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Jonathan

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Everything posted by Jonathan

  1. Name: Johnny Skills Nationality: French Skin Tone: Black Height: 6'3 Weight: 175 Position/Play Style: Fullback/Wingback - Complete Wingback
  2. No One Man - Midseason Finale: Where There’s Smoke ♛ Kingslayers♛ It was almost like the air was disturbed, as though the tension physically manifested as the seeming fog clouding the room. Calling the tension palpable would’ve sold it extremely short. The silence continued on in the poorly lit room; the stickiness and the clamminess making the cramped room even more uncomfortable, combining with tension, it began to feel like a powder keg. With every passing second, it seemed more and more like somebody was set to strike a match to set the room alight, but all four kept trying to straddle the line. Two of the men sat next to each other, consistently tossing glares across the table but mainly whispering to each other, discussing their coming approach just to make the man sat across squirm a tad bit more. The man on the left was neatly arranged, with a freshly pressed ‘Atlanta PD’ windbreaker and hair short and tidy, his steel blue eyes studied the perp as his partner leaning towards him, exchanging whispers. His partner was still quite imposing while seated, his long hair tied back into a ponytail, exposing a face pulsing red with anger, every vein exposed on his head and arms, it appeared as though the man they were interrogating got under his skin, as he wanted. He stopped his conversation, centering in his chair again as he looked at the third officer in the room, who domineered over the suspect. He was donning very different apparel from his counterparts, with a hood pulled tight and mask on, the only signifier of his allegiance with the police was a small badge on his chest. It was very appropriate to the tenuous relationship both parties held. He growled questions at the man, trying to chip away at the tough exterior the man held, carefully towing a line between the legal and illegal practices of ‘interrogation’. He finally stepped away, making eye contact with the man with the ponytail who gestured to the door. “Mr. Deadeye, could a get a minute with you?” Deadeye nodding, intentionally bumping the suspect as he moved around the table on his way to the door. The man with the ponytail rose to his full six foot five height, towering above everybody in the room, he looked back at the man in the windbreaker. “Chance, I assume you can handle this for the moment.” Chance looked up quickly before staring at the man across from him again, narrowing his eyes as he responded. “I’ll manage Archangel, take your time.” Archangel nodded, ducking out the room alongside Deadeye. The two continued out of the hall, moving to another room where another man stood, peering through the glass at the scene that Archangel and Deadeye just exited, watching Chance begin to grow more comfortable in the room. The two men joined him at the two-way mirror. “Why’d you pull me?” Deadeye finally asked as the began to look through the mirror. “Sometimes you have to sit back and let the masters work,” Archangel responded, also offering a shrug. “Plus torture is illegal, and here you have to adhere to the law,” the other man added with a chuckle. He picked at his beard as he looked over at Deadeye, who was rather far from smiling. “Fucking sucks doesn’t it?” The words filled the silence for a second before everything fell quiet once again. The weight of the scrutiny this group was placed under had dawned on all of them. They were practically hand chosen by the CIA, Bailey Justin, the Director himself had taken it upon himself to establish these task forces in seven different cities. He saw this city and decided that the situation was bad enough that he needed to interject into the situation. It was embarrassing for the men who all professed that they’d be the saviors of the city, now ‘asked’ to team with police officers. Naturally, there wasn’t much choice in the matter, just the expectation to instantly turn around and produce results, learning how to trust each other on the fly, from the frying pan into the fire. So far, the performance of the newly dubbed “Kingslayers” was phenomenal. Efficiently launching assaults on numerous cartel and mob fronts, disrupting the systems that had been flowing smoothly for those organizations. But these ops had been conducted with solid intel, information compiled from various sources. The well on said intel had already run dry, meaning that the cartel thug sat before Chance became paramount for future success. Chance had deduced that he was a rather high ranking official, with tattoos inked all over his flesh. The sheer number showed that at the very least, he was a member for a number of years, who’d have some friends in high places. Chance debated his approach, he couldn’t quite pin down exactly what had this man on edge, overzealous in his guard. He very clearly was uncomfortable, perhaps debating the risk reward of his actions, or maybe there was a lingering fear that just barely held the reins on a man who would spill absolutely everything. Chance averted his gaze back to the file, running more simulations in his head. He thought about letting him stir in silence, but that would only lead him becoming fortified in his cause and sealing up. Neither friendly nor angry approach would cause him to open up either, he’d recognized the desperation and gain confidence that he would be able to exit without saying a word. Chance snuck a gaze at his watch as he thought about a confident approach, he didn’t have the luxury of whittling him down with snide remarks until eventually, he caved, he had approximately thirty minutes before his lawyer appeared. It finally dawned on Chance, that playing to his fears would ramp his emotions to a point of no return, where he’d become extremely susceptible to Chance. Chance smirked as he leaned back in his chair, slicking back his hair as he thought about just how to play to his fears. He disregarded the thought of jail time, a frame job, and a false flag. He was scared of somebody internally, and Chance could see it now. He stopped fiddling with his hair and folded his hands together and placed them on the table, it was almost too easy. “How do you reckon La Muerte is feeling right now, Mr. Gabriel?” Gabriel played off the casual mention of his boss, Chance leaned closer, smiling a bit wider. “Yeah, I don’t really care either. There’s nothing he can do to you now is there?” Gabriel gulped now, beginning to flick away at the cold iron table, doing all he could to avoid eye contact. Chance edged his seat closer, continuing to badger away. “Do you even know if your loyalty matters anymore?” Chance paused here, knowing that his next words would determine the success of this interrogation. He wasn’t scared of his boss, whatsoever, not possible when his boss was a killer, the inability to fear a man with so much blood his hands meant either absolute trust… or that his boss was in a grave now. Chance thought about both lines of questions, before asking his follow-up question. “Do you think that you two can bunk in a casket?” Gabriel finally raised his eyes to meet the steel blues of Chance, who stared back in response, wiping his smirk in place for a more blank expression. “Do you really wanna take that chance?” Chance asked with raised eyebrows. “No, not with that puta Hijo at the top now,” Gabriel said scowling, he didn’t even give Chance a chance to react to the words before he continued speaking. “He’s fucking loco. He kills Muerte without even consulting anybody and now wants to wage war with the Trifficantes? I’ll take my chances in prison.” “Hijo is taking a shot at Don Dada?” Chance sputtered, the shock registering in him as well as everybody behind the mirror. The bearded man leaned closer, waiting for the next wave of information. “Yeah, hired some fucking deadman to do the job for him, won’t tell us a name.” The bearded man scoffed at the info, turning and heading for the door. “Where are you going, Phantom?” Archangel asked. Phantom turned back with a smile on his face. “Get my ears cleaned, want to make sure the music sounds as good as possible.” Phantom slipped into the hall, quickly scurrying out of the entire wing as he made his way outside. He pulled a phone from his pocket as he exited the precinct, immediately making a call. The phone buzzed as he stepped into the night, distancing himself from everybody until he found a pocket of seclusion. The ringing finally stopped, replaced by first a click, then a very familiar voice. “How are you, Gunner?” “He’s coming after you,” Gunner excitedly whispered into the microphone, ignoring the question from Don Dada. The situation caused a slight panic for Gunner, his admiration for the man he was now speaking to ever so apparent. He started up again, stumbling over his own words trying to give all the information at once. “It’s the Ángeles del Infierno, Hijo killed Muerte and now he’s coming after you with an army and a hitter.” Dada did nothing but sigh as Gunner anxiously awaited a response. “I asked how are you?” “Are you serious?” Phantom asked, trying to process the shock the nonchalance caused. The Don was scared, he had to be, or at least Gunner thought this. He attempted to get ahead of this war, he held El Hijo in great regard and so he desperately attempted to get ahead of this conflict by eliminating him. Now El Hijo had an entire army to hide behind, the resources to battle on every front, and the power to paralyze any man working for the Don. Gunner couldn’t fathom a scenario where this was an appropriate response to the crisis at hand. His words failed, he could only sputter more questions, trying to find out why Don wasn’t taking this seriously. “Yes, I’m serious, I asked you how you’re doing?” “Your entire life’s work hangs in the balance and you’re concerned with feelings?” Disdain began to infiltrate Gunner’s words, he could do nothing but resent somebody who couldn’t appropriately respond to a crisis, a man who seemed willing to admit defeat. Every ounce of him detested this behavior. “Gunner, have you ever heard the saying, where’s there’s smoke, there’s fire? This has been smoldering for quite some time, it doesn’t incite panic. I understand that many people want what I have, if I feared of all them, I’d die of a heart attack far before any of them touched me. I’m more concerned about your well being right now.” Don finished. It was an impressive speech by his accounts, disguising his tone to a man completely assured of his safety, truthfully, he sat in his office, unable to move, struggling for breath at the thought. El Hijo wouldn’t bother sending a man after him unless the success was guaranteed, he wouldn’t chance missing his attempt on the King of the Underworld. Only one man could assuage this fear, the same man who rebuffed him, the same man he wanted under his wing to guarantee he’d be secured at the top of the game indefinitely. The only course of action now was to keep absolute faith instilled in his top lieutenants, he’d spent too much time grooming Nigel to allow him to become useless before he most needed him. So he kept insisting that he was the greater priority at the moment, understanding how this couldn’t only bring somebody with such a fractured background closer. It was a phenomenal deduction and worked perfectly, Gunner finally eeked out a reply. “I’m doing fine…” he couldn’t quite process the idea of him having more value than an attempt on the Don’s life. Somehow, he admired the man who welcomed him in like a father even more. “I have to go, I’ll call you later.” “Understood.” Don moved the phone from his ear, understanding the predicament he was now in, he really didn’t have many options to choose from. He swiped through his contacts until he came to “Fox”, he crafted his text, waiting before he sent it. He stared at his screen, debating on whether or not this could ever end well for him. Resigned to his fate, he sent the message: “Let slip the dogs of war.” If you looked close enough, you could see the inklings of war stretched into the horizon. Whispers crept out of every corner of the city, rumblings that had corner boys bringing extra heat to their pickups, silence falling over the streets at earlier times. The fear spread like a plague, distrust ran unchecked, everybody just waiting for the first shot, the one heard round the city that everybody ducking for cover. It's incredible that even though everybody's on watch, the war will sneak up on everybody... like it always does.
