Post by Eno Redrum on Nov 6, 2009 23:50:01 GMT -5
Kuwait, Operation Desert Storm. Exact location: Unknown
Job Pettish slotted a 10-round detachable box magazine into his Barrett M82 .50 cal and steadied it against the window sill. His spotter was looking through his x30 binoculars, searching for anything in a balaclava and holding an AK-47.
“This is Spade, D-Company is moving in. Hold your fire, I repeat, you hold your fire,” a hazy voice shouted over the radio. It was Colonel Richards, CO of D-Company. Instinctively, Pettish’s finger flew away from the trigger immediately. Suddenly, out of the corner of his lenses, he spotted the tip of an AK-47 sticking out behind a mud wall. Licking his lips, he decided to take a shot at the soldier. The .50 cal would probably pierce through the weak wall and hit the insurgent. He pushed all doubts out of his mind and took a shot at the supposed insurgent. To his horror, after he fired the shot, a soldier dressed in the standard colors of the Marine Corps fell to his knees and slumped to the ground, clutching his chest. He had just broken two important rules in the army. One, never shoot your own men. The second one however was more important. It was to never disobey a direct order given by an immediate superior.
“Damn it, Pettish, you are in very deep shit!” roared Richards through the radio. Next thing he knew, the spotter raised a pistol through the air and brought the butt down against Pettish’s head. The last thought that ran through Pettish’s mind was how screwed he was going to get when he woke up.
“Job Pettish, code name: Eno Redrum. You are hereby sentenced to be shot for shooting your own men fatally in the heart. Get out of my sight,” said the judge as he dismissed Pettish with a wave of his hands. Immediately, two bulky soldiers ran to his side and handcuffed him. The tight pair of iron bit into his wrist but Pettish ignored it. He had no family; he left his when he was fourteen, no known relatives and no children. Would he be forgotten before he could leave his mark on the world? He had always dreamt of being a humanitarian after leaving the military but now, he was condemned to be shot and left to rot in some unknown graveyard. He had no doubt his existence would be unknown after his death to many.
The two guards roughed him into the armored truck. One of them cocked his automatic pistol and sat right next to Pettish. The other guard stepped into the driver’s seat and pushed the stick into first.
The road trip to Hell’s Highway was a bumpy one. Every one hundred meter they would come to a bump. After just twenty minutes, Pettish’s ass felt sore.
“Hey…what the hell, why is there a civilian vehicle in front of us? I thought this part was supposed to be devoid of people,” mused the driver as he stopped the vehicle. The guard sighed and opened the back doors. Squinting at the sunlight, he took a step out and walked towards the Honda. As he got closer, suddenly, two men dressed in black leapt out and opened fire at him with Uzis. The bullets cut the guard down. The driver swore and picked up his Anaconda pistol. He fumbled with the safety and when he finally got it, the two men had reached him already. Before he could pull his gun up, the two Uzis chattered simultaneously, the bullet chewing their way greedily into the man’s body. The body convulsed for a moment and slumped to the ground.
“Who are you?” asked Pettish as they cut his handcuffs apart.
One of them glanced at him and replied, “We are from Black List. One can say that we are some sort of international operation that works well beyond the limits of conventional military and police forces. We simply do whatever we have to to get the job done. In short, no rules and we are bound by no laws.”
“What do you want from me then? Why not just shoot me dead now?” asked Pettish as he massaged his reddened wrists. The shorter of the two men looked up.
“My name’s Nile, Damian Nile. I am in charge of recruiting people for Black List’s personal hit squad. I understand you are a good sniper, perfect track record except for that little blunder,” Nile allowed his voice to trail off as Pettish frowned, “so, we give you a deal. Join us and earn much more than what you have now, or just stay here and rot. What say you?”
Pettish considered through the options. True, he had heard of Black List. They were no more than a myth he thought. Something drill instructors told young recruits fresh into sniper school or recon training. A ghost squad made up of the best of the best that had supposedly crossed the line and took the law into their own hands. They had much political and military influence around the world. Joining them would not hurt, and at the end of the day, he would be able to sit back and relax as he spends his well-earned money.
He nodded his head eagerly. Nile grinned and ushered him into the civilian vehicle. Ten minutes later, only the van and the two dead guards were left.
"One more thing," Niles said, never looking back at Pettish in the back-seat. "Job Pettish is dead. From now on, you are Eno Redrum."
New Russia, Stalingrad
“Alright, Dimitri, get a spotter, probably one with a machine gun and take the clock tower! Take down anybody dressed in the colors of the Ultranationalist,” yelled Sergeant Reznov as the soldiers of the First Russian Shock Troop ran towards the enemy encampment. Dimitri tapped his buddy by his shoulder and both of them ran towards the clock tower. A musty smell hung around the inner workings of the non-moving clock tower. Dimitri placed his Dragunov sniper on the metal girders of the clock tower. For as far as he could see, there were only smoke, fires and dead bodies lying around.
