Post by Toxic Vyress on Apr 4, 2021 5:36:07 GMT -5
Early morning rays shine in through the lens, the opening shot aimed at the still-brightening sky.
”gods.” A woman’s voice speaks, lettered and twinned with twang of the south.
”Zeus. Odin. Yahweh. Those were gods. They were feared. Respected. Monuments and artistry were sworn to them, a love and fear of them so rooted in the soul that they ensured these things to last forever. Wars were fought for them. Miracles were performed by them in sight of men in war and in peace.”
The shot pans down, exposing a long field. A red sports car, shiny as the day it was made, sits in the center of the frame. And sitting atop it is the woman whom the voice tolls, wearing shredded jeans and a plaid shirt. Next to her, leant against the driver’s door, is what one would call a brick shithouse if it were manifested into human form. The large man swirls a beer can in his hand.
”Those were the good gods. Those were the days. Now we make our gods. We become them. We wear their faces on our shirts. We seduce the masses. Those of us who step between the ropes become gods to those idiots in the stands. Those same idiots who can be led to believe that the gender of a toy potato man and a cartoon from the 50s are righteous issues to address all of a sudden. And you, Mr. Abraham, had the wherewithal to exploit this. You had a following. They looked up to you like you were a god, or a doorway to the highest power at least. They made you rich. You had a lavish bus. Servants. Your meaty palm had people eating out of it and putting money into it. You were graceful as the dove, but cunning as the serpent, just as the Good Book authorizes. It was smart. Clever. Respectable. Kudos to you.”
”But,” says the large man, voice low and base and cruel, accented with sorrows of the south and unlettered compared to the lady next to him.
”You done fucked up boy. When that bell rang, you couldn’t deliver shit. Hell boy, you started not delivering on shit outside the damn ring too. And now things are gettin’ tighter than a gnat's ass stretched over a rain barrel for ya. Tell em’, sis.”
She casually wiggles a finger, prompting the camera to move closer. Closer. Closer still. She draws upon her vast knowledge of human anatomy.
”If laid end to end, the DNA in a single human cell would measure over three feet, or 1 meter for any of you funny tongues outside the U.S. There’s 30 trillion cells in the human body. That’s 30 trillion meters, enough to travel to the moon and beyond. 30 trillion meters worth of potential and possibility for you to access. 30 trillion roaming around in your 6’9”, 255 pound heart attack wrapped in fat, and none of it led to a good idea after you beached yourself into A.W. You are, for all intents and purposes, a FUCKING WASTE!”
The camera reels away, gaining distance from the sudden outburst. She straightens up, her posture having started to hunch like an animal. She flicks some hair out of her eyes and calms down.
”The best idea you could come up with, was to trade in your grandiose tour bus for the proverbial short bus by anointing The Sin Eater Byron Bathory the new messiah, godking, vassal, whatever-the-fuck. A choice so mind boggling that even your close confidantes have cast skeptical eyes your way.”
She inhales sharply, almost a snort. A laugh follows, caught in the gray area between disbelief and hilarity.
”And the guy doesn’t even want the fucking job!”
That’s it. They’ve had it. The man and woman burst out in whooping laughs, slapping their knees in synchronization.
”Them boys gonna be more dysfunctional than the Jackson fuckin’ Five.”
Another round of knee slapping laughs come and go. The woman tilts her head back, slowly shaking her head.
”Okay. Enough. In case you haven’t connected the dots Mr. Abraham and Mr. Bathory, we’re your opponents this Monday on Clash. I’m Vyrees. This is my big brudder, Toxic. We’re Toxic Vyress. The name will catch on. It has dollar signs all over it. So much merch. I know you two are licking your chops already because you see little ole me and think I’m gonna be an easy target. I’d like to bring exhibit A to the forefront. Ash Blake. She’s made King Corey Black bend the knee before her thrice now. I could list other females who were no bigger than their male opponent’s thigh and still won. Telling you, I’m fast, guys. I’m so speedy that I can turn the light switch off and be in my bed before the room goes dark.”
Toxic does the Morgan Freeman “She’s Right You Know” meme look, and no his affirmation of her claim isn’t because of incest.
”Both of you are bigger than me, but only one of you is bigger than my brudder. Abe, not only are you big and slow, you’re old. No. Not old. You’re ancient. Catch me if you can, but I’m gonna run circles around you. I’m gonna frustrate you. Your breathing and heart rate will increase to help pull more oxygen into your bloodstream. And when your lungs have had their fill and can no longer sustain themselves…”
She tags her brother’s arm.
