Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jul 16, 2018 19:30:58 GMT -5
Monday 17th June 2018 - 07.05am
Location: Residence of Amy Trenton, Shipton Bellinger, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Waking to the world from slumber naturally rather than a blaring alarm.
Eating when one feels hunger rather than fitting culinary requirements around other arrangements.
Focusing on aspects by level of desirability rather than necessity.
They say that every cloud has a silver lining. The world is his oyster; he could go out and do anything that he pleased; a basic novelty that had eluded him since Horacio Mortimer walked into his life.
Though it may appear that he was momentarily free of his shackles, he could not help but continuously look over his shoulder. Horacio may be hospitalised, but Dominic knows that there are many eyes that work on his behalf.
Whilst The Watchmen kept themselves scarce, Ruth’s hawk-like lock of sight on him was more obvious. There would be fleeting moments where Dominic could see her out of the corner of his eye. Standing. Watching. Not a word exchanged between the two at any time.
For someone so impregnable, his psyche appears to be fragile.
“Dominic?” the concern escalates in Amy’s expression as she follows her husband-to-be down the stairs. “Dominic!” she repeats, trying to summon some form of assertiveness that is ignored by The Zenith, opting instead to focus his attention on a hand-luggage sized suitcase that he plants on a glass-paned coffee table in the center of the lounge. Upon opening it, he rummages amongst the contents stored within, fumbling through folded clothes and electrical charging wires. “What the hell are you doing?” Amy shouts. Her hysteria grows as Dominic presses the articles of clothing as flat as possible and takes a couple of slow paces towards a black towel that is draped down low over something.
“Go back to bed and rest,” Dominic orders, moving some things around in his bag without any form of eye contact towards Amy. “I will be back in two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Amy repeats in disbelief. “I could understand if you were staying out in the States on business, but I would at least like to know why I’m going to sort out even more childcare for Dawn, you know, our daughter, whilst I go for chemotherapy, you know, the treatment I need in order for me to stay the fuck alive whilst you go off on another one of Horacio’s errands.” As he picks up the towel, so too does he take the ‘stand’ on which it is housed. He slips the towel away and tosses it on top of the suitcase, revealing that which was hidden…
“Horacio has nothing to do with this,” Dominic says callously, holding up a baseball bat; the barrel of which is covered with a large spattering of oxidised blood that has stained the wood with a crimson-brown, which serves as a memento that justifies his resentment for all that oppose him.
The same baseball bat that Johnny Matthews introduced to his cranium on that fateful night; Sunday 10th June. Every time he has cast his eyes over the weapon, it draws out the haunting memories that hide in every crevice of his cerebellum. They flash in front of him like a hurried slideshow presentation, yet he struggles to shake every passing image;
Horacio’s constant deceit.
The unknown truths retained by the Dillingers.
The fear for his fiancé’s health.
The wedding for which he did not propose.
The vengeance that he sought…
…that he craved.
The pain he feels is excruciating, yet he cannot help but wickedly smile as he contemplates how to relieve himself of these burdens.
“I’m going to set things right,” Dominic says monotonously, as if devoid of emotion or reason, running the tip of his finger along the grain. “I am sick of following whatever protocol Horacio thinks of. There is so much that I want to achieve that he is preventing me from doing.” While this statement holds water, this is not directed in a professional manner. The one image that lingers in front of Dominic is that of Shawn Metallinos clutching Dawn. Perhaps the image is exaggerated, but all that he can see is his former best friend with a sinister look on his face, huddling Dawn close to him whilst turning away, as if hiding her from view. The malicious intentions that were visible just moments earlier on Dominic’s face had now transferred to the mental image of Shawn that he had conjured.
Even though many months had passed since Dawn had been safely retrieved, the harrowing experience felt as though it had occurred just days ago.
“But Horacio said…”
“I don’t care what Horacio said,” he snaps with intentional venom to intimidate Amy’s objections back into recession. His raised voice forces her to flinch. “He’s not here, is he? He can’t tell me what to do if he isn’t here.”
“You should make the effort to see him in the hospital,” Amy retorts. “I know he’s a little… unorthodox, but he’s been a better friend to you than any of your so-called best friends.”
“And that’s exactly the point,” Dominic smirks, slapping the bat into the open palm of his hands. Amy’s bottom lip quivers like a loose leaf in the Autumn. She cannot hold her feelings in any longer.
