4
« on: June 06, 2012, 08:16:37 AM »
“The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.” C.S. Lewis
Nigel’s dead. Turns out he was in a brutal car crash; a crash so atrocious that it has left no survivors.
Too much celebrating—drinking and driving, a common culprit of death—has claimed yet another victim. Sadly, he doesn’t know he’s dead. Most people who die fail to make that connection. Realization always comes later—typically when they awake on the other side. For Nigel Vanderbilt, his soul is still locked in the gripes of death shock and he lays unconscious in a circle of light.
What happened you wonder? Well, Nigel Vanderbilt had been enjoying a night on the town, cursing at dangerous speeds in his brand new Ferrari when he failed to stop at a red light and collided into a passing taxi. The impact killed the taxi driver upon impact, and the passenger still clings to life by machines in a hospital room, while Nigel’s corpse is in the morgue going cold. Rigor Mortis has settled in the joints and soon will get worked out by an overweight guy named Michael Roger Smith, 58, who tends to fuck the nicer cadavers. He has no plans to fuck Nigel Vanderbilt.
When Nigel finally awakes, he’s confused. He is lying naked in a circle of warm, radiant light. He looks up, trying to find its source—but sees nothing. The beam is clearly coming from some unknown source above and beyond the thick reddish colored clouds filling the sky. He sits up—the pain of the accident not evident. He’s whole, the wounds gone. The ring he finds himself in is small—three steps in any direction will lead him out of it and into darkness so thick and unforgiving, he sees no end to it.
“Where the hell…”
“Hell is exactly where you are, Mr. Vanderbilt.”
Nigel glances over his shoulder to see a large man standing near him. The guy is clearly cut, for the crimson colored suit he wears is a tight fit. He’s sure if the guy were to flex his muscles that the suit would rip to shreds like when Bruce Banner transforms into the Hulk. The man is pale—the skin deathly white, his lips fat but an ugly shade of purple. He’s wearing sunglasses and his long jet black hair is pulled back into a pony-tail.
“And who are you supposed to be…Satan?”
“In the flesh,” he replies with a smile, which reveals a mouth full of razor sharp teeth and midnight black gums. This is the part when Nigel screams.
REBIRTH
Mr. Kross is seen sitting in a posh office. The desk he is positioned behind is a massive dark oak with an expensive marble top—polished to perfection. There is a computer, phone, and a few pictures of various unknowns on his desk—typical office clutter. Along one wall is an enormous book shelf, but the sun coming in from the window behind him reflects upon the glass, hiding the titles from view. The adjacent wall has his degrees, pictures of celebrities, and awards from past accomplishments. The boss himself is wearing a suit that screams confidence and a ‘don’t fuck with me attitude.’ Mr. Kross is working on the computer when the office intercom buzzes.
Mr. Kross: (Presses the button) What is it?
Secretary : I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there is someone…to see you.
Mr. Kross: Well does he have an appointment? (Glances at his day planner next to the computer and flips a few pages) I see nothing written down.
Secretary : No sir he doesn’t, but he’s quite…
We can hear another voice—to Mr. Kross it’s like a nuclear explosion. It’s Nigel Vanderbilt.
Nigel: It’s me Mr. Kross and I won’t leave until I see you.
The look of annoyance is clearly painted on Mr. Kross’s face as he leans back in his chair, shaking his head. If there is a purgatory, his would be filled with countless Nigel’s, all running around him yapping like annoying Chihuahuas. He runs his fingers through his hair as the intercom continues to blare the going on in the outer office.
Secretary: Please, Mr. Vanderbilt, take a seat while I confirm this with...put the chair down, Mr. Vanderbilt…what are you…
Nigel: You told me to take it. I’m just doing what you told me to do babe.
Mr. Kross: For Christ’s sake…let him in!
Secretary: Are you sure, sir? Wait a minute…Mr. Vanderbilt…
The intercom crackles and then dies. The door to the office flies open as Nigel Vanderbilt struts into the room with a paper bag tucked under his arm and a beautiful middle-aged secretary playing hot-to-trot behind him. Nigel is wearing a nice Italian suit and of course his famous gold plated sunglasses.
Secretary: You can’t just barge in here…
Nigel: Can you tell this bitch to fuck of Mr. Kross, we’ve got something to discuss.
It appears as if Mr. Kross is going to reprimand Nigel for disrespecting his secretary, but finally decides against it. He knows, deep down in his gut, that sometimes words and efforts can be wasted. Knowing a little about Mr. Vanderbilt’s background and family history—he knows that MUCH has been wasted on the spoiled and overly arrogant Nigel Vanderbilt. Instead, he raises his hand and gives a shooing gesture to the secretary, who does an about face and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her. Mr. Kross knows he’ll have to make this up to her, but first, he has to deal with this wretched cur.
