Post by Rob on Aug 17, 2011 16:48:01 GMT -6
(Not Televised)
After spending an evening revisiting the indy circuit, albeit as a spectator, Jericho Cross makes his way to the backstage area, doing the "grab the thumb" handshake with his brother, Joe and friend, Dave, known as Devil Dog. Joe is nursing a bruise to the cheek, while Dave is holding a towel to his face.
Jericho: Some night tonight. You alright, Davie?
Dave, who's nose has only recently stopped bleeding heavily after a punch to the face from a 6'10", 365lb clown, nods and gives a thumbs up while tossing what was once a completely white towel aside.
Dave: Aye, fine, mate. Think that's my donation for the whole year. Phone up the NHS and see if they want the towel, no charge.
Joe: Your own fault for challenging him to punch you like that, dumbass.
Jericho: Yeah, what was that about? A good idea would be NOT to let someone over three-fifty hit you. Ya twat.
Dave gives them both an incredulous look, gesturing towards the curtain, separating them from the ringside area.
Dave: I fucking won, didn't I?
Jericho: Barely, aye.
Dave: What the fuck d'you mean "barely"?
Joe: He has a point, you did only just make that three count. Still, can't believe you could see after that shot, your nose exploded all over the ring!
Dave: True. But at least I won mine.
Joe: There was outside interference!
Jericho: The five-foot-four manager?
Joe immediately jumps on the defensive, eager-perhaps too eager-to justify his loss.
Joe: She kicked me in the balls!
Dave: Aye, but she's five-foot-four.
Joe: She had those pointed-toed shoes! You ever been kicked in the nuts by those? It fuckin' hurt like hell! Still hurts, actually.
Jericho and Dave laugh at his misfortune, though their laughter is short-lived after seeing the big man adjust himself without any show of discretion, turning away in disgust.
Jericho: Ugh! For fuck's sake, Joe!
Joe: What? I told you, it hurt.
Dave: That's fuckin' rank! Keep them to yourself.
Joe: Alright, shut up! Come on, let's head to the locker room.
Dave: What, so you can get them out? Fuck off!
Joe smirks and responds with a slap across the top of the head.
Jericho: It's like Three Stooges live... hurry up, I want something to eat.
The three head off towards their dressing room, passing by the various crew and other wrestlers on the current roster, few of whom pay them any notice. Those who do, don't react however, letting them pass without incident. As they get to the door and unlock it, Jericho hesitates.
Jericho: You go ahead, I'll stay out here 'til you're done.
Joe: What's up?
Jericho: Nothing, I might go and see what there is to eat here. I'll be back in a bit,
Joe heads into the room, leaving Jericho in the hall. As he wanders around, trying to find some form of sustenance, he's suddenly sent stumbling forward quite violently with a shove. His instincts kicking in, he turns around, ready to fight, even as the sight greeting him brings but two words to the very front of his mind. Those words being "oh, fuck".
Jericho: You two. What the fuck do you want?
Standing before him are two people who tower over him, each around the 7' mark and much broader than he is. One wears a mask covering his whole head, the only feature visible being his eyes, cold, scrutinising and, for lack of a better term, evil. He wears a floor-length brown duster, orange/sandy brown camo trousers, a brown shirt and studded gloves.
His friend looks much more 'normal', wearing no mask, opting for minimal face paint, bare chest, showing a tattoo, wrist and bicep tape, black biker shorts and boots. His long, black hair flows behind him as he eyeballs the smaller Jericho.
??:Well, well, little Raze back among us. Again. You're like a particularly annoying housefly; you swat it away and much later, when you think it's gone, it appears yet again. Why do you persist in coming backstage at these shows?
Jericho: Fuck off, Tyrant. You know why I'm here.
Tyrant: You are not welcome here. You were barely tolerable when you were on this roster. I heard you have left the wrestling world behind. Did it finally dawn on you that you could never survive in it?
