Post by Kevin on Jan 10, 2013 1:36:53 GMT -6
Omar's stomach lurched at the sight of all these people. These miserable insects, scurrying about with their stupid little lives and selfentitlements and selfassurances. These dyed, painted, primped, preened little showdogs. Girls with the perfect tan walking by, casting baby-doll eyes at him and his compatriot standing at the door, trying to beg their way in. Picture-perfect men with fancy muscles that couldn't accomplish a damn thing. Some tried to eyefuck Omar, get him to back down and let them through. Nobody won.
Omar Wise was the best brick wall the line in front of Club Midnight ever had. The only way he let people in is if his partner decided that it would be worth their while. Otherwise, they could throw whatever tantrum they wanted. The Assault Breacher Vehicle just used the time to practice getting the crowd to hate him.
But on his third night of bouncing and watching the door, two of the dudes who were in front of the line boggled after a few minutes of staring at the huge black man in sunglasses, staring them down. They began to hop and bounce and throw a spaz, like the morons they were.
“OH MAN, OMAR WISE! ASSAULT BREACHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”, they cried! One tried to pat Omar on the shoulder, but he just put a hand up, keeping them from doing so. “Oh man, we saw you destroy Justin Brooks! That shit was TIGHT!”, they howl.
“Thanks.”, Omar rumbles flatly. He wasn't diggin' their praise.
“Oh, dude, when you see Alex Brooks, you gonna headbutt him? OH MAN, YOU GOTTA HEADBUTT HIM! C'mon, bro. Do one headbutt for me.”, one begs.
“Me too!”, the other one chimes in.
“Uh... Okay.”, Omar hesitantly begins, before his partner stepped in.
“Alright, fellas. You're good to go. Go on in.”, the experienced bouncer rasped. He opened the velvet rope, letting the two dudes, three girls, and a bouncer on his night off in. Then he shot a look to Omar.
“Gettin' famous, huh? Soon you'll be up there with Mister B. Famous wrestleman, heh heh...”
Omar simply nodded, considering things. He... hadn't thought about it, but being a wrestler really did bring this kind of fame. It might even pick up, as E-Pro did. He hadn't expected anyone to ever be recognising him out of a crowd. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
~*~*~
"Omar Wise. American Hero."
The thought of such a phrase turned Omar's stomach. He twisted his lips up in disgust, shaking his head dismissively. The big Assault Breacher Vehicle did not looked thrilled. He had recently come from the gym, and his gray E-PRO teeshirt was still stained with sweat in a few places. His 'pits, his chest... A dampened towel hung around his neck, and sweat glistened on his brow, his chin, his neck... He was a sweaty, sweaty man.
"Wanna know about how I got kicked out of the army, Alex?"
Omar was sitting in a big, overstuffed easy chair. He steepled his fingers before his chest, looking down for a moment. After a moment's thought, he grabbed his towel and rubbed it up the back of his skull.
"Every day, you would go out there and hope today wasn't the day that a buncha damn fools decided to make heroes out of us. And one day, our number came up.”
Omar's face went from a thoughtful look to an annoyed one in a few moments, his expression congealing like cold fat. He shook his head, eyes cast down, voice all reverent and soulful.
"So a bunch of insurgents got their shitty 1972 machine guns and set up an ambush. Within the first minute of it, every one of our trucks were destroyed, and eight soldiers were dead."
Omar hunched his neck down, taking cover. He mimed bringing a rifle up, one finger crooked to hang off the trigger. He had horrible trigger discipline, but then again, this memory required lots of shooting.
"The rest of us all hunkered down, but they had us surrounded. With fire on all sides, I saw good men go down with wounds on all sides of me. I returned fire. My fellow soldiers returned fire. Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat."
Omar mimed using his big, honkin' gun. He did enjoy firing that big monster gun, the squad assault weapon. Guns weren't his favorite, but that thing felt... appropriate for Omar.
"I shot men dead.”
His voice was raspy. Edgy. Not-entirely-okay.
“I shot a LOT of men dead. But after I got all the guys in my line of fire, I realized that there was a lot less sound from around me."
Omar mimed looking around, eyes wide.
"None of my squadmates were up still. I was all by myself. I could have laid down and died. I still have nightmares about that moment. But would I give up?"
