Richard Blonoff
Make America Rassle Again
Real Name: Dorian Heyward
Gimmick Name: Dorian Slaughter
Announced As: "The Angel of Death"
Height: 6'5
Weight: 295 lbs
Hometown: Detroit, MI
Billed From: Hell, MI
Alignment: Heel
Fill in the Blanks With Your Information:
Introducing first from _______Hell, MI_______, weighing __295______ pounds, (Dorian "The Angel of Death" Slaughter)!
Appearance:
----------------Hair Colour/Length
Black, shoulder length
----------------Eye Colour
Dark green
----------------Facial Hair
Full, scraggly beard
----------------Ring attire
Black Dickies work pants, black work boots, cut-off red T-shirt with "SLAUGHTER" stitched across the chest
----------------Backstage Attire
Same pants, boots, T-shirt, with a dirty blue zip-up hooded sweatshirt over top.
----------------Physical Features
Tall and somewhat thick, but agile. Strong, but not ripped.
----------------Tattoos:
All in black: angel wings on his back, the tips evident at the edges of the cutoff T-shirt. A red pentagram tattoo on the right shoulder. "Slaughter the weak" on inside of right forearm. A full sleeve on left arm including various depictions of demons, skulls, a dragon, and a welding torch.
Sample Pic of Wrestler: Ray Rowe
Main Gimmick: A lifelong loner, troubled soul, with an affinity for the darker side of life and an utter obsession with death and postmortem. He authors The Book of Slaughter, based on ancient texts from various religions or mythos, wherein he rewrites passages, often including himself as various forces of evil. He believes the rewritten stories within the book to be true without question and believes himself to be an evil diety.
2 Characteristics of Gimmick:
Unable to feel satisfaction from success or achievement due to his obsession with death.
-Often overlooks realistic truths and lives in a fabricated reality, believing himself to take on various forms of evil, transcribed through The Book of Slaughter.
Brief Bio/History: Orphaned as a young child after his young parents put him up for adoption. Dorian found a stable home with a middle class family, only to be orphaned once again when his adopted parents were slain in front of him during a home robbery. He bounced around vaious foster homes and orphanages throughout the remainder of his childhood and adolescence. He was forced into a trade school during his college-aged years, where he became a certified welder. He went on to work at a factory, fabricating railroad cars and tracks, for several years. The thankless and suppressive environment weakened his psyche, but ultimately led to his acceptance of evil as his redemption and source of retribution. He turned to wrestling as a way to vent his frustrations and spread his message of hate.
Entrance Music: SLAYER- Angel of Death
[youtube]DgASEyey_KQ[/youtube]
Entrance Description: He emerges through the curtain into a darkened arena, standing with his arms extended to either side of his body at the top of the ramp, peering toward the sky. He stalks slowly down the ramp, surveying the crowd before entering the ring via the steps.
Fighting Style: Largely incorporates slams and throws against equal or smaller opponents, uses submission holds against larger opponents.
Previous Injuries/Character Psyche: General aches & pains from years of manual labor, but harsh environments strengthened his pain threshold. Diminished sense of sight from the use of welding torches, however his other senses are maximized in dark atmospheres.
Finishing Moves (2 max):
Death Becomes You (Single-underhook DDT)
Tomb of the Mutilated (submission- Guillotine chokehold)
Signature Moves (3 max):
Fall of Man (DDT into lower turnbuckle)
Black Plague (Cobra clutch driver)
Hate Creation (Crooked arm lariat)
12 Most Used Moves:
Kesagiri chops
Heart punch
DDT
Armbar legsweep
Full nelson bulldog
Front facelock STO
Sole kick
Sitout jawbreaker
Headlock driver
Death valley driver
Sleeper hold
Corner foot choke
Sample RP.
THE FIRST BOOK OF SLAUGHTER
1 Slaughter 1:1-2
The Creation
In the beginning He created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And a spirit of evil moved upon the face of the waters.
And He said, let there be light. And the light did not come. And He saw the darkness, that it was good. He had divided the light from the darkness.
1 Slaughter 9:1-7
The Plague of Locusts
And the fifth angel sounded and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to Him was given the key of the bottomless pit.
And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit.
And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power.
And it was commanded them that they should not hurt the grass of the earth, neither any green thing, neither any tree, but only those men which have not the seal of Slaughter upon their foreheads.
And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented, and their torment was as the torment of a scorpion when he striketh a man.
And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.
And the locusts had a King over them, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon, that is, Destroyer.
