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Post by Star Stormz on Apr 17, 2023 18:34:27 GMT -5
PWS:APEX PRESENTS: THURSDAY NIGHT RIOT Thursday, April 27th Rocket Mortgage Field House - Cleveland, OhioSingles Match (non title) Devon Ryder vs Corey Bull Deadline: Sunday 4/23 11:59:59 pm est 1 rp per character: Min 300, Max 5000
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Post by Corey Bull on Apr 23, 2023 9:45:43 GMT -5
-š-š-š-š-š-š-š- Sante Fe, New Mexico The woman was once beautiful. Many people said that Phyllis Parthenope was nothing short of a supermodel with a geniusās mind. The Greek Goddess, as her friends referred to her, ran a very lucrative lingerie store in Sante Fe. Of course, her income came from the store's brothel that was disguised as a location to view the lingerie on live models. Phyllis, you see, was one of the most prolific madams in the Southwest. At the age of 45, she had the body of a twenty-year-old and the mind of an Einstein, and this attracted many men that thought they could bed the woman of most of their dreams.
But today, she simply was a victim. Strapped to a chair with all her goodies on display, gold, and blood flittered in the light. Her vaginal area had a mound of gold, once liquid, now oozing out and over the chair. Her breast had been splashed with gold and her mouth, aimed at the sky, had gold around her lips and running down her cheek, blood oozing out the edges. The sound of someone vomiting can be heard in the background somewhere, and two detectives look over the body, their voices steeled from years of experience.
Det 1: Ever?
Det 2: No, this is a first for me. Who melts gold and kills with it? Who has that much gold that they can fill this woman with it?
Det 1: The Romans, probably. Those fuckers killed everyone in powerful and unique ways. These days, who fuckin knows. Some sick fuck with a complex.
Det 2: Many important people are going to be pissed that their favorite little whorehouse is now out of business. The madam has left the building.
Det 3: Hey, look at this!
The two detectives walk over to where a third man stands around a desk, papers all over it.
Det 3: You see some of the names?!
Det 1: Holy shit!
Det 2: Fuck, holy shit doesnāt even cover it!
Det 3: That's the head of Internal Affairs right there!
Det 1: I see three politicians, two business CEOsā¦.
Det 2: And a shitload of officials of some capacity. This woman had dirt.
Det 3: But who kills and then leaves all this evidence behind?! This is a literal gold mine. Oh shit, sorry.
The two detectives slap the younger man on the back of the head, a gentle reminder of the victim in the room.
Det 2: But you are assuming he left it all.
The three of them look at each other, and the youngest lets out a long whistle.
Det 1: It looks like we have a lot of paperwork to sift through. And let's hope that the killer didnāt take any or, at the very least, left us some sort of clue. -š-š-š-š-š-š-š- āCan an unpure and tainted soul truly hold the Pure title?ā
**The darkness fades from black to almost black, a white light shining in a single area. In that area, a chair. But one like none most have ever seen. This is Old Sparky. Not the one in Texas, or the one in Arkansas, but one of the ones from Kentucky. It is in fact an electric chair. It has a sheen to it, a glimmer as if it understands what it was for. It screams one thing: my purpose is to punish and kill. And now, the 6ā10ā frame of the Hatebringer has entered the light and settled in the chair. His massive body practically molds into the already oversized chair, the chair looking like a demented throne for the Hatebringer.**
āRhetorical as it is, we do wonder what sort of a dark and comical power would choose to lay such a challenge upon the wrestling world. Perhaps we shall have the chance to explore that quandary.ā
**Bulls smirk is both spiteful and nonchalantly uncaring.**
āThis meeting does have a bearing on that very interesting scenario. At least one would think burying you would certainly open up said possibility. After all Devon, you are suppose to be the Pure Champion, an example of sorts. And then everyone realizes you are Canadian.ā
**Bulls eye rolling expression essentially says āoh this trope again.ā**
āWe love how hypocritical you sort of individuals are. The āāCanada is betterā argument from someone that spends their time earning their financial well being in a place that is certainly not Canada. Itās one of the most hypocritical tropes that exists and we are not afraid to point out to the marks just how asinine this argument is. Itās as if you look at us and you tried to argue that you were the smartest kid in the special needs class.ā
