Post by bad guy™ on Feb 7, 2015 20:51:11 GMT -5
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ギャングスターパラダイス
Gangster’s Paradise
Gangster’s Paradise
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1-26-2015: Portland, OR
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"NO. NO. NO. NO."
Samael walks through the door to the now empty locker room and slams it shut, kicking the bottom with his bot full force. He pulls the katana sheathe form his side and javelin tosses the dead weight into the body mirror against the wall. Like his current mental state: broken.
The WFWF Tag Team Championship, which fell off when he drew his sword out, is now on the carpet. Samael catches from a glance in the corner of his eye and pooch kicks the gold from the ground into the wall, one of the side plates falling out of the belt.
He rips his bag off of the hook in the locker, bringing the bar down in the cubbyhole.
"F*ck this."
Samael undoes his Uwagi, pulling the ties on the side apart, taking off his glove and tossing it into the bag and taking the rest of the shirt off. He takes a glance at his hand, the scar so inflamed, yet all feeling completely lost.
"Why the hell am I still going through with this? Wouldn’t it be better if I was just gone at this point?"
The, now broken, hinge on the locker room door creeks. Sam reaches for his katana at his waist, but in his rage, he gained seven years of bad luck. Someone walks into the room and Samael turns around, his hand still at his waist. The Suit walks over to the katana by the mirror and picks it up.
"You’ve got some gall tarnishing that with your sh*t."
Ryan Brockie: Looking for this?
Brockie extends his arm with the sheathe in hand, Sam ripping it from his hands and tucking it into the corner of his locker.
Ryan Brockie: You could say thank you.
Samael Ahriman: Go to hell.
Ryan Brockie: Why so serious?
Samael reaches into his bag, trying to hide his right hand behind his back, grabbing his glove and sliding it back on. Brockie gives a coy expression.
Ryan Brockie: You want to explain what happened out there?
Samael Ahriman: Sure. I lost a match. What’s it to you?
Ryan Brockie: What’s it to me? I’ve got the reputation of a group to help keep up. Can’t really let someone taint the god name, you know?
Samael Ahriman: Taint the name of the KKK…pretty sure some Dragons long before Tugs managed to do that for me or anyone else, Suit.
Ryan Brockie: It’s cute you still think throwing tired insults at people in our little community is really going to bother them. You’re maybe not as smart as I once gave you credit for.
Samael Ahriman: Brockie, if I didn’t bother you as much as I know that I do, you would have little to do with me outside of whatever Donnie tells you. Maybe I intrigue you. I’m the puzzle you can’t quite figure out. Hell, maybe you’re a fag. Can’t quite say I’d blame you. Look at me.
Samael oversellingly floats his arms out to the side, stretching out his shoulder.
"It’s kind of amazing how great of stress relief ragging on Ryan really is."
Samael Ahriman: Truth is, I’m just a question wrapped in an enigma for you. Not only do you not understand me, you straight up don’t trust me. Mix the two together, it makes sense for you to be constantly over my shoulder. So get off of your high horse, kid. I’ve got you squared.
He slides a black button down over his head, and the arm of his glove disappearing beneath a black leather trench coat. Reaching into his bag again he pulls out a red stole, kissing it at the neck and placing it around his shoulders upside down and tucking the backing under his coat. He pins the middles together. Sam turns around, picking his bag up and staring at Ryan, who’s gawking.
Ryan Brockie: Sh*t.
Samael Ahriman: What?
Ryan Brockie: Anyone ever tell you that you look like a priest?
Samael Ahriman: Surprisingly, yes. This is the first time you’ve seen me in my stole, yes?
Ryan Brockie: I feel like I need to start telling you stuff you have no interest in hearing right now. You’re actually passable. Except for the fact that you’re a Satanist.
Samael Ahriman: Until you see Peter’s Cross, yes. That’s exactly what I’ve been told. Surprised someone like you would notice.
Ryan Brockie: What’s that supposed to mean?