The torch weighed heavy in His calloused palm as He staggered forward through the barren dusty lot preceding His long since abandoned place of employment. The Freight Car America fabrication shop had been closed for several years, He wasn’t sure exactly how long, He wasn’t sure He cared. A thin, foggy steam settled atop the ground surrounding the factory, originating from the warmth of the heat-trace wrapped underground fuel tanks.
As Slaughter draws near, a man hobbles haphazardly out of the guard shack positioned just outside of the dilapidated steel fence. The man appears old beyond his years, his neck and back hunched forward, making it difficult for him to peer through his eyeglasses beneath the brim of his faded flannel cap at the approaching figure.
Slaughter stands before the man, His face emotionless as the man adjusts his spectacles.
Slaughter: He has returned.
Man: Ah, think you might be lost there, chum.
Slaughter: It is you who has lost, old man.
Slaughter scans the scene as the old man ponders his previous statement, studying the towering figure before him, trying to place an oddly familiar face.
Man: Heyward?
Slaughter nods in agreement, though He does not shift His eyes from the factory.
Man: Dorian Heyward, I’ll be good goddamned.
Slaughter: Bruce Sheahan, I see you are still wallowing in the glories of your past life.
The old man adjusts his hat, running his hand across the back of his neck, leaving traces of dried white skin behind.
Sheahan: I tried leavin’, but somebody’s gotta protect the old girl from these damn vandals. Besides, there’s word that they’re considerin’ reopenin’ the place and I ain’t quite ready to abandon my bossin’ duties just yet.
Slaughter nods and forces a half-hearted smile.
Sheahan: What’d you come back lookin’ for a job? I see you’re still carryin’ that old torch around, not that you ever really knew how to use it.
Slaughter: The day of reckoning is at hand.
Sheahan: You ramblin’ fool. The only thing I reckon is you tellin’ me what the hell you’re doin’ here? People’s Court starts in 4 minutes; I ain’t missed an episode in 17 years.
Slaughter shifts His eyes back toward His former boss, looking down upon him. His finger grazes the fuel wheel on the tip of the torch. He has become entranced, gazing deeply, not at, but rather through the man whom tortured His mind and spirit. He mutters deeply beneath His breath, struggling to maintain His composure.
Slaughter: I was hoping to have a look inside, for old time’s sake.
Sheahan: Well Jesus, son, all you had to do was ask, c’mon I’ll give ya the quick and dirty tour, ain’t much changed.
Slaughter staggers behind the man as they pass through several gates, unlocking a series of rusted Master Locks until they approach the factory’s main entrance. The man unlatches a deadbolt and struggles to slide the thick steel door to one side. They enter inside as the door slams firmly shut behind them.
Sheahan: Now ya see, down there’s where you used work. Or pretend to work, eh Dorry?
As He approaches the steel railing to peer down over His former space of captivity, He looks up. A single beam of light, penetrating through a small crack in the building’s roof, the same light which was His sole source of hope during those early days.
His mind races backward, in a blaze of sparks and illuminations, the shrill howling of the coal fired furnace, the strong rumblings of pistons firing engines, and above all, the voice of His persecutor.
Sheahan: Goddamnit, Heyward, if you was any slower I’d think you was working in reverse.
Forward, His mind races, through the years, flashes within the darkness, illuminating memories of a life once lived, if lived was even the word for it.
Sheahan: You don’t need lights, damnit, you’re holding a torch for Christ’s sake.
He holds out His hands, palms together, as if to catch the LED headlamp His boss tossed to Him some six years prior.
Sheahan: Put that thing on your helmet and get back to work, the electrician ain’t comin’ til next week, maybe you’ll be more productive without a light, you sure as shit ain’t productive with one.
The sadness returned. The sense of abandonment, of persecution. The feeling of utter worthlessness. Unworthy of mercy, deemed ill-fitted for meaningless manual labor. Deprived of vision, of necessary light within an atmosphere of darkness. Safety and personal well being cast aside for the greater good of industrial progress. One man, using other men, to feed The Man.
It was at that moment that He embraced the darkness. What choice did He have? In the absence of light, He was devoid of shortcomings.
His mind stayed in that moment. His thick hands squeezing into the hardened plastic lens of the pathetic excuse for appeasement that his boss so generously afforded Him, just as they squeezed the torch of retribution now.
His hate, His anger, becoming increasingly present within the deepest confines of His empty heart, His limbs pulsating as they extrude the force growing within His soul.
The beam of light vanishes, the room falls dark.
