Post by Hearst on Jun 16, 2017 19:45:09 GMT -8
"I wonder if any of you will run away ... if you even know what's coming?"
The feed came through like the remains of a shipwreck up through the black waters. Smokey and calm, but carrying with it the ghosts of something much more terrible. A new sunrise was just peeking over the Dallas skyline, bringing dusky light to a stretch of midway, just waking in the early hour. We see this view from an alleyway, sandwiched between brick and concrete and tucked into the last shreds of shadow left in the morning. In here it was just us ... and the voice. The voice that spoke in gloom and anger. A voice full of ... hunger.
A second light joined the early sun just ahead of us. A small spark, illuminating like a miniature sun and gong out in a breath of ash from the figure resting on the right-hand wall. He blended in the shade like he had belonged there, dressed in a black t-shirt and wool beanie, and dark camo cargo shorts. The man ran his hand over his beard; the morning light revealing the various tattoos scrawled across him. As he shifted toward the camera, we could see his t-shirt reads "Dogs of War".
The guess work was done.
Devin Hearst was here.
"I don't think you will. I know carny folk. I came from this life and if there's one truth it's that carnies are fucking crazy. Almost makes me feel bad about what comes next."
Hearst took another drag from his cigarette, looking over his shoulders and back to the midway. The obstacle course was an impressive feat of engineering and endurance, but he wasn't there to win some game. He was there for the fight.
"Almost. See, what's going to happen isn't new to the world. You've all heard the stories. The first time it was a meteor. Big cloud, ice age, the whole nines. Then it was a flood. Then it was the plague. This time ... this time it comes in the form of a question answered. That question is, 'just how loyal is a hungry dog?' The answer ain't too hard to come to, really. A single dog will bite whoever it can when it needs to feed, but the pack? The pack hunts together. The pack ... feeds ... together."
Hearst took a few steps forward, far too lax for a man speaking of raw meat and end times. To the common soul, these were things best left unsaid. To Hearst, these were the happy thoughts. They were peace.
"Shimada ... Tillman ..." he said, pointing an inked finger to his chest,"and Hearst. Three hungry dogs, and while Japan has plenty to choose from, I always told the boys that the best game was found back home ... so home we came, to Carny Pro Wrestling. I can taste the turmoil here. It's sweet, man. It's fucking candy to me, and while my boys are ready to have their fun at The Great Southern Trendkill, I can't help but feel like the kid watching his friends play outside through the kitchen window. Jack, well he wants to prove that he's the superior technical athlete. The frickin' pinnacle. Mitsuo-san? That man's got domination running through his brain like fire ants ... but I'm a simple man. I like what I like."
Holding the cigarette out, Hearst eyed the smoldering ash before snuffing it out with his thumb; holding it there for a moment as the last threads of smoke arched up around it.
"What I like is violence. I like the thud of my boot off a skull or two or the the way a light tube looks like star dust when you smash it over someone just right. I like blood ... and I like gold. I think Jack and Mitsuo share in that sentiment, so what does that mean for you carny folk? Scorched earth. I would tell you a war was on the way, but a war implies that you'll have a chance. This is an occupation; a fucking blitzkrieg in the night, and I'm thinking that most of you won't even know what happened until you're scooping your innards back in. This isn't about morals; no good or bad shit like that. The wildfire doesn't care what burns, so if we have to break a couple clown bones or gut the entire King bloodline, them's the breaks. Hell, maybe I'll take Toro's head off when Shimada and Tillman are done?"
He only shrugged.
"There's a bad voodoo on this place, man, but it ain't about to get any better. The boys and I are gonna glass this joint over. I'm going to be very clear when I say this: I want Carny gold, and until I get what I want I'm going to sacrifice this roster to the cause like a fucking pagan god! So I guess all that remains is just how long the clown and his puppet masters are going to let the genocide run for? Makes no difference to me. I'll have my fun either way. So, let's get this party started ... "
Hearst took one last look to the midway and couldn't help himself but crack just the slightest crocodilian smile. Soon the playground would be wreckage. Then, it'd feel more like home.
