Post by Press1269 on Mar 31, 2020 14:04:41 GMT
4/1/2020 [OFF CAMERA]
THE ICE CASTLE
SANTA MONICA PIER, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
Press leaned against a wall in an alleyway just outside of The Ice Castle, a local favorite of Santa Monica that specialized in frozen yogurts and treats on the Santa Monica Pier. Things had been crazy for the past little bit, both in their personal lives and their two professions.
Personal, they were stuck here in Santa Monica for the time being thanks to Covid 19. If they were planning on heading back to Las Vegas, they would have needed to do so earlier. The state of California was already issuing a warning to its citizens to stay at home if at all possible, and people were being quarantined in the larger areas. There had been a few cases right here in Santa Monica, and many had already been ordered not to leave unless absolutely necessary. The word 'essential' was being thrown around a lot, and it appeared that the state...hell...the whole world had ground to halt in a matter of a week.
The BombTrax, of course, weren't too concerned about it. Part of their deal with being 'God Touched' allowed them to stay clear of disease. That didn't make it any easier to explain to Munin why they were going out so often in the face of a pandemic, but they had assured her that she and the others should stay confined. He was pretty sure that Krahe had snuck her out once or twice, but what was he going to say? Being cooped up wasn't the Lady's idea of a real good time.
Not to mention, The Catalyst deserved a celebration. He had just won the Television Championship, a big get for the quartet. Munin had muzzled Astrid on the same show, while The BombTrax had escaped Jason Dave and Scott Wilson, maintaining their own 'Titles'. That side of the business was good. Everyone was building to something going into the next big show, Civil War, and if The BombTrax could just get past Jason Dave, they'd possibly even have the night off. That'd suit them fine. Give them a chance to keep tabs on the other IPW kids, and that Heavyweight Championship tournament that Brooklyn Holloway had decided to pull the trigger on without one of them being allowed the opportunity to be apart of it.
The big man smiles. Maybe the new champion would break as easy as the last one. Most people did when put through a table repeatedly.
The bang further down the alley brought him out of his musings to focus his attention on the here and now. They had received a police report from Youth's cop pal, Enrique, on the dealings of one Gerald Dobbs. Gerald wasn't the original owner of The Ice Castle, which was built back in 1957, but had bought the place from the original owner back in 1993. He was a tall German with a deep accent, an imposing build, and a bit of a belly from years of sampling his wares. For the most part, according to the report anyways, he was clean. The dynamic duo, on the other hand, could see something that most people couldn't. Underneath all of that Russian hyperbole and love for frozen treats was a fey. A fey that just so happens to descend from the line of the wicked witch from the famed fable, Hansel & Gretel.
That meant that good, wholesome, down to earth Gerald liked to eat kids, and that police report came with a slew of disappearances that were never linked to the yogurt shop owner, but were all abducted somewhere close by.
While Gerald always seemed to have an alibi, Press and Youth suspected that he was directly involved.
Only question was; How many more of these types lurked in the background, and was there any connection to the recent fey murders?
Normally, eating kids was enough to earn Gerald a one way ticket back to hell, but that wasn't their only job. One of their chief contacts in Vegas, LoLo, had called in a favor, which had led them to The Basement Tavern. A low grade den for spooks, demons, and other supernatural entities. Same rules applied at the tavern as they did at LoLo's Bar & Grill. No bloodshed on premises under any circumstances, with spells in place to ensure that those who did would live to regret it. The proprietor, Leandra, was the one with the problem. Apparently a number of her tribe were being culled out, and all of it started soon after she and her lover, Trea, had a spat over control of the community. Trea had been kicked out of the tribe after loosing to Leandra, and it just so happened that Gerald and Trea were tight.
Real tight. Like cousins.
The sound of glass hitting the pavement followed by a curse brought Press's head snapping to attention. The curse he recognized, and he shook his head in embarrassment as his partner came running down the alley to dodge behind the dumpster the big man was currently standing behind.
Youth looked up to the Big Man who leveled him with his disapproving gaze, and the young man shrugged his shoulders, holding his hands up in innocence.
"How the hell was I supposed to know that the trash detail would be affected by the Coronavirus? There are freakin' heaps back there behind Gerry's shop!"
Press upper lip went terse as he looked over the dumpster to ensure that Gerald hadn't been alerted while Youth pouted off to the side. Eventually he looked back to his partner and flicked him in the chest with one of his massive paws.
"Well?" he asked, expectantly.
Youth rolled his eyes, but answered. "Yeah, Yeah. He's in there. Last customer jetted a few seconds ago. I guess all the businesses are having to shut down early thanks to the pandemic. We might actually get home at a descent hour this time around."
He said that last hopefully, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the big man as he rolled around the dumpster and started to make his way that Youth had just came.
"I wouldn't count my chickens before they hatched, kid."