Mr. Kross: What do you want, Mr. Vanderbilt? Unlike you, I have actual work to do. I have a board of directors meeting in twenty minutes as well as a lunch appointment with Gary Williams concerning a few film projects currently underway by LPW Films—something I highly doubt you know about, seeing as you aren’t booked for any appearances no matter how small and trivial.
Nigel plops down in a small leather chair opposite Kross.
Nigel: Look at me, Mr. Kross.
Mr. Kross: I am looking at you.
Nigel: No you’re not. You see…you’re looking at me, but you’re not seeing me. Had you saw the man beyond the flamboyant TV persona, beyond the glitz and glam of high production values, you would have seen a man you shouldn’t have crossed. I know you sit upon your golden throne as an untouchable to many of your would-be wrestlers, but you see, in the world of competitive business…I’m an alpha male…and there is no bigger predator than me.
Mr. Kross: Is that correct? Look, Mr. Vanderbilt, I’m sure this usual malarkey works well on the uneducated and those dimwits in the back, but it doesn’t work here. I’m not a fool and you don’t intimidate me at all. Not even in the slightest. If anything, Mr. Vanderbilt, you annoy me. Watching the way your run off at the gums week in and week out on my show, killing ratings, and hurting my revenue just annoys me to no end. Why do you think I was able to fire you twice without even batting an eye? The simple truth is…you’re nothing. You’re less than nothing. You’re a Goddamn negative number. And you’ve got about three seconds to get the hell out of my office before I call security and they drag your ass out of here like a piece of common street trash you are. Do I make myself clear?
Nigel: (Grinning) A negative number? I like that. At least its more creative than someone calling Cyclops or Aunt Flo. But I must remind you Mr. Kross of my additional titles, more importantly, as the newest president Apollyon Media.
Mr. Kross: Congratulations. What’s your point?
Nigel: Power House Productions, my broadcasting and media corporation just consolidated with Spire Communications to create the new and SUPER improved Apollyon Media. As a result, Michael Zee has been gracious enough to give me a vote to join your precious board of directors. You know what that means right?
Typically, enlightenment comes with a smile and a near orgasmic rush—this one feels more like that ache you get in your belly after eating greasy old meat. Its poison.
Nigel: (stands up and gets ready to go) Oh, before I forget, I bought you a gift. Here ya go! Enjoy. I’ll just have that annoying secretary you got out there direct me where to go. Board Room, right? See you in ten.
Nigel walks out of the room while Mr. Kross opens the package on his desk—not surprisingly, believing it might explode upon opening. Looking inside he sees a book called, “Business for Dummies.” Pissed, Mr. Kross throws it all the wall as the scene fades to black.
A PROPOSITION
Nigel can hear it now. He’s not sure how he could have missed them before, because the sounds are unmistakable. There are things moving in the darkness. He can hear low snarls and the snapping of jaws filled with teeth designed for tearing. He strains his eyes, trying to see out into the gloom beyond the light, but can’t see anything.
“Demons, Mr. Vanderbilt.”
“What?” Nigel asks, glancing over his shoulder to catch a glimpse at the Father of Lies. Now that he’s not smiling, all that fear he felt a few seconds before subsides.
“Beyond the light, Mr. Vanderbilt, is a horde of hungry, flesh eating demons. They don’t like the light,” Satan says gesturing towards their warm, bright surroundings. “It hurts them ya know. Burns them something horrible, but they’ll risk a little pain if you venture to close to its edge.”
Nigel checks his position and realizes that in his vain attempt to see the demons, he had traveled dangerously close to the edge. Just as he begins to retreat, a hand reaches for him. It’s black and covered with a thick layer of what appears to be gray scales and thick dark hairs. As soon as the hand passes through the outer rim of the light, it instantly ignites. Nigel watches in silent terror as the flesh ripples and bubbles. Parts of the dark skin rips open completely, sending black bile all over the inner rim of the circle. Some of it splatters on Nigel’s face, warm and sticky. He screams again as the demon retracts its hand and howls in agony.
“What the fuck man!”
“I warned you. Here, in the Killing Fields, food is scarce and those poor unfortunates who find themselves transported among the ravenous dead don’t last long. In Hell, Mr. Vanderbilt, death is only a temporary reprieve for those dwelling here.”
Nigel risks a look at one of the most nefarious villains in human history and shivers. Though he looks human at first glance, closer inspection reveals his flesh has an almost plastic look to it. He’s pretty sure that there is something, unholy, beneath its humanistic visage. What it is, Nigel has no desire to learn further.
