AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I in no way claim ownership of the UFC nor do I claim representation of its affiliates and/or employees. They belong to the respected shareholders of the company and I am in no way an extension of the beliefs or behaviors of the company roster least of all Georges St. Pierre and Rory MacDonald. This is an entirely fictional representation, quite possibly would never happen in reality and may be disturbing to some users. Please close this fiction if it is not to your liking.
This is rated "M" for the following:
- Graphic violence
- Foul Language
- Explicit Sexual Content
Rory MacDonald wants to paint the walls with his mentor.
Please read & review. Thank you.
I'm gonna try to kill you Georges. And I'm not joking about this.
He hardly had time to process the audible cracking noise of the back of his head against the concrete of the Tristar Gym's indoor parking lot.
By the time Georges even realized his head had splattered open, his skull had fractured into a sizeable chunk that was oozing blood faster than an emergency medical technician could have stitched him up.
His mouth opened and closed in shock and his powder blue eyes flickered in confusion. His entire body convulsed, as he lay on his side, unable to regain control of primary motor functions.
The seizure intensified as tears streamed down George's face and snot dripped from his nose.
The blood spilling from his cracked skull pooled around his head and began to stain the right side of his face.
His limbs flailed limply, alternating between smacking his body and the pavement. In his spastic shaking he smashed his wrists on the pavement effectively breaking the skin.
Georges' head repeatedly slammed itself up and down against the floor, splashing his freshly poured blood over his face and creating another gash in the side of his head just above his brow.
Out from his mouth gurgled incoherent noises of almost demonic incantation.
His eyes rolled back into his head, revealing sickeningly white eyeballs whose veins pulsed in agony.
A generous vomit of saliva was burped from his parted lips and he coughed and choked as it dribbled from his mouth. The glossy slop mixed with the generous flood of blood that now nearly drowned him.
A foul hiss released itself from Georges' lips as he gasped for air.
His eyes were still rolled into his brain, his head tremors intensifying by the second.
Suddenly there came a muffled sound of sobbing.
He recognized the voice.
It was Rory's voice droning in the signature monotony that pervaded his speech, except now the usual calm boy was wailing incessantly.
Georges struggled to take in a lungful of air through his nose, his snot now oozing out in copious amounts.
The force of Rory's sobbing increased as Georges heard the younger man heave out a honking sound in what he imagined to be a difficult breath in between bawls.
Rory breathed again making another honking noise as he cried.
Georges' seizure began to recede though now that the adrenaline was dying down, his head began to rotate with pain.
His eyes began searching frantically for vision, able to adjust now that his episode had concluded.
His eyesight slowly returned albeit blurry and unfocused, but from what Georges could make out, Rory was standing over him in the parking lot with a metal baseball bat.
Panic encased him, as he stared up at his training partner in astonishment.
"R-Rorie?"
The brunettes face was an absolute wreck, his nose, ears, eyes and cheeks were tinted a rich amaranth shade that burned in distress. His face was soaked in sweat and tears, his eyes still raining in hysteria.
"Rorie?"
Copper eyes locked with his expressing an apologetic side that he'd never seen in the younger man before.
Rory began to speak, incoherent babbling at first as he blubbered his way past lips that were curling into an inconsolably distraught frown.
Georges couldn't help but take the opportunity to steal a quick glance at the bat Rory was clenching for dear life.
The tip of it was streaked with blood.
Rory coughing in exasperation brought him back to fixed eye contact.
"I-I didn't mean to…" he sniffed, bringing up a shaken forearm to wipe his fluid drenched face "I just, you, I…"
Georges tried to adjust himself upwards but found that though he himself wasn't paralyzed it was still too painful to move. He resigned to his laying position on the floor, staring up at his sparing partner in confusion and terror.
It was obvious Rory had struck him.
And judging by the way he was sniveling over it now, something was definitely psychologically wrong.
Georges would have to tread carefully if he wanted to survive.
