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Unfortunate Team-Ups in History; BS/BA vs KB/RW
Topic Started: Jul 20 2010, 11:59 PM (218 Views)
"Bad Ass" Matt Covey
Member Avatar
Bad MF'er
*For all intents and purposes, this RP is not an "on camera" promo. Outside of reading this, no "in-game" characters should have any knowledge of these events. Thank you*

The candles flickered brightly as the invisible drafts of air whipped in through the open window, blowing the curtains about like forgotten ghosts in the shadows. A solitary figure sits in an old rickety chair, his face hidden by a hood. His arms lie motionless across the arm-rests of the chair, his finger nails digging into the antiquated wood, and apprently having done so for some time now as wood shavings flutter to the dusty floor. Blood cakes the man's fingernails, and yet he relentlessy continues to dig into the splinters. A bright flash illuminates from outside the window, a flash of lightning across the pitch black sky giving visibilty to the rest of the room but for a brief moment. The man pauses his incessant digging, the deep sound of a sigh released upon the room. Finally, his right arm leaves it's trail of blood and stripped wood shavings, grabbing something off a desk in the dark. He brings the item, a hand mirror, closer to himself until it covers his face. His left hand slowly reaches up an, peeling back the hood like a veil from his head. His face still hidden, the man suddenly begins to make a low pitched sound. With time, the sound heavily increases, until deep hearted laughter can be heard echoing around the dark room, coming back off the walls like a banshee howling across the night. And then the mirror flies from his hand, smashing against an unseen wall in the dark recesses of the room.

And Matt Covey sits in the light of the flickering candle, a maniacal grin on his face as he cackles madly.

His face carries the deep gashes of lacerations. Some that extend as far as the top of his forehead, continuing down in a jagged edged patern and coming to an end just under his chin. One of the more prominent signs of a man's retirbution, eteched forever into his face. Were it not for his laughter; the bruises, cuts, and swelling might give one the impression that he were a Picasso in a musueum some where. But as it stood. He was no painting. He was a Bad Ass. And oddly enough, for a man who should be venting the rage of a volcano, he instead, appeared maniacally happy. Ah...the warped mind of a Covey. Matt stifled his laughter as he ran his hands across the freshly places grooves and notches in his face. The barbed wire had done it's job, and it had done it well. Randomly, Matt called out to the dark as though someone were in the room with him...

Bad Ass: Hey... You there?

No response came.

Bad Ass: Hey asshole! I'm not talking to myself here!

Finally...

Matt Covey in RL: What?

Bad Ass: Where were you?!?

Matt Covey in RL: I'm busy plotting this event out. These lines don't write themselves you know.

Bad Ass: Good. That's exactly what I want to hear! You see the Krimzon Blaze promo?

Matt Covey in RL: I read it.

Bad Ass: How can you read a promo?! No, wait... Nevermind. Just tell me we're about to hurt some people. Primarily Buzzsaw.

Matt Covey in RL: We'll do what we can. The actual hurting him part isn't my call.

Bad Ass: Well that sucks. You can't just make it so that I randomly catch him out and stomp his ass into human paste?

Matt Covey in RL: Afraid not.

Bad Ass: Fuck. How about catching Kabes in the act with Jessica Towers and then rolling in on some mad ass group orgy where everyone gets laid?

Matt Covey in RL: Actually, I have something else in mind. Trust me, you'll like it.

Bad Ass: I better! I didn't get my face all carved up like a thanksgiving turkey for fuckin' nothing! So where are we going with this thing?

No reply comes. Instead, a corner of the room suddenly lightens up as if by magic, primarily because there isn't a light in that corner to turn on. However, the light illuminates an old wooden bookshelf. A slight tremor occurs, and then a book falls to the floor. It's large and leather bound, smelling a bit of old musk. Matt stands from his antique chair and approaches the material, grabbing it up in his blood stained hands. He flips through the pages before abruptly slamming the book shut once more.

Bad Ass: Seriously?!? We're gonna spend this entire thing reading a fucking book?!? What? Did you join Opera's "Book of the Month" club? I mean, that may be your idea of a good time, but I'm not digging this "Hooked on Phonics" shit! I'm hooked on chronic, not phonics.

Matt Covey in RL: Just read the damn book. The faster we can get this started, the faster we can get the ball rolling on this thing.

