Post by magnificent on Mar 26, 2017 21:05:39 GMT -5
Matters of Severity, Part I
The Sons of Swag
The Sons of Swag
~~Monday, March 6th, 2017~~
Boots crunch down on underbrush, the snap of twigs and ruffle of leaves the only sound on a cold morning. The man in the black trench coat cares not for how much noise he makes in the forest; after all, the person living there knows he is there. There is no hiding in this place, his home, no pretending to be anything but a trespasser. The man stops and turns, grey blue eyes looking off into the distance. He can still see the top of the spire that is part of Lacklan Manor, an actual castle in the middle of Maine.
“Fuckin’ crazyass.”
The man’s voice is rough and low. Much like his eyes, eyes lined with red peering from deep, dark circles, his voice seems somewhat hollow. That voice is strained, as if it has been put through the grinder of a hard life, even more harsh by the serenity of the cold morning. His thoughts drift back to just an hour before when he sat on a balcony on that spire, sitting at a table and sharing a pot of tea with his goddaughter, the infamous Vampire of Lacklanland. Did anyone still by that schoolgirl shit? People in #FSociety had finally started to figure it out, that the girl was an albino, but the man would not be surprised if some moron or another still thought she was a bloodsucker. A rare smirk comes to the man’s face as he recalls that he, himself, was the one who started the whole vampire nonsense. He still called her Fangs now and again.
The man in the trench coat turns back towards the path he was following. Deeper and deeper into Lacklanland forest he goes, gloved hands pulling the coat title to fight off the chilly wind. It was not as strong as it might be, as there were times when a truly bitter cold could sap the strength of all Mainites in its path, but it was cold enough for the Southern California native. He had lived a good chunk of his life in the Lacklan compound, and even with Nordic blood running through his body, he was still accustomed to far hotter climates.
Gloved hand comes up to scratch a hairy cheek. Several days worth of stubble lines that cheek, nearly all the black turned to gray, even the infamously red goatee a forest of gray. It seemed to him that there were more gray hairs in his beard than trees in this very forest. It had been a very long couple of years, and the past six months made the rest seem like but a dream. He had allowed himself to become wholly consumed by something...someone...and it had cost him dearly.
Feet encased in Doc Marten boots continue down that path into the Lacklanland Forest, to a brother lost in sadness, to a conversation he did not want to have, but must.
The smoke stack he had been walking towards, like the star of wonder guiding the three Kings, brings him to a clearing. Remnants of trucks litter the ground, evidence of being taken down by rough hacks if an axe, two neat piles of firewood lined up. A campfire lies in the center of a circle of stones, the smoke riding into the air, his guiding star. Two dogs lay on their haunches, both looking up lazily at the newcomer. Neither throws up a bark of warning, though. Neither knows him, have never met him, but something in the scent of the man in the trench coat tells them “brother.”
Sitting on a log by the fire, the dogs at his feet, is a mountain man. Thin with gnarled muscle, nearly as hard and knotted as the piles of wood, he has long hair and a wild beard, each dark with shots of gray. A large knife is in his hand and whittles away at a hunk of wood, the vision of the future piece still in his head.
“Skeet.”
The mountain man does not turn at the voice of the man in the black coat. He just keeps whittling, knife making practiced movements along the wood. The man in the coat takes a few more steps forward, his boots loud on the rocks.
“Skeeter.”
The mountain man still does not respond. The man in the coat takes a deep breath and steps into the circle, lowering himself down to a squat.
“Brother.”
The mountain man looks up. His brown eyes are old and lined with red, as if they had seen a lifetime of atrocities in a few short years. A twinkle of recognition sparkles to life.
“Bruther Tragik?”
The man in the trench coat smiles, but the smile doesn't reach his gray blue eyes.
“Yeah, man. It's me.”
Skeeter scratches his bearded chin with the edge of his knife.
“'ow long 'as it been?”
The man in the trench coat shakes his head, salt and pepper hair shaking into his eyes.
“Long time man.” He stands up and takes a seat on the long next to the mountain man. Skeeter is a good deal taller than him, but the man in the trench coat is nearly as wide as he is tall. At first glass he seems to be obese, but those that know him know that there is a surprising about of muscle underneath the fluff. Broad chest and tree trunk legs contain a deceptive strength.
“How have you been man? What have you been up to?”
Skeeter turns back to his carving.
“Litle this, litle tha’. Keepin’ tha ol’ man comf’t’ble.”
The man in the trench coat nods, his face dour. “The Old Man.” Old Man Japles. Jean-Paul Lacklan, the “Lacklan” in “Lacklan Forest” and “Lacklanland.” Late-stage cancer had taken the legendary wrestler to his sick bed, little more than a broken shell. He was far beyond modern medicine’s care, but Skeeter’s mountain man holistics had been able to at least take away the man’s pain in his final months.
“How is he doing?”
Skeeter shrugs, blade taking away a piece of wood as skillfully as any surgeon.
“As ‘ell ‘as he can, I s’pose. He stands as str’t as he can fer ‘is girl.”
