Post by Rated R on Apr 10, 2014 16:06:24 GMT -5
The Fifth Horseman
A Role Play by Trace Demon
Prologue
The Demon Household
April 7th 2014
2AM, a time of great significance. Night has long since fallen, that great big ball of flame having been replaced in the sky by a craterous luminous rock. Silence blankets the estate of Trace Demon, his family sleep in peaceful bliss leaving him and him alone to think about his day. It’s a moment he cherishes, the single moment that he gives himself to act like a normal human being, he wouldn’t give it up for-
Eliza Demon: Read me a story!
Trace Demon: Why will you not just go to sleep!
At least that’s what 2AM used to mean for Trace Demon, now it means sitting in his daughters room trying to get her to sleep. It turns out that insomnia does indeed run in the family and while he would often use it to as an excuse to work, train or, as he had intended to do tonight, plot vengeance upon his enemies, his two and a half year old daughter preferred to use her insomnia to play with her father.
Even if her father is a mild sociopath.
Eliza Demon: Story, story, story!
Trace Demon: You don’t need a story, you need to sleep.
She plonked down on her bed, sitting with her legs crossed and a classic childish pout upon her face. She was, according to numerous friends of her mother, a beautiful little girl. He failed to see beyond the demonic exterior that all toddlers exude.
Eliza Demon: I’ll sleep if you tell me a story.
A classic Demon offer, she was definitely his daughter, as terrifying as that was for all those children she’d inevitably terrify in pre-school.
Trace Demon: That’s so not a good deal.
Eliza Demon: It’s fair!
She pushes her shoulders up and her chest out, a go-to move of a child trying to make themselves bigger than they are. He’d seen Scarlett Quinn try the exact same thing when they’d had a disagreement in training one morning. Little girls only have limited emotional range to draw on after all.
Trace Demon: You never make a fair deal, you make a good deal. You’ll have to sweeten the deal.
Eliza Demon: Um, um… I’ll tidy my room!
He glances around; the room was still a mess. Alexa had asked him to clean it a few days ago but he wasn’t in the habit of cleaning up other people’s messes. Instead Alexa had challenged him to get Eliza to clean her own room. He’d taken up the challenge with his usual arrogance and self-belief, but it’d turned out to be a task far more difficult than defeating the likes of Shawn Malakai. A two and a half year old girl was tougher and smarter than Shawn Malakai, who would have thought it? Other than everyone that is.
Trace Demon: You’ve got yourself a deal.
The two shake on it, Trace’s hand engulfing the young girls before she dives underneath the covers with unbridled excitement.
Eliza Demon: Make it a scary story.
Trace Demon: You want scary?
Eliza Demon: The scariest.
Trace Demon: Well I could tell you the plot of How I Met Your Mother’s last season, but you want scary, not poorly thought out. Okay, I’ll tell you the scariest story I know. Ready?
She nods, pulling the covers up around her with anticipation.
Trace Demon: Good, because this isn’t just a story, it’s the nightmares of a madman.
Chapter One
Conquest
“Then I saw when the lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.”
Day One
He awoke to the sound of drums, but as he opened his eyes they vanished as quickly as they had begun. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and letting them adjust to the light that surrounded him. It took time; he had lived in the darkness for too long, the light felt strange and foreign against his skin. He knew not where he was, nor how he came to be there, all he remembered was violence and bloodshed, but why? Where had he been, what had he done, why was there blood, actual blood, staining his hands?
As he stood he looked out upon the world around him. He stood atop a skyscraper; or rather what remained of it, large chunks of the building having been torn apart by what he could only imagine was some great, titan-like monster. The rest of the city, which stretched as far as his eyes could see, was in no better state. Smoke billowed into the sky from a dozen different sources, buildings crumbled, rubble littered the ground. What had happened here? What had been done to the world, what had created such a nightmarish landscape that he now found himself surrounded by?
The Crow: You did this.
The man, fore he had long since forgotten his name, spun on the spot. Perched on the edge of the roof stood a large, black bird. Besides his side he looked like any other bird, but when it opened it’s beak the sounds of bird did not emerge, but rather the voice of a man. Croaky, necrotic and decrepit the voice may be, but human none the less.
The Man: What do you mean, what is this, what happened here.
The Crow: You know, you know it all, hidden deep beneath the surface lays the history. Beneath your lies are the truths.
The Man: Tell me who I am, why can’t I remember anything?
The Crow: They’re looking for you. They know you’ve awoken; they hunt you on their horses, violent and bloody.
The Man: Who? Who are they?
He screams, and the bird flinches, flying away out of fear, knowing that he’s come further than he ever should have. As he does the bird lets out one final cry that echoes out across the remnants of the cityscape.
The Crow: The Horsemen…
< *** >
The Man climbs down the elevator shaft, whatever happened to this world has long since taken the electricity from those who once controlled it, if any but him still lived in the first place. He comes to the end of the ladder, the rest having broken away and fallen into the depths below, unseen through the darkness. To his side the elevator doors were pried open, he understood the strength that a task such as that would have taken, but not what would have had such strength. In a time like this it mattered not, the Man leaping from the ladder and narrowly grabbing the edge of the doorway. His legs dangled beneath him, his strength the only thing between him and a swift demise. A bead of sweat drips from his forehead and falls into the darkness as he drags himself up.
He was still a long way from the bottom floor of the building and his hope was that the crumbling of the staircase was restricted strictly to the upper floors. He made his way through the building, taking a moment to glance out of the window at the destruction beyond once more. What was it about horror that meant people could not turn away? In the distance he spotted something, something small against the sky which had begun to shift from dark and smoke filled to some kind of blood red freak show. He pushed his face as closer to the window as possible to get a better look as the spot in the sky got larger. But it was not getting larger, it was getting closer, and within moments The Man realized what he was looking at.
A horse, no wings but flying none the less. Someone, something, sat atop this white stallion that grew ever closer. The Man took a step back as he realized the horse was heading straight for the window with menacing intent. It exploded through the window, The Man leaping out of the way as shards of glass flew past him, slicing through his arm, a flesh wound but painful none the less. The rider dismounted the White Horse, the majestic animal parking itself in the corner of the room as if it was getting comfortable for what was to come. The Man, who was quick enough and smart enough to dive behind a pillar, looked down at his arm, blood running down it and onto the floor. Just another drop to add to the gallons that had already been spilt.
The Man peered around the pillar, a shiver running down his spine as he saw the White Horseman. A tall man with snow white skin and accentuated black lips. The Man didn’t know how but he knew this monstrous being, he remembered his name – Conquest. He must have stood at least nine foot, long fingers slowly pulling a bow from its holster at his back. An arrow is placed against the bow, rested against the neck and string. Slowly the long fingers, hard and calloused from the constant use of the bow, draws back the string and releases. The arrow soars through air gracefully before brutally piercing through the pillar, the arrowhead splintering through the other side, just inches above The Man’s head.
The man moved quickly, darting out from behind the pillar and sprinting across the room. Conquest draws and cocks another arrow, firing it with pinpoint accuracy but still narrowly missing The Man, his speed far superior to what Conquest could have suspected. He had come too early it dawned on him, the others would likely scout their prey before striking but he had arrived as swiftly as The Man had awoken. He knew not what he was capable off, he had gotten ahead of himself and now it was too late. He’d have to rely on his gut, or whatever lies inside the stomach of a mythical, death seeking Horseman of the Apocalypse.
The Man ducks another arrow and leaps behind another pillar, close to the windows that overlook the devastated city. Conquest pulled two more arrows from his quiver and lined them up in the bow, simultaneously firing them at the pillar. Like with the first the two arrows pierce the stone as if it was paper. This time there was no movement, but also no scream of pain. Conquest was not foolish, he drew another arrow as he slowly approached the pillar, ready to put it straight through The Man’s head. He inches around the pillar, far more nervously than a monster like him has any right being.
The Man acts, appearing from behind another pilling and charging straight into Conquest, tackling him to the ground, his bow and arrow tumbling with him. Conquest grabs the man around the throat, his long tendril like fingers wrapping tightly around his windpipe and throwing him backwards. The Man collides with the pillar but he has no time for pain as Conquest rises to his feet, The Man spotting the nearby bow and dropped arrow and scrambling for them. He doesn’t know if he knows how to use this but he works purely on muscle memory, drawing the arrow and releasing. The string snaps against his fingers, drawing blood, but the arrow flies through the air with precision he didn’t even know he had, plunging into the dark wide eye of Conquest, drawing a scream from the tall, pale being. Conquest staggers backwards, grabbing the arrow with one hand and pulling it slowly and painfully out.
The arrow drops to the floor, dark black ooze pouring out of the socket where an eye once lived. Conquest turns to The Man only to find him standing right in front of him, The Man placing a boot firmly in the centre of Conquest’s chest and pushing as hard as he knew how, kicking Conquest clean through the window and down to the streets below. The Man breathed heavily, blood still dripping from his arm and the thin slice in his fingers. He looks across the room where the White Horse still sits, watching him with an apathetic gaze. The Man made his way to the staircase.
< *** >
The Man exited the large skyscraper and out onto the devastated city streets. Conquest’s bow was strapped to his back but he still needed something else. He walked across the street to the broken body of the pale man who had just minutes before attacked him. The Man looked down at Conquest, too many questions running through his mind at once. Who was he, how did The Man know his name, why had he attacked him? None of that mattered, not now, all that mattered was survival, all that mattered was discovering who he was and what he had done.
