Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Nov 5, 2018 20:46:22 GMT -5
The light of day begins to fade away. Passers by stop and stare, twisting their necks to stare at the beast within their presence. His walk-cycle seems unnatural somehow. Rather than traverse the sidewalk in one fluid motion, he seems to pause after every elongated step that he purposefully draws out in an almost mechanical, robotic motion. He is dressed in a thick, black leather jacket and denim jeans that cover the tops of his Chelsea Boots. Over his left hand, one solitary black glove is present. It isn’t known at this stage if there is another glove over his other hand, given that it is nestled in the warmth and sanctuary of his jacket pocket. A rucksack as dark as the leather of his coat and boots rests against his spine.
His journey had started in the sleepy village of Shipton Bellinger; an hour’s bus ride from the town centre of Salisbury. From there, he had walked for half an hour out of the heart of the metropolis and into suburbia, navigating underpasses, bridges and railway crossings in order to reach his destination.
Salisbury Crematorium.
One final steep and sinuous road winds alongside a series of marked graves at the front of the chapel itself; a much wider graveyard is situated behind the building. Though the name of the establishment might suggest that only cremations take place, it serves more as a place of remembrance, mourning and worship, be the dead reduced to ash or buried in the ground.
Bypassing the building completely, he ventures into the realm of the dead. The overhanging trees block out what little light the day can muster. He takes a look at his watch; it is merely 5.45pm, yet the sky is almost completely dark by this point. Dominic stares at the watch, watching time pass. This was the watch that was presented to him by Horacio Mortimer when he had first agreed to join him in his quest to expand The Chronological Order; a distant memory, but the symbolism of their journey had been carried on his wrist this entire time, even in spite of their recent disputes.
He motions to unclip the fastener of the watch with a frown. Before he does so, he reaches that which he had trekked for so long to arrive upon; a grave.
“Rather fitting, don’t you think?”
Dominic clenches his eyes closed out of exasperation and annoyance. Horacio’s attempt to ignite a conversation was apparently as unwelcome as his presence. It is not so much that Dominic ignores him, but more the fact that The Zenith genuinely appears unmoved, as if Horacio is nothing more than a ghost that is miserably trying to haunt him. “John Wayne has the same epitaph on his tombstone. You’re a fan of Western films, right?”
He is answered by raw silence, to which he responds to himself with a sigh.
“I have to admit, I watched Rooster Cogburn last Tuesday evening and it somehow reminded me of Hangtown. Perhaps we have become so accustomed to high definition television these days that the faded coloration of older film and the primitive technology of the time really matches the mystique of Hangtown. Do you not think?”
Again, his question is met with nothing but the quiet breath flaring from Dominic’s nostrils.
“Evidently not,” he mutters under his breath.
Even as he looks up, The Zenith stares onwards, not even twitching to his comments.
“As much as I wish that things could go back to the way they were, I’m not going to stand here and beg,” Horacio says firmly and confidently; a trait that has recently bereaved him. “I have here some envelopes. I can’t tell you what is in them as they aren’t all sealed by my tongue, but I do suggest that you at least take the time to read them.” As he speaks, he produces a plastic ring-binder sleeve that harnesses a series of envelopes and leaflets, all of different sizes and girths. He tries to hand them to Dominic, but he is unmoving towards Horacio.
He resorts to placing them at the foot of Amy’s grave.
“Like I said,” Horacio says assertively, “I’m not going to beg. What I do want you to do is consider the time we have spent together. There are positives and negatives to every relationship. Business, romantic, friendly, it is simple human nature. All I ask is that you consider the factors that have caused you the greatest disruption. Dwell on them. Then figure what needs to be done to ensure it doesn’t happen again.” With that, Horacio begins to walk along the leafy path that leads to car park on the opposite side of the crematorium building to that which Dominic had passed. “You know where to find me if you need me,” Horacio calls as he enters his car. The splutter of an engine is a good enough indication that he is now out of seeing and hearing distance.
Slowly, he weaves the straps of his rucksack off his shoulders, allow his giant arms to slip through. He drops the bag to the ground, picking up the plastic sleeve of envelopes that Horacio had left behind. He slides the zipper in an arc and plunges his arm inside, replacing the envelopes in his hands with a lump hammer from the confines of the bag. He peers over his shoulder. Horacio’s vehicle nears the bottom of the hill, coming to a stop at the junction before pulling away once the coast is clear.
“The lies,” Dominic finally answers Horacio’s question now that he is out of earshot. “The deceit. The ‘not knowing’ even when I thought I knew. Differentiating between what was truth and what wasn’t.” His voice suddenly grows more erratic and unhinged. “Like knowing if a baby girl you’d raised for a year had even a single drop of your own fucking blood going her veins, or whether her mother was too afraid of the ramifications of telling the truth!”
He winds his leg back, throwing the sole of his boot forcefully at the gravestone. The marble stone cracks at the base, falling to the ground with a sickening thump.
Blinded by rage-inducing memories, he dives downwards, the sledgehammer-like head cracks against the stone sending chippings and even a couple of sparks into the air.
“You did this!” he roars, throwing the hammer down one again. “This is what you’ve done to me!” He strikes the ruined gravestone twice more, before tossing the weapon to one side.
Mere seconds of unadulterated anger have resulted in the total desecration of what was meant to be a permanent physical representation of what Amy’s life had meant to her loved ones. Memories are destined to fade, even if only temporarily.
