A.N.: Thanks to Skittles, who kept me going.
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Voices: Chapter 13 - Strike
Dolph felt dizzy.
Actually, now that he thought about it, 'dizzy' was an understatement. He felt like Big Show and Mark Henry had decided to perform a two hour Riverdance Revival Show on his head and torso and it didn't feel like the burning ache in his neck and forehead would stop any time soon, nor did the picture in front him want to stop spinning around like a truck wheel. He had been kicked out of the ring and for a second he had blacked out. The next thing he remembered was looking down someone else's legs, while his feet were resting on the ring ropes. And when his wits suddenly returned to him, he had realised that there were strong muscles around his neck holding him in a vice-like grip: a sudden image flashed before his eyes, a memory from when he was five or six; his parents had taken him to the zoo and a zoo keeper cleaning the terrariums had offered him to hold a snake. The sole idea had terrified him but his father had been very enthusiastic and he didn't want to disappoint his old man. When the keeper had draped one of the creatures around his shoulders, Dolph's blood had frozen in fear. The rough, dry skin of the reptile had been beautiful and horrifying at the same time but what had flooded him with this sheer feeling of terror were the muscles underneeth the skin, how they contracted powerfully, seemingly closing slowly around his neck, the inhuman strength barely hidden under the reptile's skin. It had taken his parents almost an hour and an enormous amount of ice cream to calm their shaking and crying son down again.
And then, almost thirty years later, he had been dangling from the second rope in a match against some wrestler (that freak, that thing, that horrifying creature), and what he had felt was the same experience, the slender muscles of a reptile's body around his neck holding him with a strength unnatural to human beings. But before he had had the chance to embrace the mother of all panic attacks, he was ripped downwards and everything had gone dark again for a few moments.
Now that he was lying on the mat with a developing bump on his forehead which slowly but steadily felt like it would grow into the size of a pineapple, he heard Vicky scream like a banshee and as his eyes were finally able to send a clear picture to his brain, he recognized two black wrestler's boots only a few feet away from his face.
...
Randy was on the brink of losing control.
Boiling blood shot through his veins, adrenalin flooded his body, setting every fibre of his being ablaze. Violent toxins coursed through his system like quicksilver, poisoning his mind and heart.
He had wanted to hurt Ziggler and in the beginning he had felt cool and composed, very much in control. Getting out of the headlock had been a piece of cake; he remembered times when this had not been the case, when the pain in his shoulders would have been too much for him to bear, but that was before he had become the Viper.
And then the Predator had whispered in his ear, deliberately, seductively, suggesting things he could do to Ziggler, things so vile he almost felt guilty for the pleasure the voice made him feel at its words. Almost. The connection between his own self, the world and his perceptions was frail and thin, like a silk thread that was always threatened to be ripped apart at the Predator's will. The serpent could prevent and evoke emotions within him and Randy knew it. He just couldn't change it. And neither did he want it, at least not when the primal pleasure the Predator fed him was so much better than the guilt and so wonderfully overwhelming. From the vast bouquet of attacks the Preator suggested, he chose what he knew and added what the Predator wanted. It felt good to be in control, oh so good.
But the vicious DDT did not only shatter Ziggler's chances.
When his back hit the mat, Randy's own grip on himself cracked open, just a bit first, but wider and faster with every second that passed. He felt the Predator's presence growing out of proportion, felt himself break in the serpent's grip, the snake incited as much as him, as the magnified voice of the Predator echoed in his mind a thousand times and madness spread within them.
*Yes!* hissed the voice, loud and clear and more real than the sounds of the crowd around him. *More! More!*
'He's done,' Randy thought as he felt his control slipping through his fingers. He desperately tried to hold on to it but the Predator's madness grew stronger and Randy had nothing to shield himself from its effects.
'It's enough,' he said, his own mental voice sounding small and unsteady already, that little resistance he was still able to muster already crumbling.
*No, not enough!* the Predator yelled. *More! Bite it! Kill it!*
'Not again, please.'
