Post by Holden Ross on Sept 16, 2018 15:21:25 GMT -5
*The camera opens on Holden, clad in baggy jeans, a black hoodie, and Doc Martin boots on his feet. His hair, as usual, is a perfect mohawk and his chops are trimmed to a point just under the corners of his mouth. Slung over his left shoulder, being held in place by his left hand, is the P.C.W. Underground Championship. He is standing somewhere in the bowels of the P.C.W. Arena, the lighting is harsh, coming from a single bulb, set into the cinderblock wall, behind a black wire mesh cage. Behind him, in the shadows between the lights, is the shape of a woman, with what appears to be a mohawk herself. Who she is can’t be seen, yet…*
I asked for this match this week against the steaming Samoan shitpile. You stuck your nose into my business one too many times for me to just let that slide. While my career has seen an upward trajectory since the last time we came face-to-face, you are still floundering in mediocrity. You have plenty of talent, sure, but you don’t know how to use the gifts you were given. And when we get in the ring, it is gonna be more of the same for you. Like Yogi Berra once said, “It’s like déjà vu all over again.” Razor is gonna get his ass beat pillar-to-post. And when he disappears, maybe this time it will be for good….
*In the background, She sparks a lighter and lights a joint. Her face is seen only briefly, black mascara and eye shadow, black lipstick, the glint of a nose stud, and possibly a septum ring.*
I am the new Underground Champ, after decimating Arsen, and doing something my Father was unable to do during his run here; hold some gold. And no second rate jobber to the stars is ending this run prematurely. Unfortunately for you, Razor, the scriptures have foretold what is in your future. Romans three-sixteen, “Destruction and misery are in their paths.” That applies to anyone in this company who stands before me and my brethren.
Kyle Shane. Stormm. Grimm. These men and more commit blasphemy and feel they will skate by without retribution. But penance is coming their way. Soon, Mister Shane will be among our ranks, willingly or not. He will feel the power of Seromine and come to understand that his words are gospel. He will lead you like a shepherd leads his flock, into the fields of Glory. As he has me.*He pats the belt with his right hand.*After being embraced by Seromine and Gabriel, I have achieved success beyond which what was expected of me when I first signed a contract with this company. But under the tutelage of His graciousness, I have flourished, and have become the Underground King.
Repent before him. Ask for his forgiveness. It’s not too late. Just like it’s not too late for Razor to beg my forgiveness. Not too late for him to plead at my feet for mercy that won’t be coming. I still haven’t learned to turn the other cheek and I am going to take a pound of flesh just for starters.
Being an Underground rules match, anything goes. In the ring. In the aisles. Backstage…. Hell, even down here in the catacombs is not only acceptable, but even encouraged as the fans eat it up. Just as they did during gladiatorial combat pitting men against men, men against beast, and all sorts of other vicious combinations. I will beat you down like a gladiator facing a slave. And the fans will cheer. Blood will be shed and they will cheer even louder. And when I plant you with “Sins of the Father,” you will not get up. Nobody does. Just ask the growing list if men who have fallen victim to it. You won’t be an exception, just another example. Revelation Nine-eleven; “They had as king over them the angel of the Abyss, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon and in Greek is Apollyon (that is, Destroyer).” He is I and I am Him. Your time is up….may the Lord accept you with open arms. Amen…
*He bows his head upon saying “Amen” and the scene fades to black.*
Three days later.
*Holden is sitting in his Father's living room, in Kelso, Washington, having taken his Father’s invite to come West during the hurricane currently beating the piss out of the East Coast. He clears the chamber on the bong and passes it back to Frank. Kinsey isn’t here, where she is and how she is doing, Holden has no clue. He returned from winning the Underground Championship to find his hotel room cleaned out. She even took the joint and blunt roaches from the ashtray. Savage….*
If it wasn’t for you and Ethan, I wouldn’t be where I am today…so thanks again, Frank.
*Frank dismisses his sons expression of thanks with a wave of the hand. He then applies the flame of his Bic lighter to the bowl of cannabis and inhales deeply, filling the clear glass bong with a dense grey smoke. When he exhales, a plume rolls out of him and fills the air above his head, adding to the already growing bank of smoke looming around the ceiling.*
Frank: You’re my boy, my only boy, and I got you. I told you aligning Rick, or Gabe, whatever the fuck he's callin himself would be a good thing. Being the muscle and enforcer ain’t a bad gig. It’s only onwards and upwards from here….
*Holden smirks while watching Frank load a fresh bowl. On the coffee table in front of him are numerous jars, each at least half full different strains of cannabis, two different pipes, a “bubbler,” a “steamroller” nearly a dozen joints and a half of a dozen blunts, and the bong.*
I don’t know that I deserve to be Champ. Dom held that belt for a grip! I don’t know how many of the big names there have held that belt. Christ, I’m not even a year into my career, Frank!
*His Fathers eyes nearly burn a hole through him.*
Frank: You need to stuff that shit right there! I watched yer match and you looked like a million bucks out there! That Arsen guy bumped like a motherfucker out there and you took some bad ass fuckin bumps for a guy your size. You got this, Holden. You deserve that belt and all the doors winning it is gonna open. Keep your eyes open, listen to guys like Rick, Tyler…anyone who's been in the ring for awhile, and keep your mouth shut. Learn all you can. Absorb that shit like a sponge. You are the shit, Holden, and don’t forget it….
