Al!
League Member
He watched as Aidan Campbell slept. It was remarkable how much you could learn by watching small glimpses of the subconscious at work. His pupil had dreams, not that it mattered much for most; everybody has dreams. This was different.
Mike Randalls had spent the better part of his life working to ensure that he would be a machine. He had an advantage over most. His body healed fast and well. Many had tried to explain why over the years. There were statements of a heightened metabolism from people who supposedly knew everything. When blood tests came back to refute that theory the lines went on and on. The bottom line is Mike was different and he was smart enough to know when people who were different came along.
Aidan was different. He wasn’t indestructible. He wasn’t known for healing quickly. The truth is he was nothing like Mike. If you dropped him on his head he’d probably fold up like a lawn chair. What he had though was an amazing spatial sense and reaction time. It was in how Campbell moved and all Randalls had to go on was that his pupil had night terrors. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He had a feeling that something in his psyche made him more susceptible to injury. Two lines stood out to him from medical records that Campbell carried in his car.
“Lack of quality sleep will potentially cause long term damage to the mental and physical well-being of the patient. Recommend 500mg of Diphenhydramine at time of rest to ensure 8-10 hours of sleep.”
Campbell had seen a psychotherapist about a year after his accident due to issues with recovery, amnesia and “visions”. What the hell that meant was anyone’s guess. His guess was that the “visions” were somehow related to what made this kid tick. He’d been with him for three weeks. Aidan was a walking bruise and an enigma. Mike couldn’t help but whisper to himself in perhaps a bit of aggravation as Campbell grimaced.
“What wolf lies chained in your head?..”
Fade to the scene of a rolling hill, a meadow deep with green and a foreboding grey sky. As he walked over the ridge to the small valley below a funeral proceeding comes into view. Campbell finds himself walking down center aisle of a group of faceless men and women listening to the sermon of a closed casket. As he approaches the pastor reveals himself to the form of Carlo Castinetti in full pastoral garb.
The crowd seems uninterested in the appearance of Campbell and as he sits on a plain white garden chair the sermon issues itself with an echoing force that fills the valley.
“For though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death. I fear no evil.”
“For I have my rod at my hand and an unfaithful son-in-law who forced my daughter into a convent for his own benefit…”
“He who loves for his own purpose”
“He who lives only at the behest of fate and the will of Satan!”
“He who sits among us to mock us and the memory of the departed.”
“He who kills without remorse!”
“He who by the hand of God shall die before ever amounting to that which he wants most.”
The voice of Shane Southern is heard just slightly over Campbell’s ear from behind.
“Ya hear that buddy. I’m going to take the NFW Title, tha Ultratitle, and when I’m done, I’m going to go home and **** the living hell out of your ***** Vivian. She likes it, you know she does.”
Campbell spins and finds an empty chair as the faceless stand to flank him. The sermon continues as the Anarchy Cross jacket begins to float from his frame. He stands without the weight of his past, the scars across his chest still visible from the car accident.
“You see, the man who killed the departed cares for no one but himself.”
“Not his wife, Not his lover, Not anyone who doesn’t serve his needs.”
“His is the fulfillment of temptation…”
“His is the pursuit of desire..”
“His is the acceptance of all accolades without shame”.
The voice of Hornet can be heard whispering over his shoulder.
“You better be ready kid. I’m the real-deal. I’m the icon. Step in the ring with me and there won’t be a question that I’ll finish what the accident started. You’re nothing. You’re weak.”
A hand curls to a fist, a man’s rage spills and as Campbell pivots to deliver a blind shot straight to the mouth of his offender he finds air. His body’s momentum leans him into a momentary flash frame as he finds himself sprawled over the casket. The mahogany veneer was surprisingly warm and disturbingly inviting. He was afraid to look up but compelled by an unknown force to raise his head.
“Here lay the body of Vivian Ryconik, the common whore who stole my daughter’s life.”
Campbell looked and indeed did see the body of Vivian. His eyes opened as wide as saucers as he reached out to touch her face. Seconds would pass as shadows engulfed the casket. All he could hear were the fading words of Southern, Hornet and Castinetti’s sermon.
What came next was to be the final straw.. Castinetti, upon the wings of whatever demons he possessed was now pressed strongly against Aidan’s body, he couldn’t move and as a cacophony of laughter filled the room there was only one sentence left to a sermon that would prove to echo across time.
“and now.. I’m going to cut your balls off.”
The smell of urine filled the room as Campbell started up. He was coiled within sweat-loaded sheets and obviously in distress. Seconds passed as he composed himself. He was still covered in bruises from the Mike Randalls experience, but the boys were still where they had always been. He stood, pushing himself away from the mess he’d made. He had issues and he knew it. As the lights came on he placed his head neatly within the comfort of cupped hands.
From across the room a different voice was heard, this one much more familiar than it was just a month ago. Randalls had seen enough.