Omar's fists clenched, breaking the illusion of the invisible rifle in his hands. He popped to his feet, fists balled up tight. The big man whipped the towel off from around his neck, clenching it in a shaking fist. His eyes went from the towel, up to the camera, wide and maniac.
"Never. I reloaded, I stepped out, and I shot dead every one of those insurgent sons-a-bitches. And when my gun ran out of ammo, I pulled my pistol and shot a guy with that. And when I ran out of pistol ammo, I picked up the gun from one a' my buddies and shot two guys who couldn't have either been more than 20.”
And then...
"And before I could even realize what I had done, one last guy thought now would be his time. He thought he could run in real quick, set off a suicide bomb, and send alla us to hell. And then he'd get his virgins or whatever."
Omar faltered for a moment, and looked down to that hand, clenching the towel still. Omar grabbed up both ends of the fabric, and quickly began to twist it up, tight and tangled. His hands flew, showing the speed he had been working on.
"He made one mistake, though. He came too close to Omar Wise. Omar Wise all hyped up with adrenaline. When he came up to the convoy, he came close enough for me to grab him. He went to throw open his jacket, really scare us. And THEN he went for the trigger."
Omar had twisted the towel into a tight knot, and tossed the knotted cloth away, off camera. He mimed grabbing a man's shirt, and lifting the dude up and off the ground. The poor, terrified, hapless fool he was miming would have likely shat his pants. Imagine a pissed-off, powered-by-adrenaline, bloodlust-crazed Omar Wise. Imagine all the people living life in peace.
"I grabbed him by the front of the shirt and knocked his ass out with one headbutt."
Omar let his hands fall open, a smirk on his lips. There was no humor whatsoever in the smile, though. It was Omar Wise doing something with his lips to keep from just snarling with pent-up hatred.
"Sure. I was a hero. We got some good stuff outta that guy. And I even got wounded doing all that, caught a stray bullet or something. Adrenaline's a crazy thing, y'know?"
Omar let himself tip backwards, ending up sittin' on that chair once more. He brought a hand up, thumb and forefinger running over his chin.
"On my way back with the unit, most of 'em getting medevac, I got a moment with my superior officer. Asked him if he thought that guy was gonna be disappointed he didn't get his virgins anymore."
A wry nod. Nope.
"My CO exploded. Yelled at me, cussed me out... I was still up on adrenaline. So... I headbutted him too.”
Omar cast the camera a baleful glance, taking a moment to let that sink in. Yes. Headbutt the CO. Headbutt the insurgent. Omar liked to headbutt. It was a given that Alex would be catching at least one. Justin got one, and Omar sure did hope that he'd get a chance to lay one in on Fiona, were she to be the person he fought at the finals.
“It ain't smart to get in the face of a hyped-up guy from Baltimore. Needless t' say... Court martial. Dishonorable discharge. My unit was told t' keep quiet about my heroism. I got a medal in the mail."
Omar smirked a little bit. Did he even bother keeping the mo'fucka? Gram-Gram had it somewhere, he didn't care where. She could pawn the thing for all he cared, for the value of the metals inside. And he had told her as much, too. He shoulda been the kind of dude they made movies about. Instead, one moment in time had ruined everything.
"The nail that sticks out gets pounded down, kid. This ain't a Disney movie. The plucky young hero doesn't get the girl at the end. And neither will you."
Omar leaned forward, shoulders hunching a bit. Impressive traps on the man. He gave a slight twitch on one side of his face, doin' the Black Snake Moan eyes. He had a good set for 'em. Cold. Hollow. Staring. Like he had seen all the horrors of the world, choked down all the bitterness of the globe and washed it down with a cool glass of all the hate that an inner city can muster up for a child. Yum.
"I learned that a young hero has someone worse than him out there, just waiting for the opportunity to leap on him and rip his throat out. Destroy his hopes. Kick him down a flight of stairs and leave him at the bottom in a pool of his own blood."
Omar twisted his head up and away, eyes closing. As if remembering.
"So... If I couldn't do things the way that the world was supposed to work, where the brave young man enlists and becomes a hero, works hard to further his country's goals and gives his time to his nation... Well. I was gonna have to just do what worked. I was gonna have to find another way."
Omar's cool, impassive face brought his gaze back down to his hands. Where he clenched 'em tightly.
