Post by Corey Black on Oct 20, 2022 20:55:59 GMT -5
In the distance a flash of lightning crashes into the ocean, a coming storm on the horizon. Between here and there is darkness, the moon covered by clouds. Waves slam into the beach and create a rhythmic song that is the perfect audio accompaniment to the visual stimulus. Across the beach are many banyan trees all wrapped in colored string lights. Orange, purple, green, the whole beach glows like a fantastical Halloween splatter painting. A trail of fresh footprints lead to a beachfront bungalow. A soft glow emanates from the window we can see, a look down as we come in reveals a tattered welcome mat. A particularly large wave collides with the shore as a bolt of lightning in the distance reaches toward the water in a simultaneous display.
Inside the bungalow sits a person, from their perspective now we see that the television set in front of them has turned to static. The Faceless groans and digs both hands into the arm rests, propelling himself off the chair and toward a travel bag full of VHS tapes. Kneeling down in a huff, he picks up a couple, shuffling through before he finds the one he wants. He holds it in one hand, giving it a few approving shakes and turns it over to read the description on the back. The waves from outside can be heard through a cracked window of the bungalow, also sending what should be a cool breeze throughout the abode. The Faceless stands up from his crouch, walking toward the TV and placing the tape on the VCR on top. He walks by, toward the back of his vacation spot and grabs a coconut he has carved into a jack-o-lantern, coming back and placing it on the window sill facing the ocean.
Back to the TV, The Faceless slides the VHS tape out of its sleeve and inserts it into the VCR, plopping down in the chair facing the screen and grabs his remote. A click of the play button and off we fuckin' go.
The Faceless laughs heartily to himself as the tape looks to be coming to a close. He mutters to himself, saying it wasn't the movie he thought it might be. He stands up, once again grunting and digging his palms into the armrests to help himself stand up. He ejects the tape and places it back in its sleeve, then haphazardly tosses it into the travel bag. A short trip to the window where he fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a small white rolled piece of contraband.
A lighter from the other pocket produces the flame required to burn, smoke quickly exiting through the open window. The Faceless man, still not having seen his head, is in the clouds now. But a sound in the distance piques his interest.
It isn't the waves, the tide has long left during the film. It's not a bird, or other people. No. It's a lower pitch sound, a rumble.. a.. chainsaw. The Faceless looks around, terrified at the coming doom. He throws his contraband out the window and onto the sand, running toward the door and as he opens it - it's too late. His jaw drops into frame and his shoulders sink.
A pig skin covered mess of a human stands before him, chainsaw in one hand.
Pumpkin bucket in the other.
Inside the bungalow sits a person, from their perspective now we see that the television set in front of them has turned to static. The Faceless groans and digs both hands into the arm rests, propelling himself off the chair and toward a travel bag full of VHS tapes. Kneeling down in a huff, he picks up a couple, shuffling through before he finds the one he wants. He holds it in one hand, giving it a few approving shakes and turns it over to read the description on the back. The waves from outside can be heard through a cracked window of the bungalow, also sending what should be a cool breeze throughout the abode. The Faceless stands up from his crouch, walking toward the TV and placing the tape on the VCR on top. He walks by, toward the back of his vacation spot and grabs a coconut he has carved into a jack-o-lantern, coming back and placing it on the window sill facing the ocean.
Back to the TV, The Faceless slides the VHS tape out of its sleeve and inserts it into the VCR, plopping down in the chair facing the screen and grabs his remote. A click of the play button and off we fuckin' go.
