Going Beyond Postal: I Am A Martyr!
Nov 9, 2014 15:22:07 GMT
Ryan DeFalco and Drew Stevenson like this
Post by Frankie Cocheese on Nov 9, 2014 15:22:07 GMT
Madmen. True madmen. In their own ways, they were both true madmen.
What is it their hearts truly desire?
Fame? Death? Peace? Maxwell thinks Cocheese wants the first two, but what does he really know?
The RWD championship? That's a given. If you don't want it, then why are you here?
To please the fans? Hah! Cocheese could care less but Maxwell obviously desires their admiration. He's a madman in his own right for that.
Martyrs. That's what it boils down to. They both want to be martyrs. They both want to be remembered for their causes. Not just fame, they've already achieved that, the both of them. They want to brutalize, maim each other, to the point where they may actually die in that ring, and their souls will live on. Immortality.
Frankie sees himself as a martyr, one that'll bleed in the ring for the streets, for his hood, just like the guys who kicked the shit out of Maxwell. One that'll rise up from the gutter and take what is his. He doesn't see himself sitting in some lonely apartment, cock throbbing in hand as he watched Lucy Wylde be punished in her last match. He could see himself as a man who went out there and died for what he believes in.
Fatalistic. Hateful. Vulgar. Savage. Self-destructive. Deluded. Insane. How is one shaped in just a few and the other is shaped in the rest? They're both shaped of them all. They both have more in common than they think.
Massacre-level violence? Annihilation?! UNSPEAKABLE ULTRA-VIOLENCE?! Is Maxwell SURE he wanted that? Well, if it's what he wants, then it's what he's going to get.
Darkness. Complete darkness is what the video opens up to, until a man's face is shown. It is the cold, unfeeling face of Frankie Cocheese just staring off.
The camera stays on his face, zooming out just a bit to capture the whole thing. Nothing can be noted of the background just yet. Frankie has a white fitted hat on backwards with the MLB logo in the center.
Cocheese continues to say nothing, as audio starts to kick in. The audio sounds like... an unintelligible mass of whispers, with only a few words that a sharp ear could pick out such as 'help' 'why' and please. Cocheese brings a lit cigar to his lips as the camera pans out further. Cocheese appears to be wearing a white t-shirt with the word MARTYR written on it in thick, black sharpie, black cargo pants and a black trenchcoat. His shoes cannot be seen due to the mass of bodies he's standing in. An enormous mass of humanity surrounding him, some dead, most crying for help and begging for their lives. The walls... The walls of the very large 'room' look like they're made out of human flesh, with blood splatters all over it.
Frankie slings an AK-47 up and against his right shoulder as he takes a long drag from the cigar. He says through clenched teeth around the top of the cigar. "Hahaaaaa! We're really showin 'em some mass violence. Ain't we, Maxwell?" He laughs heartily before taking another drag of his cigar, flicking the ashes onto a person below, then bending down to put the lit cigar out on them. When he bends down, the viewers can see that he has a black, remington shotgun strapped to his back as well.
The young asian woman below him that he puts the cigar out on screams in pain. "AHHHHH!" Frankie starts to mock her, screaming along with her. "AHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" He then laughs deeply. "AHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He sends a stiff kick to her ribs, exclaiming, "SHUT UP!" Boots. He's wearing black combat boots. He aims the AK at point blank range to her back and pulls the trigger. The screen blacks out for a moment and all that can be heard is the gunshot, before it comes back to Frankie staring down at the woman who is unmoving now.
"Disappointing..." He says with a slow shake of his head. "You've been disappointing meeee, Maxwell!" He looks towards the camera now. "You haven't been saying all that much, have you? You really haven't. I watch your video, and it's you, not saying all that much, and then getting your ass kicked on the street. Getting your ass STABBED! You think that's supposed to IMPRESS ME?! HUH?!"
He aims the gun off towards his right while shouting, "YOU GET STABBED IN THE STREET LIKE A VICTIM AND THAT'S SUPPOSED TO IMPRESS ME?! YOU GET TREATED LIKE THESE VICTIMS HERE, BELOW ME?!" He pulls the trigger, shooting off in a random direction. To the trained eye, there's no recoil on the gun, and it looks like nothing really came out of it, either.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! See, you got me all wrong, Maxwell. Can I call you Max? Of course I fuckin can! Guys like me don't ask! We just..." He starts to spray the gun around now. "TAKE what we want! Haha!" He walks forward over various bodies, some are crawling, trying to reach a safety that looks to be nowhere in sight. A woman's voice can be heard amongst the cries of agony. "My fingers... My fingers... He shot my fingers... Has anyone seen my fingers? My fingers... Oh God...!"