”I’m gonna puncturin’ sweep you into the fuckin’ shadow-realm. Byron will be shittin’ his breeches while I’m bustin’ open the lines of wisdom on your wrinkled forehead. One moment with me in the ring is gonna age you even more. You’re gonna realize all that time you spent hoo-dooing the sheeple with Lord talk shoulda been spent takin’ the Almighty seriously. Nuttin’ short of dee-vine inner-vention gonna spare you from my Toxic Barrage, you old coot. Greatest generation my ass, Tom Brokaw is a punk.”
Leaning back with one hand on the hood, Vyress now swirls a beer can in her hand also. She chugs.
”Now lemme tell you somethin’ Byron Bathory.”
Vyress perks up and shushes her brother.
”I’ve got this one, brudder. Byron, I don’t know if you’re still being forced into the messiah role thing by old man whiskers or not, but I do KNOW you’re tickled to death about this match. With names like Toxic and Vyress, you just KNOW there’s a buffet of sins a mile long to eat. You’re gonna starve yourself this whole week just make room for the smorgasbord of sin to fall into your belly aren’t you? Don’t lie. Come on. You know you are.”
Her cheeks rise to her eyes, lips wounding a smile.
”I want that. Eat me. Devour me. Gobble. Me. Up. I’m delicious. I’m scrumptious.”
”I love it when she uses them smart-headed words. Get em, sis. Get em!” Toxic smashes a beer and crushes the can, tossing it on the ground.
”I’m every flavor your heart desires. When you see me across that ring, you’re gonna want to rip me apart and just fffffffeast. Ah. Beware of opening, the contents might be hot. There are things inside me without remorse. Things that are dead, spoiled, rotten. Not safe for consumption. Things that can’t be found inside religious books you’ve likely read. Things that will hurt you and things that will turn your insides out. But still, I dare you to taste me, because we all know that ingestion is one way a deadly virus enters the body. And hey?”
She holds out her arms “ta-da” style.
”I’m not called Vyress for nothing.”
”Fuckin’ right. And they don’t call me Toxic for nuttin’. I’m sure you boys are askin’ why we’re goin’ by these names. Well the reason is fuck you.”
”Excuse my brother here, he’s a bit brash. What he’s trying to say is the reasons why we’re labeled this way will be made known at an hour and date of our choosing. Same goes for the reason why we’re in A.W. The only thing you two need to worry about is how to unfuck yourselves long enough to compete in this match. Me and the brudder here? We’ve been rolling deep all our lives. We’ve shared the shit-taste of defeats in the indies. We’ve shared the sweet taste of victory. Shit, we’ve even shared the same woman a time or two. We’re on the same page. I’m the rigger, he’s the trigger. Can the same be said for you two?”
Vyress stands up from her seated position and stands on the hood of the car, placing one foot on the roof and letting the wind blow her hair.
Toxic grooms his beard with a hand and shoves the other in his pocket.
”Naw. Y'all can’t say the same. Y’all too busy with this bullshit about stoppin’ Philidor and eatin’ sins. My sis just laid down the law about eatin’ sins, but lemme holler at you boys about Philidor. Nobody needs y'all to do shit about them. Y’all are the blind leading the blind. I ain’t smart like my sis, but I can tell that Philidor is around because AW allows it, not because they’re a strong group.”
He idly stretches, rolling one arm around in its socket.
”All AW needs to do is stick Ash in there with Downfall for the world belt and boom, shit’s done, Philidor’s dead. He’ll take the belt off her 9/10 times. Ash is a ratings monster though, so it ain’t happenin’. Forget about that shit and focus up on the shit kickin’ you’re gonna get this Monday. We take fights we have no business winnin’, so that when them online bookers give us zero chance to win, we make them shit their pants when the result is what they concluded it’d be, except in the opposite direction. “
”And this Monday they better be putting their shitting pants on.”
Vyress jumps off the car. Her body turns, but her gaze lingers on the camera. She lets her eyes remain on the camera for a moment before she moves to the passenger door and hops into the car, shutting the door closed.
Toxic hops into the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut. He pulls up a can of beer and pops the tab open, sips, then stops mid-sip and smiles at the camera.
”Don’t worry. It takes a few more of these to make the wheels start swayin’.”
He finishes the sip and cranks the car up, the roar of the engine so loud that the microphone sounds like it’s ready to crackle and explode. He revs it a few times, and the gorgeous red vehicle peels out, gone in a flash, leaving dust in its wake.