He bent down and pulled the quiver, and the remaining arrows contained within, from the corpse of Conquest. And with weaponry in hand he left the corpse there, making his way down the city street as buildings burnt all around him.
And overhead a White Horse flew, catching up to a Crow and devouring it in a single bite.
Narcotics Anonymous
April 3rd 2014
It had been a while since Trace had attended a meeting, not entirely by choice, he was a busy man and things often got in the way. His family, his businesses, wrestling, they were all worthy eaters of time and he had no problem admitting that he would choose them over these meetings any day of the week. He had a hold over his addiction and if that ever changed then it wasn’t these meetings that would steer him straight, it was his family, it was Alexa, just like she had done twice before. But he wasn’t here for his own sake; he was here for Andrew’s. Andrew, his sponsor, had been having a rough time of staying on the wagon and, while helping others was not usually not thing bag, he held a soft spot when it came to fellow addicts. People had helped him when he needed it, he wasn’t totally against the idea of doing the same for others.
Lincoln: Trace, why don’t you come up and say a few things?
Lincoln, an average, unspectacular looking man, had been running these meetings for several years and was a former addict in his own right. He and Trace had had a bit of a back and forth the very first time he attended and Lincoln had promised to get him to open up. So far he’d failed, miserably.
Trace Demon: I’m good, these people don’t need to hear how good my life is, it’ll just make them sad.
There was a lot of eye rolling, safe to say that they don’t know who he is or they’d definitely agree. They were addicts with nothing, he was an addict in control with a million dollar empire. In a race between himself and the rest of these fools he wasn’t just winning, he’d lapped them a dozen times over.
Lincoln: Come on Trace, every time you come to these meetings you sit there and don’t say a word. I thought you liked the big stage?
Trace Demon: This isn’t a stage, it’s a sideshow. I don’t need all of you gawping at the celebrity in your midst while he bares his soul.
It’s questionable that he even has a soul to bare.
Lincoln: Then why are you here?
Trace Demon: Because of this lovable loser right here.
Andrew Dohle: Hey, don’t bring me into this.
Lincoln: It’s fine if you don’t feel brave enough to-
Trace Demon: Woah, are you calling me a coward right now? Because the last person who called me a coward is… well actually I can’t speak about it because the statute of limitations hasn’t run out yet and I don’t feel like being arrested again. But regardless, I am not a coward.
Lincoln, knowing full well that he’s pushed the right buttons to get the desired reaction, holds his arm out and steps to the side, gesturing for Trace to prove that he is indeed no coward. Trace scowls, knows he’s walked into this one but just doesn’t care, a man like Lincoln doesn’t get to call him a coward and not face some kind of repercussion.
Trace Demon: Fine.
Trace rises from his seat and makes his way to the front of the room. Looking out at the crestfallen, decrepit, suffering faces before him he feels a twang of sickness from the pit of his stomach. He was once like these people and that made him feel physically ill.
Trace Demon: You people want me to talk about addiction right?
Lincoln: Talk about whatever you’re comfortable talking about.
Trace Demon: And the rule is no interrupting?
Lincoln: Of course.
Trace smirks, free reign to speak with nobody coming out to some irritating theme music and cutting him off, that was music to his ears, he didn’t know why he was so reluctant to do this before.
Trace Demon: Now I could stand up here and mock you all, I could tell a few jokes, make you feel bad and leave with a smile on my face, that’s what I’d usually do in a situation like this, but not today. Today I’m here because that man points at Andrew, embarrassing him horribly asked me to be; because he’s struggling and he needed some likeminded people to help him remember how to fight this. So what I’m going to do instead is tell you why you’re all, like him, struggling and why I am, at this very moment and for the foreseeable future, in total control of my addiction. And it very much is still an addiction, I’m still an addict, I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and be cured and be able to go for a few drinks with whatever friends I’ve still got left and not think about shooting up again. And neither are any of you.
People shift uncomfortably in their seats, knowing that what he preaches is the truth. He might be a man full of lies and trickery, but right now he has never said anything more truthful in his entire life.
Trace Demon: I understand that, I embrace it, I know that I will always be an addict. So what you’ve gone a few months, you’re still never going to reach the finish line. This isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon, you think you’ve achieved something because you’ve done the bare minimum, but really you’ve only just started the race. And when you reach the next milestone there’s going to be another one looming in the distance. That’s how you stay in control, you never stop fighting, you never stop looking over your shoulder and you never think you’ve won. Because thinking you’ve achieved something is a damn rookie mistake. Addiction never goes away and it never really gets better, it keeps trying to take over and it keeps trying to fight back. But know that that does not make you weak, it makes you a fighter. My addiction might wage war upon me, it might loom over my head like a dark cloud every single moment of the day, it might even hurt me, but it shall never conquer me. It can fight, but it will never win.
There’s a single person clapping for a moment, then the rest join in, looking at Trace as if he’s just said something profound when in truth he’s only told them the truth. Even Lincoln looks upon him like he’s made some kind of breakthrough. But Trace doesn’t care about any of them, he simply makes eye contact with Andrew and sees the fight in his eyes once more. In that moment Andrew knows that he can keep fighting, because the buzzards might circle overhead but they’ll never feed on him. Just like Trace he shall not be conquered.
And none of them shall be defeated.
< *** >
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must look in the mirror and ask himself am I truly the man they say I am, have I achieved what they think I have achieved. When I look in the mirror and I ask myself that question the answer is undeniably yes. They say I am a man who has achieved success through devious means, they call me a sick genius, and all of that is true, but most importantly that I have achieved success. Every title worth holding I have held, every task I have set my mind to I have completed, and every foe I have faced has fallen at my hands. Drakz, Phillip Schneider, Scarlett Quinn, Yukio Blaze, the list is endless.
And now I add you to that list, Solomon Crow.
When you look in the mirror what do you see Crow? I’ll tell you what you don’t see, you don’t see the man they claim you to be. They say you have risen to the precipice of superstardom in an incredibly short period of time, but you have not even come close. You see Crow, you have fought your way into a battle that you cannot win, against four competitors you cannot beat. You will be the least important person inside Hell in a Cell because you have yet to achieve anything of any real note. You might claim to have held the International Championship but you never won that belt, you were gifted it. You might claim to have won Scars & Stripes but so do three others, and everyone knows that being a co-victor means nothing. You Crow are nothing but a man who has wandered into a war with no idea how to achieve victory. Yes, you can fight, you can battle and you can scheme, but you cannot do the one thing that I have proven capable of time and time again, the one thing that you have to be capable of to win this match.
You cannot conquer.
You have come so far that maybe you have begun to believe your own hype, maybe you believe the finish line is in site, but let me break it to you Crow, it’s not. The route to the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship, the route to my title, is a marathon, not a sprint, and you’re already wheezing in pain after the first mile. You have come too far too fast and now you don’t have what it takes to push onwards. But not me, I’ll keep running, I’ll keep fighting and I’ll keep conquering. You might think to yourself that there are three other people in this match, that you don’t to go through them to win my title but I am the only one you have to beat if you want to be champion! I am the only one who matters because I am the damned devil and you’re nothing but a bird flying above my head hoping to pick up my scraps. But birds get devoured, and so will you, there won’t be a single morsel left behind.
You are but a man Crow, you’re not capable.
But I… I am a conqueror. And at Superbrawl… I will conquer you.
Chapter Two
War
“When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living create saying, “Come.” And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth, and that men would slay one another, and a great sword was given to him.”
Day Seven
It had been a week since he’d first awoken and he still knew nothing of who he was or how he had come to be in this devastated world. He hadn’t seen any other signs of life since Conquest, not even so much as an animal. There were so many things he didn’t understand beyond the obvious. He hadn’t slept yet he wasn’t tired or fatigued. He hadn’t eaten or drank yet he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. He had walked non-stop for seven days, stopping only to explore things of interest, yet he showed no signs of exhaustion. Was it something to do with the world he had found himself in, or something to do with who he was? He had too many questions and no way to find answers.
He had reached the edge of the city in the early hours of the morning. What kind of city took a week to traverse he knew not, nor did he have any desire to go back and find out. He found himself now in a large forest, woodlands spanning out around him. He felt the need to be careful, he had seen no signs of life inside the city but that didn’t mean there was none, he couldn’t possibly be the only living being on this entire planet, could he? He was given no time to dwell on that thought as a loud bang ripped through the woods, echoing out long and far. He ducked down behind a tree, on instinct more than anything, before realizing that the noise came from the distance. Again his instinct kicked in and he ran, not away from the noise but rather towards it. He did not know what he was running towards but he did know that something had to have created that noise and be it human or be it other, it would be something, more than he had seen in a week.
He acted smartly about it, moving between trees, keeping himself hidden, the Man without a name working quickly and quietly. The noise grew with every step, the sound of thunder and screams louder than anything he had ever heard. He felt the wind before he saw the clearing itself and skidded to a stop behind a lark oak, glancing out upon the clearing with apprehension. His eyes widened at the sight he found, this large clearing in the centre of this vast woodlands had become a battlefield. Hundreds of men waged war upon each other, two sides firing ancient looking muskets and slicing at each other with swords. The Man made sure to remain hidden, so this world was inhabited by others, yet these others seemed insistent on slaying each other for some unknown, likely feeble, reason. He knelt there for what felt like hours, unable to tear his eyes away from the bloodshed. He just watched until the last man had fallen.
