4.26.21 The Lost Tape... (damn the unfinishedness)
Apr 26, 2021 6:42:19 GMT -5
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Post by The Golden Idolo on Apr 26, 2021 6:42:19 GMT -5
Dead Drop # 3
“I see the teeth of the very machine we need to dismantle.
Action Wrestling has put their tokens on proven outsiders like John Black. However, the lingering placenta of order persists like a preserved mucus pump.
I have spoken about these sorts of people.
*Static*
Darren Marsh is a soldier of the old order. He must be stopped.
*whirling wind*
To think he had a chance at redemption yet wasted it on a harmless friendship. His trip to jail should have been a right comeuppance; instead, Marsh settled for what felt best. He could have learned why his transgressions…
*static*
… Except he brought Big Bubba into the fray. They are white as the armor they shed in that admissible night in county jail. Jailors and convicts breaking bread but never learning a proper lesson as to why they deserved their cell…
*buzzing static*
… and for what price but a continued circle of hatred. Bubba and Marsh are two common sides of the dagger. What I call the imperial stamp of order. It manifests as constable uniforms and coalesces between empowered folk. John Black should have ended Marsh’s shadow. No. He recovered, regrouped and returned a worse human being than ever before.
*harsh winds*
Marsh and Big Bubba forged a friendship all too common. Darren Marsh returned to Action Wrestling in undeserved authority. We failed to subject John Black. Now, he will have the task of enforcing The Colonnade. If one shall fall, the rest will hold.”
***
"Victory is sweet, the moment it touches the lips of the orator with whom proclaims it…"
A table sits in the middle of a makeshift board room, or in this usage, a WAR room. Around the table sits chairs- 10 to be exact, 4 on each of the long sides and 1 on each of the ends. Byron Bathory dressed in a black suit sits on the far end with Lady Envy to his right draped in black fabric with red liquid splashed over it, resembling something that would've fallen out of Lady Gaga's closet at some point. At the far end of the table sits the vagabond businessman, Lamarche in a burple suit that he probably picked up from a thrift store somewhere in ghetto USA, with the newly REVIVED Lester Parish in a working man's red and black flannel blue jeans look and his eyes peer through his black mask down toward Byron.
"And Lamarche, did you see the way we made our voices known out there at Clash?"
Byron points to Lester.
"You my friend truly released that monster side of yourself that you have been sedating with YOUR good word. How did it feel dismantling those steroid driven meat heads, Lester?"
Before Lester can reply, Lamarche cuts him off.
“Dismantle? You pushed over two towers meant to fall. Color me skeptical, boys, because this is just the beginning.”
“Beginnings are our specialty, Lamarche. You know that. And now, we have a chance to hold up the vision of our new leader.”
Lamarche braces a bored hand under his chin.
“All right. All. Right… tell me, Kid, what did you actually learn last week?”
Byron grinds his teeth at the mention of KID coming from Lamarche's bleeding gums. Byron tenses up and then let's it slowly wash over him.
"What did I learn? I learned that you two need me more than you've originally let on, even after begging for me to play your savior. YOU followed my lead and now we feast like GODS."
Lamarche pumps the air brakes with his right hand bringing the situation back down to earth.
"Revel in it today, but your next opponents are the epitome of what makes wrestling a map for the masses you claim to be guiding.”
Lester looks to Bathory and shakes his head.
“As predicted, our nihilist continues down this path. He wants to watch everything burn,” Lester eyes Lamarche. “But I know why: Lamarche simply is the element of chaos we need to make this team homogeneous; otherwise, we’re a useless tincture with too many flavors.”
Byron slams the table between the men only recently claimed as “lieutenants” to his order.
"It's no surprise to hear me say this, but you two talk too much. Jesus Christ, I mean WE have proven to be men of ACTION, have we not?"
Byron looks the two over for a second and continues.
"Just as well we have proven to be men who can spread our word while doing it. Things will be no different this coming Clash, just a set of different names being draped upon our feet begging for us to take their sins upon ourselves. How much sin do you think a cop and an ex-con have anyway?"