“His girl.” The old man’s daughter. Skeeter was her protector, of sorts, her “wolf.” And the man in the trench coat was her godfather. That Vampire of Lacklanland, a professional wrestler in her own right, Sarah Selena Lacklan. He again looks over his shoulder and spies the spire rising above the treetops.
“Listen, I need to talk to you about something.” He pauses, looking back at Skeeter, but wary of trying to meet his eyes. “I need to fight Benny.”
Skeeter pauses his carving for a moment, but then expertly slices off another thin line.
“That don’ make no sense. Bruthers don’ fight. They ‘ug.”
The man’s face turns angry.
“They do when they have to, Skeeter. They do when they stop being brothers.”
Skeeter sets down his carving and turns to face the man, those dead eyes settling on him.
“And wut did ‘e do t’at woulda cause yer ire to rise lika momma badg’r wit’ ‘er back to the wall?”
“He slept with Zoe behind my back, Skeet. Right after we got annulled.”
Skeeter’s face scrunches into confusion. His eyes look around, as if searching for an answer. He finally shakes his head.
“Bruther Benny wouldnta done t’at, Bruther Tragik. T’at makes no sense.”
The man in the trench coat shakes his own head.
“That is what I thought too, man. But...well...its true. I drove her away when I dived into the Abyss, ya know? And when I poked my head out? I saw it. It happened. So now I need to make him pay the price.”
Skeeter shakes his head.
“T’ere hasta be anot’er reason. No way it happened like t’at. Wut did Bruther Benny say?”
“He hasn’t answered me, not straight. Just makes jokes. The whole ‘can neither confirm nor deny’ shit. And Zoe? She disappeared as soon as I crawled my way back into the land of the living. Seems like she just popped up to fuck Benny, probably just to piss me off, and then started shacking up with one of those 4CW dipshits. And then poof, gone. But I don’t need them to admit it, Skeet. I *know* what happened. I know why. I know when. Would rather not know how, mind you. But I know.
“And for this transgression? This bag of fucked up shit? Benny’s got to pay. Gonna take every dream of his, every hope he has ever had, and send them all down into the Abyss with a one-trip ticket. I just needed you to know what was going to happen. I am not looking for your approval, Skeet. I don’t want you picking sides. I just needed you to know.”
The man in the trench coat stands up and turns away, but Skeeter grabs his arm, forcing him to turn back around.
“T’ere ‘as to be anot’er way, Bruther.”
The man shakes his head and then looks directly into his friend’s eyes.
“What if it was the Strong Girl?”
Skeeter’s eyes go dark. The Strong Girl, his wife and mother of their unborn child, suddenly passed away last year. The scene of Skeeter waking up in the hospital after passing out, with Dexter, Zoe, Benny, and Sarah all in the room, faces full of tears, would haunt them all the rest of their lives. That event even led Skeeter to be here in this place: The elder Lacklan had taken care of all financial courtesies for the funeral, and Skeeter’s gratitude was displayed by him taking residence in the Lacklanland Forest and being there for the family.
“I'd skin ‘im alive.”
The man in the trench coat nods.
“I won’t do that. But I am going to hurt him, brother. I am going to hurt him...hurt him…”
His face darkens even more.
“I am going to make him hurt as much as he has hurt me. Even if it takes a lifetime of fighting him to do it.”
Dexter Severin turns from his brother and walks back down the path, headed towards destiny.
*****
I don’t ask for much in this business. I mean...shit...this business? It’s full of self-important douchebags, ya know? I mean...it has to be. You can’t be a nice guy and succeed. You can’t be a superhero and kiss babies and shit. Even fuckin’ Stacy is going to lose her smile some day. But research? That would be nice. Simple shit, right? Professional Wrestling 101, Lesson #7, right? Give a shit about your opponent and at least check out one or two things?
Apparently that is a bit too much work for Radford.
Hey BenMan: I thought this guy was supposed to be legit?
For fuck’s sake.
Yes...yes...Benny and I have ish. We have “heat,” as it were. But that is not going to stop me from kicking the everliving shit out of you, dude. Because that is what I do, no matter who is standing next to me or across from me. I fuck people up. I leave a trail of broken bodies covered in blood. Its kinda my thing.
You would know that if you bothered to do more than read a three-line synopsis of what is going around these parts. Because that is obviously what you did, ya know? My guess is that you had whichever 50-cent an hour amputee hooker you failed to get it up with lately watch some A-DUB-E promos and figuring out that “something” is up between me and Benny. I mean...shit...at *least* upgrade to the $1 an hour amputee hooker, man. If you are going to fail getting to full mast at least spend a little quan doing it, ya know?
And I get it, ya know? You have a bunch of wins in the company. You’re the dude that won the Alpha Cup. But, you’re also the dude who *barely* beat Anastasia last week. I mean...shit...she took you to the limit at Executive Action and you *barely* beat her in the overtime to get the Cup. And she’s just some chick with a stupid name, dude. Yeah yeah, she’s got a good record here and is a champ in other places. Whatever. You can *barely* beat some of the competition here and now you have to face Wrestling Fucking Royalty? You’re fucked, dude.