"But you got me all wrong, Max! You think I'm somebody that just took this way of life in, that I revel in it! You think I let it consume my soul while you're just some bum on the street that did what he HAD to, and that I'm some over privileged whiner that did what he WANTED to do when you've got it ALL WRONG!" He continues to walk over the bodies, sending a stomp down onto a pile of people as he presses forward. "You think I take pleasure in being out in the streets, having to look over my shoulder and not know when DEATH was coming for me!? Having to treat every day on this Earth like it's my last but you've got it WRONG! I did what I HAD to! But I can tell you this..... Maxie-boy..." He goes up underneath his shirt, pulling out a Glock 19 handgun with his left hand and tapping the barrel against his temple. "A part of me is what you think I am. A part of me is sick. Evil. MORBID. TWISTED and a DANGEROUS human being! Too dangerous to LIVE! And you ask ME why I want death?! HAHAH..." He laughs sharply, like the thought of asking that question amuses him. He aims the glock towards the camera. "It's because I know the blight I am on this world. It's like I tell people, don't ever let your kids grow up to be a motherfucker like me! It's because I know what it will bring because I am a MARTYR! YOU SEE?!" He lowers his handgun and puffs out his chest so that Maxwell can see the shirt. "A MOTHERFUCKING MARTYR! And I know it's coming for me! I know Death is coming for me and I know this, Max... Oooh I know this much Max and that is the fact that you are not the Death that comes for me. YOU ARE NOT DEATH! YOU. ARE. NOT. DEATH!"
Cocheese's eyes practically bulge out of his skull, they go so wide and he shakes his head feverishly. "Nooo Max! You see... You're too weak for that, Max! You're too weak for that... You are not death because you're too weak for that. And all these people... All of them that are before me..." He spreads his left hand out. "They're all people that admire you, Max. They're all people that think you're so great and you know what? YOU'RE what's wrong! You want to play psycho?! Okay." He nods his head repeatedly. "Fine! Okay! Go ahead and play psycho! Go play a psycho that everybody loves! A psycho is to be hated, Max. HATED! These assholes that shoot up schools and disrupt society, they're to be HATED! And the people LOVE you! They're what's wrong with the world!" He aims his AK at the camera. "YOU ARE WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE WORLD and I want you to hate me! I WANT you to hate me because hate has ALWAYS motivated me! I can prove to you. I can prove to you RIGHT NOW that there's somebody here that admires you!"
He begins to wade through the bodies. The whispers can be heard louder now, and more cries for help and begging overwhelm the ears. He pokes at some people with the barrel of his AK-47. A whimper can be heard, and a young man cries out for the pain to stop. Frankie stands over him. The guy is lanky, and about 6 foot tall with short, messy brown hair, wearing casual street wear and a black Hayden Phoenix t-shirt on. Frankie bellows with laughter. "HEY KID! Do you like Maxwell Schneider?!"
The kid, terrified with his dark brown eyes wide, responds. "Y.. yes..."
Frankie leans his head in, putting his left hand towards his left ear. "What's that? Didn't hear you!" Frankie then puts the barrel of the AK against the kid's cheek.
"YES!" He then begins to cower.
Frankie looks absolutely disgusted now. "... You're what's wrong with the world..." He moves to pull the trigger now, but the kid cries out. "I'M SORRY!"
Frankie eases off the trigger, shouting out, "WHAT?! YOU WHAT?!" His eyes narrow, as if the kid just said the most insulting thing to him right now. He squats down. "You're WHAT?! You're SORRY?!"
The kid starts to cry, nodding his head and screaming out. "YES!"
"SORRY?! SORRY FOR WHAT?!"
"I'M SORRY I TALKED SHIT ON YOU ONLINE! I'm sorry I... get on message boards and say shit like you and Tyson Pride are the Not Thugs. I'm sorry I confuse you for Tyson and say you're going on a Leave of Absence. I'm sorry for taking pot shots at you e-...every chance I get! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm SORRY!"
