Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jul 5, 2017 18:38:05 GMT -5
13:29 – Wednesday 5th July 2017
Woodland, Salisbury Plain, England
Skies unhindered by cloud create a blanket of blue high above the canopy of the copse. Strobes of celestial sunlight filter through layer after layer of branches and leaves, which dance in the breeze, creating the sparkling effect not dissimilar to those produced by a disco ball. The woodland floor is rife with activity, from the hundreds of winged insects that only become visible when they pass through the beams of light to the echoing coos of woodland pigeons seeking the attention of a mate, all the way down to the smallest microbes of moss spreading by millimetres a day across the shaded tree bark.
Where woodland grass had once stood innocuously for decades, weathering the tribulations of each of the four seasons and Mother Nature’s mammalian minions, it had yielded of all things to the erosion of human feet. The result of this was a carved path of almost dried mud along the forest floor that weaves sinuously between the trees. The pressure from what look like a thousand wellington boots has pushed the stodgiest pools of mud upwards, creating holes akin to craters of a moon.
Yet, eerily, one set of footprints stand out substantially from the rest. This is due to their incomprehensible size. A nearby quote-unquote “normal” imprint is dwarfed by these, as if they were made by the mythical Sasquatch.
“You really are a unique specimen. That, I will grant you.”
One intrepid and bold explorer seems to be extremely intrigued by his discovery, although he is anything but suitably dressed for this mission. Instead of the somewhat stereotypical depiction of loose fitting cargo trousers, a tanktop or a bandana tied around his head, he is instead garbed in more professional attire; a blue suit with his white shirt beneath tucked into his trousers of the same colour and material as his blazer. Defying the searing heat even in this amount of shade, his top button is fastened with the knot of his tie masking it. Only a few faint droplets of sweat have formed on his brow beneath the fringe of his hair. He takes a brief glimpse at a watch secured over his left wrist.
“You’ve been sat there for four hours, twenty-two minutes and...” he quickly glances at the watch once again, timing the continuation of his sentence to perfection, “thirty-three seconds. Clearly, I have underestimated the depths of your meditative state. If I had known that it would have taken this long, I would have tried to do something more productive with my time.”
Seated cross-legged atop a thick segment of fallen tree trunk, which must have broken into this section during its fatal plunge, the gargantuan and chiselled figure of Pure Class Wrestling’s newest and most monolithic enigma is completely motionless. Undeterred and unmoved by the combination of the sunlight trickling through the canopy to reach him, combined with the buzzing of flies past his ear and the incessant ramblings of his associate, the individual known as Dominator maintains his state of meditation. Laying across the log next to him is his XXXL sized shirt. Due to this, the magnitude of his muscle mass is on full display.
“Not that I don’t enjoy escaping to the countryside every now and again,” Horacio continues, absorbing his surroundings for what he feels like is the umpteenth time, the novelty having worn off an hour ago, “however, we have more pressing matters that demand our attention. So if you’re quite finished, Dominic, might I recommend that we get a move on?” He is met with silence, resulting in an audible sigh of exasperation fused with boredom. Upon gauging his watch once more, he delicately skips over footprint-infested pool of mud, landing on the tips of his toes with one leg still trailing behind him like a ballerina. His polished black shoes squelch into the mud, but of no significant depth. Water expels from the displaced dirt and seeps around the sole of his shoe. Pacing with curiosity consuming him, he leans past Dominic’s hulking shoulders. As Horacio suspects, his eyes are closed. He had literally barricaded himself away from the world amongst his own search for inner peace. Horacio realises this immediately.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb me,” Dominic suddenly says in a deep, loud yet unforced tone. Mortimer is taken slightly aback by the suddenness of this remark, but lets out a small exhalation of air through his nostrils in the form of an amused snort.
“I just fail to see how you find this beneficial,” Horacio states, glancing at his watch yet again.
“It is none of your concern,” Dominic replies, still not adapting his posture in spite of his concentration levels being compromised. “This is how I deal with things now.”
“By sitting on a log in the middle of nowhere and, for lack of a better term, daydreaming?” he sneers in response. “And there was me thinking that you were some form of human wrecking ball that obliterated everything in its path with the grace and savagery of a tornado, a former XWF World Champion who ruled over the company with an iron first for a time. The man who left Tyrone Smith laying in a pool of his own blood, sweat and urine on his first night as an official member of the PCW roster. His face falls in spite of sounding so enthusiastic and pumped mere seconds prior. “And yet, all I am seeing from you here and now is something less threatening than the breeze surrounding us.” With that, Dominic’s eyes burst open, staring directly at Horacio who has now positioned himself right in front of Dominic’s daunting beard with a smug, triumphant look on his face.
