brusch
Main Event Caliber
Roleplaying thread for El Habanero v. "The Lost Cause" Victor Vacio
1000-word roleplay limit
No stacking allowed whatsoever
Roleplay deadline is Sunday, April 19 at 11:59pm Red Line time
SLAMTRACK 9: El Habanero v. Victor Vacio
- Thread starter brusch
- Start date
1000-word roleplay limit
No stacking allowed whatsoever
Roleplay deadline is Sunday, April 19 at 11:59pm Red Line time
BWade
Grandma Took Me Home
Causa Perdida, Part II (Let The Rain Begin)
Rolling static begins the video stream with digital glitches and bands of gray and black flickering across the frame. The feed struggles against the electronic diffusion to flash a few images of Victor Vacio in profile against a simple RLW backdrop. The feeds grip on the vertical and horizontal hold is tenuous at best allowing the image to skew left and right at random intervals.
“Every victory is empty.”
The screen clears to a less than stellar resolution with a light haze of digital noise dancing across the screen like a parasite struggling to maintain a grasp on its ailing host. Occasionally taking back the feed for a moment or two and distorting the image and audio; with lowered pitches and the zip and scratch of static bursts in sync with the warped view.
“The fall of darkness over the Red Line has begun.”
The feed momentarily loses its ongoing battle with the resistance and dips to an unintelligible image and dragging the finals words of the audio down into a lower register verging on the demonic. Victor turns profile toward the center frame but only in passage to the reverse profile. Almost defiant in his refusal to look toward the viewer.
“All shall know it … All shall feel it wash over their visage.
Cascading waves of melancholy and discontentment will fill the souls of this forsaken entities’ inhabitants; more with each passing day will know it’s woe and will. Exponentially spreading across the poor and pathetic excuse for a roster.”
The static haze transitions from a light flurry to a full blown blizzard and buries the image underneath its frenetic density. Vacio’s measured and sullen delivery can still be heard although encumbered by the white noise and blasts of static audio.
“The pin falls and the leather bond scraps of precious metal matter not. The politics and rantings of spandex-clad men are; of no consequence. The actions of mortal men have no bearing or lasting impression on this plane of existence; nor the next. You, soon, will all know the dark and empty void left in the wake of both defeat and victorious triumph.
All will be spent and all will be lost.
Dark clouds are rolling in. The temperature will drop and the pressure will build.”
The image clears to reveal Vacio forgoing his assumed boycott against direct contact with the viewer. The leather designs affixed to his mask gleam against the harsh light that appears to be mounted aloft this ill prepared camera. His unkempt facial hair protruding from the lower opening has crossed the line between stubble and beard but has yet to reach the finish line. His eyes bulge from the optically cropped holes and appear glassed over as he speaks in the same sullen tone.
“Let the rain begin.”
Rolling static begins the video stream with digital glitches and bands of gray and black flickering across the frame. The feed struggles against the electronic diffusion to flash a few images of Victor Vacio in profile against a simple RLW backdrop. The feeds grip on the vertical and horizontal hold is tenuous at best allowing the image to skew left and right at random intervals.
“Every victory is empty.”
The screen clears to a less than stellar resolution with a light haze of digital noise dancing across the screen like a parasite struggling to maintain a grasp on its ailing host. Occasionally taking back the feed for a moment or two and distorting the image and audio; with lowered pitches and the zip and scratch of static bursts in sync with the warped view.
“The fall of darkness over the Red Line has begun.”
The feed momentarily loses its ongoing battle with the resistance and dips to an unintelligible image and dragging the finals words of the audio down into a lower register verging on the demonic. Victor turns profile toward the center frame but only in passage to the reverse profile. Almost defiant in his refusal to look toward the viewer.
“All shall know it … All shall feel it wash over their visage.
Cascading waves of melancholy and discontentment will fill the souls of this forsaken entities’ inhabitants; more with each passing day will know it’s woe and will. Exponentially spreading across the poor and pathetic excuse for a roster.”
