| The Penthouse; I, Fight Night | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 3 2016, 03:09 PM (30 Views) | |
| Azrael Goeren | May 3 2016, 03:09 PM Post #1 |
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The MegaStar
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1:03AM EST. Tuesday Morning. Michael Robinson’s foot is nearly on the floor as Azrael Goeren’s black Lexus burns rubber through the wet streets of Washington DC. He turns a sharp corner and nearly jumps a curb, swearing under his breath as he wipes away sweat from his brow. Michael’s hands blindly reach for the cup holders where his cell phone currently sits, but in his impatient pawing he accidently knocks it to the floor of the car. Fuckin Otter Box! “No slip case” my pasty white Irish ass! The former head referee of OPW and Goeren’s longtime personal assistant keeps his eyes on the road as the wipers beat away the rain furiously from the front windshield. He momentarily glances down to locate the elusive iPhone only to SLAM on his brakes and skid to a halt about four feet from a pedestrian in the roadway. After exchanging four-lettered pleasantries and a discourse on the merits of intercourse with the pedestrian’s mother, Michael hits the gas pedal and screeches off into the night towards the world famous Dupont Circle luxury hotel in Washington DC. Come on, come on. Get out of the way! Why are there so many damn people out on the streets at 1AM? It’s like I’m playing fucking Paperboy over here! The incredibly anxious personal assistant finally manages to snag his phone as he turns another sharp corner. After lighting up his recently called contacts, he pushes the screen and impatiently awaits. No...no...no....come on, not voicemail...HENRIK! It’s Michael! Listen, I saw what happened on Battlelines with Grace. Please for the love of God don’t do anything stupid. I’m on my way to the hotel RIGHT NOW. Just hang tight buddy, I’m almost there! With that, Michael ends the call and lets loose a string of obscenities that would make the movie Scarface blush and ask to talk to a manager. He spots his destination in the distance and summoning all of the strength of his 1980s arcade-rat prowess, slams on the gas as hard as he can and careens around the parking circle in front of the beautiful hotel. Okay...this is good. No cops yet. No fire trucks. I don’t hear any screaming. This is good. This is good. He continues his muttering as he flippantly tosses the keys to a waiting valet, mentioning to him if he scratches the car he will most likely be molested by a crazed German. The valet, having spent quite a bit of time working in Washington DC hospitality, has heard much worse threats tossed in his direction. Michael meanwhile storms into the lobby of the hotel and fishes out his phone once again, checking the notes for what room he needs to head to. Not able to find what he’s searching for, he quickly moves to the front desk and eyes the young woman behind the counter. Can I help you sir? You haven’t heard any gunshots coming from the penthouse floors tonight, have you? Excuse me? No excessive glass breaking or perhaps one of your maids being hung out a window? What? You know, like Suge Knight did with Vanilla Ice? I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to… No cops have been called tonight? No, of course not! Michael lets out a massive sigh of relief, smiling broadly as he slaps the counter in victory. Then I’m not too late. I just saved your hotel thousands, lady. Sir, if there is nothing I can do for you can you please exit the… I’m looking for Henrik Goeren’s room. Excuse me? You know, Azrael Goeren? Famous wrestler? Stays here all the time when he’s in town? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name. Aw fuck me, what’s the name he gives when he stays in Washington? Is it Tickle Van Cockenstein? Please sir… No, that’s in Baltimore. Fuck! What is Washington?! Dickin Pleazin’? Sir. I’m afraid I need you too… GOT IT! What room is Justin Sideyu staying in? The front desk clerk goes quiet. Mr. Sideyu is in Penthouse Room #3. I knew it! Thank you! That was like pulling teeth. Be grateful I’m here! With that, Michael heads towards the elevators and slowly ascends to the top floor of the hotel, tapping his feet as he glances down at his phone to see if he’s missed any calls. None. This is very surreal. Azrael is better, but he’s not. He’s in control but he’s unstable. He is constantly living on that precarious edge of the proverbial razor blade, especially when it comes to his daughter. After what she did to him earlier tonight...there is no telling what state of mind he is going to be in. The elevator doors swing open as Goeren’s personal assistant steps