His antagonism had worked a charm.
“Is that some smarmy way of saying that I am weak?” he says softly with his lips barely even moving. Despite this, Horacio has already traced the element of masked aggression that lingers in the air after Dominic has spoken. Through some sixth sense, Dominic himself realises Horacio’s deductive theory and in turn lets out a sly smirk to put himself at ease with that oh-so familiar sense of self-grandeur. “Such a notion is inconceivable,” Dominator grins. “I am a God compared to you.”
This statement alone is enough to force a genuine, yet accidental snort of laughter from Horacio. This time it is he who attempts to camouflage his amusement by the means of a feigned cough. Had this conversation taken place in years long since passed, Dominic would have imprinted his knuckles into the suited man’s cheek, the temptation of which had not been as overwhelming as he had first envisaged. With a face as serine as unstirred water, the monolithic behemoth plants the palms of his hands firmly against the log upon which he had been seated. His legs uncoil from their crossed position in a serpentine-like manner. Pushing himself upwards, the seven-foot-something man towers over his transgressor with his hulking arms folded. He slower tilts his head downward before, finally, his calm expression transforms with one simple curl of his upper lip. It was not an uncommon tactic for him to use the sheer magnitude of his stature as a means of intimidation. Horacio looks up, still discharging pockets of mirth into the hand that now cups his mouth. Unafraid, Horacio spits out words though his chuckling;
“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”
Dominic’s statement was one that that has frequented been tested, but in all his years, Dominic could not recall the moment of somebody questioning the validity of his self-proclaimed God-like status with such bluntness and brutality. Refusing to allow even the smallest molecule of rage trigger a chain reaction through all the other cells comprising his body and mind,
But that laugh... that high-pitched, whiny, Arin Hansen-esque laugh that resonate more comparably to the wails that accompany the act of crying than actual laughter... it was enough to make Dominic grit his teeth in distain until, propitiously, it dies and gives rebirth to Horacio’s composure.
“I must apologise,” he coughs, authentically this time, “I did not mean to indignify you, but you must admit that your claims are pretty preposterous.” Dominic falls silent, not out of the admission of defeat but more from the lack of desire to contest Horacio’s “Do you understand what the definition of a “god” is?” Horacio queries. “Let me explain,” he continues before Dominic can even draw breath to respond. “A “god” is an entity that has liberated itself from all passions and all desires. Therefore, it would have no reason to seek attention, power, or anything else for that matter.” [/div][/font]Horacio pauses for a moment of reflection, stretching out his arm to catch a spider that had been descending from a branch on a fragile strand of silken webbing in the palm of his hand before continuing. “There are too many people who seek answers, yet do not ask the most important questions themselves. People merely accept what is put in front of them rather than seek out the truth for themselves.” Mortimer twists his wrist back and forth as the spider slaloms between his fingers before attempting to flee by running up the length of his arm.
“Alright. There’s one thing that I don’t understand,” Dominic says, lowering himself back down to sit in a more comfortable position on the log on which he had been meditating moments earlier. ”I have but one simple question for you. One that will put some things into perspective for you...”
“...why me?”
Mortimer slides his eyes into the corners of their sockets, pushing his spectacles back up to the top of his nose with a conniving smile.
“Because, my friend, I know that you have been seeking this truth for yourself. Remember The Greater Power?” All of a sudden, Dominic’s face becomes unnerved, uncharacteristically so. “All that searching, all that believing, all that time, gone to waste and never to be retrieved.” Horacio notices that the spider has now come to rest over the face of his watch before reverting his attention back to his protégé. “You’ve been in a dark place for a long time, haven’t you? Hence all of this?” He referred to the meditation. “That’s the thing about the dark... some people forget just how easy it is to lose yourself in it.”
“I am dealing with it in my own way,” Dominic snarls.
Snarls?
His eyes widen even further. The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks. In spite of this elongated session of mental healing, he had almost instantly fallen back into the same angered and discontented being that he had been trying to leave behind.
“Now you understand, do you not?” Horacio grins. “When you are lost in the dark, all you need is someone to shine a light. It’s not just you though... I want to help the world, Dominic,” he smiles. “With so many crazy things being done around the planet by even crazier people, it is a wonder that anybody can turn to religion with true conviction. Conflictingly, there are so many people who call themselves “martyrs” in a bid to make the world a better place, but only for themselves via mass manipulation. That is why I thought of you and PCW. Look at the place. Everywhere you look, there are people like you who are still lost in the dark. There are lunatics of the most literal sense and martyrs who try to steal a flock for their own like religion’s answer to sheep rustlers.” Malicious truth engulfs his words.
