Post by FarCry on Jan 2, 2018 23:39:38 GMT
-------Noah Knox-------
He could feel her breasts brushing against his chest as she slid off of him winded and lay in the creaky bed next to him. Her sweat soaked hair covered her face and she moved it revealing the fractured smile underneath.
Harlot: Holy shit!
Knox showed no emotion. She had to say that regardless of how impressed she truly was. He simply grabbed a torn pair of jeans and a crumbled up shirt from the floor and tossed it her way. She scoffed as she caught the garments and sullenly began to dress. Knox was incapable of even feigning enjoyment in his climax.
Sex was meaningless for him. It served a purpose and a function. He had no need for children, but also had no need for anything other than physical contact. The inability to forge an emotional connection with another person forced him to use his hard earned money on ladies of the night, and the worse business is the worse the company was. He hadn’t wrestled in over 2 months other than spot shows here and there. No one was willing to allow him to sign a contract for a deal so he took his money, won his matches and moved on to the next company looking for a fill in.
She laced up her thigh high boots on the metallic bed at the crummy pay by the hour motel that Knox stayed at that moment. He was a vagrant; he had no real place to call home, though not for a desire to have one, rather a lack of need for one. He lay naked on the bed covered from the waist down by a yellow stained sheet smoking a joint after the hour of paid pleasure. The woman, blonde and surly eyed, looked back at Noah who wore the faintest smile on his scarred face as he did the only thing he felt that gave him some type of feeling.
Harlot: Can I get a hit of that?
Noah: Fuck off. This is pot, not crack you whore.
He replied as he took another drag. Though born and raised in Australia he spoke with a traditional American drawl as though from the Northeast, but still kept some of the colloquialisms his home country gave him. Even though he lacked the Steve Irwin accent he shared the desire to poke and prod dangerous creatures, however, in Noah’s case they walked on two legs and had opposable thumbs.
Harlot: Fuck you, I don’t do crack no more. I been clean for days, honey.
Noah shrugged and took another drag, that’s what they all said. He looked at the clock as it beamed the numbers 11:13 on it.
Noah: Isn’t Chester the Molester gonna worry where his bottom bitch is? Its 3 minutes past. I hope you don’t think I’m payin’ you extra.
Harlot: Chesta ain’t no molesta. He treats me and the other girls good. And don’t you worry, boy. I know you ain’t got the scratch to gimme anythin’ else.
Noah sat up in the bed and stared at her, his eyes squinting as the flickering lamp behind her silhouetted her frame almost making her bearable to look at.
Noah: Then why the fuck is you still here?
His voice was deep and raspy now and a British accent crept through. In his eyes her face was replaced by the number 2.
It wasn’t worth it.
He sat back and took another drag as the Harlot sneered and put on her trench coat. She was ugly as sin and he really didn’t give a fuck. His standards dropped dramatically since he moved to the states partially because of necessity and partially because of a lack of desire. In Australia his family name got him plenty of quality tail, and in London his wrestling got him plenty of more ring rats. But here in the states people found wrestling less desirable. There are so many other impact sports that women hang around that it was hard for him to find an easy broad after shows. He had luck at times but often times such as tonight ended up paying.
He didn’t mind paying though. Usually these chicks were depraved enough that they were willing to do anything for a buck, which was fortunate because he rarely had much more than that to spend. But he needed this companionship. He spent years alone, isolated from the rest of the world. His only interaction with other human beings for three years were brutal assaults on his person; assaults that he deserved; assaults that were warranted for his misgivings.
The Harlot finally left, giving one last money grubbing glance back, hoping her assumption of him not having any more money was a bluff. It wasn’t. He was poor as fuck. He barely had enough money to spend another 15 minutes in this crappy motel room. But after being sucked dry by a dirty whore he figured he could lay back and relax another 10 minutes or so.
He licked his fingers and used his moistened digits to extinguish the burning ember at the edge of the rolling paper. He placed the half smoked joint on the nightstand and put his head back on the pillow and allowed himself to drift off into a brief slumber.
A pounding on the door woke him and a glance at his clock showed a panic stricken 12:50AM, about 2 hours past his agreed upon departure. A Middle Eastern voice shouted from the other side of the door.
Voice: Hey man, you’re two hours late. That’s an extra twenty bucks.
He pounded on the door shouting.
Voice: YOU HEAR ME, MAN!
Noah: Yea, ya bloody wanker. I fucking hear ya. Gimme a second.
