Post by raven on Oct 29, 2021 22:39:07 GMT -5
The Faceless sits alone in the shadows, bathed in the gentle glow of the television set.
For the first time, there’s an uneasy tension carried in his shoulders as he scans the collection of video cassettes on the wall for his next selection. The noise outside his dingy haven grows louder, the sounds of chaos and violence slipping underneath the door and dripping down the splintered staircase to his ears.
The world wasn’t what it was supposed to be, or even what it was yesterday. Things had changed, and not for the better. It was like people weren’t even people anymore.
They’d find him soon, and when they did he’d need to be ready to fight his way out like he always had… but for now? One more tape.
He chooses one from the shelf, sliding the movie from its sleeve and popping it into the VCR.
For the first time, there’s an uneasy tension carried in his shoulders as he scans the collection of video cassettes on the wall for his next selection. The noise outside his dingy haven grows louder, the sounds of chaos and violence slipping underneath the door and dripping down the splintered staircase to his ears.
The world wasn’t what it was supposed to be, or even what it was yesterday. Things had changed, and not for the better. It was like people weren’t even people anymore.
They’d find him soon, and when they did he’d need to be ready to fight his way out like he always had… but for now? One more tape.
He chooses one from the shelf, sliding the movie from its sleeve and popping it into the VCR.
 As soon as he hits play, there’s a loud banging at his door. The Faceless whips his head away from the screen, revealing himself as The People’s G.O.A.T. for the first time. If you haven’t figured that out by now, you have some questions to ask yourself. He turns to the door as the banging intensifies, gulping as nervously as Jason Cashe when put in charge of a fantasy football team. RULE 19: NEVER OPEN THE DOOR. He shakes his head defiantly. Not today, Satan. He wasn’t going to make it that easy for them. If they had finally found him, they were going to have to earn their kill. “SIREN”: Help! Please, help me! Open the door! More loud pounding. He’s stunned. More stunned than when L.C. Pinkston wins a match. That voice was... not what he expected. He takes a step around the withering couch and across the dull carpeting towards the damsel in distress. She hammers at the threshold. “SIREN”: PLEASE! They’re going to find me! Her voice clouds his better judgement, and no matter how many times he repeats “Rule 19” in his head he can’t suppress the feeling that rules are made to be broken. He drifts to the staircase before he realizes it, climbing them slowly until he reaches the top and leans close to the door to listen to the noises outside. “SIREN”: … please help. A breathy whisper fights through the entryway to his ear. He throws the door open. He can’t help himself. She’s no damsel in distress. She’s a goddess. It’s like she was carved out of marble by Phidias himself, hair that would make Griffin Hawkins jealous dangling around her face. There’s panic in her eyes but it seems to fade as she locks onto his face. Neither of them speaks. She breaks her trance first, darting inside his basement hideaway and closing the door behind her. She throws her arms around him, collapsing into his reactionary embrace and mumbling a thousand thank you’s. He walks her down the stairs, her knees trembling like Centurions when he pulls his rickety ass out of bed each morning. “SIREN”: You have no idea how happy I am that I found you… are you alone down here? Maybe we can ride this thing out together? She looks up at him, doe eyed and pleading. She drags her last few words out and inches closer to his body. He bites his tongue in an effort not to shout out “that's what she said”. He’ll save the dated references for the aging Scotsman when he flashes his chest hair and tries to appeal to the younger crowd with daddy issues. He pulls away from her and paces across the room, fighting her inhuman allure. She’s a temptress. She’s a risk that could get him killed. He had to remember his rules. Besides, he had a girlfriend. He should probably just tell her that now, and hope that she respected that boundary. That wouldn’t be so hard, right? He turns towards her and notices a wine bottle in her hand for the first time. The color drains from his face and the bottom of his stomach plummets to the soles of his shoes. Oh no. Who gave her wine? NEVER give her wine. Her eyes are filled with rage, a thick bile pouring from her lips and Twitter fingers. Her skin is suddenly a sickly green but that might just be a filter she uses for all her promotional pictures. She charges him, manicured nails slicing through the air as swiftly as they tore through Victoria Straders heart. He stumbles backwards over the couch, collapsing to the floor and crawling over the dirty carpeting to the concrete floor and scrambling for the stairs. He whips his head around and realizes that she’s closing the distance. He’ll never make it to the door… The door… It bursts open in a hail of wooden shards, a slim and shady man standing above him with a war torn Burger King mask over his face and a machete in his hand. He slings the machete down the stairs and over the crawling GOAT, plunging it into the skull of the “Siren” and watching her collapse in a limp and useless heap. There’s a joke here, but he’s too mature (mostly stunned to be honest) to make it. He hadn’t