrestling Television Champions. I want more than to be shackled by the plethora of misconceptions that the meek and hapless desperately try to project unto me. As if they could continue this charade any longer; they now send the likes of Bishop, Cross, and Horton to act as sacrificial roadblocks that they hope impedes the progress that awaits them."
Returning her ruby-eyed gaze to the dancing pit of flames before her, a cold smile began to play upon her porcelain face.
"Yet, I say that is more than adequate to whet the ravenous appetites of those lost.
Bishop, the self-proclaimed Great Destroyer; tell me, just how many times am I going to have to dismantle you within the ring until you understand that the only thing you destroy is the very career you possess. You have had boundless opportunities to become something more than an over-glorified waste of human flesh. Yet, despite such things being dropped onto your lap on a silver platter, you have always managed to render them completely meaningless. Nobody cares that you managed to scratch together a victory of Gravedigger at Evolution nor do they care about the three reigns as Action Wrestling Television Championship that you alone possess.
They only care about which unfortunate soul has to kick your ass this week.
Which, as fate would have it, is exactly what is going to transpire this Monday Night when the six of us step into the ring to do battle. You and your two useless flesh bags shall find out firsthand what happens when you foolishly step into the ring against myself and two others with unparalleled drive and ambition; violence and a thirst for dominance.
It's going to be a grand old time for us; you three not so much."
Nightingale Motorcade
Chicago, Illinois, USA.
Saturday, 12th September.
The official motorcade of James Nightingale drives through the busy streets of Chicago, en route to Hartgrove Behavioral Health Center, the medical facility soon to be gifted to Nightingale from the Mayor of Chicago, David Sanchez. The motorcade comprises three SUV’s, all identical in appearance, all-black. The motorcade is flanked by four MS-13 members, who are each riding their custom motorcycles.
Inside the middle car sits Nightingale, dressed in his all-black custom suit, he is accompanied in the back seats by his lawyer, Thomas Gray. Adrian drives the SUV with precision whilst the prospect, Michael Brookes rides shotgun.
Nightingale relaxes in his chair, his window partially lowered whilst he smokes a cigarette. With his left hand, he looks over the sports headlines of the Chicago Sun-Times.
“Thomas, in England, we have a real sport, it’s called fucking rugby. Not this shit where they wear helmets and pads.”, Nightingale tosses the paper to the side.
“Adrian, what’s our ETA? I would hate to keep Mr Sanchez waiting on such an important day.”, Nightingale asks his Sergeant in Arms.
“10 minutes boss”, replies Adrian.
Nightingale nods to himself, “Excellent, Thomas do you have the documents I requested?”. He flicks his cigarette out of the window and looks focused.
Thomas sits up to attention, he quickly forages between his legs on the floor to retrieve his briefcase. “Yes sir, one second.”, he unclips his briefcase and pulls out three files.
Nightingale takes the files from his lawyer, “Thank you Thomas”, and turns his attention over to Brookes.
“Michael, tell me, what did you learn last week during your first lesson”, asks The Angel of Death curiously.
Brookes answers confidently, “Due diligence, sir.”
“Excellent”, Nightingale smiles at the prospect, elated that he learned from their interaction last week, “So tell me what I need to know about Vincent Cross, Hilbert Horton and OG Bishop.”
“Let me start with Vincent Cross, he’s only recently signed with Action Wrestling, from what I can tell he was a bit of an indie darling back in the day. He came from a rich family, but his old man kicked the bucket and then everything turned to shit. He spunked all his family's money up the wall and then his life basically became some emo circle jerk from there. He was broke and turned to wrestling, got a bunch of shit tattoos and made a small name for himself. All was going well, he was starting to make a name for himself until he lost a retirement match, and he then ended up working on the checkouts of Walmart.”
Nightingale looks puzzled, “So why the fuck is he here?”, he asks.
“Jaice Wilds”, replies Brookes, “It would appear Jaice Wilds did some recruiting of his own. My sources say that Jaice recognised Cross when he served him in Walmart and offered him the job there and then.”
Nightingale turns in disgust at the sound of Jaice’s name, “Well we all know how incompetent that little twat is. What's this Cross guys record like here? He is so bland and looks like any other heavily tattooed striker, I can’t say I even knew he existed.”
“Shit boss”, replies Brookes, “He lost his debut, albeit he wasn’t pinned in a triple threat, and then suffered a double count-out to his partner and your fellow opponent, Hilbert Horton.”
Nightingale scoffs at the sound of Horton’s name, “Again, who the fuck is he?”
“Hilbert Horton V’s portfolio is a little more impressive, sir. He too is a CEO of a leading company, just like yourself. bu...”, Brookes is cut off by Thomas.
“Horton is a terrible CEO”, Thomas says confidently, “I had the pleasure of taking a look into his accountancy files and, well it’s fair to say his company is in the black. It seemed odd at the time that a British man with bottomless pits of money would come and plant his flag here in Action Wrestling. Whereas you strike the balance well sir between being a ruthless killer both in the ring and in the boardroom, this joker sucked at both roles. He even resorted to his company making him or at least trying to help him build what he calls ‘mechanical monstrosities’ to aid him in his bid for victory.”
Nightingale looks bored, “This guy sounds as boring as the last one.”, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his custom made cigarette holder. He pops the lid open and removes a cigarette, rolling it along his top lip before lighting it. He takes a drag followed by a long inhale, finally exhaling and blowing the smoke out the gap in the window. “Brookes, has this motherfucker won either?”, he asks.
“Actually yes,”, replies Brookes surprisingly, “He beat America Jackson in his debut, but that’s as good as it got for Hilbert."
