Post by parsons on May 23, 2016 14:40:42 GMT -5
It was a quiet night within the luxurious Las Vegas penthouse Parsons called home. The bell of an antique grandfather clock tolls in the background marking the hour. The dark hardwood floors had been polished to a shine worthy of a king. The large bay windows had their curtains drawn wide open, allowing the neon glow of 'Sin City' to shine in its own glory.
As the final bell of the clock tolls, darkness seemingly falls upon the earth itself. Silence, Las Vegas was silent. A single, seemingly insignificant bedside candle sways in its attempt to cling to life.
Casting a soft pale light, we are in the bedroom of a lone figure. A tall four post bed dominates the room, draped in black, all but the foot of the bed and enough space to benefit from the candle which sits upon a nightstand is encased in the finest of silks. A puff of smoke is followed by a few audible coughs before the figure becomes clear.
Putting aside ‘ye olde oak bong’ is a slightly confused Chris Parsons. Sweeping his brown hair from his face with his left hand, his right rubs his eyes as he groans to life.
Sitting up in bed, Parsons is clad in black pajamas with a matching long stocking cap, rubbing his eyes once more, he stretches glancing out the window...soon it would be time for his PCW Pay Per View Debut. Another multi person match, but another chance to stand out from the pack.
He had had the unfortunate luck of arriving at the same time as a whole crop of new talent, as a result, all of them were now fighting to be the 'new guy to watch'. After a surprise debut in the Icemann Invitation Last Chance Battle Royal and a good, but ultimately disappointing Trauma debut, he'd really need to pull a proverbial 'rabbit out of a hat' on this one. Maybe he could get some tips on that shit from Nathan Saniti? A question for another time.
Producing a silver Zippo lighter and taking another hit from the wooden pipe, he slowly begins staring at the window facing the foot of the bed, it was dark. For the first time he could remember. Off in the corner of the room, a small ball of light appears…growing in size it slowly grows, gaining intensity and increases its light as it begins to take the shape of a human.
Parsons bolts back within the bed sending the end of his nightcap flailing about before coming up against the wall and catching himself.
Parsons – “What the fuck? Man…I gotta cut back…or smoke more? Hmmmm…”
Only pondering a moment, Parsons reaches for ‘ye olde oak bong’ once more, packing and lighting it with a practiced ease as the light continues to grow.
The light continues gain in strength, building and growing stronger blinding 'The Nightmare", and causing him to shield his eyes before it begins dimming significantly.
Once the light dims, a specter remains, clad in black robes, the specter seems void of all colour…as if plucked from the black and white era of television and thrust into life. A stark white skeletal hand reaches from beyond the folds of the robes to point at him…
Parsons - "What the fuck is this shit? Even I'm not sure where this one's going...and where the fuck did this cap come from?"
Defiant even in the presence of the unnatural, Parsons simply sits, staring down the visage.
? – “Christopher James Parsons! I am but the first of three spirits who will come to you tonight to guide you on your quest for your first PCW victory.”
A flash of light and specter draws closer…bells toll for a second time as annoyance bleeds into his words, Parsons realizes just how screwed he now was. Welcome to 'A Wrestling Carol'.
Parsons – “Great…just fucking great…these simple bastards are going to keep me up all night…that was somehow an hour? And besides, isn't this more of a Christmas thing?”
Parsons doesn’t get to finish that thought; a howling wind can be heard, growing in intensity until nothing else but it controls sound…finally the window breaks, bringing the breeze into the room that send his black drapery flowing about.
? - "Silence!"
Parsons – “Fine! But God Damn it! That was something like a two thousand dollar window asshole! Look...ghost of Christmas past? Right? Make this quick…I need my rest you braying jackass…and I apparently have to get a window replaced tomorrow. Next time you want me to shut up just say so, don't break expensive shit you dick!”
The light of the candle intensifies as the specter advances slightly, moving at a slow deliberate pace. As it approaches Parsons, colour also slowly passes over the apparition. Deep blood red robe, as the hood is allowed to fall back, Parsons is stunned by the realization before him.
Parsons - "Wait! "D"?! Is that you? You're dead? You're fucking dead? This is fucking awesome! I kill off our writer and you're the one who died? Fucking priceless."
"D" was the somber, controlled positive Yang to the brash and arrogant negative Yin of Parsons. "D" was everything Parsons was not, kind, well spoken, confident, but not cocky. A fierce in ring competitor in his own right, he had gone on hiatus shortly before Parsons' 'Unleashing', the fateful day he killed his 'writer' and took control of the 'laptop of destiny'.
"D" - "I am what you see when you think about your past, Chris, nothing more. I am here to show you the beginning."
It though it was indeed a visage of the man known as an enigma…much had changed. His skin clings to his skull, his trademark intricate red braids are a tangled mess, his eyes are sunken into its skull, yet burn with an unnatural intensity. Fog begins to engulf the floor as he continues to speak.
"D" - "I am not 'dead' as you described it. I am merely in the background watching. Should the need arise, I would come back for 'that match'...but until then, you must pay attention, listen...but most of all, work harder. You need to understand where you came from."
Creeping along the floor and up the walls, Parsons and the decaying enigma stand alone within the purgatory of Parsons subconscious.
Parsons – “You know what I don’t understand? Why I haven’t bitch slapped the creepy off of you? You rise from obscurity and your first stop is another grown man’s bedroom!”
"D" – “Silence! You need to be reminded of your beginning. Your path to the top of PCW is dependent upon you allowing them in on your journey."
As the fog begins to disperse, an odd sight greets the 'old friends', a snow covered log cabin. A fade in presumably brings us inside where a roaring fireplace now takes center stage, fresh logs are placed on the fire, cracking and popping as “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” as sung by the one and only Bing Crosby plays softly in the background. This could mean only one thing…it was time for look back to the very first, ‘A Chris Parsons Christmas’.
Parsons - "Hahaha, I remember this...this was my first solo appearance ever. Kinda like my, Parsons issue one. So how does this work? We're just watching exactly what happened? The green text is when we talk and regular for the actual memories? Got it..."
"D" - "Yes. You aren't able to interact with anything, can't have you changing the past. Regardless, it was an grand first attempt, a Christmas Special. The debut of what would become the modernized version of you. Except that it was Easter, and you were drunk."
Parsons - "Your point? That was before I knew I could do anything, being drunk and/or high and/or both was all I had, cut me a break fucker."
"D" - "Try to look upon this and remember your humility."
Parsons - "My humility? I taped this and aired it to the roster, this was awesome. The Inglorious Bunny Bastard makes an appearance in ever Christmas special I do to this day!"
Glossing over exactly what an 'Inglorious Bunny Bastard' was, the warmth of the flames and choice of music certainly contrast with the surroundings as the camera pans back to reveal pastel blues, greens and yellows blended with bright shades of pink. Easter eggs are spread throughout the room as the camera shifts to the right, keeping the fireplace in view, though as the camera transitions, dark brown hardwood dominates the landscape, a one of a kind rug lies under an overstuffed black leather recliner. An actor wearing an Easter Bunny costume stands to the side, an eerie sight as two holidays seem thrown together as we’re stared down by essentially a giant white rabbit wearing a bright purple and gold vest.