Youth sighed heavily before peeling out to follow his partner as he tipped toed up to the window that gave him a view of the kitchen. Watching the 365 pounder trying to be stealthy caused him to giggle slightly, but he quickly sucked the sound back in when Press shot him a dirty look. He saddled up beside the big man to peer the window on the opposite side.
Gerald had just finished bringing the large steel grate down in front of his glass windowed shop and locked it with a padlock just before making his way around the corner and discarding his apron. He also removed the face mask and gloves that he had been wearing all day, and gave a resigned sigh of relief to be shed of them. He whistled a low tune, nothing that either man had heard before, and to be honest had glad they hadn't. It was discordant, if not haunting, and had the hairs standing up on the back of their necks.
The tall German began closing up the freezer booths that sat side by side, making up the stores front counter, and then made his way over to the register where he began pulling the cash from the till. He placed the bills and change into a blue bank bag, zipping it up and tossing it onto a desk hidden from view if you were a customer. He turned to the large freezer, but before opening the door to step inside, reached over and flicked on the radio to have a few tunes while he did his inventory.
Kid Rock's 'Devil Without A Cause' began blaring through the speakers, right about the time that Joe C's part kicked off.
Youth perks up in surprise. "Oh shit...that's my Jam!"
"Shhhh!" Press shushed, eyes going hard in his partner's direction.
Suddenly another voice joined the song, from inside the freezer...
The door leading out to the back alley bursts open with an explosive blast from behind, and the goblin creature spins around, eyes wide and scared as Press and Youth spill into the room, the big man giving him a sadistic grin before adding...
"We like to party...."
Youth drives his fist into his own hand intimidatingly, a grin forming on his face.
"Rock the party...."
The creatures expression goes from surprised to fearful in a split second, and before either man can react he rushes towards the front counter and springs clear up and over it. Press starts to call a warning, but he's too late, and he snarls a curse as he shoves past the counter and into the interior of the dining area. The fey is over by the padlocked door, fumbling with a key, by the time Youth joins Press, who indicates with a wave of his hand to subdue the creature.
Youth shrugs, running forward to grab hold of Gerald, but the slippery cur spins out of his grasp. He abandons the padlock to quickly spin around and brings one of his stubby little feet right up square into Youth's privates. With a grunt, the younger BombTrax grabs at his genitals before hitting his knees. Gerald doesn't even get his foot fully free before he's redirecting towards the only other open portal in the room. The very backdoor that Press had just kicked in.
He rushes past tables and chairs and makes to bound over the counter once more, back into the servers area, but before he can make it a giant hand snatches him out of midair by the scruff of his neck.
Press wheels the Gerald around, and the scrappy fey continues to kick, sputter, and curse all the while being held aloft by the big man.
"You big, goofy looking, piece of shit! Let me down! I won't be manhandled this way, I tell you! LET ME DOWN!"
Press gives the creature a jostle and his voice reverberates in his chest before he finally comes to a stop, looking up at the big man with pleading eyes.
"Just...Just tell me what you want? Why are you here? Don't Kill me..." He cries in the most pathetic voice that either man had ever heard.
Youth, however, doesn't seem much to care, finally having gotten back to his feet but being forced to hobble until he gets his crotch area sorted out.
Personal, they were stuck here in Santa Monica for the time being thanks to Covid 19. If they were planning on heading back to Las Vegas, they would have needed to do so earlier. The state of California was already issuing a warning to its citizens to stay at home if at all possible, and people were being quarantined in the larger areas. There had been a few cases right here in Santa Monica, and many had already been ordered not to leave unless absolutely necessary. The word 'essential' was being thrown around a lot, and it appeared that the state...hell...the whole world had ground to halt in a matter of a week.
The BombTrax, of course, weren't too concerned about it. Part of their deal with being 'God Touched' allowed them to stay clear of disease. That didn't make it any easier to explain to Munin why they were going out so often in the face of a pandemic, but they had assured her that she and the others should stay confined. He was pretty sure that Krahe had snuck her out once or twice, but what was he going to say? Being cooped up wasn't the Lady's idea of a real good time.
Not to mention, The Catalyst deserved a celebration. He had just won the Television Championship, a big get for the quartet. Munin had muzzled Astrid on the same show, while The BombTrax had escaped Jason Dave and Scott Wilson, maintaining their own 'Titles'. That side of the business was good. Everyone was building to something going into the next big show, Civil War, and if The BombTrax could just get past Jason Dave, they'd possibly even have the night off. That'd suit them fine. Give them a chance to keep tabs on the other IPW kids, and that Heavyweight Championship tournament that Brooklyn Holloway had decided to pull the trigger on without one of them being allowed the opportunity to be apart of it.
The big man smiles. Maybe the new champion would break as easy as the last one. Most people did when put through a table repeatedly.
