| Dead Letters; Drake Hazard Showdown RP #2 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 18 2008, 12:28 PM (48 Views) | |
| Murrr | Jan 18 2008, 12:28 PM Post #1 |
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sVo Rookie
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Who the fuck is TJ? Seriously… “The Soul of Philly”? What does that even mean… is it meant to be cool, entertaining… intimidating? Newsflash; it ain’t. TJ, my friend, if only you could see how stupid you sound right now; you remind me of every other deluded, naïve rat bastard that I’ve bowled over to get to where I am today. I guess you think that the sVo is going to make you a start, huh? And heck, in time you very well may be a bit of a player around these parts, but until you cut this stupid, sentimental “looking to the past” bullshit I’m afraid you’re not gonna get very far at all. It seems to me like you need a wake-up call boy; nobody gives a flying fuck who you are, who you’ve beaten and what you’ve accomplished, because when you step inside the ring with me on Sunday night none of that nonsense will matter one iota. If you actually think you’ve got a hope in hell then I’m afraid you are very much mistaken… in fact, it’d probably be a good idea to not even show up on Sunday. I’ve said it before; I’ve competed in one of the most brutal, bloodthirsty “sports” around, wrestling doesn’t even compare. I don’t care about the titles you’ve won or whatever, how many times have you stood over a bloodied, beaten many in a sodden alley, fixing to snap the prick’s leg all for the sake of another win? You ain’t shit, boy. I saw you standing there, reading out my vital statistics like a fucking internet wrestling nerd. Did you like that, TJ? Was it… fun? You call yourself a technical wrestler… come on dude, you’re 6’10”… the only thing technical that you’re realistically going to be able to muster is a Bulldog, maybe a Russian Leg Sweep. I’m one dimensional? You’ve obviously never seen me in action, have you? Whatever… the time for talking is over. Prepare yourself, TJ, because you’re about to get mowed down. ---------- A few days ago I received a letter through the post. I don’t get mail often, and even when I do it’s usually nothing more exciting than some bullshit credit card promotion, so it took me by surprise to receive a handwritten envelope. What surprised me ever more was the familiarity of the writing on said envelope. Gingerly I peeled the adhesive apart and began to examine the printed text… ---------- Frank Malone, Suite 138, Glendale Apartments, 912 Shalebridge Avenue, Detroit, MI. 1st April, 2005 Drake, Long time no talk to, eh? Whatever, let me cut straight to the point. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I’m going to go out on a limb here; I need you Drake. The scene is in a mess; the organisation is abysmal, nobody knows who’s fighting who these days, and the fight are full of young kids with no idea what they’re getting into. And to make matters worse, the law is on to us, big time; I had reports of three busts last week alone. The crowd’s have nobody to cheer for anymore, and a lot of people are too scared to fight or even come and watch because they think that they’re going to be arrested. Needless to say, I have an offer for you. You know where to find me; come and see me whenever you can. Thanks, Frank. ---------- My first reaction when I read this was to tear it up and throw it straight into the trashcan. That fucking slimeball, trying to drag me back into a world I’d kicked in the ass and left behind. Until I read this letter, I didn’t think that human life could possibly stem so low… Why, you say? See, Frank Malone is “in charge” of the whole Detroit street fighting scene; he brought me into the world, and at the time, I was very grateful for that. Needless to say the relationship soured very fucking quickly. At the start, he treated me like his prized asset; and I can’t say that I blamed him, I had been racking up wins and destroying opponents like nothing on earth. But as time went on, he started to treat me, like a lot of the other fighters under his wing, like a piece of meat. He never showed one once of compassion if I ever sustained an injury, and was all too eager to try and throw me back into the fray when I wasn’t feeling 100%. Hell, when I was hospitalised after my last fight, he just shut off communications whatsoever. The tip of the iceberg came back in 2004, just under a year after I’d quit from the shoot fighting scene. Frank called me up, tried to drag me back in, and when I declined he sent three of his top fighters to my place to “rough me up.” It goes without saying that I wasn’t exactly happy with this, so I headed round to Frank’s apartment, and pretty much tore him a new asshole. Which, funnily enough, landed me with a six month prison sentence. A sentence that I never should have served in the first place… he fucking deserved every blow that he took. The way he over-acted in court, it made me want to leap out of the stands and tear him limb from limb once again. What can you do though? Going to trial against one of the most powerful businessmen in the state is always a risk business. So now I hope you can understand why I wanted to dispose of this letter as soon as I got it. But after a while, I realised a couple of things. Why not go around to his place and see what he has to offer, nobody said I have to accept anything. Besides, the whole “assault” incident took place almost four years ago… a little revenge wouldn’t go amiss, would it? So later that afternoon, I headed around to Frank’s suite at the Glendale Apartments building. You had to be one rich motherfucker to say here, and most of the apartments were empty for 90% of the time; luxury pads for businessmen and bureaucrats to stay in whenever they visited this revolting cesspool city. If I had the cash I might like to live somewhere like this… but then again, the place is full of pompous rich kids living off of Daddy’s millions. Nah, I’ll stick to my shithole. The place hadn’t really changed one bit since I last visited three years ago; and it still smelt as sickening clean as ever. The maroon carpets were still in pristine