Frankie stands up slowly, then starts to roar with laughter, putting his free hand on his stomach. "AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That's YOU?!" He raises a brow, then laughs some more. He pushes the gun against the kid's face. "SORRY MEANS NOTHING! NOTHING!" He pulls the trigger, but the gun clicks. The kid cannot be seen anymore, just Frankie standing in amongst the mass of bodies. Frankie laughs once more. "Ooh ha! HAHA! HAHAHAHA! I got you! I got you, didn't I?!" He grins, but it wipes away to a cold stare as he ejects the clip and pulls another one from his waistband, expertly loading the clip. He then pulls back on the lever to load a bullet into the chamber. He lets out a grunt as he does so, as if he's pleased to pull back on that lever and push that bullet into the chamber. A feeling washes over him as he does so. It's like the feeling it gives him makes his dick want to go rock hard. You know the feeling, when you put effort into something, no matter how great or small, and it makes you feel accomplished? That's how he feels now. Accomplished.
The kid cries out. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The screen blacks out once more and a gunshot is heard.
Frankie stares down at his latest masterpiece in silence, the whispers and cries of anguish enveloping him.
"You know what, kid? I'm sorry too. I'm sorry I just shot you in the face. We even now?" He leans his ear down again as he did before. "What? Didn't quite hear you. We're good? Good!" He licks his lips, and walks forward as the camera begins to back up to take him in.
"You know what's funny, Max? I've been at this for a while now, and I haven't really gotten to the MEAT of it all with you, because like I said before, you didn't really say much, so far, and that really disappoints me. But I will address it all. I will address every word with every word of my own and every shot from this here AK." Triumphantly, he holds the AK up, then actually starts to sit down on a pile of bodies, resting the AK across his lap. He places his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together, forefingers together. He taps his forefingers against his nose as he bows his head in thought. "First of all, I've done a lot of things in my time, but rape was never one of them. If Lucy wants some of this Cochedda, she's going to get it willingly, which I'm willing to put money on that being true." He looks to the camera now, and winks, before grimly chuckling. He shakes his head, "Ahhh.... geez... Y'know, Max? You're a fucking joke." He says with a winning smile. "You go and you rant. And you rave." He waves his right hand's forefinger like a conductor's wand at how Max rants and raves. "About how you've got this..." He makes air quotes. "'Clean bill of health' like it's some kind of joke. Does this look like a joke to you, Max?" He holds his hands out at all the bodies on all sides of him. "HUH?! DOES IT?! DOES IT TO YOU, MAX?! You say I'm a certified NUT?! WELL GEE! WHATEVER GAVE THAT AWAY?! No one's ever seen mine because I've never DENIED it, MAX! I'M A NUT! And you're gonna SEE how much of one I am on the 16th! God..."
He hangs his head, placing both hands on the top of his fitted hat while he shakes his head in disbelief. "You're so STUPID!" When he exclaims that last word, he raises his head and runs his hands over his face in frustration. "I said it before, you're not the one to stop me because you're WEAK! You're the kinda PSYCHO that people like to laugh at! No wonder they love you so much! Listen here..."
He laces his fingers together again, pointing his forefingers and thumbs like a gun to the camera, wagging it a little before speaking. "You don't have to buy my death wish. But you take a look at all that I've been through in my career, and you tell me you don't wonder if I seem like I must have one. I was BORN in a rotten part of the world! I GREW up in one! You think I could just MOVE then?! Now? Now, maybe so, but let me tell you something, Max. No one can just up and move! NO ONE CAN JUST RUN FROM THEIR PROBLEMS! Is that what you are, Max? A runner? You disappoint me again." He sighs dejectedly and stands up, carrying his AK over his shoulder.
"You don't beg for death because you're too stupid to realize that you need to be put down like the rabid dog that you are! And that's what I am, too, a rabid dog! And I'm going to bite EVERYBODY until I'm sated and I get what I want! But oh no, when I get what I want, I won't be happy, like the whiner I am, according to the great and all knowing MAXWELL SCHNEIDER! Hah hah! Please. You know what will make me happy? When I finally put you down..."
He holds the AK at his hip now, putting both hands on it as if he's ready to fire. "And put you down, I shall. You think you're like some fine wine, huh? You want me to drink you, take in your poison. You know what? I will. I will quench my blood-thurst on your blood. I will take in your arsenic and I will let it destroy me, once I'm done destroying you and I get what I want. That way, this vicious cycle can end! I can die as the RWD champion and I can die as a martyr because people will want to be JUST like me! They'll want to be the champion. I will get the title, and I will end it all, so if they want it, they'll never be able to beat me... They'll just try to be LIKE me but everybody knows there will never be ANOTHER me! I AM A MARTYR, MAX! I AM A MARTYR!"
