Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jun 4, 2018 20:58:40 GMT -5
Friday 1st June – 08.35am
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
The threat of rain threatens to disturb the first morn to welcome the new month. Black clouds hover in the sky like buzzards, stalking their prey before attempting to send them into a frenzied state of pandemonium. Blissfully unaware of the looming storm, pigeons coo from their roosting spots among the trees that decorate the residential street, the branches that form the pathways to their homes dance more provocatively in the intensifying breeze.
Why do some people refer to a downpour of rain as ‘the heavens opening’ when the afterlife’s offer of paradise is more comparable to rays of perpetual and celestial sunlight? Could they be the tears of seraphim? From afar, the clouds seem to droop from the sky towards the ground like streaks of mascara running down the face of the atmosphere.
One does not need a qualification in meteorology to determine whether the rain will strike from this distance. Their current trajectory suggest a direct collision course. It is isn’t a case of ‘if.’ It is a simple case of ‘when.’ This has been his self-written mantra as of late. He look towards the sky; his limit.
It is unlike to Horacio to be late.
For anything.
He knocks on the front door once again with a balled fist. Is it worth even considering that the man has overslept? He peers through the translucent glass of the rhombus-shaped window. Even with one side of his hand pressed against the side of his face to act as a screen, the only light he can see is the glare of refracted sunlight concaving through the curvature of the pane.
Before a feeling tantamount to concern can further develop, Dominic detects that something is amiss. The sound of the birds chirping is disturbed by the grunt of an engine that is apparently being heavily revved. It seemed distance just a few seconds ago, but already vibrations in the air suggest that whoever, or whatever is creating the offending racket is drawing nearer.
Sure enough, a black Volvo XC-90 appears seemingly out of the blue, coming to a brisk halt as if the driver had performed an emergency stop. The driver rolls down his window.
“Get in,” Horacio gestures hurriedly with a beckoning wave of his hand towards a non-compliant Dominic, statuesque with bewilderment at such desperation. “Quickly, Dominic! Post-haste!” he assertively shouts with sprinkles of uneasiness littering his voice. As Dominic moves at the pace of a slow jog along the pathway, the uncharacteristically erratic motions of his mentor grants access to an increase in speed. Having clambered into the vehicle, the door is not even fully closed before Horacio pulls away from his parked position, the force of his acceleration sends Dominic hurtling backwards, deep into a cushioned recline in his seat.
Curiously glancing towards the rear-view mirror as he secures his safety belt, Dominic notices the redness of Horacio’s brow that has glazed with a layer of sweat. His tie is off-centre, the top two buttons of his formal white shirt are unfastened. His hair, normally slicked backwards with wax or gel, is in total disarray.
A sudden and startled expletive erupts from Dominic’s mouth. One that would surely make someone of Seromine’s disposition cringe;
“Fucking Jesus!”
Dominic exclaims as the car careens around a sharp bend, the rear tyres screaming as they slide across the tarmac. The vehicle drifts to the opposite side of the road; the blaring of an oncoming motorist’s horn signifies the narrow margin of which a collision is avoided upon its passing. Dominic’s hand instinctively plants itself against Horacio’s headrest, bracing himself for a potential impact. Regaining control, Horacio continues to shift through the gears as quickly as possible once the road straightens out. “What the hell is going on!?” Dominic booms, his heart palpitating heavily in his chest, as if trying to break out of his rib-cage in a bid to escape this peril. He can hear the engine roaring eagerly, egging him on to keep his foot depressed on the accelerator pedal even as the needle of the speedometer continues to climb. “Slow down for a minute, will you!?” Dominic defies the engine’s taunts.
“I apologise for such haste, but such severity demands that we waste as little time as possible,” Horacio calls rapidly, only turning his head by the slightest degree in order to project his voice to the back of the vehicle.
“What’s happening?” The Zenith rewords his original enquiry whose answers continues to evade him. “What quandary might be so severe that you end up killing us both in the process?” To his credit, Horacio has been proving himself as capable of handling a car at such speeds with precision in every movement and judgement in spite of him being visibly flustered, although this fact did not detract from Dominic’s apprehension.