Jericho: I wouldn't expect you to understand, since it has nothing to do with sneering at anything smaller than you. Nor does it involve intense degrees of acting like a pretentious fuck.
The unmasked one laughs, a wide grin forming across his lips. As his short laugh dies down, he strokes his beard.
Tyrant: I see you've lost none of your charm. I forgot how the great Raze was akin to a modern day Oscar Wilde. Oh, what witticisms will you come up with next, I wonder.
Jericho: And I see you haven't quite mastered sarcasm. How the fuck did you survive in the Western Hemisphere talking like a fucking fairy?
The massive, olive-skinned man raises an eyebrow at the retort, scanning his old rival with a disapproving gaze.
Tyrant: That attitude of yours... no wonder you had such difficulty in finding success. Perhaps you need a lesson in how to speak with your betters. Torment, would you like to have some fun?
The masked goliath says nothing, merely laughing, which is barely audible; a breathy, whispering, almost hissing laugh.
Jericho: I've never been scared of either one of you, what makes you think that's changed?
Tyrant: Simple. You've become weak.
Jericho changes his stance to prepare for a fight, but before he can move even a step, Tyrant's right foot catches him square in the jaw, knocking him onto his back. Jericho groans, the hit causing a flash as the blow connects. To him, it felt like being kicked by a horse... that was attached to a train. As he begins to get off the floor, the large Israeli 'helps' him, violently pulling him up by the front of his jacket and into the air before he even got to his feet. Jericho then finds himself being propelled backwards as he is thrown through a set of double doors.
Landing hard again, Cross arches his back as the pain courses through it. His attacker seems to be as strong as ever. Once again, the bigger man is on him fast, throwing a foot down onto the chest of his downed victim, forcing the air from his lungs. As Tyrant backs off, smiling, his friend walks over and grabs Jericho around the throat, pulling him onto the floor and then off of his feet one-handed. Scrambling for some kind of reaction, Jericho kicks him in the sternum. This backfires horrendously as the man turns and puts him straight through a locked door, which appears to be for a utility closet. Jericho crashes violently into some shelves, causing their contents to spill over onto him. The masked man then joins his friend as they watch Jericho's agonised expression and his attempts to block out the pain.
Tyrant: What is this? You don't even try to get up? You are pathetic! You used to be so resilient, it took nothing less than Herculenean effort to keep you down. Now, after a couple of hits, you're barely conscious? Pitiful.
As Jericho turns onto his front and props himself up, he mutters something barely audible. As he crawls forward, towards the back of the closet, he knocks over a broom, pulling the head off of it and tossing it aside.
Tyrant: I'm sorry, what was that?
As the giant walks towards the ruined door, he is suddenly sent staggering back as the end of a broom handle is thrust into his neck, hitting the windpipe. As he chokes, Jericho emerges, still in a lot of pain.
Jericho: I said "you're fucking gullible"!
Seeing that there may be a challenge after all, the masked man saunters towards him, preparing to strike when he takes a similar hit straight to his right eye. Though the force was enough to send him reeling, the man doesn't utter a sound, silently hunching over as he puts a hand over the injured eye.
Jericho: Okay, I have an equaliser, let's have it then.
The one called Tyrant, now able to breathe and speak again, glares at Jericho with a mix of hatred and relish.
Tyrant: You think this is fighting? We have simply been toying with you.
Jericho: I know that. But now that you've started this, let's fucking go.
Tyrant steps forward and is about to be hit again, but to Jericho's surprise, Tyrant catches the weapon, using it to pull Jericho closer to him, allowing him to bring down a right hand on the back of Jericho's head, knocking him off-balance... right into the masked man's boot aimed at the head. Down once more, Cross decides to act with a little more haste, rolling out of the way of an attempted follow-up and back to his feet. As the masked man swings a backhand punch, Jericho ducks it and hits a pushing kick to the side of the knee, bringing him down, though again, no sound comes from him. Tyrant misses with a left hook and goes for a right, only to be caught with a judo throw.