None remained, every single soldier, if that was indeed what they were, lay dead. In shock at what he had just witnessed, The Man collapsed onto the ground and, for the first time in seven days, drifted into the darkness of his mind.
< *** >
Day Eight
He awoke once more to a thunderous booming, much like the one he had heard the day prior, only louder, closer. It couldn’t be, could it? He rose slowly and crawled over to the edge of the clearing where… yes, it was, the exact same soldiers, the exact same war, the exact same bloodshed. He did not understand it, how could this be happening, was he dreaming? Was he even capable of dreaming? No, this was real, this was happening and there was no doubt that these were the same men. Their faces were seared upon his mind after what he had seen and now he saw it all again, unable to tear himself away. He heard their screams, felt their pain and watched them drop in bloody horror. And once it was all done he stood and walked out into the clearing, morbid curiosity overcoming his shock. He saw bodies with chunks taken out of them from musket shots, others sliced in half, one with their jaw torn off and terror still in their eyes.
He didn’t know what was happening here, but something inside him told him he couldn’t leave until he did.
He stayed for several days, never needing food nor drink, just setting up camp on the edge of the clearing, ensuring that nobody would witness his presence. And for those several days he saw the same war play out every single day in the exact same way. He knew not when it began or how the men involved stood after certain death, something overcame him every night and he passed into the darkness, only to awake at the sound of gunfire. Some days he considered interfering, maybe firing a few arrows into the melee to see if it played out differently, but his survival instincts got the better of him. But still, his curiosity continued, but answers were not as far away as he thought.
< *** >
Day Twelve
He walked across the clearing, once more taking in the aftermath of the bloody war as he had done every day preceding it. He saw the same faces, the same injuries, the same frozen, horrified expressions on the faces of men realizing their own death was just moments away. He wondered to himself how long he would feel obliged to stay and witness these same events, what was it that held him here and how could be break it’s grasp upon his very being. Maybe he would just run, run as fast as his legs would take him, maybe… maybe… maybe…
?: It is a beautiful sight, isn’t it?
He spun around in the direction of the voice and found himself facing a most impressive, and troubling, sight. A horse as red as blood itself stood in the middle of the bodies. Mounted upon it sat a girl, barely out of her teens, with pale skin and hair as red as the horse. Blood covered much of her pale body, swaths of skin torn in frenzied hatred littered her yet her voice gave away only pleasure. Just like Conquest all those days ago, he knew immediately who she was.
The Man: War.
War: You remember, that’s good, that will make this so much more *she shudders, her body tingling* pleasurable.
The Man: You’re the reason these men wake and do battle, yes? You bring them back from the abyss, make them fight endlessly?
War: I do, this world is so boring without conflict I had to create my own.
The Man: They’re people; they feel pain, experience death, every single day because you were bored? What kind of monster does that make you?
War: Oh that is priceless, you, telling me about being a monster. Everything that happens is because of your actions; I inflict pain upon these men only because that is what you taught me.
The Man: I don’t… I couldn’t…
His expression changes, becomes dark and twisted. As he speaks his voice is filled with anger, his voice comes out as a roar that he did not know he was even capable of.
The Man: You lie.
He draws the bow he stole from Conquest’s shattered corpse and a single arrow from the quiver on his back. War laughed, drawing blood as she bit her lip in excitement, drawing a long sword from her scabbard. She looked upon The Man with lust.
War: Conquest’s arrows will do me no harm.
She kicked the red horse beneath her and it began to charge across the battle field, crushing bodies beneath its mighty hoofs. The Man held his ground, the arrow still drawn. He remained motionless, a devastating calm coming over his entire body.
The Man: I’m not aiming at you.
He releases, the arrow soaring through the air. It hits it’s target, piercing the eye of the horse and drawing a monstrous scream as the horse rears up. In that single moment The Man draws another arrow and swiftly fires it. This one tears through the horses throat, severing any number of vital arteries and sending blood pouring to the ground as the horse collapses on top of War, trapping her beneath it and sending her sword out of reach. War screeched in pain, her legs crushed as the horse took it’s dying choked breathes, and The Man approached.
The Man: You know who I am.
War simply nodded in pain as she watched The Man pick up her blade and run it across his finger, drawing blood. It was sharp, a single swing in the right direction and… well, it did not bare thinking about.
The Man: But you will not tell me?
War: I will not.
The Man: Why?
War: Because you told me not to.
The Man nodded and then, without hesitation, brought the blade high above his head and swung it down through the throat of the young woman named War, severing her head from her neck with brutal efficiency. War’s head rolled to his feet and he saw once more the look of frozen fear. He left the body where it laid, removing only the scabbard from the red horse, attaching it to his waist and sliding the sword into it. With Conquest’s bow, War’s sword and still no real clue as to his own identity he continued on.
Leaving the blood soaked ravages of war behind.
WFWF Training Centre
April 9th 2014
Joe Bishop leaps up and over the young kid as he charges towards him, the wannabe continuing on and rebounding against the ropes awkwardly, feeling the whiplash as he does so. It’s still new to him and it catches him off guard, giving Bishop the chance to leap up once more and catch him in the jaw with a dropkick that plants him firmly on the canvas. Bishop goes to grab the kid when he pauses, spotting the blood dripping from his jaw as he writhes in pain. Bishop shakes his head and leaves the ring in disgust, noticing the sound of clapping as he does so.
Joe Bishop: What the hell do you want?
The man clapping in question? Trace Demon, as smug and condescending as ever.
Trace Demon: What, can’t a man just watch his employee beat the snot out of an eighteen year old kid?
Joe Bishop: I’m not your employee.
Trace Demon: The contract you signed says otherwise, but let’s be honest, that’s not why I’m here. I couldn’t care less about watching some training match with a guy whose name I don’t even care to know.
The kid, in amidst spitting out blood and trying to figure out where he is, rolls out of the ring in time to hear Trace’s last insulting comment.
Kid: My name’s-
Trace Demon: Wasn’t talking about you, now piss off.
The teenager slinks away feeling like his hopes and dreams have just been cut off at the knees before they even have a chance to walk. The nameless kid is forgotten almost instantly, this time tomorrow neither Trace Demon nor Joe Bishop will remember his existence.
Trace Demon: Woah, where do you think you’re going?
Joe doesn’t answer, continuing to walk away. He’s got no intention of listening to Trace’s delusional ranting about whatever is bothering him today. His so called boss had only ever spoken to him when he wanted something and even then his offer of an International Championship match had been thrown out the window in favour of a tournament that he failed to win. Now he had a chance to become the champion and it was through no help of the so called King of Demons, he owed him nothing.
Trace Demon: Come on, just give me a chance to speak first before you do the foolish thing and walk off.
Joe stops, turns around slowly to look at Trace. He wore that same smug grin that he always had on when he thought he was about to get his own way but not this time. Maybe he’d humour him, listen to whatever deal he wanted to make this time, but he wasn’t going to be tricked again. Fool me once…
Joe Bishop: Say your piece.
Trace Demon: No piece, just a question. You ever think you chose the wrong side?
Joe wasn’t surprised at the question, it felt like the traditional Trace Demon setup, in a minute he was going to try and convince him that he should be on Trace’s side and help him retain the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship at Superbrawl, he could feel it.
Trace Demon: I’m not trying to convince you to be on my side or anything, I don’t need your help at Superbrawl, I’ve got this.
Okay, maybe not.
Trace Demon: I’m asking because I’ve heard that you’re planning on walking out on our little company because you’ve lost the fire or some crap like that, and I just had to wonder whether things would be different if you’d have chosen a different side. I mean you were going to be the guy, right? That’s what everybody told me a couple of years back, they told me “Trace, this Bishop kid is going to be special”. I mean they sounded much more annoying because they weren’t talking about me, but you get where I’m coming from. So what happened Joe?
Joe Bishop: I don’t need you telling me where my career went wrong.
Trace Demon: I already told you I’m not here to tell you anything. Guys like me and you, well wrestlers in general I guess you could say, we don’t respond well to people telling us things. I’m asking you. Say someone came to you a few years back and they told you that you could either work with this one guy, a real good guy who’d had a bit of success and maybe you’d get a shot at being somebody, or you could work with another guy, a real lowlife bunghole with a lot of success who would make you a star, who’d you choose?
Joe Bishop: None of this matters now.
Trace Demon: See the way I see it you already chose the nice guy and he didn’t do a damn thing for you other than turn you into a man capable of winning three National Championships and nothing more. Now what if you’d gone with the bunghole? Would you be the one headlining Superbrawl right now? So I’ll ask my question again, do you ever think you chose the wrong side?
Joe Bishop: I made my choices, I stick by them.
Trace gives a little nod of appreciation for his honesty and stubbornness, but then throws in that look of “but here’s the thing”.