? - “What the F(bleep) Ger’? It’s supposed to be Christmas you Alzheimer’s patient! Get this Easter sh(bleep) the f(bleep) outta here…damn it Gerry, I swear you do this sh(bleep) on purpose…Look at this sh(bleep)! Bunnies Ger? Goddamned bunnies? Since when did I I’d should have hired those Mexicans again…now clean this sh(bleep) up!”
A tall and lean muscled man with long brown hair and his eyes hidden behind black Ray-Ban sunglasses bursts into the scene bringing chaos and destruction with him; dressed in light jeans that are faded and worn, showing fraying in areas around the legs, and a black t-shirt bearing the signature red white and black winged shield of a group that was synonymous with controversy. The Banner below the red and white quarter sectioned shield said it all “Greatness…is Taken”.
The casually dressed man continues his whirlwind of chaos and destruction, painting the picture of what might occur should a tornado ever strike a gay pride parade. As he sends the Easter eggs flying in all directions, a rainbow of pastel Easter grass rains down from above. Motioning as if the ‘Easter Bunny’ was next, the poor actor just about jumps out of the costume tripping in the process, only to end up failing on their back due to the weight of the costume’s enormous head.
It truly was ‘The Nightmare’ Chris Parsons. A slightly less experienced, and likely highly intoxicated Parsons, but it was definitely him. He had dismantled the ‘set’ in a matter of seconds, and the show had yet to begin. The profanity, the temper, the destruction…this really would be special.
Gerry, the long-time personal bartender can be heard off camera chuckling.
Gerry – “You mean the immigrants you had built that deck around the pool before you reported them to INS? As for the mess? Not my job kid. I’m your bartender Parsons, not your maid, I suggest calling her. Besides…do you know how hard it is to get Christmas decorations during Easter weekend?”
Chris stops dead in his tracks, Gerry had a point, he did have most of them deported didn’t he? Easter grass has collected on him giving him a slightly less intimidating than usual as he does his best to reign in the temper he’s been famous for, only to find himself soon back to raving like a lunatic.
Chris Parsons - “Gerry…I’m going to say this slowly…I…don’t…f(bleep)ing…giveash(bleep). Fix it…call the F(bleep)ing maid and have her ass clean it up! Go down to the strip and get a stripper or a whore, or one of each…wait…no…Look I don’t care who the f(bleep) cleans it up…but it’s not going to f(bleep)ing be me! Just get it done! Triple bud me, I’m going to be back in a half hour and this sh(bleep) had better be right…damn it…knew I shoulda kept those Mexicans…you know what…f(bleep) it…get the maid reset this sh(bleep) and let’s move on with this train wreck…”
Stading outside the cabin once move, the wind toss the robe of "D" and the hair of both men, but neither seems to show signs of cold.
Parsons - "See? Nothing to see here but awesome, modest and humble right from the start! And that was only the beginning. Once I got the show going it was pure gold, I ran down the whole roster and had shirts for the upcoming card for the 'top guys', I blasted the shirts from cannons at the event with the girls, I made them all stand up and take notice. It was awesome."
With a wave of his hand, the enigma sends them back into the bedroom of Parsons.
"D" - "You haven't exactly done that this time around have you?"
Parsons - "No shit...come on though, that was funny, I used to (bleep) sh(bleep) out. Crap! What the f(bleep)?! Not this bleep s(bleep) again? I thought I was done with this happy floppy horse c(bleep) f(bleep)ing my right as a f(blee)ing free as f(bleep) intellentual property..."D"? "D"? Hello?"
Alas, he was nowhere to be seen, the specter had vanished and he had been returned to the safety of his elaborate bed. As bells ring again throughout the penthouse, Parsons sighs as he hangs his head…time for the second spirit.
Jumping from his bed, and grabbing ‘ye olde oak bong’ as he does, he strikes his lighter…it’s immediately snuffed out before the flame can reach the bowl of the device.
Undaunted…he strikes it a second time…then a third and fourth…all to the same effect…quickly snuffed out.
Parsons - "Show yourself! I know how this goes, whichever bullshit, Scooby Doo wannabe it is this time, show yourself!"
The low rumble of a British accent is all that responds.
? - "I thought you could do anything my good man?"
Parsons - "Damn it...let me guess, ghost of wrestling present? Hey Robbie...let me turn on the light."
Striking the lighter, this time he lights the candle and doubles back for the pipe, exhaling he offers a hit toward the unseen second spirit and appears disappointed that the offer is declined.
Stepping into the candlelight, This spirit was completely different than the one before it, a man in the prime of life. Black long wrestling trunks and boots, dark hair, a well muscled and well punished physique, the tattoo of the broken clock...it meant only one man.
Rob Riot, The man who he had cheated out of the very company that bore his name, RSW. Through a series of carefully orchestrated events, Parsons was now a 'rookie' in one promotion, and owner in another.
Something was different, this wasn't the tired, worn out Riot that Parsons had retired and then personally temporarily reinstated, this was the Rob Riot that beat the hell out of him years before in GCW. A man who was on the top of his game, nigh unbeatable.
Rob Riot - "Yes, the present. A grand scheme you pulled off. You took my faith in Cardone and Anderson's arrogance and took seventy five percent of my company in the process, but that's not the moment you need to relive."
As fog fills the room once more, Parsons is once more surrounded by the fog. As the fog thins, this time a blue raised ranch style house becomes visible. A white door, neat and tidy front yard, the American Dream...or Canadian Dream in this particular case.
Parsons - "Wrestling Present, and you're showing the, not so long ago, past? Pretty lame Riot, even for you. This was 'the' day...but it's in the past loser."
Rob Riot - "Quiet you insufferable excuse for a dick joke! Yes this may be the past, however this was the event that lead you to...you. The day you truly did the impossible."
Opening the door, a small landing greeted them, no more than five feet by seven feet. Its light brown tiles offered two choices to any entrant, upstairs or downstairs. But their choice was made before they had arrived, downstairs was where he'd be. Where 'it' would be. Looking down the stairs, there 'he' was. Their 'handler' or writer...their creator, and the laptop of destiny.
There was no blinding aura or halo, just a man. A man in his mid-thirties with dirty blonde hair, probably about six to eight months of active gym work from being in respectable shape, nothing spectacular. Yet, in the moment, Parsons had stood in awe.
Parsons - "You know even I thought I wouldn't get away with this. I did like a six part lead up to this, mentioning the 'Matrix theory' and this was the moment I chose to crack the fourth wall wide open...with my dick."
Rob Riot - "Classy. Now shut up and learn a valuable life lesson."
The man sat at a small wooden computer desk typing away. The pine was real, but not a premium grade, there was a dull finish and it showed more than a few years of use. He was wearing well worn and beaten faded jeans. At points they showed their wear, but he's probably squeeze a few more years out of them. His shirt was black and was clearly emblazoned with 'Boots to Asses', a signature phrase coined by an actual wrestler, likely one Parsons himself, at least somewhat, emulated.