Cross sees himself at an advantage and punches the rising Torment in the face, forgetting that the thick leather mask is akin to armour, protecting his head from most blows. In retaliation, he hits Jericho in the bridge of the nose, driving him back a step. Before he knows it, the man once known as Raze finds himself grabbed by the throat by both men and hoisted into the air. They then take a few steps and launch him backwards through a pile of wooden crates, breaking several of them.
As they wait for him to come out, Joe and Dave rush to his aid with a clawhammer in Dave's hand and a scaffold pole in Joe's. Not expecting this attack, the two giants find themselves in a bind, taking hit after hit to the head. Even the mask doesn't completely protect the silent one from the blows of the hammer, forcing them both to back away quickly.
Dave stands between them and his fallen friend, brandishing the hammer while Joe digs him out of the broken wooden crates. By the time Jericho is helped to his feet, both attackers have left. Leading him away from the blitzed wood, they sit him on a large box. Joe kneels next to him, trying for eye contact.
Joe: Jay! You alright? Look at me.
Jericho slowly turns his head to face his brother, looking hungover.
Jericho: I'm fine.
Joe: Well, you look like shit.
Jericho: Thanks. I feel like it. But besides that, I'm fine.
Joe: Well, that's something at least. What the fuck happened this time?
Jericho: Same as last time. Mr. Superiority Complex decided to remind me why I'm infidel scum.
Dave: Infidel? He's Israeli, ya daft cunt.
Jericho: Oh yeah. I keep forgetting. Who cares anyway, he's a prick.
Joe: You wanna try walking right now or do you wanna take another minute?
With a grunt, Jericho gets himself to his feet.
Joe: Well, that settles that, huh?
David tosses the hammer aside, landing with a loud clang on the floor. After giving Jericho a moment to put the incredible pain in his back to the back of his mind, the three begin to make their leave. As Jericho glances back at the scene of their short, but destructive encounter, he gets a look in his eye that anyone would find all too familiar.
After spending an evening revisiting the indy circuit, albeit as a spectator, Jericho Cross makes his way to the backstage area, doing the "grab the thumb" handshake with his brother, Joe and friend, Dave, known as Devil Dog. Joe is nursing a bruise to the cheek, while Dave is holding a towel to his face.
Jericho: Some night tonight. You alright, Davie?
Dave, who's nose has only recently stopped bleeding heavily after a punch to the face from a 6'10", 365lb clown, nods and gives a thumbs up while tossing what was once a completely white towel aside.
Dave: Aye, fine, mate. Think that's my donation for the whole year. Phone up the NHS and see if they want the towel, no charge.
Joe: Your own fault for challenging him to punch you like that, dumbass.
Jericho: Yeah, what was that about? A good idea would be NOT to let someone over three-fifty hit you. Ya twat.
Dave gives them both an incredulous look, gesturing towards the curtain, separating them from the ringside area.
Dave: I fucking won, didn't I?
Jericho: Barely, aye.
Dave: What the fuck d'you mean "barely"?
Joe: He has a point, you did only just make that three count. Still, can't believe you could see after that shot, your nose exploded all over the ring!
Dave: True. But at least I won mine.
Joe: There was outside interference!
Jericho: The five-foot-four manager?
Joe immediately jumps on the defensive, eager-perhaps too eager-to justify his loss.
Joe: She kicked me in the balls!
Dave: Aye, but she's five-foot-four.
Joe: She had those pointed-toed shoes! You ever been kicked in the nuts by those? It fuckin' hurt like hell! Still hurts, actually.
Jericho and Dave laugh at his misfortune, though their laughter is short-lived after seeing the big man adjust himself without any show of discretion, turning away in disgust.
Jericho: Ugh! For fuck's sake, Joe!
Joe: What? I told you, it hurt.
Dave: That's fuckin' rank! Keep them to yourself.