He remembered what he had felt when he had hurt Hunter and Batista, the total loss of control, the feeling of letting go, how he had lost himself in the violent vortex, tossed about by the current of wild anger and feral desires.
*Again! More!* the Predator demanded, growing ever stronger, filling him with rage and insanity. He felt his skin crawling as if scales wanted to break free from under the surface. *Do it! Bite! Bite!*
A new wave of silver venom shot to his head.
And again he let go.
...
John saw how Randy moved about the ring nervously like a caged animal, his thighs and biceps quivering with the sheer force to hold back. His face showed a chaotic display of emotions and states of mind - disgust, hate, fear, frenzy, pleasure - each fighting for dominance over the others. Randy threw his head left, right and back, exposing his long throat to the biting light of the arena, his hands running eratically over his face and scalp.
"I think we're witnessing a mental breakdown! Randy has completely lost it!" Michael Cole commented.
And then Randy went still for the briefest of moments and the camera caught his expression: Randy's eyes - once showing his juvenile boasting nature, light and shining with vibrant, youthful energy - were full of madness and wide open, irises glittering like arctic water, pupils contracted, and for a moment John thought they were nothing but slits. It had to be his imagination, though. Since he knew that Randy had turned into someone, something, called the Viper, he couldn't help seeing the signs everywhere.
John felt like he was stuck in an eerie Deja-vu as Randy's eyes rolled back in his head and his body turned around to face Ziggler with one graceful movement. Falling on his hands and knees, the Viper drummed his fists into the mat, once, twice, three times, then, bracing himself on his fists, he ducked his head before stretching his long neck forward, canines (fangs, John thought) gleaming dangerously, his face only inches away from his opponent.
And then, slowly, very slowly, the Viper crawled backwards and rose back to his feet and a bad, very bad feeling crept up in John. He turned around to DiBiase and Rhodes.
"What is he going to do?" he asked with an acute urgency in his voice.
"What?" Rhodes asked, confusion written all over his face.
"You two know him best. Tell me, what's going on in his mind? What's he up to?"
John had to know. If his gut feeling was right then Randy would do something horrible to Ziggler and as much as John disliked the blonde Show-Off, he didn't want Randy to do whatever he had in mind. Every other wrestler would have gone for the cover already but Randy had decided against that and John needed to know why.
Rhodes and DiBiase looked back to the screen where the Viper had retreated in one corner of the ring, eyes fixed on his opponent who struggled to get back up.
"We don't know," DiBiase said and something in his voice told John that the very fact that they couldn't say frightened them even more than him.
John looked back to the screen and saw the Viper gripping the top robes tightly while leaning forward, the muscles in his shoulders and jaw tight, breathing heavily, eyes flashing with madness. Ziggler slowly managed to get up on his hands and knees and when John saw the perfect diagonal between their two positions in the ring he suddenly knew.
"No, nononononono!"
But before he could have run to the ring to prevent it from happening, the Viper dashed forward, two long strides, and hit Ziggler with a punt kick to the head. As if in slow motion, John saw how the Viper's foot connected hard with the blonde's temple, heard the sickening sound of the impact, saw how Ziggler's head was tossed to the left and crashed to the ground again. He stayed there unmoving. Sliding over his opponent's body with one languid movement, the Viper finally went for the cover. Not even Vicky's shrieking could prevent the three-count.
"That punt was completely unnecessary," JoMo stated the obvious.
"Unnecessary?" Evan said, not loud and accusing as usual, but stating the facts in shock. "It was cruel and heartless and downright evil."
John just watched the screen. He couldn't believe that Randy had turned his words into action, had done what he had threatened John with some days back at the hotel. He heard these new, prophetic lyrics echoing through the arena as Randy stepped onto the ropes again, raising his arms in utmost confidence, bathing his body in the lights.
…darkness falling
…voices calling.
And John could not help but feel like he had failed.
...
A.N.: How is this going to go on? Will we have some action between the Viper and Good Guy Cena again? Soon, I promise. Comments? Let me know what you think, please!