Post by thrashmetaldan on Jul 8, 2012 7:49:45 GMT -6
The man’s head kick came in three inches too high...
DUCK! RIGHT LEG SWEEP! AXE KICK TO CHEST!
Damien heard the air rush out of his lungs.
FOLLOW UP! MOUNT! STRIKE!
His training partner groaned, obviously barely remaining unconscious.
OPENING! TRANSITION! ARMBAR!
He was moving with an added intensity today. Conditioning would be of the essence. Grave Digger was a powerful foe. The enemy would be stronger now. Larger. More determined. He needed to be relentless...ruthless.
CRACK!
Damien hadn’t heard the cries for mercy. There was no man in the ring with him. There was an amorphous, man-shaped thing. Something void of reality and substance. This object didn’t deserve the mercy it craved. What had it done to earn it? It thought a few minutes in the ring with Damien for $200 was reasonable.
He smiled.
Let the object decide if it was worth more now.
Crane’s voice echoed through the gym as he climbed into the ring.
“Get him to the hospital. His arm is broken. Tell him our insurance will cover it.”
Two large men hopped up to carry the cretin, (was it’s name Bradley?), away. Damien thought he recognized them as other athletes training here under Crane, but it was impossible to tell. They didn’t “warrant attention” as Anthony would say.
He chuckled absentmindedly.
“Tell me, Damien: why did you finish the submission? He obviously couldn’t defend. He was tapping as violently as his state would allow him to. You had won.”
“Psh! What?!? Do you forget so readily, old man?” He stood to emphasize his point. “This is a lesson you’ve already instilled! On the first day of our training, no less! But if your senility means you require a refresher, I’ll oblige. He was tapping, but a submission doesn’t end a match. A referee or a stretcher ends a match. Have you gone completely daft at long last? Or has my expertise finally erased my need for you?”
With that last sentence, Damien had leaned in close to Crane’s face. Close enough to punctuate the implication with a small spray of spittle. Before Damien could move any closer, however, the massive trainer of the The Gauntlet seized him by his long hair.
MOVE! REACT...too late.
A knee struck, dropping him immediately. Damien knew how to take a hit, but it was so swift he could never have defended it. And Crane had 6 inches of height, 70 lbs. of raw muscle, and 30 years of experience on him. The brutality and execution of the blow was flawless. Even as it was dealing it’s damage to him, he couldn’t help but have a moment of admiration.
RISE! ATTA...beaten to the punch again.
Crane once again grabbed him by hair before he could react, this time, yanking him up by it. As he was lifted up, he saw the small pool of blood that had quickly formed from his leaking nose. He began to panic.
“How dare you strike me?!?! I will end y-arggggg!!”
It was the simplest thing in the world for Crane to sink in the standing guillotine. Like playing with a rag doll. The savagery of the sudden strike had completely disoriented him. There was no time to regather himself. No shelter. No one around to help.
ROTATE...STrike...slip...
He felt his grip on the waking world slipping as the hold continued for what felt like minutes. Or days. He began to tap.
“Damien Vincent! Submissions don’t end matches! Referees and stretchers end matches! There is no referee here! You will defend yourself, or DIE!”
DIE?!? One final moment of consciousness. Damien punched the larger man in the groin as hard as he was capable. He heard a yell, and the hold loosened a bit. KILL! He bit down. As hard as his jaw muscles would allow him. Warm fluid filled his mouth and Crane released him. Damien immediately ran to grab the ring bell. The nearest hard object he could find. KILL! He bashed the man as hard as he could. KILL! Again. KILL! Again. KILL!
At last the giant form of his trainer collapsed before him.
“I will rip the still beating heart from your chest and devour it in front of you while you still draw breath! I’ll rip this facility apart with my bare hands and bury you in the rubble! What in the bloody hell do you think you were doing!!! I should put you out of your pathetic misery right here! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I am the apex of warriors! And you...a wretched, washed up piece of filth like you thinks you have the right to strike me? Ha! If only destroying you wouldn’t be doing you a favor, I would put you beneath my boot right now and crush you like the insect you are! SPEAK, CRANE!”