 The static turns to a black screen, silent. A distant disturbance, a ripcord start engine is attempting to be started while something screams. Words appear in the screen, slowly fading in. THIS FILM IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES VIEWER BEWARE The pull start grips and the darkness is literally cut through by a chainsaw, ripping and tearing at the black screen causing it to bleed buckets and shed sinew. The words fall out of the screen like innards would, splattering on the floor of the dirty wood shed. Holding a chainsaw is Corey Black, his face and apron dotted with blood, a lightbulb on a wire gleefully swings from the ceiling, dangling just a few inches above Corey himself. He reaches over and grabs a drink of Liquid Death before revving the saw up again, going low and hacking off the head of the pig that is strung up in front of him, emptying the carcass through grates in the flood below. He puts the saw down, it recognizes it isn't in use so it stops. Corey throws his rubber gloves onto the counter behind him and wipes his brow with his forearm. He takes a deep breath in and turns, smiling into the camera. "It's been months since I was able to look at you and tell you all the things running through my head. An extended hiatus at Action Wrestling I still don't feel like I need to explain, not picking up any matches across some super shows.. I just had some things to deal with. Let's just get this shit out there right off the jump - I'm not a replacement, I'm a motherfucking upgrade. My former team was a slapped together mess of vaguely related cretins. I do think we still would have destroyed any five person team put in front of us, but that's neither here nor there. A situation needed handled and who better to ask than the guy that was the glue, the spearhead and the fucking heart of the team that conquered this very match - this very main event but a year ago? It's funny, in that sense. Almost hilarious. On a team again by chance, leader by circumstance but the driving force all the same. Just.. I'm not the odd man out this time. I'm not teaming with a couple, their best friend and a sentient bag of Halloween candy - no, I curated this team around me from the ground up solely to drive five stakes into five hearts and make the brain watch in horror before stamping out his light too." Corey walks over to the swine he has hanging, kneeling down and grabbing the heart off the floor. He stands, tossing it into the air and catching it in his hand, smiling and slapping it onto butcher's paper. He wraps the heart, placing it aside and sticking some toothpicks into it to keep the paper folded. "In addition to the greatest professional wrestler to ever step foot in a ring, you have the tag team of Spencer Adams and CJ Phoenix - collectively known as King Shit, with me known as the three guys that send Chris Page and more of his doofus lackeys packing at our biggest event of the year; Evolution. We're intimately familiar with stuffing our boots up, through and out of CCPE goons. Current Action Wrestling Tag Team Champions of the World, Spencer and CJ boast more titles than Mac Bane can count and a smoother, more ruthless and frankly downright better in ring acumen than J-Mont could dream up. Coming along for the ride is Affluenza, a team of two women that didn't have to say yes - in fact, I'm pretty surprised they did, but nevertheless a combination of sultry and sinister. Jill Park will rip the throat out of anybody that crosses her, hoping it was streamed or someone had TikTok up. And Regan? Shit dude, Regan will cover your corpse with fucking doilies to make your lifeless husk more appealing to her. For fun. You'd be her Halloween decoration until she got a new body to replace your decaying one with. But I get it, this isn't Action Wrestling, right? This is Waikiki, the Tara Fenix Charity Event - this is neutral ground. These AW rejects that are broadcast live on CBS to millions of people are the outcasts of the wrestling world. Good. That's how we fucking like it. The perpetual underdog in shit like this, no matter how many times I prove that not only can I destroy anybody you put in front of me, I can do it anywhere and any time. Ya'll keep on bouncing from low budget shithole to low budget shithole, making up excuse after excuse as to why it's time to move on and saddle up with the new hotness. Bunch of glory hounds, always searching for that new toy high. You should be on your knees thanking me for showing you how to act, be and perform as a wrestler. Crown or no crown, I'm that fucking guy. The archetype, the blueprint - the paradigm." He smiles once again, shifting his apron to the side as he kneels and grabs the head of the pig. He stands up and plunks it onto the counter, looking into its cold, dead eyes. "Livestock, it's all you are. Roaming the countryside hoping to find the greenest pastures and spitting on even the slightest sour patch. Led on a leash by a silver tongued pocketbook stuffed full of money, promises and deceit. I thought James Raven was better than that shit. I also thought Betsy Granger was better than his new shit, Hello Doves. Fuck do I know?" He turns the head over, grabbing a tool to empty the contents onto the counter in a thick thud. Gooey, disgusting jello like brain matter jiggling away. A piece of paper is retrieved, Corey wraps the brain up and slaps it down next to the heart. "Respect is earned in this profession, I ain't no fool. I may have come out into the wider world and swung for the fences in my first at bat but I'll be goddamned if I didn't send that shit into the stands. The best you'd ever seen walked through my door and left with something I promised I'd never rub in his face as long as he said my fuckin' name - and he did when he needed to fill a slot on a team, a slot he knew wouldn't regret putting me into. But look at the poor little GOAT now. No better off than this pig. Heartless, brainless, like