Frankie tosses the AK-47 onto one of the bodies and pulls the shotgun out from his back. He raises the barrel into the air, so far that the camera cuts it off. He pumps and fires repeatedly, the whispering stopping for the briefest of moments due to the loud cracks the gun makes as it's fired into the air.
"I WANTED to rumble with you since day one! But all you've been doing recently is DISAPPOINTING ME! The great PERFECTLY SANE MAXWELL SCHNEIDER will just be PERFECTLY SANITIZED! YOU WILL BE PUT DOWN! YES! Yes I've seen what you've done in that ring! I've seen you BREAK people, WITHIN THE RULES! But I am NOT scared! NO! I am NOT scared that this is NO DQ!" He aims the shotgun the same way he did with the AK at his hip. "I'm not scared at what you can do in a No DQ match because I've made a CAREER off of NO DQ! YOU UNDERSTAND?! If you studied, YOU'D KNOW THAT! Drew Stevenson has always been against it! But I don't give a FUCK! I made a career hurting people and putting my LIFE on the line with no rules because that's how I GREW UP! There are no rules on the STREETS! I put my BODY at RISK every night because I AM A MARTYR! I AM A MARTYR! And this idea has been born AGES ago! It has grown up into the man you see today! And I am going to go BEYOND POSTAL ON YOU to SHOW you that you should've been begging and pleading like the kid earlier! Begging and PLEADING with Rech and Garland to SPARE YOUR LIFE!"
He starts to dig into his cargo pants pockets for shotgun ammo, loading it up.
His voice cracks a little at the first sentence, and his lips crease into a maddened smile. "I hope this hurts you. I hope this makes you absolutely fucking disgusted and you want to try and break me! I hope this makes YOU want to go on the massacre-level of violence you want out on society so the people can see the REAL you! I hope you wanna KILL me... Because you're gonna need to. You're gonna need you to stop me on my Contest of Conquest!"
He all of a sudden tosses the shotgun out in front of him, gripping the sides of his head as the whispers carry on, growing louder and louder until it's a deranged chorus of noise. Frankie growls loudly in pain. "AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" Transparent images float from right to left above his head, images of Drew Stevenson, Frank Washington, The Trashman, Hayden Phoenix, and lastly, Maxwell Schneider. Frankie's voice is tinged with hysteria "Victims. Victims Victims VICTIMS! You're ALL MY VICTIMS! ALL OF YOU! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He spreads his hands out. All of a sudden, off camera, waves of what look like blood appear to be tossed onto him, drenching his form. He grins and bears it, bloodstained face and demented grin the focus of the camera now. It then does a quick cut to zoom out, showing a team of police officers tackling him to the 'ground' of bodies surrounding him. They cuff him and shout obscenities at him as he continues to grin at the camera. "I'M ALWAYS READY, MAX! I WILL SEE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU! HA-HA! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
The camera fades to black...
... However, it comes to focus on logs in a fireplace, crackling and glowing a bright orange as a fire blazes on, ever so slowly consuming them.
The fire can still be heard burning in the background as the camera's focus is now the kid that Frankie shot earlier, staring at the camera coldly just as Frankie was in the beginning. The kid appears to be wearing a black pea coat, buttoned up. The rest of his attire cannot be seen at the moment. The camera pans out to show him, standing on the camera's left side with his hands folded on the edge of a very comfortable, red leather chair. He stands to the chair's right. Completing his attire is a pair of black slacks, black dress socks and loafers.
Seated in the chair is a woman in her early 30s that most fans of Cocheese would recognize as Cinnamon. Her crimson colored hair is let down, spilling past her shoulders. She wears a very gorgeous and expensive dark red and black satin dress. It looks like a kind of Gothic-Victorian attire. It has shoulder strips and multi layers, with the bottom layer being black and going from the floor to about her knees. She has a glass of red wine in her right hand, which she holds between her middle and ring fingers. She swishes the glass around a little, ruby red colored lips parting to speak. "What awaits our psychotic little Cocheese next... as he makes his descent into the mouth of madness?" She brings the wine to her lips, taking a small sip and smiling. Her tone is sultry, "Stay tuned..."