His thumb glides swiftly back and forth across the torch’s ignition wheel, just as it did then, in the darkness of His own past.
Sheahan: Let there be light, goddamnit.
The sound of the old man’s voice triggers Slaughter’s directive. He flicks the wheel swiftly, igniting the tip of his torch. He turns, and delivers a swift boot through a half-inch fuel line running past His knees. The smell of diesel fuel fills the room, the flickering torch providing the sole source of illumination within the dense blackness.
Sheahan: You son-of-a-bitch, Heyward. What the hell are you doin’?
Slaughter’s voice becomes overwhelmingly loud, stumbling the old man in his tracks, staggering him backward atop the steel-grated platform.
Slaughter: We shall not rest until the purge is complete. You will reap what you sowed.
With His arm extended beyond the security railing of the platform, He flicks the torch’s wheel once more. The flame sputters into focus, illuminating the old man’s face as he gazes on in fear. Releasing His vicelike grip, the torch falls through the air, Slaughter extends His arms to either side, welcoming the upheaval of the flames.
The diesel fuel ignites and quickly the flames rage. The old man ducks behind an empty metal tank atop the platform. The Angel of Death stands motionless, His arms extended to either side of his body, ready to accept the wrath of the raging fires.
Slaughter: The day of reckoning is at hand, when your penance is to burn. Your putrid soul shall be set aflame. Come out, Sheahan, face your maker. For the man who stands before you is no longer Dorian Heyward, nor is he Dorian Slaughter. I am Apollyon, the Destroyer. Be petrified, for I decide the moment of your death.
The old man reveals himself from behind the tank, charging toward Slaughter in a last ditch effort to once again gain supremacy over his former inferior. As the flames gain intensity, the man dives toward Slaughter.
Slaughter wraps an arm around the man’s fragile torso and retreats across the platform, away from the flames. With His free hand, He slides open the steel door and proceeds to the outside. He drops the man on the dusty ground outside of the factory, his weak body producing a faint thump as it collapses against the ground. Standing over the old man, peering down upon him, Slaughter speaks…
Slaughter: Unbeknownst to you, the presence of the wraith. As new dawn rises, you shall behold, the Lord of Flies.
Slaughter steps over the old man’s limp body, passing through the gates before him. The old man struggles to his feet and quickly scurries behind The Angel of Death, away from the factory. As the fire rages, windows burst, sirens in the distance signal the imminent presence of emergency responders. The old man struggles for air as he calls out.
Sheahan: Why didn’t you just let me die in there?
Slaughter pauses before turning around, glancing at the factory, ablaze through the shotty fencing, then regaining eye contact with the struggling man before Him.
Slaughter: In a word, retribution. I came here to take from you what is most valuable. Your life is of little to no value. You may have valued your existence when you were knowingly suppressing and suffocating the minds and spirits of your workforce, but today, what do you value? Your minimum wage paycheck? Your failing heart? Your blackened lungs? Your broken family who are ashamed to share your surname?
The man gasps for air, attempting to collect his breath to formulate a response.
Slaughter: After all these years, all that’s left for you is this factory. It is your world, so I destroyed it. It is your life, and so, it became Death.
In a word, retribution.
Retribution that shall be afforded to Kagura Ohzora, whom made the unfortunate decision to bypass the wrath of Death.
Kagura does not don the seal of Slaughter upon her head, and thus, she shall not be spared.
Kagura shall seek Death where it cannot be found. Rather, as those in the beginning did, Kagura will beg for Death, only to find torment in its assumed presence.
Torment which shall not be swift, but rather, prolonged and agonizing. Torment not solely of the body, but rather of the soul, the spirit.
Behold, the smoke rises from the bottomless pit. The sun and the air shall become darkened. The reaper approaches, the hour of reprisal is at hand.
As the old man struggles to his feet, Slaughter’s figure disappears through the thick smoke. Upon entering the guard shack, the man throws himself into his chair and grasps for the telephone. As he frantically dials 9-1-1, two explosions erupt simultaneously. Shrapnel from the underground fuel tanks are launched across the scene as the noise of the consumption by fire grows deafening. The man lowers his head and lifts a weakened arm across the back of his neck.
Sheahan: Please, help. He has come…
The Destroyer.
From beyond the smoke, He looks on, pleased with His work. As the fires engulf the building like a swarm of locusts upon a depleted prey, He bows His head.
Slaughter: He shall tremble the nations, Kingdoms to fall one by one. He will ascend to the heavens, above the stars of their gods.
