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Author Topic: Lead Pipe.  (Read 999 times)

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Offline PoeIsFilth

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Lead Pipe.
« on: January 27, 2020, 04:21:51 AM »
The Bar was incredibly active. The Low Lives of Cleveland, Ohio gathered for cheap beers, the glow of the Television showing one of the 13 local channels, and other debauchery. A group of bikers, The Local Chapter of Hell’s Outlaws, sat at the bar at the front, watching their small empire in the bar. They were in charge here. The door to the bar opened and a tall, lean man stepped inside. The pale face and thin frame was unrecognizable until you finally came across his face. It was none other than Edgar Malcovich. The Wrestler hadn’t been seen on TV in 3 months, but it was not enough time for him to be forgotten. Many in the bar saw him and instantly began to murmur and gossip about why he’d arrived. He went to a booth in the corner and sat down without saying a word to anyone, and following him was a young man, incredibly thin, and silent. It was Edgar’s protégé… no longer just his assistant, Dave The Dagger. Instead of the expensive Camera equipment he always carried on his person, he only had his cell phone, though he hadn’t started recording yet.

Edgar Malcovich: “Do you know why I’ve brought you here Dave?”

Dave did not respond; he simply shrugged his shoulders as a waitress walked over to their table. A waitress walked over to their table, a notepad and pen in her hand as she crudely cleared her throat before the two wrestlers.

Waitress: “So, what’ya want?”

Edgar looked at Dave and then back to the woman, a smirk on his face and a calm tone to his voice.

Edgar Malcovich: “Got anything non-alcoholic for the kid? He’s only 19.”

The Woman thought about it for a moment, sighing in annoyance that Ed was making her think.

Waitress: “Umm… our Blondes are only 6%.”

Ed looked at Dave, the response from his young apprentice being just a shrug of his shoulders.

Edgar Malcovich: “Alright, I’ll have Whiskey, he’ll have a Blonde.”

The Waitress grunted as she wrote their orders on her yellow notepad before walking off towards the kitchen. Ed checked his pockets, first in his jeans, then his Jacket before finally finding his cigarettes. He took one out of the white and light blue box and held it out. Dave reached into his own Jacket to remove a lighter, igniting the flame and lighting Ed’s menthol.

Edgar Malcovich: “Showtime.”

 Dave with his phone in hand, opened it up and began to record Edgar.

Edgar Malcovich: “Hey everybody it’s ‘The Man Behind The Mask’ Edgar Malcovich. Me and my man Dave The Dagger are here in Cleveland, Ohio before my return to 4CW and my match at chapter One Hundred and Ten. I’ll be facing Cross Recoba, he’s this… silver spoon… fuckin… Chicago kid. I can’t confirm this but he’s probably a mobster. I dunno, Cross, you tell me. Actually, don’t. I’ve got a little story I wanna tell you.”

Eddy looked away from the camera and took a long puff from his cigarette. For a moment a large, bearded man at the end of the bar caught his eye. He was kind of loud, his yelling at the MMA on TV and at his friends could be softly heard in the video footage.

You see Dave; my mom, once upon a time, was a waitress in a bar just like this. I used to sit by the bar and try and chat up the bartender. Of course, I was 14 so… didn’t really have a shot.”

Eddy and Dave chuckled at his story, sharing a small moment before Eddy’s smile started to ominously fade.

Edgar Malcovich: “There was this guy… Marco. Six foot Eight, every bit as ugly as he was smelly. He wasn’t in the drug game. He didn’t belong to any gang. He wasn’t high up on any ladder, just his own. A big tough guy, a bully, who would muscle his way into whatever it was he wanted. Just a gross, fuckin’ guy. His girlfriends were all afraid of him. His grunts all cowered before him. He built his empire… on fear.”

The waitress came back and brough the two their beers, her throat filled with disgusting flem and other rotten fluids that could be heard with every breath she made. Without a word Eddy handed her a twenty.

Edgar Malcovich: “Keep the change.”

The woman did not offer a thank you, or any words, she simply took the twenty-dollar bill and inserted it between her breasts. Dave visibly cringed at this act as the woman left their presence.

Edgar Malcovich: “So Marco was runnin’ rough shot along my little my little chunk of Detroit. One day he came by my mom’s restaurant. He ordered her around, he was rude, he harassed her and smacked her ass. But I didn’t see any of that. What I did see was a bruise on her arm. A big ass hand print on her bicep from where he’d grabbed her during a fit he had.”

Dave’s eyes were now focused on Edgar’s face. Any smiles or cool composure turned to one of remorse.

Edgar Malcovich: “I’d like to tell you I remember his blood on my hands. I’d like to tell you what weapon I savagely beat him with. I’d like to tell you I remember hearing that mother fucker screaming. But to tell you the truth… I don’t remember a damn thing, except waking up in a hospital, and a doctor telling me I shouldn’t even be alive.”

Edgar’s hand gripped the bottle of his beer tight. The memory of this event in his life made him so tense. His knuckles began to turn white as he squeezed his hand on his beverage.

Edgar Malcovich: “They found me in the dumpster behind My mom’s restaurant. From what I gather, I must have tried to fight him. But I wasn’t a fighter. I was a scrawny, six-foot, teenager who had no clue what he was getting himself into. There was no way I could have beaten him. I didn’t know any better.”

