Show: Victory XXXIX
Ron Hall, who did this man think he was? Does he deserve to be respected for what he has done for the industry or hated for what he has done? Now that is a question to be asked. Some say that the Hall of Famer deserves what is coming to him and I’d totally agree to that. Violence will ensue and my debut will be destructive.
It will not be for the faint of heart and that is why I will be liking it. He thinks because he can get a UTA Trading Card that he deserves one.
He laid there on the bed entwined with the representative that the UTA had sent to secure his skills for their wrestling promotion. He had only just met her and had already corrupted her to his way of thinking. She was weak but at least she knew that now.
"What are you hiding under that mask?" Jessica Smythe said as she tried to pull up his mask and stroked Yeshua’s cheek and flinched gravely. She immediately hid her revulsion, but he saw the shiver pass through the tendons in her tightly held throat. It was there in the way she bit down on the end of each word as if spitting, the stiffness of her cold hand. Her distaste was almost erotic. Whatever else she felt, she was not afraid of him.
There was some fight in her, some misplaced pride. It would be so much… fun to bleed that out of her. The allure of this game was what had attracted him to her. She was young, he thought, or that was simply what an American executive like Jessica was meant to look like. It was hard to tell. There was such anonymity to lingerie and binding laces, to makeup on ageless faces. But she had such a prim little mouth for someone who was from this part of the world. It was as perfectly pouted as a rosebud of blood blooming from the end of a dildo held at close range. She had a bedroom between her legs and death in her eyes. Death became her. Contempt aged her; such a pleasure, such a pretty little pleasure to break.
It was not an innocuous question she had asked. She had said, "What are you hiding under the mask?" leaning on the word "you." The stupid whore, she did not want to believe that they were the same. There was a sweaty mascara tear on her ripe cheek. He grabbed her powdered, rouged face roughly in both hands and twisted her neck so she faced him. My mask is like my makeup.
"Likewise, my dear," he said, pulling the last word into a growl as he held her by the hair and tilted her head back.
He moved the words around his torn mouth lasciviously, slobbering tongue lolling uselessly over them. He spoke like a person with numb lips, swallowing and gasping insatiably. That gaping mouth sucked ravenously at hers, and she felt the wet squelching of his mangled, exposed flesh. Both crimson, lip sticked mouths smudged into anonymous bloodlust. Then, he looked at her and laughed quietly, a terrible sound in its containment, the danger of a caged maniac.
She eyed him stoically and did not attempt to break his hold. Even with his fingers contorting her hollow cheeks garishly upward, she held herself with a strange dignity. As he forced her naked body closer to his, he decided that he would have to dig deeper into his bag of tricks for the greatest sleight-of-hand of our time—sympathy.
"There is quite a big reason for me wearing this mask. It is not just to cover these scars but that’s a big part of it. Do you want to know how I got these scars?" he rasped into her ear. His fingers tightened. He would make her see.
"No," she said immediately, her voice impassive. "We're all scarred, my Lord. Don't think you're special. Everyone carries demons within them that show as scars upon them."
His eyes had widened in shock, like he reacted to a physical slap. It had a chilling effect with his mask that was only covering half of his face now. The rings of black around his eyes expanded like the funnels of a tornado bent on destruction. He dropped her, and caught off-guard, she fell backwards and cut her lip on the headboard. There was masochistic pleasure in his contorted face. He threw back his head and laughed.
"Oh, so… true," he hissed. "But where are your scars?" He put down the dildo and drew his knife with dangerous tenderness across those maddeningly sedate lips. "Smile; beautiful; because we all hate… to be… alone."
If she was afraid, she did not show it. The revulsion was gone. Her face was as impartial as a mirror. She blinked those lifeless eyes at him in several slow circles. He was so close to her that he could feel the delicate flutter of her eyelashes against his face. So small and so resistant, the beating wings of a broken bird struggling helplessly to escape. Her lashes came away flecked with red. He wanted her to sob, to grovel, to lie down at his level and die, but she merely looked at him. However, his frustration was mingled with expectation. His victory would be all the more gratifying for waiting.
"You are alone," she whispered finally. Her words were rather slurred; she was moving her face carefully against the edge of the blade. "I know you. You are sick. Come on, you have just signed with the UTA and will have a great match with Ron Hall. You are fucked in the head Yeshua. I know your sort. I feel sorry for your opponent this week. You’re going to punish him. You’re going to make him pay for his sins against you; But why me? Why me? It's not enough for you to take me. You want to masturbate to your tragedy. It's never enough for you."
He scrutinized her for the briefest, most fleeting moment, before the maniacal laughter returned.