He shouted loud enough for him to hear yet the pounding and shouting didn’t subside. He put his pants and boots on and walked to the door to open it up. He looked up at the man standing beyond the door, an older man, but bulky like a rugby player. His beard rivaled Noah’s and the anger in his eyes reminded Noah of being back in the ring.
For the first time in a long time a smile crossed his lips as he stared up at the number 10.
-------FARCRY-------
The bitch was about 7 feet tall and weighed well over 500 lbs of pure muscle. He looked down at me like I was a bitch. Like he was going to pull those twenty bucks that I owed him out of my ass if he needed to. The fact was that I did have the money. I had what he was rightfully owed, but this man had garnered no respect from me. He did nothing but try and intimidate me with his size.
Maybe if he asked nicely. Maybe if he didn’t pound on the door and treated me like the trash that regularly frequents this god forsaken establishment. But the fact of the matter was that this man decided to judge me by someone else’s cover. And for that reason… he must be punished….
-------Noah Knox-------
Noah: Oh my god, Oh my god, oh my god!
He said panic stricken to himself as he looked at the bloody body lying on the floor. The lamp had been smashed over the man’s head and shards of wood surrounded his prone body. He looked around the room and saw that the nightstand’s drawers had been removed.
Fuck, he let it happen again.
Noah: FARCRY YOU SON OF A BITCH!
He shouted at no one.
Noah: OUTREACH, WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?
He continued.
He didn’t want to be this way anymore. He wasn’t this way before his time in prison, but loneliness does crazy things to a man. He tried to keep his inner beast back by gallivanting around with whores and wrestlers, but tonight something happened.
The man was still breathing. That was a plus. But would he have to kill him now?
Voice: No. Leave him be.
Noah: Ok.
The voice of Outreach echoed in his head, being his voice of reason.
Outreach: You didn’t sign anything. Your name isn’t anywhere to be traced. But cameras… try and find a camera.
He looked around. He had trained himself to be able to spot one regardless of where it was. Even though privacy laws dictated that camera’s couldn’t be put into private rooms he would never just assume. But the front desk almost certainly had one. He would just have to stop there, and get the tape or file before he left. He was adept at that too.
Having a plan allowed him to take a deep breath. The room was full of carnage but nothing he couldn’t cover up. He jumped when a buzzing was heard from behind him. He looked over and saw that his phone had gotten a text message. Perfect fucking timing. Who could be texting him at this hour?
He retrieved his phone and saw Jerry Seaton’s name on the caller ID with a message reading ‘You got the deal with NBW, come to my office in the morning and sign the papers.”
This was good news. He got signed to a deal. He texted back. “thanks.” Then texted “Cleanup at Little horn Inn in Mattituck.” Before he retrieved the tape and started the long walk towards Seaton’s office in the Brooklyn.
Noah was about 50 miles away from the offices of Seaton and Rayburn. Both were pseudonyms of Tom Caldwell who was the lawyer for some of the worst people in New York. Tom wanted to be the State’s best defense lawyer, and in many ways was, but because of the dangerous nature of the occupations that many of his clients had he was forced to work under false names to maintain some type of anonymity. The only reason that Knox was able to afford to keep him on retainer was because he had come to figure out this information on him while in a FarCry state. His only cost for his work was keeping the secret and calling him Jerry Seaton who was the more legitimate of the two lawyers in his one man firm.
After about 10 hours of alternate running and walking he made it to the office of Seaton and Rayburn which was little more than a fuchsia colored house with yellow shutters and a gravel horseshoe driveway with a Nissan Sentra parked in front. There were no signs and unless you knew where you were going you would think that it was just another middle class house in the middle of urban suburbia.
He let himself in and met Jackie Mall in the front room where she sat on a couch smoking a cigarette watching Judge Judy.
Jackie: Hey, Noah. Jerry is waiting for you in his office.
He knew where to go and turned past the kitchen and down the hallway to the end room which had a sign “Jerry Seaton" on it which was adjacent to the room marked “Sal Rayburn” and another marked “Restrooms.” He knocked while entering the room and the room looked remarkable like an office. There were files strewn across the desk and boxes in the corner of the room.
Jerry: You know I can’t keep cleaning up after you without getting paid for it.
Noah: You know that I can find all your clients and tell them who you are…
Jerry: Yea, I fucking know. OK, so this Vincent Pryde guy came back and he wants gore and guts and shit. So for once I got to be honest with your background and low and behold, I got you a contract. Pretty lucrative too. They’ve got a deal with Scy-fi so this is a legit company to work for. Its incentive based and you have to win to get more money, but even the loser’s share should help you find a place to live and hopefully stop needing me to clean up your messes.