Bad Ass: Alright. But I'm telling you now, I may do it, but I don't have to like it!

Matt Covey in RL: Fair enough, ass.

Bad Ass: That's Bad Ass, to you!

Matt walks back over to his chair, his candles suddenly replaced by a tall reading lamp which shines down enough adequette light for reading. Sitting down, Matt looks the cover over more carefulyl this time. The title reads "Unfortunate Team-ups throughout History". Matt raises a sliced eyebrow at the title, and then ponders on giving the book a go as he flips through the first couple of bullshit pages with all that unecessary author information and dedications. All of which I guess you could say was written by me. Hell, the dedication page might have even made a nice cameo foreword for my wife and our unborn child. Alas, I'm not trying to jinx myself.
As Matt began to read, the scene fades...


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February 1864, Andersonville, GA

Union Officer Frank "Buzzard" Stone took in his surroundings. Another day without enough to eat. Sweltering conditions. Rampant disease and scurvy. And those bastard Confederate soldiers that tempted them with food and ale, begging them to cross the line of no return. A line that when crossed, always resulted with a bullet to the head. Within the last two weeks, he had watched some of his closest friends gunned down in cold blood. For a prisoner of the historical Civil War, he had somehow managed to find the will to keep living. To keep fighting, even if fighting in this hell-hole meant nothing more than clawing at former allies for a scrap of bread, or a drink of stagnant water. He was in hell, but he had learned to adapt. His surroundings consisted of fellow union soldiers, some in their right frame of minds, and others nothing more than scoundrels who would surely sell their own mothers into slavery for a jug of ale. There were very few people left in the camp who Frank could honestly consider a friend anymore. And those he did had starved to death and now dined in hell.

And then...there was that other guy...

Confederate traitor, "Big" Mac Covey, had entered Andersonville prison just two short weeks prior. A southern by birth only, he joined the confederacy during the call to arms, and then realized it was much more profitable to turn the tables on his next of kin and hand over vital information to then enemy within the union. Unfortunately, he had been discovered in a coup-de-tat and placed under arrest shortly there after. Much to Frank's disgust, Covey had made himself quite at home with the scoundrels of the camp. For the right price, some of the less-than-desirables could actually bribe or buy necessities from their confederate jailers. Covey himself, though hated by pretty much everyone on both sides of the war, was a man who could con his way in or out of most any situation, and had a knack for aquiring things others desired.

Frank and Covey had absolutely nothing in common. Frank may have despised his southern neighbors, but he absolutley LOATHED traitors and men with lesser backbones than himself. Yet, the two were fated to meet face to face. Going further than that, they were destined to work together.

Mac had come to Frank one day, an ill-gained bottle of fire water in hand, rambling on about an escape plan he had concocted the night before. Frank was leary of Covey's advice at first, but the sweet cry of freedom was too much to resist. So carefully, the two had plotted on a tunnel they could dig from within Frank's tent, which happened to reside next to the camp walls. They would dig for six hundred yards, going by Covey's sense of timing and direction, and when they resurfaced, they would be well past the clearing and lost within the nearby woods. From this point they could go their own ways. It had seemed a decent enough plan...at first.

Frank wiped the sweat from his brow, nearly two hundred yards into the digging. Climbing back out of the hole, he sipped from a small bowl of dirty water Covey had brought him in between times when he was watching out for Confederate search parties. Didn't quite seem fair that Frank was doing all the work, but then again, without anybody to watch his back, the enemy could randomly roll through the camp for inspection.

Buzzard: Oh my god, it's so damn hot down there in the hole.

Big Mac: I bet it is.

Buzzard: You know, you could give me a hand here, maybe switch jobs with me for an hour.

Big Mac: No can do, Frank. These confederate hounds are heartless basta'ds. And they trust me slightly more than they trust any of you damn yanks.

Buzzard: Trust you?!? You sold them out!

Big Mac: This is true. How-evah' they're not enti-aly sure I'm not a double agent eith'a. I convinced one'a the guards I was placed here as'a mole. That's how I got this, hyea.

Covey showed off his sterling silver canteen filled with fresh water. Frank's face would have turned beet red had it not already been sunburnt by the afternoon Georgia sun. Frank slurped the last of his dirty water from the ceramic bowl and then held it out.

Buzzard: Well come on, man! Give me some good water. I'm dying in here!