out into a beautifully ornate hallway decorated with genuine oil paintings from the 1800s. He glances about his surroundings and finally spots Room #3 at the end of the hallway. He moves to knock on the door, only to find it slightly ajar. The nervousness and apprehension hits Michael Robinson like a ton of bricks. He dreads what he’s going to find inside this room. He has literally spent a good solid decade cleaning up after Goeren’s messes. Just like his boss and friend, he’s prepared for anything...at least he thinks he is. A deep breath. Soldier on. He pushes open the door to reveal a perfectly decorated and lavishly luxurious hotel room. Nothing is out of place, there is no broken glass or shattered beds or overdosing prostitutes to deal with. He slowly takes a step into the room and closes the door behind him. The sound of the rain coming down is the only thing he can hear, that rhythmic noise of heavy water almost soothing to him. Henrik? He cannot find his employer. He spots two duffel bags in the corner of the room, both of which have been opened with various pieces of clothing strewn about. There is evidence that a meal has been eaten not too long ago on the ornate dining room table set up in the room, and the large California King sheets have been tangled and tossed around. He spots it then. The rollercoaster of emotion returns as he walks over towards the white linens that carefully cover the soft bed and pulls out a washcloth that is coated in blood. Various shades of crimson spot and dab the washcloth, some areas being almost black now while others having a brighter shade of red. He can only think of the worst now, all those nights he had to find Azrael in the thralls of debauchery and the most hideous acts of vile, twisted perversion. If anything would set him off down that road again, it was tonight with what Grace did. She has no idea what… Michael, is that you? Jesus tap-dancing Christ! Henrik? Where are you?! Come on out here, I’m on the balcony! Saying a silent prayer, Michael drops the blood stained washcloth onto the bed and makes his way towards the balcony, expecting the worst. He spots two chairs from inside the room and a canopy that shields the balcony from the rain, seeing a darkened figure move somewhere out there. Henrik, whatever you did we can fix this. You hear me? You don’t have to relapse. We can make this work! I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it, I’ll... Michael steps onto the balcony and sees Azrael Goeren sitting casually in a wicker chair, his back turned towards him with a Manhattan cocktail in his right hand and a book of Keats poetry in his left. Come now, this Manhattan isn’t THAT bad. You’re okay? Michael mein freund, the only way I could feel any better than I do right now is if I have two little people performing a sex show in front of me right now. Something tasteful. Like light S&M with some foot fetish worship thrown in there for good measure. You’re...okay? Is there a reason I shouldn’t be? Michael is absolutely floored. He stutters with his next statement, not wanting to trigger any emotional outburst from Goeren. Azrael meanwhile has turned back towards his book, reading a few passages and taking another sip from his drink. Battlelines. Vas? Everything that happened at Battlelines. What reason should I be upset at what happened at Battlelines? My team won and that schwein-ficker Duane Gates is off to drown his sorrow and flaccid penis in Arby’s curly fries. He’s gone baby! Gone like a Catholic schoolgirl’s inhibitions at Myrtle Beach! Yeah but… Goeren downs the rest of his drink and leans back over the wicker chair at his friend, a look of pure excitement on his face. We’ve got ourselves a stable regime here in EWA and I helped usher it in. Can you believe that? Me. I did that. I’ve guaranteed that we will all live on and continue to grow and thrive. It’s exactly what I always fought for in my career, but it turns out I was going about it the wrong way. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, ja? Turns out that is a truism I learned far too late. So many wasted years... What about… AND the best part of it all was getting that last shot in on Gates himself. Fucking joygasmic, that’s what that was! I don’t think I ever kicked a man as hard as I did when I knocked that Violet Beauregarde blueberry into the next county with my foot. It was like hitting a potato sack crammed full of cottage cheese. When I hit him, I’m pretty sure I saw Cinnamon Toast Crunch come out of his nose. Are you done with all of the fat jokes about Gates? Hell no, I’ve got hundreds more. Goeren rests the empty Manhattan glass and book on the small table next to him which is sandwiched between the