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Survivor Eye of the Tiger
Welcome back to the greatest motherfucking show on Earth. TOK and ROG are proud to present a baker’s dozen of the most identifiable faces from within the vestibules of slasher, all under one savage roof. These grizzled combatants will pit their wits against one another, with the aspiration of becoming crowned True Majesty of Cruel Carnage. All the most esteemed suitors are here, each vying to displace our, as of yet, untoppled tortured terrorizer…Marcus…Miller!!!
Thus far, Marcus hasn’t been requested to break sweat. Three frail combatants have endeavored to dislodge him from atop his lofty pedestal, with all three leaving the arena via doggie bag or, worse still, dustpan and brush. Ghost Face, Leprechaun and Charles Lee Ray all boldly attempted to become heralded the David to slay this snappily-dressed burly Goliath. Evidently, they all fell noticeably short (imagine the Time Bandits taking a brisk jog across the Golden Gate Bridge to the audio of Ben E King).
None had the gristle to withstand their pre-ordained slaughter and, in turn, they met with grisly ends at the bloody hands of Marcus. With marginal due respect, none of them appeared likely of laying so much as a breath cloud on him, complete obliteration became their prize for putting in their dying shift. Fuck, Chucky managed not to even break free from the cable ties which bound him within his shrink-wrap. Our apparently unassailable messenger of death will be assured burlier scrutiny of his ingenuity second time out as the stakes have begun to sky-rocket. Next up…The Creeper!
Round Four Marcus Miller vs. The Creeper
The tale of the tape looks favorably upon the following entrant. His reach is far greater than Marcus Miller’s due to his daunting wingspan and enviable aerial maneuverability. Less than heartening is his track record; a meager brace of prior bouts (heavy defeat in the second) push the odds out of favor for him even getting close to his ambitious desire for Miller’s peepers. With the trusty old pick-up truck (Mater in all but teeth) valet parked already and the audience, which includes Justin Long and his guide dog, but no sign of Alison Lohman, are in prime vantage point for divergence.
A full three minutes pass and still no sign of the winged cretin. The addressees grow restless. Miller meanwhile, paces from one plane of the canvas to the other growing progressively more perturbed as it begins to appear a no-show could be on the cards. Not the case however; the illumination dims in the auditorium and audio finally cloaks the room. A somewhat consoling 78 vinyl crackle commences and, with that, The Creeper makes his overdue overture.
Swooshing down, the winged assailant picks off a couple of the congregation with apparent ease, dislodging their noggins and flicking them in Marcus’ course to with the audible auxiliary of Louis Armstrong. Marcus is blasé about this expected cowardly exhibition of gamesmanship. Has this prick not seen Rocky IV? Carl Weathers did a marvellous job of engaging his plentiful minions and teasingly attempting to rattle his opponent. Look where that got him? Fucked up and broken, that’s where. He became the cue to another ‘rousing’ montage.
The Creeper orbits the ring a handful of times, notably always shy of Miller’s calculated trajectory. What a showboating shit-fuck he is; evidently clueless to who he is dealing with here, the occasion seems merely a marketing shoot for the deeply uninvigorating prospect of the inevitable second sequel. After a full two minutes of pacing disgruntled, the indifferent Miller picks up his chosen tool of dispatchment, poleaxe, proceeding to fling it full-tilt towards the flapping fucktard.
It makes cruel contact, there’s precision in its incision as it strikes first the wing and instantly slices through The Creeper’s vertebrae. The rapidity of its launching is sufficient to remove both pinions from their source, leaving behind a spurting stump of bloody broccoli, where wings once formerly enabled altitude. Thanks to Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity, The Creeper comes plummeting down into the barbed rungs and instantly becomes ensnared. Akin to an ill-fated fly trapped in an arachnids elaborate gossamer; he struggles to break free but to no avail.