Looking up from the keyboard, he turns his head to his left to look at his creation.
? - "Today's the day then?"
He spoke casually as he returned to the keyboard. Was he expecting this? If Parsons was truly right, not only was he expecting it...he was writing it. But he wasn't finished.
? - "We both know how this goes, hell I want to be done with it. You think you can do better? Do you? Do you really?"
Parsons ducked his head as he walked down the seven steps to stand mere feet away from his target. For the first time in years, Parsons had been truly unsure of himself, his words fail him as he stutters to begin.
Parsons - "I...I...I mean...yeah! Fuck yeah! I could do better! I will do better! I keep getting jobbed out by your shit...tag matches and six man train wrecks where you did well, but something always stops you, someone is always is a little better...so yeah...I not only can I do better, I am better. You made me the most unique thing in this game...I'm going to make them fucking realize it. You hear me Dwayne?! I'm taking over!"
He started out shaky, but ended firm. He gained confidence, as though his words weren't just to convince the person who sat before the keyboard, they were to convince himself. But the man said nothing.
Parsons stood there pacing the floor, a beige cloth couch trimmed in black extended just past the edge of the staircase. Beyond that was a stand bearing a game console and a flat screen TV, the opposite corner was dominated by a black wood pellet stove. A small fire flickered within its glass.
Pacing, he simply watched the man as he typed. It was truly as though he was waiting. But for what? Were we to believe that this average looking mid-thirties man, was actually writing this crap? Parsons had bent believability on more than one occasion in the past, but nothing on this scale.
He had made objects, and in some cases people, appear out of nowhere. He seemed to be able to change reality(and his wardrobe) to fit whatever joke he was going for, at times pausing 'life' itself to explain something or add to a setup for a later punchline. He could take incredible amounts of damage and rarely emerged with more than a scratch. He was able to heal almost any injury in time for the next show.
Despite his steady diet of Budweiser and bitches, he had physical stats that would scare mortal men, endurance, stamina, speed, agility, strength...he had the total package, sorry Luger. But it didn't stop at the physical world, there was more.
He was able to display a level of knowledge on the actions of others that most just either didn't have access to, or simply didn't know. He knew an extensive amount about, and referenced 'real wrestling' more often than most realized.
He would punish 'skim readers' by occasionally weaving one joke throughout an entire 'promo' and finding a way to make it central to his point, a casual skim wouldn't reveal anything at first glance. He referred to other 'writers' by name on several occasions, even giving quick shout outs to friends of his creator. He included 'in jokes' that only about two or three people included in behind the scenes Facebook conversations could possibly understand, let alone find funny.
Yet, at this point as he stands next to the visage of Rob Riot, Parsons knew what he was thinking at this exact moment. He was thinking that if a race car has every possible mechanical enhancement and is tuned, and ready to perform, but still can't take the checkered flag...there's only one clear choice. You change the driver.
The moment he had set up for months was about to come to pass and as he watched it tae shape, Parsons smiled.
Parsons - "See? A valuable life lesson in-fucking-deed. I was right! Every last motherfucker who doubted me or called me crazy for thinking this whole bullshit world we inhabit is nothing more than an elaborate work! This was it, the day I became Unleashed. My crowning moment"
Rob Riot - "Then why are we here Parsons? If this moment cemented your awesome, why did you bring us here?"
Parsons - "Me? You're the creepy ass ghosty kidnapper fuck, you tell me."
Rob Riot - "I can only show what you need to see Parsons, nothing more old chap. You want to see this, there's something here you need to be reminded of."
Regardless if he had a point, Parsons ignored the words of his current guide and watched as the events once more unfolded as he had remembered. Slowing his typing, the man at the keyboard, this 'Dwayne', had turned back to face Parsons once again. Studying the man that stood pacing before him, he had but one more question.
Dwayne - "Then why haven't you done it?"
It was a simple enough question. Why hadn't Parsons, who dwarfed this man by six inches of height and sixty pounds of muscle, just taken whatever it was he was after? But Parsons had no answer, and so Dwayne simply begins to type again as he speaks.
Dwayne - "Because you can't. You can't until I say you can. We both know how this goes, it's playing through your head right now...because I already wrote it. Our destiny for today is literally already written Chris.
This ends when I add it to your life, I paste in a block of text, we fight and one of us walks away. But it starts when I say so. Remember that..."
There it was, either this guy was as delusional as Parsons, or he truly did write this crap in his spare time. Either way, it was a stand still for the time being.
Dwayne - "...so Chris, before you try to take control of your life. And, do remember I said try. Know that there's more than one member of the RSW roster that wants you to fail right now. I mean if you win, and I that's a huge IF, what if others try this? What if next week Nocturnal shows up at Martin's house looking to become unleashed too? Shit...are you even ready to try?"
The man behind the keyboard stops typing, he moves the mouse and after a few keystrokes drops a moderate amount of text onto the screen...and then silence.
Parsons hadn't spoken in minutes, probably a personal best. Tension hung in the air between them until the silence is broken as an oil furnace kicks in and the man lunges at Parsons suddenly, tackling him down upon the stairs.
Rob Riot - "So that's him huh? Where you and 'him' come from? He doesn't look like much does he?"
Parsons - "That what I thought too. Turns out he just looks like he can't fight. He's half sarcastic badass motherfucker and half brooding comic geek. He told me once that he love comic stores because he can walk in knowing he can whoop the ass of ninety percent of the guys in there at any given moment. He's the alpha dork."
Watching as the 'Battle for the Laptop' began, a stiff shot from a quick right elbow sent the mirrored RayBans into pieces, cutting Parsons in the process and probably giving him second thoughts as well. Dwayne had done in seconds what legions of two hundred and fifty plus pound wrestlers and brawlers couldn't, he had drawn blood.
Dwayne - "Where do you think you get your tenacity? I've had my ass kicked more than once sugartits! You need to hear me. What do you fight for!? Are you even fucking ready?!"
Getting his left hand free, Parsons wipes blood and fragments of crushed glass from his face as he roars.
Parsons - "Yeah! I'm fucking ready!"
Moving a knee between him and his attacker, Parsons was crating separation, his judo was instinctual, next was to get to his feet...but he wouldn't have to struggle much more to do so.
Dwayne simply stood up and stepped back. Now a few feet from the prone 'Nightmare', his left foot was planted, his left hand motioning for Parsons to 'Just Bring It'. He might have ended the fight then and there had he pressed his advantage, but no, he wanted this, he...no they, needed it.
Smirking as he stood, Parsons steps back and takes a deep breath, again wiping his face with the back of his hand. Removing his suit jacket, it was time.
Each man rushes forward, Parsons swinging with a large left, the man in black throwing a looping right. Each step back dodging the other's attack. Parsons steps to the left, the man opposite to him steps to the right. they were mirror images of each other. This was going nowhere fast, like watching Georges St. Pierre or Floyd Mayweather fighting themselves. Each man resorted to taking a couple cautionary steps back to regroup.