“And there are even imbeciles who have the audacity to call themselves “Crazy” right within their names.” Dominator scowls, his anger growing by the minute. “It’s like giving yourself the nickname ‘Cool Guy’ when in truth you’re the biggest loser in town.”
“They all think that they are exempt from being labelled as extravagant because of their careers. Wrestling; where the obscure and obscene is the norm. But is that really any different from the world outside of the ring?” Horacio hisses.
“That’s just how I felt,” Dominic attempts to hide a gasp.
“Of course you did,” Horacio smugly chuckles. “But they have done nothing to truly stand out. They are nothing but drops in the ocean; moments of time that are insignificant and unmemorable.” With that, Horacio’s expression of intensity multiplies tenfold. He speaks in a much softer, almost ominous voice. “But The Chronological Order will never be anything less than a memory. We understand that the flow of time is the only true constant. “Everything exists... but not everything truly lives.” With that, Horacio holds out his hand. Having had it cupped this entire time, the spider that had taken a liking to him began to scuttle towards his fingertips upon the reveal of natural light. He tips it onto Dominic’s hand. “Soon, they will know,” Horacio beams, as if beckoning to Dominic to share his mindset.
“Time doesn’t change. So neither do we...”
Dominator mirrors Horacio’s intensity. The spider is frozen in his straightened palm, staring with its eight eyes with the same level of fear as the fly that would ordinarily be its prey. Slowly, Dominator’s fingers retract and curl over themselves, clenching a fist with no sign of remorse. He feels the arachnid rupture, some liquid oozes out of the gaps between his fingers.
His hand tingles. It was the same sensation as before. The same vibrations that he felt after punching Tyrone Smith in the skull with such force that it knocked him unconscious. That level of malice, although minute in comparison to what he felt that day, made all of his self-resentment dissipate within an instant. He looks at his other hand. The same sensation was not there.
He wanted more.
As he opened his hand to reveal the carnage within, he admires the destruction by uttering just a single statement.
“Every little thing... is just a drop in the ocean.”
Woodland, Salisbury Plain, England
Skies unhindered by cloud create a blanket of blue high above the canopy of the copse. Strobes of celestial sunlight filter through layer after layer of branches and leaves, which dance in the breeze, creating the sparkling effect not dissimilar to those produced by a disco ball. The woodland floor is rife with activity, from the hundreds of winged insects that only become visible when they pass through the beams of light to the echoing coos of woodland pigeons seeking the attention of a mate, all the way down to the smallest microbes of moss spreading by millimetres a day across the shaded tree bark.
Where woodland grass had once stood innocuously for decades, weathering the tribulations of each of the four seasons and Mother Nature’s mammalian minions, it had yielded of all things to the erosion of human feet. The result of this was a carved path of almost dried mud along the forest floor that weaves sinuously between the trees. The pressure from what look like a thousand wellington boots has pushed the stodgiest pools of mud upwards, creating holes akin to craters of a moon.
Yet, eerily, one set of footprints stand out substantially from the rest. This is due to their incomprehensible size. A nearby quote-unquote “normal” imprint is dwarfed by these, as if they were made by the mythical Sasquatch.
“You really are a unique specimen. That, I will grant you.”
One intrepid and bold explorer seems to be extremely intrigued by his discovery, although he is anything but suitably dressed for this mission. Instead of the somewhat stereotypical depiction of loose fitting cargo trousers, a tanktop or a bandana tied around his head, he is instead garbed in more professional attire; a blue suit with his white shirt beneath tucked into his trousers of the same colour and material as his blazer. Defying the searing heat even in this amount of shade, his top button is fastened with the knot of his tie masking it. Only a few faint droplets of sweat have formed on his brow beneath the fringe of his hair. He takes a brief glimpse at a watch secured over his left wrist.
“You’ve been sat there for four hours, twenty-two minutes and...” he quickly glances at the watch once again, timing the continuation of his sentence to perfection, “thirty-three seconds. Clearly, I have underestimated the depths of your meditative state. If I had known that it would have taken this long, I would have tried to do something more productive with my time.”