*Holden can’t help but crack a bashful grin.*
Thanks, Frank. I wouldn’t be where I am, though, if it wasn’t for you and Ethan. Oh! Some guy you used to know left a message with this chick I was seeing. Chris Hogan or somethin…
*Frank was about to apply the flame to the herb when he hears the name. He looks up at his boy, confused.*
Frank: You mean, Logan? Chris Logan?
*Holden shrugs.*
Maybe…she couldn’t remember. Coulda been....
Frank: Son of a bitch…..
I asked for this match this week against the steaming Samoan shitpile. You stuck your nose into my business one too many times for me to just let that slide. While my career has seen an upward trajectory since the last time we came face-to-face, you are still floundering in mediocrity. You have plenty of talent, sure, but you don’t know how to use the gifts you were given. And when we get in the ring, it is gonna be more of the same for you. Like Yogi Berra once said, “It’s like déjà vu all over again.” Razor is gonna get his ass beat pillar-to-post. And when he disappears, maybe this time it will be for good….
*In the background, She sparks a lighter and lights a joint. Her face is seen only briefly, black mascara and eye shadow, black lipstick, the glint of a nose stud, and possibly a septum ring.*
I am the new Underground Champ, after decimating Arsen, and doing something my Father was unable to do during his run here; hold some gold. And no second rate jobber to the stars is ending this run prematurely. Unfortunately for you, Razor, the scriptures have foretold what is in your future. Romans three-sixteen, “Destruction and misery are in their paths.” That applies to anyone in this company who stands before me and my brethren.
Kyle Shane. Stormm. Grimm. These men and more commit blasphemy and feel they will skate by without retribution. But penance is coming their way. Soon, Mister Shane will be among our ranks, willingly or not. He will feel the power of Seromine and come to understand that his words are gospel. He will lead you like a shepherd leads his flock, into the fields of Glory. As he has me.*He pats the belt with his right hand.*After being embraced by Seromine and Gabriel, I have achieved success beyond which what was expected of me when I first signed a contract with this company. But under the tutelage of His graciousness, I have flourished, and have become the Underground King.
Repent before him. Ask for his forgiveness. It’s not too late. Just like it’s not too late for Razor to beg my forgiveness. Not too late for him to plead at my feet for mercy that won’t be coming. I still haven’t learned to turn the other cheek and I am going to take a pound of flesh just for starters.
Being an Underground rules match, anything goes. In the ring. In the aisles. Backstage…. Hell, even down here in the catacombs is not only acceptable, but even encouraged as the fans eat it up. Just as they did during gladiatorial combat pitting men against men, men against beast, and all sorts of other vicious combinations. I will beat you down like a gladiator facing a slave. And the fans will cheer. Blood will be shed and they will cheer even louder. And when I plant you with “Sins of the Father,” you will not get up. Nobody does. Just ask the growing list if men who have fallen victim to it. You won’t be an exception, just another example. Revelation Nine-eleven; “They had as king over them the angel of the Abyss, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon and in Greek is Apollyon (that is, Destroyer).” He is I and I am Him. Your time is up….may the Lord accept you with open arms. Amen…
*He bows his head upon saying “Amen” and the scene fades to black.*
Three days later.
*Holden is sitting in his Father's living room, in Kelso, Washington, having taken his Father’s invite to come West during the hurricane currently beating the piss out of the East Coast. He clears the chamber on the bong and passes it back to Frank. Kinsey isn’t here, where she is and how she is doing, Holden has no clue. He returned from winning the Underground Championship to find his hotel room cleaned out. She even took the joint and blunt roaches from the ashtray. Savage….*
If it wasn’t for you and Ethan, I wouldn’t be where I am today…so thanks again, Frank.
*Frank dismisses his sons expression of thanks with a wave of the hand. He then applies the flame of his Bic lighter to the bowl of cannabis and inhales deeply, filling the clear glass bong with a dense grey smoke. When he exhales, a plume rolls out of him and fills the air above his head, adding to the already growing bank of smoke looming around the ceiling.*
Frank: You’re my boy, my only boy, and I got you. I told you aligning Rick, or Gabe, whatever the fuck he's callin himself would be a good thing. Being the muscle and enforcer ain’t a bad gig. It’s only onwards and upwards from here….
*Holden smirks while watching Frank load a fresh bowl. On the coffee table in front of him are numerous jars, each at least half full different strains of cannabis, two different pipes, a “bubbler,” a “steamroller” nearly a dozen joints and a half of a dozen blunts, and the bong.*
I don’t know that I deserve to be Champ. Dom held that belt for a grip! I don’t know how many of the big names there have held that belt. Christ, I’m not even a year into my career, Frank!
*His Fathers eyes nearly burn a hole through him.*
Frank: You need to stuff that shit right there! I watched yer match and you looked like a million bucks out there! That Arsen guy bumped like a motherfucker out there and you took some bad ass fuckin bumps for a guy your size. You got this, Holden. You deserve that belt and all the doors winning it is gonna open. Keep your eyes open, listen to guys like Rick, Tyler…anyone who's been in the ring for awhile, and keep your mouth shut. Learn all you can. Absorb that shit like a sponge. You are the shit, Holden, and don’t forget it….
*Holden can’t help but crack a bashful grin.*
Thanks, Frank. I wouldn’t be where I am, though, if it wasn’t for you and Ethan. Oh! Some guy you used to know left a message with this chick I was seeing. Chris Hogan or somethin…
*Frank was about to apply the flame to the herb when he hears the name. He looks up at his boy, confused.*
Frank: You mean, Logan? Chris Logan?
*Holden shrugs.*
Maybe…she couldn’t remember. Coulda been....
Frank: Son of a bitch…..