Marcus saunters across and time appears to slow down, at least for the wounded quarry, as his aggressor’s shadow fluidly engulfs him. Cowering haplessly, he winces in expectancy of an obliged conclusion to his suffering. His provoker stands latent for a moment or two, thus allowing one last look for The Creeper, into the whites of his eyes. Finally, he agrees and glances up wearily, only to be greeted with the blackest pools of evil but it is fleeting as our aggravator produces a small timber crucifix from within his trouser-pocket and proceeds to lunge forth with the icon of supposed holiness.
It probes deep into the malleable fleshy tissue surrounding his left eye-basket. The sheer might of this action ladles free the entire eyeball; leaving a jagged gorge strewn with exposed nerve-endings and gory membrane. He then concentrates his undivided attention into forcing the instrument into the opposing eye, this time teasing it more leisurely from its confines and leaving it dangling from a filament like a fleshy swing ball.
One hand on The Creeper’s slackening head; he pulls the snaggy wire-bound rope around his dupe’s esophagus and constricts. A sickening concentrated spray of crimson glugs from the yawning wound and the skirmish has reached its ending. The stylus moves toward the centre of the vinyl leaving a deathly hush, but for the sound of sanguine fluids jutting forth from the limp cadaver. Still unvoiced, Marcus returns to his corner and sits down with composure.
Round Five: Marcus Miller vs. Harry Warden
Events are prepared to take a hefty turn for the more psychotic as the stakes of this royal rumble are about to be raised inexplicably. You see, for the first time, Marcus doesn’t have a particular axe to grind in the face of his following opponent. This will invariably be business very much over pleasure for The Orphan Killer, no real foul has been committed and the congenial miner has even gone so far as to send a Valentine’s offering out of mutual admiration for the undefeated and, as yet, untested aggressor in his opposing corner. Miller, being ever obliging, returns the favor; with The Creeper’s inked bleeding heart sliding around like the darkest of candies inside its heart-shaped box. While this may appear as one-upmanship on both men’s part it is, in fact, a two-way exhibition of reverence.
As the bell chimes around the hushed auditorium Warden is already present and correct. He stands defiant, legs parted and breathing exaggerated by the all-encompassing miner’s mask he parades behind. There shall be no cheap shots here; this skirmish is pre-destined with being the first tangible match-up as both men step forth to commence the melee. Weapons still lowered, both combatants stride to the ring hub until faced with one another’s unflinching gaze. That deathly stare doesn’t so much as flicker for a full new york minute as the psyche-out reaches its zenith.
Naturally it is Warden with his diminutive supply of oxygen who succumbs first to peer pressure from the rapturous crowd as he raises that iconic pick-axe from his side and takes a step back so as to evade potential splash back. He deduces trajectory as he prepares to swing the tool in the direction of his nonchalant foe. At the precise moment before attack he pauses momentarily as it becomes abundantly palpable that Marcus simply doesn’t feel that ominous dread associated with being lined up for slaying. He is unfazed, moreover, psychologically already the victor.
Being the consummate professional, Warden procrastinates only fleetingly and reconvenes his pendulum-like swing with all the intent and purpose that is customary. Marcus accepts the pick-axe into his palm, clenching the instrument mid-plummet around Harry’s own faltering feelers. What commences is the final battle of wits as the stare-down recommences; this time transiently as the excruciating arm wrestle reaches its apex. One last glimpse south reveals to Warden that Miller has come to battle without his own weapon of choice; he has every intention of gifting the miner a death by his own puncturing pick-axe.
In a swift motion it makes critical impact. There is nothing benign about the blow, it inevitably makes contact with Harry’s chest and sits there while the sanguine fluids drain from his newly-fashioned cavity. Those precious few emphasized breaths cloud his mask, growing more labored as the life siphons out like the last few grains in the sand glass. Harry Warden slumps to his knees, pushing the blade deeper into his own twitching body in the process and leaving a poetic exit wound at the back of his broken heart, which gradually subsides. The glass of his mask is now fully steamed and, behind that mist,his peepers lose their grip on vitality, becoming fixated in that last gasp for diminished air. The bell tolls and Marcus Miller returns to his corner.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
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Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014