The bang further down the alley brought him out of his musings to focus his attention on the here and now. They had received a police report from Youth's cop pal, Enrique, on the dealings of one Gerald Dobbs. Gerald wasn't the original owner of The Ice Castle, which was built back in 1957, but had bought the place from the original owner back in 1993. He was a tall German with a deep accent, an imposing build, and a bit of a belly from years of sampling his wares. For the most part, according to the report anyways, he was clean. The dynamic duo, on the other hand, could see something that most people couldn't. Underneath all of that Russian hyperbole and love for frozen treats was a fey. A fey that just so happens to descend from the line of the wicked witch from the famed fable, Hansel & Gretel.
That meant that good, wholesome, down to earth Gerald liked to eat kids, and that police report came with a slew of disappearances that were never linked to the yogurt shop owner, but were all abducted somewhere close by.
While Gerald always seemed to have an alibi, Press and Youth suspected that he was directly involved.
Only question was; How many more of these types lurked in the background, and was there any connection to the recent fey murders?
Normally, eating kids was enough to earn Gerald a one way ticket back to hell, but that wasn't their only job. One of their chief contacts in Vegas, LoLo, had called in a favor, which had led them to The Basement Tavern. A low grade den for spooks, demons, and other supernatural entities. Same rules applied at the tavern as they did at LoLo's Bar & Grill. No bloodshed on premises under any circumstances, with spells in place to ensure that those who did would live to regret it. The proprietor, Leandra, was the one with the problem. Apparently a number of her tribe were being culled out, and all of it started soon after she and her lover, Trea, had a spat over control of the community. Trea had been kicked out of the tribe after loosing to Leandra, and it just so happened that Gerald and Trea were tight.
Real tight. Like cousins.
The sound of glass hitting the pavement followed by a curse brought Press's head snapping to attention. The curse he recognized, and he shook his head in embarrassment as his partner came running down the alley to dodge behind the dumpster the big man was currently standing behind.
Youth looked up to the Big Man who leveled him with his disapproving gaze, and the young man shrugged his shoulders, holding his hands up in innocence.
"How the hell was I supposed to know that the trash detail would be affected by the Coronavirus? There are freakin' heaps back there behind Gerry's shop!"
Press upper lip went terse as he looked over the dumpster to ensure that Gerald hadn't been alerted while Youth pouted off to the side. Eventually he looked back to his partner and flicked him in the chest with one of his massive paws.
"Well?" he asked, expectantly.
Youth rolled his eyes, but answered. "Yeah, Yeah. He's in there. Last customer jetted a few seconds ago. I guess all the businesses are having to shut down early thanks to the pandemic. We might actually get home at a descent hour this time around."
He said that last hopefully, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the big man as he rolled around the dumpster and started to make his way that Youth had just came.
"I wouldn't count my chickens before they hatched, kid."
Youth sighed heavily before peeling out to follow his partner as he tipped toed up to the window that gave him a view of the kitchen. Watching the 365 pounder trying to be stealthy caused him to giggle slightly, but he quickly sucked the sound back in when Press shot him a dirty look. He saddled up beside the big man to peer the window on the opposite side.
Gerald had just finished bringing the large steel grate down in front of his glass windowed shop and locked it with a padlock just before making his way around the corner and discarding his apron. He also removed the face mask and gloves that he had been wearing all day, and gave a resigned sigh of relief to be shed of them. He whistled a low tune, nothing that either man had heard before, and to be honest had glad they hadn't. It was discordant, if not haunting, and had the hairs standing up on the back of their necks.
The tall German began closing up the freezer booths that sat side by side, making up the stores front counter, and then made his way over to the register where he began pulling the cash from the till. He placed the bills and change into a blue bank bag, zipping it up and tossing it onto a desk hidden from view if you were a customer. He turned to the large freezer, but before opening the door to step inside, reached over and flicked on the radio to have a few tunes while he did his inventory.
Kid Rock's 'Devil Without A Cause' began blaring through the speakers, right about the time that Joe C's part kicked off.
I'm the J-O-E to the C, ho
Call me Joe C, got more game than Coleco
Youth perks up in surprise. "Oh shit...that's my Jam!"
"Shhhh!" Press shushed, eyes going hard in his partner's direction.
Suddenly another voice joined the song, from inside the freezer...
I'm a freak, ho, call me sick
Three-foot-nine with a ten-foot dick
The ladies' pick, I'm a crazy hick
And rake through kind like a bum through wine
It's my time so I'm gonna shine like glass
Old as piss, but small as ass
Bebopping out of the freezer steps a pink goblin looking creature, maybe all of four foot and a buck twenty. He has a pair of bermuda shorts and continues singing the song as he kicks with his back foot to slam the freezer door shut. Just before it slams closed, the two men see what looks like a human suit hanging up in the freezer. The two men slowly turn their expressions towards one another. Press with a look of disgust, Youth reveling in total amusement.Watch me cash, smoke some hash
You're raking grass while I'm raking cash
High-ass voice, like Aaron Neville
And I'm down with The Devil
Say we like to party, rock the party
(We like to party, rock the party)
The door leading out to the back alley bursts open with an explosive blast from behind, and the goblin creature spins around, eyes wide and scared as Press and Youth spill into the room, the big man giving him a sadistic grin before adding...