Trace Demon: Not me. See I ask myself that question a lot, did I choose the right side, did I make the right decisions, am I the guy I want to be. And the answer to all three is yes, because I’m the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion going into Superbrawl. Which means whatever war I’ve been fighting all this time, whatever side I’m on, I won. Because that’s the thing right, history is written by the victors. The bad guys never win, because the winners make themselves the good guys. In years to come people won’t be talking about all the horrible things I did, they’ll be talking about all the success I had whereas you… well they won’t be talking about you at all. You see you chose the wrong side because it didn’t get you anywhere, you made the wrong decisions because they didn’t pay off for you, if things had gone differently, if you were holding the world title right now they’d be calling those same decisions genius. Now you see there’s something coming Joe, something big, and sooner or later you’re going to have to pick a side. And when that time comes I just want you to ask yourself one question. Do you want to be on the good side, or do you want to be on the winning side because right now you’re a soldier without an army.
Joe Bishop: You think there’s some kind of war coming?
Trace Demon: Oh there’s always a war going on in in the WFWF, some bigger than others, but this one… this is the one that matters to you.
Trace takes a few steps, getting menacingly closer to Joe Bishop as if the reduced distance between them makes his message all the more impactful.
Trace Demon: Because if you choose the wrong side, this is the last war you’re ever going to fight.
Trace Demon pats Bishop on the shoulder and begins to walk off, shouting one final message as he does so.
Trace Demon: Think about it Joey boy, I’ll be in touch.
And Joe Bishop simply watches him go, beginning to wonder to himself if this really all is just one big war… is he on the right side?
< *** >
War is hell. At least that’s what they say. Me? I’ve always been partial to it myself, the fighting, the bloodshed, the violence. It’s all good stuff. But then again I’m a winner, every war I’ve ever fought I’ve won with style and finesse. For the losers I imagine it’s not so good. And yet the losers keep coming back to fight once more. Italy, Germany, Scarlett Quinn. No matter how many times you put them down they always want to fight you again. Unluckily for Scarlett I haven’t had the chance to beat down Germany yet so she’ll just have to make do.
See Scarlett you’ve like a broken record ever since I first targeted you for the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship. Every single time you think you can get one up over me I end up outsmarting you, humiliating you and leaving you bloodied and broken in the middle of the ring. Don’t you ever get tired of fighting the same losing battle over and over again? Don’t you get tired of the result always being the same? I mean you’re not your father, you’re not going to come back stronger or smarter next time, you’re going to be the same little girl you’ve always been. Don’t get me wrong, you’re good, you might even be the second best competitor inside that Hell in a Cell, but you’re just not Trace Demon good and you never will be. You’ll never be at my level, and that’s never going to change.
So what is it that spurs you on little Scarlett? What is it that makes you step foot in the ring with me yet again knowing full well that when we go to war there is just one inevitable end? Do you enjoy the bloodshed as much as I, even if it is your blood that drips onto the canvas and stains your white soul red? Or is it simply that famous McGurk stubbornness? I bet it is little Scarlett, I bet you wish you could quit, I bet you wish you could flee before I get my hands on you once more but you can’t, can you? You’re stuck in this loop as much as I am. Every single time is the same, forced to march to your death, being brutally killed and then waking up the next day knowing you have to repeat it over and over again, all because you can’t face the humiliation that admitting you are weak would bring. But don’t worry Scarlett, I am going to free you from your shackles.
At Superbrawl Scarlett you, I and three others step foot inside of the devil’s playground known as Hell in a Cell. Unfortunately for you I am the devil himself and I make the rules inside my house, meaning I can free you from your endless torment. How? Why it’s simple, I’m going to do the same thing that I’ve always done, I’m going to march to war and I’m going to slay you, only this time I’m going to make sure you can’t wake back up.
History is written by the victors, and when this war comes to an end I shall have the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship in one hand, and the pen in the other.
Chapter Three
Famine
“When He broke the third seal, I heard the third living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard something like a voice in the centre of the four living creatures saying, “A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius; and do not damage the oil and the wine.”
Day Fifteen
Another three days passed with few events. The Man began to wonder if time passed differently here, day and night seemed to arrive far quicker on some days and slower on others, but there was no way he could tell, measuring it out would remove focus from the task at hand. He felt an unnatural pull deep within his gut leading him in one specific direction and he was intent on following it. He knew not what he would find when he arrived but he knew, as irrational and seemingly impossible as it was, that he would find answers there and there alone.
But something was not right. For as long as he had been in this cursed world he had not eaten, but had yet to feel the pangs of hunger. He knew it as an impossibility even if he did not remember the time before he had awoken, humans had to eat, that was the way it was, but if he did not then what was he? Regardless something had changed. He had made his way out of the woodlands the night before prior and found himself in what appeared to be a large, vast farm, filled with crops. As he had continued to walk he had begun to feel famished, a fortnight without food seemingly catching up with him in one short burst. His stomach pained him and his head grew dizzy. He had for some time struggled to remain standing.
He had attempted to eat the crops, food should have cured his hunger, but to no avail. Not only did his hunger grow stronger but his body weaker. He lost what had to be several stone in mere hours, his stomach growing thin and his ribs beginning to protrude from within. Worst still his lips began to crack from thirst. Yet he continued to crawl onwards, he had a mission and he must achieve it. The further he travelled the worst his hunger got, the crops surrounding him began to wither and die until he was surrounded by nothing but dead remnants. Onwards he went, his legs straining as they too grew thinner and weaker. He no longer looked like a man but rather a scarecrow, a scarecrow with the bare minimum innards, just enough to prop itself up and do its job.
It was several more hours before he saw it in the distance, he knew not if what he saw was real or some kind of mirage, a trick of the mind or a trick of the world around him. But he saw it, a tree, a live, green tree. Would there be something to satiate his endless appetite there? He began to walk towards it, but his legs soon grew tired and he collapsed onto his knees. He continued on his knees but soon they also grew tired and he fell forwards onto his hands. On hands and knees he struggled through the famished landscape until they too grew tired. He fell forwards onto his stomach. As the darkness threatened to engulf him he pushed himself to continue on, dragging himself along the floor. The tree was in sight and on its branch a single red apple that shined bright. With all his might he continued on, as he did so the apple dropping from the branch and landing on the floor just inches in front of him.
But also inches from the child.
He stopped where he lay; staring at the child leant against the tree. His body was all but bone, all fat and muscle lost to the famine of the world. He attempted to reach out for the apple with his skeletal hand but he could barely lift it. The Man dragged himself the last few inches and took the delicious apple in his hand, knowing that this would quench his hunger. But he could not take his eyes off of the young boy.
Michael: Please…
The boy croaked weakly, only enough strength for the one word. Did The Man let that word go to waste, did he allow this young boy, barely seven or eight, die, if death was even a possibility. He could not tell how long this boy had been here, nor could he tell how long he would continue to be here if he did not eat. Could he be responsible for this child’s death, could he sacrifice another so that he could live? Was that the kind of man he was, the kind of man that he had been before... before whatever happened? The words of the Crow and War told him that he was, but their words did not define him, he could be somebody different, somebody good and righteous. He could be all that and more or… he could survive.
He bit the apple, and the boy cried. The Man did not stop, devouring the apple where he laid, each bite giving him more and more strength and banishing the hunger from his body. He ate right down to the core and swallowed even that, his ravaged body returning to its former form. Whole again he began to rise to his feet, weakly at first but then freshness washed over him. He looked at the young boy to find tears rolling down his cheeks.
The Man: I am sorry.
Michael: Monster…
And the boy’s eyes closed, his skin peeling away from his body, leaving just a skeleton behind. A gust of wind blew through the land and the boy’s bones exploded into dust that joined the wind and the ether, leaving nothing left. Once the wind was passed The Man realized that the fields were once more blooming with beautiful flowers and delicious looking crops. But his hunger had vanished once more, and there was no desire to eat left in him.
Famine: You have learnt nothing.
The Man knew not where he came from, but appear another did. This one rode a horse as black as night itself, but the horse looked sickly, bones ripping through thin flesh, his eyes dead and cold. The rider was in no better state, a thin pathetic excuse for a man. He looked as healthy as the young boy had in body, but when he spoke he did so with such confidence that he sent chills down The Man’s spine. In his hands he held a pair of scales, perfectly balanced.
The Man: And what was I to learn?
He had realized at this point that these horsemen knew him, but they would not relinquish his name nor his past, so he decided not to chase a lost topic. Instead he sought answers to other questions, hoping that maybe they would not refrain from sharing anything else with him.
Famine: To be a man, yet you remain a monster. Had you shared the apple you would both of lived, yet you devoured it all yourself. Your selfishness doomed another, do you feel no regret?
The Man: If I were to feel regret then it would devour me almost as much as the hunger did, I wish never to feel the latter again, therefore I know I would not desire the former either.
Famine: And to others, those whose paths you cross, do you feel nothing for them?
The Man: I feel sorrow that they do not manage what I do.
Famine: And what, pray tell, is that?
The Man: To survive.
Famine nodded, his skeletal neck creaking at the simple motion.
Famine: If you feel nothing, then you will have no issue taking these scales from me. But know that by removing my only reason for living, you will sentence me to oblivion.
Famine offered up the scales. The Man approached and, with no hesitation, took them from him. Famine, with what appeared to be a slight smile upon his face, felt the wind against his skin before The Man did. Within moments Famine, and his horse along with him, was swept away into nothingness leaving only the slightest smell of dust behind. The Man looked at the scales in his hands and, by tearing off a piece of his shirt and using it as rope, tied it to his belt.
With one final look at the beautiful, luscious fields around him he continued onwards, into the unknown.