“What do you want of me?”
“Finally, an intelligent question,” Satan replies with a maniacal grin. “I want to hire you for a job.”
“Me? Why me? I’m just a simple guy…”
“With unlimited wealth and influence,” Satan snaps sharply. “Don’t tell me that the late, great Nigel Vanderbilt believes what all the naysayer and haters claimed to be fact. That you’re just the disappointed offspring of a long line of successful overachievers in the Vanderbilt tree, a tree spanning a century and half of dominance and success.”
Nigel shakes his head in silent protest. His words, it seems, has been temporarily lost on him as his mind reels with an odd mixture of hate, fear, and confusion. A thousand memories suddenly dance through his mind in rapid succession…he sees fragments of conversations with his late father, always him being talked down too, always being told he’s nothing…he’s a loser…he’s a disappointment…he’s a FAILURE.
Then there are the kids in school saying he’s getting a free ride because of who his FATHER is and not because he works hard…the scholarships, the high grades in schools, his classmates claim aren’t because he’s smart, but because he’s a fucking Vanderbilt. More memories, girls laughing at him…rejection…misunderstanding…failed relationships, and more. So much more that his mind struggles to reject the onslaught of information…but it won’t shut down, it refuses to like an out-of-control computer virus hell bent on scrambling the framework of his fucking brain, of his inner-being, of his fucking soul. What little of that remains? He hears and sees his wrestling companions, men he struggled to earn respect from…teasing him…mocking his efforts…calling him names…firing him…destroying him…making him feel like a small, bastard child rather than the man he was trying to be. His was in the shadow of the colossus…a dominate and powerful figure known only as Vanderbilt. Cash Flo was his escape, but that failed too. Buying friendship with Andy Savana, backfired and led to him loosing an eye. He tried to buy his way into the inter circle, but found nothing once he got there besides more rejection, heartache, and misery.
THEY’RE ALL GOING TO LAUGH AT YOU…
THERE ALL GOING TO LAUGH AT YOU…
THEY’RE ALL GOING TO…
SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!
His daughter, out of a failed relationship, was the only light he had in a darkening and sickening world, but that too was stolen from him. He had nothing but a failed legacy. Once those two words clicked into place, the memories stopped and everything was at peace. Here was Nigel Vanderbilt naked, cold, and scared upon the Killing Fields with Satan, and somehow at the end of all thigns there was still an offer to be heard.
A second chance?
Did he really want one of those?
Of course.
Who doesn’t.
But what was the price and what was the job? He was nervous to find out, but also…interested. A business man, alive or dead, can never resist the thrill of a negotiation…no matter who it happens to be with, even the lord of Hell.
A SMALL VICTORY
The board meeting was over and Mr. Kross needed a drink. Something strong, something mean and with a mighty earth-shattering kick. He couldn’t believe his luck or lack there off considering Nigel Vanderbilt was now a fixture on his board of directors thanks to the vote. Nigel Vanderbilt, this maggot gagging on a silver spoon, was now on the team that ran his business. Not only that, he thought glumly heading back to his office, was the fact that Nigel Vanderbilt was also a major shareholder of both brands: Pyro and Insanity. He couldn’t help but wonder if that whole Mayan thing, that 2012 nonsense wasn’t so whimsical. If Nigel Vanderbilt could creep into his organization like a cancer in the blood stream…then perhaps the notion of the end of the world wasn’t so laughable. Just as he reaches his office door and step inside the world of constant control, he can hear Nigel Vanderbilt calling in after him. It takes every ounce of control he has from spinning around and knocking the taste out of his mouth. On this day he thanks God for not packing heat, because he was pretty certain he’d shoot Nigel Vanderbilt in the head without a moment’s hesitation.
Nigel: Mr. Kross you have a minute?
Mr. Kross: (Slowly turns to face Nigel) What do you want now, Mr. Vanderbilt, to gloat of your most recent victory?
Nigel: How did you know? Wait, don’t tell me, you’ve got God-like powers like cYnical! Did you know that dude killed Zeus?
Mr. Kross: (Sighs) No I didn’t, Mr. Vanderbilt, and to be frank…I don’t care. Now if what you’ve got to say isn’t very important than I would kindly ask you to…
Nigel: You’re right, you’re right. Say no more. I can only imagine how shitty this day has been for you, seeing as I finally managed to get on your precious board of the impregnable. Remember this…when you tell me I can’t do something, I prove you wrong. You told me I would never work in the LPW again and yet I return in a better position than when I left. Men fight and bleed for spots in the DeathCube, but I waltz in without a qualifying match and now stand to win the world title off of your precious Morpheus. You said I could never sit upon your board of directors, but here I am, sitting pretty as one of your primary shareholders of both brands. I am here not to fight with you…I want to earn some fucking money. What I want to leave you with is a single choice…friend or foe. I told you once before that I could be your best friend or the final nail in your coffin. Decide before I decide it for you.