"We like to party...."
Youth drives his fist into his own hand intimidatingly, a grin forming on his face.
"Rock the party...."
The creatures expression goes from surprised to fearful in a split second, and before either man can react he rushes towards the front counter and springs clear up and over it. Press starts to call a warning, but he's too late, and he snarls a curse as he shoves past the counter and into the interior of the dining area. The fey is over by the padlocked door, fumbling with a key, by the time Youth joins Press, who indicates with a wave of his hand to subdue the creature.
Youth shrugs, running forward to grab hold of Gerald, but the slippery cur spins out of his grasp. He abandons the padlock to quickly spin around and brings one of his stubby little feet right up square into Youth's privates. With a grunt, the younger BombTrax grabs at his genitals before hitting his knees. Gerald doesn't even get his foot fully free before he's redirecting towards the only other open portal in the room. The very backdoor that Press had just kicked in.
He rushes past tables and chairs and makes to bound over the counter once more, back into the servers area, but before he can make it a giant hand snatches him out of midair by the scruff of his neck.
Press wheels the Gerald around, and the scrappy fey continues to kick, sputter, and curse all the while being held aloft by the big man.
"You big, goofy looking, piece of shit! Let me down! I won't be manhandled this way, I tell you! LET ME DOWN!"
Press gives the creature a jostle and his voice reverberates in his chest before he finally comes to a stop, looking up at the big man with pleading eyes.
"Just...Just tell me what you want? Why are you here? Don't Kill me..." He cries in the most pathetic voice that either man had ever heard.
Youth, however, doesn't seem much to care, finally having gotten back to his feet but being forced to hobble until he gets his crotch area sorted out.
Jamming a finger in the fey's face, he has to swallow back a tear before blurting, "You've been killing other fey, haven't you you evil little bastard!"
"Huh?" Gerald grunts, looking completely floored by the accusation. "What in the hell are you two talking about? Why would I kill my own kind? I'm just a hard working Gnome, trying to make my way in the world. Same as you! Same as everyone else!"
"Same as Trea?" Press asks, eyes narrowing.
Gerald audibly gulps, eyes flickering from one Redeemer to the other.
"So that's it? Leandra turned you onto me? I should have known not to back Trea in the challenge of her leadership, but she said she could win. Now I'm sold out. I'm done for. Nothing I say to you two is going to get me back in the good graces of Leandra if she sicked you two on me. Just...please...be quick."
Press glanced to Youth, who still looked a little green, but was doing his best to focus hard on the gnome. Finally, he shook his head, giving the big man a shrug.
"I don't think he had anything to do with the murders."
Gerald suddenly perked up, a grin coming onto his face that looked like a grotesque cross between roadkill and a crocodile, but there was joy in his eyes.
"Yes, yes! Like this one says! I'm innocent, I tell you, innocent. Just because Trea didn't win doesn't mean that I'd betray my own kind. No, no, not even a little bit!"
Press's eyes narrow, and he yanks the gnome up so that he's inches away from his face.
"So instead, you prey on small children like your bitch of a grandmother..."
Gerald's smile drops and his eyes go fearful again, head shaking vehemently back and forth as best he can in the big man's grasp.
"No, no! Love the kids, I do! I would never feast. NEVER! I want to stay topside. Out of sight, out of mind. That wasn't me...it was..."
A jostle and more scowling loosens the creatures lips.
"It was Trea!" he wails, sobbing now. The tears are green as they slide down his pink face.
"Shit!" Youth exclaims, putting his hands on his hips.
Press gives him a quizzical expression, and his partner shakes his head before turning his hand up in the gnomes direction.
"I think he's telling the truth about that too."
Press looks on in disbelief. "Are you freakin' kidding me?"
"I know," Youth says disappointedly, falling back to rest against one of the 50's style diner tables that make up the dining area. "But he doesn't have the stench, man. I'd be able to tell if he were lying, and he's not."
Press gives the gnome one more once over, and the toothy smile has returned as he bobs his head up and down with excitement. Finally, in complete disgust, he places the gnome on one of the stools lining the front of the yogurt counter and lets him loose.
Gerald lets out a heavy sigh of relief, seeming to deflate right before them, but Press slams his hand down on the glass to get the gnome's full attention once more.
"Alright, fine. You get a reprieve, but I want to know where Trea is?"
Gerald, despite just having his life spared, looks thoroughly intimidated again, and sadly shrugs his shoulders.
"I wish I knew, Redeemer. Truly, I do. But...after she was cast out, she went radio silent. We haven't heard from her since."
Press looked to his partner, and again Youth gave a nod. He could feel his ire starting to build, and he gave a brief thought to sending this creature back to hell just on principal alone. They would be within their rights to do so. Holy War, and all. But eventually he just steps back towards the back door he had caved in, silently exiting the building.