*Static*
Not enough sin to make a difference sadly…
*Static*
“I see the teeth of the very machine we need to dismantle.
Action Wrestling has put their tokens on proven outsiders like John Black. However, the lingering placenta of order persists like a preserved mucus pump.
I have spoken about these sorts of people.
*Static*
Darren Marsh is a soldier of the old order. He must be stopped.
*whirling wind*
To think he had a chance at redemption yet wasted it on a harmless friendship. His trip to jail should have been a right comeuppance; instead, Marsh settled for what felt best. He could have learned why his transgressions…
*static*
… Except he brought Big Bubba into the fray. They are white as the armor they shed in that admissible night in county jail. Jailors and convicts breaking bread but never learning a proper lesson as to why they deserved their cell…
*buzzing static*
… and for what price but a continued circle of hatred. Bubba and Marsh are two common sides of the dagger. What I call the imperial stamp of order. It manifests as constable uniforms and coalesces between empowered folk. John Black should have ended Marsh’s shadow. No. He recovered, regrouped and returned a worse human being than ever before.
*harsh winds*
Marsh and Big Bubba forged a friendship all too common. Darren Marsh returned to Action Wrestling in undeserved authority. We failed to subject John Black. Now, he will have the task of enforcing The Colonnade. If one shall fall, the rest will hold.”
***
"Victory is sweet, the moment it touches the lips of the orator with whom proclaims it…"
A table sits in the middle of a makeshift board room, or in this usage, a WAR room. Around the table sits chairs- 10 to be exact, 4 on each of the long sides and 1 on each of the ends. Byron Bathory dressed in a black suit sits on the far end with Lady Envy to his right draped in black fabric with red liquid splashed over it, resembling something that would've fallen out of Lady Gaga's closet at some point. At the far end of the table sits the vagabond businessman, Lamarche in a burple suit that he probably picked up from a thrift store somewhere in ghetto USA, with the newly REVIVED Lester Parish in a working man's red and black flannel blue jeans look and his eyes peer through his black mask down toward Byron.
"And Lamarche, did you see the way we made our voices known out there at Clash?"
Byron points to Lester.
"You my friend truly released that monster side of yourself that you have been sedating with YOUR good word. How did it feel dismantling those steroid driven meat heads, Lester?"
Before Lester can reply, Lamarche cuts him off.
“Dismantle? You pushed over two towers meant to fall. Color me skeptical, boys, because this is just the beginning.”
“Beginnings are our specialty, Lamarche. You know that. And now, we have a chance to hold up the vision of our new leader.”
Lamarche braces a bored hand under his chin.
“All right. All. Right… tell me, Kid, what did you actually learn last week?”
Byron grinds his teeth at the mention of KID coming from Lamarche's bleeding gums. Byron tenses up and then let's it slowly wash over him.
"What did I learn? I learned that you two need me more than you've originally let on, even after begging for me to play your savior. YOU followed my lead and now we feast like GODS."
Lamarche pumps the air brakes with his right hand bringing the situation back down to earth.
"Revel in it today, but your next opponents are the epitome of what makes wrestling a map for the masses you claim to be guiding.”
Lester looks to Bathory and shakes his head.
“As predicted, our nihilist continues down this path. He wants to watch everything burn,” Lester eyes Lamarche. “But I know why: Lamarche simply is the element of chaos we need to make this team homogeneous; otherwise, we’re a useless tincture with too many flavors.”
Byron slams the table between the men only recently claimed as “lieutenants” to his order.
"It's no surprise to hear me say this, but you two talk too much. Jesus Christ, I mean WE have proven to be men of ACTION, have we not?"
Byron looks the two over for a second and continues.
"Just as well we have proven to be men who can spread our word while doing it. Things will be no different this coming Clash, just a set of different names being draped upon our feet begging for us to take their sins upon ourselves. How much sin do you think a cop and an ex-con have anyway?"
*Static*
Not enough sin to make a difference sadly…
*Static*