Post by wwjbcd on Nov 5, 2014 1:39:25 GMT
Nothing less expected from a true madman. Cocheese's desires are fame or death. Preferably both. Schneider meanwhile desires peace of mind or massacre-level violence. Preferably both. If the stars align themselves just so on November 16, it's very possible both men get everything their twisted hearts desire.
Both men from the streets. Poverty. Abuse. Misery. DANGERTERRORHORROR. One man was shaped into a fatalistic, hateful, vulgar savage. One man was forged into a self-destructive, deluded, insane savage. One man bathes in treachery, another, not at all.
Two Yins. Two Ids. One goal. One winner. One life, one shot, one hit, one kill. There can be only one1. Yes. C h a o s, if for but a night, shall rule. All will be consumed. Regurgitated into mere husks of their former selves. Cocheese and Schneider too. Everyone. Havoc. Destruction. Anni
Neither man will let up. Neither man will accept defeat. Neither man will allow the other man to leave Sunday Night Combat under their own power. Neither man will be satisfied with anything but total, complete, perfectly formulated and executed visceral, gory, unspeakable ultra-violence.
The likes have never been seen.
And never will again.
Ever.
When last we met our hero, "Perfectly Sane" Maxwell Schneider was reaching new heights of madness. Lucid insights? Anything to spin it in his favour. But today, there is no Sarah Conner. There is no one, save The Portland Madman himself. And the street. The unforgiving, emotionless street. The hardness of the pavement, the concrete, the cement. Curbs for curb stomping. Lanes for drive-bys. Alleys where all the unsaid horrors can hide.
Cocheese is a sick man. Insane? Quite possibly. Evil? Most assuredly. Cocheese might be a Joker, former, current, future, but Schneider, here at least, is a King. A strange thing to conceive, let alone accept. Cocheese is a revolting, sinister, disgusting, wretched, dangerous, dangerous, DANGEROUS man. Too dangerous to be allowed to live. November 16, Cocheese's desires will come as close to fruition as they've EVER been: Schneider is both followed by Death, chasing Death, scared of Death, and IS Death. Death death death. Deathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeath
But back to the streets. Schneider knows the dangers here. Is Washington DC a more dangerous street-laden locale than anything in Alabama? Truly? How Cocheese paints it, it's worse than any war-torn African or Middle Eastern nation. Truly? Doubt
ful. Close? The very idea could send
shivers down most any
spine.
These streets look like any other Schneider's seen, and he's see his fair share on the West Coast. Many more peppered around the South. This will have to do as Schneider's Cocheese Life Simulator.
"The streets of Birmingham,Ala-BAMA!" is how he starts out what ought to prove to be an insanity-laced diatribe that could get the average man shackled, locked up in solitary confinement, and the key and all its copies destroyed. Forgotten about until all that's left is a rotting corpse. "They ain't Washington, DC, Frankie, but they'll have ta do!"
Eyes all over him. Bathed in glares and untrusting looks. Some edge closer with bad intentions, others back away with fearful hearts.
"See, I heard what ya had ta say about me, Frankie, ya disgusting little low-life ya! First of all, ya'd do best ta keep that little Miss Wylde's name out of yer dirty mind. She ain't part of this match; ya got BIGGER things ta worry about than some non-consensual advances you got planned! Second of all, you ain't done any research, cuz if ya did, ya'd KNOW I got my clean bill of mental health in WRITING... but no one's seen YOURS! That's because yer a certified NUT, and I'm the ONLY man that can do the world a favour and, and, and LOBOTOMIZE you! True, I'll have ta do it the ol' fashioned way, but then again, THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE IT!!!"
Both men have legitimate reasons to carry themselves in the manner they have been: what with Cocheese's past accolades and Schneider's current ones, the braggadocio flows freely; humility is too decadent a sentiment to own.
"Now that we got the formalities outta the way, lemme tell ya somethin', Frankie, I don't buy yer death-wish, nope, not for one SECOND! Oh sure, there's people out there that feel like death's the only way out of a bad life, but your life's only bad because you're relegated to a rotten part of the world: a generous amount of cashola, title belts and good health tell me, yyyyyyyyyyyya haven't done much ta work on yer whole death goal, kid.
