Anger isn’t a strong enough word to convey the hatred and anger in Michele Thornton’s voice. Rage mixed with an undeniable and overwhelming disbelief would be a better choice, her small lithe frame bunched up and quaking with fury. Standing in Clinton Sage’s living room only a few hours after the 10/5 edition of UPROAR, Michele’s face is reddened with emotion. Her voice is shrill, her arms crossed slightly beneath her breasts, hands balled into fists.
”I can’t believe I let myself get dragged into your stupid little world. I’ve tried for years to get closer to my father and I thought this…me and you…would be that bridge. Instead, you USE me as some sort of method to advance your career? I know you’re Clinton Sage, but WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE USING ME LIKE THAT?”
Standing there, watching his girlfriend’s face melt from anger into rage into fury and back again, Clinton Sage lets her vent. Mount Vesuvius would be jealous of her explosion, and Hiroshima and Nagasaki are currently sounding the bomber alarms as a result of her tirade. The windows in his mansion seem to rattle with every word she emphasizes, an impressively commanding voice from what Clinton sees as the most beautiful woman on the planet.
Still beautiful, he thinks to himself, even as she runs the entire gauntlet of disapproving emotions. He quickly licks his lips, salivating at the moment. A treasure.
Michele continues, spitting the words out in disgust, “And what about that poor girl? Jon’s girlfriend? I really – no, I PRAY – that the tattoo you gave her isn’t permanent. That you’re using some new kind of ink that dissolves under baby-oil or gasoline. Because I swear to everything holy in this world, Clinton, if you branded her for life I’m going to walk out that door in a heartbeat. I SHOULD be walking out that door RIGHT THE FUCK NOW after what you pulled these last two weeks! First it was smacking her…and now, putting your name on her thighs? For what?”
Crossing his arms to match her posture, Clinton Sage’s eyes go from her livid face down to her perky breasts. They heave slightly under her shirt as she screams, jiggling only a bit because of Michele’s crossed arms directly beneath them. Clinton can picture her nipples, which coincidentally are the same shade of pink as her face.
She is perfection, although right now…increasingly displeased perfection.
Beneath her beautiful bosom, Clinton’s eyes fall down to her waist. The blue jeans fit snugly, hugging her svelte legs. Standing there, he can almost feel the warmth of her vagina during the throes of passion. The moisture and the taut musculature from those nights of endless passion. Once more, the heat radiating off of her face seemed without a doubt equally as hot when compared to her crotch during their lovemaking.
”Are you evening listening to me?”
Running his tongue up and down her thighs, her body twitching with delight. Gently tracing his fingertips around her aroused nipples, down the small indentation where her abs come together, and gently back up her side.
“Why are you just standing there, looking at me like that?!?!” Michele screamed, rolling her eyes and finally turning away from her boyfriend of only a few months, “That’s it, I’ve had enough of this. We’re through! Do you hear me? THROUGH!”
The certainty in her voice snapped Clinton out of his erotic reverie. Storming away from him with each thundering step, he watched as Michele crossed the lobby of his mansion, heading towards the curved staircase that lead upstairs to the main bedroom. No doubt, she was going to pack her things and leave his home.
He knew he couldn’t let that happen, “Michele…wait.”
She continued to storm across the room, her heels clacking against the tiled floor. Each thundering step managed to blow a memory out from deep within his mind, flashing it before his eyes with gusting fury.
The way she laughed at every stupid movie-moment as if they had happened to her. The way she painted every night, sometimes wearing more than the canvas. The dimples on the small of her back, right above her beltline. Her disdain for milk, and his own affinity for it.
The little things, the lovable things. The things that he cherished in her. Gone. Storming up the steps, two at a time.
Halfway up, she turned and screamed down, “Wait for what? What exactly should I be expecting? Some damned excuse that’ll win me back over? No, Clinton…you’ve had your chance. I thought I loved you, I really did. I guess it was just me going after the bad boy, or some trivial cliché. In fact, just the other week I couldn’t even manage to EXPLAIN to my friend WHY I loved you. Doesn’t that strike you as being peculiar?”
The freckles that littered her shoulders. The way her hair tickled his face each morning. The things that made Michele Thornton the greatest woman to ever walk the planet earth, in Clinton’s eyes.
There was no way of stopping her, not like this. Clinton knew it, and for a half second as he thought of those sweet, sincere memories, a normal person observing the fight would’ve guessed that the relationship was over.
She continued up the carpeted steps, slamming her feet down with such force that Clinton could smell the slight lemony scent of the maid’s carpet-cleaning detergent.
“I am the author,” Clinton said, less reluctantly than his heart would’ve liked.
Freezing at the top of the steps, her hand firmly gripping the banister, Michele Thornton replied in a voice that was void of all emotion, “And I am the book.”