"In the real world, the man who is a good father, a kind man, a generous man, a giving man, but never closes any deals, never earns any money, never cuts any throats to get what he wants..."
Well. Omar spreads his hands as if that right churr describes it all. A meaningful movement of his eyebrows.
"But the man who cuts people off in traffic, closes deals at the expense of his fellow man, gets paid and makes those dollar bills, doesn't care about hurting people, ruining lives, ending careers..."
Omar levelled a big, thick finger at the camera, pointing it again and again and again for emphasis.
"That's the man who gets ahead. That's the man I had to become."
Omar clapped his hands together and rose to his feet, turning to walk down the side of the room. The room was absolutely gorgeous, and a tumbler of misbegotten brandy sitting on an end table was scooped up. Omar considered it for a moment, looking at how the light passed through the amber liquid. If this was what the high life was all about, then he could see why Boston had retired from wrestling to live like this. Omar brought the glass to his lips and quaffed that shit down. No real savoring, just enjoying the booze.
"So. I hadda become a monster to make sure I'd never end up in the same position I was, Alex. I had t' stop feeling any kind of pity, remorse, or sorrow over the bones that I broke, the screams that I heard."
Omar placed the tumbler down on the tabletop, fully turning to the cameraman. He clapped his big hands together, a big grin appearing on his face. This one... This one had a bit of joy to it. Y'see, now we were talkin' about stuff that Omar liked. Bones snapping, people crying out for mercy, thanks to those two hands.
"So, that's what you find opposite you in the ring now, Alex. I'm no hero. And I'm not even a villain. I'm just a man who had to look the truth of the world right in the face, and didn't like what he saw. I do what I do because I've got to."
Omar stepped up into the camera's frame a little more, the camera now framing his head as fillin' the screen. His eyes glared into the lens, lips pressed together into a stern line.
"And I'm gonna do to you what I'm gonna do to you because I've got to. Don't take it personally, Alex. You're just the little lamb bein' led to the slaughter. Nobody in this world just gives you anything. You've got to TAKE it. And I'm gonna TAKE that Exodus Pro World Championship... And I'm gonna do it by walkin' over a bridge made of your body, Justin's body, Kliff's body... And hopefully Fiona's body."
Omar grinned brightly at the thought of all that.
"And I'm gonna take that World Championship with these two hands. The same hands I'm gonna use... on you."
Omar Wise was the best brick wall the line in front of Club Midnight ever had. The only way he let people in is if his partner decided that it would be worth their while. Otherwise, they could throw whatever tantrum they wanted. The Assault Breacher Vehicle just used the time to practice getting the crowd to hate him.
But on his third night of bouncing and watching the door, two of the dudes who were in front of the line boggled after a few minutes of staring at the huge black man in sunglasses, staring them down. They began to hop and bounce and throw a spaz, like the morons they were.
“OH MAN, OMAR WISE! ASSAULT BREACHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”, they cried! One tried to pat Omar on the shoulder, but he just put a hand up, keeping them from doing so. “Oh man, we saw you destroy Justin Brooks! That shit was TIGHT!”, they howl.
“Thanks.”, Omar rumbles flatly. He wasn't diggin' their praise.
“Oh, dude, when you see Alex Brooks, you gonna headbutt him? OH MAN, YOU GOTTA HEADBUTT HIM! C'mon, bro. Do one headbutt for me.”, one begs.
“Me too!”, the other one chimes in.
“Uh... Okay.”, Omar hesitantly begins, before his partner stepped in.
“Alright, fellas. You're good to go. Go on in.”, the experienced bouncer rasped. He opened the velvet rope, letting the two dudes, three girls, and a bouncer on his night off in. Then he shot a look to Omar.
“Gettin' famous, huh? Soon you'll be up there with Mister B. Famous wrestleman, heh heh...”
Omar simply nodded, considering things. He... hadn't thought about it, but being a wrestler really did bring this kind of fame. It might even pick up, as E-Pro did. He hadn't expected anyone to ever be recognising him out of a crowd. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
~*~*~
"Omar Wise. American Hero."