Cut to black.
Gimmick Name: Dorian Slaughter
Announced As: "The Angel of Death"
Height: 6'5
Weight: 295 lbs
Hometown: Detroit, MI
Billed From: Hell, MI
Alignment: Heel
Fill in the Blanks With Your Information:
Introducing first from _______Hell, MI_______, weighing __295______ pounds, (Dorian "The Angel of Death" Slaughter)!
Appearance:
----------------Hair Colour/Length
Black, shoulder length
----------------Eye Colour
Dark green
----------------Facial Hair
Full, scraggly beard
----------------Ring attire
Black Dickies work pants, black work boots, cut-off red T-shirt with "SLAUGHTER" stitched across the chest
----------------Backstage Attire
Same pants, boots, T-shirt, with a dirty blue zip-up hooded sweatshirt over top.
----------------Physical Features
Tall and somewhat thick, but agile. Strong, but not ripped.
----------------Tattoos:
All in black: angel wings on his back, the tips evident at the edges of the cutoff T-shirt. A red pentagram tattoo on the right shoulder. "Slaughter the weak" on inside of right forearm. A full sleeve on left arm including various depictions of demons, skulls, a dragon, and a welding torch.
Sample Pic of Wrestler: Ray Rowe
Main Gimmick: A lifelong loner, troubled soul, with an affinity for the darker side of life and an utter obsession with death and postmortem. He authors The Book of Slaughter, based on ancient texts from various religions or mythos, wherein he rewrites passages, often including himself as various forces of evil. He believes the rewritten stories within the book to be true without question and believes himself to be an evil diety.
2 Characteristics of Gimmick:
Unable to feel satisfaction from success or achievement due to his obsession with death.
-Often overlooks realistic truths and lives in a fabricated reality, believing himself to take on various forms of evil, transcribed through The Book of Slaughter.
Brief Bio/History: Orphaned as a young child after his young parents put him up for adoption. Dorian found a stable home with a middle class family, only to be orphaned once again when his adopted parents were slain in front of him during a home robbery. He bounced around vaious foster homes and orphanages throughout the remainder of his childhood and adolescence. He was forced into a trade school during his college-aged years, where he became a certified welder. He went on to work at a factory, fabricating railroad cars and tracks, for several years. The thankless and suppressive environment weakened his psyche, but ultimately led to his acceptance of evil as his redemption and source of retribution. He turned to wrestling as a way to vent his frustrations and spread his message of hate.
Entrance Music: SLAYER- Angel of Death
[youtube]DgASEyey_KQ[/youtube]
Entrance Description: He emerges through the curtain into a darkened arena, standing with his arms extended to either side of his body at the top of the ramp, peering toward the sky. He stalks slowly down the ramp, surveying the crowd before entering the ring via the steps.
Fighting Style: Largely incorporates slams and throws against equal or smaller opponents, uses submission holds against larger opponents.
Previous Injuries/Character Psyche: General aches & pains from years of manual labor, but harsh environments strengthened his pain threshold. Diminished sense of sight from the use of welding torches, however his other senses are maximized in dark atmospheres.
Finishing Moves (2 max):
Death Becomes You (Single-underhook DDT)
Tomb of the Mutilated (submission- Guillotine chokehold)
Signature Moves (3 max):
Fall of Man (DDT into lower turnbuckle)
Black Plague (Cobra clutch driver)
Hate Creation (Crooked arm lariat)
12 Most Used Moves:
Kesagiri chops
Heart punch
DDT
Armbar legsweep
Full nelson bulldog
Front facelock STO
Sole kick
Sitout jawbreaker
Headlock driver
Death valley driver
Sleeper hold
Corner foot choke
Sample RP.
THE FIRST BOOK OF SLAUGHTER
1 Slaughter 1:1-2
The Creation
In the beginning He created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And a spirit of evil moved upon the face of the waters.
And He said, let there be light. And the light did not come. And He saw the darkness, that it was good. He had divided the light from the darkness.
1 Slaughter 9:1-7
The Plague of Locusts
And the fifth angel sounded and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to Him was given the key of the bottomless pit.
And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit.
And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power.
And it was commanded them that they should not hurt the grass of the earth, neither any green thing, neither any tree, but only those men which have not the seal of Slaughter upon their foreheads.
And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented, and their torment was as the torment of a scorpion when he striketh a man.
And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.
And the locusts had a King over them, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon, that is, Destroyer.