The camera fades on the two.
What is it their hearts truly desire?
Fame? Death? Peace? Maxwell thinks Cocheese wants the first two, but what does he really know?
The RWD championship? That's a given. If you don't want it, then why are you here?
To please the fans? Hah! Cocheese could care less but Maxwell obviously desires their admiration. He's a madman in his own right for that.
Martyrs. That's what it boils down to. They both want to be martyrs. They both want to be remembered for their causes. Not just fame, they've already achieved that, the both of them. They want to brutalize, maim each other, to the point where they may actually die in that ring, and their souls will live on. Immortality.
Frankie sees himself as a martyr, one that'll bleed in the ring for the streets, for his hood, just like the guys who kicked the shit out of Maxwell. One that'll rise up from the gutter and take what is his. He doesn't see himself sitting in some lonely apartment, cock throbbing in hand as he watched Lucy Wylde be punished in her last match. He could see himself as a man who went out there and died for what he believes in.
Fatalistic. Hateful. Vulgar. Savage. Self-destructive. Deluded. Insane. How is one shaped in just a few and the other is shaped in the rest? They're both shaped of them all. They both have more in common than they think.
Massacre-level violence? Annihilation?! UNSPEAKABLE ULTRA-VIOLENCE?! Is Maxwell SURE he wanted that? Well, if it's what he wants, then it's what he's going to get.
Darkness. Complete darkness is what the video opens up to, until a man's face is shown. It is the cold, unfeeling face of Frankie Cocheese just staring off.
The camera stays on his face, zooming out just a bit to capture the whole thing. Nothing can be noted of the background just yet. Frankie has a white fitted hat on backwards with the MLB logo in the center.
Cocheese continues to say nothing, as audio starts to kick in. The audio sounds like... an unintelligible mass of whispers, with only a few words that a sharp ear could pick out such as 'help' 'why' and please. Cocheese brings a lit cigar to his lips as the camera pans out further. Cocheese appears to be wearing a white t-shirt with the word MARTYR written on it in thick, black sharpie, black cargo pants and a black trenchcoat. His shoes cannot be seen due to the mass of bodies he's standing in. An enormous mass of humanity surrounding him, some dead, most crying for help and begging for their lives. The walls... The walls of the very large 'room' look like they're made out of human flesh, with blood splatters all over it.
Frankie slings an AK-47 up and against his right shoulder as he takes a long drag from the cigar. He says through clenched teeth around the top of the cigar. "Hahaaaaa! We're really showin 'em some mass violence. Ain't we, Maxwell?" He laughs heartily before taking another drag of his cigar, flicking the ashes onto a person below, then bending down to put the lit cigar out on them. When he bends down, the viewers can see that he has a black, remington shotgun strapped to his back as well.
The young asian woman below him that he puts the cigar out on screams in pain. "AHHHHH!" Frankie starts to mock her, screaming along with her. "AHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" He then laughs deeply. "AHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He sends a stiff kick to her ribs, exclaiming, "SHUT UP!" Boots. He's wearing black combat boots. He aims the AK at point blank range to her back and pulls the trigger. The screen blacks out for a moment and all that can be heard is the gunshot, before it comes back to Frankie staring down at the woman who is unmoving now.
"Disappointing..." He says with a slow shake of his head. "You've been disappointing meeee, Maxwell!" He looks towards the camera now. "You haven't been saying all that much, have you? You really haven't. I watch your video, and it's you, not saying all that much, and then getting your ass kicked on the street. Getting your ass STABBED! You think that's supposed to IMPRESS ME?! HUH?!"
He aims the gun off towards his right while shouting, "YOU GET STABBED IN THE STREET LIKE A VICTIM AND THAT'S SUPPOSED TO IMPRESS ME?! YOU GET TREATED LIKE THESE VICTIMS HERE, BELOW ME?!" He pulls the trigger, shooting off in a random direction. To the trained eye, there's no recoil on the gun, and it looks like nothing really came out of it, either.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! See, you got me all wrong, Maxwell. Can I call you Max? Of course I fuckin can! Guys like me don't ask! We just..." He starts to spray the gun around now. "TAKE what we want! Haha!" He walks forward over various bodies, some are crawling, trying to reach a safety that looks to be nowhere in sight. A woman's voice can be heard amongst the cries of agony. "My fingers... My fingers... He shot my fingers... Has anyone seen my fingers? My fingers... Oh God...!"