Ed and Dave sat in silence. Ed’s hand (The free one that wasn’t trying to squeeze the beer bottle to the point of breaking) nervously scratched at his chin. It was a kind of fidget, something he did to comfort himself unintentionally. He turned back to the camera. His expression began to change has his woe suddenly became a smile.

Edgar Malcovich. “What I do remember… is the second time.”

With Edgar now smirking and even giving a light chuckle of pride, Dave The Dagger looked at him in peak curiosity.

Edgar Malcovich: “He was at Mr.Heads, a local Irish pub. He went outside to take a drunken leak. He walked over to a dumpster, and I’d been waiting for him. I had a pipe in hand, I came from the shadows, and I bashed his mother fuckin’ knee with the pipe. He crumbled to the floor, he screamed and swore at me and I told him…”

Glass could be heard breaking, interrupting Edgar’s story. Dave and him looked over and saw the bearded guy that Ed had noticed previously, screaming obscenities at the woman who had waited their tables, broken glass and spilled alcohol all over the floor beneath him.

Edgar Malcovich: “Be right Back. Watch this Recoba.”

Edgar stood up from the table, and walked with a purpose towards the man. He grabbed a drink from someone’s table, and drank from it on his way to the bearded man.

Bearded Asshole: “Hey, what the fuck do you-“

Before he could finish his sentence, Ed reached back before bringing his hand forward and crashing the bottle of whiskey he’d swiped and smashing I right over The Asshole’s head. Ed then grabbed him by the salt and pepper beard on his chin and pulled him away into the bathroom before slamming the door shut. Everyone in the bar had their eyes glued to the door. Further swearing could be heard before yelling and smashing. The sand of glass breaking, the brunt of a fist making contact, the slam of man against wall. The imaginations of different patrons began to run absolutely wild as they heard the utter carnage.

Suddenly, there was silence.

Only just before the door opened, and Edgar walked out. He had a cut over his eye and a line of blood leaked down the center of his face from the wound. The glass mirror behind him was totally spider webbed, and the bearded man was now lying unconscious on the floor. Edgar turned around and shut door before walking back to his table. He sat down in front of Dave, who had been recording all of this.

Edgar Malcovich: “… I told the son of a bitch that no matter who he was in charge of, no matter who feared him, that no matter how damn big he fucking was, that the second someone bigger and badder showed up, he wouldn’t be shit anymore. Cross, I’ll tell you what I told that Marco mother fucker. No matter what money you got. No matter who your family is. No matter what new lady you got on your arm telling you what to do, you’re not shit once someone badder steps into that fucking ring with you.”

The Bar had been watching him this whole time, and continued to watch and listen to the words that the former Slasher spoke.

Edgar Malcovich: “Cross Recoba, we haven’t officially met. You came into 4CW when I was off in a hospital. My man Aoki told me about you. You’re just like Marco but without an ounce of his intimidation. You’re a damn bully. You push people around, you take what you want, and when shit ain’t going your way you just pay your way forward. I’m not just fighting you. I’m fighting your family. I’m fighting your staff. I’m fighting the very fucking foundation of who you are as a person. To beat you, the answer is simple. I need to burn everything you think you are to the ground. And make you watch. Make one wrong move Cross… and just pray I feel like letting you walk out of that ring on your own.”

Edgar turned and stood up on his seat, climbing to his feet as his head nearly hit the ceiling. He looked over at the people, the door to the bathroom now open, and about 3 bikers checking on the man Edgar had beaten down.

Edgar Malcovich: “Hey Assholes!”

The men looked up at Ed, seeing the blood on his face and the malicious intent in his eyes. The look of a man with absolute fury on his mind.

Edgar Malcovich: “That’s what the fuck happens when Edgar Malcovich comes to town. Somebody gets their fucking head bashed in, and their fucking blood spilled on the walls. I didn’t need a chainsaw to do it.”

Ed stepped off the seat he was standing on and gestured to Dave. It was time to go. With this kinda bar, Edgar knew that no police would bother coming by before morning.

The two stepped out of the bar, Ed attempting to wipe the blood off his face but only accomplished smearing it across. He took a deep breath, the rush of their experience beginning to wear thin. They arrived at Ed’s signature car, the deep purple Gran Torino he’d restored in his barn.

Edgar Malcovich: “Cross… I just spent 3 months in a mental institute. I had to make peace with somebody. It wasn’t an addiction thing. It was a… there is someone in my head who is telling me I need to pull you apart piece by piece and make your mother watch, kind of thing. I don’t think Perry put you with me to make sure your win/loss record was balanced. In fact I know what he’s doing.”

Ed looked down at his feet. He noticed the blood on his show, as he had no way of knowing if it had fallen from his own face, or had originally belonged to the bearded man from the bar fight. His face did not move, only his eyes looking up at the camera. His form mostly blocked by the shadows of the night now.

Edgar Malcovich: “He wants to know what you can go through before you crumble to the floor and break. I’m the lead pipe, you’re Marco’s knee. All you have to do is not fucking break. From what I’ve seen… I don’t think you’ll be walking out of that ring. I’ll see you there Cross.”

Dave stopped recording here as Ed stared right through the camera and Into Cross, as blood still dripped from his brow.