| The Recovery Room; Grace/Azrael Joint RP For Battlelines, II | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 7 2016, 04:13 PM (27 Views) | |
| Grace Goeren | Jun 7 2016, 04:13 PM Post #1 |
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Whoa, whoa...workin’ for a livin’. Whoa, whoa...takin’ what they givin’. Whoa, whoa...workin’ for a livin’. Whoa whoa whoaaaaaaaa! Michael Robinson holds the giant pot underneath the faucet, the spigot spurting out a stream of freezing water that nearly overflows onto the black & white tiled kitchen floor. He continues humming his Huey Lewis & The News ditty, heaving the giant pot up to his chest and cumbersomely making his way through the kitchen into the main seating area. He spots his target splayed out underneath two overturned tables, right where he left it. The body lying on the floor is framed with soiled tablecloths and broken Patron bottles. Azrael Goeren’s longtime assistant rests the pot on one of the few tables that hasn’t yet been decimated, dragging a velvet padded chair over to the body. He calmly sits down in the comfy chair, admiring his surroundings with a cheerful whistle. He then starts up his tune again, glancing down at his watch as if he’s checking to see whether it's the right time to do make his move. Sure as shit looks like it's go time. Having done this countless times before over his career (far more than he’d like to admit), Michael stands up and grabs hold of the pot of ice cold water and stands over his target. Like a dutiful Norman soldier defending his castle from a vile Saxon invader, he slowly but steadily tips the pot over as the cold water rushes from its container and splashes all over the individual lying unconscious on the floor in front of him. If you’ve never had a bucket full of ice water dumped on your face after a heavy night of drinking, drugs, sex and otherwise raunchy debauchery, then you have absolutely no idea how the body truly feels after a shock to its system like that. Imagine electricity surging through every pore while at the same time being slapped upside the head with a frozen, dead mackerel. You’re about 50% there. Unfortunately for Michael Robinson, being the personal assistant to a demented German lunatic who has never found a vice he didn’t like or an orifice he wouldn’t fuck, this is old hat. The only difference being the Goeren he’s currently soaking. SON OF A FUCK TIT! Grace Goeren lets out a choking gasp for air as she thrashes wildly on the floor of the Whiskey Saigon, a trendy Boston nightclub for the social elite...or those with enough money to fake it. Her slinky silver top is sticking to her body like it was attached with glue, but is likely just adhering to copious amounts of sweat. Her blonde hair is a tangled mess, it's obvious when she started this night she had it done up fashionably, now it’s beyond frayed and frazzled, a collection of knots and twists. She’s missing a shoe and her handbag is dumped out next to her with at least half a dozen prescription bottles strewn about like Halloween candy. The smeared makeup, the bags underneath her eyes and the dried blood under her nose, at the corner of her mouth and on her knuckles complete Grace’s disheveled appearance. She wildly flagellates the ground around her with all of her limbs, trying to shake the water off as she sits up violently. The FUCK is the big idea?! Who is the walking, talking dead fatherfucker who is going to get an ass raping the size of Texas?! Good evening, Grace. Who the fuck are… Shaking the cobwebs and recreational drug effects loose, Grace leans forward to get a better look at the man who has calmly returned to the chair in front of her. Uncle Mikey? Hey there angel, looks like you had a fun night. There are maybe two people on this planet that Grace wouldn’t instantly tear their throat out for daring to wake her up. This man is one of them. Instead of pulling out his trachea, Grace lets out a little laugh and stumbles forward, throwing her arms around Mike’s neck. In her life, most of the men she’s encountered usually want something from her or use her for their own machinations. Michael Robinson did neither. When he was able to sneak away from Azrael’s watchful eye, he provided the only fatherly figure in Grace’s fractured life over the last decade. If Azrael ever found out, it would have been a bloodbath for daring to disobey the staunch rules for dealing with the Lost Boys and Girls that count themselves as sharing Azrael’s unfortunate bloodline. Michael Robinson was afraid of Azrael for a long, long time...if he knew that he had been visiting his daughter all these years behind his back it would have pushed him past the brink. Truth be told, Mike never felt like he was doing enough to help Grace. He couldn’t. Up until recently, he was handcuffed from really making a difference. Maybe he provided some money here and there for her to buy new clothes. Maybe a kind word or a receptive ear. Maybe a few trips to the hospital or clinic when things got really bad around her mother’s house. It wasn’t nearly enough. There is no way he expected it to be. But he still tried to be there for her and be her friend in a world that left her in the gutter. He always felt so sorry for her. He just wished he could have done more. You smell fucking horrible. You’re one to talk. You’ve got the stench of HIM all over you. You been at his place again? Don’t know how you can stand it. Yeah, no idea how I do it. I’m a god-damned miracle worker. That’s why I brought you wah-wah. Ugh. You could have just shook me awake. Never would have done the trick. You were out cold. Besides, you needed the bath. Grace lets out a laugh and slumps back down to the floor, incredulously looking around her at the destruction. Did I do all of this? You and your little entourage. Over $5,000 worth of damage to this room alone. Meh. I’ll have Mr. Gates take it out of my paycheck for Battlelines. No biggie. Plus you slugged a doorman after he tried to get you out of here, according to management. You’re lucky your friends held you back or you’d be in jail by