**Bulls dark voice produces a chuckle that is more akin to a rumbling dragon than a large man**
āWe are sure you will attempt to regal us about the fertility of us against you and how we are just a dumb American, blah blah blahā¦.ā
**The light seems to dim as Bull breaths a deep breath.**
āā¦you have created your own destruction. You have designed the folly that we shall exploit andā¦with no regretsā¦use to eviscerate your championship reign. We may not be able to win the title this timeā¦but the world will get an eye full of the fact that you are not a championā¦but a joke with a terrible punch line.ā
āThis trope that you are so much better because you are Canadian is going to be stopped right in its tracks. Because franklyā¦no one gives a dam. Not even Canadians careā¦they cheer for you because you are Canadianā¦thatās it. Not because you are right or some wrestling godā¦but simple cause your mom squatted in a parking lot somewhere in Quebec or Montreal or Moose Droppings and crapped out the future stink known as Devon Ryder.ā
āSeeā¦.we went and did what we said we wouldnāt doā¦we felt a personal responsibility to just straight up murder you. Itās the patriot in usā¦when you bury as many bodies as we have for our countryā¦well you tend to enjoy doing it..ā
**Bulls grin is sadistic and not pleasant. You understand what the canary was thinking before the cat ate it**
āBut letās take a moment to let the reality of the situation drip in. We are not going to do this for our country. We are not going to do this for anyone in the PWS. We are not going to do this for the fans. We are not going to do this for management. And while some people may think we are doing this to send Alexis a messageā¦well that would be wrong too. We are doing thisā¦because we can.ā
**Simple. Matter of fact. And yet, the force of those words sends shivers through the spines of many. Grown men are crying somewhere right now because these words made them piss themselvesā¦and they donāt even know the cause of it. Itās as if a primal instinct reached out and gut punched everyone**
āIf we wish to tend your limbs from your torsosā¦we will because we can. If we chose to make you cease to matterā¦you will because we can. Our willā¦our very beingā¦is greater then you will ever be. If we chose to do somethingā¦then there is nothing you can do. Struggle all you wantā¦cryā¦screamā¦yell about the injustices. But none of it will change your fate. For you are insignificant. Your titleā¦it matters. But youā¦are a cockroach to get squashed. And we are the giant can of Raid come to exterminate you.ā
āEnjoy these precious momentsā¦spend them in some sort of a significant manner. Kiss a girlā¦kiss a guyā¦kiss whatever it is you think you need to kiss. Because once you are in the ring with usā¦.nothing else in your life will matter. It will be at its end.ā
**His eyes, like daggers piercing your soul. A deep chuckle, slow and drawn out, emerges from the mask as all suddenly becomes white noise. Only to fade to black**
-š-š-š-š-š-š-š- Corvis stared hard at his own writing. Why hadnāt he seen all this before? Now it was starting to make sense. He rushed to his laptop and typed in ancient torture. The images that assaulted him led him to a list, a long list, of the ways that the old world loved to torture people. He looked up at each victim's image as he read about particular punishments that jumped off the page at him, his mind a machine running too fast for safety.
Kristopher was flayed to death with Lingchi. This was a punishment reserved for mass murderers. He sold guns that obviously killed hundreds if not thousands. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he was complacent in those deaths in the eyes of the Death Dealer.
Sakura was killed by impalement and electrocution, another capital sentence for murder. Her company's toxic waste would kill many people for years to come. And this didnāt even include who they had already killed.
And Randall was essentially burned at the stake, a punishment reserved for those who committed witchcraft, which included the desecration of the youth. You could make an argument that his skill on the computer was a form of witchcraft, that his pedophilia was definitely a desecration of the youth. The Death Dealer obviously did.
And now Phyllis. Gold was poured into her mouth and privates. It's meaning: her greed at the cost of everyone. The detectives had found several cases of blackmail, the madam kept meticulous records. Phyllis loved wealth and was greedy, skimping her girls and overcharging everything while enjoying a lascivious lifestyle and blackmailing essential individuals.
The person killing these people was using versions of ancient punishments for crimes that they were obviously committing, but no one was convicting them of. Except he was convicting them. Judge...Jury...Executioner.
