Post by Dillinger on Dec 23, 2018 14:10:50 GMT -8
"What the fuck! Dillinger! You promised! Not in the apartment!"
"Whoa... whoa, hang on a second. I know how this looks but I swear, I have a good explanation."
Dillinger D'Marco turned his gaze from his roommate and girlfriend, former Bombshell champion, Nyx Nephthys to the african american, female postal worker that was currently dangling off his sword like a piece of meat on a skewer and laughed. It was a gruesome and grisly sight to behold, yet from Dillinger's perspective, getting caught with his weapon in this state was hilarious. His sword stabbed squarely into someone's body, the foyer literally being the picture perfect image of a crime scene. It was funny. It was also monstrous and terribly appalling. The blade was plunged directly through, from one side to the next. Straight in through the solar plexus and out her back. A thick, ruby red pool of blood, covering the entryway carpeting, slowly oozing its way onto the exposed hardwood floor on either side. Accompanying the blood; naturally, was a nice supply of stomach acid and bile. Coupled with the urine and feces that managed to seep from the confines of the lady's pants' legs when she died. The stench was intense, to say the least. To make matters worse, if that was at all possible, the weight of the woman's body occasionally made her slide further down on the sword. In the present moment, she had descended halfway down the blade, on her journey towards the hilt. Each time there was movement, another surge of blood would erupt out onto the floor. In sporadic spurts. Like a Capri Sun with a straw stuck in it being intermittently squeezed but in this case, it was a human body squishing onto a sword as gravity and its weight caused it to decline. Though the results were frighteningly similar. It should also be observed that this display took place, straight in line with an open front door and the outside world, right there to witness it all. During the day, no less. How lovely.
"Okay. I have to be honest with you. It's not a good explanation. I mean, there is an explanation, just not a very good one."
"I'm listening."
A convulsion caused the female postal worker to hiccup on Dillinger's sword, releasing yet another gush of blood mixed with internal liquid surprises. The gore and human fat gristle from the lining of her stomach, coated the metal from tip to slightly mid-way down the weapon now. Eyeing it, Dillinger sighed as his mind briefly drifted to a query that he often pondered. How did serial killers traverse from simply killing, to cannibalism? Was it merely curiosity about the taste of human flesh or something further? The carnage adorning his blade, didn't make him feel anything. Least of all, hungry. Really it just made him think about how he would have to clean his sword later. Maybe even sharpen it a tad after this fat ass oozed her innards all over it. For him it was all about the kill and that was it. After that, whatever was left was simply baggage, useless cargo and it held the same burden in his mind. To then waste all that storage space in your refrigerator with it, well that was downright madness. Ridiculous nonsense, that he would have no part of. Then again, he wasn't a cannibal.
"I heard the mail lady coming up the stairs and I decided to meet her at the door. Figured I'd save her the trouble of bending down and stuffing it all in that slot. She's a mighty hefty woman. That can't be a treat for her. I thought I'd be a nice guy and alleviate that encumbrance. Well when I opened the door, she seen my sword, got scared, seemed to suffer heart failure and then, fell forward. Landed smack dab, directly on it. It was uncanny."
"So you didn't stab her purposefully?"
"Nope."
"She just seen your sword, became frightened, had a heart attack and dropped onto it? All on her own?"
"Yep."
Nodding in affirmation, Dillinger seemed pleased with his recanting of what went down. Meanwhile, the mail lady decorated the carpet with her fluids as she continued her adventure to the hilt of his sword. And yes, the door was still wide open.
"Why did you have your sword drawn?"
Crap. Dillinger shifted his attention to the ceiling briefly, almost like he hoped the answer would be written up there for him to simply read off to Nyx. Alas, it was not.
"Would you believe me if I said I was cleaning it?"
"Probably not."
"I do have to do that from time to time, y'know? Do you realize how fucked up this sword would look, if I didn't maintain its appearance and take care of it? It would look like something straight out of a horror film, all caked with blood and gore. Rusty as fuck and dull. Like something Leatherface or those freaks from The Hills Have Eyes, might use. Possibly the cunts from House Of A Thousand Corpses too. Not me though. No way. I have standards. Just because I enjoy stabbing the fuck out of folks, from time to time. Doesn't mean I have to be a dirty, shitbag about it. I mean, come on, that's uncalled for. Not to mention the fact that it makes it a helluva lot harder to cut through a body when you're using dull, corroded, rust coated weapons. Seriously. Why even bother using a blade at that point? Why not go for a spatula or a potato masher, it would make just as much sense. Anyway, what I'm tryin' to say is that it is very plausible that I was tending to the maintenance of my sword, when this fine, upstanding civil servant, delivered our mail."
"Is that what happened?"