“You’re… despicable,” Amy weeps, running towards the door that leads out of the lounge and towards the stairs. “If you’re serious about doing this, then I never want to see you again!” she cries, red in the face out of anger and sorrow. Dominic’s face falls for a moment, yet he maintains his composure.
Life is a constant revolving door. People come. People go. It is a cycle that is perpetual and relentless. Be it in relationships, friendships or even employment, everything in life revolves around change and evolution. It is always the weak that falter. It is why Dominator must remain strong and regain what strength he had lost.
Look at Brittany and Warden West. Even seasoned veterans like Brenna Gordon decide to put their foot in the door, only to fear what lurks inside and turn tail. They claim that their time within Pure Class Wrestling will somehow stem the flow in their favour. Those who say that they are ‘the future’ of this business are, in essence, demoting themselves. It insinuates that one is ill-prepared for the present,
How can one succeed in the future if they are yet to succeed in the present? It is one thing to strive to better oneself, but it does not occur overnight. It can take months, years, even decades to hone one’s craft. It has taken literal millennia for our planet to become habitable for the human race.
Who owns the perception that Holden Ross is destined to fail? The management? The fans? Or, simply, himself? To pass blame unto others for events that have yet to transpire is the sign of a man who does not belong. He already knows he is outclassed in every capacity. For someone who claims to take pride in being a ‘bastard,’ all indications that he only seeks one thing.
His father’s pride.
Admirable. But futile.
People like Holden Ross; they have no future. In contrast, Dominator is the perfect coagulation of the past, present and future. One might assume that Horacio’s untimely injury is of detriment to Dominator’s fighting style. Without his influence, it would surely put The Zenith at a disadvantage.
Not so.
Horacio’s involvement and input has been a factor in Dominator’s winning ways as of late, no doubt. However, Dominator has been a former World Champion across alternate federations the world over through his own merit, even before crossing paths with Horacio Mortimer. What is more fearsome? A lion in a cage or a lion that is free to roam the savannah? Dominator is now unbound to an almost feral extent.
Even though his insurmountable reputation has taken something of a knock thanks to Johnny Matthews, there was a dangerous part of Dominator that had since been woken. He is now a man who once again has something to prove. Even though so many tremble upon seeing his name adjacent to theirs, The Zenith will fight harder than he has ever fought before.
When was the last time anybody saw such ferocity as Hiroshi Yukio being rammed through a table that had been set alight? Johnny Matthews should take note. Holden Ross should take note. They, along with all who oppose The Chronological Order, or The Black Hand, will meet similar, if not more gruesome fates.
Dominic’s eyes quickly scan toward the table on which his suitcase is resting. To the left of it, his phone has started to flash and vibrate. The name “HORACIO” appears intermittently.
“Shit.”
It seems to be more and more commonplace in modern society to disregard the idea of actually talking to someone when it can be completed in a manner less ‘confrontational.’ Ironic, when one considers the nature of his employment.
To decline the call would grant Horacio confirmation of Dominic’s reluctance and proof of his defiance. To answer would enable Mortimer to give Dominic strict instructions verbally. An instruction that has not been relayed cannot be followed. But even from the bounds of his hospital bed, Horacio remains persistent. Where the majority of callers would have given up hope, the phone continues to buzz in his hand.
He looks at his watch. It has been over a minute now. It is a matter of who will relent first? Will Horacio hang up, or will Dominic answer the call. Refusing to accept anything other than victory in this instance, The Zenith tosses the phone across the room so that it lands softly amongst the cushions, smiling satisfactorily to himself. He can still hear the faint vibrations from amongst the furniture as he crams the baseball bat and towel into the suitcase, laying the weapon diagonally to accommodate it. So large is the bat in relation to the bag that it stretches the corners to its shape as if bending it to its will. He lays the towel over the top before slightly struggling to fasten the zipper.
Even still, he cannot shake the sensation that he is being judged. Not strictly just from Amy, whose sobs he can hear even from upstairs. The phone is still buzzing from the sofa. He peers in its direction, growing weary of the droning sound coming from the cellular device.
It is at that moment he sees her peering through the window.
Ruth makes no effort to hide herself. Her face is as expressionless as Dominic’s emotion when contemplating his revenge. They stare at one another for a moment. A chill runs down Dominic’s spine, as if his sins were crawling on his back. He leans over the sofa, retrieving his phone. Her eyes track his every move. Horacio is still trying to contact him. Dominic sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head out of exasperation. He finally accepts the reality of the situation.