"Oh, so… feisty,” he said. “I like that; But so… rude. Yes Ron will be punished for his sins against the world but that is not why I liked it so much. No, I will like it because like my little moniker is, the Dark Ringmaster, I will enjoy myself so damn much. It is like a mental orgasm when I punish my opponents. Dobbin gets it. Ron will get it this week; and you? My smile. But I think I'll tell you anyway. It's kind of a… funny… story."
Like an expert raconteur, he cast around for the thread of a narrative that would stir her. "When I was locked away in my little cell at the asylum I was going through a little epiphany of sorts. I was just a tortured spirit so one of the times I managed to escape from those that would hurt me I had to make a statement. So it happened. I had made an improvised knife that I could protect myself with and hid myself away from those that would punish me. The small blade hung loosely in my filthy, unwashed hand. I was disgusting; the constant threat of violence and rape had rotted my mind and made me the disease I am today, to all mankind. I became a type of parasite, feeding off the joy of others, their laughter, and their happiness.”
“What? They attacked you? NOOOOO!” said Jessica with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Come on Yeshua. I want to know how you’re getting ready for Ron Hall not how you got those scars.”
Yeshua continued without a pause lost in his own story, “Of course, there was the matter of my mental instability, but that can't be held accountable for what I've become. The world's the one who fucked up, not me. The world became a repulsive, maggot-infested sty where the sinner came to play. I am simply a victim of circumstance. They locked me up in some fucked up places; oh the memories are ever so pretty. Can you see them?”
“Come on, this world is not sane Yeshua,” replied Jessica. “But you, being a victim? Ron won’t treat you as such when he whoops you in the ring in London.”
“I escaped with my little knife and hid out from my would be assailants,” he said. “So there I sat, on the cold floor of the hospital’s kitchen that reeked of spoiled meat and flesh, holding my tiny dagger of sorts, thinking. I had always wanted to do something to this world to rid it of the sadness and sickness caused by the putrid souls that soiled this planet day in, day out. I had become one of the sick, infected with the filth and sadness, but now, it was time for a cure.”
“Cure?” Jessica asked. “Cure yourself? What?”
“My mother once said that smiles and laughter are the best medicine for a broken heart,” Yeshua said. “Hopefully, a smile can do just as much good to mankind as it could to the heart. Smiles bring joy to a tiny infant's face, showing someone you care...a smile could do...wonders…”
Jessica shrugged, “Yeshua. Ron won’t be selling his Hall of Fame memoirs. He won’t give you a break. You need to sort yourself out. I know we’ve only just met but…………..”
Yeshua continued, “Another epiphany struck like lighting in my brain; it was perfect, but, I had to be sure it was affective. I could show my assailants that I was fun to be around. I only had to start with one, they are so contagious, you know? So, I took the blade that I had made for myself, studied it and decided that it had to be done.”
“What?” she asked. “You did that to yourself?”
“Positioning the sharp edge where my lips meet at a crease,” Yeshua said. “I sliced up my cheek, the rusty blade blending with the crimson of my blood. The stinging sensation was unbearable, it was so real; I had to keep going and finish the task. Repeating the same, swift slice on the other cheek, the blood flowed just as much as the first; so real. I was slightly aroused at the sensation. That is the sensation I have tried to duplicate many times whilst wrestling but to no avail. That is what I will hopefully get whilst wrestling in the UTA Jessica.”
“You are a sick fuck Yeshua,” she said. “The UTA had Skymont with his lightbulbs but it is going to be fucked up even more with you………”
“I rose to my feet,” he said. “Stumbling and falling over myself, the room somewhat spinning. Finding one of the Doctors office on an upper floor, I scavenged threw drawer after drawer, searching. Searching for some clothes, I couldn‘t stay in the asylums so called uniform, I looked for a needle and thread. Checking every drawer twice, every nook and cranny once over, the blood from my wounds made a rhythmic 'drip-drap' on the hardwood bureau, still no luck.”
“After cursing aloud and ripping up the final desk,” he said. “I sank to the floor, defeated, for now. My head was heavy and my stomach churned; I felt nauseous. I closed my eyes and they remained that way for hours.”
“So you escaped and mutilated yourself? Now what other profession could you be in? Oh a professional wrestler. Make’s perfect sense,” said Jessica as she moved the hair out of her face. “I will be in London with you and that sidekick of yours.”
Yeshua didn‘t even seem to pay attention to her, “Upon wakening to a throbbing head and empty gut, its contents splattered on the floor some feet in front of me, a small glistening piece of metal captured my attention; there it was, the dirty little bastard. I blindly grabbed at it, stabbing and pricking my fingertips many times in the process, I ignored it. The little sliver of metal rolled and danced in my palm. How lovely a small thing like a needle could be? I found the black thread somewhere under a newspaper and ran down to the ground floor, cackling and screaming the entire way.”