People like you make me SICK! SICK!! You can MOVE! You can AFFORD that! You got friends in high places, low too, if yer ta be believed! You earned yerself fame, championships, equally-dangerous allies, and yet, and yet, AND YET, you wanna DIE? Nuthin's GOOD enough for a whiner like you, that's YER problem! Ya see ME beggin' fer death? ONLY TA SEE WHO'S MAN ENOUGH TO TRY TA STOP ME! No man yet has, in all my years, and buddy, oh, buddy, I ain't gettin' rusty as the years go on, I'm like a fiiiiiine wine, a fiiiiiiine wine, a wine filled with RAZOR BLADES! Laced with ARSENIC! DRINK me, Frankie, DRINK ME!!!"
Irritated natives to the realm of the streets take issue with Schneider's diatribe. The presence of the cameraman also sets them on edge; how can one go about committing crimes when potential video evidence is being filmed? Some shout insults from across the street, others ante up with actual threats. To a novice, these are things to be worried about. To an interloper of The Streets, a sign to get the fuck out NOW. But to a Veteran of 1,000 Wars, a mere buzzing in his ears that is best to be ignored.
"But, onto something else ya said: how you wanted ta tango with ol' Maxie-poo since Day One? You better keep yer piece in yer pants when we get together - I ain't into that fetish crap! I've NEVER had anyone actually EXCITED ta get into the ring with m- what am I SAYING?! The RING? The. RIIIING? What's that? Because Sunday night, ain't NO ONE gonna be lookin' in that ring for you or I, Frankie!
No, our little soirée's a free-for-all, AIN'T it? Noooooo Deeeee Quuuuuuuuuuuuuue! Nooooooooooo Deeeeeeeeeeee Quuuuuuuuuuuuuue, Frankie! Oh, my stars and garlands, I can't wait. See, the more excited YOU get, the more excited I get! Can you IMAGINE, Frankie? Have you SEEN what I done did in that ring, when every match was a YES DQ Match? Can you IMAGINE, Frankie? What a man is capable of within the restricting, choking confines of a buncha rules when his forte is in BREAKIN' those same rules? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ohhhh OH, Frankie! You have NO idea! OR, ya DO have an idea, but that idea's just an EMBRYO now, AIN'T it? It ain't ready ta be BORN yet! And even if the water breaks before November 16th, that newborn idea of yers is gonna need all yer attention, attention ya can't afford ta GIVE it, if you wanna beat me!"
"What the FUCK, man?" a man who suddenly got into Schneider's face shouts. "Get that fuckin' camera shit outta here before we fuckin' break it over yer head!"
For a moment, Schneider is caught off-guard. For one fleeting moment, the suddenness of this, this obstacle gives The Portland Madman pause.
But only for that moment.
Schneider doesn't hesitate to deliver a stiff headbutt to the stranger, who staggers back far enough for a big boot to easily strike its target's face. Several winding stomps later, and the rest of the vermin swarm! The cameraman gets as far back as he can, multitasking a zoomed in recording and deftly-initiated call to 911.
Schneider is quickly overtaken by the filth, a mercilessly unending storm of punches and stomps akin to an ultra-violent dust storm. There is no one out here to stop it, or rather, care to stop it. The cameraman doesn't dare utter anything, save remaining on the line with the 911 operator.
Even the toughest of warriors surely couldn't fend off such a barrage! Hopelessness sets in. This must, finally, mark the end of Maxwell Schneider...
...But then! Then! A volcanic rumble grows louder, and Mount Saint Schneider erupts! Bursting back up to his feet, a bloodied and battered mountain of a man roars with the intensity of a hundred lions! Skulls crack! Backs break! THOCK! BAM! BASH! CRASH! Bodies flying everywhere! Weapons are drawn! Weapons are disarmed! Arms are disarmed! Figuratively, but still. Schneider wades through limp bodies, dips his toes into the blood that quickly rushes into the storm drains. More men. Weapon defense. More men fall. Cuts, bruises, trauma, concussions. The rats scurry, well, those that can do, anyway. Others beg for mercy. Schneider can't afford to dole that out. Survival of the fittest. Schneider is a mammoth in modern times. A evolutionary throwback with a twist deemed worthy of continued existence in the year 2014.