A Role Play by Trace Demon
Prologue
The Demon Household
April 7th 2014
2AM, a time of great significance. Night has long since fallen, that great big ball of flame having been replaced in the sky by a craterous luminous rock. Silence blankets the estate of Trace Demon, his family sleep in peaceful bliss leaving him and him alone to think about his day. It’s a moment he cherishes, the single moment that he gives himself to act like a normal human being, he wouldn’t give it up for-
Eliza Demon: Read me a story!
Trace Demon: Why will you not just go to sleep!
At least that’s what 2AM used to mean for Trace Demon, now it means sitting in his daughters room trying to get her to sleep. It turns out that insomnia does indeed run in the family and while he would often use it to as an excuse to work, train or, as he had intended to do tonight, plot vengeance upon his enemies, his two and a half year old daughter preferred to use her insomnia to play with her father.
Even if her father is a mild sociopath.
Eliza Demon: Story, story, story!
Trace Demon: You don’t need a story, you need to sleep.
She plonked down on her bed, sitting with her legs crossed and a classic childish pout upon her face. She was, according to numerous friends of her mother, a beautiful little girl. He failed to see beyond the demonic exterior that all toddlers exude.
Eliza Demon: I’ll sleep if you tell me a story.
A classic Demon offer, she was definitely his daughter, as terrifying as that was for all those children she’d inevitably terrify in pre-school.
Trace Demon: That’s so not a good deal.
Eliza Demon: It’s fair!
She pushes her shoulders up and her chest out, a go-to move of a child trying to make themselves bigger than they are. He’d seen Scarlett Quinn try the exact same thing when they’d had a disagreement in training one morning. Little girls only have limited emotional range to draw on after all.
Trace Demon: You never make a fair deal, you make a good deal. You’ll have to sweeten the deal.
Eliza Demon: Um, um… I’ll tidy my room!
He glances around; the room was still a mess. Alexa had asked him to clean it a few days ago but he wasn’t in the habit of cleaning up other people’s messes. Instead Alexa had challenged him to get Eliza to clean her own room. He’d taken up the challenge with his usual arrogance and self-belief, but it’d turned out to be a task far more difficult than defeating the likes of Shawn Malakai. A two and a half year old girl was tougher and smarter than Shawn Malakai, who would have thought it? Other than everyone that is.
Trace Demon: You’ve got yourself a deal.
The two shake on it, Trace’s hand engulfing the young girls before she dives underneath the covers with unbridled excitement.
Eliza Demon: Make it a scary story.
Trace Demon: You want scary?
Eliza Demon: The scariest.
Trace Demon: Well I could tell you the plot of How I Met Your Mother’s last season, but you want scary, not poorly thought out. Okay, I’ll tell you the scariest story I know. Ready?
She nods, pulling the covers up around her with anticipation.
Trace Demon: Good, because this isn’t just a story, it’s the nightmares of a madman.
Chapter One
Conquest
“Then I saw when the lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.”
Day One
He awoke to the sound of drums, but as he opened his eyes they vanished as quickly as they had begun. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and letting them adjust to the light that surrounded him. It took time; he had lived in the darkness for too long, the light felt strange and foreign against his skin. He knew not where he was, nor how he came to be there, all he remembered was violence and bloodshed, but why? Where had he been, what had he done, why was there blood, actual blood, staining his hands?
As he stood he looked out upon the world around him. He stood atop a skyscraper; or rather what remained of it, large chunks of the building having been torn apart by what he could only imagine was some great, titan-like monster. The rest of the city, which stretched as far as his eyes could see, was in no better state. Smoke billowed into the sky from a dozen different sources, buildings crumbled, rubble littered the ground. What had happened here? What had been done to the world, what had created such a nightmarish landscape that he now found himself surrounded by?
The Crow: You did this.
The man, fore he had long since forgotten his name, spun on the spot. Perched on the edge of the roof stood a large, black bird. Besides his side he looked like any other bird, but when it opened it’s beak the sounds of bird did not emerge, but rather the voice of a man. Croaky, necrotic and decrepit the voice may be, but human none the less.
The Man: What do you mean, what is this, what happened here.
The Crow: You know, you know it all, hidden deep beneath the surface lays the history. Beneath your lies are the truths.
The Man: Tell me who I am, why can’t I remember anything?
The Crow: They’re looking for you. They know you’ve awoken; they hunt you on their horses, violent and bloody.
The Man: Who? Who are they?
He screams, and the bird flinches, flying away out of fear, knowing that he’s come further than he ever should have. As he does the bird lets out one final cry that echoes out across the remnants of the cityscape.
The Crow: The Horsemen…
< *** >
The Man climbs down the elevator shaft, whatever happened to this world has long since taken the electricity from those who once controlled it, if any but him still lived in the first place. He comes to the end of the ladder, the rest having broken away and fallen into the depths below, unseen through the darkness. To his side the elevator doors were pried open, he understood the strength that a task such as that would have taken, but not what would have had such strength. In a time like this it mattered not, the Man leaping from the ladder and narrowly grabbing the edge of the doorway. His legs dangled beneath him, his strength the only thing between him and a swift demise. A bead of sweat drips from his forehead and falls into the darkness as he drags himself up.
He was still a long way from the bottom floor of the building and his hope was that the crumbling of the staircase was restricted strictly to the upper floors. He made his way through the building, taking a moment to glance out of the window at the destruction beyond once more. What was it about horror that meant people could not turn away? In the distance he spotted something, something small against the sky which had begun to shift from dark and smoke filled to some kind of blood red freak show. He pushed his face as closer to the window as possible to get a better look as the spot in the sky got larger. But it was not getting larger, it was getting closer, and within moments The Man realized what he was looking at.
A horse, no wings but flying none the less. Someone, something, sat atop this white stallion that grew ever closer. The Man took a step back as he realized the horse was heading straight for the window with menacing intent. It exploded through the window, The Man leaping out of the way as shards of glass flew past him, slicing through his arm, a flesh wound but painful none the less. The rider dismounted the White Horse, the majestic animal parking itself in the corner of the room as if it was getting comfortable for what was to come. The Man, who was quick enough and smart enough to dive behind a pillar, looked down at his arm, blood running down it and onto the floor. Just another drop to add to the gallons that had already been spilt.
The Man peered around the pillar, a shiver running down his spine as he saw the White Horseman. A tall man with snow white skin and accentuated black lips. The Man didn’t know how but he knew this monstrous being, he remembered his name – Conquest. He must have stood at least nine foot, long fingers slowly pulling a bow from its holster at his back. An arrow is placed against the bow, rested against the neck and string. Slowly the long fingers, hard and calloused from the constant use of the bow, draws back the string and releases. The arrow soars through air gracefully before brutally piercing through the pillar, the arrowhead splintering through the other side, just inches above The Man’s head.
The man moved quickly, darting out from behind the pillar and sprinting across the room. Conquest draws and cocks another arrow, firing it with pinpoint accuracy but still narrowly missing The Man, his speed far superior to what Conquest could have suspected. He had come too early it dawned on him, the others would likely scout their prey before striking but he had arrived as swiftly as The Man had awoken. He knew not what he was capable off, he had gotten ahead of himself and now it was too late. He’d have to rely on his gut, or whatever lies inside the stomach of a mythical, death seeking Horseman of the Apocalypse.
The Man ducks another arrow and leaps behind another pillar, close to the windows that overlook the devastated city. Conquest pulled two more arrows from his quiver and lined them up in the bow, simultaneously firing them at the pillar. Like with the first the two arrows pierce the stone as if it was paper. This time there was no movement, but also no scream of pain. Conquest was not foolish, he drew another arrow as he slowly approached the pillar, ready to put it straight through The Man’s head. He inches around the pillar, far more nervously than a monster like him has any right being.
The Man acts, appearing from behind another pilling and charging straight into Conquest, tackling him to the ground, his bow and arrow tumbling with him. Conquest grabs the man around the throat, his long tendril like fingers wrapping tightly around his windpipe and throwing him backwards. The Man collides with the pillar but he has no time for pain as Conquest rises to his feet, The Man spotting the nearby bow and dropped arrow and scrambling for them. He doesn’t know if he knows how to use this but he works purely on muscle memory, drawing the arrow and releasing. The string snaps against his fingers, drawing blood, but the arrow flies through the air with precision he didn’t even know he had, plunging into the dark wide eye of Conquest, drawing a scream from the tall, pale being. Conquest staggers backwards, grabbing the arrow with one hand and pulling it slowly and painfully out.
The arrow drops to the floor, dark black ooze pouring out of the socket where an eye once lived. Conquest turns to The Man only to find him standing right in front of him, The Man placing a boot firmly in the centre of Conquest’s chest and pushing as hard as he knew how, kicking Conquest clean through the window and down to the streets below. The Man breathed heavily, blood still dripping from his arm and the thin slice in his fingers. He looks across the room where the White Horse still sits, watching him with an apathetic gaze. The Man made his way to the staircase.
< *** >
The Man exited the large skyscraper and out onto the devastated city streets. Conquest’s bow was strapped to his back but he still needed something else. He walked across the street to the broken body of the pale man who had just minutes before attacked him. The Man looked down at Conquest, too many questions running through his mind at once. Who was he, how did The Man know his name, why had he attacked him? None of that mattered, not now, all that mattered was survival, all that mattered was discovering who he was and what he had done.
