Post by adm on Feb 29, 2008 16:29:05 GMT -6
The morning is dark, and the fog outside grows thicker with every passing moment. The two who were here last night, are gone. The two that poisoned Prophet with their Nightshade tea. Where could they have gone? What could have happened to them? Prophet stands up and sees torn sheets of paper littering the floor. They form a path to the door, which has been left wide open. Impulsively he picks up the pieces and begins to read. The pages read like a broken piece of scripture from some cultist bible.
“…he has come, the one who granted us life. The one who gave us life from the darkness. He is “The Dark One”, he is our God. “The Dark One” giveth life, and so shalt he taketh away. The path to Paradise was laid that day, the day “The Dark One” created us. Out from the swamps of the native land, we crawled, freed from the oppression of damned Christianity. We were reborn, born as new men and women. We were his chosen people, chosen to come out from the darkness and into Paradise. He…”
Prophet flips over the piece of paper, and on the other side is a different scripture.
“Pain has given us strength, oh “Dark One”, the pain that makes us live. The pain that created the demons who haunt us, here in the foggy nights. It is here that we seek the everlasting life and Paradise. Soon, you will return to us, “Dark One”. Soon you shall come down from the Heavens and smite all the unbelievers with your flaming sword. You shall render all other faiths obsolete, and take us away to our Paradise. It was the year Eight Hundred Fifty Five that “The Dark One” saved us…”
Prophet, confused, speaks to himself aloud, “What kind of bull**** is this? Is this the “clarity and difference” those two creeps talked about?”
Prophet shakes his head, and walks over to the next piece of paper and reads it, first the front then the back.
“On the night of Thirteen Hours, he says he will return. The seven sacrifices’ ages add to 184, the holiest number next to Thirteen. The sacrifices, pure and unspoiled, will open the gate so that “The Dark One” can return to us once more. He says that it must be One Hundred and Fifty years from his coming that we can begin the ceremony. Though many of our faith don’t believe…”
“…save us from the dog demon. He barks at us every night, when the fog comes. That dreadful fog that smells sweet, but tastes bitter. The fog that makes the unbelievers minds wander into terrible rage. Sick rage, twisted rage, and it is in this rage that vengeful spirits can come to condemn the wicked. These demons lurk in the woods, and in the lakes, and on the streets…”
Continuing on he finds more and more pages of scripture, he passes through them, not really reading them as much as the first few. Beneath one of the papers is a map drawn in red over the writing. The map is crudely drawn, but it specifically points to a place three blocks away. The place it points to is “Grimm’s Pub”. Prophet is wary to go outside, knowing of the beasts that wander these streets. Prophet tucks the page away in a pocket, keeping it on him. What is it about this “Dark One” that makes the people of the town believe he is a God? Who is he? Where did he come from? More and more questions in this twisted town of Dwayberry.
Out the door we carefully follow Prophet, checking through the thick fog for shadows. He finds a piece of wood with nails in it, near the door. He picks it up, and begins walking toward the pub. The fog is thicker than before, and around us we hear the sound of dogs growling and the echoes of distant screams. We pick up pace, trying to outrun whatever may be coming at us from behind. Prophet looks back occasionally, his face not as afraid now as it has been before. He knows now where he is. He knows, or thinks he knows, what is in the fog. We come to the first intersection and three dog-like beasts rush past. We barely catch a glimpse of them, but they look like their heads open as one giant mouth, and they lack fur on their blue-gray skin. Prophet rushes through the street, continuing forward. He hears the dogs that passed us turn and rush toward us. Prophet stops, looks back, and picks up even more speed. Sprinting, now, down the fog-laden streets, we see rows of businesses now. The street signs mean nothing right now, only one sign is Prophet’s prerogative.
He stumbles, and falls. The beasts catch up to us, and as he rises to his feet one lunges. Prophet strafes to the left, avoiding him, but another manages to nip at the edge of his sleeve as it jumps. He swings the board and nail back, whaling hard into the side of one of their heads. He falls to the ground, bleeding, but his friends continue on. Prophet dodges another lunge and catches another dog in the chest. He sees that the first injured dog is getting back up, so he swings at it hard, tearing off half of its face.
“What the **** is going on,” Prophet says aloud, just before clubbing the other downed one to death. The third dog has disappeared; perhaps there was no third dog at all? “This is ****ing insane.” Prophet says to himself, “This is just ****ing nuts.”