“Nothing you have told me, Brookes, is causing me any concern, these two are a fucking disgrace to Action Wrestling’s name and The Lost Breed will finally dispose of them.”, Nightingale grabs the file marked OG Bishop. “Well, I guess we better take this one, at least slightly more seriously.”
Nightingale flicks open the file and rummages through the dozens of pages. “It’s funny, because our friend Bishop here, he shares lots of similarities with last week's charity case Oblivion, was once a credible monster with a decent record. But now? Now he‘s just as pathetic as that piece of shit we bludgeoned last week. What happened to him? Three-time Action Wrestling TV Champion, the record amount of times a single competitor has held that title. The Great Destroyer still hangs around Action Wrestling, clamouring to relevancy, he somehow worked his way into the Hardcore Games and often gets other opportunities. The results are always the same though, embarrassing performance after embarrassing performance. His failing career resembles the will power of a fat girl starting a fucking diet, the intentions are good in the beginning, but she’ll fail at the sight of the first piece of chocolate that comes into sight. The only way to succeed? Liposuction. The Lost Breed is going to suck the fat out of the ass of Action Wrestling, we started last week with Oblivion, next we get to eradicate the cancer that is known as OG Bishop.”
Nightingale closes the file and hands it back to Thomas. “Don’t bother returning those files, destroy them. After Sanchez, Hawkins and myself are done pulverizing the three of them, there ain’t gonna be nothing left of them, there will be no signs of life, they will return to their families in caskets. They probably lost their minds when they heard they were in the main event, but when they saw they were facing The Lost Breed, well let’s just say I hope they get their affairs in order.”
The motorcade pulls up outside Hartgrove Behavioral Health Center, a large gathering of media awaits. “We’re here.”, says Adrian, who swiftly exits the SUV, as does Brookes. They as well as the other MS-13 members in the other two SUV’s, as well as the four on motorbike all sweep the area, before finally opening the rear doors, and outsteps both Nightingale and Thomas.
Nightingale quickly composes himself as he looks up the steps to the Health Center, where David Sanchez and Claire Hawkins await their fellow Lost Breed member. They both stand aside a ceremonial ribbon, which Nightingale will cut to signify the reopening of the facility. He nods to his fellow members, who both reciprocate the gesture and he then proceeds to climb the stairs, as flashes of cameras fire.
Once he reaches the summit of the large staircase, Nightingale shakes the hands of both Sanchez and Hawkins, both met with increased flashing. “An impressive turnout today.”, says Nightingale, a sadistic smile forming on his face.
“What can I say, perks of the job.”, replies Sanchez.
Nightingale walks over to a wooden podium stand, the Chicago Mayoral Crest on the front of it. Nightingale repositions the microphone and adjusts his eyes to the constant flashes of the media's cameras.
“Greetings Windy City, thank you for turning out in mass here today to the grand reopening of this marvellous facility, and thank you to both my partner, your Mayor, David Sanchez, for your hospitality today in your city. And to our new partner, Claire Hawkins, thank you for believing in us and already for your amazing contributions to our cause.”
“As a formerly registered nurse, it seemed only appropriate that I oversee the operations and daily running of this unit, I am a student of The Matriarch of modern nursing, the one and only, Florence Nightingale. Her influence over the world of nursing remains strong to this day, and to me, her greatest student.”, the media look confused, Florence Nightingale died one hundred and ten years ago.
“At this very facility, the mentally ill, the physically sick, they will all be rehabilitated back to good health and use to society.”, Nightingale smiles sadistically to his audience, “Action Wrestling, the world, please let me introduce you to The Lost Breed.”
Sanchez and Hawkins both join Nightingale, they stand side-by-side with The Angel of Death. “The Lost Breed was born out of the desire that both David Sanchez and myself shared for domination, for climbing to the very top of this profession. We have both tried on our own, we have both achieved great success, but together… together we are unstoppable. However The Lost Breed doesn’t just stop at Sanchez and myself, we see the potential of others and are willing to share our dreams.”, Nightingale raises his arm to Hawkins, “Claire Hawkins, Claire has been a top star in Action Wrestling for many years, she has always ranked highly amongst her peers, her matches often draw great reviews and she is often regarded as the greatest Action Wrestling Television Champion. Yet she never has been allowed to fulfil her potential, she has never been given the opportunity to shine. We saw her potential and knew that she would be a great addition to our cause and in one just one week since she joined us, she is now in the main event where she belongs.”
"Who can stand against us? Oblivion? He’ll likely need to be transported to this facility in the coming days to continue his rehabilitation. Jason O’Neal? His career will never be the same again after the beating he suffered at our hands. The three men we will face this week on Clash? If they manage to survive the onslaught, their only hope will be to be brought to this magnificent facility to receive the highest standard of care possible, but there's only so much modern medicine can do.”
“And that brings me to my final statement, Walter. I dare you Mongrel, storm the ring again on Clash, try and stop us, you have so far failed. The only thing you have demonstrated is that after we take the World Championship from you, you should start a furniture removal company because moving rings and taking down cages, that’s the only thing of worth you’ve been able to achieve since we rose to dominance.”
“Ladies and Gentleman, together we are The Lost Breed, we were bred for success, bred for causing destruction… and bred for eradicating the weak.”
Nightingale, Sanchez and Hawkins move over to the ceremonial ribbon. Adrian hands The Angel of Death a large pair of scissors. “In the name of The Lost Breed, I declare the new and improved Hartgrove Behavioral Health Center… OFFICIALLY OPEN!”, Nightingale cuts the ribbon. All three members of The Lost Breed stand and pose for photos as they are greeted with a large round of applause followed by endless flashes of the media's cameras.