He bent down and pulled the quiver, and the remaining arrows contained within, from the corpse of Conquest. And with weaponry in hand he left the corpse there, making his way down the city street as buildings burnt all around him.
And overhead a White Horse flew, catching up to a Crow and devouring it in a single bite.
Narcotics Anonymous
April 3rd 2014
It had been a while since Trace had attended a meeting, not entirely by choice, he was a busy man and things often got in the way. His family, his businesses, wrestling, they were all worthy eaters of time and he had no problem admitting that he would choose them over these meetings any day of the week. He had a hold over his addiction and if that ever changed then it wasn’t these meetings that would steer him straight, it was his family, it was Alexa, just like she had done twice before. But he wasn’t here for his own sake; he was here for Andrew’s. Andrew, his sponsor, had been having a rough time of staying on the wagon and, while helping others was not usually not thing bag, he held a soft spot when it came to fellow addicts. People had helped him when he needed it, he wasn’t totally against the idea of doing the same for others.
Lincoln: Trace, why don’t you come up and say a few things?
Lincoln, an average, unspectacular looking man, had been running these meetings for several years and was a former addict in his own right. He and Trace had had a bit of a back and forth the very first time he attended and Lincoln had promised to get him to open up. So far he’d failed, miserably.
Trace Demon: I’m good, these people don’t need to hear how good my life is, it’ll just make them sad.
There was a lot of eye rolling, safe to say that they don’t know who he is or they’d definitely agree. They were addicts with nothing, he was an addict in control with a million dollar empire. In a race between himself and the rest of these fools he wasn’t just winning, he’d lapped them a dozen times over.
Lincoln: Come on Trace, every time you come to these meetings you sit there and don’t say a word. I thought you liked the big stage?
Trace Demon: This isn’t a stage, it’s a sideshow. I don’t need all of you gawping at the celebrity in your midst while he bares his soul.
It’s questionable that he even has a soul to bare.
Lincoln: Then why are you here?
Trace Demon: Because of this lovable loser right here.
Andrew Dohle: Hey, don’t bring me into this.
Lincoln: It’s fine if you don’t feel brave enough to-
Trace Demon: Woah, are you calling me a coward right now? Because the last person who called me a coward is… well actually I can’t speak about it because the statute of limitations hasn’t run out yet and I don’t feel like being arrested again. But regardless, I am not a coward.
Lincoln, knowing full well that he’s pushed the right buttons to get the desired reaction, holds his arm out and steps to the side, gesturing for Trace to prove that he is indeed no coward. Trace scowls, knows he’s walked into this one but just doesn’t care, a man like Lincoln doesn’t get to call him a coward and not face some kind of repercussion.
Trace Demon: Fine.
Trace rises from his seat and makes his way to the front of the room. Looking out at the crestfallen, decrepit, suffering faces before him he feels a twang of sickness from the pit of his stomach. He was once like these people and that made him feel physically ill.
Trace Demon: You people want me to talk about addiction right?
Lincoln: Talk about whatever you’re comfortable talking about.
Trace Demon: And the rule is no interrupting?
Lincoln: Of course.
Trace smirks, free reign to speak with nobody coming out to some irritating theme music and cutting him off, that was music to his ears, he didn’t know why he was so reluctant to do this before.
Trace Demon: Now I could stand up here and mock you all, I could tell a few jokes, make you feel bad and leave with a smile on my face, that’s what I’d usually do in a situation like this, but not today. Today I’m here because that man points at Andrew, embarrassing him horribly asked me to be; because he’s struggling and he needed some likeminded people to help him remember how to fight this. So what I’m going to do instead is tell you why you’re all, like him, struggling and why I am, at this very moment and for the foreseeable future, in total control of my addiction. And it very much is still an addiction, I’m still an addict, I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and be cured and be able to go for a few drinks with whatever friends I’ve still got left and not think about shooting up again. And neither are any of you.
People shift uncomfortably in their seats, knowing that what he preaches is the truth. He might be a man full of lies and trickery, but right now he has never said anything more truthful in his entire life.
Trace Demon: I understand that, I embrace it, I know that I will always be an addict. So what you’ve gone a few months, you’re still never going to reach the finish line. This isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon, you think you’ve achieved something because you’ve done the bare minimum, but really you’ve only just started the race. And when you reach the next milestone there’s going to be another one looming in the distance. That’s how you stay in control, you never stop fighting, you never stop looking over your shoulder and you never think you’ve won. Because thinking you’ve achieved something is a damn rookie mistake. Addiction never goes away and it never really gets better, it keeps trying to take over and it keeps trying to fight back. But know that that does not make you weak, it makes you a fighter. My addiction might wage war upon me, it might loom over my head like a dark cloud every single moment of the day, it might even hurt me, but it shall never conquer me. It can fight, but it will never win.
There’s a single person clapping for a moment, then the rest join in, looking at Trace as if he’s just said something profound when in truth he’s only told them the truth. Even Lincoln looks upon him like he’s made some kind of breakthrough. But Trace doesn’t care about any of them, he simply makes eye contact with Andrew and sees the fight in his eyes once more. In that moment Andrew knows that he can keep fighting, because the buzzards might circle overhead but they’ll never feed on him. Just like Trace he shall not be conquered.
And none of them shall be defeated.
< *** >
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must look in the mirror and ask himself am I truly the man they say I am, have I achieved what they think I have achieved. When I look in the mirror and I ask myself that question the answer is undeniably yes. They say I am a man who has achieved success through devious means, they call me a sick genius, and all of that is true, but most importantly that I have achieved success. Every title worth holding I have held, every task I have set my mind to I have completed, and every foe I have faced has fallen at my hands. Drakz, Phillip Schneider, Scarlett Quinn, Yukio Blaze, the list is endless.
And now I add you to that list, Solomon Crow.
When you look in the mirror what do you see Crow? I’ll tell you what you don’t see, you don’t see the man they claim you to be. They say you have risen to the precipice of superstardom in an incredibly short period of time, but you have not even come close. You see Crow, you have fought your way into a battle that you cannot win, against four competitors you cannot beat. You will be the least important person inside Hell in a Cell because you have yet to achieve anything of any real note. You might claim to have held the International Championship but you never won that belt, you were gifted it. You might claim to have won Scars & Stripes but so do three others, and everyone knows that being a co-victor means nothing. You Crow are nothing but a man who has wandered into a war with no idea how to achieve victory. Yes, you can fight, you can battle and you can scheme, but you cannot do the one thing that I have proven capable of time and time again, the one thing that you have to be capable of to win this match.
You cannot conquer.
You have come so far that maybe you have begun to believe your own hype, maybe you believe the finish line is in site, but let me break it to you Crow, it’s not. The route to the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship, the route to my title, is a marathon, not a sprint, and you’re already wheezing in pain after the first mile. You have come too far too fast and now you don’t have what it takes to push onwards. But not me, I’ll keep running, I’ll keep fighting and I’ll keep conquering. You might think to yourself that there are three other people in this match, that you don’t to go through them to win my title but I am the only one you have to beat if you want to be champion! I am the only one who matters because I am the damned devil and you’re nothing but a bird flying above my head hoping to pick up my scraps. But birds get devoured, and so will you, there won’t be a single morsel left behind.
You are but a man Crow, you’re not capable.
But I… I am a conqueror. And at Superbrawl… I will conquer you.
Chapter Two
War
“When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living create saying, “Come.” And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth, and that men would slay one another, and a great sword was given to him.”
Day Seven
It had been a week since he’d first awoken and he still knew nothing of who he was or how he had come to be in this devastated world. He hadn’t seen any other signs of life since Conquest, not even so much as an animal. There were so many things he didn’t understand beyond the obvious. He hadn’t slept yet he wasn’t tired or fatigued. He hadn’t eaten or drank yet he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. He had walked non-stop for seven days, stopping only to explore things of interest, yet he showed no signs of exhaustion. Was it something to do with the world he had found himself in, or something to do with who he was? He had too many questions and no way to find answers.
He had reached the edge of the city in the early hours of the morning. What kind of city took a week to traverse he knew not, nor did he have any desire to go back and find out. He found himself now in a large forest, woodlands spanning out around him. He felt the need to be careful, he had seen no signs of life inside the city but that didn’t mean there was none, he couldn’t possibly be the only living being on this entire planet, could he? He was given no time to dwell on that thought as a loud bang ripped through the woods, echoing out long and far. He ducked down behind a tree, on instinct more than anything, before realizing that the noise came from the distance. Again his instinct kicked in and he ran, not away from the noise but rather towards it. He did not know what he was running towards but he did know that something had to have created that noise and be it human or be it other, it would be something, more than he had seen in a week.
He acted smartly about it, moving between trees, keeping himself hidden, the Man without a name working quickly and quietly. The noise grew with every step, the sound of thunder and screams louder than anything he had ever heard. He felt the wind before he saw the clearing itself and skidded to a stop behind a lark oak, glancing out upon the clearing with apprehension. His eyes widened at the sight he found, this large clearing in the centre of this vast woodlands had become a battlefield. Hundreds of men waged war upon each other, two sides firing ancient looking muskets and slicing at each other with swords. The Man made sure to remain hidden, so this world was inhabited by others, yet these others seemed insistent on slaying each other for some unknown, likely feeble, reason. He knelt there for what felt like hours, unable to tear his eyes away from the bloodshed. He just watched until the last man had fallen.