A man pulls out a gun. Murder in his eyes. His hand shakes. This must end. This is HIS hood, and this man promises to destroy his way of life. Die, savage, DIE!!!
But...
There is no gunshot. Sirens. Sirens, the clarion call of the warriors decked in blue garb. That is this man's queue to flee, to fight another day. Death would come eventually to the Leviathanic Invader. Cop cars. Ambulances. Many, MANY ambulances.
The cameraman explains what happened. Schneider is inspected.
A paramedic asks, "You feeling all right? Anything feel broken?"
Schneider breathes heavily, but grins. This is not normal behaviour for someone who just got bumrushed. Neither is the end result, one supposes. "Never felt better, doc! Never felt better."
Noting his apparent mental state, they opt for a more thorough examination, roadside. Nothing, nothing, nothing, a wince. A wince? A reveal: a knife wound! Schneider's been stabbed! Adrenaline denies the cries of pain. Schneider is bleeding. Schneider must go inside the ambulance. He refuses. He is miraculously subdued and strapped down.
"Never felt better, Frankie! Never felt better! Get off me! Lemme go!!" Schneider shouts, and continues to in differing ways and lengths. "I know what yer thinkin', Frankie! I know! I KNOW!!! I'll see YOU when I see you! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!!!!!"
And then the cameraman is finally told to stop recording, which doesn't matter, as the ambulance doors are slammed shut, and that particular one speeds off. The cameraman gets one last panning shot of the heaps of humanity left to be cleaned up by the appropriate forces.
The question then remains: who stabbed Maxwell Schneider?!
Both men from the streets. Poverty. Abuse. Misery. DANGERTERRORHORROR. One man was shaped into a fatalistic, hateful, vulgar savage. One man was forged into a self-destructive, deluded, insane savage. One man bathes in treachery, another, not at all.
Two Yins. Two Ids. One goal. One winner. One life, one shot, one hit, one kill. There can be only one1. Yes. C h a o s, if for but a night, shall rule. All will be consumed. Regurgitated into mere husks of their former selves. Cocheese and Schneider too. Everyone. Havoc. Destruction. Anni
hilati
o
n.
Neither man will let up. Neither man will accept defeat. Neither man will allow the other man to leave Sunday Night Combat under their own power. Neither man will be satisfied with anything but total, complete, perfectly formulated and executed visceral, gory, unspeakable ultra-violence.
Mega-violence. Ultra-mega-violence. No. There's no words in any language to describe the events of that fateful Sunday. Just screams, wails, moans, just sounds. The orchestra of agony. Led by the conductor of anguish. A thirty-million-piece set.
The likes have never been seen.
And never will again.
Ever.
When last we met our hero, "Perfectly Sane" Maxwell Schneider was reaching new heights of madness. Lucid insights? Anything to spin it in his favour. But today, there is no Sarah Conner. There is no one, save The Portland Madman himself. And the street. The unforgiving, emotionless street. The hardness of the pavement, the concrete, the cement. Curbs for curb stomping. Lanes for drive-bys. Alleys where all the unsaid horrors can hide.
The streets of Birmingham at night. It could be anywhere. It could be YOUR street. Evil lurks in the shadows, usually, but the most brazen and dangerous stand out so all can see their unstoppable sinful machinations. No one can stop them. The police don't care. Anyone who's tried, hospital. Or worse. Anyone who's succeeded once, did so ONLY once. Knives. Guns. Worse. Thugs. Gangs. Pimps. Dealers. Home to men like Cocheese. He both hates it and loves it. Simultaneous polar emotions. Schneider hates it, but is used to it. He's taken his licks on the street, doled out many more, but regardless of who he messed with, all these years later, still alive. Cocheese too. Though for differing reasons. Cocheese embraced the sin. Embraced the darkness. He accepted crime into his life, his heart, his very SOUL. Anything Schneider did was merely for survival purposes only. No pleasure in the way Cocheese feels it, anyway.
