Post by Valiant_ESQ on Jul 4, 2017 23:32:43 GMT
My name's been on a lot of lips after Redemption 109. Lot of whispers going around, the kind of behind-your-hand talk that demands a response sooner or later. Unfortunately for the chatty Cathys of the world, I'm a contrarian by nature - in case making 'argues with authority every week' my calling card didn't make that clear - so, no gloating, flouting, shouting, rabble-rousing or other amusing distractions from me for almost three weeks now. It wasn't easy. Most nights I found myself restless, staring at my phone (itself locked in a hamster cage I don't have the key for, just in case) and gnawing on my thumb to stop the Twitter muscle memory getting carried away.
This is what President Trump's aides have to put up with, isn't it?
It's gotten so bad that I've been spending nearly all my time down here, in a basement beneath a Salt Lake City office block I own, conveniently omitted from the official blueprints. One of my staff called it a 'black site' but that's a bullshit term for spy movies. Really, it's just a quiet room, where I can lock myself away and think in peace. Or, if needed, where I can lock someone else away and physically abuse them in ways the law of the land takes issue with.
Of course that's what's happening now. It's why I brought it up. And before you start, a reminder: my secretary. Is still. Missing. Any further Phoenix-related chatter takes a back seat to that. Skip to the end if it's all you're here for.
Still here? Okay. My one and only lead so far remains Goichi Takada, brother of my once-betrothed, worthless lowlife fuckwad who made an uncomfortably close attempt at killing me a month back. He's the one who kidnapped Melanie, then handed her over to persons unknown. Persons still unknown, even after he's been down here, barely fed and watered, for about four weeks.
"You're a piece of shit, but when somebody steps on you, you really don't wanna get off their shoe, do you?"
He offers no answer to that, but then, he's locked in a soundproofed magic-mirror box.
Okay. Okay. I've got my rubber gloves and plastic pinny. Let's go do the damn thing.
The door buzzes as I pass through, and I offer a cheerful, "Hi honey, I'm ho-o-ome," before the stink of weeks-old sweat and gangrene makes me choke.
"Huh...wondered how long it'd take ya to grow a pair and come down here yourself."
Obviously we will not be telling him how long I've actually been down here. Might come off needy.
"Ahh, you knew I couldn't resist your charms forever.
"Fuck you."
"Just like that, yes. Anyway, my boys - my lovely boys who've been so nice to you recently - they've had a lot of trouble getting anything out of you, so now I've come down here in my best Yves Saint Leatherface duds to see if the two of us alone can't make the magic happen."
I've got my back turned, so I can't actually see his response, but I'm imagining the world's biggest sneer. His shithead mannerisms rile me up so I keep my attention on what I've got in my pocket...not that I'm telling you what that is yet. Spoilers! You can wait thirty seconds, stop whining.
"Like you don't know how this works. I dropped off your screaming sidekick to some guys I'd never seen before. Didn't ask and didn't care where they went. Five minutes later I'm rolling home, minus a secretary, plus fifty kay and a puddle of girl piss on the car's back seat. So I don't know where Melanie is now. Don't even know if she's alive. You thought about that?"
...yeah. I have. Those thoughts make this a whole lot easier.
"Wow, cool story, brah. But, see, that's not actually what I was hoping to 'get out' of you."
Here's where I turn around dramatically. Pleasingly, the sight of the stanley knife in my hand pulls the smile off his face.
"I am, quite literally, out for blood."
He's chuckling again as I approach, but it's less assured than before. Good sign. Up close, the stink is almost paralyzing and I regret not bringing a surgical mask. Or at least a clothespeg for my nose.
"You're so full of shi - ahhh!"
The first cut goes vertically down his bicep. Nothing life-threatening, but I find aiming for the major muscles yields the juiciest results - and, yes, we've got quite the squirter here. His breathing gets faster, more ragged, as a thick line of red slips down into the pit of his elbow. I nod, keeping my face even.
"Ooh, someone's tense. You got any requests? Not the jugular, though. Let's not get too hasty."
Rhetorical question, of course - I put my free hand on his shoulder then dig the knife into the meat of his pectoral before he can turn that drawn-in breath into something vulgar. He hisses, and shakes, rattling the chair but not weakening his bonds one bit, while I carve out a line down to the middle of his chest. Think I nicked the bone at the end. Knife's already getting slimy to hold, and my hands feel like they're burning inside the gloves, but I persist, changing position to take a symmetrical gouge out of the other pec.
Somehow, even as the knife digs in again, he manages to whisper something. I hunker down a bit to hear him more clearly.
"Why...you doin' this?"
The weakness, the...submission in his voice is to die for.
"Elizabeth Bathory is an inspiration to me. And it takes a lot to look this good at my age."
Which is thirty-nine, by the way. Shut your face.