None remained, every single soldier, if that was indeed what they were, lay dead. In shock at what he had just witnessed, The Man collapsed onto the ground and, for the first time in seven days, drifted into the darkness of his mind.
< *** >
Day Eight
He awoke once more to a thunderous booming, much like the one he had heard the day prior, only louder, closer. It couldn’t be, could it? He rose slowly and crawled over to the edge of the clearing where… yes, it was, the exact same soldiers, the exact same war, the exact same bloodshed. He did not understand it, how could this be happening, was he dreaming? Was he even capable of dreaming? No, this was real, this was happening and there was no doubt that these were the same men. Their faces were seared upon his mind after what he had seen and now he saw it all again, unable to tear himself away. He heard their screams, felt their pain and watched them drop in bloody horror. And once it was all done he stood and walked out into the clearing, morbid curiosity overcoming his shock. He saw bodies with chunks taken out of them from musket shots, others sliced in half, one with their jaw torn off and terror still in their eyes.
He didn’t know what was happening here, but something inside him told him he couldn’t leave until he did.
He stayed for several days, never needing food nor drink, just setting up camp on the edge of the clearing, ensuring that nobody would witness his presence. And for those several days he saw the same war play out every single day in the exact same way. He knew not when it began or how the men involved stood after certain death, something overcame him every night and he passed into the darkness, only to awake at the sound of gunfire. Some days he considered interfering, maybe firing a few arrows into the melee to see if it played out differently, but his survival instincts got the better of him. But still, his curiosity continued, but answers were not as far away as he thought.
< *** >
Day Twelve
He walked across the clearing, once more taking in the aftermath of the bloody war as he had done every day preceding it. He saw the same faces, the same injuries, the same frozen, horrified expressions on the faces of men realizing their own death was just moments away. He wondered to himself how long he would feel obliged to stay and witness these same events, what was it that held him here and how could be break it’s grasp upon his very being. Maybe he would just run, run as fast as his legs would take him, maybe… maybe… maybe…
?: It is a beautiful sight, isn’t it?
He spun around in the direction of the voice and found himself facing a most impressive, and troubling, sight. A horse as red as blood itself stood in the middle of the bodies. Mounted upon it sat a girl, barely out of her teens, with pale skin and hair as red as the horse. Blood covered much of her pale body, swaths of skin torn in frenzied hatred littered her yet her voice gave away only pleasure. Just like Conquest all those days ago, he knew immediately who she was.
The Man: War.
War: You remember, that’s good, that will make this so much more *she shudders, her body tingling* pleasurable.
The Man: You’re the reason these men wake and do battle, yes? You bring them back from the abyss, make them fight endlessly?
War: I do, this world is so boring without conflict I had to create my own.
The Man: They’re people; they feel pain, experience death, every single day because you were bored? What kind of monster does that make you?
War: Oh that is priceless, you, telling me about being a monster. Everything that happens is because of your actions; I inflict pain upon these men only because that is what you taught me.
The Man: I don’t… I couldn’t…
His expression changes, becomes dark and twisted. As he speaks his voice is filled with anger, his voice comes out as a roar that he did not know he was even capable of.
The Man: You lie.
He draws the bow he stole from Conquest’s shattered corpse and a single arrow from the quiver on his back. War laughed, drawing blood as she bit her lip in excitement, drawing a long sword from her scabbard. She looked upon The Man with lust.
War: Conquest’s arrows will do me no harm.
She kicked the red horse beneath her and it began to charge across the battle field, crushing bodies beneath its mighty hoofs. The Man held his ground, the arrow still drawn. He remained motionless, a devastating calm coming over his entire body.
The Man: I’m not aiming at you.
He releases, the arrow soaring through the air. It hits it’s target, piercing the eye of the horse and drawing a monstrous scream as the horse rears up. In that single moment The Man draws another arrow and swiftly fires it. This one tears through the horses throat, severing any number of vital arteries and sending blood pouring to the ground as the horse collapses on top of War, trapping her beneath it and sending her sword out of reach. War screeched in pain, her legs crushed as the horse took it’s dying choked breathes, and The Man approached.
The Man: You know who I am.
War simply nodded in pain as she watched The Man pick up her blade and run it across his finger, drawing blood. It was sharp, a single swing in the right direction and… well, it did not bare thinking about.
The Man: But you will not tell me?
War: I will not.
The Man: Why?
War: Because you told me not to.
The Man nodded and then, without hesitation, brought the blade high above his head and swung it down through the throat of the young woman named War, severing her head from her neck with brutal efficiency. War’s head rolled to his feet and he saw once more the look of frozen fear. He left the body where it laid, removing only the scabbard from the red horse, attaching it to his waist and sliding the sword into it. With Conquest’s bow, War’s sword and still no real clue as to his own identity he continued on.
Leaving the blood soaked ravages of war behind.
WFWF Training Centre
April 9th 2014
Joe Bishop leaps up and over the young kid as he charges towards him, the wannabe continuing on and rebounding against the ropes awkwardly, feeling the whiplash as he does so. It’s still new to him and it catches him off guard, giving Bishop the chance to leap up once more and catch him in the jaw with a dropkick that plants him firmly on the canvas. Bishop goes to grab the kid when he pauses, spotting the blood dripping from his jaw as he writhes in pain. Bishop shakes his head and leaves the ring in disgust, noticing the sound of clapping as he does so.
Joe Bishop: What the hell do you want?
The man clapping in question? Trace Demon, as smug and condescending as ever.
Trace Demon: What, can’t a man just watch his employee beat the snot out of an eighteen year old kid?
Joe Bishop: I’m not your employee.
Trace Demon: The contract you signed says otherwise, but let’s be honest, that’s not why I’m here. I couldn’t care less about watching some training match with a guy whose name I don’t even care to know.
The kid, in amidst spitting out blood and trying to figure out where he is, rolls out of the ring in time to hear Trace’s last insulting comment.
Kid: My name’s-
Trace Demon: Wasn’t talking about you, now piss off.
The teenager slinks away feeling like his hopes and dreams have just been cut off at the knees before they even have a chance to walk. The nameless kid is forgotten almost instantly, this time tomorrow neither Trace Demon nor Joe Bishop will remember his existence.
Trace Demon: Woah, where do you think you’re going?
Joe doesn’t answer, continuing to walk away. He’s got no intention of listening to Trace’s delusional ranting about whatever is bothering him today. His so called boss had only ever spoken to him when he wanted something and even then his offer of an International Championship match had been thrown out the window in favour of a tournament that he failed to win. Now he had a chance to become the champion and it was through no help of the so called King of Demons, he owed him nothing.
Trace Demon: Come on, just give me a chance to speak first before you do the foolish thing and walk off.
Joe stops, turns around slowly to look at Trace. He wore that same smug grin that he always had on when he thought he was about to get his own way but not this time. Maybe he’d humour him, listen to whatever deal he wanted to make this time, but he wasn’t going to be tricked again. Fool me once…
Joe Bishop: Say your piece.
Trace Demon: No piece, just a question. You ever think you chose the wrong side?
Joe wasn’t surprised at the question, it felt like the traditional Trace Demon setup, in a minute he was going to try and convince him that he should be on Trace’s side and help him retain the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship at Superbrawl, he could feel it.
Trace Demon: I’m not trying to convince you to be on my side or anything, I don’t need your help at Superbrawl, I’ve got this.
Okay, maybe not.
Trace Demon: I’m asking because I’ve heard that you’re planning on walking out on our little company because you’ve lost the fire or some crap like that, and I just had to wonder whether things would be different if you’d have chosen a different side. I mean you were going to be the guy, right? That’s what everybody told me a couple of years back, they told me “Trace, this Bishop kid is going to be special”. I mean they sounded much more annoying because they weren’t talking about me, but you get where I’m coming from. So what happened Joe?
Joe Bishop: I don’t need you telling me where my career went wrong.
Trace Demon: I already told you I’m not here to tell you anything. Guys like me and you, well wrestlers in general I guess you could say, we don’t respond well to people telling us things. I’m asking you. Say someone came to you a few years back and they told you that you could either work with this one guy, a real good guy who’d had a bit of success and maybe you’d get a shot at being somebody, or you could work with another guy, a real lowlife bunghole with a lot of success who would make you a star, who’d you choose?
Joe Bishop: None of this matters now.
Trace Demon: See the way I see it you already chose the nice guy and he didn’t do a damn thing for you other than turn you into a man capable of winning three National Championships and nothing more. Now what if you’d gone with the bunghole? Would you be the one headlining Superbrawl right now? So I’ll ask my question again, do you ever think you chose the wrong side?
Joe Bishop: I made my choices, I stick by them.
Trace gives a little nod of appreciation for his honesty and stubbornness, but then throws in that look of “but here’s the thing”.
Trace Demon: Not me. See I ask myself that question a lot, did I choose the right side, did I make the right decisions, am I the guy I want to be. And the answer to all three is yes, because I’m the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion going into Superbrawl. Which means whatever war I’ve been fighting all this time, whatever side I’m on, I won. Because that’s the thing right, history is written by the victors. The bad guys never win, because the winners make themselves the good guys. In years to come people won’t be talking about all the horrible things I did, they’ll be talking about all the success I had whereas you… well they won’t be talking about you at all. You see you chose the wrong side because it didn’t get you anywhere, you made the wrong decisions because they didn’t pay off for you, if things had gone differently, if you were holding the world title right now they’d be calling those same decisions genius. Now you see there’s something coming Joe, something big, and sooner or later you’re going to have to pick a side. And when that time comes I just want you to ask yourself one question. Do you want to be on the good side, or do you want to be on the winning side because right now you’re a soldier without an army.