He runs through the street, and comes to the sign he’s been looking for. On the building, the sign sways in the light wind, citing this is the pub, Grimm’s Pub. We quickly rush inside and Prophet locks the door. The bar is empty, much like the other. It appears that it hasn’t been touched in a couple days, but yet the lights are all on. He moves slowly, looking through the various booths and stools for any sign of life. Nothing, nothing at all. We hear the howling of some dog beasts outside, and begin to pray that the lock on the door holds. Prophet goes behind the bar, and searches for a clean glass. He finds one, plops it down and looks through the many bottles of booze behind him. It is obvious he needs a drink, though we haven’t a clue what time of day it is. Grabbing an unlabeled bottle of Scotch he pours it out into the glass.
“Insanity seems to be what this place is about. And now I wonder whether it’s another nightmare that I’ll wake up from, or just a hallucination.”
Prophet doesn’t have to wait long for his answer, as the bar around him quickly changes from the dingy Dwayberry Pub to an old pub somewhere in Phoenix. He is sitting on a stool in front of the bartender. He looks to his side, and sees that the board he was carrying with him wasn’t real. Everyone in the pub is looking at him, as perhaps they saw Prophet doing everything we saw him do, but in their pub. Frantically he pulls out his wallet and slides the barkeep a couple hundred-dollar bills and walks out of the pub.
Outside, he walks down the street; his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trench coat. The evening has set in, and all around him are people ready to party. Prophet, however, isn’t going to party. He walks a few blocks without saying a single word, he doesn’t have to. He’s seen his world go from nightmare to “reality” and doesn’t know what parts of what he saw were actually carried out in the “real world”. He turns into the hotel he’s staying at, so fast we can’t make out the name on the sign. He nods at the check-in clerk, pulling the key to his room out from his pockets. He slides through the door and into the room, into “safety”.
“I don’t understand what the hell happened, but I have bigger things to worry about this week. Insane as I may be, I still have this Pay Per View to think about…Sovereign. A place where my opponent last week is in the Main Event instead of defending his Xtreme Title against me. He is in the Coliseum, and of all the things he’s done in the last weeks to get injured, this is the one that will do the most damage to his already damaged body. Instead of my Xtreme Title shot, I get to face Legion…formerly known as Vertigo Dirtmurder. I face him in a tables match, a match where the only way to win is to break his body through a table. This is something I can do, and probably will do more. He’s come back from an injury at the hands of one Spike Kane, the man I seek to overthrow on his false-throne of God of Xtreme. And this tables match is just the place to show the world exactly how dangerous Dark Prophet can be.”
Prophet smirks, as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He inhales, letting out a plume of cancerous smoke. He knows they will eventually kill him, but it’s not easy to quit and Prophet doesn’t seem to want to. The cigarette reminds him what objective reality should look like. It is with this cigarette that he reaffirms that he is no longer in the nightmare that is Dwayberry, running from that Windigo. And as he takes another puff, the “old” Dark Prophet begins to spew out in his words.
“Twisting in the darkness I feel your flesh crawl with the very sound of my name, Legion. Like a knife pressed firmly against your throat, I instill a fear of death in you that no other word or man could ever imagine to possess. Your heart throbs faster and faster, skipping beat after beat as it futily tries to prepare you for what is to come. You know that at any moment the words that are spoken, like cuts of a knife, can kill you and cease the beat of your weak heart. You attempt to give off your façade, continuing to put forth a truth that is far from real. You continually squirm in your own skin, squirming at the thought of the pain that has wracked you over the past weeks and the weeks to come. You will wish you had never even met me. You will wish you had never met the TRUE God of Xtreme. You squirm even more as you look in the mirror, seeing the reflection of what is truth and what should be. You fear that which you will become, a crippled ex-wrestler with nothing to live for but the end of your pain at the moment of your death. You see your reflection taunting you, showing you the truth that you try so hard to hide. You are afraid, you are always afraid. For in the darkness where you twist and turn, I am waiting. I am the monster under your bed. I am the beast in your closet. I am the thing that should not be. I am the song with notes just out of key. I am the demonic roar of flame so black. I am the menace of moments long since passed. I am waiting, lurking, just above you, just behind you. Turn and you will see my face, staring through thousands of miles and an eternity of time. Turn and you will see the piercing glare that cuts you to your very soul. Turn and you will see that which you fear, that which is fear itself. Turn and you will see…ME! THE TRUE GOD OF XTREME!”
