Guest
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 |  Subject: It's time to make my mark  Thu May 31, 2012 11:38 pm | |
| The wind whistled through the cracks of the broken glass. Another low-down bar bathroom was where they had chosen to spend the better part of their evening. Even amongst the grime, they had very little care for hygiene when it came to cutting their line with near surgical precision, a peculiar contrast, all things considered. The girl among the two, punk clothes, torn, slides the vial back into her purse – not the most subtle place to hide it, but she didn’t seem to mind, given her current state of affairs, her makeup running from perspiration and her hair a miss. She leans forward, taking the line as quickly as possible, letting out an exasperated gasp as she throws her head back.
Her male company simply laughs in between sniffs, rubbing at his own white powdered nose. His dilated pupils dart around, trying to do anything to make the seconds not seem like an eternity, trying to block out the muffled sounds of drunken karaoke coming from only a few meters away. No one would disturb them. From the state of the surroundings, it was a miracle that even they had chosen such a place to take residence. He focuses in on a spot of dirt on his jeans, rubbing furiously at it with the ball of his wrist. The stain wins the day. Now it is the girl’s turn to laugh.
“What?” He asks, not too proud to allow a self-depredating, if slightly spaced out grin to appear on his face.
“You, you fucking idiot.” She responds in turn with another laugh, slumping back against the bathroom stall. “You look so stupid when you get all OCD like that.”
“Yeah?” He replies with a raised eyebrow. “Better than you, fucking space cadet. What day is it?”
“Whatever day it is,” she wispily replies, fanning her hands through the air in an attempt to seem poetic, exaggerating an expression that can only be described as ‘artistic’, “I am one day closer to being dead, and I choose to spend it off my fucking head. Check it out, I'm a poet.” The two laugh together in unison, each in their own dreary way.
“Good call, good call.” A long silence fills the air, the eeriness growing ever longer if only due to their inebriated states. The boy is the one to break it. “You are going to be there Sunday?”
“Fuck no,” she answers, crudely as ever. “You said yourself you can’t wait to get out of that shithole, why would I go back? Miguel isn’t with us, and Antonio’s probably fucking dead for all I know.”
“But are you going to be there, was my question.” A more stern approach. She tries to laugh it off, but she’s met with dead seriousness, which noticeably perturbs her.
“Well, shit, Beno. No, I’m not. Why?”
“Because I’d like you to be.” The answer is near instantaneous, and she’s taken aback. Thoughts rush through her head where before only sensations had. Sooner, rather than later, a cohesive thought begins to actually tape shape. Three simple letters. A repeat question, but no less relevant.
“Why?”
He grins. “Because I think you’ll get a kick out of watching Jonny bleeding all over the floor. No, scratch that, it’s because I want you to support the company and come and see some of the world’s tip-top performers in action.” He can’t keep up the facade for long, and it breaks into a mindless chuckle. “Why do you think?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. You tell me.”
Actions speak louder than words.
No sooner than she’s finished her sentence – near instantaneous from her perspective, she finds herself getting to know her partner in a way she never intended. Standing in stark contrast to the chilling breeze brushing against the pair of them, she finds a warm pair of lips nestled against her own; no, not nestled, pushing, and she feels inclined, instinctively, to push back.
Pushing turns to suckling. Suckling turns to a soft bite of the lower lip, and they part ways with a deep sigh. The pearly gates open, and his tongue storms the fortress. If some were to call him a prodigy of professional wrestling, then in tongue wrestling there was no equal. Even now, the shock of the moment had grasped it, and it was only once she realized what was happening that she closed her eyes and went with it.
Hands explored. His back, her waist, along her legs, backside, like blind men trying to identify each other by knowing the other in their entirety. He grasps softly at the bottom of her shirt, and she gasps softly into his mouth – a mental pause. What was she resisting for? Did she not want this? A sudden tenseness runs over her body – and no sooner than it relaxes, he accepts this as the green light. Her shirt is barbarically pulled over her head, and she feels a compulsion to return the favor, clawing at the buttons of his shirt like they were her mortal enemies whilst he simply kneels there, arms dangling at his side in a drunken stupor – smiling at her. Smiling for her. And she smiles back.
His torso revealed. The definition of untold potential, impressive all the more for his numerous vices; the artwork of the extensive tattoo work glistening as, even in the cold, he begins to sweat. His pants are unbuttoned as if in sequence, and the two find themselves locked in each other’s arms again. Masterfully, he goes for the strap of her brassiere, and it is discarded in mere seconds. A soft moan escapes the back of her throat, glancing down at her bared form. She’d like to say it was the cold that had her so firm, so at attention, if only to tease him as she thought she was so masterful at. But she couldn’t lie. Not to him.