The torch weighed heavy in His calloused palm as He staggered forward through the barren dusty lot preceding His long since abandoned place of employment. The Freight Car America fabrication shop had been closed for several years, He wasn’t sure exactly how long, He wasn’t sure He cared. A thin, foggy steam settled atop the ground surrounding the factory, originating from the warmth of the heat-trace wrapped underground fuel tanks.
As Slaughter draws near, a man hobbles haphazardly out of the guard shack positioned just outside of the dilapidated steel fence. The man appears old beyond his years, his neck and back hunched forward, making it difficult for him to peer through his eyeglasses beneath the brim of his faded flannel cap at the approaching figure.
Slaughter stands before the man, His face emotionless as the man adjusts his spectacles.
Slaughter: He has returned.
Man: Ah, think you might be lost there, chum.
Slaughter: It is you who has lost, old man.
Slaughter scans the scene as the old man ponders his previous statement, studying the towering figure before him, trying to place an oddly familiar face.
Man: Heyward?
Slaughter nods in agreement, though He does not shift His eyes from the factory.
Man: Dorian Heyward, I’ll be good goddamned.
Slaughter: Bruce Sheahan, I see you are still wallowing in the glories of your past life.
The old man adjusts his hat, running his hand across the back of his neck, leaving traces of dried white skin behind.
Sheahan: I tried leavin’, but somebody’s gotta protect the old girl from these damn vandals. Besides, there’s word that they’re considerin’ reopenin’ the place and I ain’t quite ready to abandon my bossin’ duties just yet.
Slaughter nods and forces a half-hearted smile.
Sheahan: What’d you come back lookin’ for a job? I see you’re still carryin’ that old torch around, not that you ever really knew how to use it.
Slaughter: The day of reckoning is at hand.
Sheahan: You ramblin’ fool. The only thing I reckon is you tellin’ me what the hell you’re doin’ here? People’s Court starts in 4 minutes; I ain’t missed an episode in 17 years.
Slaughter shifts His eyes back toward His former boss, looking down upon him. His finger grazes the fuel wheel on the tip of the torch. He has become entranced, gazing deeply, not at, but rather through the man whom tortured His mind and spirit. He mutters deeply beneath His breath, struggling to maintain His composure.
Slaughter: I was hoping to have a look inside, for old time’s sake.
Sheahan: Well Jesus, son, all you had to do was ask, c’mon I’ll give ya the quick and dirty tour, ain’t much changed.
Slaughter staggers behind the man as they pass through several gates, unlocking a series of rusted Master Locks until they approach the factory’s main entrance. The man unlatches a deadbolt and struggles to slide the thick steel door to one side. They enter inside as the door slams firmly shut behind them.
Sheahan: Now ya see, down there’s where you used work. Or pretend to work, eh Dorry?
As He approaches the steel railing to peer down over His former space of captivity, He looks up. A single beam of light, penetrating through a small crack in the building’s roof, the same light which was His sole source of hope during those early days.
His mind races backward, in a blaze of sparks and illuminations, the shrill howling of the coal fired furnace, the strong rumblings of pistons firing engines, and above all, the voice of His persecutor.
Sheahan: Goddamnit, Heyward, if you was any slower I’d think you was working in reverse.
Forward, His mind races, through the years, flashes within the darkness, illuminating memories of a life once lived, if lived was even the word for it.
Sheahan: You don’t need lights, damnit, you’re holding a torch for Christ’s sake.
He holds out His hands, palms together, as if to catch the LED headlamp His boss tossed to Him some six years prior.
Sheahan: Put that thing on your helmet and get back to work, the electrician ain’t comin’ til next week, maybe you’ll be more productive without a light, you sure as shit ain’t productive with one.
The sadness returned. The sense of abandonment, of persecution. The feeling of utter worthlessness. Unworthy of mercy, deemed ill-fitted for meaningless manual labor. Deprived of vision, of necessary light within an atmosphere of darkness. Safety and personal well being cast aside for the greater good of industrial progress. One man, using other men, to feed The Man.
It was at that moment that He embraced the darkness. What choice did He have? In the absence of light, He was devoid of shortcomings.
His mind stayed in that moment. His thick hands squeezing into the hardened plastic lens of the pathetic excuse for appeasement that his boss so generously afforded Him, just as they squeezed the torch of retribution now.
His hate, His anger, becoming increasingly present within the deepest confines of His empty heart, His limbs pulsating as they extrude the force growing within His soul.
The beam of light vanishes, the room falls dark.