“Dimitri! Darn it! Ultranationalist snipers up ahead! In the towers,” yelled Reznov through the radio as he and his men took cover behind a tank. Dimitri tired looking for them but to no avail. Suddenly, a shot rang out. To his horror, he saw his spotter twist around as the bullet hit him right in the left side of his neck. He saw another flash and this time, one of Reznov’s men fell dead.
“Damn it, Dimitri! You’re a traitor to the motherland! We just lost two goddamn soldiers because of your failure to react! You are dead when I show you to the Commissar,” snarled Reznov. A Russian soldier turned around, aimed a rocket launcher at the clock tower and shot it down.
“Hey…this one, he’s still alive,” said a deep European male voice. Dimitri opened his eyes and saw two European men staring down at him. He was no longer in Stalingrad but in some weird place that he did not recognize.
“You are now in Ukraine, my friend. You were half dead by a bazooka shot but hey, you’re still alive. Here, vodka?” asked the taller one as he handed him a bottle of transparent liquid. Dimitri accepted it gratefully and as he drank it, he asked, “Who the hell are you people?”
“We are from Black List. One can say that we are some sort of international operation that works well beyond the limits of conventional military and police forces. We simply do whatever we have to to get the job done. In short, no rules and we are bound by no laws. We are on a lookout for fresh talents to join our personal assassination squad and you, my dear friend, seem like one capable of sniping a fair distance. You game for it,” said the same person who offered Dimitri the vodka. The other man was fingering his knife nervously, as though waiting for an opportunity to use it.
“Why should I join you?” asked Dimitri as he drank the last drop of vodka. The man laughed and replied, “Then, Lean here will be so eager to plunge that dagger into your sorry face. Truth is, boy, you don’t really have a chance. Either you join us, or we’ll send you to the pearly gates just in time for supper.”
Dimitri laughed and took the man’s hand.
Two years later…
“Here is your first assignment Redrum. Remember Mr. Rothman, leader of the current assassination squad? He was hit by a certain Josef Dimitri, an ex-Loyalist sniper. He’s a crack shot with any gun. Your first assignment, would be to kill him, understand? We’ll provide you with whatever materials you need, just show us Dimitri’s head. From our last confirmed source, you’ll find him at Cuba.”
Halfway across the world… At the same time…
“Here is your first assignment Dimitri. Remember Strickland, leader of this assassination squad? He was hit by a certain Eno Redrum, an ex-Navy S.E.A.L. and sniper. He’s a crack shot with any gun. Your first assignment would be to kill him, you understand? We’ll provide you with whatever materials you need, just show us Redrum’s head. From our last confirmed source, you’ll find him in Cuba.”
And thus our story begins. . . . . . .
One last go around.
One last chance at greatness and wrestling immortality.
And it all starts with this match.
This is the first step toward regaining the TWD Championship and once again being the standard in which the TWD is measured.
Only this time, I can finally say it will be without the help of JENT.
This time it will be all on my own.
The veteran against the rookies.
The standard versus the future.
This match has it all. This could be the match that steals the show.
All the pieces are there.
The Good Guy, Saber.
The Bad Guy, Colt Crawford.
And the one caught somewhere in between, myself.
What more could you ask for?
I know I am psyched! How about the rest of you?
Saber said it best in his latest promo when he said there was much respect between the two of us. I see him as the future of the TWD, the future in this sport. He is talented, works the mic and has the charisma to take this sport to the next level.
But first he has to get past me. That is not an easy task.
Don't believe me? Ask Colt Crawford, he knows first hand what it feels like to be defeated by the greatest champion the TWD has ever known.
Colt was one of many to fall to me during my eleven month reign as champion. He will be the next to fall in my quest to be champion once again.
Colt, I have watched you take your talent and waste it. I have watched you slowly slip into the trap of false bravado and arrogance. All I can say to you is I have been there and the path you are walking will only lead you to self destruction. Can you turn back before it's too late or will you too walk the path of the hell and slip slowly from the ranks of the best into the ranks of the mediocre?
Saber and Colt, this is your chance to shine? To put away your hatred for one another and achieve something very few people have ever been able to do on there own here in the TWD, beat Eno Redrum.
This is your chance to achieve greatness and show the world that you deserve the chance to be called champion. Like the saying goes, to be the best you have to beat the best.
So can you beat me?
Do you have what it takes to get the job done?
Or will you be just another wrestler to fall in the ring against me?
Just another stepping stone on my path to greatness once again?