“Now,” Jessica said. “This is beginning to freak me out Yeshua. I knew from meeting you the other day that you were a sick fuck but…………”
“Sitting in the middle of the floor,” Yeshua continued. “I worked on my face. I tied the little black thread around and through the eye of the needle. With grubby hands, I placed the point at the starting place of the cut. With no prior or proper anaesthetics, I plunged right in, jamming the needle into the blood-stained cheek, new blood flowing and covered the old. The pain was impeccable, so perfect. I followed suit, puncturing the flesh over and over, more and more blood dribbling down my filthy face, pulling tightly on the thread.”
“………………” Jessica just looked shocked, unable to actually talk even though her lips moved trying to form the words.
“In sealing the cut, I had made sure that the flesh was somewhat pulled up, as if to resemble a grin,” he continued. “The needle and thread proved themselves just as effective and worthy on the other wound; a smile was formed. With the pain subsiding, I ran into the out-of-order restroom where a florescent light flickered annoyingly and the walls were smeared, wet and dripping. The mirror that covered one of the walls was badly cracked but I still managed to reflect on my work; my masterpiece.”
Jessica shrugged her shoulders once again. She was so confused and disgusted. “Yeshua, come on; Stop with this. You need to get your mind on the right page. Ron Hall is not going to be an easy mark; Yeshua. Yeshua are you listening to me?”
“This was who I was meant to be,” he said. “I would cure this promotions -nay- this world of its wrong doings. I will be the curer of the damned, the Lord of joy and riot, the one to spread happiness and disinfect this dirty, low-life filled earth with a great smile upon my Sadistic face. This would be my playground. That is the one reason I became a professional wrestler Jessica. I could legally do it without being locked away; again." He breathed the rancid word in his face, leaving a trail of spittle.
"You're lying." It was stated without anger, the declaration of a naked fact.
His derisive laughter spiralled wildly out of control. Once again, he had underestimated her. The little slut was perfectly implacable; not a spark of emotion in that small, carved face—a poker face; such a delight, a rare treat. He would have to raise the stakes of this little game—call forth the most dangerous trick in his arsenal.
"I assure you, darling," he cooed harshly. "I'm quite… serious." The partially masked face leered at her, taunting, and moved the knife to her throat. His morbidly elongated smile was soft and deadly as he came down heavily upon her. She let out a faint involuntary moan.
"You're going to kill me." Her voice was as flat as ever, but now it was breathy and thin. She was such a small thing. She couldn't take the weight of him against her. “Why? When I listened to you? I’ve been trying to get you prepared for your little match.”
"Don't spoil… the punch line."
He was surprisingly agile with the knife, applying the slightest amount of pressure like a true master of his art; enough for her to feel the cold blade against her skin, but not enough to cut her. He was playing with her, taunting her. She noticed that he had strangely beautiful hands—long, tapered fingers, fine-boned and delicate. They looked like they should be holding an instrument. The tattoo on his left hand lined up.
Slowly, methodically deepening the contact between the blade and her flesh, he savoured his restraint and watched her for signs of fear. Moments passed. He waited.
Finally, she rolled her eyes back in her head to look at him. And then she laughed, a silvery, music box sound—an empty, tinny echo.
"I'm waiting," she said hoarsely and closed her eyes. Her face took on the childish serenity of an innocent sleeper. Confusion stayed his hand. She wasn’t afraid of him. There was no begging, no tears, and the scent of fear had never, for an instant, permeated her painted skin. She smelled like sweat—sex and despair—and noxious perfume, but underneath, there was a trace of something that maddened him—something he couldn't name. It smelled the way you would imagine china bowls to smell—or snow.
"I know a liar when I see one," she gasped in that constricted voice. Her lips were beginning to take on the sickly blue tinge of asphyxiation. "Hell knows I've seen enough of them. Ron Hall will beat you easily this week fucker if you act like this."
He smirked and brought the hand with the knife melodramatically to his forehead, playacting hurt. "I am a man… of my word." He lifted the knife and dangled it above her, swinging it like a pendulum, but he did not strike. Before he could fully comprehend what had happened, her small hand had snaked into his and torn his fingers, one by one, from the knife. To his gleeful surprise, she drew it blindly to herself. The pale fingers clenched around the naked blade, and a thin red line glistened at the base of her throat like exotic jewellery.
"Oh… isn't this… fun?" he lilted, clapping his hands in delight. “I think we can have some fun at Victory sweet pea. I think it is time for my plan to be put into action. And if you’re good I may tell you why I wear this mask.”
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