expected the Siren to be the first body dropped, but maybe he should have. She’d fumbled the ball on teammates before. The masked Tyrant stomps down the stairs and rips the machete from her cranium before winding up and smashing it down on her again. RULE #2: DOUBLE TAP. TYRANT: Never thought I’d get to kill her twice in one day. The Tyrant loves to break the fourth wall. He turns to the GOAT and helps him up to his feet. He practically drags him up the stairs towards the now demolished doorway. TYRANT: Come on, li’l buddy. We’ve gotta get out of here. They burst out of the dingy basement and out of a small shack marked “Employees Only” and onto the sprawling grounds of an abandoned amusement park. The rides are fully illuminated, some even functioning with no passengers aboard, but suddenly several shadows begin to approach from a distance. TYRANT: Goddamn it, here comes Denzel Porter's Five Biggest Simps. The first staggers out from behind the merry go round, his disgusting ensemble of boxing trunks and a pink Gucci sweatshirt splattered with blood. He groans a weird zombie groan, but it sounds an awful lot like “Wahhhhh! I’m the biggest victim in what happened at OCW!”. It looks like he takes a swing at the air but it turns out he’s just clumsily patting himself on the back for being such a great guy, as usual. He’d made it perfectly clear that he had little respect for The GOAT, but he was just blinded by jealousy. The GOAT had accomplished far more in careers that dated back to similar years; in the ring, on the mats, in a cage. Sure, this cocky dick had done a tour of duty… but it’s not like he’s carrying an automatic rifle here, is he? He’s joined by a furry highlander, bare chested in a black leather jacket, eyes rotted from the sockets as he still manages to sip pretentiously on a cup of coffee. He doesn’t make as big a display about his entrance as the American hero/British snob, though. He knows that he’s nobody's focal point in all of this, and he’s honestly just happy to be tagging along. The best part about a one off like this is that he didn’t have a contract to walk out on when he loses and blames the company for it. He’d just go find a thirteenth employer in three years to wander through like the infected and zombified piece of shit he was. The tiny spider monkey joins them, dropping down from the bars of a rotating ferris wheel. He plunges his hands into his childrens medium “I LOVE MATT KNOX” hoodie and peers at the Tyrant and the GOAT from underneath caked on face paint that hasn’t been washed in several weeks. He doesn’t really do anything of note, and is far less interesting than the other two… despite how impossibly low that bar is. He doesn’t seem to hate The GOAT nearly as much as his two counterparts did, but that could just be confusion because there’s too many Ravens circling for him to remember that they aren’t all aligned. He’s not a smart man. He’s 27 and doesn’t talk much. We’re starting to think he might be a little slow. Finally, the soft shuffling of boat shoes from a nearby gazebo turns the Tyrants gaze. Covered in blood and dressed like a complete and total douche bag, the guy from a rich family with unoriginal naming ideas stands alone. UGWC’s finest, and Valors new toy. You can hype him up as much as you want to, but at the end of the day he’s only here as an afterthought. Dolly Waters, anyone? He might be the only one that ever actually liked The GOAT, but his demeanor had changed lately and there hadn’t been much contact between the two. There might be some jealousy bubbling up. There might be some envy of the shine? The Tyrant steps forward to address the gathering horde, when suddenly a figure moves from nearby to join him and the GOAT. The King, face smeared and stringy hair clumped together with drying blood. The GOAT exhales in relief. The King was a brute, a savage, a violent offender with a bloodlust unrivaled by any other. They were stronger with him around. He screams at the shadows in the distance. KING: She doesn’t give a fuck about any of you! She’s using all of you like she always uses people! You’re doing all this work for her, and for what?! Do you think if you help her keep her name on the marquee for another month, she’s going to fuck you? You’ll be the one she’s been waiting for, to keep her satisfied and invested?! YOU’RE ALL WASTING YOUR TIME! The horde doesn’t respond. KING: Whether you win or lose this fight for her, she will cast each and every one of you aside… and I PROMISE you that you aren’t going to win. Boat shoes tosses a large round mass towards the group. It rolls to a stop at The Tyrant's feet. It’s a head. TYRANT: … Sloane? He… he killed Sloane? The Tyrant's eyes go bloodshot, nostrils flaring as he rips the Burger King mask from his face. He takes a step towards the gazebo. TYRANT: I’m gonna kill him. KING: He’s already dead. TYRANT: Helping or hurting, Corey? Helping or hurting? He’s done. The Tyrant charges across the amusement park lot without a second's thought. KING: Split up! These guys are dumb as fuck. If we brawl with all of them at once who knows what might happen, they could pin one of us down, but if we isolate them they have no chance against any of us. GO! RUN! The GOAT takes a few quick steps away from the Employee Only shack, but pauses to look at the situation. Tyrant and Boat Shoes cancelled out, but he and The King were outnumbered. He wasn’t sure taking off was the way to go… It’s like The King reads his mind. KING: Please, bitch. You know as