Post by SWAN on Feb 9, 2007 14:50:29 GMT -5
Back in the alley of a metropolis. It’s raining. A soft rain, nothing too heavy that would keep one awake at night, but the kind that’s perfect to hear when it’s time for bed.
Unfortunately, the drops from the sky fail to erase the stench on the streets.
Nor does it deter the dregs of humanity from roaming the darkness, searching for ways to proceed with dirty dealings undetected.
None of the above factors also manage to keep an evil figure from lurking in the shadows of night, conscious of the street lamps that briefly grant reprieve from total blackness.
He likes the blackness.
“We meet again.”
He stands from his crouched position beside what appears to be a cardboard condo and a corpse.
“It seems that the slanderous pen of Reeve Gordon has run out of ink here lately. No more tabloid-esque, “this guy said this” bullshit to print? I’m disappointed, reading things that I said that I didn’t say, for some odd reason, gives me a twinge of orgasmic glee, albeit small.”
He lights an unfiltered cigarette and takes a deep inhalation. He proceeds to speak as the carbon monoxide billows with each syllable.
“Before I continue, there’s a little something I need to clear up.”
He slowly blows the rest of the smoke from his lungs….
Name: S.W.A.N. (Acronym for Sadistic, Wicked, And Nasty.)
Height: Approximately 6’4”
Weight: UNKNOWN
Hometown: UNKNOWN
Theme music: Mr. Crowley by Ozzy Osbourne
Costume: “The Creeper” from Jeepers Creepers
Finishing maneuver: Nondescript array of punches and kicks, followed by a straight punt to the face of a bent over opponent.
Wrestling style: Controlled, focused, maniacal rage
Previous convictions: He pleads the 5th.
History and backstory: His mother was a whore. His father was one of her clients. He was raised in a family owned orphanage, beaten daily by one of the caregivers, the son of the owner that went unpunished. This continued until aforementioned caregiver was found one day stapled to the oak tree by the play area sandbox, fastened there by 'concrete nails'. His eyelids had been removed.
Favorite cereal: UNKNOWN
Make of car: Left foot. Right foot.
Number of times you’ve watched “The Sound of Music”: Never.
Anything else I should know about you: No.
“There, that wasn’t as painful as I’d thought it would be. It wasn’t as pleasant as I’d hoped, either.”
He takes another drag…
“You know, I pray that soon the day will arrive that I can enter the ring here in Brawler’s on a Budget, and work out some of my homicidal urges. One can only keep them bottled for so long. Then, it eventually reaches a point of no return.
The theory is, if I can just beat a man to the brink of murdering him every once in a while, that’s just as good as killing him. The fulfillment is nearly the same, enough to quell the life taking impulse, anyway.”
He flicks the cigarette off screen, perhaps ¾ of it left to be inhaled.
“My time has come. I’ve waited long enough.
It’s not the time of ridiculous, substandard “sports entertainment” programs, spun off of the one in which it hopes to consume, that lack both sport and entertainment and wherein lies performers whose names seemed derived from the mind of a toddler.
It’s not the time of recycled “legends” which have passed a prime they never achieved.
It’s not the time of beings from another dimension, or those made to wash clothes.
It’s not the time of Generation Y, who are deplete of both the work ethic and attitude to survive in a place of business. Those that are riding the clock looking to do as little as possible and make more doing it than the ones that came before them, who broke their fucking backs to allow them to exist in a generous and prosperous employ.
No. It’s my time.
And my time brings with it something you’ll wish to never experience.”
He stares briefly into the camera that records him. Then abruptly, he turns and leaves.
Unfortunately, the drops from the sky fail to erase the stench on the streets.
Nor does it deter the dregs of humanity from roaming the darkness, searching for ways to proceed with dirty dealings undetected.
None of the above factors also manage to keep an evil figure from lurking in the shadows of night, conscious of the street lamps that briefly grant reprieve from total blackness.
He likes the blackness.
“We meet again.”
He stands from his crouched position beside what appears to be a cardboard condo and a corpse.
“It seems that the slanderous pen of Reeve Gordon has run out of ink here lately. No more tabloid-esque, “this guy said this” bullshit to print? I’m disappointed, reading things that I said that I didn’t say, for some odd reason, gives me a twinge of orgasmic glee, albeit small.”
He lights an unfiltered cigarette and takes a deep inhalation. He proceeds to speak as the carbon monoxide billows with each syllable.
“Before I continue, there’s a little something I need to clear up.”
He slowly blows the rest of the smoke from his lungs….
Name: S.W.A.N. (Acronym for Sadistic, Wicked, And Nasty.)
Height: Approximately 6’4”
Weight: UNKNOWN
Hometown: UNKNOWN
Theme music: Mr. Crowley by Ozzy Osbourne
Costume: “The Creeper” from Jeepers Creepers
Finishing maneuver: Nondescript array of punches and kicks, followed by a straight punt to the face of a bent over opponent.
Wrestling style: Controlled, focused, maniacal rage
Previous convictions: He pleads the 5th.
History and backstory: His mother was a whore. His father was one of her clients. He was raised in a family owned orphanage, beaten daily by one of the caregivers, the son of the owner that went unpunished. This continued until aforementioned caregiver was found one day stapled to the oak tree by the play area sandbox, fastened there by 'concrete nails'. His eyelids had been removed.
Favorite cereal: UNKNOWN
Make of car: Left foot. Right foot.
Number of times you’ve watched “The Sound of Music”: Never.
Anything else I should know about you: No.
“There, that wasn’t as painful as I’d thought it would be. It wasn’t as pleasant as I’d hoped, either.”
He takes another drag…
“You know, I pray that soon the day will arrive that I can enter the ring here in Brawler’s on a Budget, and work out some of my homicidal urges. One can only keep them bottled for so long. Then, it eventually reaches a point of no return.
The theory is, if I can just beat a man to the brink of murdering him every once in a while, that’s just as good as killing him. The fulfillment is nearly the same, enough to quell the life taking impulse, anyway.”
He flicks the cigarette off screen, perhaps ¾ of it left to be inhaled.
“My time has come. I’ve waited long enough.
It’s not the time of ridiculous, substandard “sports entertainment” programs, spun off of the one in which it hopes to consume, that lack both sport and entertainment and wherein lies performers whose names seemed derived from the mind of a toddler.
It’s not the time of recycled “legends” which have passed a prime they never achieved.
It’s not the time of beings from another dimension, or those made to wash clothes.
It’s not the time of Generation Y, who are deplete of both the work ethic and attitude to survive in a place of business. Those that are riding the clock looking to do as little as possible and make more doing it than the ones that came before them, who broke their fucking backs to allow them to exist in a generous and prosperous employ.
No. It’s my time.
And my time brings with it something you’ll wish to never experience.”
He stares briefly into the camera that records him. Then abruptly, he turns and leaves.