“I burned your world away, devoured by my Conviction.” – Aviators
Martha Keen had been a real estate agent for the better part of fifteen years. Her straight blond hair, hourglass figure and stunning blue eyes had been a favorable tool when dealing with wealthy young men looking to unload some cash; paired with a pragmatic mindset and an equally dangerous business acumen she had achieved considerable success at the age of thirty six. Unfortunately there were a few ugly truths in America.
Her looks had started to fade, life bathing in the sun had started to cause wrinkles to crumble across her face, the blonde hair and started to slowly fade into gray requiring regular hair appointments to keep its golden brilliance. Her body started to change as well, simple gym trips weren’t enough, she had to manage her diet strictly and watch her alcohol intake. With her twenties slowly fading behind her, in the land dominated by vain, old boys clubs, she knew her looks were reaching the end of their value.
That was fine.
She had a plan.
Her looks opened the door but she would no longer use that to her advantage. She had a score coming her way, a massive pay day if she could land the deal. With that money she could open her own Real Estate Company where she could probably bring real change to the local market, helping open the door for other women who were treated little more than pretty faces.
That’s what she told herself anyway. Hidden behind the veneer of Virtue Signals and Self-Righteousness, Martha’s sins were well guarded by ever present driving every selfish act. Today was the day she was going to get all of her dreams set in order. Today was the last day of the old Martha Keen and a new start as Martha Keen, business owner and rising Real Estate Titan.
That was assuming she could sell the decrepit and broken down arena outside of San Diego had been languishing ever since it had been built so many years ago. Since the original owners had sold it the arena had passed from owner to owner until it was foreclosed up and collected by the bank. Now the 15k arena was little more than a vacant lot with the husk of a building sitting on top of it. She had been told it had been part of a larger project of conjoined arenas all under one company’s influence but that plan had fallen through.
“..where is he.” Martha muttered to herself as she checked her phone for the sixteenth time since arriving at the property. The buyer was supposed to have been there thirty minutes ago and they weren’t answering their phone. “..Martha I swear, if you got duped again..”
It was then that, in the distance, she could hear the soft, rhythmic thumping that slowly grew louder. Her eyes lifted from her phone and peered out of her car window in confusion searching for the sound of the noise. A new sound joined the thumping, music carried on the wind.. Martha’s brow furrowed as she concentrated on the music..
“..Flight of the Valkyrie?” she said under her breath before she was finally able to identify a white and #97Red Chinook roaring over a low hill, the worlds HIGH OCTANE WRESTLING emblazoned upon the side. The sound of the twin rotors paired with the music blaring overhead shook Martha’s car as it screamed over her car before landing in the empty parking lot some fifty yards away.
Stumbling out of her car Martha lifted her arm to shield her eyes and mouth as she strained to see through the dust cloud the helicopter had created. As the engines began to power down the music stopped. A door on the side of the copter opens as a short staircase folds down. Two men dressed in black EPU uniforms with white masks sporting the red cross on it exit and take up flanking positions on either side of the steps.
Standing in the dust, her hair now whipped into a tangle while dirt stains her clothing, Martha looks otherwise stunned as she stares, jaw agape, toward the Chinook as a white suited devil slips down the steps and begins sauntering her direction, one burning #97Red eye glaring at her pairing with the tie, handkerchief that highlights an otherwise white three piece suit. As he approaches his dried, cracked lips part as glimmering silver teeth peek are displayed like a predator’s intimidation display.
“Minister, actually..” He said as he coiled up next to her, two hands covered in golden rings extend out and entangle themselves around Martha’s, a cold, clammy and uncomfortable shake following. “Minister Max Kael but please I find that name so passé, I’m more of a title guy so just call me Minister.”
“Oh, like Doctor Who!”
The Minister’s brow arches as his smile wavers for a moment.