Samael Ahriman: Guys like you and Donnie don’t strike me as people who know much about other worldly things like religion.
Ryan Brockie: What do you know?
Samael Ahriman: Outside of the fact that there’s no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole, not much about you. Just going to assume you’re still waiting for your chance to pass judgment along to me when it is neither your, nor my, place to do so. You’re not my Satan, even if you think it sometimes.
Ryan Brockie: So I come in here to find out why you lost and you give me attitude. Ok, understandable. But, you know, I really don’t appreciate being treated as the bad guy in all of this…
"Except for the fact that you are…"
Ryan Brockie: …when you’re the one who couldn’t do his damn job out there tonight.
Samael Ahriman: Way to keep company morale up, Ry.
Ryan Brockie: My job is to keep things running smoothly, by any means necessary.
Samael Ahriman: And my job is to make sure what Donnie wants done gets done. And if you get in my way, you’re getting in his.
Ryan Brockie: Don’t think so highly of yourself, Sam.
Samael Ahriman: I’m not. But I think it’s fair to say at this point in the KoKaine Konspiracy, I’m fairly certain you’re more expendable than I am. Donnie is many things, stupid is definitely one of them…but at least he gets ‘sound businessman’ as a calling card too right under prized midget drug dealer. He can easily scour the world…no, the lesser Seattle area alone and find someone with better business acumen to get things done at the same consistency, if not better, than you’re capable of. Me? It’s going to be hard to find someone willing to do his dirty work that he doesn’t have to go out of his way to pay a sh*t ton of money, or throw in crack rock bonuses. I’m borderline free, quality labor. You’re nothing but an expensive suit.
Samael steps closer to Ryan.
Samael Ahriman: So if you’re interested in tempting fate, Suit, let’s go have a chat with Donnie right now and air our grievances and see which one keeps his job.
Brockie smiles.
Samael Ahriman: What’s on your mind, stiff?
Ryan Brockie: I can appreciate someone willing to step up against me. It’s refreshing considering the group is filled with yes men. But unlike you, I know my place, Sam.
Samael Ahriman: Beneath my boot?
Ryan Brockie: Next to Donnie, where you’re so sure you belong. In truth, I came here to pass along a message to you from Donnie himself. You’re incredibly lucky. He’s decided to take mercy on you.
"Those are never good words for me."
Ryan Brockie: Because as far as he’s concerned, you didn’t lose tonight.
Sam cocks his head.
Ryan Brockie: He wants you to go speak with someone.
Samael Ahriman: So you’re telling me I’ve got to do your job for you at the midget’s request?
Ryan Brockie: …no…not exactly.
Brockie hands a slip of paper to Sam.
Ryan Brockie: Since you’ll forget if I just tell you, it’s the who, when and where. It’ll be before the next show up in Seattle.
"Seattle. Wonderful. I spend enough time up there as it is. Gags."
Ryan Brockie: It’s been approved, so you better be there. Wouldn’t want to piss your mastah off again.
"Now I remember why I’m still doing this nonsense."
Ryan Brockie: So we have some more things to discuss, Sam. Late dinner?
Samael grabs his sword from the locker hole and flicks the edge of the hilt out of the sheathe, the click of the metal making just enough noise to catch Brockie’s attention. He stares at the hilt and takes a stutter step back.
Samael Ahriman: No.
Ryan Brockie: So testy. Fine. I’ll leave you alone. Be there.
Brockie leaves the locker room and closes the door behind him.
"I remember. It’s to bury the KoKaine Konspiracy."
Sam sits his bag down on a chair and opens the slip of paper. Reading it, top to bottom, Samael shoves his bag off of the chair and sits himself down.
"Luc, gimme shelter. There’s a storm a comin’."
Sam places the sheathe across his lap, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. No inhale. No exhale. Just silence.