“I’m afraid I cannot outline one specific detail above the rest,” Horacio replies with a raised voice, his eyes flickering back and forth between the rear view mirror and the open road ahead.
“Any detail will do,” comes the cynical grunt from Dominic, who has now righted himself having gone horizontal during the sharp turn. Horacio takes a deep breath. Of all the things Dominic might expect him to say, what comes out of his mouth far from anything he could possibly envision.
“Have you heard the conspiracy theorists talk about things like ‘The Illuminati,’ or other such groups that allegedly police the world, even as far as dictating and acting out their own agendas through global governments?"
Dumbstruck, The Suzerain of Time fumbles for a response.
“Well, yes,” he admits. It is difficult to deny. There are countless articles scattered across multiple social media platforms and online forums that mention such factions and secret societies; The Illuminati, Anonymous, The Stonemasons, the list goes on. Only though who abstain themselves from such propaganda through a technological embargo might disdain themselves from such polemic matters. “What? We’re running from The Illuminati now? Did you remember to take your meds this morning?”
“You know full well that I have,” Mortimer scowls at such a derogatory statement.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t.
“Not half an hour ago,” he resumes, irrespective of the ignorance towards his medical wellbeing, “I received a handwritten note through my letterbox. They informed me to reach a payphone in Calmore, two and a half miles from my home address by exactly 08.30am.” He speaks the time numerically, shaving fractions of a second from his sentence. “They want to speak to you directly by 08.45am. What’s worse is that they are going to call a payphone in Marchwood. Given the average speed limit, the weight of rush hour traffic and overall distance, plus the detour to Totton in order to pick you up, it will take on average fifteen minutes from Point A to Point C, including the stop at Point B.” His nervous rambling is fluid, yet somehow confusingly incoherent. Nonetheless, Dominic does not elect to request Horacio to repeat the topic, having gathered at least a general understanding of the quandary. It seems fortunate that the traffic is clearer than Horacio had anticipated, but nonetheless, time is short.
“I’m starting to grow sick and tired of cults,” Dominic mutters to himself, doing his utmost to repress his own experiences back from the crevices of his cerebellum from which they’d came. Yes, Dominic himself had once been in a similar frame of mind to Seromine; a man who had become so enamoured with his own accomplishments that he deemed himself to exist on a plain that transcended the mortal realm. He had gone by many names; The Greater Power, The Necessary Existence, even something as unsubtle as ‘The Self-Proclaimed God.’ However, with these monikers came similar expectation to one’s self. And when these expectations were not meant, it provided ample ammunition for his antagonists to fire back at him.
Yet everyone goes through such experiences. But it is when one learns from such mistakes that they grow as human beings. Like throwing a boomerang for the first time, only for it to come back and strike you in the back of the head when you are not looking.
Horacio remains unnerved. It seems as though he is expecting Dominic to follow up his previous statement regarding his disapproval of the plague-like factions that seem to thrive like fungus within Pure Class Wrestling. When he is met by Dominic’s silence, he lets out a long sigh. Perhaps by mentioning a group with such notoriety as The Illuminati, he had set himself up for a fall. The harness of Dominic’s reserve allowed him to breathe a little easier.
“Are you sure that somebody isn’t just having some fun at your expense?” Dominic lets out the slightest of chuckles as if to diffuse the tension; a sound that is immediately disapproved by Horacio.
“This is no laughing matter,” Horacio scorns. “I know exactly who is doing this and our compliance is absolutely compulsory. The fate of The Chronological Order depends on it.”
Dominic’s face immediately turns much more seriousness. The authenticity in Mortimer’s voice eliminates the majority of doubt in Dominic’s mind. It is unlike Horacio to partake in any form of elaborate prank. As the realisation that something is indeed very wrong settles in, he almost finds himself further at ease, accepting the situation for what it is. He averts his lost stare, instead looking out of the passenger window. Unwilling to focus on one single blade of grass that they pass, the embankment is instead just an erratic streak of greenery like the stream of vapour and gas spewed from the back end of a jet plane.