"But you got me all wrong, Max! You think I'm somebody that just took this way of life in, that I revel in it! You think I let it consume my soul while you're just some bum on the street that did what he HAD to, and that I'm some over privileged whiner that did what he WANTED to do when you've got it ALL WRONG!" He continues to walk over the bodies, sending a stomp down onto a pile of people as he presses forward. "You think I take pleasure in being out in the streets, having to look over my shoulder and not know when DEATH was coming for me!? Having to treat every day on this Earth like it's my last but you've got it WRONG! I did what I HAD to! But I can tell you this..... Maxie-boy..." He goes up underneath his shirt, pulling out a Glock 19 handgun with his left hand and tapping the barrel against his temple. "A part of me is what you think I am. A part of me is sick. Evil. MORBID. TWISTED and a DANGEROUS human being! Too dangerous to LIVE! And you ask ME why I want death?! HAHAH..." He laughs sharply, like the thought of asking that question amuses him. He aims the glock towards the camera. "It's because I know the blight I am on this world. It's like I tell people, don't ever let your kids grow up to be a motherfucker like me! It's because I know what it will bring because I am a MARTYR! YOU SEE?!" He lowers his handgun and puffs out his chest so that Maxwell can see the shirt. "A MOTHERFUCKING MARTYR! And I know it's coming for me! I know Death is coming for me and I know this, Max... Oooh I know this much Max and that is the fact that you are not the Death that comes for me. YOU ARE NOT DEATH! YOU. ARE. NOT. DEATH!"
Cocheese's eyes practically bulge out of his skull, they go so wide and he shakes his head feverishly. "Nooo Max! You see... You're too weak for that, Max! You're too weak for that... You are not death because you're too weak for that. And all these people... All of them that are before me..." He spreads his left hand out. "They're all people that admire you, Max. They're all people that think you're so great and you know what? YOU'RE what's wrong! You want to play psycho?! Okay." He nods his head repeatedly. "Fine! Okay! Go ahead and play psycho! Go play a psycho that everybody loves! A psycho is to be hated, Max. HATED! These assholes that shoot up schools and disrupt society, they're to be HATED! And the people LOVE you! They're what's wrong with the world!" He aims his AK at the camera. "YOU ARE WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE WORLD and I want you to hate me! I WANT you to hate me because hate has ALWAYS motivated me! I can prove to you. I can prove to you RIGHT NOW that there's somebody here that admires you!"
He begins to wade through the bodies. The whispers can be heard louder now, and more cries for help and begging overwhelm the ears. He pokes at some people with the barrel of his AK-47. A whimper can be heard, and a young man cries out for the pain to stop. Frankie stands over him. The guy is lanky, and about 6 foot tall with short, messy brown hair, wearing casual street wear and a black Hayden Phoenix t-shirt on. Frankie bellows with laughter. "HEY KID! Do you like Maxwell Schneider?!"
The kid, terrified with his dark brown eyes wide, responds. "Y.. yes..."
Frankie leans his head in, putting his left hand towards his left ear. "What's that? Didn't hear you!" Frankie then puts the barrel of the AK against the kid's cheek.
"YES!" He then begins to cower.
Frankie looks absolutely disgusted now. "... You're what's wrong with the world..." He moves to pull the trigger now, but the kid cries out. "I'M SORRY!"
Frankie eases off the trigger, shouting out, "WHAT?! YOU WHAT?!" His eyes narrow, as if the kid just said the most insulting thing to him right now. He squats down. "You're WHAT?! You're SORRY?!"
The kid starts to cry, nodding his head and screaming out. "YES!"
"SORRY?! SORRY FOR WHAT?!"
"I'M SORRY I TALKED SHIT ON YOU ONLINE! I'm sorry I... get on message boards and say shit like you and Tyson Pride are the Not Thugs. I'm sorry I confuse you for Tyson and say you're going on a Leave of Absence. I'm sorry for taking pot shots at you e-...every chance I get! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm SORRY!"
