Post by vimac on Nov 21, 2011 20:34:50 GMT -6
"November 20th, 2011. I have been following the habits and movements of one Disdonn. Real name unknown, birthplace unknown, age is suspected to be between 18 and 30. It has been nearly a month since I was first put on his case as a shadow. He appears to be looking for something, for someone. From what I can surmise, this man has been hired by nCw on good faith, though his mental capacity is apparently lacking the understanding of anything greater than a child. Yet there is a magnificent creativity and intellect within that shelter of child-like raw emotion. I must keep a comfortable distance for now, until I learn more about his habits in order to stay safe around this individual. In my profession it is best to be careful, as to not fall into the madness that follows some of these more twisted individuals."
The running water of a small stream is heard. Trees are sparse but grass is everywhere, dying of thirst and frost. The large man in the charcoal jumper kneels beside a running stream of water, and washes his dirty, bloodied hands in the stream. Steam leaves his mouth as his breath hits the chilled air. To the rear of Disdonn, a deer lie in the grass, bloody and lifeless. The neck is twisted and there is a large gash in the side. The silent man moves awkwardly from the water to the animal. A knife is produced from the ground next to the deer, and he begins to gut and clean the animal while speaking to himself.
Running water,
Flowing blood.
Fresh meat to feed the wolves.
He presses his face into a bit of flesh that has been skinned, and lifts the mask just enough to bare his teeth and take a bite of raw venison. The blood drips as he chews, savoring the taste. He makes a pleasurable moan as he gulps down the fresh carcass of a meal.
Much better than spiders,
Never liked crawlies.
Venomous bugs,
Getting awful jollies.
This is the way the Match ends,
Not with a hand but a grave.
Disdonn raises himself above the deer’s body. A chuckle comes from the massive frame of the crazed feral wrestler. He points to the number on his shirt and laughs even harder.
Six men,
Six chances.
Five losers,
Five Victims.
A clown,
A Bob,
A Hammer,
A Jimmy,
And Jason.
Seeing all the fun,
Makes me wish to be a free mason.
Ring around the ropes,
Throwing into turnbuckles.
Ashes, Ashes, Atropine Overdose.
Disdonn grabs his head and screams, falling to his knees. He beats on himself with the long-nailed hands as static takes over. The camera turns to a room with a large dress-clad shadow in it. The light is behind the camera, but far enough away and dim enough where it is hard to tell who this is. The voice sounds feminine, but it is possible years of smoking has made that harder to distinguish.
My son will triumph. He has more honor in his little finger than these sinners. They all have sinned against the one true god. The one with blood on his overalls. The one who teaches us that sins are punished with brutal death at the hands of a knife. You can’t escape the fate that Disdonn brings, he only is trained to hurt and maim. He gets pleasure from pain, either his own or yours. That other clown, that Freak, he doesn’t know what real pain is, but he will. Everyone will look into the eyes of death and see Disdonn, before the three seconds and then they will be judged accordingly.
The shadow shifts and lays something on the ground. It is hard and metal and makes a large clang. There is also the sound of scraping.
The weapons you have in your wrestling arsenal aren’t enough to stop him. He cannot be stopped. Win or lose, he will press on. He will continue for he has a hunger for flesh, for pain, for blood. I raised him that way. He’s a good boy, he does just as his mother and his God dictate. I didn’t birth him in the cow barn for nothing. He was fed on the good book and evil little creatures, along with mother’s milk. You can never spoil a child, unless you spare the rod.
The woman kicks the object into view of the camera, and it appears to be a steel chair wrapped in barbed wire. There is flesh blood, along with what appears to be Disdonn’s hair in it, along with older rusty pieces of blood and flesh.
You have to remember to beat your children into submission, or they will never grow up to be anything but lazy slackers. I beat him until he became the messenger from God. Maybe if I beat him a little more, he’ll become God himself.
The woman cackles, and coughs. Static returns and we resume back where Disdonn is at the dead deer, feasting. The mask is lifted up a little, but not enough to fully show his whole face. This man lives behind the mask, lives within his prison garb. The stench of this unwashed heathen must be hard to bear. He gazes up at the camera, blood adorning his face and the mask, dripping onto his clothing.
Mother always said,
Eat little, grow little.
So I eat big,
Grow into a Giant.
Spiders and lizards,
Too small.
Deer and buffalo,
Make an Ox of me.
A clown,
Some men,
A hammer.
Hammer meet anvil.
Unstoppable force,
Meet Immovable Object.
I am immovable,
Sent by my God.
Mother says you are sinners.