  3. "The Slim Reaper" Johnny Snipes Position: Left Defenseman Height: 68.4" Weight: 190 lbs Date of Birth: 24/9 Nationality: American City of Birth: Stockholm (Naturalized US Citizen) Preferred Jersey Number: 6 Handedness: Right Player Type: Offensive Defenseman (Non Physical) Starting Junior League: University of Massachusetts at Amherst (NCAA Div. 1) Hidden Attributes: Strengths: Big Games, Coachability, Adaptability Weaknesses: Loyalty, Greed Mental Attributes: Strengths: Determination, Professionalism Weaknesses: Aggression Physical Attributes: Strengths: Speed, Agility Weaknesses: Strength, Fighting
  4. No One Man - Chapter 4: Danger Close ⊗ Zombie ⊗ I peered through the glass, leaning out the open window to get a better view. The sun slowly made its ascent, the light creeping through the crevices between the buildings. The few glimmers of light refracted off the dewy roofs of high rises and corner stores, creating tiny prisms of rainbows, sprinkled around the district. I kept reminding myself to focus my gaze on the building set on the edge of the area, with considerable distance between it and the next one. It seemed harrowing from this view, with the vibrant nightclub now reduced to an isolated building before opening. I sat pact, biding my time before the Don made his grand entrance. I hated this part of the job. It wasn’t my least favorite aspect of it, I mean I finally got think about ultimate meanings of life or whatever, didn’t have to talk to some of the characters I had to deal with. I zoomed my lens in further, studying the motorcade of vehicles arriving yo see if Don Dada would finally emerge from one of the unmistakably villainous SUVs. He finally clambered out of the center one, immediately surrounded by a fleet of goons. As expected, he got into work very early, getting in before him might as well have been impossible. I stifled a yawn, trying to maintain my line of sight as they entered the strip joint. I assumed I was supposed to now exit my nest and go out to examine the integrity of the club, but it was far from a fortress, and unless the walls were coated with diamond, it wouldn’t be a hard nut to crack. I leaned back, putting the scope back in my pocket as I stared out into the distance, keeping the club in my general line of sight for the moment. I grabbed my phone off the windowsill, seeing the panic spreading through my contacts, all terrified by the news of the shiny, new Task Force X. Such a generic name. They had been quite successful since their launch, rolling up multiple cartel operations with surgical precision, which could not bode well for my employer. It didn't really matter to me, I doubted they even knew that I existed. I rose out of my seat, putting my phone in my pocket and slamming the window close. I wrestled another silk glove out of my pocket, putting it on my left hand. My mind ventured back to the scene at the Waffle House as I prepared to exit the house, thinking about the very employer who now seemed to be between a rock and a hard place. I only knew of him from reputation, and his reputation made me steer clear of him until this point. It wasn’t that I was scared, it was that I preferred not to willingly accept fights that I had to consider retreating from. El Hijo wasn’t supposed to be real, he was supposed to be a cartel myth meant to spook people from confrontation with the “Angeles del Infierno”, just like I wasn’t supposed to exist. Yet we sat there… and he was nervous. That likely wouldn’t be an alleviator of stress when his cartel is under siege. I started to have doubts about the viability of the operation, whether setting the underworld alight for a man who could be put in a grave any day now, leaving me without major employment while another power vacuum commenced. But I pushed the thoughts out my mind, I wasn’t really big on double-crossing the demons. I finally finished getting dressed, donning a black and white Nike tracksuit, and signature baggy hoodie concealing my vest. With my hood pulled low, I exited the apartment, glad I didn’t actually have to kill for this view. I slipped out the foreign hall down the steps, then exited the complex. I paced down the streets, with them finally deserted for a change. I navigated through the streets, moving away from the club. Eventually, I arrived at a second apartment complex. I swiped through the names on the directory until I found the one I was looking for, ringing it up. After some time passed, I was buzzed in. I clambered up the five sets of stairs, not being a big fan of elevator cameras, and reached the fifth floor. I scanned the foyer, looking for the particular apartment in question. I found it at last and knocked on the door. The door swung open, a woman stood in the doorway, quite excited to see me. She invited me in, biting her lip. Showing the way to her couch before she started to scurry towards presumably her bedroom. “Hold on,” I called, gesturing towards the coach as well. We both took a seat, a smile still on her lips. I wrestled out an envelope of cash, some ten thousand dollars was in it. I looked up at her, I think her name was Lana or something. I removed the cash from the envelope, counting it out loud as I thumbed through it. I placed the cash on the adjacent table before shifting my gaze back to her, her smile was no longer present instead her mouth hung open and a cloud of confusion lingered over her eyes. I didn’t know too much about her, she worked at Diamond of Atlanta as a bartender and had an OnlyFans, about all the information I needed before I contacted her. “Wh- what is this?” she demanded. I stood up, sliding the glove off my left hand. It always felt too weird. I circled the table, stopping when I was right across from her, still in shock from the stack I’d left on her table. I looked down at her, hoping that she wouldn’t be one to fold. I didn’t want this to run me too much money. “It’s Lana right?” I asked. She managed a nod before I continued, rounding the table again and taking a seat right before her. “Look, you’ll get this ten thousand…” I paused, seeing as she remained in the shock, I hadn’t quite gotten her to focus yet. I reached underneath my hoodie, feeling around for my track jacket pockets, each one containing an envelope with another twenty thousand. I grabbed one and set the cash on top of the green mound already on the table. I could see the shock begin to dissipate, the extra money eliciting a different response. I started up again. “Thirty thousand if you do me a simple favor. Whenever your boss leaves his office, I want to know. Let's say you’ll… text me a red heart every time he leaves with his boys, and a… heart eyes when he leaves alone. Everything goes through Snapchat, it’s the same name I messaged you with on OnlyFans. Got it?” She nodded, pursing her lips as I spoke, wanting to interject. I assumed it was the age-old question of why I needed her to do this, but she chose to remain silent. I pulled a final item from my pants pocket, a fingernail-sized drive that I carefully handed to her. “If you plant this on his car or phone, I’ll throw in an extra twenty thousand.” She again nodded her head, I began to smile. She didn’t seem like one to flake, the money had wonderfully played its part. Still, I leaned in closer still, until our heads were inches apart, feeling each and every one of each other's breaths. I finally spoke, keeping my voice hushed as I added a final statement. “If you cross me, I’ll kill you, if you mention that I exist, I’ll kill you. And there’s absolutely nobody who can stop me from doing just that.” I tapped the table with my left index finger as I finished delivering the chilling words. I felt the corroding pain gathered in my hand finally expel, spreading across the wood. I snapped as I stood, seeing the fear gather in her eyes as the table melted into a heap of cinders. I turned towards the door, leaving her glued to the couch as I ventured back out to the streets. There really wasn't ever much to surveillance: find a weakness, exploit a weakness, that’s how it went, time and time again. Don Dada was likely paranoid enough to never leave alone, always holed up in the office of his, if I missed once he’d disappear into a mass of security. I could’ve planned a false flag, but I didn’t want to wait too long and risk losing the cash I’d set up for the job. I could’ve tried to waltz back in, but after our last confrontation, I doubt he’d take a meeting with me without groveling. I had already fucked myself over before the op even started. I very seriously limited options on a man who didn’t leave many windows cracked open. I couldn't help but smile, that meant it’d be the most fun I’d had in months.
