Post by Deleted on Feb 19, 2017 18:21:37 GMT -6
...And you're free now. You, Harvey Yorke, have managed to find an emergency exit. A one-way ticket to this future. May you see this at your second chance at life. That is, if you would even consider yourself to be "alive" since the accident. If I were to cut at your skin at this very moment, there will not lie veins, arteries, and organs. What lies underneath is sin, destruction, and filth.
The world has stopped, in this very moment, just for you.
THE UNDERGROUND - VACANT ABANDONED FACTORYThe world has stopped, in this very moment, just for you.
CHICAGO, IL
1:03 AM
“You'll never imagine what it's like to live, for so long, not knowing who you truly are inside.”
Harvey Yorke’s heavy accent echoes through the vacant lot he paces around in. He is dressed in filthy, all black clothing, reflecting how he feels inside. His hair is covering a good portion of his face, as he looks as though he hasn't bathed in days.
“I know who I am inside.” He slicks back his hair. “Indeed, and I have been signed to one of the finest American wrestling promotions in the world: the EWC.” He looks around the lot as though he was expecting an applause, and then smiles to himself. “For years now, I’ve been competing all over the dreaded nation that is supposed to be my home, England. Truth be told, the place is hell on earth. My signing to the EWC truly does feel like a blessing.” He says, as he continues in a less ironic tone. “Yes sir, this may very well be the happiest I’ve ever felt in…”
He pauses, shuddering as he vividly recounts the horrific day his brother died. “...In years!” He smiles in awe, as though he had just discovered light. “You see, I live in a world of pain. A world of suffering. And I’d like nothing more than to bring that world to the land of Extreme.” He speaks now in a more relaxed, joking tone. “Unless, of course, y’know, it’s only called ‘Extreme’ to be edgy, and the talent are a bunch of lousy, tasteless scumbags.” A laugh, and he continues in a more menacing tone than before. “Either way no one, and I mean no one, is prepared to enter my world.”
He pulls out a vintage six-shooter from his pocket. He keeps his eyes looked on the gun as he begins to speak. “Let’s take a look at the roster of the EWC. Some fight for fame, some fight for gold, others for money - just how long are these Superstars gonna pretend to care, and say they do this ‘for the crowd’ until that shtick gets old, anyways?” From the other pocket emerges a bullet. “I love this game,” he says, mumbling to himself. Quickly loading the pistol, he mockingly pretends to aim at the camera. “Bang...bang.” Harvey pretends to shoot at the camera, but not even a second later, he has the gun pointed at his temple. “What makes me a good wrestler?” He pulls the trigger, and all that’s heard is a very faint click. “A methodical pace. Timing.” Harvey says with a smile almost engraved his face at this point, loading the gun once more. “What’s pride?” Without flinching, the trigger is pulled once again and still, the bullet hasn’t stuck Harvey Yorke. “The fact that I walk into this establishment with nothing to lose; a new beginning, if you will.” The pistol is loaded up once more, this time, Harvey aims it down towards his throat. “And who is this man they call the ‘Ultraviolent’ one?” Again, a blank shot. “Me. Harvey Yorke. The sadist maniac hailing from ‘holier-than-thou’ Ripon, barely just arriving in this dump they call the Windy fuckin’ City.”
A deep, yet silent chuckle. “I may come from the underground, but it’s the underground that holds me together. I don’t have to hide behind facades, nor ‘fans’. I live to hurt, and seeing the expressions of those who I’ve left mangled back in England brought nothing but joy to me. Being able to do that in the States as well?" He grins. "Say no more! I’m finally receiving the recognition I deserve!”
He draws the pistol and points it towards the camera again. “Bang bang!” He shouts, through a howling laughter that fills the vacant lot. He shoots, and the bullet shatters the camera lens. His yells and laughter can still be made out, just faintly, as the broadcast cuts to static.
. F I N .