Post by Vladimir Strife on Jul 24, 2013 17:55:48 GMT -4
Sitting inside his office, Vladimir Strife looks down over the stack of paperwork before him. He shakes his head and puts pen to the paper, a pair of reading glasses resting upon his nose to clarify the text upon it. In the midst of his work, his office door opens, a young, scrawny man stepping in slowly and speaking up.
"Mr. Strife.."
The Romanian takes off his visual aid and sets it on top of the papers, looking up to the boy with an exhausted look upon his face. He looks over the youngster and his hands, seemingly searching for something.
"If you tell me that you forgot my food back at the restaurant, I will rip out your esophagus and present it to your grieving mother at your very funeral.."
The man looks about uneasily before speaking up once more.
"Uhmm.. I work here, Mr. Strife..."
Vlad looks a bit vexed, glaring him over once more.
"I'm an assistant, sir.. I came to tell you that you're on the program for tonight."
Strife sighs once more and looks back to the paperwork, putting on his glasses once again.
"Closing the night again?"
"Yes, sir. You have a no disqualification match with Big Jim-"
"More fresh blood.. Wonderful. I'll be there."
"Uhmm.. and Jaggeroth.."
Vladimir looks up, again seeming confused.
"Hmm.. That's actually not bad... should be fun."
"...And Rhaps."
A look of surprise washes his features. Vladimir wasn't afraid of Rhaps, but it was a man who had undoubtedly taken the GodKing to his very limits before.
"...I see..."
Any of the three names the youth had listed would be challenge enough to send men into a cold sweat. Vladimir was not quite so easily shaken, but an odd sensation comes over him none the less. The faint reminder of a feeling long lost to him - vulnerability. It had been some time since he had truly felt the chill in his spine of a challenge he might not be capable of, yet there it was. Vlad snaps out of his daze after a moment and speaks up.
"Anyone or anything else?"
"Yes, sir... It's a title match."
"God, I'm out of touch... which one holds what?"
"Big Jim is the current holder of the King Of The Deathmatch."
Strife squints his eyes and shakes his head in disbelief.
"...the what?"
"The King Of The Deathmatch title, Mr. Strife."
Vlad stares off into space, deep in thought. The youngster waits a moment and then goes to excuse himself before the Titan stops him.
"How old are you?"
The man stops and steps back, giving his employer an odd look.
"Uh.. 21, why sir?"
"Do you know how to drive?"
"...Yes.."
Vlad digs through his pockets a moment, pulling things out and setting them on his desk.
"You know that nice little faggy place up the street? The one with the valet parking, where the lot is always full of tiny cock compensators?"
"Frenchie's Fine Wines and Dines?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
The Behemoth comes around the desk and puts a key in the youngster's hand.
"That goes to my car. It's a jade green Mazda Protege. I have my own spot in the lot, you can't miss it. Got it?"
"Sir.. I'm very confused.."
"Stick with me here, kid. That key is to the car. Remember that.. has a little 'M' for Mazda on it. This one.."
Vladimir holds up a key with a cylindrical black fob, a silver disc at the end having an inscription too small for him to read from where he is at.
"This key goes to a Wine Locker in there. Inside of that locker is a single bottle of beer. You are to go there, get the bottle, and bring it back here."
"Excuse me?"
"What aren't you understanding?"
"You have a wine locker... for a bottle of beer?"
"...That bottle of beer is a barrel aged, Brandy with vanilla bean, 2011 Dark Lord Imperial Stout. It is one of 433 ever made. It is, in all likelihood, the very last one remaining. And I've been waiting for a long time now for something worthy of celebrating enough to break the seal on it."
The Czar of Scars reaches into his desk and pulls out a small, silver handgun.
"You are to protect that bottle with your life. If anything happens to it... You lose it, forget it, drop it, get robbed, I don't care... I will end you. Take this gun, I want no excuses. You get the bottle, you bring it back, put it in this fridge under my desk and you wait here until I return from my match later on."
"Isn't this a little... paranoid?"
"No.. you see.. I'm going to go out there tonight and barring no fuck ups and a little luck, I am going to come back here an eleven time champion with the title I held longer than anyone else probably ever held a fucking title around here. This is that scene in the movie where true love conquers all and everyone applauds and sheds a little tear. And if I get back from that and I don't have that beer to celebrate what I am hoping to be my biggest victory in years.. then there's no celebration.. no applause. True love pulls through and nobody claps, nobody gives a fuck. You don't want to do that to me, do you?"
"Wow... does that title really mean that much to you?"
"I gave that title a legacy... I made it famous... and it helped to make me famous. I fought my ass off night in and night out for that title. The streak was merely an afterthought. So, yes.. it does."
The boy starts to go, but stops one last time.
"Why are you trusting me with this? You don't even know me.."
"I don't trust you... I trust in instinct though. We are, at our most basic core, survivors. We will always look out for our survival and our well being first and foremost. I trust that you value your life enough that when I get back here, you will be sitting at my desk and my bottle will be sitting in my fridge. Now go."
The help takes off on his way to accomplish his assignment, leaving the Bambi Killer to his thoughts and deviant joy. He takes out a pack from his pocket and removes a cigarette, setting it between his lips and lighting it.