Walking over to the bottom of the steps, looking up at his angered girlfriend, Clinton Sage knew that the subconscious “program” that Dr. Lionel Ernst had installed via Michele’s sessions with him would halt her in her steps.
He also knew that he now had the power of God, the ability to manipulate not only memory but also free will. It rushed through him like the surging floodwaters through a small town, sweeping away any and all conscience that had braved the trek to the surface.
Clinton studied her for a minute, thinking not of the things that Michele did that pleased him, but of the things he should do to her as punishment for this outburst. Not that she’d remember, that is.
”Michele?” he said softly.
She didn’t turn to look at him, but kept her vision straight forward, replying in the same monotone voice, “Yes?”
”Please turn around and look at me when I speak to you.”
She turned, standing at the top step. She didn’t blink, and readjusted her gaze down the curved staircase towards Clinton.
He continued, “You’ve been a very bad girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“Have I?”
Clinton knew that asking a question always gave a question in response. Part of the programming that Ernst had instilled into his patients. They responded to direct commands, and Clinton finally knew what her punishment was going to be. It took a minute, but after studying her beautiful and curvy body from the lowered angle, he smiled, “I want you to forget the events of Uproar, except the fact that your father banned you from being my ringside valet. Tell me that you understand.”
”I understand.”
”And when our conversation is over, and I walk out of this room, I want you to erase those memories and the argument we just had from your mind. Ten seconds later, you’re going to snap out of your trance and you’ll still love me more than you’ve ever loved a man in your life. You’ll want to fuck me silly later on tonight, never having your needs fully satisfied until you’re sore or bleeding. Tell me you understand these orders.”
There was no emotion in her porcelain face, which appeared ghostlike, “I understand those orders.”
Clinton grinned, studying the carpeting that covered the stairs. It was plush, white in color, and quite expensive. Walking on it was nothing but a joy. But there was wood beneath the carpet, and beneath the padding underneath. Wood that didn’t give under pressure, and wood that wouldn’t break. He had built his own home sturdy.
”When I leave the lobby, you’re going to wait ten seconds. When those ten seconds are up, you’re going to snap out of your trance with all my instructions still floating in your mind. The memories will be gone, and the sexual desire will warm your crotch. But you’ll have an urge to paint one final picture tonight, before we retire to bed. Then you’re going to come back to these stairs, stand exactly where you are, and toss yourself down them.”
She showed no reaction to the order, not even the blink of an eye.
“When I come running into the lobby, as I’ll be reading in my study, you’ll be weeping at your own stupidity as much as the injuries you’ll receive. You’ll believe you slipped on some paint, and you’ll suggest that I call the maid to come clean up the mess, should there be one. Tell me that you will follow these orders.
”I will follow the orders.”
”Atta girl.” Clinton smiled, and left the room, heading down the hallway towards his own study. About fifteen seconds later, he heard Michele’s heels clacking on the wooden floor of her painting studio.
Clinton Sage flicked on the lights of his study, picked up a book to pass the time, and began to read. He would be needed in about an hour, tending to a girlfriend who had slipped down the stairs.
* * * * *
10/5 UPROAR
Sage: You see, burying my cock to the hilt inside of our boss’s daughter has its perks. And since your little buddy Jonathan seems to think that our stables should go to war, well...I've gone ahead and managed to book two matches for next week.
Cruise: Pleeeease tell me that you've got the balls to face me.
Sage: Oh, I've got them. They're big and dangly and they can knock over not only abandoned buildings but reinforced concrete as well. But no, your day will come sooner than later because I'm going to make it a mission to steamroll through your entire fucking stable, proving once and for all that none of you mean SHIT to this company or this sport.
Jason Cruise taps his foot and crosses his arms in an 'I'm waiting' fashion.
Sage: You're going to be stepping into the ring with none other than The River Rat, Lane Stevens.
'BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!'
Sage: And since he'll be the Gateway Champion by the time you two dance next week in the main event, you'll know EXACTLY what it's like to step into the ring with a real champion. But me? No...I'm going to be putting an end to your buddy Cyrus Raynes career, is all. It seems Sloth has a real big problem with how I treated Jonathan's cuntish girlfriend, so I'm going to show him I have a problem with his general well-being. Non-title, of course.
* * * * *
“So you wanna dice words, do you? Brave Cyrus Raynes…finally showing his mettle.”
The words hang for a moment on a black screen, before it flickers on and Clinton Sage is seen standing before a black FUSE backdrop. Behind him, The Scourge stands with arms folded. He almost blends into the backdrop, save for the two holes in his mask, where unblinking eyes bore holes into the camera.
Clinton Sage is wearing a bright blue t-shirt that he must’ve pulled out of Lane Stevens’ closet, because it’s a few sizes too small, but has bright red lettering that reads “WHEN IT RAYNES, IT BORES” across the front.