Joe: Alright, shut up! Come on, let's head to the locker room.
Dave: What, so you can get them out? Fuck off!
Joe smirks and responds with a slap across the top of the head.
Jericho: It's like Three Stooges live... hurry up, I want something to eat.
The three head off towards their dressing room, passing by the various crew and other wrestlers on the current roster, few of whom pay them any notice. Those who do, don't react however, letting them pass without incident. As they get to the door and unlock it, Jericho hesitates.
Jericho: You go ahead, I'll stay out here 'til you're done.
Joe: What's up?
Jericho: Nothing, I might go and see what there is to eat here. I'll be back in a bit,
Joe heads into the room, leaving Jericho in the hall. As he wanders around, trying to find some form of sustenance, he's suddenly sent stumbling forward quite violently with a shove. His instincts kicking in, he turns around, ready to fight, even as the sight greeting him brings but two words to the very front of his mind. Those words being "oh, fuck".
Jericho: You two. What the fuck do you want?
Standing before him are two people who tower over him, each around the 7' mark and much broader than he is. One wears a mask covering his whole head, the only feature visible being his eyes, cold, scrutinising and, for lack of a better term, evil. He wears a floor-length brown duster, orange/sandy brown camo trousers, a brown shirt and studded gloves.
His friend looks much more 'normal', wearing no mask, opting for minimal face paint, bare chest, showing a tattoo, wrist and bicep tape, black biker shorts and boots. His long, black hair flows behind him as he eyeballs the smaller Jericho.
??:Well, well, little Raze back among us. Again. You're like a particularly annoying housefly; you swat it away and much later, when you think it's gone, it appears yet again. Why do you persist in coming backstage at these shows?
Jericho: Fuck off, Tyrant. You know why I'm here.
Tyrant: You are not welcome here. You were barely tolerable when you were on this roster. I heard you have left the wrestling world behind. Did it finally dawn on you that you could never survive in it?
Jericho: I wouldn't expect you to understand, since it has nothing to do with sneering at anything smaller than you. Nor does it involve intense degrees of acting like a pretentious fuck.
The unmasked one laughs, a wide grin forming across his lips. As his short laugh dies down, he strokes his beard.
Tyrant: I see you've lost none of your charm. I forgot how the great Raze was akin to a modern day Oscar Wilde. Oh, what witticisms will you come up with next, I wonder.
Jericho: And I see you haven't quite mastered sarcasm. How the fuck did you survive in the Western Hemisphere talking like a fucking fairy?
The massive, olive-skinned man raises an eyebrow at the retort, scanning his old rival with a disapproving gaze.
Tyrant: That attitude of yours... no wonder you had such difficulty in finding success. Perhaps you need a lesson in how to speak with your betters. Torment, would you like to have some fun?
The masked goliath says nothing, merely laughing, which is barely audible; a breathy, whispering, almost hissing laugh.
Jericho: I've never been scared of either one of you, what makes you think that's changed?
Tyrant: Simple. You've become weak.
Jericho changes his stance to prepare for a fight, but before he can move even a step, Tyrant's right foot catches him square in the jaw, knocking him onto his back. Jericho groans, the hit causing a flash as the blow connects. To him, it felt like being kicked by a horse... that was attached to a train. As he begins to get off the floor, the large Israeli 'helps' him, violently pulling him up by the front of his jacket and into the air before he even got to his feet. Jericho then finds himself being propelled backwards as he is thrown through a set of double doors.
Landing hard again, Cross arches his back as the pain courses through it. His attacker seems to be as strong as ever. Once again, the bigger man is on him fast, throwing a foot down onto the chest of his downed victim, forcing the air from his lungs. As Tyrant backs off, smiling, his friend walks over and grabs Jericho around the throat, pulling him onto the floor and then off of his feet one-handed. Scrambling for some kind of reaction, Jericho kicks him in the sternum. This backfires horrendously as the man turns and puts him straight through a locked door, which appears to be for a utility closet. Jericho crashes violently into some shelves, causing their contents to spill over onto him. The masked man then joins his friend as they watch Jericho's agonised expression and his attempts to block out the pain.