But back to the streets. Schneider knows the dangers here. Is Washington DC a more dangerous street-laden locale than anything in Alabama? Truly? How Cocheese paints it, it's worse than any war-torn African or Middle Eastern nation. Truly? Doubt
ful. Close? The very idea could send
shivers down most any
spine.
These streets look like any other Schneider's seen, and he's see his fair share on the West Coast. Many more peppered around the South. This will have to do as Schneider's Cocheese Life Simulator.
"The streets of Birmingham,Ala-BAMA!" is how he starts out what ought to prove to be an insanity-laced diatribe that could get the average man shackled, locked up in solitary confinement, and the key and all its copies destroyed. Forgotten about until all that's left is a rotting corpse. "They ain't Washington, DC, Frankie, but they'll have ta do!"
Eyes all over him. Bathed in glares and untrusting looks. Some edge closer with bad intentions, others back away with fearful hearts.
"See, I heard what ya had ta say about me, Frankie, ya disgusting little low-life ya! First of all, ya'd do best ta keep that little Miss Wylde's name out of yer dirty mind. She ain't part of this match; ya got BIGGER things ta worry about than some non-consensual advances you got planned! Second of all, you ain't done any research, cuz if ya did, ya'd KNOW I got my clean bill of mental health in WRITING... but no one's seen YOURS! That's because yer a certified NUT, and I'm the ONLY man that can do the world a favour and, and, and LOBOTOMIZE you! True, I'll have ta do it the ol' fashioned way, but then again, THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE IT!!!"
Both men have legitimate reasons to carry themselves in the manner they have been: what with Cocheese's past accolades and Schneider's current ones, the braggadocio flows freely; humility is too decadent a sentiment to own.
"Now that we got the formalities outta the way, lemme tell ya somethin', Frankie, I don't buy yer death-wish, nope, not for one SECOND! Oh sure, there's people out there that feel like death's the only way out of a bad life, but your life's only bad because you're relegated to a rotten part of the world: a generous amount of cashola, title belts and good health tell me, yyyyyyyyyyyya haven't done much ta work on yer whole death goal, kid.
People like you make me SICK! SICK!! You can MOVE! You can AFFORD that! You got friends in high places, low too, if yer ta be believed! You earned yerself fame, championships, equally-dangerous allies, and yet, and yet, AND YET, you wanna DIE? Nuthin's GOOD enough for a whiner like you, that's YER problem! Ya see ME beggin' fer death? ONLY TA SEE WHO'S MAN ENOUGH TO TRY TA STOP ME! No man yet has, in all my years, and buddy, oh, buddy, I ain't gettin' rusty as the years go on, I'm like a fiiiiiine wine, a fiiiiiiine wine, a wine filled with RAZOR BLADES! Laced with ARSENIC! DRINK me, Frankie, DRINK ME!!!"
Irritated natives to the realm of the streets take issue with Schneider's diatribe. The presence of the cameraman also sets them on edge; how can one go about committing crimes when potential video evidence is being filmed? Some shout insults from across the street, others ante up with actual threats. To a novice, these are things to be worried about. To an interloper of The Streets, a sign to get the fuck out NOW. But to a Veteran of 1,000 Wars, a mere buzzing in his ears that is best to be ignored.
"But, onto something else ya said: how you wanted ta tango with ol' Maxie-poo since Day One? You better keep yer piece in yer pants when we get together - I ain't into that fetish crap! I've NEVER had anyone actually EXCITED ta get into the ring with m- what am I SAYING?! The RING? The. RIIIING? What's that? Because Sunday night, ain't NO ONE gonna be lookin' in that ring for you or I, Frankie!