The thought of such a phrase turned Omar's stomach. He twisted his lips up in disgust, shaking his head dismissively. The big Assault Breacher Vehicle did not looked thrilled. He had recently come from the gym, and his gray E-PRO teeshirt was still stained with sweat in a few places. His 'pits, his chest... A dampened towel hung around his neck, and sweat glistened on his brow, his chin, his neck... He was a sweaty, sweaty man.
"Wanna know about how I got kicked out of the army, Alex?"
Omar was sitting in a big, overstuffed easy chair. He steepled his fingers before his chest, looking down for a moment. After a moment's thought, he grabbed his towel and rubbed it up the back of his skull.
"Every day, you would go out there and hope today wasn't the day that a buncha damn fools decided to make heroes out of us. And one day, our number came up.”
Omar's face went from a thoughtful look to an annoyed one in a few moments, his expression congealing like cold fat. He shook his head, eyes cast down, voice all reverent and soulful.
"So a bunch of insurgents got their shitty 1972 machine guns and set up an ambush. Within the first minute of it, every one of our trucks were destroyed, and eight soldiers were dead."
Omar hunched his neck down, taking cover. He mimed bringing a rifle up, one finger crooked to hang off the trigger. He had horrible trigger discipline, but then again, this memory required lots of shooting.
"The rest of us all hunkered down, but they had us surrounded. With fire on all sides, I saw good men go down with wounds on all sides of me. I returned fire. My fellow soldiers returned fire. Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat."
Omar mimed using his big, honkin' gun. He did enjoy firing that big monster gun, the squad assault weapon. Guns weren't his favorite, but that thing felt... appropriate for Omar.
"I shot men dead.”
His voice was raspy. Edgy. Not-entirely-okay.
“I shot a LOT of men dead. But after I got all the guys in my line of fire, I realized that there was a lot less sound from around me."
Omar mimed looking around, eyes wide.
"None of my squadmates were up still. I was all by myself. I could have laid down and died. I still have nightmares about that moment. But would I give up?"
Omar's fists clenched, breaking the illusion of the invisible rifle in his hands. He popped to his feet, fists balled up tight. The big man whipped the towel off from around his neck, clenching it in a shaking fist. His eyes went from the towel, up to the camera, wide and maniac.
"Never. I reloaded, I stepped out, and I shot dead every one of those insurgent sons-a-bitches. And when my gun ran out of ammo, I pulled my pistol and shot a guy with that. And when I ran out of pistol ammo, I picked up the gun from one a' my buddies and shot two guys who couldn't have either been more than 20.”
And then...
"And before I could even realize what I had done, one last guy thought now would be his time. He thought he could run in real quick, set off a suicide bomb, and send alla us to hell. And then he'd get his virgins or whatever."
Omar faltered for a moment, and looked down to that hand, clenching the towel still. Omar grabbed up both ends of the fabric, and quickly began to twist it up, tight and tangled. His hands flew, showing the speed he had been working on.
"He made one mistake, though. He came too close to Omar Wise. Omar Wise all hyped up with adrenaline. When he came up to the convoy, he came close enough for me to grab him. He went to throw open his jacket, really scare us. And THEN he went for the trigger."
Omar had twisted the towel into a tight knot, and tossed the knotted cloth away, off camera. He mimed grabbing a man's shirt, and lifting the dude up and off the ground. The poor, terrified, hapless fool he was miming would have likely shat his pants. Imagine a pissed-off, powered-by-adrenaline, bloodlust-crazed Omar Wise. Imagine all the people living life in peace.
"I grabbed him by the front of the shirt and knocked his ass out with one headbutt."
Omar let his hands fall open, a smirk on his lips. There was no humor whatsoever in the smile, though. It was Omar Wise doing something with his lips to keep from just snarling with pent-up hatred.
"Sure. I was a hero. We got some good stuff outta that guy. And I even got wounded doing all that, caught a stray bullet or something. Adrenaline's a crazy thing, y'know?"
Omar let himself tip backwards, ending up sittin' on that chair once more. He brought a hand up, thumb and forefinger running over his chin.
"On my way back with the unit, most of 'em getting medevac, I got a moment with my superior officer. Asked him if he thought that guy was gonna be disappointed he didn't get his virgins anymore."
A wry nod. Nope.
"My CO exploded. Yelled at me, cussed me out... I was still up on adrenaline. So... I headbutted him too.”