Nigel smiles as he extends his hand. Mr. Kross looks at it and then back at the cocky face looking at him.
Nigel: Have a nice day sir.
Mr. Kross doesn’t respond, nor does he shake the hand of the interloper. He turns his back, enters his office, and slams the door shut behind him. He doesn’t know what to do with Nigel yet, but he’ll be damned if he gets bested by someone like him. This war, Mr. Kross thinks grinning, has just begun.
SEASONS IN THE ABYSS
“So what’s the deal?” Nigel asked, surprised by his returning confidence.
“Lots of things, but first you must establish Apollyon.”
“What’s that?”
“Its going to be my hub upon my return to your precious world. It is no question that the one in control of the media controlls the world. I want you to take control of major networks, buy some newspapers, and broadcasting companies, and then merge them under one umbrella…Apollyon Media. That’s stage one of my plan.”
“What’s stage two?”
“Finish the first and we’ll go from there, Mr. Vanderbilt.”
“What is in it for me?”
“Good question. Resseruction is a shoe in, Mr. Vanderbilt, as you probably already suspected. I could offer you money and power, you know, the usual delectables that mortals crave, but you already have those. Women? No. They are attracted by your status and your good looks—again, you do not crave that. But love...the one created by that of a child to his father. Now that, I can give.”
This has peeked Nigel’s interest, but the businessman inside him knows not to show it. Any physical hint of weakness and desire strangles negotiations like a slip knot does a throat. He has to play it cool…he was, after all, doing business with the man commonly referred to as the Father of Lies.
“Go on,” Nigel says plannly.
“I know you want to be reunited with Crystal. Her absence as cast you a long way down into hellish abyss and you believe she be the one that can save you. In fact, I’ll come out and say it…SHE IS. But her mother doesn’t want you near her and has even had the courts blockaided you from even calling her. But, if you work for me, all that goes away and she’ll be yours for the first time and forever. What do you say, Mr. Vanderbilt?”[/size][/color]
NIGHT OF THE LIVING ICON
Nigel opens his eyes and is blinded by the neon lights hanging overhead. He tries to roll on his side, but everything hurts.
Nigel: What the fuck…
There is a voice nearby, soft.
Voice: You’re awake. That’s good.
Nigel: Who is that? And why the fuck am I…
The memory of Hell is all but dim in his mind—like a bad dream. Fragments still linger---something about Apollyon and his daughter, but its foggy. Its all fucking foggy and the pain doesn’t help his memory.
Voice: You were in a horrible accident, Mr. Vanderbilt, and were believed to be DOA when you arrived here at the hospital three hours ago. In fact, our paramedics on the scene had made the mistake of bagging and tagging you.
Nigel: Accident? I don’t remember…
There is a flash, a congnitive sparks that brings back an image. He was driving, yes, his brand new Ferrari. It had been rainging and he was…was…trying to prime up a fresh piece of pussy by pushing the car to its limits. There was a flash of light—screaming—a loud smash the sound of crushed steal. He remembers, but doesn’t want to.
Nigel: Was anyone hurt?
Voice: The woman with you is fine. How she survived it without a single scratch is anybodies guess, but you were nearly killed.
Nigel: Christ! This couldn’t have happened at a worse time…I’ve got the DeathCube coming up and I wanted to…
Voice: DeathCube?
Nigel: It's a big match for this wrestling promotion that I work for. You wouldn’t understand.
His eyes begin to adjust to the light and he can see now who he’s talking too. It’s a doctor. Up in the corner of the room he can see a television turned on. Volume is muted, but he can see the news is on. There is a litle girl there too…just off to the right. He turns to get a better look at her, and once he does, he nearly screams…CRYSTAL is here! How?
Doctor: (Stepping forward) Mr. Vanderbilt if I may…on behalf of the hospital I wanted to apologies for our grievece error. This has never happened before and I’ll be sure it never happens again.
Nigel: (Looks at the doctor) What are you blathering about?
Doctor: The paramedics on the scene reported you dead, Mr. Vanderbilt, so we had assigned your to the morgue. We didn’t now. Had we…this would have never happened! The hospital is set to pay all damages and a small fee if you are willing to sign a few disclosure forms.