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2-6-2015: Big Trouble In Little Seattle, WA
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It’s been a few days since Samael’s run in with Brockie, when he was told he didn’t have a choice but to show up for this meeting with someone he wanted nothing to do with. But might as well put the fear of…something, into the kid. If he’s going to have to work with him for the time being, might as well put him to good use.
Maybe, even though things didn’t go according to plan, an arrangement can be made so he can avoid getting in Sam’s way.
"Guess it’s a wait and see thing."
Sam leans against a large bronze pillar in the center of Gas Works Park. He stares out across the small pay straight ahead and sees the urban monstrosity that is Seattle, Washington.
"If every 12 flag would burn, and the giant dick in the middle of the city would be ripped down, maybe this city would be more tolerable. Maybe."
??: Hey, Sam.
The voice comes from behind. Sam turns quickly, reaching inside his undone trench coat to his back to get a solid grip on his wakizashi handle. As he turns, the end of the wakizashi hits against the bronze pole making a loud ringing noise.
"F*ck."
With the air of surprise gone, Sam looks up and slowly lowers his hand. Coming out from near the pillar is his meeting man.
Ante Whitner: Ryan said you were going to try to draw on me. Who knew you had a small katana too? Sneaky.
Samael Ahriman: Need something for protection when I’m out in public. Especially when I’m in some sketchy sh*t myself.
Ante Whitner: I’m from New York. A normal sketchy person would just pack heat.
Samael Ahriman: Do I look like a ‘normal’ someone who would carry?
Ante Whitner: You look smarter than to bring a knife to a gun fight. Better odds.
Samael Ahriman: You trying to find out how badly you’re wrong?
Ante Whitner: I already know I can beat you, Sam. I’ve got nothing left to prove to you.
Samael pulls his hand out from his back and gives a slight smile.
Samael Ahriman: I can respect that. Maybe not like it.
Ante Whitner: Respect it.
Samael Ahriman: Yep.
Samael starts walking towards the stone path. He extends his arm out to Ante.
Samael Ahriman: Join me?
Ante Whitner: You don’t just want to stay here and get this over with?
Samael Ahriman: Sorry if I don’t trust an associate of Donnie Kent who was sent to ‘talk’ with me in a dark, secluded place.
Whitner starts walking towards Ahriman.
Ante Whitner: Is trust already dead, Sam? We’ve barely begun talking!
Samael Ahriman: You signed a deal with the Devil’s Cherub. I trust no one but Tugarin. And since I know you’re going to tell everything I say to The Midget and The Stiff, I’m giving you full permission. Like you needed or wanted it, but at least you don’t have a cloud of guilt over your head.
Ante Whitner: You’re funny.
Samael Ahriman: I’m an ass. People just think I’m being funny so they don’t have to acknowledge I’m insulting them with a hard dose of truth.
Ante Whitner: Can’t say I understand.
Samael Ahriman: What? My logic?
Ante Whitner: No. That I understand. I meant people’s ignorance.
Samael Ahriman: Give it time, Ante. Your lack of understanding will get worse.
Ante Whitner: What’s it with you calling me stupid?
Samael Ahriman: I wasn’t, kid. I’m calling people stupid.
Ante lets out a little grunt.
"Doesn’t sound like he believes me. Not my problem."
The Satanic Neo knockoff and the man a Stetson short of a Magic Mike sequel , ever the unusual grouping, walk a few feet in complete silence. Clearly both are deep entrenched in thought. Sam breaks the silence as they reach the concrete path.
Samael Ahriman: Donnie tell you why I’m here?
Ante Whitner: I figured it had something to do with the KKK?
Samael Ahriman: Sort of. It’s come to his attention that I’m not incredibly happy about what happened last week.
Ante Whitner: Losing to me?
Samael Ahriman: You joining the fold. Losing to you just put sanitizer in the open wound.
Ante Whitner: The hell’s your problem with me? Because I’m better?
Samael Ahriman: You’re a wrench in the cog of a dysfunctional, but well oiled, machine. We were chugging just fine, and had no hiccups until you entered the fray.