There is no escaping time. No matter how hard he tries.
“What do you want, Horacio?” Dominic growls as he presses the loudspeaker button on his phone’s screen.
“I trust I’m not interfering?” Horacio replies wearily from the other end with a grunt of his own, his pain more physical than subconscious. Dominic quickly looks back to the window, only to notice that Ruth has now disappeared from her perch, fading from existence like a ghost.
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m doing,” comes the retort from The Zenith, slightly unnerved.
“All I know is I’m growing tired of the taste of grapes,” Horacio jokes with deadpan delivery. “So, you’re really going to go through with this, are you? Go against my wishes, nay, my ORDERS to fulfil your own sense of pride? I thought all this was water under the bridge.”
“What gave you that impression?” Dominic asks with a sneer. “The fact that time has passed and I’ve been focused on other things?”
“You’ve answered your own question.” Mortimer chuckles with a wince. “So, pray, why do you defy me?”
Dominic pauses. He takes a deep breath. He contemplates crushing the phone in his hand, or using it to bash in his own skull. Anything to put an end to this unnecessary conversation that does not make him feel any better about the logic behind his behaviour.
“I have my reasons.” Dominic eludes full explanation. “Trust me, Horacio. This is something that I have to do.” Before Horacio can make any further form of protest, and perhaps due to the misconception that Ruth will have believed that Dominic had entertained the conversation, he hangs up the phone and immediately presses a button on the side of the phone. Within seconds, the screen goes black, the power deactivated. Dominic slips the phone back into his pocket and grabs the handle of his suitcase, hauling it off the table and walking away with purpose in his stride.
As the door slams behind him, a crumpled piece of paper has fluttered to the carpet below. Having heard the sounds accompanying his exit, Amy slowly descends the stairs, peering with dismay over the banister. Her arm trails behind her as she takes the final step. Her foot marginally slips under the paper, which she picks up off the ground out of curiosity.
“What the…?” she exclaims with the voice of a whisper.
A note. Short and to the point.
Location: Residence of Amy Trenton, Shipton Bellinger, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Waking to the world from slumber naturally rather than a blaring alarm.
Eating when one feels hunger rather than fitting culinary requirements around other arrangements.
Focusing on aspects by level of desirability rather than necessity.
They say that every cloud has a silver lining. The world is his oyster; he could go out and do anything that he pleased; a basic novelty that had eluded him since Horacio Mortimer walked into his life.
Though it may appear that he was momentarily free of his shackles, he could not help but continuously look over his shoulder. Horacio may be hospitalised, but Dominic knows that there are many eyes that work on his behalf.
Whilst The Watchmen kept themselves scarce, Ruth’s hawk-like lock of sight on him was more obvious. There would be fleeting moments where Dominic could see her out of the corner of his eye. Standing. Watching. Not a word exchanged between the two at any time.
For someone so impregnable, his psyche appears to be fragile.
“Dominic?” the concern escalates in Amy’s expression as she follows her husband-to-be down the stairs. “Dominic!” she repeats, trying to summon some form of assertiveness that is ignored by The Zenith, opting instead to focus his attention on a hand-luggage sized suitcase that he plants on a glass-paned coffee table in the center of the lounge. Upon opening it, he rummages amongst the contents stored within, fumbling through folded clothes and electrical charging wires. “What the hell are you doing?” Amy shouts. Her hysteria grows as Dominic presses the articles of clothing as flat as possible and takes a couple of slow paces towards a black towel that is draped down low over something.
“Go back to bed and rest,” Dominic orders, moving some things around in his bag without any form of eye contact towards Amy. “I will be back in two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Amy repeats in disbelief. “I could understand if you were staying out in the States on business, but I would at least like to know why I’m going to sort out even more childcare for Dawn, you know, our daughter, whilst I go for chemotherapy, you know, the treatment I need in order for me to stay the fuck alive whilst you go off on another one of Horacio’s errands.” As he picks up the towel, so too does he take the ‘stand’ on which it is housed. He slips the towel away and tosses it on top of the suitcase, revealing that which was hidden…
“Horacio has nothing to do with this,” Dominic says callously, holding up a baseball bat; the barrel of which is covered with a large spattering of oxidised blood that has stained the wood with a crimson-brown, which serves as a memento that justifies his resentment for all that oppose him.