Nigel: (Looks at his daughter, they smile at each other, and then he looks back at the doctor) I’ll sign anything, because I really don’t give two shits or a fuck about what happened. But first, you got to let me know what’s the damage.
Doctor: That’s the oddest part. You have no serious injuries outside of a minor concusion. The pain you are feeling is from the freeze your body went through while temporary locked in storage. Again, we’re very…
Nigel: Fuck your apologies you asshole. Go get your legal team and I’ll assemble mine. Be ready to pay me a pretty fucking penny.
The doctor tries to argue, but nobody listens and so he storms out pissed. Nigel thinks its prety funny, showing his little girl why he’s to be feared. Now that the room is quiet, Nigel uses his elbows to sit up and get a better look at his little angel. She is sitting in a guest chair wearing a white dress. Her blond hair is pulled back into a pony tail and hangs limply across one of her slender shoulders.
Nigel: Where did you come from?
Crystal: It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, daddy.
Nigel: I’m so happy to see you. Sorry for using questionable language in front of you, sweetheart, but daddy was a little angry with that stupid, quack doctor.
Crystal: Its okay. Mommy uses it sometimes.
Nigel: Where is mommy?
Crystal shrugs her shoulders.
Nigel: I hope getting me a cup of coffee. I need to unfog. I remember a some, but not very much.
Then it hits with excessive force. Hell, Satan, the Killing Fields, and the promise to start building Apollyon. Stage One, Satan had said. But at least the foul brute had lived up to his promise and now her sits his little girl.
Crystal: I’m proud of you daddy.
Nigel: For what?
Crystal: Getting into the DeathCube.
Nigel: You saw that?
She nods and smiles.
Crystal: I want you to get revenge on Azreal. I didn’t like what he did to you. I also don’t like what the other’s have been saying about you either. That horrible Mr. Kross, Ultramarcus, and that terrible champion, Morpheus!
Nigel loves that his daughter has been watching him. Probably pisses of her mother, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. She’s here now and that evil bitch is out there somewhere hating the fact that she’s here…supporting her father. Seeing her smile, all those memories of Hell begin to fade again and he’s happy for it.
Nigel: I’ll tel you one thing, baby doll, daddy is going to go into that match as a man and walk out as a God, as a champion! You think daddy is scared of Krimson Mask?
Crystal: I am.
Nigel: You are? Don’t be. He’s just a delusional freak in an ugly mask. When I get into the Cube, I’m going to slap him right in the face…just for you. And then I’ll make him bleed, just like I did that horrible guy, Azreal. Would you like that?
She smiles and nods
Nigel: As for Brown…I’ve beaten him before, so I’m not really worried about him.
Crystal: What about Storme or Ultrawhatever?
Nigel: Awakened is going to implode in this math, baby doll. All I have to do is ride the wave of destruction and pick up the pin. The only man I’m worried about is the champion…you know him right?
Crystal: He’s the dream guy, right daddy?
Nigel: More like a nightmare, but yeah, you’re right. He’s tough. Maybe one of the toughest men in the business today and I’m not sure I can beat him…that is…until now.
Crystal: Why?
Nigel: Because you’re with me.
Doctor: I’m sorry…what?
Nigel looks at the doorway and sees the doctor standing there with a couple of men in suits—lawyers no less—and they have briefcases and documents at the ready.
Nigel: I wasn’t talking to you asshole. I was talking to my daughter.
When Nigel looks back at the place his daughter was sitting, she’s gone. There is nobody there. He quickly looks around the room to find her, but she’s gone.
Doctor: Um…there’s been nobody here to see you since you arrived..and you were alone when I left to fetch the legal team. Are you…
Satan’s voice plays in his ears…taunting him and making his flesh turn to ice. He hears him say, “She’ll be yours for the first time and forever….forever…forever…
Nigel: Holy shit.
His glances up at the television screen and sees a reporter talking in front of a burning house. Its his daughter’s home.
Nigel: TURN UP THE FUCKING VOLUME!!!
The doctor runs over and increases the volume. Not because he wants to help Nigel, but hoping his gesture will lessen the damages. A few seconds later the reporter’s words come…
Reporter: According to the fire department, nobody survived the blaze. Inside the house was a mother and her little girl, 12 year old Crystal…
The reporter keeps talking, but the darkness rushes over Nigel Vanderbilt like a might wave…taking him down, down, down.
(NOTE: I hope I won't loose points for this, but I really don't want to go through and change all the coding again. I spent a solid hour and half editing it the first time.)
Show Posts
I think that's more of a threat than anything else. But yeah, I can wait.