Noah: New Blood Wrestling.
Jerry: Yea, so you’ve heard of this Pryde guy.
Noah: Yea, we all have. Guy is a real dick. He lives for the anguish of others. I don’t want to cause pain, I don’t want to hurt. I want my pride back. I want to earn glory in the ring to prove to my scumbag family that it doesn’t matter where I’ve been, all that matters is where I’m going.
Jerry: Well your first match is against a guy that feels kinda similar. Andre Aquarius. He’s got a pretty successful past in wrestling, but grew up on the streets, was a thug. Trying to make a name for himself too.
Noah: Andre Aquarius. Never heard of him. I suppose I should have. Sounds just like another brick in the wall if you ask me. The difference between he and I was that it was his lineage that forced him to grow up the way he did. I had a pretty kush life growing up. I was destined for greatness. I was supposed to be a fucking champion.
It was my life choices that landed me in the clink. It was my choices that force you to have to clean up after my mess. But it will also be my choices that lead me to greatness in this New Blood Wrestling Company. Pryde prides himself on watching people suffer. Well, my choices have caused me to suffer. And my choices will drive me to cause pain and suffering to others.
If that’s the path I need to take to allow myself to be victorious in this company, maybe I’ve got just the thing.
Jerry: Don’t say it…
Noah: I’ve got him right there in my subconscious just yearning to come out. He finds his way out for drips and drabs once in a while as is. But maybe it’s time to let him live in the light and put the other guy to bed for a little bit.
Jerry: Noah, stop. You don’t know what you’re saying.
But it was too late. He was too far gone. Noah saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and the only way there was through depravity and chaos. He needed Mr. Hyde to be Dr. Jekyll now. He needed FarCry to be the driving force of his destruction.
He knew already that Noah Knox didn’t have what it took to succeed in a blood and gore style of wrestling that New blood wrestling will demand. But it’s in there and he’s ready to let it out. He’s ready for the world to see FarCry. But the question was, is the world ready for him?
Jerry: Mother fucker. This shit ain’t gonna stop is it?
Hell to the fucking no.
He could feel her breasts brushing against his chest as she slid off of him winded and lay in the creaky bed next to him. Her sweat soaked hair covered her face and she moved it revealing the fractured smile underneath.
Harlot: Holy shit!
Knox showed no emotion. She had to say that regardless of how impressed she truly was. He simply grabbed a torn pair of jeans and a crumbled up shirt from the floor and tossed it her way. She scoffed as she caught the garments and sullenly began to dress. Knox was incapable of even feigning enjoyment in his climax.
Sex was meaningless for him. It served a purpose and a function. He had no need for children, but also had no need for anything other than physical contact. The inability to forge an emotional connection with another person forced him to use his hard earned money on ladies of the night, and the worse business is the worse the company was. He hadn’t wrestled in over 2 months other than spot shows here and there. No one was willing to allow him to sign a contract for a deal so he took his money, won his matches and moved on to the next company looking for a fill in.
She laced up her thigh high boots on the metallic bed at the crummy pay by the hour motel that Knox stayed at that moment. He was a vagrant; he had no real place to call home, though not for a desire to have one, rather a lack of need for one. He lay naked on the bed covered from the waist down by a yellow stained sheet smoking a joint after the hour of paid pleasure. The woman, blonde and surly eyed, looked back at Noah who wore the faintest smile on his scarred face as he did the only thing he felt that gave him some type of feeling.
Harlot: Can I get a hit of that?
Noah: Fuck off. This is pot, not crack you whore.
He replied as he took another drag. Though born and raised in Australia he spoke with a traditional American drawl as though from the Northeast, but still kept some of the colloquialisms his home country gave him. Even though he lacked the Steve Irwin accent he shared the desire to poke and prod dangerous creatures, however, in Noah’s case they walked on two legs and had opposable thumbs.
Harlot: Fuck you, I don’t do crack no more. I been clean for days, honey.
Noah shrugged and took another drag, that’s what they all said. He looked at the clock as it beamed the numbers 11:13 on it.
Noah: Isn’t Chester the Molester gonna worry where his bottom bitch is? Its 3 minutes past. I hope you don’t think I’m payin’ you extra.