Taking a Wachowski Brothers approach this time; they rush forward again, each firing off impossibly fast and rapid combinations of punches. Lefts and rights fly through the air as each man throws, bobs weaves and counter-punches. Glancing blows are struck on both sides, each only serving to fuel the next seconds of the head to head onslaught
Parsons dodges a whipping front kick that shatters the top portion of the banister leading upstairs. A spurt of offense from Parsons starts with a high knee to the chest was followed by a snapping right jab, a straight right, several body shots and a sharp left hook to the head as Dwayne attempted to block as much of the damage as he could. Succeeding at times, failing at others, he was just weathering the storm.
Side stepping, Parsons grabbed the shirt of his creator and snapped off a short headbutt before pulling him into a headlock. Now it was Parsons' turn.
Parsons - "You're tougher than you look, probably because you look like a fucking pushover...but you've heard that from anyone who's fought you, haven't you?"
A quick pivot of Parsons hips sent the man in black careening through the air, landing back first onto a basic black coffee table. The air was driven from him as surely as the legs of the table collapsed under the momentum of the two men. But, Parsons had more to say.
Parsons - "I'll tell you what? I'm going to kill you, but I'm not heartless. I know you have a long time girlfriend and a son and a second son on the way. So, here's what I'm going to do for you. Here is my way of saying thanks...I'm going to make this look like a robbery so they get that fat life insurance cheque...see? I'm not even all bad Dwayne, a part of you will get to live on in your kids...and me!"
Standing, Parsons wipes his face with his shirt clearing the blood again and spits upon his 'creator' as he says with disdain.
Parsons - "Now get up...and let's get this over with."
Dragging himself up using the couch, the man in black slowly makes him way to his feet and once again rushes at Parsons, but stops in his tracks.
Parsons now sat before the laptop, clicking away at the keys before jumping from his seat to land a tight flying roundhouse kick to Dwayne's head, wobbling him back into the stove. A sickening echo fades as his hand drifts to his back, before new pain enters his life. In sickening succession Parsons punishes him, punch after punch after punch. Each one brought the end closer, it was almost time.
Parsons - "All but over, your winner and now in charge of his own destiny...the realest motherfucker left standing...me."
Rob Riot - "Then why did he laugh?"
Parsons - "I don't know, maybe he likes getting his ass whooped, I was focused on getting my life back, not on if he had a stiffy while I beat his ass."
An odd sound greeted the twelfth or so blow, laughter. It wasn't much, barely a chuckle. Maybe even a gurgle. Swelling had begun to take hold, blood streamed from his mouth. But ever defiant, he asks one final question.
Dwayne - "You can't do it...you don't know how...do you?"
Standing above his beaten adversary, Parsons disconnects the laptop and retrieves his suit jacket, producing a handgun. The black laptop in one hand, a black handgun in the other. Parsons now stood before his first choice to make...ever. What would he do?
Parsons - "Don't I?"
As Parsons asked, a booming shot reverberated throughout the house sending our scene into darkness. Moments that could age a person years passed, but as the light returned, there was no bloody mess, no corpse. Only the candlelit bedroom once again.
Rob Riot - "That moment. That moment was when you went from being a foul mouthed degenerate, to being something more. You did what the rest of us never really thought to. You took your 'freedom'. And ran with it, the fourth wall's had a revolving door put in just to stop your constant smashing of it."
Smiling, Parsons is once more in his bed and reaching for 'Ye Olde Oak Bong'. Lighting another fresh bowl, he spaeks as he exhales, but his most recent companion is nowhere to be found.
Parsons - "I know right? Rob? Robbie? Roberto? F(leep) me! And damn these f(bleep)ing bleeps! K, one more...I can do this..."
No sooner than the words exit his mouth, they are struck down by the tolling of the clock. The desert wind intensifies from the broken window once again. The tiny flame of the candle struggles valiantly to remain lit.
Parsons - "Right on time jackass...so I had the Ghost of wrestling past and my first appearance, the Ghost of Wrestling Present and somehow still got the past...what have you got...wait! Let me guess...the ghost of wrestling future has last week's lotto numbers."
But no voice greets him, nor does a new specter enter the candlelight. Parsons' smirk just couldn't be hidden.
Parsons - "Got nothing huh? There's no sad, alone, sulking future for me. You know why? Because I'm the guy that can do anything. I get lonely? No biggie, I'll just create a new secondary character and boom, new perfect companion ready for whatever I want to do. So can your bullshit warning of what's to come...shit, you're so lame I can't even see you...Holy Shit! You're Cena, aren't you? The Ghost of Wrestling Future is John Cena! I knew they were getting desperate to make you relevant again, but shit...you're so confused as a character, you're appearing in roleplays now?"
The words dry up in his mouth as he feels the presence of his final visitor. Still unseen, yet somehow tangible in presence alone, Parsons exhales and watches as his breath hang in the air as it might during a freezing winter's day.
? - "Shhhhh...don't sssssssssspeak..."
It definitely wasn't the voice of John Cena, in fact it was barely a voice at all. Hardly audible, the hiss of this final, unseen specter was little more than a whisper.
? - "...you cannot ssssssssssee my form because I represent that which is yet to come. Because you cannot yet ssssssssee the future, thussssssss you cannot yet ssssssssee me. I am what is about to come, but that which could ssssssssstill be changed.
At living a legacy, you face three men again. Razor Blade, Terrence Brown, and Camron Creed…"
Parsons – "Creed? Sounds familiar, don't I know him?"
? - "You need to move forward, sssssssstart ssssssssssssomething that forces them to take notice. Go out there and win or lose have the fans of PCW calling for you, and no one else."
Parsons - "Are you sure I don't know that motherfucker? Because I seem to remember..."
The wind picks up causing Parsons to remember that his usual BS seemed to result in things he owned shattered and allows the spirit to go on.
? - "Focussssss...there is an opportunity coming your way. Take the chance you are to be offered and run with it. Run all over their roster, new...established, it will not matter soon. A lost art is about to return and you...you will be at the center of it all, ushering in a new era."
The wind dies as the spirit's speech stops, if the first two spirits were cautions, lessons to be learned from what had brought him to this point. Then what had the third been? A prophecy? A reminder of something long forgotten?
Searching for the answers, Parsons instead finds 'Ye Olde Oak Bong', tapping the ash onto the bedside table, in a matter of moments he has a fresh hit at his disposal. A long puff has him shooting a cone of smoke across the room as the lights and hustle of Vegas spring back to life.
Bolting up, Parsons' nightcap flies around him once again. Snatching it and firing it across the room, it hits the previously broken window before falling to the floor.
Laughing, Parsons turns to the bedside table, 'Ye Olde Oak Bong' was loaded and at the ready, Zippo sitting at its side. Was it all a dream?
It had to be, but the point was clear...from his humble beginnings as a sarcastic asshole, to his greatest triumph as a free and Unleashed sarcastic asshole, one thing had remained constant, his ability to change and adapt. Exactly the skills he would need when he set foot into the ring.