Omar cast the camera a baleful glance, taking a moment to let that sink in. Yes. Headbutt the CO. Headbutt the insurgent. Omar liked to headbutt. It was a given that Alex would be catching at least one. Justin got one, and Omar sure did hope that he'd get a chance to lay one in on Fiona, were she to be the person he fought at the finals.
“It ain't smart to get in the face of a hyped-up guy from Baltimore. Needless t' say... Court martial. Dishonorable discharge. My unit was told t' keep quiet about my heroism. I got a medal in the mail."
Omar smirked a little bit. Did he even bother keeping the mo'fucka? Gram-Gram had it somewhere, he didn't care where. She could pawn the thing for all he cared, for the value of the metals inside. And he had told her as much, too. He shoulda been the kind of dude they made movies about. Instead, one moment in time had ruined everything.
"The nail that sticks out gets pounded down, kid. This ain't a Disney movie. The plucky young hero doesn't get the girl at the end. And neither will you."
Omar leaned forward, shoulders hunching a bit. Impressive traps on the man. He gave a slight twitch on one side of his face, doin' the Black Snake Moan eyes. He had a good set for 'em. Cold. Hollow. Staring. Like he had seen all the horrors of the world, choked down all the bitterness of the globe and washed it down with a cool glass of all the hate that an inner city can muster up for a child. Yum.
"I learned that a young hero has someone worse than him out there, just waiting for the opportunity to leap on him and rip his throat out. Destroy his hopes. Kick him down a flight of stairs and leave him at the bottom in a pool of his own blood."
Omar twisted his head up and away, eyes closing. As if remembering.
"So... If I couldn't do things the way that the world was supposed to work, where the brave young man enlists and becomes a hero, works hard to further his country's goals and gives his time to his nation... Well. I was gonna have to just do what worked. I was gonna have to find another way."
Omar's cool, impassive face brought his gaze back down to his hands. Where he clenched 'em tightly.
"In the real world, the man who is a good father, a kind man, a generous man, a giving man, but never closes any deals, never earns any money, never cuts any throats to get what he wants..."
Well. Omar spreads his hands as if that right churr describes it all. A meaningful movement of his eyebrows.
"But the man who cuts people off in traffic, closes deals at the expense of his fellow man, gets paid and makes those dollar bills, doesn't care about hurting people, ruining lives, ending careers..."
Omar levelled a big, thick finger at the camera, pointing it again and again and again for emphasis.
"That's the man who gets ahead. That's the man I had to become."
Omar clapped his hands together and rose to his feet, turning to walk down the side of the room. The room was absolutely gorgeous, and a tumbler of misbegotten brandy sitting on an end table was scooped up. Omar considered it for a moment, looking at how the light passed through the amber liquid. If this was what the high life was all about, then he could see why Boston had retired from wrestling to live like this. Omar brought the glass to his lips and quaffed that shit down. No real savoring, just enjoying the booze.
"So. I hadda become a monster to make sure I'd never end up in the same position I was, Alex. I had t' stop feeling any kind of pity, remorse, or sorrow over the bones that I broke, the screams that I heard."
Omar placed the tumbler down on the tabletop, fully turning to the cameraman. He clapped his big hands together, a big grin appearing on his face. This one... This one had a bit of joy to it. Y'see, now we were talkin' about stuff that Omar liked. Bones snapping, people crying out for mercy, thanks to those two hands.
"So, that's what you find opposite you in the ring now, Alex. I'm no hero. And I'm not even a villain. I'm just a man who had to look the truth of the world right in the face, and didn't like what he saw. I do what I do because I've got to."
Omar stepped up into the camera's frame a little more, the camera now framing his head as fillin' the screen. His eyes glared into the lens, lips pressed together into a stern line.
"And I'm gonna do to you what I'm gonna do to you because I've got to. Don't take it personally, Alex. You're just the little lamb bein' led to the slaughter. Nobody in this world just gives you anything. You've got to TAKE it. And I'm gonna TAKE that Exodus Pro World Championship... And I'm gonna do it by walkin' over a bridge made of your body, Justin's body, Kliff's body... And hopefully Fiona's body."
Omar grinned brightly at the thought of all that.
"And I'm gonna take that World Championship with these two hands. The same hands I'm gonna use... on you."