“Kid, you and I need to talk.”:
FTB
To be continued: Next up: Nike and Wrestlebowl (estimated rp date: Monday 11 October)
Mike Randalls had spent the better part of his life working to ensure that he would be a machine. He had an advantage over most. His body healed fast and well. Many had tried to explain why over the years. There were statements of a heightened metabolism from people who supposedly knew everything. When blood tests came back to refute that theory the lines went on and on. The bottom line is Mike was different and he was smart enough to know when people who were different came along.
Aidan was different. He wasn’t indestructible. He wasn’t known for healing quickly. The truth is he was nothing like Mike. If you dropped him on his head he’d probably fold up like a lawn chair. What he had though was an amazing spatial sense and reaction time. It was in how Campbell moved and all Randalls had to go on was that his pupil had night terrors. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He had a feeling that something in his psyche made him more susceptible to injury. Two lines stood out to him from medical records that Campbell carried in his car.
“Lack of quality sleep will potentially cause long term damage to the mental and physical well-being of the patient. Recommend 500mg of Diphenhydramine at time of rest to ensure 8-10 hours of sleep.”
Campbell had seen a psychotherapist about a year after his accident due to issues with recovery, amnesia and “visions”. What the hell that meant was anyone’s guess. His guess was that the “visions” were somehow related to what made this kid tick. He’d been with him for three weeks. Aidan was a walking bruise and an enigma. Mike couldn’t help but whisper to himself in perhaps a bit of aggravation as Campbell grimaced.
“What wolf lies chained in your head?..”
Fade to the scene of a rolling hill, a meadow deep with green and a foreboding grey sky. As he walked over the ridge to the small valley below a funeral proceeding comes into view. Campbell finds himself walking down center aisle of a group of faceless men and women listening to the sermon of a closed casket. As he approaches the pastor reveals himself to the form of Carlo Castinetti in full pastoral garb.
The crowd seems uninterested in the appearance of Campbell and as he sits on a plain white garden chair the sermon issues itself with an echoing force that fills the valley.
“For though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death. I fear no evil.”
“For I have my rod at my hand and an unfaithful son-in-law who forced my daughter into a convent for his own benefit…”
“He who loves for his own purpose”
“He who lives only at the behest of fate and the will of Satan!”
“He who sits among us to mock us and the memory of the departed.”
“He who kills without remorse!”
“He who by the hand of God shall die before ever amounting to that which he wants most.”
The voice of Shane Southern is heard just slightly over Campbell’s ear from behind.
“Ya hear that buddy. I’m going to take the NFW Title, tha Ultratitle, and when I’m done, I’m going to go home and **** the living hell out of your ***** Vivian. She likes it, you know she does.”
Campbell spins and finds an empty chair as the faceless stand to flank him. The sermon continues as the Anarchy Cross jacket begins to float from his frame. He stands without the weight of his past, the scars across his chest still visible from the car accident.
“You see, the man who killed the departed cares for no one but himself.”
“Not his wife, Not his lover, Not anyone who doesn’t serve his needs.”
“His is the fulfillment of temptation…”
“His is the pursuit of desire..”
“His is the acceptance of all accolades without shame”.
The voice of Hornet can be heard whispering over his shoulder.
“You better be ready kid. I’m the real-deal. I’m the icon. Step in the ring with me and there won’t be a question that I’ll finish what the accident started. You’re nothing. You’re weak.”
A hand curls to a fist, a man’s rage spills and as Campbell pivots to deliver a blind shot straight to the mouth of his offender he finds air. His body’s momentum leans him into a momentary flash frame as he finds himself sprawled over the casket. The mahogany veneer was surprisingly warm and disturbingly inviting. He was afraid to look up but compelled by an unknown force to raise his head.
“Here lay the body of Vivian Ryconik, the common whore who stole my daughter’s life.”
Campbell looked and indeed did see the body of Vivian. His eyes opened as wide as saucers as he reached out to touch her face. Seconds would pass as shadows engulfed the casket. All he could hear were the fading words of Southern, Hornet and Castinetti’s sermon.
What came next was to be the final straw.. Castinetti, upon the wings of whatever demons he possessed was now pressed strongly against Aidan’s body, he couldn’t move and as a cacophony of laughter filled the room there was only one sentence left to a sermon that would prove to echo across time.
“and now.. I’m going to cut your balls off.”
The smell of urine filled the room as Campbell started up. He was coiled within sweat-loaded sheets and obviously in distress. Seconds passed as he composed himself. He was still covered in bruises from the Mike Randalls experience, but the boys were still where they had always been. He stood, pushing himself away from the mess he’d made. He had issues and he knew it. As the lights came on he placed his head neatly within the comfort of cupped hands.
From across the room a different voice was heard, this one much more familiar than it was just a month ago. Randalls had seen enough.
“Kid, you and I need to talk.”:
FTB
To be continued: Next up: Nike and Wrestlebowl (estimated rp date: Monday 11 October)