And of course, he found the message. It had been carved in some of the gold that was almost cooled. This made four known victims. But what started this? It was apparent he was ramping up. It went from months to weeks, separating the kills. And not even a lot of weeks. But his victimology made it challenging to consider where he would strike again. We can tie them together; the scribbling in Latin had not been released. But Corvis was unsure his boss would green-light him. After all, he was supposed to be on leave for that last incident.
One more kill and I wonāt be able to hold it back any longer.-š-š-š-š-š-š-š- The car was inconspicuous. So were the two men that sat in it. They were professionals. The kind that could make you disappear if they wanted to. But today, they had cameras and notepads.
Heavy: So the chief turns and says, āWhy do you ask Two Dogs Fucking?ā
Both men laugh.
Thin: That's fucked up, dawg; you know Iām part Apache.
Heavy: Fuck, you are straight-up dog shit, man. We no longer identify as anything other than black ops. Anything else is irrelevant.
Thin: Hey, hey, hey, is that her?
The Heavy set man looks out of a pair of binoculars as the other lifts a camera with a large lens.
Heavy: Oh yeah, you can tell by the hair. Snap what you can, and when we are sure she is clear, we break in.
Thin: Is this his new want?
Heavy chuckles.
Heavy: No, man, he is making a masterpiece, as he puts it. We need to get underwear, bra, shoe size, sock size, and everything has to be exact.
Thin: He is one sick fuck for sure.
Heavy: Yeah, but he led our asses out of so many hot spots, I wonāt start questioning him now. HE has spilt more blood and saved our lives more times then I am willing to count.
Thin: Sanguis Ad Vitum.
Heavy: Sangiuis Ad Vitum.
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āSo, can you make us another one?ā
A chuckle, the kind that you would hear from your grandfather as he is about to tell you a story.
āOh yes, my boy. You know that I so love to show off my art.ā
āYou have an eye Statuarius.ā
The Sculptor, for that, is what statuarius means in Latin, smiled his grandfatherly smile as the large frame of Corey Bull sets a vanilla envelope on his desk, the contents practically spilling out.
āShe is the sister-in-law?ā
āSomething like that. That detail is irrelevant to usā¦it only matters that she is important. And that the physical details are exact."
āGood, so shall this masterpiece be. When I am done, maybe her husband would like an anatomically correct one for himself. It will never say no and will never talk back.ā
The dark laughter mixed with the grandfatherly chuckle is chilling.
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Post by Devon Ryder on Apr 24, 2023 22:36:52 GMT -5
ACT ONE: DEVONā¦ THE UNBREAKABLE?
How do you break an Unbreakable heart?
Tick...tick...tick...
Lights.
Adrenaline.
The roar of the crowd.
Electricity crackles through the air as the intensity ramps up. The Rebel Rumble has entered its final stretch. Sweat pools on my brow, crimson blood obscures my vision. The wound stings against the bitter, stale air, tinged with the reek of sweat and desperation. There are four of us remaining. My goal is in sight.
I will not be Broken.
Focus, Devonā¦
Focus.
Passion.
Sheer fortitude of will.
It is with these traits that I shall outlast my competition. That I shall PROVE myself, beyond any shadow of doubt, to be fully and completely and TRULY unbreakable.
Or, at leastā¦ that is what I tell myself. It is the fiction that I cling to, in those quiet moments - the comfort I concoct when the darkness overwhelms me. When I feel my faith waning, when my belief in ME is undermined - as it so often has been, these days. It is the mantra I repeat, day after day, moment after moment, in the vain and desperate HOPE that maybe Iāll believe it. And, occasionally, I do. They are fleeting moments, but when I am in the ring, wrestling, firing on all cylinders - as I am tonight - I begin to feel like perhaps I truly am all that I pretend to be. Perhaps I truly am a Heroā¦
Focus.
An explosion. Chris Pageās feet hit the floor and the crowd ERUPTS. Their reaction brings me back into myself, and I become conscious of the growing ache in my exhausted shoulders. My knees, shrieking their objections as I ask yet MORE from their aging, tired tendons. But I cannot give in. Not yet. Electricity courses through my body as I feed off the audience's energy, their passion and their fervor empowering me to push forward. To keep. Fighting.
