Post by Alistair "Stainless" Steele on Aug 11, 2007 21:40:47 GMT -5
“You... me... Oily Rags...”
Steele lay awake in his hotel room, unable to sleep. He cursed his returning insomnia which, until two nights ago, had left him alone like a bully who was bored of tormenting and teasing a smaller, weaker kid. But now it had returned, sliding in under the radar and finding a new reason to make him suffer.
“Oily Rags...”
The only words Steele had ever heard the Lone Wolf speak attacked his brain almost as viciously as their speaker had during Clash at the Oil Can. He wanted to sleep. He begged for it to take him away, but the voice wouldn’t let it. It repeated the four cursed words over and over, torturing Steele endlessly. Turning on his side, he wrapped the pillow over his ears in a futile effort to block out the gnawing voice of the Wolf which only felt necessary to attack his mind at night.
The clock read 4:47 a.m. Steele had been awake for almost 48 hours straight. Groaning, he looked at the empty pill bottle on the night stand and sighed. He made sure not to take too many pills and overdose, but the quantity he had stashed away in the bottle just didn’t cut it. It seemed he had built up an immunity to the sleeping pills over years of use, and now it looked like there was no hope of sleep–glorious sleep–for Steele.
And what a horrible time for the dreaded insomnia to strike; right before his Oily Rags match with the Lone Wolf. As much as he despised the horribly scarred man, he was the only person Steele viewed as an equal, the only person worthy enough to face him in the ring. But why did the voice have to assault him now, when he was so close to the match? Steele complained quietly to himself, much too tired to form coherent thoughts.
“You... me... Oily Rags...”
His eyes were well adjusted to the darkness that flooded his room through the open blinds and coated his surroundings in a thick coat of blackness. He laid on his back and stared blankly at the tiled ceiling, hoping if he stayed there for long enough that maybe, just maybe, the temptress known as sleep would sweep him away into nightly oblivion. Steele began counting the cars that passed by his hotel room as their lights panned quickly across the ceiling.
His thoughts drifted reluctantly to the Two. In his sleep deprived state he considered, albeit for only a moment, calling it quits. True, Steele hadn’t delivered the Vagabond to them, but he didn’t think it mattered. For sure they knew exactly where he was, and certainly they didn’t even need Steele’s help in the first place. Perhaps he was just some tool in a demented game, being utilized for personal gain by Johnny and Roger...
No, of course not. What nonsense had crept into Steele’s vulnerable mind! The lack of sleep had caused him to think outrageous thoughts, he concluded. He tried to refocus his thoughts on counting the passing vehicles, but he had lost count. Cursing, Steele rolled back onto his side and stared at the clock. 4:59 a.m. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as the voice of Lone Wolf continued to assault him.
“You... me...”
The voice almost sounded as if it were coming from a place outside of Steele’s head. But of course, anybody would think that after being denied the pleasure of slumber for as long as he was. He was so weary that he even thought he saw the white suited Johnny smirking at him through the window, but dismissed the illusion.
As time ticked slowly by, Steele’s body finally became so weary that it was unaffected by the recurring onslaught of the Voice. Sleep finally crept through the barricade into enemy territory to carry him to safety, beyond the reach of the cursed Voice which gave one last attempt to thwart Sleep’s efforts.
“Oily Rags...”
But it didn’t work. Steele was finally safe in the comforting arms of Sleep. The Voice continued its cries which fell upon deaf ears, before there was a click and then silence.
Steele was too busy with his lusty orgy with Sleep to notice that a key was slid into the lock of his hotel room door. Quietly, the handle turned and the door was opened with a little creak. Soft footsteps pattered across the hardwood floor as somebody made their way to Steele’s bed, taking utmost care not to wake him. The hooded figure kneeled down beside the bed and reached into the small amount of space between the wall and the headboard, pulling out a small tape recorder. The figure then hurried out of the room and closed the door behind them.
Once outside, the figure pulled back the hood to reveal a head of long blonde hair and terrified blue eyes. Gripping the tape recorder in one hand, she nearly had a heart attack when she heard a voice with an arrogant British accent behind her.
“Oi, do you have it?”
Roger stepped forward and held out an impatient hand. “Where’s the recorder?” he demanded. The young house maid handed it to him and instinctively backed away slightly. Roger chuckled as he shook the tape recorder at her. “You did good, sweetheart,” he said as he reached into his pocket, taking out a wad of cash which he then proceeded to place inside her trembling hands. “Now you run along. It’s way too early for you to be up.”
The scared blonde maid nodded nervously and spun on her heel. She hurried down the hall, half running, half power-walking, and desperate to get away from the awful man in the black suit.
Roger stood just outside of Steele’s closed door, tape recorder in one hand and the rat-tail comb in the other. Combing back his greasy hair, he pocketed the tape recorder and muttered amusingly as he turned and strolled down the hall.