Gerald, still not sure if he was off the hook, looked over to Youth who patted the little gnome on the shoulder.
"Well, pal, it appears you get to stay topside for a few more cycles. Just remember...be good, cause if you aren't...."
After another loud gulp by Gerald at the open ended statement, Youth gave the fey a boyish wink before trotting past the counter to follow after his partner. He caught up with him at the end of the alley, where Press leaned against the wall once more, deep in thought.
"Watch it dude, you might break something." He said in jest, punching the big man in the arm.
Press, however, wasn't in the mood. Shrugging his partner off, he began to stalk further down the alley back towards Ocean Boulevard where they had parked the car while gruffly stating over his shoulder, "This was a total waste of time."
Youth watched him go with a shake of his head and a sigh. All work and no play made Press a grumpy boy. He'd have to figure out something in the meantime to get his partner out of this slump, but first, he needed to think about what he was going to say about Jason Dave. His hands drifted to his hips, and he looked up into the night sky, searching for answers.
Suddenly, his body went rigid, like a lightening bolt going off in his mind. A smile slowly crept onto his face.
"I know what will help me think! FROZEN YOGURT!"
Spinning on his heel he rushes back to the open doorway, ready to call for Gerald because he knew that would scare the ever loving crap out of the little creature, when he's forced to skitter to a stop in shock and horror.
Lying on the counter is Gerald. And on the floor behind the counter. And over on table #9. On the ceiling. On the freezer door. In the yogurt. Ew.
As Youth's survival instincts kick in, he's quick to enter a defensive stance, eyes searching the area for any would be attackers, but ultimately he finds himself eerily alone with the entrails that had just been the gnome he had been speaking with seconds ago. A cursory glance around the room shows no signs of forced entry except for theirs, and when he opens the freezer unit he can see that the meat suit that Gerald usually used was gone. Someone didn't want the cops to get confused, and there was enough of a mess that the gnome wouldn't be identifiable as anything but a splatter.
He shook his head, speaking a few arcane words under his breath that drifted out from his core and into the room. Nothing stood out. No hues of magic. No trail. Nothing. He didn't like it, and Press would like it even less. Something had sent Gerald back to hell and with prejudice, and they were no closer to finding out who was doing this than they were when they started.
Leandra wouldn't be pleased either. He was sure she would blame the two of them for the disturbance. Gerald had kept to the shadows since the 90's, and the only reason his cover was blown was because a couple of hunters came a calling. That didn't bode well for their image with the other denizens of Santa Monica as well. Hard to conduct an investigation when no one will talk to you. Considering their suspects and potential witnesses, that was already hard enough as it was.
With a sigh he begins to retrace his steps back out into the alley, taking care not to touch or step in anything. He casts one more down trodden glance into the place before making his way back towards the car.
"Huh?" Gerald grunts, looking completely floored by the accusation. "What in the hell are you two talking about? Why would I kill my own kind? I'm just a hard working Gnome, trying to make my way in the world. Same as you! Same as everyone else!"
"Same as Trea?" Press asks, eyes narrowing.
Gerald audibly gulps, eyes flickering from one Redeemer to the other.
"So that's it? Leandra turned you onto me? I should have known not to back Trea in the challenge of her leadership, but she said she could win. Now I'm sold out. I'm done for. Nothing I say to you two is going to get me back in the good graces of Leandra if she sicked you two on me. Just...please...be quick."
Press glanced to Youth, who still looked a little green, but was doing his best to focus hard on the gnome. Finally, he shook his head, giving the big man a shrug.
"I don't think he had anything to do with the murders."
Gerald suddenly perked up, a grin coming onto his face that looked like a grotesque cross between roadkill and a crocodile, but there was joy in his eyes.
"Yes, yes! Like this one says! I'm innocent, I tell you, innocent. Just because Trea didn't win doesn't mean that I'd betray my own kind. No, no, not even a little bit!"
Press's eyes narrow, and he yanks the gnome up so that he's inches away from his face.
"So instead, you prey on small children like your bitch of a grandmother..."
Gerald's smile drops and his eyes go fearful again, head shaking vehemently back and forth as best he can in the big man's grasp.
"No, no! Love the kids, I do! I would never feast. NEVER! I want to stay topside. Out of sight, out of mind. That wasn't me...it was..."
A jostle and more scowling loosens the creatures lips.
"It was Trea!" he wails, sobbing now. The tears are green as they slide down his pink face.
"Shit!" Youth exclaims, putting his hands on his hips.
Press gives him a quizzical expression, and his partner shakes his head before turning his hand up in the gnomes direction.
"I think he's telling the truth about that too."
Press looks on in disbelief. "Are you freakin' kidding me?"
"I know," Youth says disappointedly, falling back to rest against one of the 50's style diner tables that make up the dining area. "But he doesn't have the stench, man. I'd be able to tell if he were lying, and he's not."
Press gives the gnome one more once over, and the toothy smile has returned as he bobs his head up and down with excitement. Finally, in complete disgust, he places the gnome on one of the stools lining the front of the yogurt counter and lets him loose.