It felt like he is literally soaring, in both a physical and metaphorical sense. If one criticism could be made regarding Dominator’s success within the confines of a Pure Class Wrestling ring, it could be the calibre of the opposition that he has defeated in line of the self-aggrandizement of his statistical prominence. Victories over the likes of Razor Blade and Muscles Malone could be comparable to pinning down limbed sandbags.
These critics… are right.
At least to an extent.
This criticism comes through no fault of Dominator’s own, or even that of The Chronological Order as a whole. Week by week, he is instructed to face such ‘lesser individuals’ by the mules of PCW management. And it has only been through what they call ‘the luck of the draw’ that he had the luxury of facing an inconsistent Arica Lewitt and an unhabituated Stacy Jones en route to the Semi Finals.
The truth is that, if Dominator had his way, he would be facing the likes of Seromine, Gabriel and Grimm on a fortnightly basis. However, the stairway to heaven is a steep and arduous climb. He knows that this night will be one of the most trialling and gruelling nights of his life. To consider this as a cakewalk would be career suicide.
To dismiss the hard facts over one’s own sense of grandeur has spelled the demise of many a man over countless centuries; even notable names in history such as Alexander the Great and King Henry the Eighth were not exempt from letting their arrogance distort their vision to the point of fatal distraction.
So just who has truly yet to be tested?
Phinehas has been a PCW mainstay since the halcyon days of its conception. As controversial an analysis as this is, the mere mention of his name sends chills down the spines of potential opposition; a living incarnation of J.K Rowling’s brainchild; Lord Voldemort. He possesses an unfathomable air of mystique that chokes you when you are in his presence.
Yes, he was the man who apparently ‘killed off’ Johnny Vivacious, regressing him back to Johnny Matthews as a state of mental devolution. To Matthews, this had been his way of going ‘back to basics.’ When Grimm defeated Johnny, he went back to the drawing board to try something new.
When The Zenith defeated Johnny Matthews, he stopped trying. Period.
It speaks volumes of what Dominator can do that Grimm could not. When The Zenith defeats Grimm, perhaps he will revert back to using the surname Dillinger, the mark of a downgrade from a perfect ten.
Of course, Matthews is merely one example in a far more enclosed lapse of time. As stated, Grimm has been here in the PCW for a long, long time. His accolades collated exceed the majority of the alumni combined.
Perilously, Phinehas seems to be administering something analogous with miscalculation… as though he is underestimating The Zenith. It is a feeling that Dominator has not felt in months. Even against the weakest of foes, Dominator refuses to allow his confidence to billow over like the boiling water in a saucepan. Given time, Dominator could feasibly surpass Grimm and all that he has accomplished.
And maybe, just maybe, Grimm realises this.
The Zenith is not just some lumbering giant who knows nothing but aggression. He is the perfect combination of power and logic; the amalgamation of a matador’s grace and a bull’s rage. Between Grimm and whomever The Zenith will meet in the finals, be it Seromine or Gabriel, they will be left as speechless and immobile as ‘Lost Voice Guy.’
Before his mind is given the opportunity to wander even further, the car screeches to an abrupt halt. Again, Dominic clutches the headrest in front of him for dear life before he is catapulted backwards into the seat as the car becomes brusquely stationary. The back of his head whips back, connecting
“You need to answer it,” Horacio explains, using the same frenetic hand gestures he had used to summon Dominic into the car initially. “Quickly, you only have…” he pauses to consult his watch for a split second, “…twelve seconds to pick up the phone. If we miss our window of opportunity, The Chronological Order is done for!”
“How so?” Dominic asks, unclipping his seat belt.
“JUST GO!” Horacio booms, impatience and unadulterated fear rattles through his vocal chords. Without any further pressing, Dominic heaves himself out of the car and takes just four large strides across the pavement to the phone box. He squeezes himself into the compact booth. There is barely enough room for him to fit inside. Nonetheless, he picks up the receiver with mere milliseconds to spare. He refrains from speaking for a mere moment, trying to decipher any possible clues he can obtain from any background noise. Such sleuthing is met with failure given the pure silence.
“This is Dominic James Atkinson speaking,” he says, unsure what to expect.