Under the blood, though he sat on his knees, muscles quivering, his adopted father smiled up at Damien.
“You’re nearly ready to win, you know. If you bring that to the ring, you just might not piss yourself when The Grave Digger walks in. Perhaps if you could work up the nerve to finish the job against me one of these days, you might actually have grown the stones to capture a title.”
Damien threw the bell against the wall in rage. He screamed at the top of his lungs. His wrath was so intense that he began to shed tears. He began punching the man again. When he finally stopped, Crane Vincent’s face was a bloody mess. Still, as he lay there, he found the strength to spit. Then he began to pull himself by the ring ropes.
“20 laps around the gym. 100 pushups. 200 crunches. 15 minutes on the speed bag. Then go home. I’m going to go wash your stink off me.”
As he lay there, breathing heavily, trying to get his legs back under him, his mind continued to shout at him. The thunder of the drums was deafening. And the dogs of war were barking again.
KILL! KILL! KILL!
Damien wanted to find something, (or someone), else to vent all the remaining hatred he had stored up. But no. This was important. He would never have another chance to leave a lasting first impression. This would prove to the USPW what sort of being they had on their hands. He would need all of it. He would let it simmer and seethe.
He walked out of the ring and into the locker room. After cleaning off all the blood, both his and his “father’s”, he stood in front of a mirror for a few moments, examining himself. Then, he began twitching.
“So, they call this man a monster? Ha! The worms think they understand the depths of monstrosity?!? They have no idea what they will have to reckon with. I am Damien Vincent. I am the slayer of heroes. The apex of warriors!”
He turned around and walked back out to the ring, pointing to it as if he saw someone there.
“I bring the ascension of glory, Grave Digger! You cannot hope to comprehend the terrible will that opposes you! A cold wind blows from hell, and I am it’s bearer! At Freedom... you will see a monster. And neither your so called friends, nor the cretins that cheer for you, nor the hand of Fate itself will abate me!”
With that, he struck the ring post with his already bruised fist in a fit of crazed wildness. Looking it over, his face twisted in disgust. He shouldn’t have done that. But it would be fine. He still had more rage than he would need left over.
He began the 20 laps Crane had ordered.
DUCK! RIGHT LEG SWEEP! AXE KICK TO CHEST!
Damien heard the air rush out of his lungs.
FOLLOW UP! MOUNT! STRIKE!
His training partner groaned, obviously barely remaining unconscious.
OPENING! TRANSITION! ARMBAR!
He was moving with an added intensity today. Conditioning would be of the essence. Grave Digger was a powerful foe. The enemy would be stronger now. Larger. More determined. He needed to be relentless...ruthless.
CRACK!
Damien hadn’t heard the cries for mercy. There was no man in the ring with him. There was an amorphous, man-shaped thing. Something void of reality and substance. This object didn’t deserve the mercy it craved. What had it done to earn it? It thought a few minutes in the ring with Damien for $200 was reasonable.
He smiled.
Let the object decide if it was worth more now.
Crane’s voice echoed through the gym as he climbed into the ring.
“Get him to the hospital. His arm is broken. Tell him our insurance will cover it.”
Two large men hopped up to carry the cretin, (was it’s name Bradley?), away. Damien thought he recognized them as other athletes training here under Crane, but it was impossible to tell. They didn’t “warrant attention” as Anthony would say.
He chuckled absentmindedly.
“Tell me, Damien: why did you finish the submission? He obviously couldn’t defend. He was tapping as violently as his state would allow him to. You had won.”
“Psh! What?!? Do you forget so readily, old man?” He stood to emphasize his point. “This is a lesson you’ve already instilled! On the first day of our training, no less! But if your senility means you require a refresher, I’ll oblige. He was tapping, but a submission doesn’t end a match. A referee or a stretcher ends a match. Have you gone completely daft at long last? Or has my expertise finally erased my need for you?”
With that last sentence, Damien had leaned in close to Crane’s face. Close enough to punctuate the implication with a small spray of spittle. Before Damien could move any closer, however, the massive trainer of the The Gauntlet seized him by his long hair.
MOVE! REACT...too late.