I'm waiting to find out.
I hope you both are ready.
Until then, Shalom!
Job Pettish slotted a 10-round detachable box magazine into his Barrett M82 .50 cal and steadied it against the window sill. His spotter was looking through his x30 binoculars, searching for anything in a balaclava and holding an AK-47.
“This is Spade, D-Company is moving in. Hold your fire, I repeat, you hold your fire,” a hazy voice shouted over the radio. It was Colonel Richards, CO of D-Company. Instinctively, Pettish’s finger flew away from the trigger immediately. Suddenly, out of the corner of his lenses, he spotted the tip of an AK-47 sticking out behind a mud wall. Licking his lips, he decided to take a shot at the soldier. The .50 cal would probably pierce through the weak wall and hit the insurgent. He pushed all doubts out of his mind and took a shot at the supposed insurgent. To his horror, after he fired the shot, a soldier dressed in the standard colors of the Marine Corps fell to his knees and slumped to the ground, clutching his chest. He had just broken two important rules in the army. One, never shoot your own men. The second one however was more important. It was to never disobey a direct order given by an immediate superior.
“Damn it, Pettish, you are in very deep shit!” roared Richards through the radio. Next thing he knew, the spotter raised a pistol through the air and brought the butt down against Pettish’s head. The last thought that ran through Pettish’s mind was how screwed he was going to get when he woke up.
“Job Pettish, code name: Eno Redrum. You are hereby sentenced to be shot for shooting your own men fatally in the heart. Get out of my sight,” said the judge as he dismissed Pettish with a wave of his hands. Immediately, two bulky soldiers ran to his side and handcuffed him. The tight pair of iron bit into his wrist but Pettish ignored it. He had no family; he left his when he was fourteen, no known relatives and no children. Would he be forgotten before he could leave his mark on the world? He had always dreamt of being a humanitarian after leaving the military but now, he was condemned to be shot and left to rot in some unknown graveyard. He had no doubt his existence would be unknown after his death to many.
The two guards roughed him into the armored truck. One of them cocked his automatic pistol and sat right next to Pettish. The other guard stepped into the driver’s seat and pushed the stick into first.
The road trip to Hell’s Highway was a bumpy one. Every one hundred meter they would come to a bump. After just twenty minutes, Pettish’s ass felt sore.
“Hey…what the hell, why is there a civilian vehicle in front of us? I thought this part was supposed to be devoid of people,” mused the driver as he stopped the vehicle. The guard sighed and opened the back doors. Squinting at the sunlight, he took a step out and walked towards the Honda. As he got closer, suddenly, two men dressed in black leapt out and opened fire at him with Uzis. The bullets cut the guard down. The driver swore and picked up his Anaconda pistol. He fumbled with the safety and when he finally got it, the two men had reached him already. Before he could pull his gun up, the two Uzis chattered simultaneously, the bullet chewing their way greedily into the man’s body. The body convulsed for a moment and slumped to the ground.
“Who are you?” asked Pettish as they cut his handcuffs apart.
One of them glanced at him and replied, “We are from Black List. One can say that we are some sort of international operation that works well beyond the limits of conventional military and police forces. We simply do whatever we have to to get the job done. In short, no rules and we are bound by no laws.”
“What do you want from me then? Why not just shoot me dead now?” asked Pettish as he massaged his reddened wrists. The shorter of the two men looked up.
“My name’s Nile, Damian Nile. I am in charge of recruiting people for Black List’s personal hit squad. I understand you are a good sniper, perfect track record except for that little blunder,” Nile allowed his voice to trail off as Pettish frowned, “so, we give you a deal. Join us and earn much more than what you have now, or just stay here and rot. What say you?”
Pettish considered through the options. True, he had heard of Black List. They were no more than a myth he thought. Something drill instructors told young recruits fresh into sniper school or recon training. A ghost squad made up of the best of the best that had supposedly crossed the line and took the law into their own hands. They had much political and military influence around the world. Joining them would not hurt, and at the end of the day, he would be able to sit back and relax as he spends his well-earned money.
He nodded his head eagerly. Nile grinned and ushered him into the civilian vehicle. Ten minutes later, only the van and the two dead guards were left.
"One more thing," Niles said, never looking back at Pettish in the back-seat. "Job Pettish is dead. From now on, you are Eno Redrum."
New Russia, Stalingrad
“Alright, Dimitri, get a spotter, probably one with a machine gun and take the clock tower! Take down anybody dressed in the colors of the Ultranationalist,” yelled Sergeant Reznov as the soldiers of the First Russian Shock Troop ran towards the enemy encampment. Dimitri tapped his buddy by his shoulder and both of them ran towards the clock tower. A musty smell hung around the inner workings of the non-moving clock tower. Dimitri placed his Dragunov sniper on the metal girders of the clock tower. For as far as he could see, there were only smoke, fires and dead bodies lying around.