  5. Match Of The Year Naito/Tanahashi Wrestler Of The Year Bryan Face Of The Year Kazuchika Okada Heel Of The Year Bryan Match Of The Year Seth Rollins vs Drew Mcintyre Wrestler Of The Year Kenny Omega Heel Of The Year The Fiend Face Of The Year Seth Rollins
  6. Name (First And Last): Quincy Lewis Age: 19 Nickname: Q Height: 5'9 Body Type: Skinny Hair Color: Black Personality (Good Or Bad): Bad Biggest Fear: Having Expectations Strengths: Smart, Quick Study, Persuasive Weakness: Lazy, Not Athletic, Stubborn Brief Background: College Dropout with no real aspirations in life, works around town picking up oddjobs here and there and making a decent living, lives with parents, likes doing nothing slightly more than sleeping or playing video games
  7. Name: Kain Baker Attire: Ricochet All White Hoodie Alignment: Face Tag Team: Dealer's Choice
  8. No One Man - Chapter One: Friends ⊗ Zombie ⊗ I stood idly at the back entrance, staring aimlessly at the wall. I could be the bass thumping just beyond, sending waves through the wall that made the street tremble. I felt the ground shake below me, it was really starting to piss me off. I sauntered to the door again and once again started banging, slamming my fist into the cold steel harder after every knock. I finally ceased, stuffing my hand back in my pocket and stepping back. I waited another quarter-century, nothing changed, the bass kept thumping and every breath I took formed a freezing sheet of air in front of me. I couldn’t bear to wait for another second, I quickly pulled my hands out my pockets and peeled the glove off my right and flicked the knob, it came apart on contact, I pushed the door open and walked into the dim room. In the distance, I could make out a plethora of colors, bright lights created a cascading sea of pink, purple, and blue. The lights gleamed against the golden poles and glitter, I couldn’t see how people hadn’t see yet. I approached, passing an assembly of men dressed in all black, all guarding cordoned rooms. They seemed too preoccupied to deal with me, I continued to stride down the maroon carpet, “Womp Womp” hammered louder out the speakers as I approached a railing. I looked out to see the mobs surrounding the small islands of stages, money raining down on the female performers like confetti. I didn’t know strip clubs were this busy on Tuesdays. I began to scan the club, looking for where the big boss man would set up shop while I slipped my hand into my glove. I decided to adventure upstairs, I began to clamber up the steps, looking up to find a pair of extremely unfriendly bodyguards. “I need to see your boss,” I called out to them as I reached the top of the flight, trying to continue between them. They stopped me of course, the one on the left snatching my wrist and the one on the right placing a hand on my chest. I stopped, making eye contact with both of them. “Are you even old enough to be here?” one asked, I sighed audibly before replying. “I need to see your boss, Mr. Banks, Don Dada, whatever the fuck.” They didn’t budge whatsoever, growing more adamant in their head shaking. I massaged my temple, why were mafia types so fucking annoying? It was really starting to piss me off. I wiggled my left hand free enough to twist my palm towards me and slapped his hand. I finally wrangled my hand away as a small army of dark freckles appeared on his wrist. The man on my right tried to place another hand on me, I slapped his hand away as well, with the dark spots materializing moments after. I quickly snapped my fingers as I began to march forward again, leaving the two men on the floor crying out in agony as their skin, sinew, muscle, and tissue flecked off the hands. I massaged my left hand now, they’d be fine I’d only used my left hand. I wish I could get it stronger but unfortunately, I’m a righty. These powers weren’t just blessings from God that allowed you to get a leg up on the world. They were simply an extension of natural physiques. They were mostly present in people’s dominant hand, foot, whatever, people being able to do incredible things but without the immunity of a Superman. We had limits, breaking points that would cause more harm to our body than was worth it. Most people couldn’t even get an inkling of power in their non-dominant hand, becoming utterly predictable in the way they fought. It would always just become who had the bigger gun. But it was almost pointless trying to get an equal level of power in both hands, you could never achieve the same potential of power in your weaker hand. I decided to at least get my left hand functional, being able to emit power from my left, though it hurt like a bitch, and decided to load up as much power as I could in my right. I’ve seen some people who instead decided to achieve a balanced set of power in both hands, they usually didn’t have lethal power. And then there were the real freaks, the lucky ones who ended up getting full body powers. Those people were the ones who belonged in fucking comic books, the ones able to change the bodily makeup, transform into other beings, and fully power up. I wouldn’t go anywhere near those freaks, not worth the money. There were also the mind freaks, people who got superpower brains on Professor X type shit, they weren’t powerful as much as they were annoying, I tried to stay out of their way. I was just lucky I had gotten this “incredible” power, the full extent of death beheld in my fingertips. It was so much cooler than it sounds. I stopped kneading away at my hand and continued down the corridor, running my fingers on the railing beside me. I examined every door I passed, hoping to see any door that could serve as the boss man’s office. I eventually came to the end of the hallway, then began pounding on the final door. “I swear to God if I have to wait another second I’ll get really upset!” I yelled, beginning to pull my glove off. He was so rude, making me wait while he was the one who asked around for me. At the very least he could’ve told his bodyguards I was coming, maybe they would’ve gotten me a Caprisun and a lap dance. Now I had to bang on his door like a fucking policeman, I don’t think a pinch of etiquette is too much to ask for. The door finally swung open, all six foot six, two hundred thirty of Banks filled the doorway. He stood expressionless, looking at me for a handful of seconds before peering over my shoulder, seeing his bodyguards clutching their wrists. He refocused on me, visibly more upset than he was a second ago. Finally, he budged, retreating from the doorway and allowing me in. I slowly sauntered in, taking in the room as I made my entrance. The room was lavishly furnished, as it opened up, a seating area was placed to the right, with a neatly arranged couple of silk chairs surrounding an ivory coffee table. Just behind it lied a bar and presumably storage area for both legal and illegal trinkets. Everything in the room was meticulously tucked away, the thought behind every action was apparent. The Don was so fucking paranoid. At the end of the room lied an ebony and ivory desk, placed in front of a stained and tinted window. On the desk laid some folders and papers, neatly stacked in a pile in the corner. Laid on top was that new bestseller, so bullshit on the “enhanced” by this Dr. Sage guy. Don walked towards the window, gazing out towards the hectic streets. “Where’s the rest of it?” I asked bluntly while I took my seat in yet another silk seat, so bougie. He pivoted back to face me. “How do I know he’s dead?” he asked, I think my eye roll was audible. “Not my issue, ask his wife for all I care, you kill me if he’s not dead. Where’s my money?” I said now, my annoyance starting to ring through. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and began fidgetting with my glove. He approached his desk, drawing a desk drawer open and removing an envelope from it. He placed it on the table before me, I grabbed it, ripping the envelope open and rifling through the cash. “This clean?” I asked, continuing my count of the cash. “Like a virgin,” he replied, these mafia characters loved their stupid sayings. I pocketed the money, satisfied that it was all there, I don’t think the Don was dumb enough to cross me. I rose to leave, our business was complete but he stopped me, motioning for me to retake my seat. He pulled another drawer open, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. I dragged his chair back and now took his seat, beginning to pour the whiskey in the glasses. He handed one to me. “I’m not legal,” I retorted, but he became more stubborn, pushing the glass closer to me. “For a successful transaction, and continued success for the both of us in the future,” he began. I gripped the glass, and raised it, clanking it with his in the process. “Salud.” He downed the liquor quickly, proceeding to watch with a smirk while I slowly worked away at the whiskey. I finally put the glass back on the desk, content with the current amount of singeing in my throat. He reclined in his chair, seemingly inspecting me with his stare. I cleared my throat suggestively, trying to figure out why he was shielding his intention. He finally filled the silence with a question. “Would you ever cross me?” The question caught me off-guard, I broke the eye contact we hand and focused on my glass, taking another sip before swirling what remained. I couldn’t really see the point of the question. Was I supposed to have a sense of loyalty to yet another person who needed me? “Yep,” I responded matter of factly, still looking at the remnants of the whiskey. I didn’t really see the point in lying, it’s not like he had anybody with a skillset like me employed. He showed his cards by even speaking my name, what he had in-house wasn’t enough. I looked back up at the Don, becoming enlightened as to why he asked the question. “Aren’t you tired of playing the middle?” I almost chuckled at the inquiry, rubbing my temple as I waited for him to continue. He rose, circling around his desk and sitting on the desk next to me. “You just guaranteed that my sphere of influence will continue to grow exponentially in Atlanta. I have the means to continue to grow out of the state, I could run the entire southeast region of this country, you’d get to be the executioner of the biggest mob in the last century.” “So I have to pledge allegiance to a single Mafia, slash my profits, expose myself to people I don’t trust, and what’s the plus side? Hard pass.” I said through a laugh, in disbelief of what I’d just heard. “I don’t quite believe you,” he said, continuing to examine me. He was insane, I guess he was trying to fill the void in my heart that my parents left. Oh, my knight in shining fucking armor. I scoffed at the comment, then downed the rest of the whiskey, getting ready to leave, Banks wasn’t quite down with me. “Hold your horses, I have another job. Quarter million for a cartel head.” “Nah, it doesn’t seem like much fun,” I said as I stood. I waved at him before dancing around the chairs to leave. I made it to the door before Banks called out to me again. “Be careful who call a friend, I’d rather have four quarters than a hundred pennies.” I stopped in my tracks, looking back at him as the profoundness of his words. “And I’d rather have ten dimes. Have a nice day.” I flung the door open and marched out, making way to the stairs. The bodyguards cowered as I stormed past them, finally getting a good laugh for the first time that evening. My chapter with the Trifficante Crime Family was a miserable, hundred thousand dollar story. And now I left out the busted back door, adventuring back into the night, far far away from that hellhole. I walked down the city streets, really taking in the Atlanta nightlife. All around were various types of drug addicts, all strung out to different degrees, Besides that, the skyline was littered with extremely conspicuous vigilantes, I couldn’t tell you how or why they were all perched like Batman, but I’m not one to judge. I cruised by a number of people trying to tempt me with various illegal offers, the corner boys and girls, the true blue-collar of America. I declined all of them, continuing away from the thumping music of the nightlife. I continued to maneuver through the busy streets, without any clear plan in mind, I figured that I should probably go secure the fifty grand burning a hole in my pocket, but what’s life without a little risk. “Aye!” Someone called out from behind me, interrupting my contemplation of food to pick up. I slowly turned, ready to tear my glove off my hand. I could barely make out a hooded figure approaching me, clutching something in his hand. “The fuck do you want?” I asked, freeing my hand from the glove and stretching it out in preparation. The stranger continued forward, drawing ever closer until I could make out pellucid blue eyes focused on me. “I’d like to acquire your services ‘Zombie’, I’m trying to slay a king.” I think I'm in the mood for Waffle House.