two balcony chairs. For the first time, Mike notices an empty highball glass on the table. He also notices something else as Azrael stands up from the chair and casually stretches. Oh my god, you’re naked. Ja? You didn’t notice? I honestly should have. You really should have. I’m like...naked 90% of the time. At least that. At least that! So...you’re okay then? Better than okay, mein freund. I feel like a million euros right now. Nothing could bring me down. What about everything that happened with Grace? Azrael shakes his head solemnly, grabbing a nearby towel and wrapping it around his naughty bits. He ties the towel around his waist and glances out into the night sky, pensively sighing. There is no anger in his voice, which is a stark contrast from how he usually speaks about his daughter. There is only pity. My poor little girl. She came so close. To what? To winning. She just walked away, she didn’t even stick around to… Not that. She never cared about the match or the people in it aside from me. What I mean is that she came THIS close to pushing me over the edge. She almost did it. I mean, what she had planned was perfect. It was, scarily enough, exactly what I would have done for most of my career when I was looking to fuck someone over. Physical pain is fleeting. It arrives, hurts and leaves. But the loss of an opportunity? Knowing that you had a chance to better yourself and had it ripped away through no fault of your own? Now that’s a crippler. That shit stays with you for years. Regret is by far the most vicious mistress. If Team Gates won that match, there would have been no Path of the Warrior Tournament for me. Gates would have found some way to screw with me and my match against Lou this week would have just been a clusterfuck of stipulations and maneuvers to stack the deck against me. He would have figured out a way to strip X and myself of the Tag Team titles somehow. He would force me into ridiculous, one-sided match after match after match until my body broke down or my mind did. I know, because that’s what I used to do. And, truth be told? I don’t think I would have survived it. But my darling daughter made her first rookie mistake in this business, one that will haunt her until the day she dies. What’s that? When you’ve got someone down in a grave, make sure the dirt is heavy enough to bury them. Fuckin’ A. She left her team when they needed her and it bit them all in the ass in the end. Now Gates is gone, I’ve got my chance at advancing in the Tournament at Fight Night against Lou and get my World Heavyweight Championship, the one thing that has eluded me in this sport. The one thing that will make this all worth it. Our friend Keats here once famously said that “I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest”. Truer words have never been spoken about my career. Everything has been building up to this moment and I can finally see my prize after being clouded for so many years. My dream. My goal. My....Valhalla. A smirk comes across Goeren’s face as he walks back over towards Mike and gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. You can leave, Michael. I really am fine. Better than fine. I know what I have to do now and the path is finally clear. Now it’s just time to make the donuts. That’s it. He’s finally lost it, Mike thinks to himself. This is Azrael Goeren when he’s gone off the deep end. It must be. It has to be. How else can you explain the attitude? In the entire duration of his relationship with Goeren, Michael has never seen him this...content. I guess I’ll show myself out then. Good man. Swing by around noon tomorrow and we’ll head out to Concord for Fight Night. You want to drive out for this one? Ja. I want to stop by Ryan Williamz’s house along the way, he lives in Bristol these days. Always good to see old friends. Especially ones who don’t want to castrate me. Those are few and far between. You’re telling me. You’re good with driving then? No problem. Turning towards the balcony door, Michael is suddenly aware that the heavy sound of the falling rain he heard earlier had stopped. Curiously, the rain still continues to fall outside at a much lighter and softer rate. That’s weird. Seems like the rain really let up. It was super loud when I was in the hotel room. Oh. That. That wasn’t the rain, it was the shower. We’ve got one of those massive spa shower heads in this baby. I think it's made of gold. Anyways, it is one powerful mother fucker! Almost washed off my dick tattoo. Why was the shower still on then? Probably because she was still in it when you arrived. ...what? I SAID PROBABLY BECAUSE SHE WAS STILL IN IT WHEN YOU ARRIVED! Fuck man, did they not test for deafness when you were in elementary