“Sleep well, Mr. Steele. You’re going to need it.”
Steele lay awake in his hotel room, unable to sleep. He cursed his returning insomnia which, until two nights ago, had left him alone like a bully who was bored of tormenting and teasing a smaller, weaker kid. But now it had returned, sliding in under the radar and finding a new reason to make him suffer.
“Oily Rags...”
The only words Steele had ever heard the Lone Wolf speak attacked his brain almost as viciously as their speaker had during Clash at the Oil Can. He wanted to sleep. He begged for it to take him away, but the voice wouldn’t let it. It repeated the four cursed words over and over, torturing Steele endlessly. Turning on his side, he wrapped the pillow over his ears in a futile effort to block out the gnawing voice of the Wolf which only felt necessary to attack his mind at night.
The clock read 4:47 a.m. Steele had been awake for almost 48 hours straight. Groaning, he looked at the empty pill bottle on the night stand and sighed. He made sure not to take too many pills and overdose, but the quantity he had stashed away in the bottle just didn’t cut it. It seemed he had built up an immunity to the sleeping pills over years of use, and now it looked like there was no hope of sleep–glorious sleep–for Steele.
And what a horrible time for the dreaded insomnia to strike; right before his Oily Rags match with the Lone Wolf. As much as he despised the horribly scarred man, he was the only person Steele viewed as an equal, the only person worthy enough to face him in the ring. But why did the voice have to assault him now, when he was so close to the match? Steele complained quietly to himself, much too tired to form coherent thoughts.
“You... me... Oily Rags...”
His eyes were well adjusted to the darkness that flooded his room through the open blinds and coated his surroundings in a thick coat of blackness. He laid on his back and stared blankly at the tiled ceiling, hoping if he stayed there for long enough that maybe, just maybe, the temptress known as sleep would sweep him away into nightly oblivion. Steele began counting the cars that passed by his hotel room as their lights panned quickly across the ceiling.
His thoughts drifted reluctantly to the Two. In his sleep deprived state he considered, albeit for only a moment, calling it quits. True, Steele hadn’t delivered the Vagabond to them, but he didn’t think it mattered. For sure they knew exactly where he was, and certainly they didn’t even need Steele’s help in the first place. Perhaps he was just some tool in a demented game, being utilized for personal gain by Johnny and Roger...
No, of course not. What nonsense had crept into Steele’s vulnerable mind! The lack of sleep had caused him to think outrageous thoughts, he concluded. He tried to refocus his thoughts on counting the passing vehicles, but he had lost count. Cursing, Steele rolled back onto his side and stared at the clock. 4:59 a.m. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as the voice of Lone Wolf continued to assault him.
“You... me...”
The voice almost sounded as if it were coming from a place outside of Steele’s head. But of course, anybody would think that after being denied the pleasure of slumber for as long as he was. He was so weary that he even thought he saw the white suited Johnny smirking at him through the window, but dismissed the illusion.
As time ticked slowly by, Steele’s body finally became so weary that it was unaffected by the recurring onslaught of the Voice. Sleep finally crept through the barricade into enemy territory to carry him to safety, beyond the reach of the cursed Voice which gave one last attempt to thwart Sleep’s efforts.
“Oily Rags...”
But it didn’t work. Steele was finally safe in the comforting arms of Sleep. The Voice continued its cries which fell upon deaf ears, before there was a click and then silence.
Steele was too busy with his lusty orgy with Sleep to notice that a key was slid into the lock of his hotel room door. Quietly, the handle turned and the door was opened with a little creak. Soft footsteps pattered across the hardwood floor as somebody made their way to Steele’s bed, taking utmost care not to wake him. The hooded figure kneeled down beside the bed and reached into the small amount of space between the wall and the headboard, pulling out a small tape recorder. The figure then hurried out of the room and closed the door behind them.
Once outside, the figure pulled back the hood to reveal a head of long blonde hair and terrified blue eyes. Gripping the tape recorder in one hand, she nearly had a heart attack when she heard a voice with an arrogant British accent behind her.
“Oi, do you have it?”
Roger stepped forward and held out an impatient hand. “Where’s the recorder?” he demanded. The young house maid handed it to him and instinctively backed away slightly. Roger chuckled as he shook the tape recorder at her. “You did good, sweetheart,” he said as he reached into his pocket, taking out a wad of cash which he then proceeded to place inside her trembling hands. “Now you run along. It’s way too early for you to be up.”
The scared blonde maid nodded nervously and spun on her heel. She hurried down the hall, half running, half power-walking, and desperate to get away from the awful man in the black suit.
Roger stood just outside of Steele’s closed door, tape recorder in one hand and the rat-tail comb in the other. Combing back his greasy hair, he pocketed the tape recorder and muttered amusingly as he turned and strolled down the hall.
“Sleep well, Mr. Steele. You’re going to need it.”