Tickā¦ tickā¦ tickā¦
Even closer, now. The brass ring is in sight. As I scooch ever-closer to my goal, my determination grows. My fire burns brighter. I cannot - and WILL NOT - allow anything to stop me now. As I trade blows with Mack McKane, narrowly avoiding elimination by drawing on every millilitre of strength remaining in my weary muscles, I steel myself against the pain. The doubt. The sorrow. The rage. If I can maintain my wits, just maybe I canā¦
āDevon!ā
A voice. From the crowd. So familiar, and yetā¦
No.
NO.
She stands up. My eyes lock with hers. The entire world around me freezesā¦
And in an instant, Devon Ryder shatters. All of those emotions - the guilt, the pain, the anger and the sorrow - come bubbling back to the surface as my roiling psyche boils over, as the facade of bravery and calm immediately crumbles. I only glimpse her for a second, but in that second, I am Broken. Numb. A deep and familiar cold washes over me as my heart cracks in two again, my body falling limp as the blow crashes against my jaw, sending me hurtling to the floor. The match is over. My redemption arc is ruined. All that preparation, all that posturing, the valiant words of warning about how I would DIE to win this Rumbleā¦ in a single second, all of itās for naught.
Because of her.
Desiree.
The face which used to bring me so much joy - the lighthouse on my rocky shore, to guide me through the dark to homeā¦ now steering me instead on a path to ruination.
A crash.
My ship against the rocks. My back against the concrete floor. My world, in pieces, to the ground around me.
How do you break an Unbreakable heart?
Ask Desiree de La Roche.
Tickā¦ tickā¦ tickā¦
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ACT TWO: REDEMPTION SONG
"Cleveland, Ohioā¦"
*Fade in. We open on a shot of the cityās skyline, as viewed through the window of a well-kept but moderately-priced hotel room. As we peel back from this shot, it takes us THROUGH that very same window, whereupon we are able to see the source of the narration which greeted us; PWS: Apex PURE Champion, āUnbreakableā Devon Ryder! The champion holds his belt in his right hand, slung loosely over one shoulder, and is faced away from the camera, gazing out wistfully over the cityscape below. He wears a simple black t-shirt emblazoned with a white āBLMā on the front and faded blue jeans, and the tone of his voice matches his wistful expression as he gazes out of the window, absent any of his usual pomp or arrogance.*
"I once dated a girl who lived around this area, back when I was in high-school. She wasā¦ kind, if inconsistent - and far more emotionally-mature than I was ready for. I still think of her, at times; I hope the life she chose is treating her well, wherever she may beā¦ā
*Here, Devon pauses, the wistfulness on his face slowly vanishing. He turns his gaze to meet the camera.*
āI suspect you're all expecting some self-righteous, moralistic rant about how your state fails to compare to its neighbours to the North. A laundry list of grievances, informed by research and the current news-cycle, which ultimately paints an unfavourable picture of your hometown and presents a city in Canada which acts as its polar opposite."
*Another pause. The Unbreakable Oneās face contorts into a bitter smirk, as he eyes his own reflection in the faceplate of his belt.*
"Have I become so predictable?"
*He allows the belt to drop onto the hotel mattress, along with a heavy sigh, as he looks into the camera again.*
"In truth, I lack the energy for such arrogance today. Honestly, I've been lacking energy for much of ANYTHING lately, and I certainly have NOT been feeling superior to my fellow human beings."
