Post by Mr. Showtime on Apr 25, 2016 21:53:23 GMT -5
When the highest of Buddhist monks think that they have found the reincarnation of the Buddha, or the Dali Lama, they set in front of the child a series of objects. They could be anything from toys to trinkets, but they do not all belong to the Dali Lama. A simple task is then preformed. The child is asked to choose his items from the collection. If he chooses correctly he is taken back to Drepung Monastery and through other processes is confirmed as the reincarnation of the Buddha.
A heavy mist had settled upon luscious green rolling hills. It was ominous for a lack of a better term, but somehow it felt safe. “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght had discovered not long ago that the Black Hand was responsible for the vivid dreams he’s had his whole life. Some foretold the future, whilst other foretold warnings. This dream did neither. This was intended to clear the mind.
Michael Wryght, though sure there was no danger lurking, was cautious nonetheless. He was no fool and if his gut told him to tread lightly then lightly he would tread. It was hard to see deep through the mist. It hung heavy in the air and it left a dank taste in Showtime’s mouth. It wasn’t pleasant, nor was it repulsive.
He felt as if he was in a state of limbo. Never before had he been at such a crossroads as he was currently at. Everyone wanted something from him, but he had no idea what he wanted for himself. He had a sense of duty that hung heavy over his head, but the chances of success were bleak. He saw his past beckoning towards him, but the thought of moving backwards left him bitter. Both his past and his future were daunting and at his core tormenting.
His present was not jaunt in the park either. Wrestling was starting to feel more like an obligation than anything else. Being split as President and worker was tiring on a man. Not to mention all of the other things going on outside of Pure Class Wrestling. He enjoyed the ups, but the downs were excruciating. It was a rollercoaster of emotions that tore at his soul; none worse than losing to Dan Fierce.
Showtime had already done pretty much anything a man could hope for. Titles, fans and fame would all go down in his legacy. Though there is one thing that eluded him. The Icemann Invitational Tournament was the accolade that he was yet to achieve. Last year he’d come so close. He had to give too much to get past Michaels and when it came time to seal the deal there was just not enough in the tank to take down NCM. Then this year only to be bounced in the first round was embarrassing.
“Then you must choose,” came a voice from behind Showtime. Showtime didn’t need to turn around to know who was speaking to him.
“You again,” replied Showtime as he slowly faced the man he was once drugged into becoming. The bizzaro hybrid of Michael Wryght and Phinehas Grimm leaned back in a chair with a full Cheshire cat grin. As he lowered his sunglasses revealing his eyes, one blue and one green, stared right through Showtime. In front of him was a table with four items. They all had something to do with Showtime’s life. To the far left was the International Title, an expensive looking pen, then a clapboard, and finally on the right a miniature flag of the United States.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“You said that if I let you loose you’d take care of the wrestling side of things for me. You failed.”
“Failed? You must be joking,” the doppelganger said, with a false sense of hurt as he grabbed at his chest. “The problem is that you never let go. You said one thing but when push came to shove you held on. Now how can I expect to be able to take care of business when I have you grasping at my heels. While we fight there will never be enough of us to beat anyone. Remember that.”
“This all just sounds like an excuse to me. You failed and made it so now I have to compete with God knows how many other people just to get back into the tournament. I have to win this, there is just no other way.”
“Then let go Michael. Choose something to give your all to and let me do what I do best. You may still be skeptical, but I am here to help. Let me be that tiny bit extra that you need in order to get over this hump. Let me cement your legacy with greatness.”
“It sounds all fine and good when you say it like that, but the truth of the matter is that I think I can do this on my own.”
“All of this?” Wryght’s alternate self asked, as he waved his arm over the tabled items. “No man could manage all of this. This is a fool’s errand. Taking on all of this is either a man setting himself up for epic failure or a madman’s cry for help.”
“Well I am technically talking to myself, now aren’t I?”
“Touché salesman, touché.”
Showtime could see reason as he eyeballed the items placed on the table. It wasn’t a choice that would anoint him the divine leader of a religion, but one that might shape the rest of his life. They all had their qualities, but what would make him happy in the long run?
“Let’s narrow shall we?” asked Showtime’s other half. “I think we can both rule out the clapboard. Agents may be calling you, but is Hollywood really in your future? Even when you were making a successful go at it wrestling was calling you back. There was a reason that I am here, because Hollywood was too fake for you.”
“And honestly if all else fails we can just fall back into that role.”
“Prefect, if we fail you take the hero roles and I’ll play the villains,” he said, smiling at Showtime; trying to ease the tension.
“The Presidency of Pure Class Wrestling doesn’t call to me like the other two,” Showtime said without realizing the words were escaping his lips. “But until a competent leader is found PCW needs me.”
“Then why not split it. Between the two of us we can keep PCW chugging along. Even if we half ass it PCW will still be significantly upgraded to the predecessors of your role. Incompetence followed by incompetence. In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king!” he declared, winking his blue eye so only his green remained looking at Showtime. “Now comes the hard part.”
Remaining on the table was only the PCW International title belt and the American Flag. They were the two things that tore him apart the most. His passion versus his duty. Having to choose was just not fair. He was chosen to be a candidate for the Presidency of the United States, but he’s earned his stripes in the wrestling ring.
“I see that you are over thinking this Michael. To me it all seems simple. I am not the type cut out for politics. I am way too unpredictable for that role, but that would make me much better in the ring. I’m a fighter to the core, but if you choose the wrestling life you can’t interfere with what I do next. It’s your choice.”