The static haze transitions from a light flurry to a full blown blizzard and buries the image underneath its frenetic density. Vacio’s measured and sullen delivery can still be heard although encumbered by the white noise and blasts of static audio.
“The pin falls and the leather bond scraps of precious metal matter not. The politics and rantings of spandex-clad men are; of no consequence. The actions of mortal men have no bearing or lasting impression on this plane of existence; nor the next. You, soon, will all know the dark and empty void left in the wake of both defeat and victorious triumph.
All will be spent and all will be lost.
Dark clouds are rolling in. The temperature will drop and the pressure will build.”
The image clears to reveal Vacio forgoing his assumed boycott against direct contact with the viewer. The leather designs affixed to his mask gleam against the harsh light that appears to be mounted aloft this ill prepared camera. His unkempt facial hair protruding from the lower opening has crossed the line between stubble and beard but has yet to reach the finish line. His eyes bulge from the optically cropped holes and appear glassed over as he speaks in the same sullen tone.
“Let the rain begin.”
SenorJames
DEFIANT Grandpa
Re: Causa Perdida, Part II (Let The Rain Begin)
Up.
Black, darkness.
Suddenly light flashes and fills the room, revealing the RLW backdrop and a wooden stool. Then suddenly we’re joined by...
ELHABANERO!
Danny Dalton’s personal favorite steps into the scene from the right, and apparently his voice issues are not a one night thing as he’s carrying the boombox from Slamtrack 8. Setting the boombox down on the wooden stool, Habby adjusts his mask and then addresses the camera while clearing his throat for some reason.
“Ahem.”
Reaching down, he presses the play button and a barrage of jumbled together clips begin speaking for him in an odd, misshapen cadence of different voices. It’s like an audio version of a ransom note made up of different magazine clippings.
“HOLA!”
‘He’ begins with a greeting in a deep Spanish sounding accent, again, not ‘his’ voice. He accompanies this greeting with a big, toothy smile, and two thumbs up.
“I AM EL HAH-BAH-NEAR-OH…”
He bows his head slightly, like a tip of the hat.
“AND I AM HERE TO… FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!”
Habby engages the Double Gauge Fist Pump with a comically ‘mean’ looking face that tries to peek through the mask covering his face. Then as the tone of the ‘message’ coming from the boombox shifts, so does his demeanor.
“PREVIOUSLY ON… RED. LINE. WRESTLING…”
He takes a breath.
“I GOT FU<RADIO EDIT>ED UP!”
He ‘says’ as he tilts his head down, getting a little sad panda on us in spite of the more excited tone of the clip.
“I HAD. ONE SHOT. ONE OPPORTUNITY. AND FAILED. THE LAST TITAN. HULK… SMASH!’ED ME…”
He frowns. MOAR Sad Panda 8(
“BUT NOW…”
His head comes up as he brings one fist up, his index finger pointing straight to the sky, his sadness evaporating as we get a little taste of Aerosmith.
“I’MMMMMM BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK, BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN, I’MMMMMM BAAAAAAAAAACK!...”
More fist pumping.
“BECAUSE I’M TOO LEGIT TO QUIT!”
OMG M.C. Hammer, really? An emphatic head nod.
“AND WHEN I GO. ONE ON ONE. WITH VICTOR. VIZIO…”
Habby turns his head slightly, looking back at the boombox, then shrugs, because yes, Vizio, instead of Vacio, like the brand of television.
“...I WILL…”
The sound of Dragon Ball Z style ‘powering up’ is heard, followed by the sound of cars screeching and crashing comes from the boombox as Habby pretends he’s a character in Street Fighter, punching and kicking like the derpy bastard that he is.
“...AND THEN…”
An 8-bit rendition of La Marseillase, aka the GLASS JOE THEME, aka by a small couplafew people as the French National Anthem plays, as Habs raises his hands, like he won the biggest match of his life… So basically, it would be like if he had actually managed to even put a dent into Ivan Dalkichev before getting Russian Hulk Smashed by the Last Titan.