Seated cross-legged atop a thick segment of fallen tree trunk, which must have broken into this section during its fatal plunge, the gargantuan and chiselled figure of Pure Class Wrestling’s newest and most monolithic enigma is completely motionless. Undeterred and unmoved by the combination of the sunlight trickling through the canopy to reach him, combined with the buzzing of flies past his ear and the incessant ramblings of his associate, the individual known as Dominator maintains his state of meditation. Laying across the log next to him is his XXXL sized shirt. Due to this, the magnitude of his muscle mass is on full display.
“Not that I don’t enjoy escaping to the countryside every now and again,” Horacio continues, absorbing his surroundings for what he feels like is the umpteenth time, the novelty having worn off an hour ago, “however, we have more pressing matters that demand our attention. So if you’re quite finished, Dominic, might I recommend that we get a move on?” He is met with silence, resulting in an audible sigh of exasperation fused with boredom. Upon gauging his watch once more, he delicately skips over footprint-infested pool of mud, landing on the tips of his toes with one leg still trailing behind him like a ballerina. His polished black shoes squelch into the mud, but of no significant depth. Water expels from the displaced dirt and seeps around the sole of his shoe. Pacing with curiosity consuming him, he leans past Dominic’s hulking shoulders. As Horacio suspects, his eyes are closed. He had literally barricaded himself away from the world amongst his own search for inner peace. Horacio realises this immediately.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb me,” Dominic suddenly says in a deep, loud yet unforced tone. Mortimer is taken slightly aback by the suddenness of this remark, but lets out a small exhalation of air through his nostrils in the form of an amused snort.
“I just fail to see how you find this beneficial,” Horacio states, glancing at his watch yet again.
“It is none of your concern,” Dominic replies, still not adapting his posture in spite of his concentration levels being compromised. “This is how I deal with things now.”
“By sitting on a log in the middle of nowhere and, for lack of a better term, daydreaming?” he sneers in response. “And there was me thinking that you were some form of human wrecking ball that obliterated everything in its path with the grace and savagery of a tornado, a former XWF World Champion who ruled over the company with an iron first for a time. The man who left Tyrone Smith laying in a pool of his own blood, sweat and urine on his first night as an official member of the PCW roster. His face falls in spite of sounding so enthusiastic and pumped mere seconds prior. “And yet, all I am seeing from you here and now is something less threatening than the breeze surrounding us.” With that, Dominic’s eyes burst open, staring directly at Horacio who has now positioned himself right in front of Dominic’s daunting beard with a smug, triumphant look on his face.
His antagonism had worked a charm.
“Is that some smarmy way of saying that I am weak?” he says softly with his lips barely even moving. Despite this, Horacio has already traced the element of masked aggression that lingers in the air after Dominic has spoken. Through some sixth sense, Dominic himself realises Horacio’s deductive theory and in turn lets out a sly smirk to put himself at ease with that oh-so familiar sense of self-grandeur. “Such a notion is inconceivable,” Dominator grins. “I am a God compared to you.”
This statement alone is enough to force a genuine, yet accidental snort of laughter from Horacio. This time it is he who attempts to camouflage his amusement by the means of a feigned cough. Had this conversation taken place in years long since passed, Dominic would have imprinted his knuckles into the suited man’s cheek, the temptation of which had not been as overwhelming as he had first envisaged. With a face as serine as unstirred water, the monolithic behemoth plants the palms of his hands firmly against the log upon which he had been seated. His legs uncoil from their crossed position in a serpentine-like manner. Pushing himself upwards, the seven-foot-something man towers over his transgressor with his hulking arms folded. He slower tilts his head downward before, finally, his calm expression transforms with one simple curl of his upper lip. It was not an uncommon tactic for him to use the sheer magnitude of his stature as a means of intimidation. Horacio looks up, still discharging pockets of mirth into the hand that now cups his mouth. Unafraid, Horacio spits out words though his chuckling;
“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”
Dominic’s statement was one that that has frequented been tested, but in all his years, Dominic could not recall the moment of somebody questioning the validity of his self-proclaimed God-like status with such bluntness and brutality. Refusing to allow even the smallest molecule of rage trigger a chain reaction through all the other cells comprising his body and mind,
But that laugh... that high-pitched, whiny, Arin Hansen-esque laugh that resonate more comparably to the wails that accompany the act of crying than actual laughter... it was enough to make Dominic grit his teeth in distain until, propitiously, it dies and gives rebirth to Horacio’s composure.