The same baseball bat that Johnny Matthews introduced to his cranium on that fateful night; Sunday 10th June. Every time he has cast his eyes over the weapon, it draws out the haunting memories that hide in every crevice of his cerebellum. They flash in front of him like a hurried slideshow presentation, yet he struggles to shake every passing image;
Horacio’s constant deceit.
The unknown truths retained by the Dillingers.
The fear for his fiancé’s health.
The wedding for which he did not propose.
The vengeance that he sought…
…that he craved.
The pain he feels is excruciating, yet he cannot help but wickedly smile as he contemplates how to relieve himself of these burdens.
“I’m going to set things right,” Dominic says monotonously, as if devoid of emotion or reason, running the tip of his finger along the grain. “I am sick of following whatever protocol Horacio thinks of. There is so much that I want to achieve that he is preventing me from doing.” While this statement holds water, this is not directed in a professional manner. The one image that lingers in front of Dominic is that of Shawn Metallinos clutching Dawn. Perhaps the image is exaggerated, but all that he can see is his former best friend with a sinister look on his face, huddling Dawn close to him whilst turning away, as if hiding her from view. The malicious intentions that were visible just moments earlier on Dominic’s face had now transferred to the mental image of Shawn that he had conjured.
Even though many months had passed since Dawn had been safely retrieved, the harrowing experience felt as though it had occurred just days ago.
“But Horacio said…”
“I don’t care what Horacio said,” he snaps with intentional venom to intimidate Amy’s objections back into recession. His raised voice forces her to flinch. “He’s not here, is he? He can’t tell me what to do if he isn’t here.”
“You should make the effort to see him in the hospital,” Amy retorts. “I know he’s a little… unorthodox, but he’s been a better friend to you than any of your so-called best friends.”
“And that’s exactly the point,” Dominic smirks, slapping the bat into the open palm of his hands. Amy’s bottom lip quivers like a loose leaf in the Autumn. She cannot hold her feelings in any longer.
“You’re… despicable,” Amy weeps, running towards the door that leads out of the lounge and towards the stairs. “If you’re serious about doing this, then I never want to see you again!” she cries, red in the face out of anger and sorrow. Dominic’s face falls for a moment, yet he maintains his composure.
Life is a constant revolving door. People come. People go. It is a cycle that is perpetual and relentless. Be it in relationships, friendships or even employment, everything in life revolves around change and evolution. It is always the weak that falter. It is why Dominator must remain strong and regain what strength he had lost.
Look at Brittany and Warden West. Even seasoned veterans like Brenna Gordon decide to put their foot in the door, only to fear what lurks inside and turn tail. They claim that their time within Pure Class Wrestling will somehow stem the flow in their favour. Those who say that they are ‘the future’ of this business are, in essence, demoting themselves. It insinuates that one is ill-prepared for the present,
How can one succeed in the future if they are yet to succeed in the present? It is one thing to strive to better oneself, but it does not occur overnight. It can take months, years, even decades to hone one’s craft. It has taken literal millennia for our planet to become habitable for the human race.
Who owns the perception that Holden Ross is destined to fail? The management? The fans? Or, simply, himself? To pass blame unto others for events that have yet to transpire is the sign of a man who does not belong. He already knows he is outclassed in every capacity. For someone who claims to take pride in being a ‘bastard,’ all indications that he only seeks one thing.
His father’s pride.
Admirable. But futile.
People like Holden Ross; they have no future. In contrast, Dominator is the perfect coagulation of the past, present and future. One might assume that Horacio’s untimely injury is of detriment to Dominator’s fighting style. Without his influence, it would surely put The Zenith at a disadvantage.
Not so.
Horacio’s involvement and input has been a factor in Dominator’s winning ways as of late, no doubt. However, Dominator has been a former World Champion across alternate federations the world over through his own merit, even before crossing paths with Horacio Mortimer. What is more fearsome? A lion in a cage or a lion that is free to roam the savannah? Dominator is now unbound to an almost feral extent.
Even though his insurmountable reputation has taken something of a knock thanks to Johnny Matthews, there was a dangerous part of Dominator that had since been woken. He is now a man who once again has something to prove. Even though so many tremble upon seeing his name adjacent to theirs, The Zenith will fight harder than he has ever fought before.
When was the last time anybody saw such ferocity as Hiroshi Yukio being rammed through a table that had been set alight? Johnny Matthews should take note. Holden Ross should take note. They, along with all who oppose The Chronological Order, or The Black Hand, will meet similar, if not more gruesome fates.