“Exactly! That’s the name of the show. Oh you’d probably love it, it’s about a time traveling alien who has a bunch of different versions of himself that he turns into. He calls himself the Doctor, it’s really amazing!” Martha gushed for a moment before she realized the Minister was still holding her hand. She quickly withdrew it, an uncomfortable smile packed onto her face as she tried to remind herself there was a huge pay day at risk. The Minister nodded as she spoke, his own fake smile frozen like a corpse’s grin.
“He sounds like an awful fucking person.” he hissed through clenched teeth. Martha nodded before it fully registered what the Minister had said. Her eyes widened as the Minister brushed past her, his hateful eyes turned upon the decrepit, dilapidated arena behind her. “..unlike this place! Another forgotten relic of a bygone era, frankly I’m shocked it’s still standing. Most of the Arenas linked to this project were never completed or were torn down. This though.. Perfection.”
As he turned his attention to the arena Martha snapped back out of the uneasy shock of meeting the client and into business mode. Shuffling next to him in her high heels that well practiced poise and composure returned.
“Wow, you do know your property history Mr. Minister.” She said through pearly white teeth as she retrieved a small map of the arena, unfolding it and holding it out so the Minister could see.
“Just Minister is fine, Ms. Keen, and yes, you might say I have insider knowledge when it comes to this particular building which is why I’m so.. Keen.. heh-heh.. On purchasing it.” the Minister said as he snatched the map from her hand, crumbling it up into a ball.
“Oh..” Keen chirped in surprise as the map was ripped from her hands. “..so.. You don’t need a tour? You’re ready to put a bid in already?”
Ringling his fingers together the Minister nodded.
“Oh yes, Ms. Keen. Today is going to be a blessed day. Heh-heh..”
“Yes, Mr. Lee, of course.”
The Minister’s gravelly voice echoed around the crumbling artifice of the forgotten relic of High Octane Wrestling’s past. Thick bands of light cut across the darkened lobby, broken glass, cracked concrete and the scent of molder and animal crap. Amidst this wreckage of time the white suited Minister stood out, his ominous red eye staring off into the distance.
“James Witherhold? I’ve seen his tapes, when you added him to the War Games team I looked into him. No, I am not interested in him for the plan.” Minister muttered in a disinterested tone, kicking a chuck of broken concrete away, the sound of it’s clatter echoing away.
The sound of Lee’s voice was apparent, he was shouting, his tone was clearly sour. Ever since the entire Kostoff match was signed Lee had become more temperamental, something to do with nearly dying at the hands of the undead horror show that was Chris these days. Pulling the phone away the Minister waited a few moments for the shouting to die down before returning it to his ear.
“Yes, of course, I’ll make sure he understands what disappointing Lee Best means. Yes. Yes.” Though his red eye lacked a pupil the other, his blue eye, rolled as a sigh brushed past his chapped lips. “Of course, just like the good old days. Yes. Okay. Blood and guts, got it.”
With a swipe of his thumb the Minister ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket where he retrieved his silver cigarette case with the golden apple on it. He pulled a cigarette free, lighting it before he let his eyes wander over the ruined building in front of him.
“That man, I swear. I’ll have to add Perfection to the agenda.” A puff of smoke filled the air in front of his face as he slowly turned around, casting his gaze over a strange mob of colorful characters. “Anyway.. My Congregation..”
A smile stretched across his mouth as his metal teeth sparkled brilliantly. Lifting the cigarette to his lips once again he took a deep drag as the mass of strange people shambled forward. Amongst them were ninjas, North Kaelrean Soldiers, EPU Guards with red crosses painted on their masks, hobos and other assorted people who appeared to have just been following the crowd.
Lifting his hand into the air, the dart clenched between his teeth, the Minister welcomed them forward, his blue eye cold while the red seemed to burn with a zealous passion.
Hey there, Perfection is it?
James Witherhold? What the fuck kind of last name is that? Witherhold? That’s like the World’s weakest mandible claw delivered by Michael J. Fox. I know it’s a cheap shot, a joke about your name. I thought we’d get that out of the way, a little light hearted fun, a chuckle between fellow competitors.