Most saw a filler opening match between guys no one knew what to do with, but following his nightmare or what was perhaps better described as a vision, Parsons now knew the answer, he wouldn't need to change so much as he now needed to evolve once more...the only question remaining, was how?
He didn't have an answer, but knew Living a Legacy was where he'd begin.
As the final bell of the clock tolls, darkness seemingly falls upon the earth itself. Silence, Las Vegas was silent. A single, seemingly insignificant bedside candle sways in its attempt to cling to life.
Casting a soft pale light, we are in the bedroom of a lone figure. A tall four post bed dominates the room, draped in black, all but the foot of the bed and enough space to benefit from the candle which sits upon a nightstand is encased in the finest of silks. A puff of smoke is followed by a few audible coughs before the figure becomes clear.
Putting aside ‘ye olde oak bong’ is a slightly confused Chris Parsons. Sweeping his brown hair from his face with his left hand, his right rubs his eyes as he groans to life.
Sitting up in bed, Parsons is clad in black pajamas with a matching long stocking cap, rubbing his eyes once more, he stretches glancing out the window...soon it would be time for his PCW Pay Per View Debut. Another multi person match, but another chance to stand out from the pack.
He had had the unfortunate luck of arriving at the same time as a whole crop of new talent, as a result, all of them were now fighting to be the 'new guy to watch'. After a surprise debut in the Icemann Invitation Last Chance Battle Royal and a good, but ultimately disappointing Trauma debut, he'd really need to pull a proverbial 'rabbit out of a hat' on this one. Maybe he could get some tips on that shit from Nathan Saniti? A question for another time.
Producing a silver Zippo lighter and taking another hit from the wooden pipe, he slowly begins staring at the window facing the foot of the bed, it was dark. For the first time he could remember. Off in the corner of the room, a small ball of light appears…growing in size it slowly grows, gaining intensity and increases its light as it begins to take the shape of a human.
Parsons bolts back within the bed sending the end of his nightcap flailing about before coming up against the wall and catching himself.
Parsons – “What the fuck? Man…I gotta cut back…or smoke more? Hmmmm…”
Only pondering a moment, Parsons reaches for ‘ye olde oak bong’ once more, packing and lighting it with a practiced ease as the light continues to grow.
The light continues gain in strength, building and growing stronger blinding 'The Nightmare", and causing him to shield his eyes before it begins dimming significantly.
Once the light dims, a specter remains, clad in black robes, the specter seems void of all colour…as if plucked from the black and white era of television and thrust into life. A stark white skeletal hand reaches from beyond the folds of the robes to point at him…
Parsons - "What the fuck is this shit? Even I'm not sure where this one's going...and where the fuck did this cap come from?"
Defiant even in the presence of the unnatural, Parsons simply sits, staring down the visage.
? – “Christopher James Parsons! I am but the first of three spirits who will come to you tonight to guide you on your quest for your first PCW victory.”
A flash of light and specter draws closer…bells toll for a second time as annoyance bleeds into his words, Parsons realizes just how screwed he now was. Welcome to 'A Wrestling Carol'.
Parsons – “Great…just fucking great…these simple bastards are going to keep me up all night…that was somehow an hour? And besides, isn't this more of a Christmas thing?”
Parsons doesn’t get to finish that thought; a howling wind can be heard, growing in intensity until nothing else but it controls sound…finally the window breaks, bringing the breeze into the room that send his black drapery flowing about.
? - "Silence!"
Parsons – “Fine! But God Damn it! That was something like a two thousand dollar window asshole! Look...ghost of Christmas past? Right? Make this quick…I need my rest you braying jackass…and I apparently have to get a window replaced tomorrow. Next time you want me to shut up just say so, don't break expensive shit you dick!”
The light of the candle intensifies as the specter advances slightly, moving at a slow deliberate pace. As it approaches Parsons, colour also slowly passes over the apparition. Deep blood red robe, as the hood is allowed to fall back, Parsons is stunned by the realization before him.
Parsons - "Wait! "D"?! Is that you? You're dead? You're fucking dead? This is fucking awesome! I kill off our writer and you're the one who died? Fucking priceless."
"D" was the somber, controlled positive Yang to the brash and arrogant negative Yin of Parsons. "D" was everything Parsons was not, kind, well spoken, confident, but not cocky. A fierce in ring competitor in his own right, he had gone on hiatus shortly before Parsons' 'Unleashing', the fateful day he killed his 'writer' and took control of the 'laptop of destiny'.
"D" - "I am what you see when you think about your past, Chris, nothing more. I am here to show you the beginning."
It though it was indeed a visage of the man known as an enigma…much had changed. His skin clings to his skull, his trademark intricate red braids are a tangled mess, his eyes are sunken into its skull, yet burn with an unnatural intensity. Fog begins to engulf the floor as he continues to speak.
"D" - "I am not 'dead' as you described it. I am merely in the background watching. Should the need arise, I would come back for 'that match'...but until then, you must pay attention, listen...but most of all, work harder. You need to understand where you came from."
Creeping along the floor and up the walls, Parsons and the decaying enigma stand alone within the purgatory of Parsons subconscious.
Parsons – “You know what I don’t understand? Why I haven’t bitch slapped the creepy off of you? You rise from obscurity and your first stop is another grown man’s bedroom!”
"D" – “Silence! You need to be reminded of your beginning. Your path to the top of PCW is dependent upon you allowing them in on your journey."
As the fog begins to disperse, an odd sight greets the 'old friends', a snow covered log cabin. A fade in presumably brings us inside where a roaring fireplace now takes center stage, fresh logs are placed on the fire, cracking and popping as “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” as sung by the one and only Bing Crosby plays softly in the background. This could mean only one thing…it was time for look back to the very first, ‘A Chris Parsons Christmas’.
Parsons - "Hahaha, I remember this...this was my first solo appearance ever. Kinda like my, Parsons issue one. So how does this work? We're just watching exactly what happened? The green text is when we talk and regular for the actual memories? Got it..."
"D" - "Yes. You aren't able to interact with anything, can't have you changing the past. Regardless, it was an grand first attempt, a Christmas Special. The debut of what would become the modernized version of you. Except that it was Easter, and you were drunk."
Parsons - "Your point? That was before I knew I could do anything, being drunk and/or high and/or both was all I had, cut me a break fucker."
"D" - "Try to look upon this and remember your humility."
Parsons - "My humility? I taped this and aired it to the roster, this was awesome. The Inglorious Bunny Bastard makes an appearance in ever Christmas special I do to this day!"
Glossing over exactly what an 'Inglorious Bunny Bastard' was, the warmth of the flames and choice of music certainly contrast with the surroundings as the camera pans back to reveal pastel blues, greens and yellows blended with bright shades of pink. Easter eggs are spread throughout the room as the camera shifts to the right, keeping the fireplace in view, though as the camera transitions, dark brown hardwood dominates the landscape, a one of a kind rug lies under an overstuffed black leather recliner. An actor wearing an Easter Bunny costume stands to the side, an eerie sight as two holidays seem thrown together as we’re stared down by essentially a giant white rabbit wearing a bright purple and gold vest.