Because that is what I am, man. Yeah, I’ve got a lot of names. Sexiest this, manliest that, lots of awards. But the thing that matters most? The thing that is going to really fuck you up next week? It will be my second match in months. I got this punk kid in Seattle to worry about, some little shit that I am going to take down with two moves. But you? You...you I get to unload on.
See, I have a lot of pent up frustration. I have a lot of anger that is just *dying* to get unleashed on someone. And what sucks for you? Is that I hate cowboy hats. Like, loath them. I spent nine goddamn MONTHS in Texas, fighting for a bunch of dumbass hicks, Making Texas Great Again, and now I just want to knock off any stupid cowboy hat I see. Cannot wait to knock yours off.
One of the issues with you is that...I get it...you’re legit shit, right? But you’re not. Oh, I know that you *think* you are. Like, I get it. I really do. But the truth? The reality of the situation? All you have done is beat a few people who, in a bigger company, would be glorified curtain-jerkers. Now, I have nothing against the A-Dub-E, ya know? I’ve been watching this shit since the first show because of Benny! Like, the whole “Who the fuck is 13?!” and “What happened to 13?!” and “Where the fuck did Stoker go?!” and “Who in the flying fuck thought bringing in Stevenson was a good idea?!” stories were great. But I think that even the booking committee realizes that they are a very small fish, ya know? And if you are the best here? If you are the cream of the crop?
Shit, son. That must makes you the tallest midget.
So by all means, be happy being the tallest midget. Be happy being that dwarf amongst little people who gets laid based on the fact that he can reach the second shelf at Walmart without assistance. Good for you, buddy! You iz legit, yo! Imma go get you a cookie!
And believe you me: If the extent of your motivation for this match is either paying off a debt or getting a notch on your belt...if that is all you have going for you...you are royally fucked.
Hey Austin, you better listen to this part, too…
Actually...real quick…
I told you, Austin. Fuckin’ told you. Hope you enjoyed getting KO’d by the greatest super kick in the business. Told you not to fuck with me, man. All that money you have? All those investments you are so proud of? Your ability to swoop in and offer a deal like you’re fuckin’ Gaunt out of Needful Things and end up with more than someone bargained for? Doesn’t mean jack shit, son. Just means you hit the mat a little more rich than most when I hit the ring.
Seriously, I get it. Money. You’ve got it. But intelligence? Norancy? Those things you do not have. Even with all your money, you still don’t know jack shit about who or what I am, man. Want to say that I’m tired of my brother hogging the spotlight? That I just want people to notice me?
Good fuck.
I *created* Benny.
Seriously. When the guy met me? Just some dumbass daredevil kid breaking into the business. Thought doing stuff like riding his bike down a mountain for 27 straight minutes as a kickass way to instill fear into the hearts of his opponents. But after I brought him under my wing? After I showed him how to really get people to give a damn about you? That is when he had his best run in his career. That is when he did things like take down a hall of famer.
That is the power I have man. Do I make a shit ton of money? Nope. I make plenty, mind you. My autobiographies sell well and I do work for the Inferno Network. And I knock fuckers out cold every time I step into the ring, so my winner’s purse is always stocked. But I do something with that money. I send it off, invest it in something that matters. Not a portfolio. Not a cup and championship match I didn’t earn. What do I invest it in?
A fat camp.
Seriously.
A place where kids can go to...well...have a better shot at life than I did. A place where they can find loving teachers and mentors to help them with concepts in life I never had.
*That* is investment, Gale. *That* is what you do to get a dividend.
Well, that and Asian hookers and blow. Just about the rest of my money goes there.
Now! Back to that thing I wanted both of you impotent fucktards to hear:
Little known fact: The Sons of Swag have never been defeated when wrestling as a team.
Ever.
Has not happened.
Not gonna happen next Monday, either.
I want you two to think about this: Guys like me and Benny? We bring out the best in each other. Oh, we have our problems, that is for goddamn sure. And we’ll roll around on the ground and bloody each other up soon enough. I’ll extract that fuckin STEEP price from him in due time. But next week? You’ll have nothing on us. I jib and he jabs, ya know? Good ol’ Shake&Bake. What do you guys have? Selling off a title shot that you are going to lose, anyway? Great weapon there, guys.
B-Stev and I are a whole different deal. We trained together for months. Drank together. Won titles together. Shit, attended funerals together. When that bell rings, he and I are going to go right back to that zone that changes Texas forever.
The Sons of Swag.
One final thing for you two:
I am dedicating myself to fucking up my brother's career. What happened...it pulled me out of the Abyss, man. Pulled me out of the darkness I drove myself into. Dedicated to fucking him up...hurting him...crushing his dreams...swallowing his hope.
And I love him.
Jesus H. Christ...just imagine what I will do to a couple of people I don't even care about.
See ya around.