a puppet on strings. Oh you thought I was talking about Page? Ha. Haha. Nah bro, your affiliation with CCPE is fuckin' loopy, sure, but that ain't the thing that's guiding your ass to oblivion. Get ya lingerie football nonsense moving and find yourself some new hotness before that Greek psycho bitch knifes your lil chicklet like Apate Bobbitt. You remember when I dumped her on her stupid fuckin' dome and we high fived? Do the same, the high five will still stand. Until then you're just Atara's Dude and that's a full tumble down the GOAT ladder down to 'who gives a shit' town, James. You aren't even captain anymore, which is a goddamn shame. You and I, man, I feel it. Or, more accurately, I felt it. We could have carved a path across this network of companies that would have been talked about for decades. I'll still be talked about in ten years, bud. You gonna be on the right side of that history?" Shaking his head, Corey walks back over to the pig and slaps it a few times, looking for a tender piece to slice into. He reaches back and grabs and chainsaw, firing it up again to full boar before cutting away at the relative boar in front of him. Pieces begin falling, one by one until just the hooves remain strung to the ceiling. With a huff, Corey turns off the saw and places it on the counter behind him, looking down at the carnage he has created. "Limb by limb, a corpse becomes something more. This fresh friend here will feed many, her sacrifice here will not be in vein. And neigh shall mine in Hawaii just a day before All Hallow's Eve. I offer my blood and my body to the spirits, as I will do anything and everything in my power to silence those who stand across the sacred ring from me. Especially young Sebastian. One day before your birthday.. one you'll regret for quite a while, Seb. I do remember the last time we tangled and while a lesser man would bemoan and swear revenge, well Sebastian, I am not a lesser man. I've got more years behind me than in front of me and I'll be damned if I'll let someone like you live rent free in my head of an entire year just because I felt the full force of your Empire Kick and went down at nearly fifty minutes. No Seb, I haven't been watching you throughout the year and counting down the seconds until I could get back into the ring with you. Just so I could collect your skull. I'm better than that. You crumpled me when I swore to you I'd end your existence. You shut me up, proved me wrong and damn near created a monster but I'm better than that. I'm just.. there. Remember, Seb, when you said that? You're not familiar with me, I beat a guy and poof I'm on a team just.. there. How you fuckin' feel about me now, you white bread boring bitch? You came to this country three years ago, you suddenly have the authority to question who I fuckin' am? Fact check, dipshit, I'm the dude that is about to shove my elbow through your cranium and out the other side, making you look like a jack-o-lantern for my goddamn door step. Breakin' that face of yours into a hundred pieces just because I can. God, I will revel in destroying you, Seb. I will squeeze out every last drop of your blood and watch you wilt away. I told you that you weren't tall enough to box with Kings, Sebastian, and for that I was wrong. You put one down. That ain't me anymore. I'm not saddled with that baggage. You're still going to cling onto that but I need you to realize deep down, come hell or high water, I'm gonna get that one back. You may be one of the upper echelon of this profession, there's no taking that from you. I knew who you were long before you split my uprights, just as I know who you are now. A delusional maestro of misdirection and deceit. You fuckin' like that? Rack up them Ws in the column against the dudes that would give me a run for my money and maybe I'll start taking you seriously. Beating my midcard ain't impressive." He kneels down and peels the spinal column out of the pig on the floor, spilling out more liquids and stringy body parts, slapping that onto the counter and hacking away with a large cleaver until it's down to manageable chunks of flesh, bone and innards. He turns his attention once again to the head, gripping the pig by the jowls. "One thing I like about Mark Flynn is that he just shuts up and fights. And that about does it for the things I like. Listen dude, it's cool you won a big title and the tournament your friend - business associate - whatever put on, where yet again I'm regulated to the 'special attraction,' lose and still come out of it looking like the best professional on the planet. You're out here using the derogative nicknames like terms of endearment, slapping the monikers across your forehead as a billboard to tell any potential suitors that while you can get it done - you're not worth your weight. Prove me wrong and please allow me to add another name to your growing collection - potential Dream Match Mark Flynn. Our names have been whispered next to one another more than you care to admit. I've seen what you can do, yet this twisted genius won't be able to crack my code. Every time you thing you solved it, I'm going to put a dent in your head and make you rethink your strategy. I won't give you what you crave, Mark. I won't give you adoration nor hatred. I give you fuckin' indifference. Be mad. Be angry. Be an unhinged mental patient, whatever man, one shot and you're just a regular emergency room attendee." Corey reaches forward and grabs a hammer, slamming it steadfast into the head of the pig, cracking the skull and causing it to fall apart in his hands, leaving the flesh and letting the bone fragments tumble to the counter. "You're going to have to be willing to do anything, Mark. I don't think you have that in you." He lifts the skin up and over his head, sliding the pig's meaty tissue over his own, his cold steel eyes piercing through where the swine's used to be. "If Mark Flynn is a wrestler's