Prophet cackles like a wild hyena. His torso bounding like a bowl of nitroglycerin. He inhales another drag of his smoke before gesturing to the cameraman. The camera goes off, and the promo ends.
“…he has come, the one who granted us life. The one who gave us life from the darkness. He is “The Dark One”, he is our God. “The Dark One” giveth life, and so shalt he taketh away. The path to Paradise was laid that day, the day “The Dark One” created us. Out from the swamps of the native land, we crawled, freed from the oppression of damned Christianity. We were reborn, born as new men and women. We were his chosen people, chosen to come out from the darkness and into Paradise. He…”
Prophet flips over the piece of paper, and on the other side is a different scripture.
“Pain has given us strength, oh “Dark One”, the pain that makes us live. The pain that created the demons who haunt us, here in the foggy nights. It is here that we seek the everlasting life and Paradise. Soon, you will return to us, “Dark One”. Soon you shall come down from the Heavens and smite all the unbelievers with your flaming sword. You shall render all other faiths obsolete, and take us away to our Paradise. It was the year Eight Hundred Fifty Five that “The Dark One” saved us…”
Prophet, confused, speaks to himself aloud, “What kind of bull**** is this? Is this the “clarity and difference” those two creeps talked about?”
Prophet shakes his head, and walks over to the next piece of paper and reads it, first the front then the back.
“On the night of Thirteen Hours, he says he will return. The seven sacrifices’ ages add to 184, the holiest number next to Thirteen. The sacrifices, pure and unspoiled, will open the gate so that “The Dark One” can return to us once more. He says that it must be One Hundred and Fifty years from his coming that we can begin the ceremony. Though many of our faith don’t believe…”
“…save us from the dog demon. He barks at us every night, when the fog comes. That dreadful fog that smells sweet, but tastes bitter. The fog that makes the unbelievers minds wander into terrible rage. Sick rage, twisted rage, and it is in this rage that vengeful spirits can come to condemn the wicked. These demons lurk in the woods, and in the lakes, and on the streets…”
Continuing on he finds more and more pages of scripture, he passes through them, not really reading them as much as the first few. Beneath one of the papers is a map drawn in red over the writing. The map is crudely drawn, but it specifically points to a place three blocks away. The place it points to is “Grimm’s Pub”. Prophet is wary to go outside, knowing of the beasts that wander these streets. Prophet tucks the page away in a pocket, keeping it on him. What is it about this “Dark One” that makes the people of the town believe he is a God? Who is he? Where did he come from? More and more questions in this twisted town of Dwayberry.
Out the door we carefully follow Prophet, checking through the thick fog for shadows. He finds a piece of wood with nails in it, near the door. He picks it up, and begins walking toward the pub. The fog is thicker than before, and around us we hear the sound of dogs growling and the echoes of distant screams. We pick up pace, trying to outrun whatever may be coming at us from behind. Prophet looks back occasionally, his face not as afraid now as it has been before. He knows now where he is. He knows, or thinks he knows, what is in the fog. We come to the first intersection and three dog-like beasts rush past. We barely catch a glimpse of them, but they look like their heads open as one giant mouth, and they lack fur on their blue-gray skin. Prophet rushes through the street, continuing forward. He hears the dogs that passed us turn and rush toward us. Prophet stops, looks back, and picks up even more speed. Sprinting, now, down the fog-laden streets, we see rows of businesses now. The street signs mean nothing right now, only one sign is Prophet’s prerogative.
He stumbles, and falls. The beasts catch up to us, and as he rises to his feet one lunges. Prophet strafes to the left, avoiding him, but another manages to nip at the edge of his sleeve as it jumps. He swings the board and nail back, whaling hard into the side of one of their heads. He falls to the ground, bleeding, but his friends continue on. Prophet dodges another lunge and catches another dog in the chest. He sees that the first injured dog is getting back up, so he swings at it hard, tearing off half of its face.
“What the **** is going on,” Prophet says aloud, just before clubbing the other downed one to death. The third dog has disappeared; perhaps there was no third dog at all? “This is ****ing insane.” Prophet says to himself, “This is just ****ing nuts.”
