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Rage; Path of the Warrior, Round One
Topic Started: May 8 2016, 08:30 AM (20 Views)
Lunatikk Crippler

It happened again, and it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

Alexander Haven had snapped him out of….whatever it was that was happening. He looked at his hands, coated in the blood of his friend, a man whom he had respected heavily in Grady Smith.

He would hear the recounting of events from several people. A lecture from Joe Lemon was not how he wanted to spend his time being looked over by Dr. Furman.

By the time he showered and changed, and was ready to leave, he had heard the news.

Team Gates had been defeated. Team Draven had survived, thanks in part to the very man Crippler had viciously assaulted.

It was good, at least, to see he hadn’t seriously hurt Grady enough that he couldn’t bounce back. Nonetheless, Crippler knew that relationship was shattered.

But he had no time to care now.

He slunk in the shadows in the back of the room as The Brothers Draven and Stacy Vandevort held their press conference.

How they put up their charade that everyone who fought for Team Gates would not be fired. Would not be retaliated against.

It was bullshit, and the smell of it was too much for Crippler to bear. He left before it was over.

It wasn’t until he was five minutes from the airport, ready to return home to Vegas, when he received the first text.

From all people, it was from Martin Robertson.

“Thanks for costing us the match. Have fun at Battlelines. Don’t ask us for help.”

He knew there would be anger from all sides after what happened, controlled or not. He was ready for the backlash to come from guys like The Youth. From Kilminster, who had been right all along about his lack of control.

But Battlelines?

Five minutes later, Crippler was on TheNOWWrestling.net. His plane wouldn’t leave for another two hours, so he had time to kill.

That’s when he saw the predicament he was in.

Ray Willmott wasn’t happy Crippler had cost him his spot in Path of the Warrior.

NOTHING wasn’t happy that Crippler had won him the match, since he was doing SO WELL on his own.

Both wanted his blood. Their pound of flesh. Both would receive it.

And Crippler, as it seemed, had no partner.

Crippler grinned. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t intimidated.

In his head, the plan was already forming. Formed. Soon to morph in a reality.

And anyway, that was two weeks from now. First up was Crippler’s chance at the Path of the Warrior.

He knew Ray Willmott would be waiting to cost him the shot at the World Title. He didn’t care. Not like he could do anything about it. Team Draven wouldn’t dare try and, I dunno, MAKE THINGS FAIR for someone who had just tried to keep them out of power.

Crippler’s dance list was full, for sure. NOTHING and Willmott. Grady Smith would come looking for him, eventually. He’d have to answer to his partners. Maybe not Grace. I don’t really think she gave a shit if Gates won or not.

The top of that list? The first dance?


Johnny.

Johan Dietrich might be afraid of you. He might have good reason to be.

I don’t, for one second, have any such feelings.

Because I know you. I know that your thick, Boston accent makes it sound like you can’t speak proper English. We don’t know when your sentences end, when you’re asking a question, what words you’re ACTUALLY saying, etcetera.

Just because you paint yourself up to look like a Lord of the Rings orc doesn’t mean I’m gonna start shaking in my fuckin’ boots.

The only things I need to know is as thus:

You’re big. Strong. Some people, upon first sight of you, without that goofy Cover Girl makeover, would be intimidated by your sheer size.

Again. I know you. I’ve battled you across this country, for several different companies.

I know how you think. I know how you fight. I know what buttons to press to really piss you off.

And I know which Jenga block to pull to make the whole tower fall. That’d be the one behind your brittle ass knee.

Because I’m SMARTER than you, Johnny. Because I KNOW how to systematically take you apart. Cut you down to size.

Level the physical playing field.

Sure. I’m smaller than you. Shorter. Maybe not as strong.

But I’m strong enough to manhandle YOU.

I was strong enough to lift you off your feet and chokeslam you through the top of a Cell in the NEWF.

I was strong enough to pummel you in the SHOOT Project.

And come Fight Night, I’ll be the only one in that ring strong enough to continue walking the Path of the Warrior.

You’ll be thanking your lucky fucking stars if you can walk AT ALL.

I don’t care if you know what my game plan is to prepare for you.

I’m going after your knees.

Then I’m going to bludgeon you repeatedly until you black out.

Then I’ll go ahead and piss on your carcass. Just because, you know.

I know you think you’ve got this in the bag, man. I know you think ill of me, like many others because I chose to fight for Duane Gates in his war of attrition.

I know you sit here and think I’m some big asskisser, who was trying to get ahead by sucking up to the man who was boss.

But let’s go ahead and shoot down those rumors. Put ‘em to rest.

What exactly did I gain after agreeing to be a part of Team Gates?

I got a broken nose.

A beautiful mask to protect it.

Questions and accusations as to why I did what I did to Grady Smith. That’s a bit fuzzy, actually.

A trip to see Michael Draven’s favorite shrink next week.

You’re gonna say I was kissing his ass to get World Title shots. Actually, I got those opportunities before I agreed to be on his team. That’s cool, though. People forget that that’s what he used to butter me up before I agreed. People forget that he is the one who put me in those situations, and I didn’t go begging for them. At least I was grateful for the opportunities he gave me, unlike his ex snatch.