? - “What the F(bleep) Ger’? It’s supposed to be Christmas you Alzheimer’s patient! Get this Easter sh(bleep) the f(bleep) outta here…damn it Gerry, I swear you do this sh(bleep) on purpose…Look at this sh(bleep)! Bunnies Ger? Goddamned bunnies? Since when did I I’d should have hired those Mexicans again…now clean this sh(bleep) up!”
A tall and lean muscled man with long brown hair and his eyes hidden behind black Ray-Ban sunglasses bursts into the scene bringing chaos and destruction with him; dressed in light jeans that are faded and worn, showing fraying in areas around the legs, and a black t-shirt bearing the signature red white and black winged shield of a group that was synonymous with controversy. The Banner below the red and white quarter sectioned shield said it all “Greatness…is Taken”.
The casually dressed man continues his whirlwind of chaos and destruction, painting the picture of what might occur should a tornado ever strike a gay pride parade. As he sends the Easter eggs flying in all directions, a rainbow of pastel Easter grass rains down from above. Motioning as if the ‘Easter Bunny’ was next, the poor actor just about jumps out of the costume tripping in the process, only to end up failing on their back due to the weight of the costume’s enormous head.
It truly was ‘The Nightmare’ Chris Parsons. A slightly less experienced, and likely highly intoxicated Parsons, but it was definitely him. He had dismantled the ‘set’ in a matter of seconds, and the show had yet to begin. The profanity, the temper, the destruction…this really would be special.
Gerry, the long-time personal bartender can be heard off camera chuckling.
Gerry – “You mean the immigrants you had built that deck around the pool before you reported them to INS? As for the mess? Not my job kid. I’m your bartender Parsons, not your maid, I suggest calling her. Besides…do you know how hard it is to get Christmas decorations during Easter weekend?”
Chris stops dead in his tracks, Gerry had a point, he did have most of them deported didn’t he? Easter grass has collected on him giving him a slightly less intimidating than usual as he does his best to reign in the temper he’s been famous for, only to find himself soon back to raving like a lunatic.
Chris Parsons - “Gerry…I’m going to say this slowly…I…don’t…f(bleep)ing…giveash(bleep). Fix it…call the F(bleep)ing maid and have her ass clean it up! Go down to the strip and get a stripper or a whore, or one of each…wait…no…Look I don’t care who the f(bleep) cleans it up…but it’s not going to f(bleep)ing be me! Just get it done! Triple bud me, I’m going to be back in a half hour and this sh(bleep) had better be right…damn it…knew I shoulda kept those Mexicans…you know what…f(bleep) it…get the maid reset this sh(bleep) and let’s move on with this train wreck…”
Stading outside the cabin once move, the wind toss the robe of "D" and the hair of both men, but neither seems to show signs of cold.
Parsons - "See? Nothing to see here but awesome, modest and humble right from the start! And that was only the beginning. Once I got the show going it was pure gold, I ran down the whole roster and had shirts for the upcoming card for the 'top guys', I blasted the shirts from cannons at the event with the girls, I made them all stand up and take notice. It was awesome."
With a wave of his hand, the enigma sends them back into the bedroom of Parsons.
"D" - "You haven't exactly done that this time around have you?"
Parsons - "No shit...come on though, that was funny, I used to (bleep) sh(bleep) out. Crap! What the f(bleep)?! Not this bleep s(bleep) again? I thought I was done with this happy floppy horse c(bleep) f(bleep)ing my right as a f(blee)ing free as f(bleep) intellentual property..."D"? "D"? Hello?"
Alas, he was nowhere to be seen, the specter had vanished and he had been returned to the safety of his elaborate bed. As bells ring again throughout the penthouse, Parsons sighs as he hangs his head…time for the second spirit.
Jumping from his bed, and grabbing ‘ye olde oak bong’ as he does, he strikes his lighter…it’s immediately snuffed out before the flame can reach the bowl of the device.
Undaunted…he strikes it a second time…then a third and fourth…all to the same effect…quickly snuffed out.
Parsons - "Show yourself! I know how this goes, whichever bullshit, Scooby Doo wannabe it is this time, show yourself!"
The low rumble of a British accent is all that responds.
? - "I thought you could do anything my good man?"
Parsons - "Damn it...let me guess, ghost of wrestling present? Hey Robbie...let me turn on the light."
Striking the lighter, this time he lights the candle and doubles back for the pipe, exhaling he offers a hit toward the unseen second spirit and appears disappointed that the offer is declined.
Stepping into the candlelight, This spirit was completely different than the one before it, a man in the prime of life. Black long wrestling trunks and boots, dark hair, a well muscled and well punished physique, the tattoo of the broken clock...it meant only one man.
Rob Riot, The man who he had cheated out of the very company that bore his name, RSW. Through a series of carefully orchestrated events, Parsons was now a 'rookie' in one promotion, and owner in another.
Something was different, this wasn't the tired, worn out Riot that Parsons had retired and then personally temporarily reinstated, this was the Rob Riot that beat the hell out of him years before in GCW. A man who was on the top of his game, nigh unbeatable.
Rob Riot - "Yes, the present. A grand scheme you pulled off. You took my faith in Cardone and Anderson's arrogance and took seventy five percent of my company in the process, but that's not the moment you need to relive."
As fog fills the room once more, Parsons is once more surrounded by the fog. As the fog thins, this time a blue raised ranch style house becomes visible. A white door, neat and tidy front yard, the American Dream...or Canadian Dream in this particular case.
Parsons - "Wrestling Present, and you're showing the, not so long ago, past? Pretty lame Riot, even for you. This was 'the' day...but it's in the past loser."
Rob Riot - "Quiet you insufferable excuse for a dick joke! Yes this may be the past, however this was the event that lead you to...you. The day you truly did the impossible."
Opening the door, a small landing greeted them, no more than five feet by seven feet. Its light brown tiles offered two choices to any entrant, upstairs or downstairs. But their choice was made before they had arrived, downstairs was where he'd be. Where 'it' would be. Looking down the stairs, there 'he' was. Their 'handler' or writer...their creator, and the laptop of destiny.
There was no blinding aura or halo, just a man. A man in his mid-thirties with dirty blonde hair, probably about six to eight months of active gym work from being in respectable shape, nothing spectacular. Yet, in the moment, Parsons had stood in awe.
Parsons - "You know even I thought I wouldn't get away with this. I did like a six part lead up to this, mentioning the 'Matrix theory' and this was the moment I chose to crack the fourth wall wide open...with my dick."
Rob Riot - "Classy. Now shut up and learn a valuable life lesson."
The man sat at a small wooden computer desk typing away. The pine was real, but not a premium grade, there was a dull finish and it showed more than a few years of use. He was wearing well worn and beaten faded jeans. At points they showed their wear, but he's probably squeeze a few more years out of them. His shirt was black and was clearly emblazoned with 'Boots to Asses', a signature phrase coined by an actual wrestler, likely one Parsons himself, at least somewhat, emulated.
Looking up from the keyboard, he turns his head to his left to look at his creation.
? - "Today's the day then?"