“GOOD LUCK. VICTOR. VIZIO!”
BOOM!
We outta here.
Up.
Black, darkness.
Suddenly light flashes and fills the room, revealing the RLW backdrop and a wooden stool. Then suddenly we’re joined by...
ELHABANERO!
Danny Dalton’s personal favorite steps into the scene from the right, and apparently his voice issues are not a one night thing as he’s carrying the boombox from Slamtrack 8. Setting the boombox down on the wooden stool, Habby adjusts his mask and then addresses the camera while clearing his throat for some reason.
“Ahem.”
Reaching down, he presses the play button and a barrage of jumbled together clips begin speaking for him in an odd, misshapen cadence of different voices. It’s like an audio version of a ransom note made up of different magazine clippings.
“HOLA!”
‘He’ begins with a greeting in a deep Spanish sounding accent, again, not ‘his’ voice. He accompanies this greeting with a big, toothy smile, and two thumbs up.
“I AM EL HAH-BAH-NEAR-OH…”
He bows his head slightly, like a tip of the hat.
“AND I AM HERE TO… FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!”
Habby engages the Double Gauge Fist Pump with a comically ‘mean’ looking face that tries to peek through the mask covering his face. Then as the tone of the ‘message’ coming from the boombox shifts, so does his demeanor.
“PREVIOUSLY ON… RED. LINE. WRESTLING…”
He takes a breath.
“I GOT FU<RADIO EDIT>ED UP!”
He ‘says’ as he tilts his head down, getting a little sad panda on us in spite of the more excited tone of the clip.
“I HAD. ONE SHOT. ONE OPPORTUNITY. AND FAILED. THE LAST TITAN. HULK… SMASH!’ED ME…”
He frowns. MOAR Sad Panda 8(
“BUT NOW…”
His head comes up as he brings one fist up, his index finger pointing straight to the sky, his sadness evaporating as we get a little taste of Aerosmith.
“I’MMMMMM BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK, BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN, I’MMMMMM BAAAAAAAAAACK!...”
More fist pumping.
“BECAUSE I’M TOO LEGIT TO QUIT!”
OMG M.C. Hammer, really? An emphatic head nod.
“AND WHEN I GO. ONE ON ONE. WITH VICTOR. VIZIO…”
Habby turns his head slightly, looking back at the boombox, then shrugs, because yes, Vizio, instead of Vacio, like the brand of television.
“...I WILL…”
The sound of Dragon Ball Z style ‘powering up’ is heard, followed by the sound of cars screeching and crashing comes from the boombox as Habby pretends he’s a character in Street Fighter, punching and kicking like the derpy bastard that he is.
“...AND THEN…”
An 8-bit rendition of La Marseillase, aka the GLASS JOE THEME, aka by a small couplafew people as the French National Anthem plays, as Habs raises his hands, like he won the biggest match of his life… So basically, it would be like if he had actually managed to even put a dent into Ivan Dalkichev before getting Russian Hulk Smashed by the Last Titan.
“GOOD LUCK. VICTOR. VIZIO!”
BOOM!
We outta here.
BWade
Grandma Took Me Home
Causa Perdida, Part II (Let The Rain Begin, Part II)
“The rain will descend from the heavens and douse the flame of even the most scorched of souls.” a voice rattles with the cadence of an aging Southern preacher predicting the rapture.
The frame twists and bends as if it’s source is a worn cassette with wobbling reels and a tattered band of magnetic tape.
“Farm animal based vulgarities nor the yield from the fields of La Habana …” the voice continues “ … nor the supposed last to descend from the Second Order of Divine Beings; shall put hold to the darkness that will incense and corrupt the souls of the Red Line.”
Victor Vacio’s black masked image appears thru the static and tape clutter as if Venetian blinds were just opened to the afternoon sun beam into an opium den.