school? Henrik...who else is in here with you? Goeren walks back over towards the wicker chair and sits back down in it, running his fingers over the spine of the book on the table. Michael can hear movement inside the room now, the shadow of a woman walking from one side of the room to another. Two duffel bags. A bloody washcloth. An empty glass. Who is in there? Azrael says nothing. His body relaxes and he closes his eyes. I never was able to sleep through the night. Not for a long, long time. Too many demons. Too much screaming inside my head. But tonight? Tonight I’ll sleep like a baby. I've found the peace I've always wanted in the most unlikely of places. ********************** Like two leaves blowing in the wind with some pretentious jerkoff filming it with his phone and calling it “art” on his Instagram page, we find ourselves intertwined again my dear Lou. Not that I’m complaining. There are very few competitors in the world right now that I love mixing it up with more than you. That’s not an idiotic sexist comment by the way, I couldn’t care less what gear you’re packing in your wrestling tights. I’m the type of guy who is happy with whatever goodies I find in someone’ shorts, so I’m an equal opportunity deviant. No, I’m overjoyed because when X and I took the EWA Tag Team titles away from you and Jane, you put us through absolute hell. Do you have any idea how hard that is to find these days? To actually go into a match and not be immensely disappointed with the fight that gets thrown back at you? That’s the bane of my existence. I had such a raging fight-boner for our match at the Asylum that I was sure I was going to leave with the wrestling blue balls. But nope nope nope! You and Jane brought it like I hoped you would and proved to the world why you two were the most dominant tag-team in EWA history. But, you fell short. Your reign ended with a buzzsaw sidekick just like so many others have in the past. You “were” the dominant force in tag-team wrestling. You “were” the best. Past tenses are a real bitch, aren’t they Lou? Me, I like to live in the now. I like to look forward to all of the wonders and shiny moments that the future holds for me. Take, for example, what I’ve got to look forward to when you and I tantrically and violently rumba at Fight Night. Now that Gates’ little hissy pissy fit is a thing of the past, I’m free to win the World Heavyweight Championship again. Right now, the man who has that title...one Chris Kage...has THREE times felt the side of my boot crash into his skull and slipped into night-night time where he suckles on Haven’s teets while he reads him Good Night Moon to make his owies go away. I’m the rightful #1 Contender after pinning that Buffalo tire fire at Battlelines. Not Laura. She’s a fine competitor mind you, but only one of us here pinned Kage at Battlelines and it sure as hell wasn’t milk & cookies. That title is mine for the taking and Kage knows it. He’ll duck and dodge me all he can because that’s what little bitches like him do. But this tournament is a railroad track right to my World Title belt. Kage can’t move out of the way of this freight train, all he can do is just sit there and become liquified when I slam into him and rip that piece of gold off his waist as my prize for winning this tournament. You see then Lou, my dilemna. You and Jane are going to get a rematch for my Tag Team Title straps one day very soon. I almost don’t want to spoil that fun by getting my hands on you earlier and crippling you before that rematch. I had so much fun with you the first time, ending you now would be like blowing my wrestle-load after the first few seconds of your pain and anguish instead of prolonging the fun into the future. I’m a very patient man and, in a perfect world, I would have liked to anticipate your pain just a few weeks longer. It’s like Christmas morning for me, the wait is honestly the best part. Instead I’m stuck opening my present at Fight Night because of the luck of the draw. Your bad luck, my friend. So Lou, let’s agree to make this a good old fashioned bloodbath just on the off-chance I accidentally cripple you and make any future tag-team title shot for you and Jane an impossibility. I do so want to savor this moment, so please...bring the gore. I want to look back on this first step towards the EWA World Heavyweight Championship fondly. Give me your best, Lou...because you know when we get in that ring, I’ll bring my worst. ********************** WHY WASTE YOUR TIME WITH EITHER PARTY? VOTE COCKENSTEIN & SIDEYU IN 2016! THE ONLY OFFICIAL CANIDATES ENDORSED BY AZRAEL GOEREN AND SCHADENFREUDE.COM! ONLY $19.95! ![]() |
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10:52 AM Jul 11