Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
Welcome to Full Intensity Wrestling. We hope you enjoy your visit.


You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free.


Join our community!


If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features:

Username:   Password:
Add Reply
Coming clean...
Topic Started: Feb 12 2005, 06:46 AM (58 Views)
Samoan
Unregistered

[align=center]...drip...

...drip...

...drip...
[/align]

The audio is joined shortly after by the video. A dim crimson glow lights our way. Something familiar fills our sight and it isn't your average everyday hallways. This room, so famous... correction, infamous... for it's pain and torment. Only the most disturbed, depraved, and sadistic have dwelled in this little room of horrors.

[align=center]...drip...

...drip...

...drip...
[/align]

The drips ring louder in our ears. Deeper we delve into the confines of a madman. A psychopath who's only joy comes from the hurt he causes others. A freak who's face shares the hue of that life-giving liquid he so loves to see flow.

Swytch: Clean, clean, I've got to come clean...

The whispered words tickle our ear drums, teasing us like a perverse form of foreplay.

Swytch: Clean, clean...

[align=center]...drip...

...drip...

...drip...
[/align]

Through the dim, crimson glow we can see him, the one labeled a freak and a weirdo. At painfully slow rate, we ease over his shoulder and look down to find what it is he's cleaning. Standing at a stainless steel sink, a slow drip leaking from the faucet, Swytch frantically rubbing his hands. Scrubbing away at himself with a cleaning pad, scrubbing so hard he's rubbed parts of his forearms and hands raw. His tannish complexion giving way to little ruby pearls that cling tightly to his skin.

Swytch: This is your fault. You've done this to me, your fault...

Again, with painful precision we move, scanning the room for another occupant. Despite the darkness and the insufficient light, it's clear there's nobody else there but Swytch and his mind... or what's left of it.

Swytch: Your fault, your fault, make it stop, take it away...

Without warning, Swytch jerks to the side and sends something across the room. A red irridescence glints off the object as it sails through the air. The object clatters off the wall taking nickel-sized hunks of concrete out of the structure before landing with a thwop in a bucket of some kind of "goo". The "goo" splatters up the wall, creating a chaotic spray pattern much like that of blood and grey matter expelled from the back of someone's head.

Swytch: Maaaaaaadison...

Giggling, child-like laughter slowly rises from Swytch's diaphragm. We whip around to find the maniac's back still turned to us, his shoulders heaving with every giggle that escapes him.

Swytch: Have we learned nothing? You're poor attempt to sate my thirst for the Dual Crown only succeeds in angering me. Your... Ultimate Endurance Championship... is a joke. Nothing more than dressed up SHIT made to keep the truly worthy away from what they deserve.

THWANK!!

Swytch's fists SLAM down on the rim of the sink. The impact's vibrations still rattle through the cold steel as Swytch wraps his fingers around the edge of the sink. His knuckles whiten as his grip tightens. His head hangs low on his shoulder and his back rises with each angered breath he takes.

Swytch: What I deserve, MADison. What you so willingly give to ungrateful little NOTHINGS like Bradley Johnson. What you gave repeatedly to the most egotistical force ever to grace FIW, Fozzy McQueen. What you've given to talentless, whining, little WHORES like Jim O'Brien. What next, MADison? Who's next in line for what's mine? Is it Vinj? I wouldn't be surprised. I wouldn't be surprised if he was sitting behind your desk at this very MOMENT, putting himself in the main event while I'm still BURIED in matches with unproven TRASH!

Slowly rising until fully vertically, Swytch turns around to face us. Anger burning in his red orbs, teeth gritted and bared, his neck muscles ready to pop at any second.

Swytch: Are you scared? Scared of what I'll do to your "top talent"? No, that can't be it. If that were true, you wouldn't dare put FIW's crown jewel in that ring with me. Noooo, or would you? Maybe jealousy has taken you, MADison. Jealous of the friendship Kennedy has formed with your former lover. Are you that petty... yes, yes you are. Petty and PATHETIC.

Those haunting red eyes set in Swytch's skull float across the room. They settle on the wet spray covering the wall. His angry disposition fades leaving his face a blank, red canvas. With excruciating effort, he lifts his foot enough to shuffle it across the floor. Swytch follows this movement, shuffling his other foot behind. He walks across the room, stopping in front of the object he had thrown earlier. He stands over it, looking down at the object with contempt in his eyes. Slowly he reaches down, pulling the object into the air, freeing it from the bucket of mysterious liquid.

Swytch: Pathetic to think THIS would solve your problem.

Half in the shadows, half in the light, the metallic surface shimmering in the red glow before. The Ultimate Endurance Championship dangles from Swytch's clenched fist, twisting this way and that as he looks upon it with utter distaste.

[align=center]...drip...

...drip...

...drip...
[/align]

The thick liquid drips off the face of the plate. Swytch touches his fingertip to it, pulling away slightly letting the liquid bridge from his finger to the belt. He runs his hand over the surface of the belt, smearing the liquid all across it.

Swytch: Blood. Thick and cold. Dead for some time now. Dead, like me. Dead, like you MADison. Void of anything meaningful anymore, like this, this mockery.

A grin parts Swytch's lips, his white teeth contrasting with his red face. The grin fades as quickly as it appeared and in a torrent of rage Swytch swings the belt against the wall. The metal clanks off the concrete, sending a fluff of grit into the air and more debris falling to the ground. Swytch pulls the belt back and again slaps it across the wall, releasing it on impact. The belt falls to the ground, concrete dust littering it's surface as Swytch looks down at it.

Swytch: What sick, ridiculous puppets we are and what gross little stage we dance on. What fun we have dancing and fucking. Not a care in the world. Not knowing that we are nothing. We are not what was intended.

Swytch raises his head, his red eyes boring a hole into the camera. Again his face takes on that blank look it had once before.

Swytch: The witch and the princess, the Death Angel and me... I just want to play. Won't you play? Come out... and play.

His final words swim in our ears as that mischevious grin begins to dance along his lips only to drown in the fade to black.
Quote Post Goto Top
 
« Previous Topic · TNT Roleplays · Next Topic »
Add Reply

Black Water created by tiptopolive of the Zetaboards Theme Zone