I hope you chuckled, I know I did. A classic “heh-heh”, a great time was had by all.
I know somewhere in that dense, muddled brain of yours you think you have some kind of grasp on what you’re talking about. I don’t know if it’s drugs, drink or just being a fucking lazy prick but nothing that has dribbled out of that soggy sack of white bread you call a head is accurate to what has happened recently. You don’t do any research, you don’t do any kind of actual read ups, you’re not even fucking trying. You think cause you plant a little “Ooooh I’m gonna get real violent” means fucking shit if everything that proceeds it reads like a second grader doing a book report about a novel he only looked at the cover of.
Professionalism, James, and courtesy. I bothered to pay some attention to you, I’m familiar with your matches thus far and your technical abilities. I’ve been following your little segments each show with your fellow 24K members. I’ve given you the professional courtesy of assuming you at least bothered to do the same.
Also what is with your creepy obsession with Andy Murray?
Andy Murray survived on our team but he still lost. We all still lost. Sure, he got the ICON Championship out of it so it feels like a win but.. Well it’s still a loss right? Why you gotta brag for Andy Murray? It kinda feels like since you don’t have anything to brag about you have to lean on big Andy Murray because of course, his victory is a 24K victory.
Pathetic, a little sad. Very, very disappointing.
I mean it must be hard being the Lindsay Troy of 24K. Running on some kind of concept that you’re the best at.. What, technical wrestling? Your current losing streak makes me doubt you’re a man very attached to truth but then what more should I expect from a man who goes by the name Perfection. While your stable mates enjoy success, Andy Murray with the ICON Championship and the Hollywood Bruvs currently the Tag Team Champions, you’re about to have another competitive loss.
And it is going to be a loss, friend. I mean, it is entirely possible, Lindsay Troy had the same odds as you did. Just like you she told herself she was going to reach a new level and defeat me. She almost did. You.. almost might.
..but you won’t. You can’t because you don’t know shit about me and you didn’t bother. You won’t beat me because Mike Best has free rent in the milquetoast blob that rests comfortably between your ears. You won’t beat me because you blame Lee Best for your unsurprising defeats. You won’t beat me cause just like Lindsay Troy, every group has to have someone to make the rest look better. Mr. Weakgrasp you managed to outlast Mike Best’s pocket pussy at War Games, that’s the pinnacle of your achievements thus far in High Octane Wrestling.
At War Games all you had to do for Lee was help us defeat the Group of Death. MJFlair managed to pin Lindsay Troy. Andy Murray managed to eliminate Cecilworth Farthington. As for me.. My victories are happening right now, you insipid twit, you simply lack the vision to see them. But you? Lee had one job for you, as I said.
And you fucking FAILED.
You and I are not alike. Oh sure, I didn’t walk out of War Games with a title but, again, if you have been paying attention to shit the last few months you might have figured out I DON’T FUCKING CARE. My goals remain unchanged, my success very apparent. I don’t need to brag about other people’s success, unlike you, I have more than enough for myself.
So, bring me your unadulterated violence. Bring me your technical prowess. Bring me a straight laced rasslin’ match or some brutal, hardcore, death match shit. You pick your poison, I’m game for anything, this is all about you. Then, after I’ve dealt with you I return to preparing for my World title Match at No Remorse while you.. Do.. whatever it is you do that benefits High Octane Wrestling. Provide moral support to 24K? Fill in the demographic for uneducated white men between the ages of 36 and 45?
Maybe you could take a page out of Darin Matthews or MJFlair’s playbook and absorb a few wins outside of High Octane Wrestling, you know, build up your confidence again. Or maybe actually watch the shows you Walmart Brand Cancer Jiles. Wait, I have an even better idea! After our business is concluded at Refueled you do everyone a favor and you joined Lindsay Troy outside of wrestling in recovery for a few weeks.
Regardless of what you chose to do I’m certain, because it’s you, there is just one word to describe it..
Have a Blessed Day.