  9. Name: Jonathan Killebrew Nickname: Johnny Kills Gender: Male Nationality: United States Ethnicity: Black Hometown: Indian Head, Maryland Persona: Troll Picture (Wrestling pictures are appreciated as I can transition them from TEW 2016): Fighting Style: Brazilian-Jiu Jitsu (ex: Anderson Silva) Height: 6'4 Weight Class: Welterweight
  10. No One Man - Prologue ⊗ Zombie ⊗ I wonder what it would feel like to have been born twenty years earlier, being born completely normal just like everybody else… maybe have some loving parents, grow up playing football and baseball or whatever the fuck. I think I’d go to some parties and shit, you know, live a fun life; movies, dances, that whole nine yards, maybe even kiss someone. Ok, maybe I was stretching things now, but it was pretty cool to imagine. The dream always came to a screeching halt when I got back to the present, it morphed into more of a nightmare actually. Just a normal person living in this world? That was its own hell. I mean it’s not that I’m opposed to the good practitioners of hard work, no shortcuts and all, but that kinda drags. I don’t think I’d really enjoy getting stepped on by some superpowered prick. Or enhanced prick, I don’t know the politically correct term. I could imagine myself freaking out when they started popping out of mothers, all those kids with powers would be so fucking freaky. I paused my thought train for a second as I massaged my right, a glove fitted over it, feeling the veiny ripples pushing the satin out. I needed to refocus, I didn’t have too many windows to strike. I peeked around the corner to see the bustling crowd moving down the sidewalk, I didn’t have the greatest line of sight. I took a moment, making sure my glove was fitted correctly, then pulled my hood down tighter, entering the crowd. I pushed against the crowd, peering through it trying to find any group of ill-boding individuals. I finally saw a rumbling slicing through the crowd, and low and behold was the man I was like eighty percent sure was the mark, I should pay closer attention to the dossiers. I maneuvered towards the street, making sure to not lose sight of him as took a seat on the hood of a car, stuffing my gloved hand in my pocket. He approached, coming closer and closer without noticing me. His name was Meko or something, I just remembered that he was normally addressed as Happy Feet, like The Penguin. The name fit, I watched as he threw a tantrum to get through the crowd, standing head and shoulders below everybody else. He’d also just kicked a nasty Juul addiction apparently, he fancied mango especially. He was finally close enough to touch, I quickly drew a Juul out of my pockets, quickly taking a puff and exhaling it right into his face. His head turned first, his glare was accompanied by a fully formed scowl. His two boyfriends also paused, trying to find out what had pissed him off this time. He finally pivoted towards me, marching towards me as I played clueless, taking another hit and exhaling it into his path once again. He stopped in his tracks, along with seemingly the rest of the traffic on that sidewalk. I stole glances at him between looking every which way, acting as if I didn’t even know he existed. I could see the fury pulsing through him, the anger coursing through every vein of his body. He wanted to be taken so seriously, from the three-piece suit to freshly gelled hair. Maybe he was on his way to a big meeting with a connect, or off to fuck a prostitute, he was in constant need for respect. Well, that and a mango Juul pod. That’s why he’d let this slight pass, and why he was gonna ask me to take a walk with him. “Hey, kid, can I get a hit?” Happy Feet asked. I looked at him and shrugged, holding it out towards him. He frantically shook his head, scanning the crowd. “Walk with me, told my wife I kicked the habit.” This time I shook my head, looking at the two men flanking him before again shaking my head. “Sorry, I’ve heard of stranger danger,” I offered. He snarled at the remark and began to consult the goons that surrounded him, I caught something about watching for his wife and kicking ass, I tried my hardest to conceal my smile, deciding to take another hit to stop the spread of the expression, I just love a good plan coming together. After some protests, the men walked away. I’d assume they’d dismissed me as a threat, which wasn’t the craziest thing. I wouldn’t describe my physique as menacing, I looked like a beanpole under modest clothing, with a build similar to any high school track runner. I’d cloaked myself in a baggy hoodie and jacket, my Adidas sweats and vans weren’t much in the way intimidation. The two stole one final glance before disappearing back into the crowd. Happy Feet motioned for me to follow him. I pushed off the hood and began to walk with him. I drifted back to the question that was plaguing me. How could anyone adapt to such a radical change in the way the world works, with the idea of power shifted to who was born the strongest, not who could manipulate the rules enough to sit at the top. Every idea of power crumbled, everything so on edge. Presidents were put in the grave because nobody could stop all the freaks being born into the world. The last thing people needed was a push towards the extreme, this was fucking setting fire to the world and letting everybody try to figure it out, one power after the other. It was a shitshow to watch, that’s what made it so much more fun. Then here I was, dousing the fire with unfiltered gasoline and watching it grow. I was just kinda bored, at least this way I got to watch everything unfold. Those were the perks of not existing, I always got the best seat in the house. We finally neared the alley, pulling me out of my thoughts. We turned a corner, out of sight to anybody who was minding their own business. I was glad I didn’t live in New York. Happy didn’t seem done yet, ducking behind a dumpster to be completely out of sight, he seemed serious about that wife thing. I pressed towards him until he starting nodding, finally content. He gestured for the Juul. He seemed to inhale the vapor forever, he started reddening, veins protruded from his forehead. Finally, a mere century later, he exhaled, letting a number of clouds form in front of him, accompanied by a fit of coughs. “What’s with the glove, Michael Jackson?” he asked through the coughs, jabbing a finger towards my gloved hand. “It’s a condition,” I began as I slowly peeled the glove off, slowly unveiling the offsetting sight. Black spots spread across my palm like freckles, existing in about every spot where skin was still present. The rest of my palm was coated in blisters, forming all the way up to my wrist. The back didn’t provide a prettier sight. Besides the missing epidermis, cracked fingernails, and burn residue, it looked like acid had scorched the long, outstretched hand. The sight horrified Happy Feet, who audibly gasped, I didn’t look to see the disgust form on his face, I just examined the hand like I had time and time before, and wondered what would’ve happened if I was born a normal person. “The fuck is wrong with it?” he demanded, I looked to see the horror spread on his face at the ghastly sight. He’d probably spit at it if he didn’t just make his throat a barren desert. I shrugged at the question, stretching my hand and curling my fingers, imagining that it was normal. I faced Happy Feet again, letting a small smile creep across my lips. “Well recently? I kill people with it.” He was paralyzed temporarily, only his eyes reacting to what I’d just said. I think he wanted to do anything in response to what I’d just said, but it likely dawned on him that he had willingly walked himself to his own execution because of mango vapor. I could almost see the aura of fear that towered over him, gripping him tighter and tighter. All fight had evaporated in an instant. “I take it you know who I am, you should know my rules, first is--” He finally shook out of his trance, reaching towards the inside of his coat, presumably for a gun. He didn’t even have any powers, I really didn’t see how this was a good use of my talents… well, at least the check cleared. I sprung into action as well, in a flash I reached my right hand out, snatching the wrist closest to his person and prying it away from his coat. Unfortunately, this time I’d fallen into his hands, caught me with an open palm to the ribs, I could feel a chilled grip squeezing my insides, he was pretty good after all, almost had me. I released his wrist and stepped out of his reach, looking down at my left ribcage and seeing a block of ice attached to me, it was pretty fucking cool. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a big fan of the cold, I placed my right on the block and watched it dissipate instantly, reduced to soot on the ground. I looked back at Happy Feet, and saw the fight drain from him away, as he muttered protests, in absolute disbelief. I couldn’t contain the smile much longer. “Now it’s your turn,” I said, with a toothy grin finally appearing on my face. The cuff of his designer suit was the first to melt away, I saw the ripples form on his wrist, extending out to his fingertips as if it was another vein, black spots subsequently appeared on his skin, spreading up and down until they were present on his entire person. I walked towards him, looking to get my Juul back, I really didn’t want to go looking for it in his ashes. He swung his right hand at me again, I continued forward, snapping my fingers and not breaking my gait, his hand disintegrated before he could bat an eye, the ash was caught in the wind and flew out. I closed the remaining distance, placing my left hand on his mouth before he could let out a cry. “No yelling please, that was gonna be rule one,” I demanded, rather annoyed. I dropped my left from his mouth, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the Juul. I pulled it back to my lips and took a puff, before depositing it in my pocket. “Any last words?” I asked as I grabbed my glove off the ground, shaking off the dirt that now coated it. “Who are you?” He managed out as piece by piece as his arms began to be reduced to nothing but specks. “Wh-- who sent you?” “Really? What a waste of last words. Do you actually care who I am? I mean, that’s a really difficult question, I think the rumors about me say I don’t actually exist, so do I even get a name? I guess that makes me a deadman? Zombie, how does that sound for a name? I kinda like it.” I paused to take another hit, blowing it out through my nose this time. “And who sent me? You’re about to die, what does it matter? I don’t really know who sent me, doesn’t matter to me anyway, he’ll probably be dead within a week too. Anything else you would like to say instead?” “You fucking bastard I’ll--” He reached out towards me again, I snapped my fingers again while putting the Juul to my lips, I shook my lips, I really wished he could’ve said anything remotely cool. Welp, you win some you lose some. “That’s enough of you,” I said, inhaling a cloud of vapor then raising my right a final time, snapping my fingers and seeing the mound of ash carry into the sky. I looked up as the remnants of Happy Feet floated every which way, filtering into the Atlanta skyline alongside billows of smoke. I slipped my hand back into its glove, massaging it as I walked back out into the busy street. I melted into the crowd, unable to shake off the thought any longer. “Those were some shitty last words.”