“Dimitri! Darn it! Ultranationalist snipers up ahead! In the towers,” yelled Reznov through the radio as he and his men took cover behind a tank. Dimitri tired looking for them but to no avail. Suddenly, a shot rang out. To his horror, he saw his spotter twist around as the bullet hit him right in the left side of his neck. He saw another flash and this time, one of Reznov’s men fell dead.
“Damn it, Dimitri! You’re a traitor to the motherland! We just lost two goddamn soldiers because of your failure to react! You are dead when I show you to the Commissar,” snarled Reznov. A Russian soldier turned around, aimed a rocket launcher at the clock tower and shot it down.
“Hey…this one, he’s still alive,” said a deep European male voice. Dimitri opened his eyes and saw two European men staring down at him. He was no longer in Stalingrad but in some weird place that he did not recognize.
“You are now in Ukraine, my friend. You were half dead by a bazooka shot but hey, you’re still alive. Here, vodka?” asked the taller one as he handed him a bottle of transparent liquid. Dimitri accepted it gratefully and as he drank it, he asked, “Who the hell are you people?”
“We are from Black List. One can say that we are some sort of international operation that works well beyond the limits of conventional military and police forces. We simply do whatever we have to to get the job done. In short, no rules and we are bound by no laws. We are on a lookout for fresh talents to join our personal assassination squad and you, my dear friend, seem like one capable of sniping a fair distance. You game for it,” said the same person who offered Dimitri the vodka. The other man was fingering his knife nervously, as though waiting for an opportunity to use it.
“Why should I join you?” asked Dimitri as he drank the last drop of vodka. The man laughed and replied, “Then, Lean here will be so eager to plunge that dagger into your sorry face. Truth is, boy, you don’t really have a chance. Either you join us, or we’ll send you to the pearly gates just in time for supper.”
Dimitri laughed and took the man’s hand.
Two years later…
“Here is your first assignment Redrum. Remember Mr. Rothman, leader of the current assassination squad? He was hit by a certain Josef Dimitri, an ex-Loyalist sniper. He’s a crack shot with any gun. Your first assignment, would be to kill him, understand? We’ll provide you with whatever materials you need, just show us Dimitri’s head. From our last confirmed source, you’ll find him at Cuba.”
Halfway across the world… At the same time…
“Here is your first assignment Dimitri. Remember Strickland, leader of this assassination squad? He was hit by a certain Eno Redrum, an ex-Navy S.E.A.L. and sniper. He’s a crack shot with any gun. Your first assignment would be to kill him, you understand? We’ll provide you with whatever materials you need, just show us Redrum’s head. From our last confirmed source, you’ll find him in Cuba.”
And thus our story begins. . . . . . .
One last go around.
One last chance at greatness and wrestling immortality.
And it all starts with this match.
This is the first step toward regaining the TWD Championship and once again being the standard in which the TWD is measured.
Only this time, I can finally say it will be without the help of JENT.
This time it will be all on my own.
The veteran against the rookies.
The standard versus the future.
This match has it all. This could be the match that steals the show.
All the pieces are there.
The Good Guy, Saber.
The Bad Guy, Colt Crawford.
And the one caught somewhere in between, myself.
What more could you ask for?
I know I am psyched! How about the rest of you?
Saber said it best in his latest promo when he said there was much respect between the two of us. I see him as the future of the TWD, the future in this sport. He is talented, works the mic and has the charisma to take this sport to the next level.
But first he has to get past me. That is not an easy task.
Don't believe me? Ask Colt Crawford, he knows first hand what it feels like to be defeated by the greatest champion the TWD has ever known.
Colt was one of many to fall to me during my eleven month reign as champion. He will be the next to fall in my quest to be champion once again.
Colt, I have watched you take your talent and waste it. I have watched you slowly slip into the trap of false bravado and arrogance. All I can say to you is I have been there and the path you are walking will only lead you to self destruction. Can you turn back before it's too late or will you too walk the path of the hell and slip slowly from the ranks of the best into the ranks of the mediocre?
Saber and Colt, this is your chance to shine? To put away your hatred for one another and achieve something very few people have ever been able to do on there own here in the TWD, beat Eno Redrum.
This is your chance to achieve greatness and show the world that you deserve the chance to be called champion. Like the saying goes, to be the best you have to beat the best.
So can you beat me?
Do you have what it takes to get the job done?
Or will you be just another wrestler to fall in the ring against me?
Just another stepping stone on my path to greatness once again?
I'm waiting to find out.
I hope you both are ready.
Until then, Shalom!