His thumb glides swiftly back and forth across the torch’s ignition wheel, just as it did then, in the darkness of His own past.
Sheahan: Let there be light, goddamnit.
The sound of the old man’s voice triggers Slaughter’s directive. He flicks the wheel swiftly, igniting the tip of his torch. He turns, and delivers a swift boot through a half-inch fuel line running past His knees. The smell of diesel fuel fills the room, the flickering torch providing the sole source of illumination within the dense blackness.
Sheahan: You son-of-a-bitch, Heyward. What the hell are you doin’?
Slaughter’s voice becomes overwhelmingly loud, stumbling the old man in his tracks, staggering him backward atop the steel-grated platform.
Slaughter: We shall not rest until the purge is complete. You will reap what you sowed.
With His arm extended beyond the security railing of the platform, He flicks the torch’s wheel once more. The flame sputters into focus, illuminating the old man’s face as he gazes on in fear. Releasing His vicelike grip, the torch falls through the air, Slaughter extends His arms to either side, welcoming the upheaval of the flames.
The diesel fuel ignites and quickly the flames rage. The old man ducks behind an empty metal tank atop the platform. The Angel of Death stands motionless, His arms extended to either side of his body, ready to accept the wrath of the raging fires.
Slaughter: The day of reckoning is at hand, when your penance is to burn. Your putrid soul shall be set aflame. Come out, Sheahan, face your maker. For the man who stands before you is no longer Dorian Heyward, nor is he Dorian Slaughter. I am Apollyon, the Destroyer. Be petrified, for I decide the moment of your death.
The old man reveals himself from behind the tank, charging toward Slaughter in a last ditch effort to once again gain supremacy over his former inferior. As the flames gain intensity, the man dives toward Slaughter.
Slaughter wraps an arm around the man’s fragile torso and retreats across the platform, away from the flames. With His free hand, He slides open the steel door and proceeds to the outside. He drops the man on the dusty ground outside of the factory, his weak body producing a faint thump as it collapses against the ground. Standing over the old man, peering down upon him, Slaughter speaks…
Slaughter: Unbeknownst to you, the presence of the wraith. As new dawn rises, you shall behold, the Lord of Flies.
Slaughter steps over the old man’s limp body, passing through the gates before him. The old man struggles to his feet and quickly scurries behind The Angel of Death, away from the factory. As the fire rages, windows burst, sirens in the distance signal the imminent presence of emergency responders. The old man struggles for air as he calls out.
Sheahan: Why didn’t you just let me die in there?
Slaughter pauses before turning around, glancing at the factory, ablaze through the shotty fencing, then regaining eye contact with the struggling man before Him.
Slaughter: In a word, retribution. I came here to take from you what is most valuable. Your life is of little to no value. You may have valued your existence when you were knowingly suppressing and suffocating the minds and spirits of your workforce, but today, what do you value? Your minimum wage paycheck? Your failing heart? Your blackened lungs? Your broken family who are ashamed to share your surname?
The man gasps for air, attempting to collect his breath to formulate a response.
Slaughter: After all these years, all that’s left for you is this factory. It is your world, so I destroyed it. It is your life, and so, it became Death.
In a word, retribution.
Retribution that shall be afforded to Kagura Ohzora, whom made the unfortunate decision to bypass the wrath of Death.
Kagura does not don the seal of Slaughter upon her head, and thus, she shall not be spared.
Kagura shall seek Death where it cannot be found. Rather, as those in the beginning did, Kagura will beg for Death, only to find torment in its assumed presence.
Torment which shall not be swift, but rather, prolonged and agonizing. Torment not solely of the body, but rather of the soul, the spirit.
Behold, the smoke rises from the bottomless pit. The sun and the air shall become darkened. The reaper approaches, the hour of reprisal is at hand.
As the old man struggles to his feet, Slaughter’s figure disappears through the thick smoke. Upon entering the guard shack, the man throws himself into his chair and grasps for the telephone. As he frantically dials 9-1-1, two explosions erupt simultaneously. Shrapnel from the underground fuel tanks are launched across the scene as the noise of the consumption by fire grows deafening. The man lowers his head and lifts a weakened arm across the back of his neck.
Sheahan: Please, help. He has come…
The Destroyer.
From beyond the smoke, He looks on, pleased with His work. As the fires engulf the building like a swarm of locusts upon a depleted prey, He bows His head.
Slaughter: He shall tremble the nations, Kingdoms to fall one by one. He will ascend to the heavens, above the stars of their gods.
Cut to black.
