| [Obsession]; POTW: Fight Night II | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 5 2016, 01:40 AM (41 Views) | |
| Indrid Calder | May 5 2016, 01:40 AM Post #1 |
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EWA World Heavyweight Champion
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Boston, MA Wednesday, May 4, 2016 - 11:44 AM He sweeps the spray nozzle from side to side, adding a coat of gunmetal gray paint to the unremarkable white wall. The gym is moderately populated, a few machines being utilized here and there and one or two meatheads clanging heavy weights in another section of the facility. This area is cordoned off and dimly lit, a new unfinished sauna room that the gym will be unveiling soon. The walls are still just skeletal framework, providing a perfect view of the gym’s main interior. The painter wears a full-face respirator mask with vapor cartridges on either side, his breath flowing out in a serpentine hiss. It looks much like some antiquated gas mask, the “Harding & Sons” baseball cap pulled down low across his skull, adding lingering shadows to partially obscured cheekbones. His body is bedecked in a pair of dull green coveralls with the company name emblazoned across the upper back. No one notices him. No one pays any mind to the painter in the dark corner with the wispy paint fumes drifting around his face. He notices someone, though. He has eyes for someone very special. He sweeps the industrial nozzle from side to side, adding dripping layers of gunmetal gray to the wall, but it’s not the wall that he’s watching. The painter is watching the girl on the elliptical machine. He watches the sinuous movements of her hips in her tight black leggings. He watches the way that her calf muscles tense. He studies the droplets of perspiration that decorate the back of her swanlike neck. Her hair is tied up, that sable hair…and even through the paint fumes, the aroma of her travels through the gym to pass into the crevices beneath his respirator mask. Lilacs in bloom… The painter watched when she took out her smartphone and stuck out her tongue and took that cute little selfie. The painter’s eyes lingered on the wetness of her tongue. Such a soft, pink tongue. He tried to count the taste buds on that tongue until she withdrew it back between her equally soft lips. The painter is content to watch…for now. He’ll just watch…with his knife-blue eyes. ![]() I admire you, Michael. Sometimes I think that I can see auras, and yours seems to glow. It’s a bright, brilliant glow. It’s like the archangel Michael himself flying from the old biblical texts, righteous sword in hand, aiming to behead the deceiving dragon and right all wrongs here in the world of the EWA. A pretty fable, Michael. But a fable nevertheless… It seems your heart is heavy with questions. I’ll answer one of them in an effort to ease your confusion. It concerns the circumstances of the deal between Mister Haven and Mister Calder. Mister Haven had nothing on Mister Calder, Michael. Mister Haven found no skeletons in my closet…because I have no closet. All my skeletons are proudly on display, and when I’m so inclined, I make their creaky bones dance for me. I was no unwilling pawn brought into this game at the behest of threats or extortion. Instead, Michael…I was a VERY willing accomplice with enough personal interest in my big, wholesome heart to offer Mister Haven a special favor. I played my part because it was my desire to play such a part…and it gave me great pleasure, Michael. I have a photographic memory…and it served me well. I can tell you about the sounds she made, Michael. With the moisture still smeared across her lips, she began to whimper. She stumbled and grasped at the walls, but the walls were unkind…and the walls would not hold her up. I can describe in detail how she struggled, Michael. She wiggled on the floor like a small animal, clawing against the tiles with weak fingers. She fought the slumber with everything that she had. Her will is iron, Michael…but even iron becomes brittle with the right potion swirling through the veins. I touched her, Michael. I let my fingertips drift across her smooth skin. I took in a deep inhalation of her hair, and the blood rushed to my cock, the blood rushed through just about every part of me. I felt voracious, Michael. It took great personal willpower for me to not make a mess of her right there on that dusty floor before the Youth-ful men came to collect her lifeless form. Did you know she talks in her sleep? It’s the most adorable thing. She whispered a name, her soft lips pressed against that dirty, lonely floor… She whispered your name. Michael. She called for Michael even in her catatonic state, but Michael never came… You want to tear away my mask, Michael? I welcome that. Remove my mask. Rip it off and stomp it to splinters. Do you know what you’ll find beneath my mask? Another mask. Tear that one from my face too…and then you’ll find a different mask. You can tear them off one by one—flustered and red-faced, tearing mask after mask, your fingers bleeding, your mind rebelling, your hands beginning to shake. Unmask me, Michael. I have a thousand masks and a thousand names, and beneath each mask lies another. And another. And another. And another… But you can’t grasp at masks forever, can you, Michael? You have things to do. You have personal demons that you must overcome. You have Mister Haven—your obsession. I just want you to know something, Michael. I can get to her anywhere and anytime… And I will never stop unless you stop me. You must chase a demon, a haunt, an obsession that rules your mind. You must pour yourself into the compulsive need to beat and belittle a man that has beaten and belittled you for a large portion of your career. You face a dilemma, Michael. I’m a meticulous man. I know sooner or later…you’ll chase the demon that drives every waking moment of your existence. You’ll choose the demon you know. You’ll choose Mister Haven…because a man cannot outrun his obsessions. And while you focus on the demon you know…you’ll neglect the demon that you don’t know. You’ll get sloppy, Michael. You’ll chase him…and you’ll leave Maggie all by her lonesome. That’s when I’ll chase her, Michael. That’s when I’ll come for her. When you are entrenched in the fight against Youth-ful men…I’ll get to know her better. We’re a lot alike, Michael. We have strong similarities. We are men defined by our obsessions. You have yours… And now I have mine. ![]() ![]() The painter leaves through a nondescript side door, the alleyway narrow and overtopped with several looming terraces. He approaches the white van with “Harding & Sons” plastered across the side paneling. He carefully steps over the stocky man lying on the ground in a ruffled undershirt and shit-stained boxer briefs. The painter reaches down and picks up the chloroform rag from beside the man’s head, taking just a moment to lift up a manhole cover and dispose of the rag in the sewer system. The painter removes the hat and tosses it down next to the man’s body. The painter casually unzips the green coveralls and lets them drop, revealing a finely tailored soot-gray suit beneath. Lastly the painter peels the respirator mask from his face, letting it drop with a hollow thud next to the real painter’s unconscious form. Indrid Calder walks from the darkened mouth of the alleyway and out into the bustling Boston streets. He pulls his slim black smartphone from his pocket and begins to scroll through several photos, just another pedestrian strolling along in the constant flow of this fair city. He scrolls through photos of Maggie McIntyre lifting weights. He scrolls through photos of Maggie McIntyre doing squats. Her scrolls through photos of Maggie McIntyre taking a selfie with that cute little tongue sticking out—a side angle that really captures the playful gleam in her eyes. Calder grins his barren grin. His eyes look playful too. |
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10:52 AM Jul 11