"And let slip the Dogs of War."
The feed came through like the remains of a shipwreck up through the black waters. Smokey and calm, but carrying with it the ghosts of something much more terrible. A new sunrise was just peeking over the Dallas skyline, bringing dusky light to a stretch of midway, just waking in the early hour. We see this view from an alleyway, sandwiched between brick and concrete and tucked into the last shreds of shadow left in the morning. In here it was just us ... and the voice. The voice that spoke in gloom and anger. A voice full of ... hunger.
A second light joined the early sun just ahead of us. A small spark, illuminating like a miniature sun and gong out in a breath of ash from the figure resting on the right-hand wall. He blended in the shade like he had belonged there, dressed in a black t-shirt and wool beanie, and dark camo cargo shorts. The man ran his hand over his beard; the morning light revealing the various tattoos scrawled across him. As he shifted toward the camera, we could see his t-shirt reads "Dogs of War".
The guess work was done.
Devin Hearst was here.
"I don't think you will. I know carny folk. I came from this life and if there's one truth it's that carnies are fucking crazy. Almost makes me feel bad about what comes next."
Hearst took another drag from his cigarette, looking over his shoulders and back to the midway. The obstacle course was an impressive feat of engineering and endurance, but he wasn't there to win some game. He was there for the fight.
"Almost. See, what's going to happen isn't new to the world. You've all heard the stories. The first time it was a meteor. Big cloud, ice age, the whole nines. Then it was a flood. Then it was the plague. This time ... this time it comes in the form of a question answered. That question is, 'just how loyal is a hungry dog?' The answer ain't too hard to come to, really. A single dog will bite whoever it can when it needs to feed, but the pack? The pack hunts together. The pack ... feeds ... together."
Hearst took a few steps forward, far too lax for a man speaking of raw meat and end times. To the common soul, these were things best left unsaid. To Hearst, these were the happy thoughts. They were peace.
"Shimada ... Tillman ..." he said, pointing an inked finger to his chest,"and Hearst. Three hungry dogs, and while Japan has plenty to choose from, I always told the boys that the best game was found back home ... so home we came, to Carny Pro Wrestling. I can taste the turmoil here. It's sweet, man. It's fucking candy to me, and while my boys are ready to have their fun at The Great Southern Trendkill, I can't help but feel like the kid watching his friends play outside through the kitchen window. Jack, well he wants to prove that he's the superior technical athlete. The frickin' pinnacle. Mitsuo-san? That man's got domination running through his brain like fire ants ... but I'm a simple man. I like what I like."
Holding the cigarette out, Hearst eyed the smoldering ash before snuffing it out with his thumb; holding it there for a moment as the last threads of smoke arched up around it.
"What I like is violence. I like the thud of my boot off a skull or two or the the way a light tube looks like star dust when you smash it over someone just right. I like blood ... and I like gold. I think Jack and Mitsuo share in that sentiment, so what does that mean for you carny folk? Scorched earth. I would tell you a war was on the way, but a war implies that you'll have a chance. This is an occupation; a fucking blitzkrieg in the night, and I'm thinking that most of you won't even know what happened until you're scooping your innards back in. This isn't about morals; no good or bad shit like that. The wildfire doesn't care what burns, so if we have to break a couple clown bones or gut the entire King bloodline, them's the breaks. Hell, maybe I'll take Toro's head off when Shimada and Tillman are done?"
He only shrugged.
"There's a bad voodoo on this place, man, but it ain't about to get any better. The boys and I are gonna glass this joint over. I'm going to be very clear when I say this: I want Carny gold, and until I get what I want I'm going to sacrifice this roster to the cause like a fucking pagan god! So I guess all that remains is just how long the clown and his puppet masters are going to let the genocide run for? Makes no difference to me. I'll have my fun either way. So, let's get this party started ... "
Hearst took one last look to the midway and couldn't help himself but crack just the slightest crocodilian smile. Soon the playground would be wreckage. Then, it'd feel more like home.
"And let slip the Dogs of War."