Ante Whitner: Last I checked, you’re the one who caused the hiccup by not beating me.
Samael Ahriman: Hey, I gave you your due. You won. Now shut the hell up and listen.
Ante steps in front of Samael.
Ante Whitner: You can’t tell me what the hell to do, Sam. I’m my own person with my own processes. Your high and mighty attitude isn’t going to get you anywhere but decked with me.
Sam stops toe to toe with Ante, staring him cold.
Samael Ahriman: Rule number one of the KoKaine Konspiracy. Under absolutely no circumstances are you to not listen when I’m telling you what to do. You’re a better wrestler than me. Congrats. I hope you’re proud. This group has a learning curve that’s not only going to kick your ass if you don’t listen to me right now, it might even get you killed. Donnie Kent is smarter than his pea sized body gives him credit for. He has control over someone who could rip either of us to shreds with little to no thought other than ‘in how many pieces do I break them?’ He has an entire army at his fingertips to send our sorry asses down the river Styx at his bloody command.
Ante Whitner: What are you trying to say?
Samael Ahriman: Donnie is dangerous, and you’ve signed on for that lifestyle for the long haul. I’ve been in this group going on a year now, and I have no conscience and still am aghast at some of the things I have seen. There isn’t no going back now. And whatever your goal is, being here. Whatever your selfish desire is that made our little slice of hell so enticing to you, you better understand that above all, the needs of the group come first. My plans have been sidetracked multiple times. The things I aimed to achieve. And now, with my plans completely on the sideburner, I’m finding myself giving words of gold to a mere child with a nasty attitude problem just to make sure he doesn’t wind up missing, and most likely dead, like Jewnose who used to run with us.
Sam takes a deep breath, starting to walk again.
Samael Ahriman: Here it is, kid. I was asked to come here and bury the hatchet I have against you for f*cking my life up seriously a few weeks ago. But I chose to stay to make sure you knew to keep your head on a mother*cking swivel for everything and anyone. You never know what’s going to set off Ryan or Donnie. Hey, maybe you’ll be the perfect posterchild for what this group’s trying to do. I mean, you bring one of the companies titles to the table. The more control we have over the WFWF, the better. But if you so much as make one of them think you’re being even the slightest bit cross with them…I’m lucky I’ve made it this long without a bullet in the back of the head. Or even the threat of it. Yet.
Ante Whitner: Is this the point where I’m supposed to thank you for keeping an eye out for me? Because I don’t need it, and you’re not getting my thanks. I know what I signed up for.
"He sounds more brainwashed than Tugs."
Samael Ahriman: I’m a servant of The Devil and his Cherub. I get your mindset. I’m the same way. You’ve got your plans. I’ve got mine. Both of them require keeping this group on its toes for as long as we can before Don’s ego sinks it. I see no reason why we can’t scratch each other’s backs. It sets us both up to succeed in our goals, which are DRASTICALLY different, trust me. Neither of us will step on the others toes. And I get not trusting me, or anyone. I don’t trust you either. But in a group like this, you need someone in your corner that’s least likely to stab you in the back.
Ante Whitner: And I’m expected to think the guy who flaunts his sword skills to not stab me in the back?
Samael Ahriman: Trust no one. Make your money. Achieve your goals. Live on a swivel. No excuses, no sympathy. Do at any cost. Is that not the definition of your mantra? Life in the Gangster’s Paradise?
Ante stops dead.
Ante Whitner: You’re smarter than Donnie said.
Samael Ahriman: Why do you think I’m so untrusted and such a problem to the Konspiracy? I’m a question, wrapped in an enigma stuffed into an Uwagi and a trenchcoat. So what do you say?
Ahriman sticks his hand out.
Ante Whitner: Trust no one. Remember that.
Ante shakes Samael’s hand.
Samael Ahriman: So how’s it feel?
Ante Whitner: What’s that?
Samael Ahriman: Making a deal with The Devil himself?
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What a wacky ass week.