Big Mac: I can't do that.

Buzzard: Why the hell not?!?

Big Mac: Supposin' Johhny Rebel comes walkin' 'round here, sees you drinkin' the good stuff? You ain't struck no deal. They'll know one'a us is supplyin' you, and then there be no clean water for anybody.

Frank sank his head against the dry earth.

Buzzard: I can't keep workin' like this, Mac. If'n I don't get some real water soon, I won't be diggin' fer shit!

Big Mac: A'ight. A'ight. Here...

Covey opened his canteen, pouring the clear liquid of life into Franks bowl. then he promptly picked up some grains of dirt from the ground and sprinkled them over the bowl of water, much to Frank's dismay.

Big Mac: They gotta think yer drinkin' the bad stuff, yeah?

Frank shook his head angrily before slurping down the somewhat cleaner water than he had become accustomed to. Begrudgingly, Frank went back to work, digging their escape tunnel from within his tent. This continued for days, Frank digging and drinking dirty water, while Covey continued to broker deals with his former confederate brothers in exchange for clean water and fresh bread, of which Frank was not allowed to eat before Mac had rubbed it in the dirt first.

The days turned into weeks, and finally, their job was nearly complete. Frank came out of his tent, taking a seat beside Mac who was happily downing a bottle of ale. Frank wiped the sweat from his brow, thankful that the sun was going down and soon they would make their break for freedom under the cool of the summer night's air.

Buzzard: We've done it, Mac. I've reached top soil. Shouldn't take us no more than a couple'a minutes'a diggin', then we're free men.

Covey's face looked ecstatic. It was time to celebrate their last day in hell.

Big Mac: You're a great man, Frank. An' you've done me a great favah'. I dare say you may be the first yank I've evah had the pleas'uh of callin' "friend".

Buzzard: You're an asshole, Mac. But I couldn't have dug the hole and watched out for rebel at the same time. So I guess I should say "thanks".

Big Mac: Not a problem, Frank. Hey, I made a deal with them Johnny's on this ale. Got a few more bottles stashed behind the tent. You're more than welcome to them, rebels be damned!

Frank genuinely smiled. It had been far too long since he'd had a drink of the good stuff. Pushing his tired body onto his feet, he made his way behind the tent where another bottle awaited him. Frank opened the top and took the first sweet drink...and then spit it out everywhere.

Buzzard: That's piss!!!

And before he knew it, Mac had appeared and shoved him away from the tent and towards the prison walls, which were a "no crossing" boundary. Frank stumbled and fell against the wooden walls of the camp. And then all he could hear was shouting...

Big Mac: We got a prison'ah tryin' escape!!!

Before Frank could register what exactly had just happened, a single rifle shot through the skull brought his suffering to an end. "Big" Mac Covey had swindled another man in the name of his own benefit. Later that night, Mac finished digging the tunnel and broke free under the shade of nightfall. And off into the woods he ran as a free man. Unfortunately, two weeks later, he was caught by both the confederate and union armies simultaneously in the nuetral state of Kentucky. It was agreed upon shortly thereafter that both parties would in fact work together in the unionized hanging of Mac Covey, traitor to everyone.


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Oct. 26, 1881, Tombstone, Arizona

William Stone looked down the barrel of his Winchester rifle, making sure the barrel was flawless in it's aim. In just a few short hours, his piece would be seeing action and there would be much shedding of human blood. William had an idea of why it was he was fighting, but couldn't be sure as to whether he would be in the right or the wrong. But then again, it was the old west. A lot of things fell into that shady gray area, falling in between the good and the bad. And this shoot-out would be no different. As he had recalled someone saying once, history was written by the winners, not the losers. So how then, would he be remembered? As a good man who stood up for the values of his friends, family, and innocents murdered? Or as another outlaw who died terrorizing a peaceful town? William hoped it wouldn't be the latter. Sure the and his friends had done their fair share of cattle rustling in the past. But they weren't heartless outlaws. They were "cowboys", comprised of relatives, friends, and sworn oaths.