now. Good to know my peeps had my back. Who are those people, anyways? They were heading out when I was coming in. Fuck if I know. Just some people I met at the start of the night. Free loaders. They like me. They like your money. Can’t blame them for that. I like my money too. Hey, wait a second...how’d you even find me? Michael clears his throat and stretches out a bit in the chair. You really want to know? Mother fucker. He’s had you tailing me. Always were a quick one. FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! Come on, Grace. Don’t you think that actually worked in your favor tonight? I’m not a little kid, you know. I don’t need to be watched 24/7. I’m a fucking… Megastar? Fuck yeah! I’m the biggest thing in wrestling right now. So you keep saying. It's the truth. Okay. So says you. I’ve seen plenty of “big things” and “megastars” come and go in my day. All I’m saying is that despite what you think about your father, he’s worried about you and if he didn’t have me follow you then tonight could have gone a LOT worse. Aw man, Uncle Mikey. Open your fucking eyes. You’re working for a jerkoff douchebag who abused the hell out of you his entire life. Why are people STILL doing his dirty work after all these years? What the fuck is wrong with you? Pensively looking down, Mike nods his head. It’s a thought that he must have had at least a dozen times a day when Azrael was at his worst. Everyone told him to leave, but he still stuck by his employer. It wasn’t for the money. It wasn’t to stay involved in the business. It was something far more profound. You wouldn’t understand. Your father is no saint, nobody is claiming that he is. But people change, Grace. I know you don’t believe me but I’ve seen it with my own eyes. If anyone has seen the worst of him it's me and I can tell you this change is for real. Whatever. Michael didn’t think reasoning with her would work, but he had to at least try. Come on, clean yourself up. We need to amscray. After everyone else ran out I ran in and convinced management not to call the cops if I can drag you out of here. That stupid asshole. Grace, get your ass in gear and stop worrying about… No, no, no! Why in the fuck is he trying to do this?! Grace gets to her feet and pounds a nearby table as hard as she can, flipping the flimsy frame up and over as it crashes to the floor. I don't need his help! Nobody understands that. I don’t fucking want it! I’m calling the shots now! Not my asshole, abandoning father! Not my cunt mother! Not therapists or teachers or counselors! Maybe when I was...was… Grace drops down to her knees amidst the broken glass, her bare skin scraping against the unforgiving shards. If she feels anything, she doesn’t let it be known. Michael can only watch in sadness. He’s seen Grace go through so much Hell in her life and has been unable to do anything about it. She doesn’t know it, but he tried. He called Child Protective Services when she was 8 and he saw her with bruises and scratches. Tried again when she was 9 when she didn’t have any marks on her body but her eyes and her silence told a far more horrifying story. Its funny, Grace’s mother always figured it was Azrael who reported her. Unfortunately she always put on a good show for the investigator when they visited. Household nominal. No further action needed. Case closed. Abuse continues. Grace suddenly jerks her head up and looks around the room, a look of shock and horror painted on her young face. Its as if she’s woken up from a nightmare, ever so briefly, before she lowers her head and regains control. Her breathing becomes labored, her voice rough. You need to do something for me, Uncle Mikey. Anything, sweetheart. We just have to get… Barely making a noise, Grace surges to her feet and grabs hold of Mike’s collar, plowing him through the debris and pinning him against a nearby brick wall. She violently squeezes his neck, her fingers wrapped around his throat with extreme malice. Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t need you and I don’t need him. I never needed either of you. When you go running back to him like the bitch you are, tell him the only thing I dream about every night is putting him in the ground. Tell him that and tell him if he puts a hand on me during this fucking stupid tag-match, I’ll bury him in Boston. With the force of everything she has, Grace heaves her head forward and CRACKS her own skull against the bridge of Michael’s nose. Blood immediately gushes out of his nostrils and across the broken bridge as he pulls his hands up to stop the bleeding. He crumples to the ground, holding his face as Grace looks down at him in absolute disgust, like someone looking at a mangy dog. I’m the fucking Megastar. I don’t need anyone. A twinge. She feels it somewhere deep inside her. Sympathy. Regret. Pain. Sorrow. Bury it deep, young Grace. Where they can never use it against you again. ********************** Is it something I said? Where oh where has my little Philip gone, or where or where can he be? No doubt bo-jangling for the crowd again, trying to let the world know what a stud he truly is. How ever will I control myself when I’m around you, Mr. Donovan? How can an impressionable young woman like myself resist the charms of a prancing, dancing human cartoon that might as well be an extra out of Drake & Josh with his wacky antics and side-splitting social commentary. Fucking swoon, mother fucker. Bestill my heart. I’m honestly disappointed that I haven’t heard a peep from Donovan since our match was made at Battlelines considering how much that guy loves to talk. I would have expected at least a photoshopped image of myself to have popped up by now. There’s plenty of them out there to choose from. I Googled my name a few days ago and there was some SERIOUSLY fucked up shit on DeviantArt.com and FanFic.net about me. He should have plenty of material to pop a few laughs. That’s all Philip Donovan is good for, afterall. A few belly chuckles. A snortle. And then we all go about our real business of clicking around to see what else is on The Network. To see what