  11. I don't know if my list was necessarily the most accomplished or longest stretch of greatness, don't really care, I thought about five of the most dominant athletes who essentially ruined their sports with how they broke the conventions of what the best was supposed to be. These five lapped the field more than any other which is why I consider them the greatest athletes off all time. 1. Barry Bonds 2. Mike Tyson 3. Michael Phelps 4. Usain Bolt 5. Wayne Gretzky
  12. "How could anyone adapt to such a radical change in the way the world works, with the idea of power shifted to who was born the strongest, not who could manipulate the rules enough to sit at the top. Every idea of power crumbled, everything so on edge. Presidents were put in the grave because nobody could stop all the freaks being born into the world. The last thing people needed was a push towards the extreme, this was fucking setting fire to the world and letting everybody try to figure it out, one power after the other. It was a shitshow to watch, that’s what made it so much more fun." Welcome To The New World You've been born into the shitshow, a world where the powers that existed in writings of fantasy are now apart of the human genome. Some explain it as the next step in evolution, some say that God got bored, but why doesn't matter now, all that's left is trying to figure how you're gonna make it through the chaos. Please remember to smile and enjoy, and remember, your last words shouldn't be shitty. Signup Sheet: Name: Nickname: Height: Weight: Build: Appearance: Power: General Backstory: Allegiance (Police, Vigilante, Mafia, Cartel, Antihero, Criminal, etc) : Preferred Last Words:
  13. Entry Twelve: Double Goddamnit March 26, 2017 Staten Island, New York Slater Federation Wrestling - Carnage I sat in my car, seat pushed all the way back as I wrapped my knee three times over, tightly taping it before pulling an ace bandage over all the athletic tape and clamping it shut with a pair of pins. It was a pathetic support but anything would be. I had torn my ACL right off the bone, my knee had the stability of jello so I had seventeen braces and had done everything short of a burnt offering to the gods in hopes for no chance of further aggravating it. And I was currently very much regretting not making that offering. I pulled my wrestling tights over the wrap, then pulled my brace over the tights, creating a defacto splint. I couldn’t really afford to dress in the locker room a field a million questions about the status of my knee. So I just hoped to blend into the shadows per usual. I pulled a pair of sweatpants over my tights, grabbed my duffel and headed to the ferry, limping the entire way there. I debated for what seemed like the millionth time if it was actually worth it, staking my future, in wrestling and beyond, all because of paranoia about what the injury could mean. So what, I got injured, shit happens sometimes, and getting worse won’t open any doors for me, neither will bombing bookings because I can’t do a 450. If kept working at it, I’d get back to exact same place I was now, and could push past. I could make PWG come calling again if I wanted it enough... or they wouldn’t. How was I supposed to sit still for a year, watching my friends succeed on the stage I wanted to be on. If it meant wrestling one leg, that’s what I was prepared to do. Would I regret it when my leg literally fell off? Probably, but who plans for the future anyways? I made my usual trip to SFW Arena, arriving about an hour before the show was set to get underway. I was set to face Kyle Reeves in a rematch from match two weeks ago, which had managed to steal the show. We got a week off to recuperate from the damage done, but would be giving the fans the rematch they’d clamored for. The match would be closing the show, which was no pressure considering that if I fucked up I could always just bring up my ACL. Really I saw this as an absolute win. I ducked off to an empty hallway as I awaited the start of the show, passing the time texting Brave and Flynn, who’d both just made their NXT debuts a month after TakeOver: Phoenix. Brave took on Velveteen Dream, but came a short in a fun match, making a great first impression. Flynn did what he usually did, win, beating Kassius Ohno in a great showing, so in other words, nothing had changed. It was an exciting time for them, but I still had gotten radio silence from Ryan. I tried my best to be happy for them, they’d done exactly what we promised each other would do, and they’d be coming back to Brooklyn in about a month. It’d be a trip seeing them again, with me so far removed from the track we all started on. I could feel my existentialism closing in so I decided to join the others in the locker room, in the midst of an intense game of Heads Up. I edged around to the back of the room, trying to soak in as much of the fun as possible without drawing attention to myself and knee that suddenly looked like it put on an extra twenty pounds. It was a fun group of guys, not without their fair share of drama but regardless, they came in with enthusiasm and energy every week, looking to be the best they could be. It was infectious, I’d probably enjoy it more if I wasn’t so focused on getting by to the WWE again, but I wanted to be where my friends where, that wasn’t here. I stayed for a couple minutes before ducking out to the guerilla area. I got in a good stretch as I waited for the show to start, it wasn’t a long wait. Kyle joined me shortly after the show got underway, waiting for our match to be announced. “Savage Mode” started playing and I pushed to the curtain, reminding myself to walk as normally as I could. I pushed the curtains aside and walked out to a warm reception to the fans, taking a moment to bathe in the appreciation before going to the edge of the stage to perform. I upped my pace a bit, getting to the ring quickly. Reeves followed suit, not taking too long to grandstand as “Rise Up” played. He was in the ring and facing off against me before long. Eventually the referee came between us, ushering us to separate corners. He signaled for the bell and the match got underway. “Straight Jacket Shooter” Jonathan Kersey vs “The Black Lion” Kyle “Lionheart” Reeves II For A Comparable Number Of Marbles Kyle didn’t explode out to start the match. He began to circle the ring, edging closer to me with every step around the ring, trying to close of my angles of escape. I saw through the scheme and this time went on the offense, getting a collar and elbow tie up. Reeves didn’t waste any time before ducking out of the hold towards the turnbuckle, trying to maintain some measure of distance between us. I quickly pursued him, employing his own strategy against him, cornering him in... well the corner. We locked up again as I pushed him against the turnbuckle, pushing my forearm into his face and cranking his neck back. He tried to duck away again but I saw it coming, slipping behind him and hitting a Buckle German, sending his skull crashing against the middle turnbuckle. Reeves skimped after the devastating impact. I sprinted to the opposite turnbuckle, setting up for a grounded Shotgun Dropkick. I took off towards the turnbuckle as the fans began to howl in anticipation, a smile crossed my lips as I approached. I halted suddenly, as I felt my arm get yanked behind me, I got spun around, the last thing I saw was the smug face of Julius Jones, before he planted me with a Hells Welcome (End Of Days). I laid there, face into the mat before I dragged myself away from the center of the ring. I could hear Julius calling out to someone, telling them to, “Get him up”. I hoped it wasn’t me as I neared the edge of the ring. It wasn’t me, before I could get my bearings, I felt the ring tremble following what I could only assume was a thunderous Hell’s Welcome. I could hear the belly laughing of the pair, before a second voice, closer to me called out to me. ?: “Exactly where do you think you’re goin mate?” I was jerked up to my feet and turned, as I took in the mug of Daniel Vice for half a second, before I was thrown up, feet dangling in the air as he held me in position for a suplex, I wasn’t that lucky. I was spiked back into the mat. I stared into the lights, reeling from the ambush. I felt my hair get tugged as my head was pulled off my mat. I squinted up, seeing the piercing, and quite angry, eyes of Julius glaring down at me. Julius: Welcome to the show rookie, you managed to slip past me last week and somehow wrestle some of my spotlight onto you and that pathetic “Lionheart”. You see normally I leave the welcome wagon festivities to Mr. Vice, but I couldn’t let him have all the fun this time. I wanted to really make sure you know your place here in SFW. He handed the microphone to Vice, who didn’t even bother to look down at me, looking out to the fans in attendance instead. Vice: Never forget that this will always and forever be the Daniel Vice show, every superstars career trajectory is in my hands, as long as you bend the knee, we should never have any problems. Understand that you’ll never take what I want from me, and we’ll get along just great. You had to learn Jon, you and Kyles rocket ride to the top is done, until further developments. Enjoy your stay. Julius: Now I know that you can have a tendency to be a bit crazy, so we decided to plan a little deterrent. Vice dragged me to my feet as Julius backed to the corner, he exploded out, closing the gap he’d just opened up with massive strides, before hitting me square in the nose with a Claymore. My body thudded against the mat once again, I couldn’t even sit up. Not that I needed to, as Vice propped me up once again. Julius took the microphone back to his lips. Julius: Now I’m about to take a before picture Johnny, this is what you’ll look like if you stay in your place. For your sake, don’t make me take an after picture. Vice handed Julius a phone, the posed against my limp body before snapping a picture and letting my head slam against the mat once again. And just like that, there went that fun thing.