wrestler, then Peter Vaughn is a.. well.. I don't know what the hell he is beyond my next victim. Supercontinental mop jockey. A husk with a virtually trapped soul. Custodial Coalition Head, defeater of Bernardo. When did we stop wrestling and become a sci-fi movie? You know what, it doesn't fuckin' matter. None of that shit will have one iota of an impact on this other than confirming that Chris Page seeks out the absolute dipshittiest dumpers to ever disgrace the ring, Holden Ross I'm fuckin' looking at you, to do nothing more than bolster roster spots and spread like a virus among the world. Peter Vaughn didn't need that. He used to be a guy that was happy doing the simpler things in life. Sweeping up after kids drop their chips. But now look at the poor bastard. Rules mean less to him than a broken broom. Maybe it's all the wacky things he's endured. Maybe it's the wacky stuff Page provided him. Maybe it's all just a distraction and I've got a warm body to turn cold. Always looking to spread himself as thing as humanly possible to maximize the impact of mental health issues, Pete's shattered grid lays a wide swath across the landscape and it'll be my honor to splinter that even further. It was just a short few months ago I actually was in the same ring as Peter. He couldn't beat me. I couldn't beat him. The third party became the sacrificial lamb. If there wasn't another person, believe me when I say the Peter Vaughn you all chuckle at would be six feet under. You'd weep at his headstone instead of weeping at his antics." Corey, still wearing the pig's head flesh as a mask, walks over to the limbs all over the floor and begins peeling away at the skin of those. He gets to the hoof of one before stopping, then another and slides the skin over his arms, covering his own tattooed limbs. "Hiding from something. Family, history, life itself.. Xavier Lux has a lot to hide from. What will it take for you to stand up and wipe the dirt from your shoulder? You were gone, Lux, away from it all. The hardships, the time away from your kid, the lingering self doubt.. and you came back. Just to see what you could do for one last hurrah. I hope you understand that I don't give a shit who you are or what you hold dear, everything comes crashing down even harder when you're across the mat from me. The sting of a scorpion may be brutal, it's nothing compared to having a man you've never even met rip the career you hold dear from your grasp. I play for keeps. Every time I'm out there I'm looking for heads to roll, be it a deathmatch, a ten person tag or a fuckin' rumble. Your shitty life has no impact on my shitty life. I don't feel sorry for you, I don't want to help you, I want to fight you and possibly end you. Never hiding. Always marching forward. Not letting the past haunt me anymore. You could learn a thing or two from me, champ." The chainsaw is retrieved and started back up, Corey decked out in the skin of the pig - he revs the automatic blade up and kicks the door down, sprinting out into the open air. He spins a couple times, yelling manically into the air as he does. Corey stops, looking off into the darkness and yet whispering to himself, hardly audible over the sound of the chainsaw in his hand. "None of you know me. Not the real me. You all saw a screen name of a guy that claimed to be a king and you call scoffed at it. Yet one by one I showed you all that it wasn't just a cute nickname, it was your impending nightmare. And here I stand, one year later, once again in the main event of the show that truly cemented my standing in this world - team captain. I know who you all are because a shit enough to be able to look you in the eye and tell you, straight up, that you aren't fit to battle Corey Black. Because I am that entity that burrows into the back of your mind and causes all the doubt, that exploits all of your shortcomings, all of your insecurities and what you think you know about the one called Deathproof. You're all assembled because of one man. One motherfucker that should be in this contest but his ego got in his way and he wormed himself into a title match. The piece of shit that got you directionless reptiles this spot. You look to him for guidance, for opportunities and riches. People like you are pathetic worms. People like us? We see that man for what he is. A rat, lining his pockets off your success. They say it's just for charity. I say it's for revenge, to once again hand CCPE a loss - off my own turf. This isn't a Legacy, it's a fuckin' demolition crew." The saw is once again revved up, Corey takes off like a madman toward the darkness as the camera pulls out, revealing a small beachfront village just beyond the darkness of the trees. The credits roll. |
The Faceless laughs heartily to himself as the tape looks to be coming to a close. He mutters to himself, saying it wasn't the movie he thought it might be. He stands up, once again grunting and digging his palms into the armrests to help himself stand up. He ejects the tape and places it back in its sleeve, then haphazardly tosses it into the travel bag. A short trip to the window where he fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a small white rolled piece of contraband.
A lighter from the other pocket produces the flame required to burn, smoke quickly exiting through the open window. The Faceless man, still not having seen his head, is in the clouds now. But a sound in the distance piques his interest.
It isn't the waves, the tide has long left during the film. It's not a bird, or other people. No. It's a lower pitch sound, a rumble.. a.. chainsaw. The Faceless looks around, terrified at the coming doom. He throws his contraband out the window and onto the sand, running toward the door and as he opens it - it's too late. His jaw drops into frame and his shoulders sink.
A pig skin covered mess of a human stands before him, chainsaw in one hand.
Pumpkin bucket in the other.
TRICK OR TREAT?