He doesn't last long after that, chin sinking down to touch the ruined mess of his chest. I hold two fingers to his neck, find a thin but steady pulse. Stepping back, I take a good look at my work, at the curving lines now oozing, rather than gushing, blood over pallid flesh. A very insistent voice back here in my head screams out to do more and finish him off, but if I'm careful with my cuts and leave it a few days between visits, I can drag this out a long, long time. And eventually he will tell me something useful. But for now, I pull open the door and leave him to his agonised rest, my shoes squelching wetly on the concrete as I walk away.
And some people really think I'd push a guy like Seth Black down a flight of stairs. Do I strike you as that vile?
Alright, I'll talk about Finn Whelan now. Not that there's really much to say.
I mean, what am I supposed to be feeling at the thought of crossing swords with this Fin Whale Man? Sorry, your name is weird enough that it demands mockery but not so weird I can mine a good joke from it. And that's you in a nutshell, Finn. You're tough, but everybody knows someone tougher. You've got a good track record going but there's plenty more successful types around here. You've got a dark side full of oh-so-scary ruthless aggression but, c'mon, we've seen guys in Phoenix settle a grudge match in a gulag, you're not even close to that level of lunacy. You're the middle of the road, Finn. Mr. Acceptably Edgy. The wrestler who's in a metal band but it's still okay to take home and meet your parents.
My parents are dead [/batman], so I'm not interested in that. Nor am I interested in avenging some sense of lost pride over you interrupting me mid-flow. That's a nuisance and you were absolutely in the wrong to do that - because I remain the only person in Phoenix with anything useful to say - but, in fairness, you stopped short of directly insulting me, and since I have foolishly chosen to work within companies full of men, I'm used to this kind of thing. No, at the end of the day, I'm fighting you because some prick behind a big desk says I should.
Meet the old boss, same as yadda yadda.
And please spare me any spiel about rankings or championship opportunities or anything else implying that your career matters to anyone listening. It doesn't. Even if it did, what difference does this match make? My record right now is comically poor, and my only sniff of title contention came about because of blind luck and the clueless sentiment of that idiot savant Cassius. And I bungled it massively, because that seems to be all I do now. Defeating me doesn't earn you brownie points with anyone that matters. All it means is you go on to face someone equally directionless on Redemption 111, which is also exactly what will happen when you lose.
Yes, I said 'when'. Because in spite of all that, you don't need to worry about me staging another walk-out, Finn. You deserve no better than that, but I'll be there, and I will fight like the win matters to me. Not for a material reward, or pride, or professional courtesy.
No, I'll fight because I've seriously just spent nearly five minutes of my life thinking about you and that galls me.
Does that seem insane, that I'm so angry at having wasted time thinking of you I'm preparing to waste even more time kicking the shit out of you? I think it does, but then we're rolling around in the company where Cassius Reed and doolally bird girl are deemed the cream of the crop. We're all mad here, Finn. There's no fixing that now. But, on the bright side?
Whatever else happens, after Redemption 110 I won't have to look at, hear of, or think about you ever again.
Silver linings.
This is what President Trump's aides have to put up with, isn't it?
It's gotten so bad that I've been spending nearly all my time down here, in a basement beneath a Salt Lake City office block I own, conveniently omitted from the official blueprints. One of my staff called it a 'black site' but that's a bullshit term for spy movies. Really, it's just a quiet room, where I can lock myself away and think in peace. Or, if needed, where I can lock someone else away and physically abuse them in ways the law of the land takes issue with.
Of course that's what's happening now. It's why I brought it up. And before you start, a reminder: my secretary. Is still. Missing. Any further Phoenix-related chatter takes a back seat to that. Skip to the end if it's all you're here for.
Still here? Okay. My one and only lead so far remains Goichi Takada, brother of my once-betrothed, worthless lowlife fuckwad who made an uncomfortably close attempt at killing me a month back. He's the one who kidnapped Melanie, then handed her over to persons unknown. Persons still unknown, even after he's been down here, barely fed and watered, for about four weeks.
"You're a piece of shit, but when somebody steps on you, you really don't wanna get off their shoe, do you?"
He offers no answer to that, but then, he's locked in a soundproofed magic-mirror box.
Okay. Okay. I've got my rubber gloves and plastic pinny. Let's go do the damn thing.
The door buzzes as I pass through, and I offer a cheerful, "Hi honey, I'm ho-o-ome," before the stink of weeks-old sweat and gangrene makes me choke.
"Huh...wondered how long it'd take ya to grow a pair and come down here yourself."
Obviously we will not be telling him how long I've actually been down here. Might come off needy.
"Ahh, you knew I couldn't resist your charms forever.
"Fuck you."
"Just like that, yes. Anyway, my boys - my lovely boys who've been so nice to you recently - they've had a lot of trouble getting anything out of you, so now I've come down here in my best Yves Saint Leatherface duds to see if the two of us alone can't make the magic happen."
I've got my back turned, so I can't actually see his response, but I'm imagining the world's biggest sneer. His shithead mannerisms rile me up so I keep my attention on what I've got in my pocket...not that I'm telling you what that is yet. Spoilers! You can wait thirty seconds, stop whining.