  14. The titantron falls to black, the entire arena following suit. After some seconds, the face of Jonathan appears squarely in the center of the titantron. Jonathan makes his first appearance following his draw with Prince in the first night of Survival Games. He glares down the lens, not looking particularly perturbed, contrasting his normal behavior after a loss. His face mirrors the one he had in preparation of the clash with “The Artist”. His narrowed eyes unchanged, as well as his furrowed eyebrows, as if he lives apart from distraction. “I assume this is not the scene you were expecting, after the draw between myself and Prince, this would be a time to be beside myself, howling my anger out. There’s no need for that, no time to be distracting by allowing raw emotions to overwhelm me. Being upset will only serve to sabotage me, distract me from my goal and disrupt my focus. Especially considering exactly who my next opponent is.” Jonathan pauses for a moment, edging closer to the camera as he implies a new focus on FDS, his next scheduled opponent. The love lost between these two well documented, brought back to the attention of the BPZ fan base following FDS’s message for “Johnny Kills”. Jonathan takes a second, collecting his thoughts before speaking again. “A man I fought besides for many months, one who I swore vengeance on and exacted precisely what I set out to do. The past where share is rather tumultuous, I’ve dwelled on it a little in preparation for our match, more than I should’ve. I recall the doggedness that you entered every moment, promo, and match, it was as if somebody painted determination on your face and let it set. It was rivaled only by your stubbornness on whatever you decided was right for you in any instance. It made you formidable, and also vulnerable. Your inability to view full scopes always troubled me, and now I get to see whether you’ve changed, though I’m not confident you have.” “Perhaps you’ve realized that you’re no longer the superstar you used to be, whether your belief you’ve become even better or simply regressed is none of my concern. And now you’ve begun to cooperate with others again, sheathing to so called “Emperor of Chaos” persona and displaying your heart for all to see. Your apology reeks of him though, doesn’t it? You’re trying to run from your own shadow, not accepting the futileness of your efforts, trying to disassociate from your past instead of facing it. All this time, and you still enjoy running from your problems? Old habits die hard I guess.” “You use your supposed trauma as a way to establish an emotional connection? Perhaps you’re trying to get me to lower my guard, expecting that I would train myself, motivated by my hatred of you. Whether I hate you or not is irrelevant to what I want, so allow me to put your mind I ease. My disgust for you, your methods, and all associated with you will not change the proceedings of the match. Titles aren’t granted on the baggage one brings to the ring. If it’d help you to view me as heartless and callous, refer to me as Johnny Kills, by all means, do whatever you choose to do. It doesn’t matter in the end, because regardless of my feelings, I always intended on slamming your head through the mat.”
  15. A blinding light spreads across the tighten titantron until a pure white light radiates through the darkened arena, now solely via the tron. The fans lie in wait for someone to emerge into the heavenly scene, as the camera adjusts to the rooms brightness. The ivory scene dims a tad, revealing the room to be all white, save for a modified cross scrawled on the wall. Footsteps crescendo from behind the camera until somebody walks past the camera, facing the cross for a few moments before slowly turning, revealing himself as the man set to face Prince in days time. Jonathan stops, donning all black in sharp contrast to the room around him. He stands in front of the camera, bathed in bleached lighting, maintaining his intensity from his last address. He doesn’t prolong the proceedings any further, as he starts his tirade. “Prince, a man who the most noble of aspirations. He disguised himself with such a narcissistic and arrogant demeanor, hiding his truth. That he’s the idealistic wrestler he was when he first decided that he round dedicate his life to this industry. Every time he laces his boots it’s a decision to continue chasing his boyhood dreams. He wants a chance to shine in the limelight just like the stars he admires.” “I suppose I’m supposed to spit at this premise, show some visible disgust by the quixotic nature on display. I couldn’t bring myself to scoff at the ideals I used to hold, aspirations that supplied me with an endless hunger in hopes of fulfilling the ‘boyhood dream’. It’s a useful tool if honed correctly, invincible to discouragement and saturated with determination, until you proclaim to anybody that will listen that no obstacle that can stop. That you won’t let anything or anyone limit you. That’s why it works so much for children, those who can chase and chase and chase until eventually they get handed what they desire on a silver platter.” Jonathan suddenly halts, not breaking eye contact with the camera, retaining the attention of all. A quick wave of emotion washes over him, as he smirks for a millisecond before returning to his stoic demeanor. He takes another step towards the camera, further enveloping the lens, then begins to speak again. “It took me years to realize that there’s no development of a killer instinct when your dream chasing. There’s no urgency, no attempt to do anything required in order to accomplish a dream. That’s why I’ve stopped my obsession with my own dreams, and have become increasingly interested in nightmares. There’s no length you won’t travel to end everybody around you’s dream, no belief that it’ll just happen to workout in your favor. Becoming a nightmare cultivates everything about you to become what is feared, the reality that occurs for most. The grounded truth... that there are no dreams worth more than nightmares. That in the cold, unforgiving reality we exist in, subscribing to the mentality of the dreamer leaves you without anything but a broken heart, and the visual of somebody else taking everything you wished upon yourself. Are you prepared to experience your nightmare Prince? I surely hope you are. As far as you should be concerned, it’s dream over...” Without warning the lights fall around Jonathan, leaving the blindingroom cloaked in darkness. The faint vignette of Jonathan remains in the camera as he begins to fall back into the darkness. His footsteps grow quieter and quieter before ceasing for a moment as Jonathan delivers a final chilling line before the titantron returns to normal. “Your dreams, Mr. Prince, will fade to black.”