Joe Bishop: You think there’s some kind of war coming?
Trace Demon: Oh there’s always a war going on in in the WFWF, some bigger than others, but this one… this is the one that matters to you.
Trace takes a few steps, getting menacingly closer to Joe Bishop as if the reduced distance between them makes his message all the more impactful.
Trace Demon: Because if you choose the wrong side, this is the last war you’re ever going to fight.
Trace Demon pats Bishop on the shoulder and begins to walk off, shouting one final message as he does so.
Trace Demon: Think about it Joey boy, I’ll be in touch.
And Joe Bishop simply watches him go, beginning to wonder to himself if this really all is just one big war… is he on the right side?
< *** >
War is hell. At least that’s what they say. Me? I’ve always been partial to it myself, the fighting, the bloodshed, the violence. It’s all good stuff. But then again I’m a winner, every war I’ve ever fought I’ve won with style and finesse. For the losers I imagine it’s not so good. And yet the losers keep coming back to fight once more. Italy, Germany, Scarlett Quinn. No matter how many times you put them down they always want to fight you again. Unluckily for Scarlett I haven’t had the chance to beat down Germany yet so she’ll just have to make do.
See Scarlett you’ve like a broken record ever since I first targeted you for the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship. Every single time you think you can get one up over me I end up outsmarting you, humiliating you and leaving you bloodied and broken in the middle of the ring. Don’t you ever get tired of fighting the same losing battle over and over again? Don’t you get tired of the result always being the same? I mean you’re not your father, you’re not going to come back stronger or smarter next time, you’re going to be the same little girl you’ve always been. Don’t get me wrong, you’re good, you might even be the second best competitor inside that Hell in a Cell, but you’re just not Trace Demon good and you never will be. You’ll never be at my level, and that’s never going to change.
So what is it that spurs you on little Scarlett? What is it that makes you step foot in the ring with me yet again knowing full well that when we go to war there is just one inevitable end? Do you enjoy the bloodshed as much as I, even if it is your blood that drips onto the canvas and stains your white soul red? Or is it simply that famous McGurk stubbornness? I bet it is little Scarlett, I bet you wish you could quit, I bet you wish you could flee before I get my hands on you once more but you can’t, can you? You’re stuck in this loop as much as I am. Every single time is the same, forced to march to your death, being brutally killed and then waking up the next day knowing you have to repeat it over and over again, all because you can’t face the humiliation that admitting you are weak would bring. But don’t worry Scarlett, I am going to free you from your shackles.
At Superbrawl Scarlett you, I and three others step foot inside of the devil’s playground known as Hell in a Cell. Unfortunately for you I am the devil himself and I make the rules inside my house, meaning I can free you from your endless torment. How? Why it’s simple, I’m going to do the same thing that I’ve always done, I’m going to march to war and I’m going to slay you, only this time I’m going to make sure you can’t wake back up.
History is written by the victors, and when this war comes to an end I shall have the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship in one hand, and the pen in the other.
Chapter Three
Famine
“When He broke the third seal, I heard the third living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard something like a voice in the centre of the four living creatures saying, “A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius; and do not damage the oil and the wine.”
Day Fifteen
Another three days passed with few events. The Man began to wonder if time passed differently here, day and night seemed to arrive far quicker on some days and slower on others, but there was no way he could tell, measuring it out would remove focus from the task at hand. He felt an unnatural pull deep within his gut leading him in one specific direction and he was intent on following it. He knew not what he would find when he arrived but he knew, as irrational and seemingly impossible as it was, that he would find answers there and there alone.
But something was not right. For as long as he had been in this cursed world he had not eaten, but had yet to feel the pangs of hunger. He knew it as an impossibility even if he did not remember the time before he had awoken, humans had to eat, that was the way it was, but if he did not then what was he? Regardless something had changed. He had made his way out of the woodlands the night before prior and found himself in what appeared to be a large, vast farm, filled with crops. As he had continued to walk he had begun to feel famished, a fortnight without food seemingly catching up with him in one short burst. His stomach pained him and his head grew dizzy. He had for some time struggled to remain standing.
He had attempted to eat the crops, food should have cured his hunger, but to no avail. Not only did his hunger grow stronger but his body weaker. He lost what had to be several stone in mere hours, his stomach growing thin and his ribs beginning to protrude from within. Worst still his lips began to crack from thirst. Yet he continued to crawl onwards, he had a mission and he must achieve it. The further he travelled the worst his hunger got, the crops surrounding him began to wither and die until he was surrounded by nothing but dead remnants. Onwards he went, his legs straining as they too grew thinner and weaker. He no longer looked like a man but rather a scarecrow, a scarecrow with the bare minimum innards, just enough to prop itself up and do its job.
It was several more hours before he saw it in the distance, he knew not if what he saw was real or some kind of mirage, a trick of the mind or a trick of the world around him. But he saw it, a tree, a live, green tree. Would there be something to satiate his endless appetite there? He began to walk towards it, but his legs soon grew tired and he collapsed onto his knees. He continued on his knees but soon they also grew tired and he fell forwards onto his hands. On hands and knees he struggled through the famished landscape until they too grew tired. He fell forwards onto his stomach. As the darkness threatened to engulf him he pushed himself to continue on, dragging himself along the floor. The tree was in sight and on its branch a single red apple that shined bright. With all his might he continued on, as he did so the apple dropping from the branch and landing on the floor just inches in front of him.
But also inches from the child.
He stopped where he lay; staring at the child leant against the tree. His body was all but bone, all fat and muscle lost to the famine of the world. He attempted to reach out for the apple with his skeletal hand but he could barely lift it. The Man dragged himself the last few inches and took the delicious apple in his hand, knowing that this would quench his hunger. But he could not take his eyes off of the young boy.
Michael: Please…
The boy croaked weakly, only enough strength for the one word. Did The Man let that word go to waste, did he allow this young boy, barely seven or eight, die, if death was even a possibility. He could not tell how long this boy had been here, nor could he tell how long he would continue to be here if he did not eat. Could he be responsible for this child’s death, could he sacrifice another so that he could live? Was that the kind of man he was, the kind of man that he had been before... before whatever happened? The words of the Crow and War told him that he was, but their words did not define him, he could be somebody different, somebody good and righteous. He could be all that and more or… he could survive.
He bit the apple, and the boy cried. The Man did not stop, devouring the apple where he laid, each bite giving him more and more strength and banishing the hunger from his body. He ate right down to the core and swallowed even that, his ravaged body returning to its former form. Whole again he began to rise to his feet, weakly at first but then freshness washed over him. He looked at the young boy to find tears rolling down his cheeks.
The Man: I am sorry.
Michael: Monster…
And the boy’s eyes closed, his skin peeling away from his body, leaving just a skeleton behind. A gust of wind blew through the land and the boy’s bones exploded into dust that joined the wind and the ether, leaving nothing left. Once the wind was passed The Man realized that the fields were once more blooming with beautiful flowers and delicious looking crops. But his hunger had vanished once more, and there was no desire to eat left in him.
Famine: You have learnt nothing.
The Man knew not where he came from, but appear another did. This one rode a horse as black as night itself, but the horse looked sickly, bones ripping through thin flesh, his eyes dead and cold. The rider was in no better state, a thin pathetic excuse for a man. He looked as healthy as the young boy had in body, but when he spoke he did so with such confidence that he sent chills down The Man’s spine. In his hands he held a pair of scales, perfectly balanced.
The Man: And what was I to learn?
He had realized at this point that these horsemen knew him, but they would not relinquish his name nor his past, so he decided not to chase a lost topic. Instead he sought answers to other questions, hoping that maybe they would not refrain from sharing anything else with him.
Famine: To be a man, yet you remain a monster. Had you shared the apple you would both of lived, yet you devoured it all yourself. Your selfishness doomed another, do you feel no regret?
The Man: If I were to feel regret then it would devour me almost as much as the hunger did, I wish never to feel the latter again, therefore I know I would not desire the former either.
Famine: And to others, those whose paths you cross, do you feel nothing for them?
The Man: I feel sorrow that they do not manage what I do.
Famine: And what, pray tell, is that?
The Man: To survive.
Famine nodded, his skeletal neck creaking at the simple motion.
Famine: If you feel nothing, then you will have no issue taking these scales from me. But know that by removing my only reason for living, you will sentence me to oblivion.
Famine offered up the scales. The Man approached and, with no hesitation, took them from him. Famine, with what appeared to be a slight smile upon his face, felt the wind against his skin before The Man did. Within moments Famine, and his horse along with him, was swept away into nothingness leaving only the slightest smell of dust behind. The Man looked at the scales in his hands and, by tearing off a piece of his shirt and using it as rope, tied it to his belt.
With one final look at the beautiful, luscious fields around him he continued onwards, into the unknown.
) but as the person who has written Thunder second only to the actual author over the years, I liked it.
I dont know good luck 