The camera pans for the widest shot, focusing on the faint trace of Nashville’s skyline in the morning’s distance.
End.
”gods.” A woman’s voice speaks, lettered and twinned with twang of the south.
”Zeus. Odin. Yahweh. Those were gods. They were feared. Respected. Monuments and artistry were sworn to them, a love and fear of them so rooted in the soul that they ensured these things to last forever. Wars were fought for them. Miracles were performed by them in sight of men in war and in peace.”
The shot pans down, exposing a long field. A red sports car, shiny as the day it was made, sits in the center of the frame. And sitting atop it is the woman whom the voice tolls, wearing shredded jeans and a plaid shirt. Next to her, leant against the driver’s door, is what one would call a brick shithouse if it were manifested into human form. The large man swirls a beer can in his hand.
”Those were the good gods. Those were the days. Now we make our gods. We become them. We wear their faces on our shirts. We seduce the masses. Those of us who step between the ropes become gods to those idiots in the stands. Those same idiots who can be led to believe that the gender of a toy potato man and a cartoon from the 50s are righteous issues to address all of a sudden. And you, Mr. Abraham, had the wherewithal to exploit this. You had a following. They looked up to you like you were a god, or a doorway to the highest power at least. They made you rich. You had a lavish bus. Servants. Your meaty palm had people eating out of it and putting money into it. You were graceful as the dove, but cunning as the serpent, just as the Good Book authorizes. It was smart. Clever. Respectable. Kudos to you.”
”But,” says the large man, voice low and base and cruel, accented with sorrows of the south and unlettered compared to the lady next to him.
”You done fucked up boy. When that bell rang, you couldn’t deliver shit. Hell boy, you started not delivering on shit outside the damn ring too. And now things are gettin’ tighter than a gnat's ass stretched over a rain barrel for ya. Tell em’, sis.”
She casually wiggles a finger, prompting the camera to move closer. Closer. Closer still. She draws upon her vast knowledge of human anatomy.
”If laid end to end, the DNA in a single human cell would measure over three feet, or 1 meter for any of you funny tongues outside the U.S. There’s 30 trillion cells in the human body. That’s 30 trillion meters, enough to travel to the moon and beyond. 30 trillion meters worth of potential and possibility for you to access. 30 trillion roaming around in your 6’9”, 255 pound heart attack wrapped in fat, and none of it led to a good idea after you beached yourself into A.W. You are, for all intents and purposes, a FUCKING WASTE!”
The camera reels away, gaining distance from the sudden outburst. She straightens up, her posture having started to hunch like an animal. She flicks some hair out of her eyes and calms down.
”The best idea you could come up with, was to trade in your grandiose tour bus for the proverbial short bus by anointing The Sin Eater Byron Bathory the new messiah, godking, vassal, whatever-the-fuck. A choice so mind boggling that even your close confidantes have cast skeptical eyes your way.”
She inhales sharply, almost a snort. A laugh follows, caught in the gray area between disbelief and hilarity.
”And the guy doesn’t even want the fucking job!”
That’s it. They’ve had it. The man and woman burst out in whooping laughs, slapping their knees in synchronization.
”Them boys gonna be more dysfunctional than the Jackson fuckin’ Five.”
Another round of knee slapping laughs come and go. The woman tilts her head back, slowly shaking her head.
”Okay. Enough. In case you haven’t connected the dots Mr. Abraham and Mr. Bathory, we’re your opponents this Monday on Clash. I’m Vyrees. This is my big brudder, Toxic. We’re Toxic Vyress. The name will catch on. It has dollar signs all over it. So much merch. I know you two are licking your chops already because you see little ole me and think I’m gonna be an easy target. I’d like to bring exhibit A to the forefront. Ash Blake. She’s made King Corey Black bend the knee before her thrice now. I could list other females who were no bigger than their male opponent’s thigh and still won. Telling you, I’m fast, guys. I’m so speedy that I can turn the light switch off and be in my bed before the room goes dark.”
Toxic does the Morgan Freeman “She’s Right You Know” meme look, and no his affirmation of her claim isn’t because of incest.
”Both of you are bigger than me, but only one of you is bigger than my brudder. Abe, not only are you big and slow, you’re old. No. Not old. You’re ancient. Catch me if you can, but I’m gonna run circles around you. I’m gonna frustrate you. Your breathing and heart rate will increase to help pull more oxygen into your bloodstream. And when your lungs have had their fill and can no longer sustain themselves…”
She tags her brother’s arm.