Tyrant: What is this? You don't even try to get up? You are pathetic! You used to be so resilient, it took nothing less than Herculenean effort to keep you down. Now, after a couple of hits, you're barely conscious? Pitiful.
As Jericho turns onto his front and props himself up, he mutters something barely audible. As he crawls forward, towards the back of the closet, he knocks over a broom, pulling the head off of it and tossing it aside.
Tyrant: I'm sorry, what was that?
As the giant walks towards the ruined door, he is suddenly sent staggering back as the end of a broom handle is thrust into his neck, hitting the windpipe. As he chokes, Jericho emerges, still in a lot of pain.
Jericho: I said "you're fucking gullible"!
Seeing that there may be a challenge after all, the masked man saunters towards him, preparing to strike when he takes a similar hit straight to his right eye. Though the force was enough to send him reeling, the man doesn't utter a sound, silently hunching over as he puts a hand over the injured eye.
Jericho: Okay, I have an equaliser, let's have it then.
The one called Tyrant, now able to breathe and speak again, glares at Jericho with a mix of hatred and relish.
Tyrant: You think this is fighting? We have simply been toying with you.
Jericho: I know that. But now that you've started this, let's fucking go.
Tyrant steps forward and is about to be hit again, but to Jericho's surprise, Tyrant catches the weapon, using it to pull Jericho closer to him, allowing him to bring down a right hand on the back of Jericho's head, knocking him off-balance... right into the masked man's boot aimed at the head. Down once more, Cross decides to act with a little more haste, rolling out of the way of an attempted follow-up and back to his feet. As the masked man swings a backhand punch, Jericho ducks it and hits a pushing kick to the side of the knee, bringing him down, though again, no sound comes from him. Tyrant misses with a left hook and goes for a right, only to be caught with a judo throw.
Cross sees himself at an advantage and punches the rising Torment in the face, forgetting that the thick leather mask is akin to armour, protecting his head from most blows. In retaliation, he hits Jericho in the bridge of the nose, driving him back a step. Before he knows it, the man once known as Raze finds himself grabbed by the throat by both men and hoisted into the air. They then take a few steps and launch him backwards through a pile of wooden crates, breaking several of them.
As they wait for him to come out, Joe and Dave rush to his aid with a clawhammer in Dave's hand and a scaffold pole in Joe's. Not expecting this attack, the two giants find themselves in a bind, taking hit after hit to the head. Even the mask doesn't completely protect the silent one from the blows of the hammer, forcing them both to back away quickly.
Dave stands between them and his fallen friend, brandishing the hammer while Joe digs him out of the broken wooden crates. By the time Jericho is helped to his feet, both attackers have left. Leading him away from the blitzed wood, they sit him on a large box. Joe kneels next to him, trying for eye contact.
Joe: Jay! You alright? Look at me.
Jericho slowly turns his head to face his brother, looking hungover.
Jericho: I'm fine.
Joe: Well, you look like shit.
Jericho: Thanks. I feel like it. But besides that, I'm fine.
Joe: Well, that's something at least. What the fuck happened this time?
Jericho: Same as last time. Mr. Superiority Complex decided to remind me why I'm infidel scum.
Dave: Infidel? He's Israeli, ya daft cunt.
Jericho: Oh yeah. I keep forgetting. Who cares anyway, he's a prick.
Joe: You wanna try walking right now or do you wanna take another minute?
With a grunt, Jericho gets himself to his feet.
Joe: Well, that settles that, huh?
David tosses the hammer aside, landing with a loud clang on the floor. After giving Jericho a moment to put the incredible pain in his back to the back of his mind, the three begin to make their leave. As Jericho glances back at the scene of their short, but destructive encounter, he gets a look in his eye that anyone would find all too familiar.