Gerald lets out a heavy sigh of relief, seeming to deflate right before them, but Press slams his hand down on the glass to get the gnome's full attention once more.
"Alright, fine. You get a reprieve, but I want to know where Trea is?"
Gerald, despite just having his life spared, looks thoroughly intimidated again, and sadly shrugs his shoulders.
"I wish I knew, Redeemer. Truly, I do. But...after she was cast out, she went radio silent. We haven't heard from her since."
Press looked to his partner, and again Youth gave a nod. He could feel his ire starting to build, and he gave a brief thought to sending this creature back to hell just on principal alone. They would be within their rights to do so. Holy War, and all. But eventually he just steps back towards the back door he had caved in, silently exiting the building.
Gerald, still not sure if he was off the hook, looked over to Youth who patted the little gnome on the shoulder.
"Well, pal, it appears you get to stay topside for a few more cycles. Just remember...be good, cause if you aren't...."
After another loud gulp by Gerald at the open ended statement, Youth gave the fey a boyish wink before trotting past the counter to follow after his partner. He caught up with him at the end of the alley, where Press leaned against the wall once more, deep in thought.
"Watch it dude, you might break something." He said in jest, punching the big man in the arm.
Press, however, wasn't in the mood. Shrugging his partner off, he began to stalk further down the alley back towards Ocean Boulevard where they had parked the car while gruffly stating over his shoulder, "This was a total waste of time."
Youth watched him go with a shake of his head and a sigh. All work and no play made Press a grumpy boy. He'd have to figure out something in the meantime to get his partner out of this slump, but first, he needed to think about what he was going to say about Jason Dave. His hands drifted to his hips, and he looked up into the night sky, searching for answers.
Suddenly, his body went rigid, like a lightening bolt going off in his mind. A smile slowly crept onto his face.
"I know what will help me think! FROZEN YOGURT!"
Spinning on his heel he rushes back to the open doorway, ready to call for Gerald because he knew that would scare the ever loving crap out of the little creature, when he's forced to skitter to a stop in shock and horror.
Lying on the counter is Gerald. And on the floor behind the counter. And over on table #9. On the ceiling. On the freezer door. In the yogurt. Ew.
As Youth's survival instincts kick in, he's quick to enter a defensive stance, eyes searching the area for any would be attackers, but ultimately he finds himself eerily alone with the entrails that had just been the gnome he had been speaking with seconds ago. A cursory glance around the room shows no signs of forced entry except for theirs, and when he opens the freezer unit he can see that the meat suit that Gerald usually used was gone. Someone didn't want the cops to get confused, and there was enough of a mess that the gnome wouldn't be identifiable as anything but a splatter.
He shook his head, speaking a few arcane words under his breath that drifted out from his core and into the room. Nothing stood out. No hues of magic. No trail. Nothing. He didn't like it, and Press would like it even less. Something had sent Gerald back to hell and with prejudice, and they were no closer to finding out who was doing this than they were when they started.
Leandra wouldn't be pleased either. He was sure she would blame the two of them for the disturbance. Gerald had kept to the shadows since the 90's, and the only reason his cover was blown was because a couple of hunters came a calling. That didn't bode well for their image with the other denizens of Santa Monica as well. Hard to conduct an investigation when no one will talk to you. Considering their suspects and potential witnesses, that was already hard enough as it was.
With a sigh he begins to retrace his steps back out into the alley, taking care not to touch or step in anything. He casts one more down trodden glance into the place before making his way back towards the car.
4/16/2020 [ON CAMERA]
MUNIN'S HOME
633 12th STREET, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
MUNIN'S HOME
633 12th STREET, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
The scene opens inside a sparsely decorated bedroom with a camera view that appears to be slightly skewed and poor quality. There is a single bed with flannel sheets and covers in the corner, and above it are a few posters, one of which that is a work up of Brianna Rissi with a dick drawn in magic marker bobbing in her face. The other is Astrid Samson, collar, muzzle, and all. Finally, Jason Dave and Scott Wilson. This was obviously two separate posters that have been cut and repurposed so that it looks like Jason Dave is standing behind Scott Wilson, both of their faces etched in sincere wrestling poses. As the camera rolls down the wall to the bed and finally to the floor, we see everyone's favorite BombTrax, Flaming Youth, leaning with his back against the mattress.
He looks bored. Way bored. And his usual boyish charm is lacking when he looks up to the camera that he appears to be guiding by a selfie stick.
"Quarantine fucking sucks, yo!" He says, shrugging his shoulders which makes the camera move up and down with the motion.
"Seriously! I mean, its one thing to have a little staycation to recharge the batteries, but we're going on three fucking weeks now. Not even I have enough one liners to make Zachariah Krahe uncomfortable about his jawline, but c'mon...let's be honest..."
Youth leans forward, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"How about that jawline."