TO BE CONTINUED
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
The threat of rain threatens to disturb the first morn to welcome the new month. Black clouds hover in the sky like buzzards, stalking their prey before attempting to send them into a frenzied state of pandemonium. Blissfully unaware of the looming storm, pigeons coo from their roosting spots among the trees that decorate the residential street, the branches that form the pathways to their homes dance more provocatively in the intensifying breeze.
Why do some people refer to a downpour of rain as ‘the heavens opening’ when the afterlife’s offer of paradise is more comparable to rays of perpetual and celestial sunlight? Could they be the tears of seraphim? From afar, the clouds seem to droop from the sky towards the ground like streaks of mascara running down the face of the atmosphere.
One does not need a qualification in meteorology to determine whether the rain will strike from this distance. Their current trajectory suggest a direct collision course. It is isn’t a case of ‘if.’ It is a simple case of ‘when.’ This has been his self-written mantra as of late. He look towards the sky; his limit.
It is unlike to Horacio to be late.
For anything.
He knocks on the front door once again with a balled fist. Is it worth even considering that the man has overslept? He peers through the translucent glass of the rhombus-shaped window. Even with one side of his hand pressed against the side of his face to act as a screen, the only light he can see is the glare of refracted sunlight concaving through the curvature of the pane.
Before a feeling tantamount to concern can further develop, Dominic detects that something is amiss. The sound of the birds chirping is disturbed by the grunt of an engine that is apparently being heavily revved. It seemed distance just a few seconds ago, but already vibrations in the air suggest that whoever, or whatever is creating the offending racket is drawing nearer.
Sure enough, a black Volvo XC-90 appears seemingly out of the blue, coming to a brisk halt as if the driver had performed an emergency stop. The driver rolls down his window.
“Get in,” Horacio gestures hurriedly with a beckoning wave of his hand towards a non-compliant Dominic, statuesque with bewilderment at such desperation. “Quickly, Dominic! Post-haste!” he assertively shouts with sprinkles of uneasiness littering his voice. As Dominic moves at the pace of a slow jog along the pathway, the uncharacteristically erratic motions of his mentor grants access to an increase in speed. Having clambered into the vehicle, the door is not even fully closed before Horacio pulls away from his parked position, the force of his acceleration sends Dominic hurtling backwards, deep into a cushioned recline in his seat.
Curiously glancing towards the rear-view mirror as he secures his safety belt, Dominic notices the redness of Horacio’s brow that has glazed with a layer of sweat. His tie is off-centre, the top two buttons of his formal white shirt are unfastened. His hair, normally slicked backwards with wax or gel, is in total disarray.
A sudden and startled expletive erupts from Dominic’s mouth. One that would surely make someone of Seromine’s disposition cringe;
“Fucking Jesus!”
Dominic exclaims as the car careens around a sharp bend, the rear tyres screaming as they slide across the tarmac. The vehicle drifts to the opposite side of the road; the blaring of an oncoming motorist’s horn signifies the narrow margin of which a collision is avoided upon its passing. Dominic’s hand instinctively plants itself against Horacio’s headrest, bracing himself for a potential impact. Regaining control, Horacio continues to shift through the gears as quickly as possible once the road straightens out. “What the hell is going on!?” Dominic booms, his heart palpitating heavily in his chest, as if trying to break out of his rib-cage in a bid to escape this peril. He can hear the engine roaring eagerly, egging him on to keep his foot depressed on the accelerator pedal even as the needle of the speedometer continues to climb. “Slow down for a minute, will you!?” Dominic defies the engine’s taunts.
“I apologise for such haste, but such severity demands that we waste as little time as possible,” Horacio calls rapidly, only turning his head by the slightest degree in order to project his voice to the back of the vehicle.
“What’s happening?” The Zenith rewords his original enquiry whose answers continues to evade him. “What quandary might be so severe that you end up killing us both in the process?” To his credit, Horacio has been proving himself as capable of handling a car at such speeds with precision in every movement and judgement in spite of him being visibly flustered, although this fact did not detract from Dominic’s apprehension.