  16. A candlelight room appears on the titantron, as the arena lighted dim until the candles scarcely illuminate the crowd. A chair is present, surrounded by familiar artwork. A cloaked figure enters the frame, taking a seat amidst the candles, face concealed by shadows. Nothing occurs as moments pass, before the man leans forward, his face shone on by candles, revealing it to be Jonathan. “I assume it’s likely an explanation is in order, a mysterious disappearance after a disappointing string of losses. Suffice it to say that I wasn’t very pleased, the schemes I’d hatched had fallen apart, the goals I’d concocted strayed further and further from my grasp. I didn’t know what I fought for, my crusade for vengeance had left me with more questions then answers, and a void in the depths of my heart that I was unable to fill. I didn’t know what I wanted, what more could I do when everything I wanted when I started I’d accomplished, what was my drive?” “I pondered this question, holding it alongside considerations of simply leaving. I couldn’t bring myself to cut ties with this company, I still desired more and didn’t know how to go about achieving goals that I couldn’t understand. My motivations where veiled, and I faltered, questioning and second guessing what I thought I wanted. Revenge was so unfulfilling, it could serve as additional drive to want I truly desired. Being on top, reigning supreme at the top of this goddamned company by any means necessary, reclaiming my spot as the unquestioned Ace and champion of the fricking world.” Jonathan doesn’t exude the arrogance as he had previously, an unflinching, laser focus remains on his face as he addresses the crowd, leaving no doubt as to his intentions. He leans back for a moment, then begins gesturing to all the art that surrounds him, and beginning to speak, cloaked in the darkness. “Survival Games has granted me an opportunity to do this, bring myself closer to the championship opportunity I desire, provided I defeat some of the best and brightest BPZ has to offer. My journey begins with a familiar foe, coated in a fresh sheet of paint and a reinvigorated God complex. Prince, it wasn’t long ago that I delivered a message in front of all these people, saying that you were a pathetic waste of talent and potential, promising you would be defeated at my hands and then making good on that promise when I planted you in the middle of that ring and pinning you. You’ve changed since then, you’ve become reassured in your abilities, promising that you’ve grown to a threat we had yet to regard with, that I had yet to regard you with. Is this what you aspire to create Mr. Prince, a masterful work of passion to be enjoyed by the masses. You want to be the elegant star, creating your own story, crafting your destiny in your hands, being the star of your own film. It’s admirable...” Jonathan leans forward, eyebrows narrowed and furrowed, lips pursed, with perhaps a slight indentation in his lips. He folds his hands under his chin as he opens his mouth again to deliver a final verbal flurry. “Trust me when I say what you promise is inconsequential. Useless with a performance that matches the intensity and vigor that you delivered your message with. Are you prepared to clash with the superstars that disposed of you with such ease before? I don’t believe you are, despite what you may claim. You told me that I would be a fool to underestimate you before and didn’t prove anything to validate the words you spoke. No change in demeanor or attitude will make me tremble Prince, you’ve made so many claims to be a new man, so many empty threats and promises, that I almost salivate at the thought of defeating you again, sending your house of cards trembling, and leaving the Promising Prince on mat, struggling for air once again. Please, don’t disappoint.”
  17. Actually, at the rate I’m going at, we’re looking at about a year and a half
  18. Entry Eleven: Johnnywood March 12, 2017 Staten Island, New York Slater Federation Wrestling - Carnage I nearly fainted when I saw the email, I’m certain that I exited myself for a moment and only came back when I heard my phone slam against the floor. I looked the header of the email once again, “Interested in BOLA?” and dropped my phone again. I swung my legs over my bed and picked up my phone on my way to the bathroom and read through the rest of the email, where Super Dragon gushed over me and expressed his interest in me. I slammed the bathroom door close and turned on the faucet, splashing myself with water to calm myself but when I looked up, the mirror showed me and my shit eating grin. This was my official third chance, and BOLA meant everything to me. I replied with a million times yes before I started getting ready for the rest of my day, including my SFW debut against the kid brother of Ryan Reeves, Kyle. Me and Ry had fallen out of touch after I was released but I’d sent him a message telling him about the match to no response. Kyle and I had met a handful of times before, mostly related to his older brother’s infamous benders and he was every bit as talented as Ryan, his break just didn’t come as easily for one reason or another. It’d be cool matching up against him. I hurried out the house and got into my shitty A6, which was one more repair away from earning me a free oil change. I headed out of Queens to WalMart, where I was still picking up shifts but today I couldn’t care less. I sped to the ferry, and spent the thirty minute ride to Staten Island trying to get my game on with Kaylyn (pretty successfully if I do say so myself) until the sight of bad perms and smell of spray tan let me know I had arrived. I hailed a cab and made pretty good time to SFW Arena. I headed to the crowded locker room, passing Liam Starr and Angelo Caito as I waved a hi before continuing past them. I maneuvered through the locker room, finding enough space to get dressed for the show. I continued to greet some of the SFW headliners like Yelich Anderson and Mil Amas, it was a rather tight knit locker room and at the moment, I was standing on the outskirts, I didn’t mind all that much, I wasn’t here trying to make friends, I had those and they were where I wanted to be. I promised myself that I’d make it back to the WWE, without any doubt as to whether or not I deserved to be there, I needed to be here to do that. So I’d continue to pay my dues, be everything I was required to be, and keep climbing towards my dream. I was too late to help setup the ring so I migrated to the viewing area, where Josh Scott and Red Arrow would eek out a victory over Overheel and Prince Cutler, my match would follow Liam Starr versus Alyx Cuddlezworth so I took the time to stretch, making sure I paid extra attention to my, which I had a small brace on, supposedly, I was once again a hundred percent, I wanted some form of insurance regardless. I straightened up after completing my routine twice, and saw Kyle standing near the TV, gulping down a Red Bull. I approached him, he noticed as I grew closer and smiled a bit. We made some small talk as Smith and Cuddlezworth winded down, I planned on asking him if he had been able to reach his brother but our conversation was cut short from Daniel Vice prompting us to hustle over to the guerilla area. I started to focus on the match again, running through it as much as I could before we reached the guerilla, where my music was already starting. I walked through the curtains, stepping into the music as “Savage Mode” boomed through the arena speakers. I stood in the smoke, allowing it to shroud me and further obscure the view of those in attendance, as FD Slater began to shout. “Making is SFW debut, standing at 6 foot 3, 163 pounds, hailing Queens, New York, the “Straight Jacket Shooter” Jonathan KERSEY!” I raised my hand, making a generic three fingered hand signal before swaggering out to the edge of the ramp with a crazed grin on my lips. Contrary to most of my appearances, I managed to get a decent pop, probably from my infamous shoot. I continued down the ramp, showing the fans some love on my way to the ring, I eventually climbed into the ring. “Rise Up” by Extreme Music began to play before I even crossed the middle of the ring and Slater takes to the microphone once again as Reeves jogged to the front of the ramp as Slater introduced him. “And his opponent, The Pride of White Plains, New York, standing at 5’9, 181 pounds, “The Black Lion” Kyle “Lionheart” REEEEVESSS!” Reeves made his entrance, getting cheered the whole way down by the adoring audience. He finally reached the ring where he immediately made his way towards me. He extended his hand as his music stopped, and I took it, before pulling him in close and exchanging an intense, indistinct conversation before pulling away. I smirked at him as we began to circle the ring, both of us stopping in a corner as the ref rang the bell. “Straight Jacket Shooter” Jonathan Kersey vs “The Black Lion” Kyle “Lionheart” Reeves Kyle faked a stutter out the gates, before flying at me, looking for a quick Claymore, I just managed to evade, rolling out the corner to the center of the ring. He didn’t seem to be keen on allowing me to get my bearings, as he bounced back to his feet off the mat and came sprinting at me as I got back to my base. I reacted quickly, lunging towards Reeves and sending him crashing face first into the mat with a barrel roll chop block. I took a page out of Kyles book, scrambling back to him as he lifted his chest off the mat, a bit dazed from the fall, and immediately getting him in a headlock. I wrestled his head back to the mat, looking to slow the pace to my favor. Reeves struggled in the hold, clawing at my forearms to try to wrench himself out the hold before stopping that plan of attack. He dropped his head to the mat, and instead got into a headstand, reminiscent of Jack Gallagher. I released the headlock, instead quickly grabbing a hold of Reeves’ legs and forcefully placing my knee on the small of his back, countering his headstand into a modified elevated Boston Crab. I wrenched the hold, leaning back to put his back under increased strain. The pain became visible on the rapidly reddening face of Kyle, as I cinched the hold in further. I lifted my leg, placing it on the other side of Reeves and dropped my weight onto the back of Reeves to get a traditional Boston Crab locked in. Kyle didn’t quite wave the white flag, he pushed himself off the mat, lifting my alongside him, and incredibly managed to get back to a handstand, lifting my all the back to my feet as he wiggled out of my grasp. I hesitated, shocked at the feat that garnered a good reaction from those in attendance, I finally came back to life, trying to pounce on the hurting Reeves who slid outside the ring. I sized him up as I approached the ropes, I lined him up again, before skying to the top rope, looking for a springboard 450 when Reeves sprung to action, crashing into the ropes to send me tumbling! My right knee caught on rope as the rest of my body careened off the apron, it was over before I even hit the mat. I felt the tear, it felt somebody was slowly peeling my ligament off the bone, just like a band aid. I thudded against the apron, which jarred my knee of the rope as I fell again to the padded floor. I lied there, writhing in pain, grabbing at my knee. The