He sits back with a laugh, but it rings a little hollow. It doesn't have his usual devil-may-care attitude behind it.
"Anyways, so now we have all the gold. Zach is the Television champ! The BombTrax are the Tag Champs! Oh..."
He holds up a finger, tsk, tsk, tsk. He pulls his half of the IPW tag team championships up into the cameras view.
"I know, I know. But we aren't really the tag champs, or at least that's what everyone keeps telling us. These are fake titles. Invented. Made Up. Imaginary. Props. Cons. Shams. Frauds. Forgeries. Counterfeits. False. Imita---"
A loud bang from the next room over can be heard followed by a bellow, "Christ Almighty, get on with it."
Youth flashes a grin, and there it is. The boyish charm is back, and all it took was getting under the skin of his tag team partner to do it.
"Yeah, well, moving on. I hate sounding like a broken record..."
A groan from the next room, followed by a wink in this one.
"But if I've said it once, I'll say it a thousand times. If these titles aren't real, aren't recognized, then why is everyone so keen on taking them from us? And it's that very quandary that brings us to this evenings conversation. Jason Dave."
Youth shakes his head, looking a little disgusted with the words that just fell out of his mouth.
"J.D....you don't mind if I call you, J.D., right? I mean...I don't care either way, so let's just keep rolling."
Wink.
"J.D. has decided that he and his partner, Scott Wilson, should be the IPW Tag Team Champions and want to take them off us. Only, they already had an opportunity to do just that last Chaos, and failed. Immediately after they demanded a rematch, and all I was trying to do was offer up some of their own medicine. What is it they keep saying? You haven't earned it yet. So I said to our esteemed General Manager that they should have to do something to 'earn' that shot, and what did he do in his infinite wisdom? Booked Jason Dave versus Me, and if Jason can win then he and Scott will get that rematch at Civil War."
Youth casts his camera an incredulous glance.
"Are you kidding me? I mean, Tap, you know I love you, but god damn. You must be slipping in your old age. J.D. doesn't have a prayer of winning. Not one. Matter of fact, heaven's closed it's gates on the folks here in IPW. You can scream at the sky all you want about how unfair it is, and how you're getting your asses handed to you all the time by our quartet, but at the end of the day you all will get the same fucking dull tone in response. Sorry, out of fucking service."
He smirks, shrugging his shoulders.
"But I guess there's more to prove. That's what everyone keeps telling us, anyways. Still pretending that we aren't a big deal. Still pretending like we have something further that we need to do to convince the sheep that they are just lambs for the slaughter."
He gives a tight smile now, jaw starting to set.
"Well, sorry kids, but we just aren't the performing type. We don't dance just cause you say dance, and we certainly don't give a crap whether you think we've been in your precious 'Iconic Pro Wrasslin' long enough to deserve a little respect. And I guess that's the whole thing right. You think if you come into the GM's office and pitch a complete bitch fit that he'll just crumble and give you whatever you want. See, where we come from, we take what we want. We don't cry about it, over it, or under it. We just do it, and deal with the consequences at a later date."
Youth shakes his head.
"But the fault doesn't completely fall on you idiots. Management, or the lack there of, is equally to blame. Just look at how this match came about? Obviously your way works better than ours at getting your opportunities just 'HANDED' to you. By your very token of 'earn it' I'd have to ask what the fuck do you think we've been doing?"
He waves the camera off, then looks back, realizing that it's his own phone. Sheepishly he gives the camera a grin, shrugging his shoulders.
"You know, enough about that. Let's talk about Scott Wilson for a minute. I mean, dude. At least J.D. is getting fired up. He's running that cum catcher of his, hulking up his chest all mean and imposing. What exactly do you bring to this dynamic? Are you a prop just stuck up in the corner so that it appears he has someone he can tag? Since your return you haven't said shit. Haven't done shit. Always just standing there in the shadow of ole' J.D., and if I were him, I'd be pretty god damn sick and tired of it."
Wink.
"But he's not, mores the pity. God..."
He pauses, train of thought broken.
"Wouldn't that be awesome. If there were more than one of me. Like a legion of Youth's running amuck all over your IPW screens. It would be glorious! It would be fantastic! It would be...."
"Horrifying!" comes a begrudged call from the next room over.
Youth pipes down, looking deflated. He pouts for a few more seconds before giving a heavy sigh and addressing the camera for his big finale.
"He's probably right. I mean, after all, they broke the mold when they made me. And Jason, this coming Chaos, I'm going to break your jaw with a little thing I like to call...Slow Burn."
With a final wink the camera comes super close to where all you can see is skin, and just before turning off you hear.
"So what do you think? A multiverse of Youth's?"
A loud groan.
Fade to black.
He looks bored. Way bored. And his usual boyish charm is lacking when he looks up to the camera that he appears to be guiding by a selfie stick.
"Quarantine fucking sucks, yo!" He says, shrugging his shoulders which makes the camera move up and down with the motion.