Dominic’s eyes quickly scan toward the table on which his suitcase is resting. To the left of it, his phone has started to flash and vibrate. The name “HORACIO” appears intermittently.
“Shit.”
It seems to be more and more commonplace in modern society to disregard the idea of actually talking to someone when it can be completed in a manner less ‘confrontational.’ Ironic, when one considers the nature of his employment.
To decline the call would grant Horacio confirmation of Dominic’s reluctance and proof of his defiance. To answer would enable Mortimer to give Dominic strict instructions verbally. An instruction that has not been relayed cannot be followed. But even from the bounds of his hospital bed, Horacio remains persistent. Where the majority of callers would have given up hope, the phone continues to buzz in his hand.
He looks at his watch. It has been over a minute now. It is a matter of who will relent first? Will Horacio hang up, or will Dominic answer the call. Refusing to accept anything other than victory in this instance, The Zenith tosses the phone across the room so that it lands softly amongst the cushions, smiling satisfactorily to himself. He can still hear the faint vibrations from amongst the furniture as he crams the baseball bat and towel into the suitcase, laying the weapon diagonally to accommodate it. So large is the bat in relation to the bag that it stretches the corners to its shape as if bending it to its will. He lays the towel over the top before slightly struggling to fasten the zipper.
Even still, he cannot shake the sensation that he is being judged. Not strictly just from Amy, whose sobs he can hear even from upstairs. The phone is still buzzing from the sofa. He peers in its direction, growing weary of the droning sound coming from the cellular device.
It is at that moment he sees her peering through the window.
Ruth makes no effort to hide herself. Her face is as expressionless as Dominic’s emotion when contemplating his revenge. They stare at one another for a moment. A chill runs down Dominic’s spine, as if his sins were crawling on his back. He leans over the sofa, retrieving his phone. Her eyes track his every move. Horacio is still trying to contact him. Dominic sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head out of exasperation. He finally accepts the reality of the situation.
There is no escaping time. No matter how hard he tries.
“What do you want, Horacio?” Dominic growls as he presses the loudspeaker button on his phone’s screen.
“I trust I’m not interfering?” Horacio replies wearily from the other end with a grunt of his own, his pain more physical than subconscious. Dominic quickly looks back to the window, only to notice that Ruth has now disappeared from her perch, fading from existence like a ghost.
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m doing,” comes the retort from The Zenith, slightly unnerved.
“All I know is I’m growing tired of the taste of grapes,” Horacio jokes with deadpan delivery. “So, you’re really going to go through with this, are you? Go against my wishes, nay, my ORDERS to fulfil your own sense of pride? I thought all this was water under the bridge.”
“What gave you that impression?” Dominic asks with a sneer. “The fact that time has passed and I’ve been focused on other things?”
“You’ve answered your own question.” Mortimer chuckles with a wince. “So, pray, why do you defy me?”
Dominic pauses. He takes a deep breath. He contemplates crushing the phone in his hand, or using it to bash in his own skull. Anything to put an end to this unnecessary conversation that does not make him feel any better about the logic behind his behaviour.
“I have my reasons.” Dominic eludes full explanation. “Trust me, Horacio. This is something that I have to do.” Before Horacio can make any further form of protest, and perhaps due to the misconception that Ruth will have believed that Dominic had entertained the conversation, he hangs up the phone and immediately presses a button on the side of the phone. Within seconds, the screen goes black, the power deactivated. Dominic slips the phone back into his pocket and grabs the handle of his suitcase, hauling it off the table and walking away with purpose in his stride.
As the door slams behind him, a crumpled piece of paper has fluttered to the carpet below. Having heard the sounds accompanying his exit, Amy slowly descends the stairs, peering with dismay over the banister. Her arm trails behind her as she takes the final step. Her foot marginally slips under the paper, which she picks up off the ground out of curiosity.
“What the…?” she exclaims with the voice of a whisper.
A note. Short and to the point.
“Dominic,
You have taken everything from me. My wife. My daughter. My life.
If there is one thing that I have come to realise after all this time, it is that I’ve got nothing left to lose. You’ve taken it all. Whatever consequences come from my actions do not matter.
I am going to take it back. All of it. Or die trying.
And if I do, I’m taking you with me.
You know where to find me.
Shawn.”