"Like you don't know how this works. I dropped off your screaming sidekick to some guys I'd never seen before. Didn't ask and didn't care where they went. Five minutes later I'm rolling home, minus a secretary, plus fifty kay and a puddle of girl piss on the car's back seat. So I don't know where Melanie is now. Don't even know if she's alive. You thought about that?"
...yeah. I have. Those thoughts make this a whole lot easier.
"Wow, cool story, brah. But, see, that's not actually what I was hoping to 'get out' of you."
Here's where I turn around dramatically. Pleasingly, the sight of the stanley knife in my hand pulls the smile off his face.
"I am, quite literally, out for blood."
He's chuckling again as I approach, but it's less assured than before. Good sign. Up close, the stink is almost paralyzing and I regret not bringing a surgical mask. Or at least a clothespeg for my nose.
"You're so full of shi - ahhh!"
The first cut goes vertically down his bicep. Nothing life-threatening, but I find aiming for the major muscles yields the juiciest results - and, yes, we've got quite the squirter here. His breathing gets faster, more ragged, as a thick line of red slips down into the pit of his elbow. I nod, keeping my face even.
"Ooh, someone's tense. You got any requests? Not the jugular, though. Let's not get too hasty."
Rhetorical question, of course - I put my free hand on his shoulder then dig the knife into the meat of his pectoral before he can turn that drawn-in breath into something vulgar. He hisses, and shakes, rattling the chair but not weakening his bonds one bit, while I carve out a line down to the middle of his chest. Think I nicked the bone at the end. Knife's already getting slimy to hold, and my hands feel like they're burning inside the gloves, but I persist, changing position to take a symmetrical gouge out of the other pec.
Somehow, even as the knife digs in again, he manages to whisper something. I hunker down a bit to hear him more clearly.
"Why...you doin' this?"
The weakness, the...submission in his voice is to die for.
"Elizabeth Bathory is an inspiration to me. And it takes a lot to look this good at my age."
Which is thirty-nine, by the way. Shut your face.
He doesn't last long after that, chin sinking down to touch the ruined mess of his chest. I hold two fingers to his neck, find a thin but steady pulse. Stepping back, I take a good look at my work, at the curving lines now oozing, rather than gushing, blood over pallid flesh. A very insistent voice back here in my head screams out to do more and finish him off, but if I'm careful with my cuts and leave it a few days between visits, I can drag this out a long, long time. And eventually he will tell me something useful. But for now, I pull open the door and leave him to his agonised rest, my shoes squelching wetly on the concrete as I walk away.
And some people really think I'd push a guy like Seth Black down a flight of stairs. Do I strike you as that vile?
~V~
Alright, I'll talk about Finn Whelan now. Not that there's really much to say.
I mean, what am I supposed to be feeling at the thought of crossing swords with this Fin Whale Man? Sorry, your name is weird enough that it demands mockery but not so weird I can mine a good joke from it. And that's you in a nutshell, Finn. You're tough, but everybody knows someone tougher. You've got a good track record going but there's plenty more successful types around here. You've got a dark side full of oh-so-scary ruthless aggression but, c'mon, we've seen guys in Phoenix settle a grudge match in a gulag, you're not even close to that level of lunacy. You're the middle of the road, Finn. Mr. Acceptably Edgy. The wrestler who's in a metal band but it's still okay to take home and meet your parents.
My parents are dead [/batman], so I'm not interested in that. Nor am I interested in avenging some sense of lost pride over you interrupting me mid-flow. That's a nuisance and you were absolutely in the wrong to do that - because I remain the only person in Phoenix with anything useful to say - but, in fairness, you stopped short of directly insulting me, and since I have foolishly chosen to work within companies full of men, I'm used to this kind of thing. No, at the end of the day, I'm fighting you because some prick behind a big desk says I should.
Meet the old boss, same as yadda yadda.
And please spare me any spiel about rankings or championship opportunities or anything else implying that your career matters to anyone listening. It doesn't. Even if it did, what difference does this match make? My record right now is comically poor, and my only sniff of title contention came about because of blind luck and the clueless sentiment of that idiot savant Cassius. And I bungled it massively, because that seems to be all I do now. Defeating me doesn't earn you brownie points with anyone that matters. All it means is you go on to face someone equally directionless on Redemption 111, which is also exactly what will happen when you lose.
Yes, I said 'when'. Because in spite of all that, you don't need to worry about me staging another walk-out, Finn. You deserve no better than that, but I'll be there, and I will fight like the win matters to me. Not for a material reward, or pride, or professional courtesy.
No, I'll fight because I've seriously just spent nearly five minutes of my life thinking about you and that galls me.
Does that seem insane, that I'm so angry at having wasted time thinking of you I'm preparing to waste even more time kicking the shit out of you? I think it does, but then we're rolling around in the company where Cassius Reed and doolally bird girl are deemed the cream of the crop. We're all mad here, Finn. There's no fixing that now. But, on the bright side?
Whatever else happens, after Redemption 110 I won't have to look at, hear of, or think about you ever again.
Silver linings.
~V~