But don’t let FACTS and TRUTH stop you from telling a good story, Johnny.

After all, I know plenty of people, like yourself, harbor ill will against Gates. Because, since the EWA was reopened, let’s go down the list of things he did to you.

There was that time that he made you defend your title in a three person gauntlet match. You barely escaped with…...no, that wasn’t you. That was Jada. My bad.

There was that time that he…...no. He never did that to you.

I’m sure you have a litany of reasons to come into the company that HE signed you to a contract to, and immediately begin running him down and badmouthing him for no reason. After all, he probably went on television plenty of times and did the same to you, right?

No?

He didn’t say a word about you?

What the fuck, Johnny? You sit there and trash talk the man for ages, and don’t expect him to want to retaliate? Not expect him to throw his lot in with Johan Dietrich to destroy you, to SHUT YOU UP?

I bet you celebrated his exit from the company, too. Like you, you know, did anything about it.

It’s probably why you’ve been ghostly quiet all week.

Go ahead. Celebrate like you actually DID SOMETHING.

Celebrate like you’re RESPONSIBLE for costing a man his JOB, and then him being ASSAULTED like a lamb to slaughter.

Celebrate like you’re WORTH something, Johnny.

Because as big and bad as you are? Two points.

It’s not as big and bad as you THINK you are.
It’s not big and bad enough to withstand ME.

And that’s brass tacks right there. That’s the facts of fucking life.

You’re gonna be the guy, who sits there, feeling accomplished while six others did the job he wished he could have been chosen to do.

You’re gonna be the guy spitting blood capsules, thinking it makes you look tough instead of like a vampire with acid reflux.

You’re gonna be the guy who can barely walk, barely talk, barely capture the imagination of anyone at all, and wonder why and how in the hell I’ve put you in the hospital.

I’ll be the guy who does for you what I’ve always done for you, Johnny.

And that’s not give a fuck. You should be used to that, Napalm. Nobody has given a fuck about you in nearly twenty years. I really believe there’s times where you don’t even give a fuck about your damn self.

You should start caring, and soon. Otherwise, you’re gonna fall into the same trap that many others before you, that you yourself, have fallen into.

You’re going to take me for granted, and you’re going to be caught in the center of that ring.

And you’ll have to chew your own fuckin’ leg off to get yourself free.

This wouldn’t be the first time, Napalm.

But this time? You won’t have a leg to stand on.


By the time Crippler touched down at McCarran International Airport, he’d heard the even worse news.

Crippler had an appointment with Dr. Charles Pope, Michael Draven’s pocket shrink. The appointment was made and all the details were sent to Crippler by Stacy Vandevort. I’m sure she loved this job better than sweeping up a litany of Pepsi cans.

And I’m sure the Dravens loved this first measure of revenge against those that fought against them.

As for Crippler? He didn’t love this. Sitting on a shrinks couch? Talking about his…..feelings?

He didn’t need some quack trying to pry his ugly nose in his business, especially not one he wasn’t sure knew what “doctor/patient confidentiality” was all about. Especially after the games Draven played with the Youth, with Pope as his pawn.

The fury welled up inside him. He was being lied to. Used. Fed to the wolves.

For what? Repaying a debt? Fighting against Draven? Fuck the Dravens.

Fuck the EWA.

Everything went red.



NAPALM.

You’ve fucking had it.

You’ve had your chance to escape. You could have ended your time with the EWA and spent it with your remaining limbs.

Instead, I’ll pluck them from your body like the wings of a fly and beat you to death with them.

I want to hurt you, Napalm.

I want to tear your flesh, and I want you to BLEED.

I want to rip.

I want to tear.

I want to MAIM.

DESTROY.

Cause CHAOS.

Cause PAIN.

DESTROY.

I hate you, Napalm.

I hate you because you’re in my fucking way.

I hate you because you think you’re entitled to so much more, but you’re entitled to a concussion and a half.

You’re entitled to several stitches, and possibly skin grafts.

You’re gonna need more than just a quick trip to the ER after this.

You’re gonna need more than stitches.

You’re gonna need an organ transplant, because whichever one I can target the easiest, and exploit?

I’m gonna rupture it.

I’m gonna render it USELESS. More than GOD rendered it USELESS when he put it in YOUR STINKING, SHAMBLING CORPSE.

I’m going to FUCKING HURT YOU, Naplam, more than you’ve EVER BEEN HURT IN YOUR LIFE.

Forget Dietrich. You’ll never see him again.

If I get to your eyes, you’ll never see ANYTHING again!

If I get to your tongue, we will never have to hear you try to form coherent SENTENCES again.

I’ll fucking CRIPPLE YOU, Napalm.

I’ll watch as you bleed out on the stinking Draven’s watch. On their time. On their canvas.

On their FUCKING HANDS.

Johnny Napalm.

Get ready for people to start talking about you in the PAST FUCKING TENSE.

He was nearly seven feet tall.

He was three hundred pounds plus.

He was a savage in the ring.

He was tough as nails.

He was thirty-six.
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