A knee struck, dropping him immediately. Damien knew how to take a hit, but it was so swift he could never have defended it. And Crane had 6 inches of height, 70 lbs. of raw muscle, and 30 years of experience on him. The brutality and execution of the blow was flawless. Even as it was dealing it’s damage to him, he couldn’t help but have a moment of admiration.
RISE! ATTA...beaten to the punch again.
Crane once again grabbed him by hair before he could react, this time, yanking him up by it. As he was lifted up, he saw the small pool of blood that had quickly formed from his leaking nose. He began to panic.
“How dare you strike me?!?! I will end y-arggggg!!”
It was the simplest thing in the world for Crane to sink in the standing guillotine. Like playing with a rag doll. The savagery of the sudden strike had completely disoriented him. There was no time to regather himself. No shelter. No one around to help.
ROTATE...STrike...slip...
He felt his grip on the waking world slipping as the hold continued for what felt like minutes. Or days. He began to tap.
“Damien Vincent! Submissions don’t end matches! Referees and stretchers end matches! There is no referee here! You will defend yourself, or DIE!”
DIE?!? One final moment of consciousness. Damien punched the larger man in the groin as hard as he was capable. He heard a yell, and the hold loosened a bit. KILL! He bit down. As hard as his jaw muscles would allow him. Warm fluid filled his mouth and Crane released him. Damien immediately ran to grab the ring bell. The nearest hard object he could find. KILL! He bashed the man as hard as he could. KILL! Again. KILL! Again. KILL!
At last the giant form of his trainer collapsed before him.
“I will rip the still beating heart from your chest and devour it in front of you while you still draw breath! I’ll rip this facility apart with my bare hands and bury you in the rubble! What in the bloody hell do you think you were doing!!! I should put you out of your pathetic misery right here! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I am the apex of warriors! And you...a wretched, washed up piece of filth like you thinks you have the right to strike me? Ha! If only destroying you wouldn’t be doing you a favor, I would put you beneath my boot right now and crush you like the insect you are! SPEAK, CRANE!”
Under the blood, though he sat on his knees, muscles quivering, his adopted father smiled up at Damien.
“You’re nearly ready to win, you know. If you bring that to the ring, you just might not piss yourself when The Grave Digger walks in. Perhaps if you could work up the nerve to finish the job against me one of these days, you might actually have grown the stones to capture a title.”
Damien threw the bell against the wall in rage. He screamed at the top of his lungs. His wrath was so intense that he began to shed tears. He began punching the man again. When he finally stopped, Crane Vincent’s face was a bloody mess. Still, as he lay there, he found the strength to spit. Then he began to pull himself by the ring ropes.
“20 laps around the gym. 100 pushups. 200 crunches. 15 minutes on the speed bag. Then go home. I’m going to go wash your stink off me.”
As he lay there, breathing heavily, trying to get his legs back under him, his mind continued to shout at him. The thunder of the drums was deafening. And the dogs of war were barking again.
KILL! KILL! KILL!
Damien wanted to find something, (or someone), else to vent all the remaining hatred he had stored up. But no. This was important. He would never have another chance to leave a lasting first impression. This would prove to the USPW what sort of being they had on their hands. He would need all of it. He would let it simmer and seethe.
He walked out of the ring and into the locker room. After cleaning off all the blood, both his and his “father’s”, he stood in front of a mirror for a few moments, examining himself. Then, he began twitching.
“So, they call this man a monster? Ha! The worms think they understand the depths of monstrosity?!? They have no idea what they will have to reckon with. I am Damien Vincent. I am the slayer of heroes. The apex of warriors!”
He turned around and walked back out to the ring, pointing to it as if he saw someone there.
“I bring the ascension of glory, Grave Digger! You cannot hope to comprehend the terrible will that opposes you! A cold wind blows from hell, and I am it’s bearer! At Freedom... you will see a monster. And neither your so called friends, nor the cretins that cheer for you, nor the hand of Fate itself will abate me!”
With that, he struck the ring post with his already bruised fist in a fit of crazed wildness. Looking it over, his face twisted in disgust. He shouldn’t have done that. But it would be fine. He still had more rage than he would need left over.
He began the 20 laps Crane had ordered.