Post by Deleted on Jan 23, 2019 23:41:41 GMT -5
Epilogue - 01 This story starts where it’s all going to end. This might be confusing, but it will begin to make sense as we proceed. By the time the story winds back around and catches up with this ending, there will be no mysteries left. This is the only thing I can promise you. For me, when we reach this ending, it will bring with it a certain feeling of calm. I will have finally achieved what I’ve sought after for my entire life. Death. It sounds dark, but I assure you that I’m not one of these edgelords who only thinks it is cool to talk about death. I mean, literally. I’m pretty sure death is the only thing I have left to accomplish in this life. Since birth, death has been my goal. The same can be said for all of us, whether we’re willing to admit it or not. If you’re thinking that we are somehow different in our quest for death, you’re wrong. The quest for death is the only thing you and I have in common. The only thing. For my peers, the professional wrestlers in the room, don’t delude yourselves into thinking that death isn’t on your schedule. You can’t keep death at bay with a promo. You can’t troll death on social media. You can’t roll up death and pull tights for an easy win. Think about that the next time you wet your lips before cutting another promo. Past accomplishments are rendered meaningless as soon as they’ve been accomplished, no matter how many times you bring them up. They are no longer accomplishments, they’re just stories. Stories you’re waiting, right now, for a prompt to tell. Unavoidably, the day will come when you are careening towards your death like a head on collision with a Mack truck and when you look into your rear view mirror, you will see all of those accomplishments cast off into the ditch. In this situation, I’m only here to talk about what happens next, not to rehash the stories of what has already been. Furthermore, I’m certainly not here to prompt you. Like I said, this story starts at the end. Do not worry though, we will have plenty of time to spend together before I go for that all encompassing dirt-nap. Think fourth dimensionally. What I am about to tell you about, technically has not even happened yet. Now ask yourself if I am a reliable narrator, Jump to the scene of my death… I’ve been blindfolded for the last three hours. Wherever I am, I can smell a musty mix of black mold and sawdust. Just off to my left is a light bulb illuminating the weave of the burlap blindfold. I’m kneading my toes against a damp concrete floor and I gave up fighting against the nylon cable ties holding my hands in place-the kind with the metal barb. I’m stripped down to my bra and panties and I really need to pee. Somewhere off to my right is a steady dripping. The drip drip drip keeps telling me to pee. Tells me it’s ok to piss myself here, wherever here is. Imagine that, Lorean Moore, professional wrestling’s Queen Bee, found dead, lashed to a chair in a puddle of her own piss. Come to think of it, there are worse headlines. I’ll keep holding this deluge of pee in, regardless of what that drip drip drip tells me. Now I’m hearing ‘Nights in White Satin” by Moody Blues. I’m not sure if it’s in my head or if it’s actually playing, but I’m sure it doesn’t really matter. When I was a wrestler, I came out to entrance music. Perhaps this is my murderer’s entrance music? I can only hope so. It’s been three hours. There’s a statement, “my murderer”. Makes me feel important-knowing that there’s someone out there willing to throw their whole life away for little ole me? Some kind of form of love, if you ask me. Until the music began playing I could hear everything. Now, I can only hear the music. The drip is gone. No drip drip drip. There’s no creaking now either. I expected I could at least hear footsteps before it all happened. Nevermind that - something just stepped in front of the bulb. “And I love you.” The voice I recognize and it’s as amazing as it is crushing. Not crushing in a way that scares me. Crushing in a let down kind of way. I wanted my death to have a bit more meaning. That kind of death that captures the imagination of the masses. Marilyn Monroe, Heath Ledger, Elvis Presley. I wanted the tabloids to claim I was still alive years after I had long rotted away. Fuck. Maybe I was shooting too high. Robin Williams at least? But for that, I would have needed a rope and a sad clown face. “Yes, I love you.” Have you ever had a best friend and confidant that you both love and hate? That’s who this is. I loved her at times, but planned on ruining her life all along, which I managed to pull off. That’s why I’m sitting here. Fuck, why her? Where is my goddamn Mark David Chapman? That would make me John Lennon. Anyone but this...murderer. My murderer. Doesn’t have the same ring anymore, She doesn’t have anyone to impress. Well, other than me. This though, will be a bullshit death. There will be no great trial, no new laws named in my honor. Though, if she had to try on the gloves, I have no doubt that her hands would be far too big to fit. Have to acquit. Instead, it will be a crime of passion, or something like that, with this former friend, or perhaps still friend, pleading insanity. Yeah, pleading insanity, getting a lenient sentence and finding a pen-pal lover for conjugal visits. Maybe even a Netflix special. Cake walk. This is how I would be