"An old nemesis, a recent rival, a new challenge, and the grandest prize I've known... this is going to be one hell of a night."
"Mr. Strife.."
The Romanian takes off his visual aid and sets it on top of the papers, looking up to the boy with an exhausted look upon his face. He looks over the youngster and his hands, seemingly searching for something.
"If you tell me that you forgot my food back at the restaurant, I will rip out your esophagus and present it to your grieving mother at your very funeral.."
The man looks about uneasily before speaking up once more.
"Uhmm.. I work here, Mr. Strife..."
Vlad looks a bit vexed, glaring him over once more.
"I'm an assistant, sir.. I came to tell you that you're on the program for tonight."
Strife sighs once more and looks back to the paperwork, putting on his glasses once again.
"Closing the night again?"
"Yes, sir. You have a no disqualification match with Big Jim-"
"More fresh blood.. Wonderful. I'll be there."
"Uhmm.. and Jaggeroth.."
Vladimir looks up, again seeming confused.
"Hmm.. That's actually not bad... should be fun."
"...And Rhaps."
A look of surprise washes his features. Vladimir wasn't afraid of Rhaps, but it was a man who had undoubtedly taken the GodKing to his very limits before.
"...I see..."
Any of the three names the youth had listed would be challenge enough to send men into a cold sweat. Vladimir was not quite so easily shaken, but an odd sensation comes over him none the less. The faint reminder of a feeling long lost to him - vulnerability. It had been some time since he had truly felt the chill in his spine of a challenge he might not be capable of, yet there it was. Vlad snaps out of his daze after a moment and speaks up.
"Anyone or anything else?"
"Yes, sir... It's a title match."
"God, I'm out of touch... which one holds what?"
"Big Jim is the current holder of the King Of The Deathmatch."
Strife squints his eyes and shakes his head in disbelief.
"...the what?"
"The King Of The Deathmatch title, Mr. Strife."
Vlad stares off into space, deep in thought. The youngster waits a moment and then goes to excuse himself before the Titan stops him.
"How old are you?"
The man stops and steps back, giving his employer an odd look.
"Uh.. 21, why sir?"
"Do you know how to drive?"
"...Yes.."
Vlad digs through his pockets a moment, pulling things out and setting them on his desk.
"You know that nice little faggy place up the street? The one with the valet parking, where the lot is always full of tiny cock compensators?"
"Frenchie's Fine Wines and Dines?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
The Behemoth comes around the desk and puts a key in the youngster's hand.
"That goes to my car. It's a jade green Mazda Protege. I have my own spot in the lot, you can't miss it. Got it?"
"Sir.. I'm very confused.."
"Stick with me here, kid. That key is to the car. Remember that.. has a little 'M' for Mazda on it. This one.."
Vladimir holds up a key with a cylindrical black fob, a silver disc at the end having an inscription too small for him to read from where he is at.
"This key goes to a Wine Locker in there. Inside of that locker is a single bottle of beer. You are to go there, get the bottle, and bring it back here."
"Excuse me?"
"What aren't you understanding?"
"You have a wine locker... for a bottle of beer?"
"...That bottle of beer is a barrel aged, Brandy with vanilla bean, 2011 Dark Lord Imperial Stout. It is one of 433 ever made. It is, in all likelihood, the very last one remaining. And I've been waiting for a long time now for something worthy of celebrating enough to break the seal on it."
The Czar of Scars reaches into his desk and pulls out a small, silver handgun.
"You are to protect that bottle with your life. If anything happens to it... You lose it, forget it, drop it, get robbed, I don't care... I will end you. Take this gun, I want no excuses. You get the bottle, you bring it back, put it in this fridge under my desk and you wait here until I return from my match later on."
"Isn't this a little... paranoid?"
"No.. you see.. I'm going to go out there tonight and barring no fuck ups and a little luck, I am going to come back here an eleven time champion with the title I held longer than anyone else probably ever held a fucking title around here. This is that scene in the movie where true love conquers all and everyone applauds and sheds a little tear. And if I get back from that and I don't have that beer to celebrate what I am hoping to be my biggest victory in years.. then there's no celebration.. no applause. True love pulls through and nobody claps, nobody gives a fuck. You don't want to do that to me, do you?"
"Wow... does that title really mean that much to you?"
"I gave that title a legacy... I made it famous... and it helped to make me famous. I fought my ass off night in and night out for that title. The streak was merely an afterthought. So, yes.. it does."
The boy starts to go, but stops one last time.
"Why are you trusting me with this? You don't even know me.."
"I don't trust you... I trust in instinct though. We are, at our most basic core, survivors. We will always look out for our survival and our well being first and foremost. I trust that you value your life enough that when I get back here, you will be sitting at my desk and my bottle will be sitting in my fridge. Now go."
The help takes off on his way to accomplish his assignment, leaving the Bambi Killer to his thoughts and deviant joy. He takes out a pack from his pocket and removes a cigarette, setting it between his lips and lighting it.
"An old nemesis, a recent rival, a new challenge, and the grandest prize I've known... this is going to be one hell of a night."