It took but mere seconds, but the longing made it an eternity before the two of them were bare. They groan and writhe as their relationship consummates there on the floor, amongst the filth they considered themselves no different to. She cries out, his mouth exploring her, getting to know her, and she cradles his head as if his warmth were sustaining her.
“Oh God, Beno...”
“Don’t talk,” he grunts out himself, his own breath condensation in the cold, “Just...experience.”
The passion grows, and the two become the primary heat source of the entire room. Cries of ecstasy grow more frequent with each piston like gyration of the hips; a tattooed machine who was programmed to love just as well as it knew how to hate, and such a capability had been long demonstrated.
He suckles at her neck. Bites. Breaks the flesh. She doesn’t complain, her own fingernails digging into his toned shoulders, the jagged edges very nearly forever ruining the masterpiece tattooed into his person. A callous hand, a hand with the blood of dozens, if not hundreds, forever etched into its’ notches, takes her breast into its’ loving grasp, caressing her as if she were made of glass. It doesn’t last, and soon the strokes grow more firm, more vicious, kneading deeply into her. She doesn’t complain. She longs for it, accepting it with a long sigh of euphoria.
The more she moistens, the more of himself he accommodates within. Each gyration comes with its own little change on the formula, a hand grasping tightly at her buttocks with which to offer support. His legs buckle as he grows close, but she immediately clutches at his shoulder, both supporting him, and a warning that he shouldn’t dare falter now. He didn’t have long to go. Not long to go at all.
“Oh...oh God, Beno,” she cries out, “I-I’m going to—“
He whispers something. She doesn’t hear it.
Her climax arrives, and his in due course.
There they lay. Holding each other tightly. Breast to breast. Hip to hip. Mouth to mouth. The latter parts, and all she can do is sigh.
“Christ...Beno,” she purrs, “I lo—“
A hand lunges downwards, clutching tightly at her throat and seizing the word, forever trapped in her windpipe.
“You what?”
Her eyes widen, suddenly sobered up in an instant. She tries to finish her sentence, but the syllable is forever trapped, and all she can manage is a cough. His expression was...unimaginable. Like a child who had just been told that Santa Claus wasn’t real, and that one myth had shattered the very thing that prevented him from destroying everything around him.
“You love me, is that what you were about to say, Kelli?” He pulls backwards, forcefully ejecting himself from her lower regions and simply letting their combined fluids drip onto the floor beneath him. “That is what you were about to say, wasn’t it?”
The grip around her throat tightens, vice like, and like a rabbit in headlight, all she can do is plead with her eyes. He answers.
A fist raises, and comes slamming down into the center of her face. Nose cartilage falters but doesn’t give way. Milky blood begins trickling from her right nostril, with the left trailing behind. Her expression is of one who had taken a bullet, rather than a fist. She glares at him – praying it was a mistake, that his hand had somehow slipped. Praying for it. But all she sees are his teeth. He’s smiling at her. She’s not smiling back.
“How about now?” That same hand rises, and comes down again with similar force. The grip around her throat loosens, but she can’t take much relief in it, as all it allows her to do is cry out in pain. As the blow collides, a second comes as his knuckles roll off her cheek to make three in total. He mocks her, goads her.
“Do you still love me now, babes? Your feelings changed any?”
The blows keep coming in a never ending torrent. She makes no attempt to resist. How could she? She was so sure. She’d felt so vulnerable, and in an instant, he’d taken all of that away.
“How do you feel now, Kelli?”
He practically screams in her face.
“Do you feel betrayed? Like your whole fucking world just came crashing down around you?
” He raises his hand again.
“Watch out, Kelli!”
A punch.
“The sky is falling!”
Another punch.
Her eye is beginning to blacken. A laceration on her cheek trickles down onto the floor, joining paths with the ongoing torrent coming from her nose, which is in itself, becoming mixed in with the tragic cocktail of tears and running mascara. He grasps her by the hair, yanking her up to listen to his whispers. Even if the action provokes a yelp, she does her best not to let him hear her cry.
“Newsflash; I’m scum. And so are you. So were all of you. But you weren’t even of any use, were you?”
He pauses, glancing down at his own manhood, before starting to laugh to himself.