He runs through the street, and comes to the sign he’s been looking for. On the building, the sign sways in the light wind, citing this is the pub, Grimm’s Pub. We quickly rush inside and Prophet locks the door. The bar is empty, much like the other. It appears that it hasn’t been touched in a couple days, but yet the lights are all on. He moves slowly, looking through the various booths and stools for any sign of life. Nothing, nothing at all. We hear the howling of some dog beasts outside, and begin to pray that the lock on the door holds. Prophet goes behind the bar, and searches for a clean glass. He finds one, plops it down and looks through the many bottles of booze behind him. It is obvious he needs a drink, though we haven’t a clue what time of day it is. Grabbing an unlabeled bottle of Scotch he pours it out into the glass.
“Insanity seems to be what this place is about. And now I wonder whether it’s another nightmare that I’ll wake up from, or just a hallucination.”
Prophet doesn’t have to wait long for his answer, as the bar around him quickly changes from the dingy Dwayberry Pub to an old pub somewhere in Phoenix. He is sitting on a stool in front of the bartender. He looks to his side, and sees that the board he was carrying with him wasn’t real. Everyone in the pub is looking at him, as perhaps they saw Prophet doing everything we saw him do, but in their pub. Frantically he pulls out his wallet and slides the barkeep a couple hundred-dollar bills and walks out of the pub.
Outside, he walks down the street; his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trench coat. The evening has set in, and all around him are people ready to party. Prophet, however, isn’t going to party. He walks a few blocks without saying a single word, he doesn’t have to. He’s seen his world go from nightmare to “reality” and doesn’t know what parts of what he saw were actually carried out in the “real world”. He turns into the hotel he’s staying at, so fast we can’t make out the name on the sign. He nods at the check-in clerk, pulling the key to his room out from his pockets. He slides through the door and into the room, into “safety”.
“I don’t understand what the hell happened, but I have bigger things to worry about this week. Insane as I may be, I still have this Pay Per View to think about…Sovereign. A place where my opponent last week is in the Main Event instead of defending his Xtreme Title against me. He is in the Coliseum, and of all the things he’s done in the last weeks to get injured, this is the one that will do the most damage to his already damaged body. Instead of my Xtreme Title shot, I get to face Legion…formerly known as Vertigo Dirtmurder. I face him in a tables match, a match where the only way to win is to break his body through a table. This is something I can do, and probably will do more. He’s come back from an injury at the hands of one Spike Kane, the man I seek to overthrow on his false-throne of God of Xtreme. And this tables match is just the place to show the world exactly how dangerous Dark Prophet can be.”
Prophet smirks, as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He inhales, letting out a plume of cancerous smoke. He knows they will eventually kill him, but it’s not easy to quit and Prophet doesn’t seem to want to. The cigarette reminds him what objective reality should look like. It is with this cigarette that he reaffirms that he is no longer in the nightmare that is Dwayberry, running from that Windigo. And as he takes another puff, the “old” Dark Prophet begins to spew out in his words.
“Twisting in the darkness I feel your flesh crawl with the very sound of my name, Legion. Like a knife pressed firmly against your throat, I instill a fear of death in you that no other word or man could ever imagine to possess. Your heart throbs faster and faster, skipping beat after beat as it futily tries to prepare you for what is to come. You know that at any moment the words that are spoken, like cuts of a knife, can kill you and cease the beat of your weak heart. You attempt to give off your façade, continuing to put forth a truth that is far from real. You continually squirm in your own skin, squirming at the thought of the pain that has wracked you over the past weeks and the weeks to come. You will wish you had never even met me. You will wish you had never met the TRUE God of Xtreme. You squirm even more as you look in the mirror, seeing the reflection of what is truth and what should be. You fear that which you will become, a crippled ex-wrestler with nothing to live for but the end of your pain at the moment of your death. You see your reflection taunting you, showing you the truth that you try so hard to hide. You are afraid, you are always afraid. For in the darkness where you twist and turn, I am waiting. I am the monster under your bed. I am the beast in your closet. I am the thing that should not be. I am the song with notes just out of key. I am the demonic roar of flame so black. I am the menace of moments long since passed. I am waiting, lurking, just above you, just behind you. Turn and you will see my face, staring through thousands of miles and an eternity of time. Turn and you will see the piercing glare that cuts you to your very soul. Turn and you will see that which you fear, that which is fear itself. Turn and you will see…ME! THE TRUE GOD OF XTREME!”
Prophet cackles like a wild hyena. His torso bounding like a bowl of nitroglycerin. He inhales another drag of his smoke before gesturing to the cameraman. The camera goes off, and the promo ends.