Vacio twists and snaps his head as if to crack his neck and continues, “The first, having already fallen, gives way to his obliviously reluctant successor; whose proposed deviation of fate will not see fruition.”
His eyes bulge and protrude from his skull and mask. He moves forward at a slow and methodical pace.
“Hands raised by officiating powers no longer hold weight nor garner any sense of accomplishment and by in which lack the very vim and vigor you’ve been taught to seek and lust for.”
The masked man leans into the frame and twists his neck once again. This time letting out an audible crack to preface his next volet of volatility.
“The gray haze will turn black. Sutt will aptly describe the sky and the hearts of men. The light drizzle will turn torrential and bring forth a perilous new world.”
The haze and static reclaims what once was; as Vacio continues to rant.
“The streets will flood and the weak will asphyxiate under the tidal undulation. Grasping for the brass rings of salvation that will be nowhere to be found. Succumbing to the undertow and slowly … shaking loose this mortal coil.”
The masked man’s image returns to view as he turns away from the frame and stares off into the oblivion. His tone and poise remain unshaken as he approaches the crescendo of this near biblical metaphor.
“The strong will flee to the hilltops seeking sanctuary; only to find that the levees were built to burst and turn debris in the wash of the masses. The very land of which they stand and praise as their refuge shall reduce to marsh and then to swamp; only moments before returning to the sea,” Vacio finishes just as he snaps back toward frame and the visual is lost once again in the proverbial sea of random black and white pixels taking place of the weak or incoherent signal.
The frame clears momentarily and thru the disruptions the whites of Vacio's eyes cut through the clutter.
“Let the rain begin.”
“The rain will descend from the heavens and douse the flame of even the most scorched of souls.” a voice rattles with the cadence of an aging Southern preacher predicting the rapture.
The frame twists and bends as if it’s source is a worn cassette with wobbling reels and a tattered band of magnetic tape.
“Farm animal based vulgarities nor the yield from the fields of La Habana …” the voice continues “ … nor the supposed last to descend from the Second Order of Divine Beings; shall put hold to the darkness that will incense and corrupt the souls of the Red Line.”
Victor Vacio’s black masked image appears thru the static and tape clutter as if Venetian blinds were just opened to the afternoon sun beam into an opium den.
Vacio twists and snaps his head as if to crack his neck and continues, “The first, having already fallen, gives way to his obliviously reluctant successor; whose proposed deviation of fate will not see fruition.”
His eyes bulge and protrude from his skull and mask. He moves forward at a slow and methodical pace.
“Hands raised by officiating powers no longer hold weight nor garner any sense of accomplishment and by in which lack the very vim and vigor you’ve been taught to seek and lust for.”
The masked man leans into the frame and twists his neck once again. This time letting out an audible crack to preface his next volet of volatility.
“The gray haze will turn black. Sutt will aptly describe the sky and the hearts of men. The light drizzle will turn torrential and bring forth a perilous new world.”
The haze and static reclaims what once was; as Vacio continues to rant.
“The streets will flood and the weak will asphyxiate under the tidal undulation. Grasping for the brass rings of salvation that will be nowhere to be found. Succumbing to the undertow and slowly … shaking loose this mortal coil.”
The masked man’s image returns to view as he turns away from the frame and stares off into the oblivion. His tone and poise remain unshaken as he approaches the crescendo of this near biblical metaphor.
“The strong will flee to the hilltops seeking sanctuary; only to find that the levees were built to burst and turn debris in the wash of the masses. The very land of which they stand and praise as their refuge shall reduce to marsh and then to swamp; only moments before returning to the sea,” Vacio finishes just as he snaps back toward frame and the visual is lost once again in the proverbial sea of random black and white pixels taking place of the weak or incoherent signal.
The frame clears momentarily and thru the disruptions the whites of Vacio's eyes cut through the clutter.
“Let the rain begin.”