He spoke casually as he returned to the keyboard. Was he expecting this? If Parsons was truly right, not only was he expecting it...he was writing it. But he wasn't finished.
? - "We both know how this goes, hell I want to be done with it. You think you can do better? Do you? Do you really?"
Parsons ducked his head as he walked down the seven steps to stand mere feet away from his target. For the first time in years, Parsons had been truly unsure of himself, his words fail him as he stutters to begin.
Parsons - "I...I...I mean...yeah! Fuck yeah! I could do better! I will do better! I keep getting jobbed out by your shit...tag matches and six man train wrecks where you did well, but something always stops you, someone is always is a little better...so yeah...I not only can I do better, I am better. You made me the most unique thing in this game...I'm going to make them fucking realize it. You hear me Dwayne?! I'm taking over!"
He started out shaky, but ended firm. He gained confidence, as though his words weren't just to convince the person who sat before the keyboard, they were to convince himself. But the man said nothing.
Parsons stood there pacing the floor, a beige cloth couch trimmed in black extended just past the edge of the staircase. Beyond that was a stand bearing a game console and a flat screen TV, the opposite corner was dominated by a black wood pellet stove. A small fire flickered within its glass.
Pacing, he simply watched the man as he typed. It was truly as though he was waiting. But for what? Were we to believe that this average looking mid-thirties man, was actually writing this crap? Parsons had bent believability on more than one occasion in the past, but nothing on this scale.
He had made objects, and in some cases people, appear out of nowhere. He seemed to be able to change reality(and his wardrobe) to fit whatever joke he was going for, at times pausing 'life' itself to explain something or add to a setup for a later punchline. He could take incredible amounts of damage and rarely emerged with more than a scratch. He was able to heal almost any injury in time for the next show.
Despite his steady diet of Budweiser and bitches, he had physical stats that would scare mortal men, endurance, stamina, speed, agility, strength...he had the total package, sorry Luger. But it didn't stop at the physical world, there was more.
He was able to display a level of knowledge on the actions of others that most just either didn't have access to, or simply didn't know. He knew an extensive amount about, and referenced 'real wrestling' more often than most realized.
He would punish 'skim readers' by occasionally weaving one joke throughout an entire 'promo' and finding a way to make it central to his point, a casual skim wouldn't reveal anything at first glance. He referred to other 'writers' by name on several occasions, even giving quick shout outs to friends of his creator. He included 'in jokes' that only about two or three people included in behind the scenes Facebook conversations could possibly understand, let alone find funny.
Yet, at this point as he stands next to the visage of Rob Riot, Parsons knew what he was thinking at this exact moment. He was thinking that if a race car has every possible mechanical enhancement and is tuned, and ready to perform, but still can't take the checkered flag...there's only one clear choice. You change the driver.
The moment he had set up for months was about to come to pass and as he watched it tae shape, Parsons smiled.
Parsons - "See? A valuable life lesson in-fucking-deed. I was right! Every last motherfucker who doubted me or called me crazy for thinking this whole bullshit world we inhabit is nothing more than an elaborate work! This was it, the day I became Unleashed. My crowning moment"
Rob Riot - "Then why are we here Parsons? If this moment cemented your awesome, why did you bring us here?"
Parsons - "Me? You're the creepy ass ghosty kidnapper fuck, you tell me."
Rob Riot - "I can only show what you need to see Parsons, nothing more old chap. You want to see this, there's something here you need to be reminded of."
Regardless if he had a point, Parsons ignored the words of his current guide and watched as the events once more unfolded as he had remembered. Slowing his typing, the man at the keyboard, this 'Dwayne', had turned back to face Parsons once again. Studying the man that stood pacing before him, he had but one more question.
Dwayne - "Then why haven't you done it?"
It was a simple enough question. Why hadn't Parsons, who dwarfed this man by six inches of height and sixty pounds of muscle, just taken whatever it was he was after? But Parsons had no answer, and so Dwayne simply begins to type again as he speaks.
Dwayne - "Because you can't. You can't until I say you can. We both know how this goes, it's playing through your head right now...because I already wrote it. Our destiny for today is literally already written Chris.
This ends when I add it to your life, I paste in a block of text, we fight and one of us walks away. But it starts when I say so. Remember that..."
There it was, either this guy was as delusional as Parsons, or he truly did write this crap in his spare time. Either way, it was a stand still for the time being.
Dwayne - "...so Chris, before you try to take control of your life. And, do remember I said try. Know that there's more than one member of the RSW roster that wants you to fail right now. I mean if you win, and I that's a huge IF, what if others try this? What if next week Nocturnal shows up at Martin's house looking to become unleashed too? Shit...are you even ready to try?"
The man behind the keyboard stops typing, he moves the mouse and after a few keystrokes drops a moderate amount of text onto the screen...and then silence.
Parsons hadn't spoken in minutes, probably a personal best. Tension hung in the air between them until the silence is broken as an oil furnace kicks in and the man lunges at Parsons suddenly, tackling him down upon the stairs.
Rob Riot - "So that's him huh? Where you and 'him' come from? He doesn't look like much does he?"
Parsons - "That what I thought too. Turns out he just looks like he can't fight. He's half sarcastic badass motherfucker and half brooding comic geek. He told me once that he love comic stores because he can walk in knowing he can whoop the ass of ninety percent of the guys in there at any given moment. He's the alpha dork."
Watching as the 'Battle for the Laptop' began, a stiff shot from a quick right elbow sent the mirrored RayBans into pieces, cutting Parsons in the process and probably giving him second thoughts as well. Dwayne had done in seconds what legions of two hundred and fifty plus pound wrestlers and brawlers couldn't, he had drawn blood.
Dwayne - "Where do you think you get your tenacity? I've had my ass kicked more than once sugartits! You need to hear me. What do you fight for!? Are you even fucking ready?!"
Getting his left hand free, Parsons wipes blood and fragments of crushed glass from his face as he roars.
Parsons - "Yeah! I'm fucking ready!"
Moving a knee between him and his attacker, Parsons was crating separation, his judo was instinctual, next was to get to his feet...but he wouldn't have to struggle much more to do so.
Dwayne simply stood up and stepped back. Now a few feet from the prone 'Nightmare', his left foot was planted, his left hand motioning for Parsons to 'Just Bring It'. He might have ended the fight then and there had he pressed his advantage, but no, he wanted this, he...no they, needed it.
Smirking as he stood, Parsons steps back and takes a deep breath, again wiping his face with the back of his hand. Removing his suit jacket, it was time.
Each man rushes forward, Parsons swinging with a large left, the man in black throwing a looping right. Each step back dodging the other's attack. Parsons steps to the left, the man opposite to him steps to the right. they were mirror images of each other. This was going nowhere fast, like watching Georges St. Pierre or Floyd Mayweather fighting themselves. Each man resorted to taking a couple cautionary steps back to regroup.