"Seriously! I mean, its one thing to have a little staycation to recharge the batteries, but we're going on three fucking weeks now. Not even I have enough one liners to make Zachariah Krahe uncomfortable about his jawline, but c'mon...let's be honest..."
Youth leans forward, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"How about that jawline."
He sits back with a laugh, but it rings a little hollow. It doesn't have his usual devil-may-care attitude behind it.
"Anyways, so now we have all the gold. Zach is the Television champ! The BombTrax are the Tag Champs! Oh..."
He holds up a finger, tsk, tsk, tsk. He pulls his half of the IPW tag team championships up into the cameras view.
"I know, I know. But we aren't really the tag champs, or at least that's what everyone keeps telling us. These are fake titles. Invented. Made Up. Imaginary. Props. Cons. Shams. Frauds. Forgeries. Counterfeits. False. Imita---"
A loud bang from the next room over can be heard followed by a bellow, "Christ Almighty, get on with it."
Youth flashes a grin, and there it is. The boyish charm is back, and all it took was getting under the skin of his tag team partner to do it.
"Yeah, well, moving on. I hate sounding like a broken record..."
A groan from the next room, followed by a wink in this one.
"But if I've said it once, I'll say it a thousand times. If these titles aren't real, aren't recognized, then why is everyone so keen on taking them from us? And it's that very quandary that brings us to this evenings conversation. Jason Dave."
Youth shakes his head, looking a little disgusted with the words that just fell out of his mouth.
"J.D....you don't mind if I call you, J.D., right? I mean...I don't care either way, so let's just keep rolling."
Wink.
"J.D. has decided that he and his partner, Scott Wilson, should be the IPW Tag Team Champions and want to take them off us. Only, they already had an opportunity to do just that last Chaos, and failed. Immediately after they demanded a rematch, and all I was trying to do was offer up some of their own medicine. What is it they keep saying? You haven't earned it yet. So I said to our esteemed General Manager that they should have to do something to 'earn' that shot, and what did he do in his infinite wisdom? Booked Jason Dave versus Me, and if Jason can win then he and Scott will get that rematch at Civil War."
Youth casts his camera an incredulous glance.
"Are you kidding me? I mean, Tap, you know I love you, but god damn. You must be slipping in your old age. J.D. doesn't have a prayer of winning. Not one. Matter of fact, heaven's closed it's gates on the folks here in IPW. You can scream at the sky all you want about how unfair it is, and how you're getting your asses handed to you all the time by our quartet, but at the end of the day you all will get the same fucking dull tone in response. Sorry, out of fucking service."
He smirks, shrugging his shoulders.
"But I guess there's more to prove. That's what everyone keeps telling us, anyways. Still pretending that we aren't a big deal. Still pretending like we have something further that we need to do to convince the sheep that they are just lambs for the slaughter."
He gives a tight smile now, jaw starting to set.
"Well, sorry kids, but we just aren't the performing type. We don't dance just cause you say dance, and we certainly don't give a crap whether you think we've been in your precious 'Iconic Pro Wrasslin' long enough to deserve a little respect. And I guess that's the whole thing right. You think if you come into the GM's office and pitch a complete bitch fit that he'll just crumble and give you whatever you want. See, where we come from, we take what we want. We don't cry about it, over it, or under it. We just do it, and deal with the consequences at a later date."
Youth shakes his head.
"But the fault doesn't completely fall on you idiots. Management, or the lack there of, is equally to blame. Just look at how this match came about? Obviously your way works better than ours at getting your opportunities just 'HANDED' to you. By your very token of 'earn it' I'd have to ask what the fuck do you think we've been doing?"
He waves the camera off, then looks back, realizing that it's his own phone. Sheepishly he gives the camera a grin, shrugging his shoulders.
"You know, enough about that. Let's talk about Scott Wilson for a minute. I mean, dude. At least J.D. is getting fired up. He's running that cum catcher of his, hulking up his chest all mean and imposing. What exactly do you bring to this dynamic? Are you a prop just stuck up in the corner so that it appears he has someone he can tag? Since your return you haven't said shit. Haven't done shit. Always just standing there in the shadow of ole' J.D., and if I were him, I'd be pretty god damn sick and tired of it."
Wink.
"But he's not, mores the pity. God..."
He pauses, train of thought broken.
"Wouldn't that be awesome. If there were more than one of me. Like a legion of Youth's running amuck all over your IPW screens. It would be glorious! It would be fantastic! It would be...."
"Horrifying!" comes a begrudged call from the next room over.
Youth pipes down, looking deflated. He pouts for a few more seconds before giving a heavy sigh and addressing the camera for his big finale.
"He's probably right. I mean, after all, they broke the mold when they made me. And Jason, this coming Chaos, I'm going to break your jaw with a little thing I like to call...Slow Burn."
With a final wink the camera comes super close to where all you can see is skin, and just before turning off you hear.
"So what do you think? A multiverse of Youth's?"
A loud groan.
Fade to black.