I start last week on top of the world. Here I was. WFWF Tag Team Champion. In great graces with the KoKaine Konspiracy. Not really much of a care in the world except for the fact that, you know, Shawn’s dying, I’ve got a bastard child I want little to do with and, oh yeah, I’m still in the KoKaine Konspiracy.
But, you know? Beggars can’t be choosers.
Then it all changed when Ante Whitner stuck his nose where it doesn’t f*cking belong. He decided it was going to be a great idea to involve himself in the business of Samael Ahriman and turn my f*cking kumbaya double agent life on its head. Now, I mean I went into last week hoping for the best. Ante Whitner’s a force of nature. I knew I was going to have the hardest fight yet ahead of me. I thought I was going to win, but by the skin of my teeth. Now…now I’m sitting here with the first loss on my record in almost five years. It kind of stings. But if there’s any consolation, the last match I lost all of those years ago was to another up and coming force of nature named Reckless. He fizzled out, never to be seen or heard from again not too long after he bested me.
Hopefully history repeats itself.
But until Ante drops off of the face of the earth, I’m being forced to work with him thanks to the KKK. Again, stupid kid getting himself involved in sh*t that’s of none of his concern. But while he’s here, I might as well use him. Who can really blame me? Shawn certainly doesn’t. Ante’s too thick to realize it, but maybe he thinks he’s using me so…its not quite as parasitic of a relationship as I was expecting. Ehh…it could be worse. If I get a lackey out of this debacle, not the end of the world.
Going back to the clusterf*ck that is this week though…I think I’ve entered the twilight zone.
To start, I’m being told I have to defend my title against Hollywood Unhinged. Now, mind you I’m not entirely worried about them per se, but they’re coming off of back to back humiliating shows. We here in the KKK haven’t made life particularly easy on them. And now they’re invoking their championship clause rematch. The only advantage to this match being sprung on me and Tugarin is Chase Landon and Jayson Garrett have had little time to recover mentally from their traumatic title loss. Now, granted, Chase Landon’s f*cked in the head anyways but, I mean, the kid can still throw a punch and that makes him dangerous to me. To us.
We will show no mercy. We will retain. You will fail. Good riddance.
Then, in an act of pure stupidity, Donnie’s decided to take on his former cohort, WFWF Champion Drakz. Now, facing Drakz is, in short, a death sentence for a normal every day person. I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re ‘Weekend at Bernie’-ing Shapiro right now. He hit the brick wall known as champ back at Black Friday and has yet to even figure out how to walk around the wall. And poor Shapiro never even did anything wrong other than show up for work that day!
Now, imagine if you will what Drakz is going to do to someone who is NOT an athlete. Sure, DMK can make a crack rock disappear in Guinness record time…but that doesn’t exactly constitute an in ring competitor. Now that’s going to be hard enough to overcome. Let’s look at the Tale of the Tape.
Donnie Monty Kent: 4’1", 80lbs.
Isaac ‘Drakz’ Cray: 6’3", 226lbs.
Yeah. I’m going to leave that there.
But we’re in Seattle, baby! The worst city in the world, where the only good thing they have given the world is the SuperSonics who didn’t even want to stay here!
But hey, anything can happen, right?
Wrong.
This week is going to be the biggest test the KoKaine Konspiracy has faced. Tag titles, Ante’s full blown initiation and Donnie trying to survive at all costs. We may bend, but we will not break.
Because I will not allow Drakz, Chase Landon and Jayson Garrett to break us.
Breaking us is my job.
But there’s a storm brewing. One that I can’t ignore, and one that I’m going to have to ride the wind in…despite my desperation to bring the KKK to its knees and be done with this nonsense.
But maybe that storm is going to bring me a bit of luck and give me what I want a little sooner than expected.
We ARE in Seattle after all. And as much as I hate this city, there is something in it that I want. Desperately.
F*ck it.
F*ck everyone.
Just gotta keep livin’ in the faux Gangster’s Paradise.
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