*A beat. Devon continues, undeterred.*
"For a man who calls himself a Hero, I have been failing in my duty. I have been neglectful of my obligations, taking it FOR GRANTED that any choice I made would be the right one, solely by virtue of the fact that I was making itā¦ but this is not the case. This has never been the case. I am NOT infallible, I am NOT immune to the ails of the worldā¦ And I have strayed too far from the path. No true Hero deserving of the name would cause such pain and sorrow to his loved ones. No true Hero would allow himself to be so overtaken by the allure of championship gold - so blinded by thisā¦ compulsion, thisā¦ NEED to be the best! But arenāt the most highly-skilled those who feel compelled to brag about it least? Is not the mark of a TRUE Hero their humility, their ability to accept that they may be wrong and therefore adapt?ā
*Devon pauses one more time, heaving another sigh as he runs his fingers through his slicked-back hair.*
āI do not have that answer. At this point on my journey, Iām not certain WHAT a Hero truly is anymoreā¦ or if I have ever truly been one. Perhaps this is self-doubt. Perhaps it is manipulation. Perhaps my darling Nadia is right, and Desiree has never held my best interests at heart, and anything she tells me now is designed solely to undermine my resolve as Championā¦ but even if thatās the case, I do think her words ring true. I do not believe that Iām a Hero - not at this specific moment, anyway - and that is aā¦ very difficult feeling for me to process.ā
*One more pause, and Devonās lips curl into a familiar, lopsided smirk.*
āBut we all know what HAPPENS when Iām struggling to process my emotions, donāt we? We have all SEEN what Devon Ryder is capable of when he needs to prove himself not only to the world but to himself as well, havenāt we?ā
*He raises the PURE Championship again, ensuring the faceplate is in view - name badge included.*
āTHAT is when Devon Ryder wins title belts. The UNCERTAIN Devon Ryder is the one who throws himself through glass cages, who takes ten unprotected steel chairs to the SKULL and goes on to WIN THE FUCKING MATCH! When Devon Ryder gets emotionalā¦ā
*A beat. A grin.*
āDreams get broken.ā
*Another pause. The grin slowly vanishes, and Devon lowers his title belt again.*
āWhich brings me to tonight. Yet another dreamer has stepped up to the plateā¦ā
*His lip curls into a smirk once again - slightly derisive this time. Mocking.*
āCorey Bullā¦ do you expect me to be afraid of you? Theseā¦ theatrics, all this blood and gloom and proselytizing, is it supposed to intimidate me? You are not fearsome, Corey Bull. Youāre a gimmick. A haunted-house carnival attraction playing it up for Halloween. You are no more violent or extreme than the other would-be serial killers on our roster like Jonathan Sanders or Mack McKane - hell, even DYLAN HOWELL is capable of the same level of violence that you are. I have faced your kind before, I have been BLED and BEATEN and TORN APART inside that ringā¦ and do you know what, Corey? Through it all, I. Have. Survived.ā
*Devon Ryder pauses, now, smirk gone, his eyes furrowing with intensity as he glares into the camera.*
āBecause that is what I DO. That is who I AM. I do not call myself āUnbreakableā because itās a neat slogan to sell t-shirts - I donāt give a FUCK about your money, and I wish the whole goddamn rotten capitalist enterprise would burn to the fucking ground. I have dubbed myself āUnbreakableā because that is a nickname I have earned. Because I have been through HELL - through the worst moments of my life - and I AM STILL STANDING! There is NOTHING you can do to me - not a single GRAM of punishment you can inflict - that I have not already felt. There is no amount of pain that you can put me through that I have not withstood. I am sure that you will TRY, Corey, and I do look forward to the effort, but honestly? Your battle was lost long before you ever set foot between those ropes. Because you are not a wrestler, you are a thug. You are not a MONSTER, you are merely a performer - and I. WILL. Outperform you.ā
*Another pause. Devon inhales deeply, trying to calm himself. His blue eyes gleam with determination and sheer passion for the sport as he glares down the camera lens again.*
āAsk Violet Holt how much it takes to put me down, Corey. Ask Dylan Howell, or Miles Kasey, or ANYONE that I have wrestled one-on-one in the last year! They will ALL give you exactly the same answer: āmore than I could giveā.ā
*Devon pauses again, allowing his words time to sink in. He gives another lopsided smirk into the camera.*
āSo BRING your A-game, Corey Bull. Bring the butcher, or the mutilator, or whatever 14-year-old edgelord nickname youāve bestowed upon yourself, and show me the āmeaning in the ultraviolenceā or whatever the fuck. Honestly? Iād WELCOME that pain right about now. I would REVEL in that violence. Because I need that kind of wake-up call. I need that kind of enemy to focus my attention and REMIND ME exactly how much I can go through without breaking. Because this is how I learn, Corey. Conflict is the way that I improve. It is only through adversity that I have become who I am, and by going through that trauma, I will learn exactly how much more I can endure. And you will learn how much you can give and still FAIL to put Devon Ryder down.ā
*Another pause. The Unbreakable One grins his trademark arrogant grin into the camera, and hoists the PURE title belt up onto his shoulder once again.*
āShall we dance, Bull? I very much look forward to being your toreador.ā
*With that, Devon seems to have finished, and he pushes past the camera to stride out the door of his hotel room and into the corridors beyond.*
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