| The Angel of Death; "Paint your doors with blood, gentlemen." | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 21 2012, 04:41 PM (60 Views) | |
| Ethan Rider | Jan 21 2012, 04:41 PM Post #1 |
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Ethan Rider, 'The Mockingjay,' and newly christened Angel of Death, had sat and waited for this moment for many months. His new moniker had stemmed from the events of those past months, beginning, mainly, at the fall of the Sanctioned Violence Organization. Rider, the youngest of the organization, and perhaps the only one with the innocent naiviety to not foresee the cutting of the only kind of employment he had ever seen. The sudden ending of sVo left Ethan Rider in a rather sticky situation, and with no family, and very few friends to support him through these months, Ethan had stumbled, tripped, and fallen face first down the unemployment line. But, I hear you ask, with wide eyes and slack jaw, however did The Mockingjay end up in such a preventable situation? Well yes, he'd been asking himself the same thing. The Angel of Death, despite his limited time in the sVo, had certainly built himself quite a reputation. He trusted nobody, constantly defeated odds and expectations against him, and had clawed his way up the sVo's federal system through his own hard work. Ethan Rider, true to his upbringing, was a deadly assassin, a murderer, and yet a fan favourite of the sVo faithful. The Angel of Death, the last ever International Champion, certainly had many admirable qualities. Th Sanctioned Violence Organization had become to Ethan Rider what he had always longed for - Family. Despite vigorous attempts to remain cold and calculated, Rider had grown incredibly attached to the wrestling company, and could not imagine himself wrestling, or even working anywhere else. As a result, he had taken far too long trying to pick himself up from the collapse that he was swept away, and turned to the only other thing he had ever known - The streets. Night after night, The Angel of Death, fallen from grace, sat beneath the moonlit skies of Washington, cigarette dangling from his lips and marvelling at what went wrong. *** "What've ye got?" The sweaty hand tightened around Ethan's throat, slamming his head against the stone wall behind him, and The Mockingjay exhaled, a little sigh. The man was big and burly, his size matched by the two men flanking him on either side. Dressed in puffer jackets, the three men were an intimidating company. Ethan's hand went to his pockets, turning them out slowly and deliberately to show that he had next to nothing but the clothes on his back. The grip tightened, and the three men laughed. "Nothing? Oh dear." "Get 'im, boss." "Look shitstain, it'll be better for you if you just hand over whatever you have." Ethan, making a vain attempt to prevent his eyes from bulging out, flicked his hair to the side, his feeble try at shaking his head misinterpreted for a cocky gesture. The ringleader span the former wrestler around, pinning his arms behind his back, and both cronies stepped forward, driving hard strikes into Ethan's stomach one after the other. Rider flinched away as best he could, but to no avail, and the blows landed well. "Come on, kid," muttered the ringleader, "you're obviously a beginner to this. If you have nothing, you don't get all cocky, and now I'm not happy." Ethan tried to speak, but his mouth was instantly shut by the back of a hand. The Angel of Death took a deep breath, and struck. The first man went down in a blaze of strikes - Rider whirled around, knocking the ringleader flat against the wall with his elbow, following up with a quick succesion of back kicks, each connecting with the mans abdomen and groin. Everybody fought dirty on the streets. In a flash, the cronies were on him, with surprising agaility for their bulk, but Ethan subdued their approach with two quick palm thrusts to each mans throat, his pace outstripping any skill the pair may have possessed. The pair, in unison, clutched at their throats, and Ethan Rider seized his opportunity, driving a huge punch into the fist of the man to his right, the blood painting a sloppy mask across the mans features. But his final opponent was there, and a big knee to the gut doubled Ethan over. The third man, sensing an easy kill, launched Ethan towards the stone wall headfirst. But The Angel of Death had other ideas, and he planted one foot against the wall and used the friction to launch himself into the air, back towards the oncoming attacker, and the sole of Rider's boot connected with his face, drawing blood, and it was his head against the tarmac that knocked him out cold. Fog erupted around Ethan, a result of his heavy breathing in the wintery air, and Rider turned around, observing the destruction. He pulled his hood up as he noticed a group of three young women, dressed for a night on the town, at the top of the alleyway, and he bent down to his three victims. "Sorry," Ethan muttered an apology, as he stooped to emtpy their pockets. *** Las Vegas, Nevada The Old Goodfellas Casino "No.. way?" Ethan stuttered, his voice cracking. "Yes, Ethan. But I don't want you to get too sentimental son, it's only a one-off show." The sVo agent, Donovan, said with the manner of a stern parent. "I can't believe this, of course I'm in!" Forgetting himself, and the icy reputation he had built, Ethan nearly threw his arms around Donovan, momentarily overwhelmed that he was going to wrestle in the sVo again. He sank into the plush armchair behind him, ruffling his hair and grinning. Donovan stepped around the desk, pulling open a draw and, too Rider's surprise, pulling the mask he wore under the illusion of 'X' out. "We want you to wear this, Rider. It seems everybody is going for new looks to celebrate our return and this is... edgy." Rider took the mask, strapping it onto his face like a child opens presents at Christmas. "I love it. Don't dissapoint me, Ethan.." "I won't sir. I promise." *** I was never too far away, gentlemen. I suspect it'll be that way forever now. Ethan Rider will always be the ghost that haunts the streets of the sVo. Nothing else to live for. For once, it doesn't even bother me that I'm the second match on the card - I'm expecting to walk away from Final Countdown as the 'Best of the Best.' Who else is there to oppose me? Loki Synn? It seems, gentlemen, that the jester is far too worried about picking out a new outfit than the return of the Sanctioned Violence Organization. Reaper and James Milenko, who I've never even heard of anyway, have been nowhere to be seen. Neither has Roscoe.. Come on then, Wildman. Me and you, old man. The problem everybody has, in my opinion, is that we're all treating this like a reuinion show. Sure, my ice broke, and I got a tiny bit nostalgic, but we have has-beens like Wildman wrecking their pants over how they can't wait to put on a clinic for the fans again. For me? As always, it's about winning. For all Wildman's prowess, for all Loki's danger and threat, neither man, or the others in our match, have what it takes to walk away from Monday night as the 'Best of the Best.' I think it's too easily forgotten, that I was Matt Anderson's assassin for a good six months, and despite the resentment the man showed towards me, I picked up on everything that he told me, and shut it away, slowly building a database on every nook and cranny of the sVo. Every weakness and strength of the men in the company. It's everybodies wet dream, to go undefeated for as long as Wildman did, but truthfully, I never faced him. Or Loki. Or Reaper. Or Milenko and Pysko Stevo. Oh, and I beat Shame. Remember that? Always overlooked, you see. But I was never too far away. The Angel of Death is on his way, gentlemen. Paint your doors with blood. |
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