Frankie stands up slowly, then starts to roar with laughter, putting his free hand on his stomach. "AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That's YOU?!" He raises a brow, then laughs some more. He pushes the gun against the kid's face. "SORRY MEANS NOTHING! NOTHING!" He pulls the trigger, but the gun clicks. The kid cannot be seen anymore, just Frankie standing in amongst the mass of bodies. Frankie laughs once more. "Ooh ha! HAHA! HAHAHAHA! I got you! I got you, didn't I?!" He grins, but it wipes away to a cold stare as he ejects the clip and pulls another one from his waistband, expertly loading the clip. He then pulls back on the lever to load a bullet into the chamber. He lets out a grunt as he does so, as if he's pleased to pull back on that lever and push that bullet into the chamber. A feeling washes over him as he does so. It's like the feeling it gives him makes his dick want to go rock hard. You know the feeling, when you put effort into something, no matter how great or small, and it makes you feel accomplished? That's how he feels now. Accomplished.
The kid cries out. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The screen blacks out once more and a gunshot is heard.
Frankie stares down at his latest masterpiece in silence, the whispers and cries of anguish enveloping him.
"You know what, kid? I'm sorry too. I'm sorry I just shot you in the face. We even now?" He leans his ear down again as he did before. "What? Didn't quite hear you. We're good? Good!" He licks his lips, and walks forward as the camera begins to back up to take him in.
"You know what's funny, Max? I've been at this for a while now, and I haven't really gotten to the MEAT of it all with you, because like I said before, you didn't really say much, so far, and that really disappoints me. But I will address it all. I will address every word with every word of my own and every shot from this here AK." Triumphantly, he holds the AK up, then actually starts to sit down on a pile of bodies, resting the AK across his lap. He places his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together, forefingers together. He taps his forefingers against his nose as he bows his head in thought. "First of all, I've done a lot of things in my time, but rape was never one of them. If Lucy wants some of this Cochedda, she's going to get it willingly, which I'm willing to put money on that being true." He looks to the camera now, and winks, before grimly chuckling. He shakes his head, "Ahhh.... geez... Y'know, Max? You're a fucking joke." He says with a winning smile. "You go and you rant. And you rave." He waves his right hand's forefinger like a conductor's wand at how Max rants and raves. "About how you've got this..." He makes air quotes. "'Clean bill of health' like it's some kind of joke. Does this look like a joke to you, Max?" He holds his hands out at all the bodies on all sides of him. "HUH?! DOES IT?! DOES IT TO YOU, MAX?! You say I'm a certified NUT?! WELL GEE! WHATEVER GAVE THAT AWAY?! No one's ever seen mine because I've never DENIED it, MAX! I'M A NUT! And you're gonna SEE how much of one I am on the 16th! God..."
He hangs his head, placing both hands on the top of his fitted hat while he shakes his head in disbelief. "You're so STUPID!" When he exclaims that last word, he raises his head and runs his hands over his face in frustration. "I said it before, you're not the one to stop me because you're WEAK! You're the kinda PSYCHO that people like to laugh at! No wonder they love you so much! Listen here..."
He laces his fingers together again, pointing his forefingers and thumbs like a gun to the camera, wagging it a little before speaking. "You don't have to buy my death wish. But you take a look at all that I've been through in my career, and you tell me you don't wonder if I seem like I must have one. I was BORN in a rotten part of the world! I GREW up in one! You think I could just MOVE then?! Now? Now, maybe so, but let me tell you something, Max. No one can just up and move! NO ONE CAN JUST RUN FROM THEIR PROBLEMS! Is that what you are, Max? A runner? You disappoint me again." He sighs dejectedly and stands up, carrying his AK over his shoulder.
"You don't beg for death because you're too stupid to realize that you need to be put down like the rabid dog that you are! And that's what I am, too, a rabid dog! And I'm going to bite EVERYBODY until I'm sated and I get what I want! But oh no, when I get what I want, I won't be happy, like the whiner I am, according to the great and all knowing MAXWELL SCHNEIDER! Hah hah! Please. You know what will make me happy? When I finally put you down..."
He holds the AK at his hip now, putting both hands on it as if he's ready to fire. "And put you down, I shall. You think you're like some fine wine, huh? You want me to drink you, take in your poison. You know what? I will. I will quench my blood-thurst on your blood. I will take in your arsenic and I will let it destroy me, once I'm done destroying you and I get what I want. That way, this vicious cycle can end! I can die as the RWD champion and I can die as a martyr because people will want to be JUST like me! They'll want to be the champion. I will get the title, and I will end it all, so if they want it, they'll never be able to beat me... They'll just try to be LIKE me but everybody knows there will never be ANOTHER me! I AM A MARTYR, MAX! I AM A MARTYR!"