William's eyes darted over to his good friend, Frank McLaury, and then to his other good friend, Billy Clanton. Their reputations had been tarnished in the past on nothing more than the word of the tyrants Wyatt and Virgil Earp. Much of which was up for debate as to how true the statements actually were. More so, recently, Wyatt had gone so far as to try and drag a gunfight out of Tom McLaury, who had simply refused before being pistol whipped mercilessly by Earp. As McLaury and the Clantons had seen it, the Earps were violent tyrants, stampeding on their right to bear arms, and causing chaos with anyone they didn't like or "approve" of. They had recently taken to shooting people who strolled into town on the "suspicion" of being armed. And finally, the boys had decided it was enough of the Earp harassment. William's eyes moved on to Ike Clanton and the new guy in their small posse. Ike seemed incredibly nervous at the time, twitching and fidgeting about.

The new guy, William had a slight distaste for. "Buckshot" Thadeus "Tad" Covey. Something about him genuinely irked William, though he couldn't quite place his finger on it. Covey had done nothing but bragged about his exploits since joining up with ther group. From surviving outnumbered shoot-outs, robbing stage coaches and trains, slaying entire towns of outlaws, and doing some secret government work for the governor of Arizona. It all sounded too far fetched to be true. and of course every time each story was told, it became more exuberant and grand in it's design. But Wiliam was quick to keep his suspicions to himself, as it appeared both the Clantons and McLaury's had taken a shine to the new kid.

When Billy Clanton gave them the nod, Ike Clanton, Frank McLaury, Tom McLaury, Billy Claiborne, Tad Covey, and William Stone mounted their horses; rifles and six shooters loaded. The ride to Tombstone had been less than inspiring with Ike questioning their deaths, and Tad Covey running off at the mouth as was his MO.

Buckshot: Shiiiiit, Ike. What you got to be 'fraid of, boy? I'm gonna blast ever' one of them fool Earps in the face, an' then I aim to skin'em like a deer. Shoot, mount their worthless hides on the wall back at the ranch. Everybody's gonna know my name by the time we're done today.

William Stone: Just do the rest of us a favor, and make sure we all make it out in one piece, okay? No need to be playin' hot shot. There's more'n 'nuff of us that we should have no problems.

Buckshot: Shoot, Willy. I don't even know why the rest'a you is even comin'. I done told ya'll I got this.

Tad proceeded to whip his six shooter out, spinning it like a pro about his fingers and every so often, stopping it to point it perfectly at one of the others. William began to suppose that maybe Covey's talk wasn't just a bunch of horseshit, though pointing the firearm at his friends was still a bit disturbing for William's tastes.

William Stone: You just make sure you point that thing at the right people.

Buckshot: Ain't a finer aim in the west than me, Willy. You'll find out soon enough.

William shuddered following Covey's last statement. The ride took less than an hour. Arriving in Tomstone, the boys rode along to the stables, just a block away from the unrightfully famed OK Coral. Each man had holstered his weapon and tied his horse except for Covey who seemed to have trouble getting his horse tied to the wooden latch. William watched this, but didn't have much time to dwell on it as the town's sheriff, Johnny Behan soon approached them.

Sheriff Behan: Look boys, I know you gots yer beef with them Earps. But I don't want any trouble today, hear?

Frank McLaury: Ain't gonna be no trouble sheriff. We're here to tie up some loose ends, business-wise. We got no intention of speaking with the Earps.

Sheriff Behan: In that case, you won't mind handing me your guns until you're ready to leave then. Rules is rules.

Frank McLaury: Tell ya what, Behan. You tell Earp he can have my gun when he and his brothers come down here and take it from me.

Ike Clanton: Come on guys, let's just get out of here.

Billy Clanton: No, Ike. We got business to take care of before we can head out to Fort Worth, Texas. Ride won't do us no good if'n we don't resupply first.

Sheriff Behan: Okay. Look, I'll tell the Earps I done disarmed you. Just get what ya came for, and we'll keep this all real friendly like.

Buckshot: Forget that mess! Bring me an Earp! I'll leave a hole between his ears where that ugly face just to be! Woooo, I'm a wild one!

Frank McLaury: No, Covey. If we can get in and out without any trouble, then that's how we're gonna do it.

Without much of another word, the sheriff made his departure to keep the peace with the Earps. Frank, Tom, Billy Clanton and William had decided to make the rounds. Ike, Billy Claiborne and Tad Covey would remain behind with the horses and firearms in case of trouble. However, the first group hadn't gotten far enough yet as they found themselves backed into a corner in the tiny alley they had dismounted in. Before them stood Virgil, Morgan, and Wyatt Earp; as well as Doc Holiday. Very few words were spoken during the stand-off, but Doc only served to intensify the situation as he walked up to Tad Covey, placing the barrel of his gun in Tad's gut before smirking and backing off. William saw the nervous trembling hands on Covey and realized he had been right all along. It was at this point that things began to fall apart.