well as anybody what I can do. The GOAT turns and begins to sprint away, waving his arms frantically and shrieking into the night to distract someone from the horde. The face-painted and malnourished one takes off behind him, darting across the grass much more nimbly than you’d expect from a zombie or someone that shadow boxes as poorly as Bert McAlroy. The GOAT can hear wild howls of agony from the furry Scottsman and the number pusher as Corey digs into them. The King enjoys the screams. As for Boat Shoes? He won't make a sound unless The Tyrant lets him. RULE 1: CARDIO. The most important rule in surviving was never getting tired. You can’t let them catch you slipping or show them the slightest weakness, or they’d swarm you. He was comfortable with the stakes, it was the same as being in the ring all these years. His heart pumps rhythmically, feet pounding the pavement quicker than Theo Pryce’s when rushing to sign talent after a competitor closes. He turns around and sees the juggalo wannabe still in hot pursuit. How far was he supposed to be leading him away from the others? At some point he’d have to turn and fight. He spots a large patch of open pavement in front of a fun house, and decides that’s as good a spot as any before skidding to a halt. LINE-STEPPER: You look awfully sweaty, speedster. You should probably pop that shirt off so that it doesn’t get dirty… The GOAT spins in time to see Vhodka Black stomping out of the funhouse, some poor souls' brain matter smeared over her brightly colored clothing and a wooden mallet dragging at her side. RULE 9: A CLUB DOESN’T NEED TO BE RELOADED. LINE-STEPPER: I thought there were going to be clowns in there, but it’s just zombies. Don’t get me wrong, I’LL KILL A ZOMBIE… but I’m really on more of a clown kick these days, y’know? The GOAT tries to tell her that danger is approaching, he tries to warn her of the charismatically challenged imp scampering up behind him. She barely notices his urgency. LINE-STEPPER: I guess at the end of the day, I have to kill whatever they put in front of me if I really want to help charity. Whether that means castrating a pirate or fileting a yeti, I can’t let my personal biases get in the way… of charity. She shrugs her shoulders, setting aside her internal strife and turning back to The GOAT. LINE-STEPPER: You know, I wasn’t kidding about that shirt. It’s weighing you down, and it could get one of us hurt. I’m not sure I can fight alongside you unless you pop! IT! OFF! There’s no time to argue, not that he usually does when it comes to showing off the world famous abs. He rips the shirt from his body, sweat trickling between his pecs and ricocheting off the ridges on his stomach before falling to the concrete. Vhodka smirks. LINE-STEPPER: That’s… that’s the good stuff. The scrawny California young boy of Matt Knox catches up to them, finally. He stares at Vhodka Black across the lot, a smirk forming on his decaying lips. Her eyes go wide as she spots his grimy face paint. LINE-STEPPER: … is that a clown? The smirk disappears from the lips of the medical skeleton that hung in your high school science class. Vhodka points towards the exit of the park. LINE-STEPPER: Betsy is supposed to get the car. I’ll meet up with you after I make balloon animals out of this guy's intestines... for charity. The GOAT takes off once more, eyes locked on the exit gate as he races towards Betsy… … and finds an empty parking lot. The car is gone, as is his Impossible Traveller. RULE 37: DON'T TRUST ANYBODY. It’s like a knife plunged deep into his gut, and he collapses to his knees on the pavement. How- how could she have left? They promised each other they would never leave, no matter what. Sure, neither of them predicted this sort of zombie fallout, but still… NO MATTER WHAT! He has no idea how long he sits there. Maybe minutes? Maybe hours? The King and The Tyrant charge up behind him, grabbing The GOAT under the arms and pulling him up to his feet. They look around the empty parking lot, then look at the distraught look on his face. The Tyrant drops Boat Shoes’ severed head on the ground and grunts in disagreement. TYRANT: No chance. She’s here somewhere. The Habitual Line Stepper quickly rejoins them, carrying a human organ twisted into the shape of a flower. “Team Siren” was dead, all of them, but our four heroes stare into the darkness and see a large mass of shadows charging towards them. The Siren had more simps at her disposal than they could have possibly imagined. KING: Square up, kids. Here they come. TYRANT: Stay back to back if you can. Don’t let them swarm any of us from behind. KING: Kill. Them. All. LINE-STEPPER: For charity. HOOOONK! HOOOOOOOOOOONK! A pair of headlights appears behind the horde, an engine revving loudly before a large yellow Hummer blasts through the crowd and sends limbs and torsos flying everywhere. The four of us watch in awe as the vehicle swerves over the concrete and tears up the grass. With a path of chaos and destruction in its wake that would make Ross Hanson blush, the truck mows down the last few zombies and squeals to a halt in front of the team. Betsy sits in the driver's seat, winking at me and blowing a kiss as the King, Tyrant and Line Stepper flood into the back seat. TRAVELLER: Get in losers, we’re going on a cruise. She’s his Wichita. RULE 37 (AMENDED): TRUST YOUR FRIENDS. We’ll kill everyone on that boat, if we have to. We’re more than capable. Now, Atara goes last or she doesn't go at all. END OF TAPES FADE TO BLACK |