“I’m afraid I cannot outline one specific detail above the rest,” Horacio replies with a raised voice, his eyes flickering back and forth between the rear view mirror and the open road ahead.
“Any detail will do,” comes the cynical grunt from Dominic, who has now righted himself having gone horizontal during the sharp turn. Horacio takes a deep breath. Of all the things Dominic might expect him to say, what comes out of his mouth far from anything he could possibly envision.
“Have you heard the conspiracy theorists talk about things like ‘The Illuminati,’ or other such groups that allegedly police the world, even as far as dictating and acting out their own agendas through global governments?"
Dumbstruck, The Suzerain of Time fumbles for a response.
“Well, yes,” he admits. It is difficult to deny. There are countless articles scattered across multiple social media platforms and online forums that mention such factions and secret societies; The Illuminati, Anonymous, The Stonemasons, the list goes on. Only though who abstain themselves from such propaganda through a technological embargo might disdain themselves from such polemic matters. “What? We’re running from The Illuminati now? Did you remember to take your meds this morning?”
“You know full well that I have,” Mortimer scowls at such a derogatory statement.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t.
“Not half an hour ago,” he resumes, irrespective of the ignorance towards his medical wellbeing, “I received a handwritten note through my letterbox. They informed me to reach a payphone in Calmore, two and a half miles from my home address by exactly 08.30am.” He speaks the time numerically, shaving fractions of a second from his sentence. “They want to speak to you directly by 08.45am. What’s worse is that they are going to call a payphone in Marchwood. Given the average speed limit, the weight of rush hour traffic and overall distance, plus the detour to Totton in order to pick you up, it will take on average fifteen minutes from Point A to Point C, including the stop at Point B.” His nervous rambling is fluid, yet somehow confusingly incoherent. Nonetheless, Dominic does not elect to request Horacio to repeat the topic, having gathered at least a general understanding of the quandary. It seems fortunate that the traffic is clearer than Horacio had anticipated, but nonetheless, time is short.
“I’m starting to grow sick and tired of cults,” Dominic mutters to himself, doing his utmost to repress his own experiences back from the crevices of his cerebellum from which they’d came. Yes, Dominic himself had once been in a similar frame of mind to Seromine; a man who had become so enamoured with his own accomplishments that he deemed himself to exist on a plain that transcended the mortal realm. He had gone by many names; The Greater Power, The Necessary Existence, even something as unsubtle as ‘The Self-Proclaimed God.’ However, with these monikers came similar expectation to one’s self. And when these expectations were not meant, it provided ample ammunition for his antagonists to fire back at him.
Yet everyone goes through such experiences. But it is when one learns from such mistakes that they grow as human beings. Like throwing a boomerang for the first time, only for it to come back and strike you in the back of the head when you are not looking.
Horacio remains unnerved. It seems as though he is expecting Dominic to follow up his previous statement regarding his disapproval of the plague-like factions that seem to thrive like fungus within Pure Class Wrestling. When he is met by Dominic’s silence, he lets out a long sigh. Perhaps by mentioning a group with such notoriety as The Illuminati, he had set himself up for a fall. The harness of Dominic’s reserve allowed him to breathe a little easier.
“Are you sure that somebody isn’t just having some fun at your expense?” Dominic lets out the slightest of chuckles as if to diffuse the tension; a sound that is immediately disapproved by Horacio.
“This is no laughing matter,” Horacio scorns. “I know exactly who is doing this and our compliance is absolutely compulsory. The fate of The Chronological Order depends on it.”
Dominic’s face immediately turns much more seriousness. The authenticity in Mortimer’s voice eliminates the majority of doubt in Dominic’s mind. It is unlike Horacio to partake in any form of elaborate prank. As the realisation that something is indeed very wrong settles in, he almost finds himself further at ease, accepting the situation for what it is. He averts his lost stare, instead looking out of the passenger window. Unwilling to focus on one single blade of grass that they pass, the embankment is instead just an erratic streak of greenery like the stream of vapour and gas spewed from the back end of a jet plane.