Taking a Wachowski Brothers approach this time; they rush forward again, each firing off impossibly fast and rapid combinations of punches. Lefts and rights fly through the air as each man throws, bobs weaves and counter-punches. Glancing blows are struck on both sides, each only serving to fuel the next seconds of the head to head onslaught
Parsons dodges a whipping front kick that shatters the top portion of the banister leading upstairs. A spurt of offense from Parsons starts with a high knee to the chest was followed by a snapping right jab, a straight right, several body shots and a sharp left hook to the head as Dwayne attempted to block as much of the damage as he could. Succeeding at times, failing at others, he was just weathering the storm.
Side stepping, Parsons grabbed the shirt of his creator and snapped off a short headbutt before pulling him into a headlock. Now it was Parsons' turn.
Parsons - "You're tougher than you look, probably because you look like a fucking pushover...but you've heard that from anyone who's fought you, haven't you?"
A quick pivot of Parsons hips sent the man in black careening through the air, landing back first onto a basic black coffee table. The air was driven from him as surely as the legs of the table collapsed under the momentum of the two men. But, Parsons had more to say.
Parsons - "I'll tell you what? I'm going to kill you, but I'm not heartless. I know you have a long time girlfriend and a son and a second son on the way. So, here's what I'm going to do for you. Here is my way of saying thanks...I'm going to make this look like a robbery so they get that fat life insurance cheque...see? I'm not even all bad Dwayne, a part of you will get to live on in your kids...and me!"
Standing, Parsons wipes his face with his shirt clearing the blood again and spits upon his 'creator' as he says with disdain.
Parsons - "Now get up...and let's get this over with."
Dragging himself up using the couch, the man in black slowly makes him way to his feet and once again rushes at Parsons, but stops in his tracks.
Parsons now sat before the laptop, clicking away at the keys before jumping from his seat to land a tight flying roundhouse kick to Dwayne's head, wobbling him back into the stove. A sickening echo fades as his hand drifts to his back, before new pain enters his life. In sickening succession Parsons punishes him, punch after punch after punch. Each one brought the end closer, it was almost time.
Parsons - "All but over, your winner and now in charge of his own destiny...the realest motherfucker left standing...me."
Rob Riot - "Then why did he laugh?"
Parsons - "I don't know, maybe he likes getting his ass whooped, I was focused on getting my life back, not on if he had a stiffy while I beat his ass."
An odd sound greeted the twelfth or so blow, laughter. It wasn't much, barely a chuckle. Maybe even a gurgle. Swelling had begun to take hold, blood streamed from his mouth. But ever defiant, he asks one final question.
Dwayne - "You can't do it...you don't know how...do you?"
Standing above his beaten adversary, Parsons disconnects the laptop and retrieves his suit jacket, producing a handgun. The black laptop in one hand, a black handgun in the other. Parsons now stood before his first choice to make...ever. What would he do?
Parsons - "Don't I?"
As Parsons asked, a booming shot reverberated throughout the house sending our scene into darkness. Moments that could age a person years passed, but as the light returned, there was no bloody mess, no corpse. Only the candlelit bedroom once again.
Rob Riot - "That moment. That moment was when you went from being a foul mouthed degenerate, to being something more. You did what the rest of us never really thought to. You took your 'freedom'. And ran with it, the fourth wall's had a revolving door put in just to stop your constant smashing of it."
Smiling, Parsons is once more in his bed and reaching for 'Ye Olde Oak Bong'. Lighting another fresh bowl, he spaeks as he exhales, but his most recent companion is nowhere to be found.
Parsons - "I know right? Rob? Robbie? Roberto? F(leep) me! And damn these f(bleep)ing bleeps! K, one more...I can do this..."
No sooner than the words exit his mouth, they are struck down by the tolling of the clock. The desert wind intensifies from the broken window once again. The tiny flame of the candle struggles valiantly to remain lit.
Parsons - "Right on time jackass...so I had the Ghost of wrestling past and my first appearance, the Ghost of Wrestling Present and somehow still got the past...what have you got...wait! Let me guess...the ghost of wrestling future has last week's lotto numbers."
But no voice greets him, nor does a new specter enter the candlelight. Parsons' smirk just couldn't be hidden.
Parsons - "Got nothing huh? There's no sad, alone, sulking future for me. You know why? Because I'm the guy that can do anything. I get lonely? No biggie, I'll just create a new secondary character and boom, new perfect companion ready for whatever I want to do. So can your bullshit warning of what's to come...shit, you're so lame I can't even see you...Holy Shit! You're Cena, aren't you? The Ghost of Wrestling Future is John Cena! I knew they were getting desperate to make you relevant again, but shit...you're so confused as a character, you're appearing in roleplays now?"
The words dry up in his mouth as he feels the presence of his final visitor. Still unseen, yet somehow tangible in presence alone, Parsons exhales and watches as his breath hang in the air as it might during a freezing winter's day.
? - "Shhhhh...don't sssssssssspeak..."
It definitely wasn't the voice of John Cena, in fact it was barely a voice at all. Hardly audible, the hiss of this final, unseen specter was little more than a whisper.
? - "...you cannot ssssssssssee my form because I represent that which is yet to come. Because you cannot yet ssssssssee the future, thussssssss you cannot yet ssssssssee me. I am what is about to come, but that which could ssssssssstill be changed.
At living a legacy, you face three men again. Razor Blade, Terrence Brown, and Camron Creed…"
Parsons – "Creed? Sounds familiar, don't I know him?"
? - "You need to move forward, sssssssstart ssssssssssssomething that forces them to take notice. Go out there and win or lose have the fans of PCW calling for you, and no one else."
Parsons - "Are you sure I don't know that motherfucker? Because I seem to remember..."
The wind picks up causing Parsons to remember that his usual BS seemed to result in things he owned shattered and allows the spirit to go on.
? - "Focussssss...there is an opportunity coming your way. Take the chance you are to be offered and run with it. Run all over their roster, new...established, it will not matter soon. A lost art is about to return and you...you will be at the center of it all, ushering in a new era."
The wind dies as the spirit's speech stops, if the first two spirits were cautions, lessons to be learned from what had brought him to this point. Then what had the third been? A prophecy? A reminder of something long forgotten?
Searching for the answers, Parsons instead finds 'Ye Olde Oak Bong', tapping the ash onto the bedside table, in a matter of moments he has a fresh hit at his disposal. A long puff has him shooting a cone of smoke across the room as the lights and hustle of Vegas spring back to life.
Bolting up, Parsons' nightcap flies around him once again. Snatching it and firing it across the room, it hits the previously broken window before falling to the floor.
Laughing, Parsons turns to the bedside table, 'Ye Olde Oak Bong' was loaded and at the ready, Zippo sitting at its side. Was it all a dream?
It had to be, but the point was clear...from his humble beginnings as a sarcastic asshole, to his greatest triumph as a free and Unleashed sarcastic asshole, one thing had remained constant, his ability to change and adapt. Exactly the skills he would need when he set foot into the ring.
Most saw a filler opening match between guys no one knew what to do with, but following his nightmare or what was perhaps better described as a vision, Parsons now knew the answer, he wouldn't need to change so much as he now needed to evolve once more...the only question remaining, was how?
He didn't have an answer, but knew Living a Legacy was where he'd begin.