Cheater.
I had that match until Boch had to go and get him and Jackson disqualified. You all know I had that match. I know you all watched only to see the heels fail… to see me fail. Well… never again! I may have lost ninety percent of the Frost Inc. stable at my back, but from losing Adam, Seraph, Morgy, and Chris… I’ve gained a more dominate force.
Saviour.
I searched high and low for a more reliable person to align myself with. Eventually, she came to me in the form of the beautiful Demonica: a woman with a sadistic streak about as heinous as my own. From now on, my opponents, will have a more… enlightening experience in the ring with me.
Targeted Prey.
Speaking of which: Joey Jackson. You may not be in a match with me next week, but Pete Ebdon is nothing more than an alternate path to Internationalism. Nothing more than a notch in my belt, as they say. Ebdon is stronger than I, no doubt, but that dull-witted buffoon will not be able to keep up with me. I’m strong and agile. My moves will keep him guessing and cause everyone else’s heads to spin.
Business As Usual.
But why spend my time ramping and bitching about a gaggle of nameless, arrogant men? You’ll all fizzle out soon enough, allowing the rest of us to shin and prove our worth. It won’t be long now before the legacies, the legends and the prospective legends will be toppled from their pedestals that are so high above we “lower carders”. A rebellion is brewing amongst the new-comers and resident International “divisionalees” and below. It may be small now… but not for long.
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“And this model is silk interior with blue lace…” I had to cut him off; it was just too painful to listen to him. He looked up at me nervously, pulling out a blue, patterned handkerchief and wiping it across his sweaty brow. I was utterly surprised he didn’t whip out a comb and drag the blades over his mostly bald head, adjusting his greasy comb-over.
“My father wasn’t really a ‘silk and lace’ kinda guy…” I explained, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my excessively baggy and quite ripped-up blue jeans. The salesman clasped his hands together, pensively staring at me, as if my body language would somehow give him ideas about my father… or he was just a perv. And way to cheery for someone in his line or work. Self-consciously, I crossed my arms across my chest, fingers curled around either arm.
“How about our silver lining casket? Every man can--” I cut him off once more.
“Look, just put him in a cardboard box, make him dusty and put him in a nice-looking vase,” I said, rubbing my temples. The sterile-smelling air was giving me a headache and starting to make my stomach turn. He smiled weakly, realizing that I wasn’t on of those people that were easily pushed into buying what was probably one of the most expensive caskets. And he thought he could talk me into it just because of the colour of the lining? Yeah… right…
“How would you like to look at some of our in-house urns?” Yeah, great. Urns. I chill ran down my spin as the salesman led me into a medium-sized room that was wall-to-wall with intricately decorated funeral urns. I sighed slightly, beginning to walk through the room. The salesman hung back, leaning against the doorframe.
I chose an urn after a few minutes. It was sort of abstract. It was shaped almost like a pear, with a long neck and a short, fat body. It was very simply designed. It’s base coat was black and had Celtic knots around it in red and green. Around all the edges of the knots was a sort of a silverish border.
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A Day Later…
I sat in the funeral home, staring quietly at the picture of my father that was placed off to the left of his urn. As in life, I had distanced myself from my home, mostly my father’s friends. They shared stories with me about what he was like during the time that we were estranged. I just nodded my head slightly as they spoke to me. Needless to say, I was barely listening. Thankfully, the men didn’t blame me. They blamed my lack of interest on my father’s death.
I glanced at my watch. It was about five to six. At six o’clock, the visiting would be over. I doubt anyone else would be coming, so I began to gather my possessions. I slid my coat over my shoulder, smoothing my hair back afterwards. I felt a somewhat large hand fall on my shoulder. Turning around, on the defense, I looked up at the face of the person that had grasped my shoulders.
It was a tall man, who stared at me with curious green eyes. He had long hair that was dyed a mauve-ish colour and tied back into a tight braid that descended down to just beneath his shoulder blades. His face was covered in short stubble, but he had a patch of hair at the base of his chin that was braided as well and about three inches long. This hair was dyed blue.
“Michel?”
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Three Hours Later…
The cop pushed me into my solitary confinement cell, sliding the barred door shut. The walls were cement and cold, as well as the floor and ceiling. I had a vivid recollection of my previous week or so that I’d spent in jail. I sat down on the thin mattress of the bed, staring forward at the bars. Eventually, I moved forward, fingers curling around the steel bars. I pressed my forehead against the bars, looking down the hallway.
“Demmy?” I whined rather loudly, to make sure she could hear me. Demonica responded, sounding more than a little bored:
“Yeah?” Her tone was flat. I smiled a little bit, idly tapping my nails against the bars.
“Hey, man! Show a little enthusiasm! Don’t make me go all Monica Macon on your ass.” I said teasingly, laughing afterwards. Her tone automatically became harsh and bitter at the mention of her name.
"That girl died a long time ago. Don't use that name!" I chuckled softly again.
“Oh, calm down. I’m just teasing.” I insisted. I heard her grumbling and cursing me out, only forcing me to giggle. “Think they’ll actually look at that tape?”I tilted my head a bit to the side, trying to look down the hallway to no avail.
"It won't get looked at till the DA gets off their ass and checks it out while building their case." As quickly as she got angry it left. I nodded a bit, sighing slightly. Before I could continue, a guard came along and slapped his nightstick against my hands, forcing me to recoil and glare at him. He ordered us to be quiet and informed us that around here, it was lights out. I sank back into the bed, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him before he walked away.
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