remembered. That dumb bitch who couldn’t quite make it as a professional wrestler, but made for a great murder victim. I guess, when I think about it, at least I wouldn’t be one of those wrestlers who killed their family, killed themselves, or just died because they juiced so much that they exploded their heart. Nights in White Satin on a loop. Drip drip drip in between. I feel two hands, impossibly big hands, with stiletto fingernails - they pull my knees apart. “Oh, how I love you.” Now would be the right time to pee, as I’m assuming the first thing to go will be my precious and everlasting virginity. I feel cold scissors against my pelvis, but for now, they’re just there to cut my panties away. For now. Did you know that only three percent of women marry the person who deflowers them? Is it shame? Was the sex that bad? Well, I guess it would have to be bad, you’re losing your virginity. There’s blood involved. Grit teeth. No, it’s more because the girl is far too young and dumb to commit to a longer relationship. Oh, now she’s cut off the bra. Here I am, hopelessly naked, blindfolded, holding in a river of pee, and I’m already growing tired of the Moody Blues. Finally, the blindfold is pulled away and I see her. She’s wearing my Valentino silk twill dress. I cringe. I’m a size two and she, well, she’s at least three times that. That Valentino silk twill dress will fit me like a garbage bag if I ever get a chance to wear it again. Poor thing. Her tits push against the fabric like two rounds fired from 18” naval cannons. Her cockeyed nipples, already hard, jut in awkward directions. It’s like you’re looking at someone with a lazy eye-you find yourself trying to decide which eye can actually see you. Without a word, she walks behind me, and pulls my head backwards and cinches it down in with a ratchet strap? Something like that-the pressure of the band as it tightens down lets me know that I’ll soon have a headache. A headache will pair nicely with my need to pee, the annoying Moody Blues, and the drip drip drip right before the song begins again. Now she’s pulling my mouth open - she’s become a dentist. First she wedges those rubber mouth props on either side of my mouth, molars deep. Now she’s using a mouth and cheek retractor to keep my lips open. My imagination runs wild. Is it sexual? Is it violent? How long has it been since my last cleaning? Maybe she’s doing me a favor? All I can see now is the ceiling of this unfinished basement. It’s an assortment of two by sixes, water stains, and what might just be blood stains seeped down through the flooring above. Wine? The Moody Blues is turned down. Now I hear the drip drip drip and her breathing. She has a deviated septum and for fear of ruining her perfect nose, she’s never had it looked at. The result is a woman with sinuses blocked off so severely that she has to breathe through her mouth or settle for the constant whistling noise which accompanies any inhale or exhale. She leans over me and it’s a pretty sad picture. Her face is framed by dark roots which desperately need attention, her foundation is so liberally applied-poor dear. She looks like a heavily frosted cake if it had glazed over psychotic eyes. She smiles-another sight-her lips are a bright red life saver of lipstick which stretches far beyond the natural edges of her lips. Now she’s showing me a large flat head screwdriver and a hammer. Her voice is throaty and authoritative when she’s not singing, “Now we begin! Call this my beautification intervention! It will hurt a little bit, but just imagine it’s catharsis.” I gurgle a little bit; can’t say much without sounding like a bad ventriloquist. Why bother. There’s nothing I could say to stop this, even if I wanted to. Besides, a conversation would prompt a crazed monologue from this woman and nobody wants that. She disappears from view and immediately I feel the blade of the flathead screwdriver dig into the gum right above my two front teeth. She works the blade up and down a few times and I both feel and hear the enamel scraped away. Finally, the blade slides up, ripping my gumline away from my teeth. “Ready?” I see her impossibly big and veiny hand raise the hammer up and then drive it back downwards quickly, right into my teeth. Ok, so I’ve seen videos of children using strings and door knobs to remove their teeth. I’ve also seen videos of people pulling teeth because they can’t afford dental care. But, I’m fairly certain that in all of those situations, the teeth were loose to begin with. The first strike of the hammer is a white hot flash of pain, doesn’t quite do it. I feel my teeth turn in, but it takes another, more forceful strike with the hammer to completely push the teeth free from the roots. They fall right into the back of my throat and in the midst of the pain, I’m left with a few choices: I could gag on them, vomit, then drown in my own vomit to become Jimi Hendrix. I could choke on them until I’m blue in the face and die, like Mama Cass died in the urban legend. Or, I could just swallow the teeth and see what happens. My mouth is so dry, but the blood helps wash them down. She leans over me, inspecting her work with a wide lipsticky smile, “Oh honey, you’re going to love the way you look.” To be continued. |
OOC Note: Please don't reference this in promos against this character. Now that you have read it, I'm sure you understand why. Thank you