else is on that really matters. See, that’s why I can’t get too mad at the guy. He never wanted to be this deep in the Path of the Warrior Tournament. I guarantee it. He probably thought he was a one-and-done First Round exit, the type of guy who can at least say that he was in it before he was dumped out of it like a sack of shit on Taco Tuesday. Something to give him plenty of stand-up material to work with for the next few months before he’s forced to compete again. I’m sure he’s as shocked as the rest of us over his success in the tournament. Goes to show you the piss-poor level of competition here in the EWA that he’s even made it to me in the first place. Fucking makes me sick to my stomach that a goofy, 2-kewl-4-school jagoff like him could be this close to winning it all. His presence honestly turns this tournament into a fucking joke when I’m trying to make this sport respectable again. Thankfully, we won’t have to deal with him or his breed for much longer. He’s always been the type of guy who thinks that this sport is something to be made light of. That we should all just be having fun and working hard to entertain the idiot cunt fans. That’s the reason that EWA died in the first place, all of those years ago. Idiots like Donovan who would rather have someone crank their grinder then spill some blood. That weakness of preening to the fans and softness in the ring will get you killed out there when you eventually step into the ring with someone who has that killer instinct and premier ability. One day, Philip. One day you’re going to face that person and you’re going to realize that all the jokes in the world aren’t going to keep you out of the hospital. Let’s get you a date to look forward to. Thursday, June 9th. Your last day in the Path of the Warrior Tournament. Thank God. Then you can go back to doing what you do best. Giving us something to watch on The Network while we’re using our phones on the toilet. Be happy with your lot in life, Donovan. And leave the glory to the professionals. But I’m not done with this yet. As for the tag-team match...El Chupacabra? I seriously hope you cripple my father because the only thing I plan on doing in this match right now is having an up close and personal box seat to him getting his ass kicked. Just pray I’m merciful and don’t decide to start this match. Mr. Gates has shown me that the most important thing in these types of throwaway matches...and yes, that’s exactly what you two fuckwits are...is to come out of it healthy and snag a winner’s pay day. If you don’t piss me off in the meantime, maybe I’ll sacrifice that winner’s purse and enjoy you beating the shit out of my cunt father. But if you two idiots start talking, I’m taking this match in my own hands. Your choice. Make the right one. Ta-Ta. ********************** Mike stumbles out into the night air, holding a rough paper towel to his face. He holds his head back, trying to slow the flow of blood from the gash on the bridge of his nose but still manage to find the car. He spots the familiar Black Lexus where he left it and slowly makes his way over to it. As if on command, the passenger’s door pops open for him. Mutter Gottes…what the hell happened? Azrael Goeren leans over and helps his assistant into the car from the driver’s seat. He removes the paper towel and examines the wound. He reaches up to the horrific gash, gently feeling the bone underneath it as Mike lets out a scream and pulls back. Jesus Christ. We have to get you to the hospital, mein freund. We’re not that far off. Mike does not respond with anything that resembles the English language. He instead reclines the seat and brings the paper towel back to his nose to stop the sudden surge of fresh blood pouring out. Azrael starts driving towards the hospital, keeping an eye on his longtime friend. He knows the answer to the question before he asks it. Still. He has to get it out in the open. He needs to hear it. Did she do that to you? What do you think? Is she still in there? She left through the kitchen. If only I had… No...no, Henrik. Don’t even think that. If you had come in, it would have been much, much worse. Hold tight, I’ll get you some help. We’ll be there soon. She’s changed. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but the Grace that I...that we know...never would have attacked me like that. Goeren blatantly runs a red light, trying to rush Mike to the hospital as quickly as he can. He reflects on what Mike just said, nodding his head. Not in agreement with it. But in defiance of it. He knows that the next step he has planned for Grace is the right course of action. Now more than ever. The waiting game is over. ********************** I no longer want to talk with you Grace. Not until after you see with your own eyes what happens at Battlelines against El Chupacabra. I am preparing to fight them alone, but will welcome your help. Just know I’m not expecting it. I never expected this match to bring us together by forcing us to work as a team. That’s not why I asked Frau Vandervort for this match. I asked her for this match knowing that it would be insane to go against Diego and Hector on my own. I’m good. Maybe the best. But one against two rarely ever works out, especially against a team as good as them. I planned on that. I wanted to fight them both alone. You’ll understand soon enough. I’m tired of trying to reason with you. I can’t reach you through words. So it’s time to make my move. At Battlelines, we both go down together. ********************** Grace leans up against the outside wall of the Whiskey Saigon. She thought she heard a car screech away a few minutes ago, but she can’t be sure. She needed the night to consume her, to bring silence to her screaming mind. The world is numb to her right now, like the background static of an old television set constantly buzzing but meaning nothing to nobody. It's raining. It must be raining. She can feel the streaks of water uncontrollably cascading down her face. Strange. Not a cloud in the sky. |
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10:51 AM Jul 11