Frankie tosses the AK-47 onto one of the bodies and pulls the shotgun out from his back. He raises the barrel into the air, so far that the camera cuts it off. He pumps and fires repeatedly, the whispering stopping for the briefest of moments due to the loud cracks the gun makes as it's fired into the air.
"I WANTED to rumble with you since day one! But all you've been doing recently is DISAPPOINTING ME! The great PERFECTLY SANE MAXWELL SCHNEIDER will just be PERFECTLY SANITIZED! YOU WILL BE PUT DOWN! YES! Yes I've seen what you've done in that ring! I've seen you BREAK people, WITHIN THE RULES! But I am NOT scared! NO! I am NOT scared that this is NO DQ!" He aims the shotgun the same way he did with the AK at his hip. "I'm not scared at what you can do in a No DQ match because I've made a CAREER off of NO DQ! YOU UNDERSTAND?! If you studied, YOU'D KNOW THAT! Drew Stevenson has always been against it! But I don't give a FUCK! I made a career hurting people and putting my LIFE on the line with no rules because that's how I GREW UP! There are no rules on the STREETS! I put my BODY at RISK every night because I AM A MARTYR! I AM A MARTYR! And this idea has been born AGES ago! It has grown up into the man you see today! And I am going to go BEYOND POSTAL ON YOU to SHOW you that you should've been begging and pleading like the kid earlier! Begging and PLEADING with Rech and Garland to SPARE YOUR LIFE!"
He starts to dig into his cargo pants pockets for shotgun ammo, loading it up.
His voice cracks a little at the first sentence, and his lips crease into a maddened smile. "I hope this hurts you. I hope this makes you absolutely fucking disgusted and you want to try and break me! I hope this makes YOU want to go on the massacre-level of violence you want out on society so the people can see the REAL you! I hope you wanna KILL me... Because you're gonna need to. You're gonna need you to stop me on my Contest of Conquest!"
He all of a sudden tosses the shotgun out in front of him, gripping the sides of his head as the whispers carry on, growing louder and louder until it's a deranged chorus of noise. Frankie growls loudly in pain. "AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" Transparent images float from right to left above his head, images of Drew Stevenson, Frank Washington, The Trashman, Hayden Phoenix, and lastly, Maxwell Schneider. Frankie's voice is tinged with hysteria "Victims. Victims Victims VICTIMS! You're ALL MY VICTIMS! ALL OF YOU! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He spreads his hands out. All of a sudden, off camera, waves of what look like blood appear to be tossed onto him, drenching his form. He grins and bears it, bloodstained face and demented grin the focus of the camera now. It then does a quick cut to zoom out, showing a team of police officers tackling him to the 'ground' of bodies surrounding him. They cuff him and shout obscenities at him as he continues to grin at the camera. "I'M ALWAYS READY, MAX! I WILL SEE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU! HA-HA! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
The camera fades to black...
... However, it comes to focus on logs in a fireplace, crackling and glowing a bright orange as a fire blazes on, ever so slowly consuming them.
The fire can still be heard burning in the background as the camera's focus is now the kid that Frankie shot earlier, staring at the camera coldly just as Frankie was in the beginning. The kid appears to be wearing a black pea coat, buttoned up. The rest of his attire cannot be seen at the moment. The camera pans out to show him, standing on the camera's left side with his hands folded on the edge of a very comfortable, red leather chair. He stands to the chair's right. Completing his attire is a pair of black slacks, black dress socks and loafers.
Seated in the chair is a woman in her early 30s that most fans of Cocheese would recognize as Cinnamon. Her crimson colored hair is let down, spilling past her shoulders. She wears a very gorgeous and expensive dark red and black satin dress. It looks like a kind of Gothic-Victorian attire. It has shoulder strips and multi layers, with the bottom layer being black and going from the floor to about her knees. She has a glass of red wine in her right hand, which she holds between her middle and ring fingers. She swishes the glass around a little, ruby red colored lips parting to speak. "What awaits our psychotic little Cocheese next... as he makes his descent into the mouth of madness?" She brings the wine to her lips, taking a small sip and smiling. Her tone is sultry, "Stay tuned..."
The camera fades on the two.
so quickly so sad!