Harlot: Chesta ain’t no molesta. He treats me and the other girls good. And don’t you worry, boy. I know you ain’t got the scratch to gimme anythin’ else.
Noah sat up in the bed and stared at her, his eyes squinting as the flickering lamp behind her silhouetted her frame almost making her bearable to look at.
Noah: Then why the fuck is you still here?
His voice was deep and raspy now and a British accent crept through. In his eyes her face was replaced by the number 2.
It wasn’t worth it.
He sat back and took another drag as the Harlot sneered and put on her trench coat. She was ugly as sin and he really didn’t give a fuck. His standards dropped dramatically since he moved to the states partially because of necessity and partially because of a lack of desire. In Australia his family name got him plenty of quality tail, and in London his wrestling got him plenty of more ring rats. But here in the states people found wrestling less desirable. There are so many other impact sports that women hang around that it was hard for him to find an easy broad after shows. He had luck at times but often times such as tonight ended up paying.
He didn’t mind paying though. Usually these chicks were depraved enough that they were willing to do anything for a buck, which was fortunate because he rarely had much more than that to spend. But he needed this companionship. He spent years alone, isolated from the rest of the world. His only interaction with other human beings for three years were brutal assaults on his person; assaults that he deserved; assaults that were warranted for his misgivings.
The Harlot finally left, giving one last money grubbing glance back, hoping her assumption of him not having any more money was a bluff. It wasn’t. He was poor as fuck. He barely had enough money to spend another 15 minutes in this crappy motel room. But after being sucked dry by a dirty whore he figured he could lay back and relax another 10 minutes or so.
He licked his fingers and used his moistened digits to extinguish the burning ember at the edge of the rolling paper. He placed the half smoked joint on the nightstand and put his head back on the pillow and allowed himself to drift off into a brief slumber.
A pounding on the door woke him and a glance at his clock showed a panic stricken 12:50AM, about 2 hours past his agreed upon departure. A Middle Eastern voice shouted from the other side of the door.
Voice: Hey man, you’re two hours late. That’s an extra twenty bucks.
He pounded on the door shouting.
Voice: YOU HEAR ME, MAN!
Noah: Yea, ya bloody wanker. I fucking hear ya. Gimme a second.
He shouted loud enough for him to hear yet the pounding and shouting didn’t subside. He put his pants and boots on and walked to the door to open it up. He looked up at the man standing beyond the door, an older man, but bulky like a rugby player. His beard rivaled Noah’s and the anger in his eyes reminded Noah of being back in the ring.
For the first time in a long time a smile crossed his lips as he stared up at the number 10.
-------FARCRY-------
The bitch was about 7 feet tall and weighed well over 500 lbs of pure muscle. He looked down at me like I was a bitch. Like he was going to pull those twenty bucks that I owed him out of my ass if he needed to. The fact was that I did have the money. I had what he was rightfully owed, but this man had garnered no respect from me. He did nothing but try and intimidate me with his size.
Maybe if he asked nicely. Maybe if he didn’t pound on the door and treated me like the trash that regularly frequents this god forsaken establishment. But the fact of the matter was that this man decided to judge me by someone else’s cover. And for that reason… he must be punished….
-------Noah Knox-------
Noah: Oh my god, Oh my god, oh my god!
He said panic stricken to himself as he looked at the bloody body lying on the floor. The lamp had been smashed over the man’s head and shards of wood surrounded his prone body. He looked around the room and saw that the nightstand’s drawers had been removed.
Fuck, he let it happen again.
Noah: FARCRY YOU SON OF A BITCH!
He shouted at no one.
Noah: OUTREACH, WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?
He continued.
He didn’t want to be this way anymore. He wasn’t this way before his time in prison, but loneliness does crazy things to a man. He tried to keep his inner beast back by gallivanting around with whores and wrestlers, but tonight something happened.
The man was still breathing. That was a plus. But would he have to kill him now?
Voice: No. Leave him be.
Noah: Ok.
The voice of Outreach echoed in his head, being his voice of reason.
Outreach: You didn’t sign anything. Your name isn’t anywhere to be traced. But cameras… try and find a camera.
He looked around. He had trained himself to be able to spot one regardless of where it was. Even though privacy laws dictated that camera’s couldn’t be put into private rooms he would never just assume. But the front desk almost certainly had one. He would just have to stop there, and get the tape or file before he left. He was adept at that too.