“I must apologise,” he coughs, authentically this time, “I did not mean to indignify you, but you must admit that your claims are pretty preposterous.” Dominic falls silent, not out of the admission of defeat but more from the lack of desire to contest Horacio’s “Do you understand what the definition of a “god” is?” Horacio queries. “Let me explain,” he continues before Dominic can even draw breath to respond. “A “god” is an entity that has liberated itself from all passions and all desires. Therefore, it would have no reason to seek attention, power, or anything else for that matter.” [/div][/font]Horacio pauses for a moment of reflection, stretching out his arm to catch a spider that had been descending from a branch on a fragile strand of silken webbing in the palm of his hand before continuing. “There are too many people who seek answers, yet do not ask the most important questions themselves. People merely accept what is put in front of them rather than seek out the truth for themselves.” Mortimer twists his wrist back and forth as the spider slaloms between his fingers before attempting to flee by running up the length of his arm.
“Alright. There’s one thing that I don’t understand,” Dominic says, lowering himself back down to sit in a more comfortable position on the log on which he had been meditating moments earlier. ”I have but one simple question for you. One that will put some things into perspective for you...”
“...why me?”
Mortimer slides his eyes into the corners of their sockets, pushing his spectacles back up to the top of his nose with a conniving smile.
“Because, my friend, I know that you have been seeking this truth for yourself. Remember The Greater Power?” All of a sudden, Dominic’s face becomes unnerved, uncharacteristically so. “All that searching, all that believing, all that time, gone to waste and never to be retrieved.” Horacio notices that the spider has now come to rest over the face of his watch before reverting his attention back to his protégé. “You’ve been in a dark place for a long time, haven’t you? Hence all of this?” He referred to the meditation. “That’s the thing about the dark... some people forget just how easy it is to lose yourself in it.”
“I am dealing with it in my own way,” Dominic snarls.
Snarls?
His eyes widen even further. The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks. In spite of this elongated session of mental healing, he had almost instantly fallen back into the same angered and discontented being that he had been trying to leave behind.
“Now you understand, do you not?” Horacio grins. “When you are lost in the dark, all you need is someone to shine a light. It’s not just you though... I want to help the world, Dominic,” he smiles. “With so many crazy things being done around the planet by even crazier people, it is a wonder that anybody can turn to religion with true conviction. Conflictingly, there are so many people who call themselves “martyrs” in a bid to make the world a better place, but only for themselves via mass manipulation. That is why I thought of you and PCW. Look at the place. Everywhere you look, there are people like you who are still lost in the dark. There are lunatics of the most literal sense and martyrs who try to steal a flock for their own like religion’s answer to sheep rustlers.” Malicious truth engulfs his words.
“And there are even imbeciles who have the audacity to call themselves “Crazy” right within their names.” Dominator scowls, his anger growing by the minute. “It’s like giving yourself the nickname ‘Cool Guy’ when in truth you’re the biggest loser in town.”
“They all think that they are exempt from being labelled as extravagant because of their careers. Wrestling; where the obscure and obscene is the norm. But is that really any different from the world outside of the ring?” Horacio hisses.
“That’s just how I felt,” Dominic attempts to hide a gasp.
“Of course you did,” Horacio smugly chuckles. “But they have done nothing to truly stand out. They are nothing but drops in the ocean; moments of time that are insignificant and unmemorable.” With that, Horacio’s expression of intensity multiplies tenfold. He speaks in a much softer, almost ominous voice. “But The Chronological Order will never be anything less than a memory. We understand that the flow of time is the only true constant. “Everything exists... but not everything truly lives.” With that, Horacio holds out his hand. Having had it cupped this entire time, the spider that had taken a liking to him began to scuttle towards his fingertips upon the reveal of natural light. He tips it onto Dominic’s hand. “Soon, they will know,” Horacio beams, as if beckoning to Dominic to share his mindset.
“Time doesn’t change. So neither do we...”
Dominator mirrors Horacio’s intensity. The spider is frozen in his straightened palm, staring with its eight eyes with the same level of fear as the fly that would ordinarily be its prey. Slowly, Dominator’s fingers retract and curl over themselves, clenching a fist with no sign of remorse. He feels the arachnid rupture, some liquid oozes out of the gaps between his fingers.
His hand tingles. It was the same sensation as before. The same vibrations that he felt after punching Tyrone Smith in the skull with such force that it knocked him unconscious. That level of malice, although minute in comparison to what he felt that day, made all of his self-resentment dissipate within an instant. He looks at his other hand. The same sensation was not there.
He wanted more.
As he opened his hand to reveal the carnage within, he admires the destruction by uttering just a single statement.
“Every little thing... is just a drop in the ocean.”