No, our little soirée's a free-for-all, AIN'T it? Noooooo Deeeee Quuuuuuuuuuuuuue! Nooooooooooo Deeeeeeeeeeee Quuuuuuuuuuuuuue, Frankie! Oh, my stars and garlands, I can't wait. See, the more excited YOU get, the more excited I get! Can you IMAGINE, Frankie? Have you SEEN what I done did in that ring, when every match was a YES DQ Match? Can you IMAGINE, Frankie? What a man is capable of within the restricting, choking confines of a buncha rules when his forte is in BREAKIN' those same rules? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ohhhh OH, Frankie! You have NO idea! OR, ya DO have an idea, but that idea's just an EMBRYO now, AIN'T it? It ain't ready ta be BORN yet! And even if the water breaks before November 16th, that newborn idea of yers is gonna need all yer attention, attention ya can't afford ta GIVE it, if you wanna beat me!"
"What the FUCK, man?" a man who suddenly got into Schneider's face shouts. "Get that fuckin' camera shit outta here before we fuckin' break it over yer head!"
For a moment, Schneider is caught off-guard. For one fleeting moment, the suddenness of this, this obstacle gives The Portland Madman pause.
But only for that moment.
Schneider doesn't hesitate to deliver a stiff headbutt to the stranger, who staggers back far enough for a big boot to easily strike its target's face. Several winding stomps later, and the rest of the vermin swarm! The cameraman gets as far back as he can, multitasking a zoomed in recording and deftly-initiated call to 911.
Schneider is quickly overtaken by the filth, a mercilessly unending storm of punches and stomps akin to an ultra-violent dust storm. There is no one out here to stop it, or rather, care to stop it. The cameraman doesn't dare utter anything, save remaining on the line with the 911 operator.
Even the toughest of warriors surely couldn't fend off such a barrage! Hopelessness sets in. This must, finally, mark the end of Maxwell Schneider...
...But then! Then! A volcanic rumble grows louder, and Mount Saint Schneider erupts! Bursting back up to his feet, a bloodied and battered mountain of a man roars with the intensity of a hundred lions! Skulls crack! Backs break! THOCK! BAM! BASH! CRASH! Bodies flying everywhere! Weapons are drawn! Weapons are disarmed! Arms are disarmed! Figuratively, but still. Schneider wades through limp bodies, dips his toes into the blood that quickly rushes into the storm drains. More men. Weapon defense. More men fall. Cuts, bruises, trauma, concussions. The rats scurry, well, those that can do, anyway. Others beg for mercy. Schneider can't afford to dole that out. Survival of the fittest. Schneider is a mammoth in modern times. A evolutionary throwback with a twist deemed worthy of continued existence in the year 2014.
A man pulls out a gun. Murder in his eyes. His hand shakes. This must end. This is HIS hood, and this man promises to destroy his way of life. Die, savage, DIE!!!
But...
There is no gunshot. Sirens. Sirens, the clarion call of the warriors decked in blue garb. That is this man's queue to flee, to fight another day. Death would come eventually to the Leviathanic Invader. Cop cars. Ambulances. Many, MANY ambulances.
The cameraman explains what happened. Schneider is inspected.
A paramedic asks, "You feeling all right? Anything feel broken?"
Schneider breathes heavily, but grins. This is not normal behaviour for someone who just got bumrushed. Neither is the end result, one supposes. "Never felt better, doc! Never felt better."
Noting his apparent mental state, they opt for a more thorough examination, roadside. Nothing, nothing, nothing, a wince. A wince? A reveal: a knife wound! Schneider's been stabbed! Adrenaline denies the cries of pain. Schneider is bleeding. Schneider must go inside the ambulance. He refuses. He is miraculously subdued and strapped down.
"Never felt better, Frankie! Never felt better! Get off me! Lemme go!!" Schneider shouts, and continues to in differing ways and lengths. "I know what yer thinkin', Frankie! I know! I KNOW!!! I'll see YOU when I see you! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!!!!!"
And then the cameraman is finally told to stop recording, which doesn't matter, as the ambulance doors are slammed shut, and that particular one speeds off. The cameraman gets one last panning shot of the heaps of humanity left to be cleaned up by the appropriate forces.
The question then remains: who stabbed Maxwell Schneider?!
THE END?
so quickly so sad!