And sinners shall be punished.
Honor to those who defend God’s word.
Honor to those who die in servitude.
Honor for mother.
Dishonor for you.
I hear them calling.
Calling…my name.
He runs into the forest, howling. The deer is soon met with many wolves who come to feast on the leftovers Disdonn gave them. The camera slowly fades to black, watching as the wolves come to eat.
The running water of a small stream is heard. Trees are sparse but grass is everywhere, dying of thirst and frost. The large man in the charcoal jumper kneels beside a running stream of water, and washes his dirty, bloodied hands in the stream. Steam leaves his mouth as his breath hits the chilled air. To the rear of Disdonn, a deer lie in the grass, bloody and lifeless. The neck is twisted and there is a large gash in the side. The silent man moves awkwardly from the water to the animal. A knife is produced from the ground next to the deer, and he begins to gut and clean the animal while speaking to himself.
Running water,
Flowing blood.
Fresh meat to feed the wolves.
He presses his face into a bit of flesh that has been skinned, and lifts the mask just enough to bare his teeth and take a bite of raw venison. The blood drips as he chews, savoring the taste. He makes a pleasurable moan as he gulps down the fresh carcass of a meal.
Much better than spiders,
Never liked crawlies.
Venomous bugs,
Getting awful jollies.
This is the way the Match ends,
Not with a hand but a grave.
Disdonn raises himself above the deer’s body. A chuckle comes from the massive frame of the crazed feral wrestler. He points to the number on his shirt and laughs even harder.
Six men,
Six chances.
Five losers,
Five Victims.
A clown,
A Bob,
A Hammer,
A Jimmy,
And Jason.
Seeing all the fun,
Makes me wish to be a free mason.
Ring around the ropes,
Throwing into turnbuckles.
Ashes, Ashes, Atropine Overdose.
Disdonn grabs his head and screams, falling to his knees. He beats on himself with the long-nailed hands as static takes over. The camera turns to a room with a large dress-clad shadow in it. The light is behind the camera, but far enough away and dim enough where it is hard to tell who this is. The voice sounds feminine, but it is possible years of smoking has made that harder to distinguish.
My son will triumph. He has more honor in his little finger than these sinners. They all have sinned against the one true god. The one with blood on his overalls. The one who teaches us that sins are punished with brutal death at the hands of a knife. You can’t escape the fate that Disdonn brings, he only is trained to hurt and maim. He gets pleasure from pain, either his own or yours. That other clown, that Freak, he doesn’t know what real pain is, but he will. Everyone will look into the eyes of death and see Disdonn, before the three seconds and then they will be judged accordingly.
The shadow shifts and lays something on the ground. It is hard and metal and makes a large clang. There is also the sound of scraping.
The weapons you have in your wrestling arsenal aren’t enough to stop him. He cannot be stopped. Win or lose, he will press on. He will continue for he has a hunger for flesh, for pain, for blood. I raised him that way. He’s a good boy, he does just as his mother and his God dictate. I didn’t birth him in the cow barn for nothing. He was fed on the good book and evil little creatures, along with mother’s milk. You can never spoil a child, unless you spare the rod.
The woman kicks the object into view of the camera, and it appears to be a steel chair wrapped in barbed wire. There is flesh blood, along with what appears to be Disdonn’s hair in it, along with older rusty pieces of blood and flesh.
You have to remember to beat your children into submission, or they will never grow up to be anything but lazy slackers. I beat him until he became the messenger from God. Maybe if I beat him a little more, he’ll become God himself.
The woman cackles, and coughs. Static returns and we resume back where Disdonn is at the dead deer, feasting. The mask is lifted up a little, but not enough to fully show his whole face. This man lives behind the mask, lives within his prison garb. The stench of this unwashed heathen must be hard to bear. He gazes up at the camera, blood adorning his face and the mask, dripping onto his clothing.
Mother always said,
Eat little, grow little.
So I eat big,
Grow into a Giant.
Spiders and lizards,
Too small.
Deer and buffalo,
Make an Ox of me.
A clown,
Some men,
A hammer.
Hammer meet anvil.
Unstoppable force,
Meet Immovable Object.
I am immovable,
Sent by my God.
Mother says you are sinners.
And sinners shall be punished.
Honor to those who defend God’s word.
Honor to those who die in servitude.
Honor for mother.
Dishonor for you.
I hear them calling.
Calling…my name.
He runs into the forest, howling. The deer is soon met with many wolves who come to feast on the leftovers Disdonn gave them. The camera slowly fades to black, watching as the wolves come to eat.