“You think I’m concerned with dignity? Dignity and valor are saved for those souls who actually care what the public thinks. Idiots like you, and Rhine and his branded bitch Katie. Dignity is the little voice in YOUR head that’ll stop you from delivering that one final crushing blow that would ultimately do me in, hospitalize me, hell…maybe even paralyze me. It’s that little voice that you and Jonathan and Jason keep hearing, but the little voice that never comes screaming in any of our ears.”
’The Seventh Sin’ turns back towards the entity known only as The Scourge, who turns his head slightly towards Clinton. Underneath the mask, a smile doesn’t form. The eyes remain open, twin black holes sucking in everything in sight, an endless hunger.
Sage turns back towards the camera, displeasure etching a smirk across his face.
“It’s that little voice I hope Jonathan fails to hear one day, putting me in the hospital. So I can watch FUSE one day, tubes helping me breathe…knowing I created a monster. Knowing I created my successor.”
Clinton nods his head at the thought, his black eyes focusing on the memory of future events rather than the camera in front of him. After a moment, his gaze snaps back towards those watching.
“So Cyrus, don’t preach to me about dignity. Don’t come out and throw threats toward me like you’ve got some sort of credibility. When people see the name Cyrus Raynes, they immediately associate it with the phrase “Who the fuck?” and when they see the name Clinton Sage, they associate it with everything that relates to dominance and destruction. And you honestly think that it will be Cyrus Raynes who stops me?”
Sage doesn’t laugh, his eyes widen slightly in disbelief.
“What have you ever done to prove you could pull off such a feat? Isn’t your record a losing one? And the only reason anyone even knows who the hell you are is because you happen to walk beside my enemy, Raul’s barbequed corkboard, and Lane’s redheaded slut.”
“You haven’t made a name for yourself, you’ve just rode the coattails of Rhine, Aimz, and Cruise. You’ve been back-doored into a stable that is only getting the limelight because we beat them each and every week. Me? I’ve won championships, both in FUSE and across the nation in Primetime Central. I’ve lost more talented matches than you’ve ever won. I’ve beaten Hall-of-Famers that haven’t heard of you. Hell, I've beaten curtain-jerkers who haven't even heard of you. Now suddenly YOU are going to be the one to send me to an early grave?”
The Scourge takes a step forward, crossing his arms as he comes even with Clinton Sage.
“I’m going to soften you up for my friend, here. I’m not going to beat you until you can’t walk, because I know he wants to do a little of that, himself. I’ll bend you, I’ll break you, and ultimately I’m going to choke you out. The arena lights will fade away, blackness creeping in from the edges until you either tap out, or suck on the teat of valor and refuse to tap until I choke you unconscious.”
Wrapping an arm around The Scourge, smiling with delight, Sage continues.
“When you come to, the blackness will remain. Except Cyrus, it’ll be across the ring from you. Inescapable. And by that time, it might not be wearing a mask.”
The Scourge blinks, and a smile can be seen finally forming underneath the fabric of the mask.
Cut to black.
* * * * *
Time passed through literature, and the day beyond the window burned on the edges as the sun fell closer to the horizon. Clinton Sage’s study was amber in color, and the long stretching shadows began to creep their way across the floor.
A slight pecking pulled Clinton out of his reading, looking up at the window. Standing on the ledge was a crow, adjusting its posture atop the ledge. Clinton couldn’t make out any of the details because of the backlighting from the sun, not that it mattered, the crow was black during sunrise, a noon sun, the current setting sun, or nightfall.
He could, however, pick up the slight oils in the feathers. Greens and purples. Behind it, the sky bronzed in the waning light.
Clinton found himself staring at the bird, curious of why it had landed on the ledge. There were no trees in his yard, not for hundreds of feet. There were never any dead or decaying animals around, only his three prized thoroughbred horses. Perhaps this crow was showing its intelligence, which Clinton knew was one of the highest amongst birds. For a moment while pulling some dirt out from its feathers, the crow fixed its gaze into the window, staring directly at Clinton.
He couldn’t see the bird’s black eyes, a blue sheen giving an otherwise colorless gaze some beauty. The bird could see Clinton’s own shimmering coal colored eyes, and after a moment, let out a singular caw.
A moment later, Clinton Sage heard the tumbling and screaming of Michele Thornton tumbling down the stairs. The crow remained perched on the windowsill, staring into his house as nightfall swallowed the day.
In the lobby, at the base of the steps, Michele cried out for help in a weak voice. Clinton smiled, turning away from the dark raven, and rushed in to help his girlfriend.
“Honey, you wouldn’t believe what happened,” Michele said, wincing as she grabbed her elbow and wiped a small trickle of blood from under he nose. “I fucking slipped down the stairs.”
There was a lust in her voice, hidden beneath the layers of pain and embarrassment. She deserved the injuries, Clinton thought, but he deserved the lust.
* * * * *