crowd fell still as Reeves leaned against the apron, panting heavily and looking down at my with my knee hugged to my chest. The referee halted his count and came to check on me. In that moment, I could see the dreams I’d envisioned falling away, replaced by painful memories of extensive rehabilitation. My eyes began to water as I realized that my weekend in Pasadena would be replaced with the painstaking process of physical therapy. I could feel the window to WWE I’d concocted slamming shut, replaced by my subsequent retirement from pro wrestling as a whole. The referee finally reached me, asking in a hushed tone, “Are you okay?” I opened an eye, looking at his concerned face as well as Reeves, and responded with a whisper. “Yeah, I just gotta sell you know?” He paused a beat, raising an eyebrow before smirking for a second and returning to the ring to resume his count. Reeves came over, playing to the crowd as he tried to move past my spill out the ring and lifted me to my feet, rolling me into the ring. He scaled the turnbuckle, and launched himself into the rafters, tucking in tight and rotating, looking for his patented 630. He came spiraling down onto my raised knees. He bounced off of them, rolling towards the other side of the ring as the momentum flipped once more. We both clambered to our feet, essentially restarting the match with some major impairments. Reeves reached at his back, and I slapped my knee, trying to will it to cooperate with me a little while longer. He came back to the center of the ring, both of us hobbled as we exchanged some words, getting nose to nose with each other before engaging in a vicious collar and elbow tie up. I quickly took control, outmaneuvering Reeves and getting belly to back for a masterful German, which I bridged, 1…— Kyle got his shoulder off the mat, but didn’t break the hold, I rolled through, standing on just my left as a hit a short deadlift German, bridging this one as well, 1...2.— “Lionheart” living up to his moniker. But my grip remained cinched in, I rolled through once more, again lifting Reeves with only my left leg planted, before I launched him overhead with a release deadlift German suplex. I turned to cover once again, but instead saw Reeves bouncing off the ropes with a handspring. Before I could react, “The Pride White Plains” planted me with a cutter! He quickly flipped me onto my back and hooked the leg to cover., 1...2..— i muscled out of the cover! Reeves slammed the mat in frustration, before covering me once more, to no avail, getting another two count. He made his way to his feet, taking his time as I crawled towards the ropes. I dragged my body up, and limped back towards back Reeves, but didn’t get far, Kyle took action connecting with a super kick to my good knee, taking it out from under me and leaving me on my knees. He didn’t hesitate this time, connecting on a flurry of soccer kicks. I doubled over, my chest know having “The Black Lion”’s kickpad imprinted on it. Reeves didn’t let up, lifting my chin, before shuffling back and looking for a low roundhouse to the side of my head, I managed to duck under it, taking the opportunity to roll up Reeves. I couldn’t maintain my grip and Reeves rolled through, and connected with a nasty kick to the side of my skull, sending me slumping into the mat and Reeves hurriedly rolled me over, looking for the pin fall. 1...2..— I kicked out. Reeves looking up at the ref, in disbelief about the two count. He looked down at me, trying to formulate a plan of attack. Finally, he went back to the apron as I tried once again to pull myself back to my feet. He jumped up, looking for a springboard Cutter but I rolled past him. I quickly got back to my feet and rebounded off the ropes, as Reeves somehow managed to land on his feet, I took it in stride, torpedoing myself at the knee of Reeves, and hitting a Claymore to the back of his knee, dropping Reeves on his back. Reeves tried to recover quickly, slithering away before I could follow up the move and getting back to his feet. I had no intention on allowing him to get breathing room, a hustled over towards, with an awkward gait as I dragged my knee with the rest of my body. I reached Reeves, who tried to stop me with another superkick, I ducked past him, getting belly to back once again as I grabbed his plant leg and tossing him into the air, catching him on the way down for a leg trap neckbreaker. I wasted no time before bringing Reeves back to his feet, I threw his arm around my head and hooked his leg, looking for the Concussion Protocol. I lifted him off the ground but lost the grip, Reeves landed on his feet behind me and headed quickly to the opposite ropes as I turned and chased. He jumped, angling himself at the middle rope and springing of it, looking for his patented Springboard Cutter, but I had it scouted and snatching him around the waist mid flight, slamming him into to the mat with sick release German suplex! Kyle finally stopped rolling from the impact and lied on the mat, the only sign of life being his chest, heaving up and down. I saw him, positioned perfectly. I rolled out to the apron, and stood. I took my time, balancing on my left leg first then planting my right, wincing I straightened it. I threw myself to the top rope, and jumped off it, looking for a 450 and hitting it, slamming into the abdomen of Kyle and covering, 1...2...— “Lionheart” once again proved his nickname was appropriate. I sat up, looking back at the panting Reeves and shook my head, before hobbling back to my feet. I pulled him up alongside with me, keeping him at arms length, then yanking him towards me, looking for the Crash Cart but Reeves evaded, springing to the ropes one more time and springing off it to finally hit and MASSIVE Springboard Cutter! The move left both of us immobilized, my head was stuck to the mat, my eyes wouldn’t open. Reeves tried to come over to cover but just slouched back down, both our bodies had been pushed so much in such a short timeframe, the match had yet to reach fifteen minutes and we were all out of effort to give. The crowd pleaded with us to go on, trying to drown out the count of the referee. I rolled onto my back as he reached six, trying to pull myself up but finding myself unable to. His count continued, he reached seven... eight..— then he stopped! I was still stuck to the mat, Reeves had risen, I caught a glimpse of him, he was on the apron, slowly making his way to the top turnbuckle. He finally got their, and without wait, he threw himself into the sky, tucking himself in close, rotating once, then twice as he fell out the rafters towards me. I tried to drag my knees up as he fell ever closer to me, trying to end the match with his 630 Senton. He finally finished his descent, his back crashing against me. He rolled off me after the impact, holding his back with both hands after landing on my knees. I struck in an instant, pushing him onto his gut and grabbing him by his neck, I locked in Dementia, having the full Dragon Sleeper locked in. I wrenched his neck back violently, bending him in half at the back until anguish filled his face. I kept it in until he turned pale, hardly able to breathe, and finally, he tapped. I let go off the sleeper, hobbling away from the limp body of Reeves as making my way to the ropes. I leaned against them, trying my damndest to stand upright. I hobbled back to the center, allowing the ref to raise my arm and taking a moment to pose with Reeves body under me. I smirked at the crowd before rolling out the ring, then limped to the curtain. I paused, knowing that I’d have to eliminate the limp if I really wanted to go through with that half brained scheme I came up with, I had to wrestle for seven months an insane number times with a torn something, without letting anybody know that my I blew my knee out again. I swore under my breath, assumed that God hate me and walked through the curtain, no sign of a limp, hobble, or hitch in my step. This was gonna be fun.
  19. 100% correct season predictions, fwiw ~ means about, meaning I think the teams will be somewhere around this win total
  20. QB Tiers (got bored, made the list) Tier 1 (Best Of The Best) Mahomes Brees Brady Wilson Rodgers Tier 2 (Elite) Luck Ryan Newton Rivers Tier 3 (Upper Echelon Youngsters) Mayfield Watson Wentz Goff Tier 4 (Above Average: toughest tier imo) Big Ben Stafford Dak Jimmy G Cousins Mariota Tier 5 (Replacement Level) Winston Alex Smith Darnold Trubisky Jackson Carr Mullens Dalton Fitzpatrick Brisett Bridgewater Taylor Tier 6 (Need Development) Allen Murray Haskins Rosen Lock Jones Tier 7 (Below Average) Foles Flacco Keemun Tannehill Tier 8 (Utter Gutter Trash) Manning Beathard Petermeme Driskel
  21. Name: Johnny Kills Theme: “Rockstar” Lil Migo Gimmick: Undisputed Signature 1: Package Piledriver Signature 2: Claymore Finisher 1: TALITE (Ripcord Bicycle Knee) Finisher 2: Death Wish (Black Mass/German Combo) Graphic Representative: Aleister Black Extra: Several year pro, fairly acclaimed career across Japan, Britain, and Europe
  22. “Cold Shoulder” blares through the arena, stopping the decree from Flynn and effectively pissing him off as Jonathan slowly saunters out to the stage, putting the fans on edge with his return from hiatus. He emerges at the top of the stage, mouth hanging slightly open, staring down Flynn with no discernible amount of focus. He’s seemingly in a daze, without the calculated menace he’s infamous for. He continues down the ramp, pausing frequently at an incredibly slow pace. He ends his march at the apron, gazing up at the Universal Champion as he puts his microphone to his mouth, still hanging ajar. “A fall from grace isn’t it Flynn. You aren’t far removed captivating encounters with your former best friend, headlining show after show. The audience fed out of your hands, enveloped in every story you created, hanging on every word you said. Now you work with talent that you believe is so far below you, undeserving of mention in the same breath as your name. You come out here, telling this people to believe what you say, just like they used to. You vie for their acceptance, and decide to besmirch my dear Sheridan to gain it, a bit desperate don’t you think.” Jonathan mounts the apron, running his hand through his tangled hair as he looks around the arena, before bringing his eyes to back to Flynn. “Perhaps you are still trying to prove that you’re the most dominant man in this company, with more and more people coming to breathe down your neck and wrestle the crown away from you, you want to know that you’re good enough still to reign as king.” Jonathan enters the ring, pausing as his right leg rests on the apron before pulling it through and stopping mere inches from the the current Universal Champion. He breaks the eye contact, only serving to irritate Flynn further as he brings the microphone back to his lips. “Am I worthy to face you? A competitor to make you feel like the superstar you are? One to be cautious against, one who can actually take everything from you? How about I try to snatch that crown from your scalp, your highness?” Jonathan does a faux bow, with a smirk dancing onto his lips as he steps back, shrugging his shoulders after the proposition, as he rests on the ropes, awaiting a response.

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