Virgil Earp: Throw up your hands!

Suddenly, every man made a move for his gun...

Virgil Earp: HOLD! I don't mean that!?!

But it was far too late. Shots were already firing in rapid succession. William caught the sight of the first shot entering Frank McLaury's abdomen, doubling him over in a pool of his own blood. Shortly thereafter, he could have sworn he saw Ike Clanton and Billy Claiborne running away on their horses in between the gunshots flying all about. Somebody had managed to hit Morgan Earp in the back and Billy Clanton had been shot in his right hand, immediately switching to fight with his left. William saw Tom McLaury making a run for his horse, but Doc Holiday's shotgun was quick to tear a gaping hole into his side. Billy Clanton and Frank were both injured, but somehow managed to continue the fight. William himself got a shot off, hitting Virgil Earp in the calf. In retaliation, a wild shot hit William in his shooting arm, forcing him to drop his gun beneath the trampling feet of his horse. He watched in horror as Frank ran out into the street, his abdomen bleeding, before his horse abandoned him, leaving him easy prey to a bullet through the skull. Billy Clanton, lay wounded, screaming for more ammo before his gun was removed from him by force after taking a fatal shot to the chest.

William tried desperately to get a hold of the situation. Who was left? WHO?!?

Voice: I found the last one!

William Stone looked up to see whether the voice be friend or foe, and was relieved to see the face of "Buckshot" Tad Covey. and then his feelings turned to despair as he realized Covey's gun was trained on him. Enraged, William went for his gun, only to have his hand stomped by the horse. And then a single gunshot rang out, and William Stone's life had come to an abrupt end. Tad stood over his lifeless body, gunpowder smoke wafting from his six shooter's barrel.

The fight was over. The Earps were heroes, having slain some unruly and heartless outlaws. Covey himself was given praise from the Earps for his bravery in helping them in the apprehension of the Clantons and McLaury's. Unfortunately, later that evening, a drunken Covey would boast of his heroism right before raping an innocent woman in town named, Miranda Blaze. Before he could escape, he drunkenly mistook a store clerk named Arnold Wright for the ghost of his dead allies, and killed the man in cold blood. He would then be gunned down by the same Earps he had sided with during the shoot-out.

His last words?

Buckshot: WOOOOOOO!!! I'm the baddest sumbitch in the west!!! *cue gunshots*


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And so the stories continued. Stones and Coveys all throughout history, coming together and then abruptly and fatally seperating. Both World Wars. Vietnam. Even a few old Roman scriptures dictating the two as gladiator combatants, forced to team before Covius sliced Stonius' achilles tendon, leaving him to be fed upon by the lions that were persuing them. And then of course Covias, ever the braggert that he was, was beheaded on public display for public urinatation upon the feet of the Ceasar. Story after story, their destinies intertwined.

Finally, Matt closed the book and carelessly tossed it to the floor behind him. He could have appeared lost in thought, until the quiet was disturbed in the wake of a belch. That meant it was Miller Time. Matt stood up from his chair and stretched.

Bad Ass: Okay, that was fun. Especially all the times those guys died. I don't quite get the moral of the story, but my gut instinct says I need some beer. Gots myself a tag match to prep for.

Matt Covey in RL: Really? After all of that, you didn't learn a damn thing?

Bad Ass: Not in the slightest.

Matt Covey in RL: Good thing not everybody thinks like you, then.

Bad Ass: What's that supposed to mean?

Matt Covey in RL: What it means is, the people who read this are going to find it a unique tale and at least they will be able to see the similarities between the stories and your current situation.

Bad Ass: Yeah. You keep telling yourself that. In the meantime, I'm gonna go get hammered. And the next time I talk to you, you better have a damn good idea to work with. I don't read books, asshole.

Matt walks out of the room, the scene beginning to fade...
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The scene un-fades long enough for Matt to poke his head back into the room.

Bad Ass: And more bitches next time!!!

Matt left the room again, slamming the door and bringing our tale to an...


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