"Nah. I was going to kill her after she handed me the mail. She sorta beat me to the act though. Having a heart attack and all. God damn was that unexpected! I sure as hell didn't see that coming. In all my days of murder and mayhem, I never had someone up and die on me, before I could shove something sharp through 'em. Honestly. It's embarrassing. For me. On top of that it's also really unsatisfying. The sword got its fill but I feel utterly robbed. Where's the thrill when the person, up and dies on you themselves. So inconsiderate. And yes, I can see the irony there. I said that I wouldn't commit murder; in or near, your place but come on, it was only one postal worker. It's not like there's a troop of Jehovah Witnesses hanging off my blade."
"True. Still not cool."
"I know. I'm sorry, babe."
"Are you?"
"Not even close but I really want to be."
"I suppose that's the best that I can ask for, right?"
"That's the spirit! Except I gotta say, I don't even actually mean that either. Hey! Listen up. I can fix the whole corpse on my sword situation though, so that's something. Probably clean up the place too. To the best of my abilities anyway. That has to mean that... I... care? Right? Did that sound convincing? Aw fuck. I'll just do it. You can take it however you want."
Turning his sword to the side, Dillinger lifted his boot and placed it on the dead woman's forehead as he yanked the blade back. Her body hit the floor with a thud. Clothes and hair, instantly soaking up the puddle of blood and various other foul fluids on the floor. Swiping the sword swiftly through the now empty space of air in front of him, a crimson slash appeared, that gradually started to widen while Dillinger, hoisted the corpse up off the carpet. From there, he tossed the body right on through the opening and it sealed up with a sizzle, immediately after. Then with another snap of his wrist, his sword disappeared from sight. Lowering his focus to the blood besmeared carpet and the pools of scarlet, that seeped their way to the hardwood floor on either side, he raised his hand. A quick flash of fire engulfed it all, burning it beyond ash, while leaving everything else untouched. The only remnants being the black singe marks that now sat starkly in their stead. Rolling her eyes, Nyx solved this by whispering a short incantation. That cleaned the floor of its blemishes, almost instantaneously. Dillinger smirked as he instinctually, fired up a cigarette
"We make a good team."
"You owe me a new rug. And no more killing in my fucking apartment!"
"You got it dollface. I'll get on it just as soon as I figure out what to do about that?"
He nodded towards the open door and the cart of mail that existed directly past it. It can be noted here that while Dillinger was perfectly fine with disposing of corpses and incinerating bodily remains and the carnage they left behind, he felt oddly guilty about destroying someone's mail. Oh bother. What to do? What to do?
"Holy shit! I'm fighting the Miz! Damn. That's Awesome. Watching him chow down on his breakfast at his breakfast table. Dude is so fucking famous and rich, I guess he has separate tables for each of the meals that he consumes during the day. I wonder what his lunch and dinner tables look like? For that matter I'm even more intrigued about this breakfast that he was eating. I couldn't quite make it out and if you read the transcripts from his promotional video, they're of no help either. It sorta looked like a bowl full of crap, if you ask me but that can't be right, can it? Does the Miz shovel feces down his gullet every morning? Is that why he's so full of fuckin' shit? Well, it certainly would explain A LOT! Cause while I was excited to be taking on this WWE mid-card talent, Psych guest star and reality tv show participant, I gotta say when I heard him talking, all I could hear was fucking diarrhea exploding out of someone's asshole like it was the fourth of July but instead of blowing off fireworks, they were supplying shit. And lots of it."
"Okay Miz. Glad to see you're taking time from your busy schedule to work the XWF into your curriculum. Why are you doing that again? No. I'm really asking. Why? If you're so busy with the WWE why the fuck would you burden yourself with another wrestling show? Is your home life really that bad? Do you have a ton of debt? A gambling problem? Are you addicted to prostitutes? From how boring your home life seemed, I guess the last one makes sense. I'm not into family oriented stuff myself. Or the holidays. Or children. I do know you gave your kid a stripper name though and that's pretty funny considering that you might be addicted to the thing that strippers eventually become. Nice job there daddy Miz."
"So you're going to beat me, huh? That's funny. Did you know this ain't my first run in the XWF? That awhile back I was the Intercontinental Champion. Yep. It's true. Lost it to Bearded War Pig. What have you won here Miz? Nothing. You mentioned that you keep getting title shots. I fail to see how that does anything except bring to light that you're an unsuccessful, lackluster, piece of crap. They keep giving you chances, you continue to squander them. Why would you want to point that out? How does that help you sound better than anyone else? I'll answer that for you, it doesn't. Especially when you site the WWE like it's superior to the XWF. Only to then bring up your blunders and failed attempts to obtain gold here. Now that just makes you seem pathetic, while confirming what pretty much everyone knew already. That the WWE is a fake as fuck wrestling corporation that fixes its fights and stages matches in order to cater to whomever they want to push that week. Which means that all your fame, all your wondrous accolades. Don't mean a damn thing. All they showcase is the fact that you aren't a real wrestler. Bravo Miz. Congrats."