Having a plan allowed him to take a deep breath. The room was full of carnage but nothing he couldn’t cover up. He jumped when a buzzing was heard from behind him. He looked over and saw that his phone had gotten a text message. Perfect fucking timing. Who could be texting him at this hour?
He retrieved his phone and saw Jerry Seaton’s name on the caller ID with a message reading ‘You got the deal with NBW, come to my office in the morning and sign the papers.”
This was good news. He got signed to a deal. He texted back. “thanks.” Then texted “Cleanup at Little horn Inn in Mattituck.” Before he retrieved the tape and started the long walk towards Seaton’s office in the Brooklyn.
Noah was about 50 miles away from the offices of Seaton and Rayburn. Both were pseudonyms of Tom Caldwell who was the lawyer for some of the worst people in New York. Tom wanted to be the State’s best defense lawyer, and in many ways was, but because of the dangerous nature of the occupations that many of his clients had he was forced to work under false names to maintain some type of anonymity. The only reason that Knox was able to afford to keep him on retainer was because he had come to figure out this information on him while in a FarCry state. His only cost for his work was keeping the secret and calling him Jerry Seaton who was the more legitimate of the two lawyers in his one man firm.
After about 10 hours of alternate running and walking he made it to the office of Seaton and Rayburn which was little more than a fuchsia colored house with yellow shutters and a gravel horseshoe driveway with a Nissan Sentra parked in front. There were no signs and unless you knew where you were going you would think that it was just another middle class house in the middle of urban suburbia.
He let himself in and met Jackie Mall in the front room where she sat on a couch smoking a cigarette watching Judge Judy.
Jackie: Hey, Noah. Jerry is waiting for you in his office.
He knew where to go and turned past the kitchen and down the hallway to the end room which had a sign “Jerry Seaton" on it which was adjacent to the room marked “Sal Rayburn” and another marked “Restrooms.” He knocked while entering the room and the room looked remarkable like an office. There were files strewn across the desk and boxes in the corner of the room.
Jerry: You know I can’t keep cleaning up after you without getting paid for it.
Noah: You know that I can find all your clients and tell them who you are…
Jerry: Yea, I fucking know. OK, so this Vincent Pryde guy came back and he wants gore and guts and shit. So for once I got to be honest with your background and low and behold, I got you a contract. Pretty lucrative too. They’ve got a deal with Scy-fi so this is a legit company to work for. Its incentive based and you have to win to get more money, but even the loser’s share should help you find a place to live and hopefully stop needing me to clean up your messes.
Noah: New Blood Wrestling.
Jerry: Yea, so you’ve heard of this Pryde guy.
Noah: Yea, we all have. Guy is a real dick. He lives for the anguish of others. I don’t want to cause pain, I don’t want to hurt. I want my pride back. I want to earn glory in the ring to prove to my scumbag family that it doesn’t matter where I’ve been, all that matters is where I’m going.
Jerry: Well your first match is against a guy that feels kinda similar. Andre Aquarius. He’s got a pretty successful past in wrestling, but grew up on the streets, was a thug. Trying to make a name for himself too.
Noah: Andre Aquarius. Never heard of him. I suppose I should have. Sounds just like another brick in the wall if you ask me. The difference between he and I was that it was his lineage that forced him to grow up the way he did. I had a pretty kush life growing up. I was destined for greatness. I was supposed to be a fucking champion.
It was my life choices that landed me in the clink. It was my choices that force you to have to clean up after my mess. But it will also be my choices that lead me to greatness in this New Blood Wrestling Company. Pryde prides himself on watching people suffer. Well, my choices have caused me to suffer. And my choices will drive me to cause pain and suffering to others.
If that’s the path I need to take to allow myself to be victorious in this company, maybe I’ve got just the thing.
Jerry: Don’t say it…
Noah: I’ve got him right there in my subconscious just yearning to come out. He finds his way out for drips and drabs once in a while as is. But maybe it’s time to let him live in the light and put the other guy to bed for a little bit.
Jerry: Noah, stop. You don’t know what you’re saying.
But it was too late. He was too far gone. Noah saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and the only way there was through depravity and chaos. He needed Mr. Hyde to be Dr. Jekyll now. He needed FarCry to be the driving force of his destruction.
He knew already that Noah Knox didn’t have what it took to succeed in a blood and gore style of wrestling that New blood wrestling will demand. But it’s in there and he’s ready to let it out. He’s ready for the world to see FarCry. But the question was, is the world ready for him?
Jerry: Mother fucker. This shit ain’t gonna stop is it?
Hell to the fucking no.