Post by Mr. Zaigon Carter on Jan 24, 2021 23:05:11 GMT -5
Your weakness is embarrassing.
Mr. Zaigon Carter stands at his desk, but doesn't look right. His eyes have bags under them, his eyes are bloodshot, and there's a general air of instability radiating from his appearance.
All this self doubt, all this pining about an event that already happened is shameful. It's god damn pathetic, but it explains a lot. When you walk into a match, you better believe you're going to win. When you're in it, hell even after you lose you better believe. That righteous confidence is the only way to survive, the only thing that separates true winners for perpetual losers.
You're just like Randy Buster, Charlie. He thought he could bluff his way out of my torture, but that ended with his blood on my hands. You'll walk to the ring covered in face paint, cloaked in your jokes and your candor. It won't be enough, it's never been enough. You think this is all some crisis, a part of a journey. No Charlie.
This is war.
This is two animals in a pit, fighting for survival. There's no time for reflection, no moment to consider what if. There's only the next fight, only the next instance of violence in order to keep alive. You're not prepared for that. You're thinking too much about things, and that makes you stupid. This combat isn't for thinkers, it's for brutal men who have no regard for each other. It's about walking out, not being carried out.
I'll remove the choice from you come Monday.
Ever since I saw Buster's blood run because of my actions, the feelings inside me have gotten stronger. The pounding in my brain has gotten harder, louder, unable to be ignored. It says no words, but what it means is crystal clear.
Hurt people. Badly.
It's harder and harder to ignore. I thought maybe it'd go away if I stepped away, that not feeding the sensation would starve it. Instead its hunger has made it more powerful, craving the violence it's been deprived of. It demands more, it demands to be fed and I am unable to stop it. I am unable to deny it.
That's your bad luck Charlie. You're in the wrong place at the right time. It didn't have to be you, but it is. You're not special, you're just next in line. You're the one that has to pay the price of whatever is happening inside me. Whatever happened in that cage match triggered that primal need, this unstoppable fury of which I have no control of. It's like my hands are on the wheel, but they aren't moving. I'm forced to watch, to feel.
I'll be feeling your flesh under my fingernails, your bones cracking against my limbs, and most of all your pain feeding this urge. I'll be able to smell it, taste it, absorb it into my body. It's hard to explain how, but it'll happen. I've seen it. I've done it. I'll keep doing it.
Because I need to.
That's ultimately where the line here is drawn. You walk into Monday with a want, a desire to set things right after a loss. You're pining for victory, wondering if you can achieve it again. Pondering your future, like some starry eyed teenager who just broke up with the "love of their life." You're naive.
I NEED this Charlie. I need your suffering because I feel like my head will explode if I don't get it. If I don't take you to within an inch of watching the life drain from your eyes like a farm animal at the slaughterhouse, I won't feel right. Because the wrong inside me has the majority, so the right is now so much darker. I can't control it, I am bent to its whim. It sings a siren song of violence and war; I just march forward acting out its will.
I am its solder of violence, its mercenary of destruction. I am its devoted, serving it so it'll give me what it tells me it needs.
Relief, satisfaction.
Peace.
What the fuck can you do about that? How do you even intend to be able to stop that? How can you contend with a war machine fighting for so much more than meager future doubt? You can't, you won't. You'll fall at my feet, because you don't have what it takes. You lack conviction, you lack the decisiveness it takes to stop...whatever it is that I am becoming.
You'd be right to say that I need help, but who could be a help to someone like me? The only help I can hope to receive is when that bell rings, and you're standing in front of me doubting. Wondering. Weak.
My prey brought before me, almost like a gift. The stupid antelope, unable to understand the creeping death in the form of the mighty lion.
All I can say is what any reasonable person says for a gift, especially one that they very much needed.
Thank you.
Mr. Zaigon Carter stands at his desk, but doesn't look right. His eyes have bags under them, his eyes are bloodshot, and there's a general air of instability radiating from his appearance.
All this self doubt, all this pining about an event that already happened is shameful. It's god damn pathetic, but it explains a lot. When you walk into a match, you better believe you're going to win. When you're in it, hell even after you lose you better believe. That righteous confidence is the only way to survive, the only thing that separates true winners for perpetual losers.
You're just like Randy Buster, Charlie. He thought he could bluff his way out of my torture, but that ended with his blood on my hands. You'll walk to the ring covered in face paint, cloaked in your jokes and your candor. It won't be enough, it's never been enough. You think this is all some crisis, a part of a journey. No Charlie.
This is war.
This is two animals in a pit, fighting for survival. There's no time for reflection, no moment to consider what if. There's only the next fight, only the next instance of violence in order to keep alive. You're not prepared for that. You're thinking too much about things, and that makes you stupid. This combat isn't for thinkers, it's for brutal men who have no regard for each other. It's about walking out, not being carried out.
I'll remove the choice from you come Monday.
Ever since I saw Buster's blood run because of my actions, the feelings inside me have gotten stronger. The pounding in my brain has gotten harder, louder, unable to be ignored. It says no words, but what it means is crystal clear.
Hurt people. Badly.
It's harder and harder to ignore. I thought maybe it'd go away if I stepped away, that not feeding the sensation would starve it. Instead its hunger has made it more powerful, craving the violence it's been deprived of. It demands more, it demands to be fed and I am unable to stop it. I am unable to deny it.
That's your bad luck Charlie. You're in the wrong place at the right time. It didn't have to be you, but it is. You're not special, you're just next in line. You're the one that has to pay the price of whatever is happening inside me. Whatever happened in that cage match triggered that primal need, this unstoppable fury of which I have no control of. It's like my hands are on the wheel, but they aren't moving. I'm forced to watch, to feel.
I'll be feeling your flesh under my fingernails, your bones cracking against my limbs, and most of all your pain feeding this urge. I'll be able to smell it, taste it, absorb it into my body. It's hard to explain how, but it'll happen. I've seen it. I've done it. I'll keep doing it.
Because I need to.
That's ultimately where the line here is drawn. You walk into Monday with a want, a desire to set things right after a loss. You're pining for victory, wondering if you can achieve it again. Pondering your future, like some starry eyed teenager who just broke up with the "love of their life." You're naive.
I NEED this Charlie. I need your suffering because I feel like my head will explode if I don't get it. If I don't take you to within an inch of watching the life drain from your eyes like a farm animal at the slaughterhouse, I won't feel right. Because the wrong inside me has the majority, so the right is now so much darker. I can't control it, I am bent to its whim. It sings a siren song of violence and war; I just march forward acting out its will.
I am its solder of violence, its mercenary of destruction. I am its devoted, serving it so it'll give me what it tells me it needs.
Relief, satisfaction.
Peace.
What the fuck can you do about that? How do you even intend to be able to stop that? How can you contend with a war machine fighting for so much more than meager future doubt? You can't, you won't. You'll fall at my feet, because you don't have what it takes. You lack conviction, you lack the decisiveness it takes to stop...whatever it is that I am becoming.
You'd be right to say that I need help, but who could be a help to someone like me? The only help I can hope to receive is when that bell rings, and you're standing in front of me doubting. Wondering. Weak.
My prey brought before me, almost like a gift. The stupid antelope, unable to understand the creeping death in the form of the mighty lion.
All I can say is what any reasonable person says for a gift, especially one that they very much needed.
Thank you.