"Rorie" Georges stopped him mid-whimper, trying to maintain a docile tone despite his pain and unease "Ah can see you are upset… 'Owever ah cannot waste 'dime 'ere, ah need to get to a 'ospital"
Rory's brows knotted in torment, tears continued to seep down his face pooling under his chin after they passed over his cheeks.
"I can't" he trembled in misery and continued to adjust and readjust his grip on the baseball bat as if fighting back the urge to use it again.
"Rorie, please, don't be a fool" Georges beseeched, suddenly feeling lightheaded from the lack of blood.
Rory bit his lip. The anxiety on his face alone was enough to make Georges wet himself, however even more disconcerting was the fervor with which Rory was constantly readjusting his grip on the hilt of the bat.
"I can't let you go Georges, I've gone too far"
Georges' eyes widened in fright as it dawned on him that Rory intended to kill him. His heart pounding in his chest nearly choked him, utter horror coursing through his veins.
"Why?"
The question came forth as a gasp in terror. A rasp that Georges could hardly force out of his mouth, it came forth almost inaudible and his voice nearly cracked in the exclamation.
"I… I-I… You… I… I-!"
Rory heaved out difficult inhalations, he was freaking out, and you didn't have to translate anything for Georges to see it.
The kid was trembling, and it only served to further unease Georges. He didn't want to drive him to anything hasty.
Rory began to breath in and out in heavy huffing breaths, his entire body moving as he went. The volume of his tears increased. The honking sound of sobbing resumed. His constant jittery hand movements became more frantic.
The boy was losing control. Fast.
"Rorie" Georges tried again as soothingly as he could "Rorie, Rorie… Rorie!"
The younger boy tried calming himself, coughing and sputtering slightly as he regained composure.
"Rorie do naut do that" Rory snorted up a wad of snot "Ah need you to call me an ambulance. De back of my 'ead is bleeding. Ah 'ave lost a lot of blood Rorie. Ah cud' die"
Rory whimpered at the mention of death and for a second it seemed like his sanity was going to falter again.
The brunette shook his head from side to side, sniveling pathetically.
"I-I can't!"
The sociopath continued to make excuses and ramble in an almost incoherent fashion.
Georges' head swayed slightly as black spots suddenly began to cloud his vision.
He must have lost over a pint of blood by now.
The welterweight champion had reached his limit "ah cannot play dese game wit'you right now! Call a 'ospital right now Rorie! You broke open my 'ead! Ferme ta gueule quand je parle! Call a 'ospital or ah will die! "
Rory reared back the bat, raising it above Georges' head in a striking position.
"There were only so may people I could destroy before I'd have to run into you"
Rory looked down at him, tears raining from his face onto the broken champion below him.
"Wh-? Are you out of your 'ead man?!"
The bat came down with an audible splat as brain-matter and blood splattered up out from Georges' head in a rush of organs like a volcano out of the stem of his neck. They splashed against his face in a wet spray of vermillion spatter.
The only sounds released as they collided with his face being the repeated scream of "Rorie"
He felt a strange shaking pressure on his shoulder and blinked to address it.
Then suddenly he was no longer standing in the parking lot.
Rory was staring straight into his locker, his reflection bouncing off back at him through the metal.
Georges' hand was on his shoulder.
"Qu'as-tu dit? Rorie?" the champion seemed genuinely concerned. And for good reason; the other man had been zoned out for a good three minutes.
Rory worried his upper lip. Was it…?
"My arm is killing me, Georges."
"Oh" Georges smiled, affably giving Rory a pat on the back "Take it eesy, eh? You work too 'ard!"
The French Canadian sauntered off, curiosity sated he walked over to the fountain to refill his water bottle. His back was turned, leaving him wide open.
Rory's eyes poured over him with an insatiable hunger akin to animalistic bloodlust.
I'm gonna try to kill you Georges. And I'm not joking about this.
TO BE CONTINUED...