“Tell a lie. One use.”
He throws her head down against the floor, casually wandering over towards an open bathroom stall, the door long broken, perhaps for years. He whistles as he does his best to clean his lower regions off, making a repeated effort to try and flush the end result.
“Fucking public bathrooms, can’t rely on them, eh?”
Her reply is a soft whimper amongst coughs and nothing more.
He leaves her to herself, humming a pleasant tune to himself as he does his best to get dressed.
“Pity, you know. You had such a great pair of tits. The ass was getting a little cellulite heavy, but beggars can’t be choosers, especially when someone has the fucking munchies like you get, must have been coming any day now.”
He crouches down, opening her purse and removing the vial of cocaine. Tears begin to flow again, as she makes a futile effort to reach out and reclaim the one possession, the one vice she has of her own – but it’s too late. It’s already in his pocket.
“By the way,” he says to her, glaring at her down through his nose as he stands over her, triumphant in his most heinous assault. He pulls his jacket shut, kicking at the ground a few times to make sure his shoes are on correctly. “If I catch something from you. I’m putting you in the fucking ground, alright? We clear?”
No answer. He responds, in turn, to the silence, with a solid punt into the ribs.
“We clear?!”
“We’re clear!” She cries out, sobbing. “...We’re clear.”
“Cool. Cool.” And with that, he simply left her to it. Pace after pace, he pushed the door aside, humming that same merry tune to himself as he made his exit. The bar was still lively. Men enjoying their drinks and sharing stories of work and such. No one so much as batted an eyelid to him. And this was a man who could be World Heavyweight Champion in due time.
A sad excuse for a champion.
“Run me up a tab, Mark,” he called to the barkeep as he pushed the door to his escape open, “The lady will be paying.”
“Sure thing, Beno.” The barkeep replied.
And that was that. He was gone. He had a plane to catch. A crowd to wow.
Scene Two
Hours after leaving the bar, Beno is sitting on a park bench. As a small trickle of cars pass him by, the headlights illuminate him. With a cold grin upon his face, he rubs his knuckles. Slight discoloration is evident.
“This is it. This is the moment that everyone has been waiting for. Months have passed by as I strategically worked out my iron clad contract with the IWF. All of that has led to my debut match. I’ve watched the talent over the last few months. I’ve seen what they can do. Though to some it may seem impressive, the fact of the matter is I’ve seen it all before. There are men who claim to be the best in the world. There are others who tell anyone who will listen about a championship he won five years ago. And then there are others like myself who just don’t give a damn about any of that. I don’t need to go on about the things that I’ve accomplished. I’m not here to proclaim that I’m the best in the world. What I’ve done is nothing compared to what I’m about to do.”
As vehicles continue to pass Beno by, he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. As he opens the pack, he retrieves a lighter and a cigarette. While he puts the filter to his lips, he crumples the empty pack up and throws it into the garbage can. Cupping his hand over the light, he ignites it and takes a long slow drag. As the smoke fills the night sky, Beno exhales.
“Most men would be excited if they were given the opportunity that I have. To be given a chance to challenge for a championship belt is a dream that so many superstars have. Really it’s what separates the stars from the jobbers. Though the competitors in the back will soon realize that isn’t what I’m about. Winning championship belts is only a mere technicality in this business to me. It brings a sense of accomplishment. Nothing more.”
“Yet Tom Sykes seems to think differently. Winning a championship is all that concerns him. Tom thinks so highly of it that he resorts to middle school mockery instead of preparing himself. To him, I’m a joke. A geek with a comic book obsession. It’s quite funny really. While I admire your creativity, it will only get you so far. You see, I was never a fan of comic strips. In fact, when I was a child, I would use them for spit balls. I never had much of a humor. But that’s alright Tom. Maybe I can get a few laughs out of you when you’re squealing like a pig. It doesn’t matter to me what you think of my ring name. Hell I couldn’t give a fuck about what you think of anything. If you choose to mock me and underestimate me, that’s your call. You’re about to find out one way or another who just who I am Sykes. “
Beno takes another long drag from the cigarette before dropping it to the ground. He stamps it out with the hell of his shoe as he exhales.
My role in Natural Law will be revealed soon enough. Why it wasn’t revealed to you Sykes is of no concern to me. Though you call me pathetic, you’ll soon come to see that I am a man that you don’t want to cross. Along with Dice, you will be the first of many to fall by my hands. But you certainly will not be the last.
The scene fades to b lack. |
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