It felt like he is literally soaring, in both a physical and metaphorical sense. If one criticism could be made regarding Dominator’s success within the confines of a Pure Class Wrestling ring, it could be the calibre of the opposition that he has defeated in line of the self-aggrandizement of his statistical prominence. Victories over the likes of Razor Blade and Muscles Malone could be comparable to pinning down limbed sandbags.
These critics… are right.
At least to an extent.
This criticism comes through no fault of Dominator’s own, or even that of The Chronological Order as a whole. Week by week, he is instructed to face such ‘lesser individuals’ by the mules of PCW management. And it has only been through what they call ‘the luck of the draw’ that he had the luxury of facing an inconsistent Arica Lewitt and an unhabituated Stacy Jones en route to the Semi Finals.
The truth is that, if Dominator had his way, he would be facing the likes of Seromine, Gabriel and Grimm on a fortnightly basis. However, the stairway to heaven is a steep and arduous climb. He knows that this night will be one of the most trialling and gruelling nights of his life. To consider this as a cakewalk would be career suicide.
To dismiss the hard facts over one’s own sense of grandeur has spelled the demise of many a man over countless centuries; even notable names in history such as Alexander the Great and King Henry the Eighth were not exempt from letting their arrogance distort their vision to the point of fatal distraction.
So just who has truly yet to be tested?
Phinehas has been a PCW mainstay since the halcyon days of its conception. As controversial an analysis as this is, the mere mention of his name sends chills down the spines of potential opposition; a living incarnation of J.K Rowling’s brainchild; Lord Voldemort. He possesses an unfathomable air of mystique that chokes you when you are in his presence.
Yes, he was the man who apparently ‘killed off’ Johnny Vivacious, regressing him back to Johnny Matthews as a state of mental devolution. To Matthews, this had been his way of going ‘back to basics.’ When Grimm defeated Johnny, he went back to the drawing board to try something new.
When The Zenith defeated Johnny Matthews, he stopped trying. Period.
It speaks volumes of what Dominator can do that Grimm could not. When The Zenith defeats Grimm, perhaps he will revert back to using the surname Dillinger, the mark of a downgrade from a perfect ten.
Of course, Matthews is merely one example in a far more enclosed lapse of time. As stated, Grimm has been here in the PCW for a long, long time. His accolades collated exceed the majority of the alumni combined.
Perilously, Phinehas seems to be administering something analogous with miscalculation… as though he is underestimating The Zenith. It is a feeling that Dominator has not felt in months. Even against the weakest of foes, Dominator refuses to allow his confidence to billow over like the boiling water in a saucepan. Given time, Dominator could feasibly surpass Grimm and all that he has accomplished.
And maybe, just maybe, Grimm realises this.
The Zenith is not just some lumbering giant who knows nothing but aggression. He is the perfect combination of power and logic; the amalgamation of a matador’s grace and a bull’s rage. Between Grimm and whomever The Zenith will meet in the finals, be it Seromine or Gabriel, they will be left as speechless and immobile as ‘Lost Voice Guy.’
Before his mind is given the opportunity to wander even further, the car screeches to an abrupt halt. Again, Dominic clutches the headrest in front of him for dear life before he is catapulted backwards into the seat as the car becomes brusquely stationary. The back of his head whips back, connecting
“You need to answer it,” Horacio explains, using the same frenetic hand gestures he had used to summon Dominic into the car initially. “Quickly, you only have…” he pauses to consult his watch for a split second, “…twelve seconds to pick up the phone. If we miss our window of opportunity, The Chronological Order is done for!”
“How so?” Dominic asks, unclipping his seat belt.
“JUST GO!” Horacio booms, impatience and unadulterated fear rattles through his vocal chords. Without any further pressing, Dominic heaves himself out of the car and takes just four large strides across the pavement to the phone box. He squeezes himself into the compact booth. There is barely enough room for him to fit inside. Nonetheless, he picks up the receiver with mere milliseconds to spare. He refrains from speaking for a mere moment, trying to decipher any possible clues he can obtain from any background noise. Such sleuthing is met with failure given the pure silence.
“This is Dominic James Atkinson speaking,” he says, unsure what to expect.
TO BE CONTINUED