condition, and looked like they’d just recently been replaced, and the golden fixtures dotted around all over the place were polished to perfection. Hell, even the number “138” on Frank’s door looked like a million dollars. With a cautious sigh I knocked twice on the door, hard. “Just a second,” that familiar voice responded from inside. I could never forget the nauseous whine of Frank’s voice; even if I had only met him once, his rodent-like voice and appearance would remain etched in my mind forever. Finally the door swung open, and standing in the frame was Frank Malone himself, looking as much of a weasel as ever. He had one of his patented fake plastic grins slapped on his face as usual; the kind of grin that makes you want to break his jaw. His thinning black hair was slicked back with gel, and his moustache was as immaculately trimmed as ever. Always one to keep up appearances, Frank was wearing a suit shirt with a black tie, some black pants and a pair of black brogues; if they had been polished any more than they were then you’d be able to see his socks through them. And despite all that had happened, he attempted to greet me with an embrace. The arrogant little prick. “Drake, good to see you… come in, come in, we have much to discuss!” he said, motioning for me to enter into his lavish suite. As I reluctantly stepped in, I could see that Frank’s place was looking is expensively wonderful as usual; shame about the owner. It was tastefully decorated, with trinkets of Frank’s accomplishments as one of the region’s top media tycoons scattered all over the place. Yet there was no sign of his involvement in the fight scene; a mighty skeleton to have in your closet if ever there was one. The place was, of course, decked out with the most expensive gear possible, including a ridiculously huge plasma TV and hi-fi system. The polar opposite of the “closet” that I called home. “Make yourself at home,” he offered. “No thanks,” I replied, I didn’t want to make this meeting last any longer than was absolutely necessary. Never disheartened by such remarks, Frank responded with a simple “Oh well.” “Let me show you around the place, Dra-,” he attempted to continue. “It doesn’t look like its changed one bit since 2004, Frank.” I cut him off. I thought to myself that it must’ve been something pretty big that he was going to ask of me, with all this “sweetening up” he was doing. The little slimy prick opened his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off, saying “Enough bullshit Frank, lets just get on with it, okay?” His grin faded somewhat, but he nodded none the less. He could see that I was in no mood whatsoever to piss around, and judging by the beads of sweat developing along his brow, that was making him rather nervous. Confirming this, Frank loosened his tie a little. “Alright Drake, you know the deal… the scene is a mess; all the big names are gone… Erick, Arlen, Harry, Lex, finished, all of them… hell, Lex is in a freakin’ wheelchair, and Erick’s at death’s door. Nobody knows when the fights are, and more and more are being shut down by the cops every week. To top it all off, nobody knows who’s in charge anymore…” he spewed. “So basically you’ve lost all your control and influence?” I stated. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but, eh… well, it’s difficult,” he began, fidgeting nervously, “it’s not what it once was, you know. The scene needs a kick up the ass… it needs some of its “big names” to come back, you know?” I sighed, but Frank continued; “Now I’ve asked everyone else… Drake, you’re my last option, throw me a lifeline here…” I knew it, I fucking knew that he was going to try and pull me back into the shoot fighting scene. Immediately, I butted, “Forget it Frank, I’m fucking done…” Frank fluttered around with his hands, trying to calm me down a little. It didn’t really work. “Come on Drake, you were a legend in the streets of this city, don’t you want that recognition anymore?! Besides, what the hell else are you doing with yourself?!” I sighed again at Frank’s complete ignorance, “I’m in professional wrestling now-“ He cut me off before I could finish. Bad move. The short fuse that had inhabited Frank for so long was back with a vengeance. “WRESTLING!?! Are you shitting me?” he snarled. “Have you lost your fucking mind?! You’ve gone soft… wrestling is so dumbed down you can’t even call that shit a sport anymore!” “You know what, Frank? I really couldn’t give a shit what you think… it gives me the chance to dish out some fucking mayhem without the risk of getting arrested, or worse. I-“ He cut me off again; by this time, I was getting pretty angry indeed. “Listen to yourself!” he began, “you’re not Drake Hazard anymore, you’re a fucking loser!” That does it. In rage I stamped my boot down on the floor, although it didn’t really intimidate Frank in his deluded, angry state of mind. I stepped up to him, and looking down a good foot and a half at him, I spat the words “Listen here you little sack of shit,” in his face. “You already fucking sabotaged my career once before, and I’m not gonna let it happen again! Everyone walked out on you because you’re a fucking DEADBEAT Frank! You’re SCUM! We’ve all moved on, now it’s your turn…” “Drake, SHUT THE F-“ I didn’t even let him finish his sentence; I grabbed Frank by the throat, and threw him, full force, against the nearest wall, by now he was sweating like a pig. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tear off your head and piss down your throat right now!?!” I yelled. “Now now Drake, don’t want to spend another year behind bars, do we?” No, I didn’t… the bastard got me. I had no choice but to release my grip; Frank fell to the floor like a sack of spuds. I knew that he was “friends” with a lot of the judges, and that I wouldn’t stand a chance should he prosecute once more. But I’d had enough, I was out of there. As I took my final steps away from the scene, I could hear Frank wailing “YOU’LL BE BACK!” behind me. I just flipped him the ol’ bird and walked right on out. Fin. |
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Drake Hazard W-L-D: 1-0-0 | |
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6:54 PM Jul 11