”I’m gonna puncturin’ sweep you into the fuckin’ shadow-realm. Byron will be shittin’ his breeches while I’m bustin’ open the lines of wisdom on your wrinkled forehead. One moment with me in the ring is gonna age you even more. You’re gonna realize all that time you spent hoo-dooing the sheeple with Lord talk shoulda been spent takin’ the Almighty seriously. Nuttin’ short of dee-vine inner-vention gonna spare you from my Toxic Barrage, you old coot. Greatest generation my ass, Tom Brokaw is a punk.”
Leaning back with one hand on the hood, Vyress now swirls a beer can in her hand also. She chugs.
”Now lemme tell you somethin’ Byron Bathory.”
Vyress perks up and shushes her brother.
”I’ve got this one, brudder. Byron, I don’t know if you’re still being forced into the messiah role thing by old man whiskers or not, but I do KNOW you’re tickled to death about this match. With names like Toxic and Vyress, you just KNOW there’s a buffet of sins a mile long to eat. You’re gonna starve yourself this whole week just make room for the smorgasbord of sin to fall into your belly aren’t you? Don’t lie. Come on. You know you are.”
Her cheeks rise to her eyes, lips wounding a smile.
”I want that. Eat me. Devour me. Gobble. Me. Up. I’m delicious. I’m scrumptious.”
”I love it when she uses them smart-headed words. Get em, sis. Get em!” Toxic smashes a beer and crushes the can, tossing it on the ground.
”I’m every flavor your heart desires. When you see me across that ring, you’re gonna want to rip me apart and just fffffffeast. Ah. Beware of opening, the contents might be hot. There are things inside me without remorse. Things that are dead, spoiled, rotten. Not safe for consumption. Things that can’t be found inside religious books you’ve likely read. Things that will hurt you and things that will turn your insides out. But still, I dare you to taste me, because we all know that ingestion is one way a deadly virus enters the body. And hey?”
She holds out her arms “ta-da” style.
”I’m not called Vyress for nothing.”
”Fuckin’ right. And they don’t call me Toxic for nuttin’. I’m sure you boys are askin’ why we’re goin’ by these names. Well the reason is fuck you.”
”Excuse my brother here, he’s a bit brash. What he’s trying to say is the reasons why we’re labeled this way will be made known at an hour and date of our choosing. Same goes for the reason why we’re in A.W. The only thing you two need to worry about is how to unfuck yourselves long enough to compete in this match. Me and the brudder here? We’ve been rolling deep all our lives. We’ve shared the shit-taste of defeats in the indies. We’ve shared the sweet taste of victory. Shit, we’ve even shared the same woman a time or two. We’re on the same page. I’m the rigger, he’s the trigger. Can the same be said for you two?”
Vyress stands up from her seated position and stands on the hood of the car, placing one foot on the roof and letting the wind blow her hair.
Toxic grooms his beard with a hand and shoves the other in his pocket.
”Naw. Y'all can’t say the same. Y’all too busy with this bullshit about stoppin’ Philidor and eatin’ sins. My sis just laid down the law about eatin’ sins, but lemme holler at you boys about Philidor. Nobody needs y'all to do shit about them. Y’all are the blind leading the blind. I ain’t smart like my sis, but I can tell that Philidor is around because AW allows it, not because they’re a strong group.”
He idly stretches, rolling one arm around in its socket.
”All AW needs to do is stick Ash in there with Downfall for the world belt and boom, shit’s done, Philidor’s dead. He’ll take the belt off her 9/10 times. Ash is a ratings monster though, so it ain’t happenin’. Forget about that shit and focus up on the shit kickin’ you’re gonna get this Monday. We take fights we have no business winnin’, so that when them online bookers give us zero chance to win, we make them shit their pants when the result is what they concluded it’d be, except in the opposite direction. “
”And this Monday they better be putting their shitting pants on.”
Vyress jumps off the car. Her body turns, but her gaze lingers on the camera. She lets her eyes remain on the camera for a moment before she moves to the passenger door and hops into the car, shutting the door closed.
Toxic hops into the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut. He pulls up a can of beer and pops the tab open, sips, then stops mid-sip and smiles at the camera.
”Don’t worry. It takes a few more of these to make the wheels start swayin’.”
He finishes the sip and cranks the car up, the roar of the engine so loud that the microphone sounds like it’s ready to crackle and explode. He revs it a few times, and the gorgeous red vehicle peels out, gone in a flash, leaving dust in its wake.
The camera pans for the widest shot, focusing on the faint trace of Nashville’s skyline in the morning’s distance.
End.