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Chapter Four: A Champion's Quest; The Storyteller - Showdown #13, RP #1
Topic Started: Jan 17 2008, 10:51 PM (108 Views)
TheStoryteller
sVo Rookie
[ * ]
NOTE: Some of the things I wrote in here would be considered to be controversial... but trust me, they're not my true feelings. I felt bad writing them, but they fit with the characters involved. Please let me know if any of you are offended... I don't want that to happen.

The boredom has set in at the Bangor Mental Health Institute, in what appears to be a very slow day. The residents of the facility have acted correctly all day, the medications have been sent on time, and all paperwork from 2007 has finally been filed. The ending of the morning shift is apparent, with most of the staff clock watching, counting the moments until the end of the day.

We cut to a small room filled to capacity with filing cabinets, each of them filed in date and alphabetical order. Currently, the "M" drawer is opened, and a file is pulled, currently in the hands of Johnny, one of The Storyteller's orderlies. He's seated on a steel folding chair, busy
thumbing through the pages. As he continues to read the multitude of pages, he begins speaking.


"From the looks of things, it's psycho versus psycho for the Las Vegas Championship. Though to be honest, Brock Alyas, we don't want to play the 'whose dick is bigger' game. Yes, you were a scamp, a juvenile delinquent, but your story _pales_ in comparison to that of Michael Morgan's.

I find it funny how every single sVo superstar focuses on Michael Morgan's status as a mental patient, instead of worrying about what he'll do inside the ring. They see a man with multiple personalities, a man that's been traumatized, and they think it's some kind of a weakness..."


Johnny closes the folder, a smile on his face as he looks up towards the camera and continues.

"...let me tell you, Alyas, it's _not_."

Johnny rises from his chair, then walks over to the file cabinet to replace the folder in its correct spot. He carefully closes the drawer, wary of making any noises, then stays perfectly still for a moment before walking back over to the chair. He folds the chair up, walks over to where a few other chairs lean against a wall, and replaces that as well, waiting once again.

"I guess I'm a little confused as to the glimpse into your life. Did you think it'd impress or even _scare_ The Storyteller? You managed to overcome the issues that weighed you down. You're able to walk around freely. You know what 'free' is to him? A half-hour walk around the place.

Let me tell you a little about the _true_ Michael Morgan. The _true_ Michael Morgan was normal, had a really good life, and thought everything was fine. He was a mid-level manager at a firm known for publishing bestselling authors, he had a hot piece of ass for a fiance, and they were set to move into a decent place. Little did he know, his woman was busy screwing another dude.

When we got custody of him, he had been in a coma for two weeks, the victim of a two story fall from the 'other man' when Morgan caught him and his girl. Morgan won the battle, though, as the other man ended up dead due to repeated blows to the head. Of course, he had no memory of that."


Johnny slowly opens the door, peeking his head out slowly, then looking both ways to see if he's safe to emerge. Seeing that the coast is clear, he slips out of the door very catlike, resuming pace as if he was on his hourly rounds. A few of his coworkers pass by, and he nods to them with a smile, hiding the fact that he was just in a restricted room without any business being there.

"Honestly, the guy is a _major_ gamble. You should read some of his stories, which he seems to think are part of a novel. They're stories of great heartache, great depression, and gruesome depictions of death and violence. I was very hesitant to take on his case, but for the most part he can be decent. Just don't mess with him too much or else... I can attest to that personally.

Sadly, Brock, there's _no_ amount of preparation that will prepare you for what's in store. He isn't the type of guy who has a plan. He isn't the type of guy who will do reversals... or even actual wrestling maneuvers. He's a fighter. He's a brawler. He's a sick, twisted individual who half the time doesn't even know he's inside the ring. So go ahead, Brock. Plan all you want to.

It won't make a difference either way."


Johnny continues down the long corridor, stopping every now and again to check on some of the residents that he's assigned to. He stops at one door imparticular, looks in, then opens the door, looking concerned. Inside the room is a women, maybe late 20s, with brown hair and brown eyes. She's a knockout, someone who you'd normally see and picture mall shopping with her BFFs.

"She's a good looking gal, isn't she Brock? From the sound of things, she kind of describes what your wife looks -- excuse me, _looked_ -- like. Tell me, Brock, what was she like? Was she kind? Was she giving? Was she good in bed? I can imagine a girl like that would be. I can picture her right now, slowly stripping, maybe some exotic oils, just waiting for you to join her in bed..."

Johnny smiles an evil grin, with every intent on making Brock Alyas angry in every descriptive word from his mouth. He approaches her bed, watching her intently, looking at her with a sexual desire. He reaches a hand down, slowly caressing her cheek, and she smiles in her sleep at the touch. He looks up, the evil grin still plastered on his face, then continues with his diatribe.

"...you get the idea, though.

It's too bad about your family, though. I don't think I could ever imagine what they must have gone through, staring a killer right in the eyes. The feelings of sadness, maybe even anger, at the fact that there'd be no final goodbye to the husband/father they loved so. The feeling of total and utter _pleasure_ that the killer must have felt when he dealt the death blows to them.

But maybe, just maybe, _you_ can imagine. You had to walk in the door, a long day of work behind you, maybe hoping that the little missus had dinner and a cold brew waiting for you. Maybe your kid had a good day at school, a good test score or a funny story to tell at the table. Instead, Brock, you saw the two most important people in your life _dead_, lying there in mixed crimson.

And maybe, Brock, if you can remember that day... you'll have an _ounce_ of Michael Morgan."


Johnny backsteps from the bed and the sleeping resident, turning around and walking out, not saying much but letting his last words sink into the mind and soul of Brock Alyas. In fact, the seconds turn into a full minute before Johnny begins to speak again. Knowing full well of the consequences of his words, Johnny decides against further provoking Alyas... for now, anyway.

"So you tell me, Alyas, are you _truly_ ready for this. You can want the Las Vegas Title, _need_ the Las Vegas Title, or _desire_ the Las Vegas Title... but none of those amount to anything in the ring. You're about to stare across the ring at the _true_ psychopathic beast of sVo, the man who isn't interested in anything but violence and bloodshed. It's not about who deserves it...

...it's about who can defeat their opponent.

Michael Morgan _doesn't_ care about the fans. Michael Morgan _doesn't_ want to blood, sweat, or tear for anyone. Michael Morgan doesn't even care about the goddamn Las Vegas Title, Brock. But the last I checked, that wasn't a requirement for becoming a champion. You might walk out as a champion. You might manage to get one over on him. But I can guarantee you one thing, Brock..."


The evil smile returns.

"...you won't walk away without injury."

Fade.
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