“I really have no choice do I?”
“It all seems so simple to me.”
“Don’t fail this time, because this is really your Last Chance.”
A heavy mist had settled upon luscious green rolling hills. It was ominous for a lack of a better term, but somehow it felt safe. “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght had discovered not long ago that the Black Hand was responsible for the vivid dreams he’s had his whole life. Some foretold the future, whilst other foretold warnings. This dream did neither. This was intended to clear the mind.
Michael Wryght, though sure there was no danger lurking, was cautious nonetheless. He was no fool and if his gut told him to tread lightly then lightly he would tread. It was hard to see deep through the mist. It hung heavy in the air and it left a dank taste in Showtime’s mouth. It wasn’t pleasant, nor was it repulsive.
He felt as if he was in a state of limbo. Never before had he been at such a crossroads as he was currently at. Everyone wanted something from him, but he had no idea what he wanted for himself. He had a sense of duty that hung heavy over his head, but the chances of success were bleak. He saw his past beckoning towards him, but the thought of moving backwards left him bitter. Both his past and his future were daunting and at his core tormenting.
His present was not jaunt in the park either. Wrestling was starting to feel more like an obligation than anything else. Being split as President and worker was tiring on a man. Not to mention all of the other things going on outside of Pure Class Wrestling. He enjoyed the ups, but the downs were excruciating. It was a rollercoaster of emotions that tore at his soul; none worse than losing to Dan Fierce.
Showtime had already done pretty much anything a man could hope for. Titles, fans and fame would all go down in his legacy. Though there is one thing that eluded him. The Icemann Invitational Tournament was the accolade that he was yet to achieve. Last year he’d come so close. He had to give too much to get past Michaels and when it came time to seal the deal there was just not enough in the tank to take down NCM. Then this year only to be bounced in the first round was embarrassing.
“Then you must choose,” came a voice from behind Showtime. Showtime didn’t need to turn around to know who was speaking to him.
“You again,” replied Showtime as he slowly faced the man he was once drugged into becoming. The bizzaro hybrid of Michael Wryght and Phinehas Grimm leaned back in a chair with a full Cheshire cat grin. As he lowered his sunglasses revealing his eyes, one blue and one green, stared right through Showtime. In front of him was a table with four items. They all had something to do with Showtime’s life. To the far left was the International Title, an expensive looking pen, then a clapboard, and finally on the right a miniature flag of the United States.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“You said that if I let you loose you’d take care of the wrestling side of things for me. You failed.”
“Failed? You must be joking,” the doppelganger said, with a false sense of hurt as he grabbed at his chest. “The problem is that you never let go. You said one thing but when push came to shove you held on. Now how can I expect to be able to take care of business when I have you grasping at my heels. While we fight there will never be enough of us to beat anyone. Remember that.”
“This all just sounds like an excuse to me. You failed and made it so now I have to compete with God knows how many other people just to get back into the tournament. I have to win this, there is just no other way.”
“Then let go Michael. Choose something to give your all to and let me do what I do best. You may still be skeptical, but I am here to help. Let me be that tiny bit extra that you need in order to get over this hump. Let me cement your legacy with greatness.”
“It sounds all fine and good when you say it like that, but the truth of the matter is that I think I can do this on my own.”
“All of this?” Wryght’s alternate self asked, as he waved his arm over the tabled items. “No man could manage all of this. This is a fool’s errand. Taking on all of this is either a man setting himself up for epic failure or a madman’s cry for help.”
“Well I am technically talking to myself, now aren’t I?”
“Touché salesman, touché.”
Showtime could see reason as he eyeballed the items placed on the table. It wasn’t a choice that would anoint him the divine leader of a religion, but one that might shape the rest of his life. They all had their qualities, but what would make him happy in the long run?
“Let’s narrow shall we?” asked Showtime’s other half. “I think we can both rule out the clapboard. Agents may be calling you, but is Hollywood really in your future? Even when you were making a successful go at it wrestling was calling you back. There was a reason that I am here, because Hollywood was too fake for you.”
“And honestly if all else fails we can just fall back into that role.”
“Prefect, if we fail you take the hero roles and I’ll play the villains,” he said, smiling at Showtime; trying to ease the tension.
“The Presidency of Pure Class Wrestling doesn’t call to me like the other two,” Showtime said without realizing the words were escaping his lips. “But until a competent leader is found PCW needs me.”
“Then why not split it. Between the two of us we can keep PCW chugging along. Even if we half ass it PCW will still be significantly upgraded to the predecessors of your role. Incompetence followed by incompetence. In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king!” he declared, winking his blue eye so only his green remained looking at Showtime. “Now comes the hard part.”
Remaining on the table was only the PCW International title belt and the American Flag. They were the two things that tore him apart the most. His passion versus his duty. Having to choose was just not fair. He was chosen to be a candidate for the Presidency of the United States, but he’s earned his stripes in the wrestling ring.
“I see that you are over thinking this Michael. To me it all seems simple. I am not the type cut out for politics. I am way too unpredictable for that role, but that would make me much better in the ring. I’m a fighter to the core, but if you choose the wrestling life you can’t interfere with what I do next. It’s your choice.”
“I really have no choice do I?”
“It all seems so simple to me.”
“Don’t fail this time, because this is really your Last Chance.”