It is only as he stares back at the destruction by his black hand that he realises that his actions have now left a permanent reminder of the pain her death has caused him, but nowhere near the same level of pain that the lies during her life had. The headstone would likely be replaced over time, but the memory of his thoughtlessness would come back to haunt him one day.
But at this moment in time, he feels no remorse. His time in Hangtown has made him realise so much, but old habits die hard. Phinehas and Ruth had both witnessed The Zenith’s violent outbursts even in the midst of the deepest states of meditation. Evidently, something more is needed. Justin Michaels knows many of The Black Hand’s quote-unquote ‘secrets,’ but not all of them. There would be some morsels of knowledge that Stormm would know that Dominic had yet to learn, and vice-versa, but Phinehas had at least spent time with Dominic over the course of the last couple of months, teaching him how to harness the power that comes with such knowledge in the most efficacious methods possible.
Vengeance is too easy a reason to justify one’s hatred. Nevertheless, Dominator feels that he has done more than the vast majority of the PCW roster to earn a shot at Kyle Shane’s World Title, or even Justin’s own North American Title, as opposed to The Deadly Rumble being the only booth that would punch his ticket. Gerard Angelo, while on great form, as evident from winning said rumble, is partnering with an unlikely ally, facing instead one of the most cohesive units in PCW today; The Black Hand. A name that, over the years, has instilled fear and infamy falling upon the ears of their transgressors.
The snapping. The crackling. The popping. They would all be reborn in the fires of Dominator’s fury.
A satisfied smirk appears on his face, one born of his most recent actions and those forthcoming.
He picks himself up off the ground, scooping up the lump hammer and dropping it into his rucksack, briskly walking away from the scene of the crime as he begins to zip the bag back up. He withdraws one of the envelopes, tearing it open and jiggling the paper inside free. It appears to have been written on an old-world typewriter. The letters are blocky. Ink smudges litter the page. Some writing has faded from the envelope’s front face.
Dominic’s eyes bulge open. Disbelieving of such fortune, he rummages around inside of the envelope. Indeed, he pulls out a narrow slip of paper; a banker’s cheque with the exact amount described in Horacio’s letter written both alphabetically and numerically. His jaw drops, but nonetheless continues to read the remainder of the letter.
Dominic cannot believe his luck. Of course, this letter had been previously presented to him long ago. However, with so much happening over the past four to five months, something as mundane and insignificant as a letter had not been high on his priority list.
Money is hardly the compensation that he wanted to accept for his recent shortcomings. However, this did at least give him some options as to how quickly to could rectify the damage done in his life. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. Horacio’s number is on speed dial. The phone barely even rings before it is answered.
“If you are willing to turn around, then so am I,” The Zenith metaphorically states to his mentor, having been given the tools necessary to rebuild the bridges thought to have been broken.
His journey had started in the sleepy village of Shipton Bellinger; an hour’s bus ride from the town centre of Salisbury. From there, he had walked for half an hour out of the heart of the metropolis and into suburbia, navigating underpasses, bridges and railway crossings in order to reach his destination.
Salisbury Crematorium.
One final steep and sinuous road winds alongside a series of marked graves at the front of the chapel itself; a much wider graveyard is situated behind the building. Though the name of the establishment might suggest that only cremations take place, it serves more as a place of remembrance, mourning and worship, be the dead reduced to ash or buried in the ground.
Bypassing the building completely, he ventures into the realm of the dead. The overhanging trees block out what little light the day can muster. He takes a look at his watch; it is merely 5.45pm, yet the sky is almost completely dark by this point. Dominic stares at the watch, watching time pass. This was the watch that was presented to him by Horacio Mortimer when he had first agreed to join him in his quest to expand The Chronological Order; a distant memory, but the symbolism of their journey had been carried on his wrist this entire time, even in spite of their recent disputes.
He motions to unclip the fastener of the watch with a frown. Before he does so, he reaches that which he had trekked for so long to arrive upon; a grave.
“Here lies Amy Trenton-Metallinos”
“28th March 1989 to 29th July 2018”
“Tomorrow is the most important thing in life.”
“Comes into us at midnight very clean.”
“It’s perfect when it arrives and it puts itself into our hands.”
“It hopes we learned something from yesterday.”
“28th March 1989 to 29th July 2018”
“Tomorrow is the most important thing in life.”
“Comes into us at midnight very clean.”
“It’s perfect when it arrives and it puts itself into our hands.”
“It hopes we learned something from yesterday.”
“Rather fitting, don’t you think?”
Dominic clenches his eyes closed out of exasperation and annoyance. Horacio’s attempt to ignite a conversation was apparently as unwelcome as his presence. It is not so much that Dominic ignores him, but more the fact that The Zenith genuinely appears unmoved, as if Horacio is nothing more than a ghost that is miserably trying to haunt him. “John Wayne has the same epitaph on his tombstone. You’re a fan of Western films, right?”
He is answered by raw silence, to which he responds to himself with a sigh.
“I have to admit, I watched Rooster Cogburn last Tuesday evening and it somehow reminded me of Hangtown. Perhaps we have become so accustomed to high definition television these days that the faded coloration of older film and the primitive technology of the time really matches the mystique of Hangtown. Do you not think?”
Again, his question is met with nothing but the quiet breath flaring from Dominic’s nostrils.
“Evidently not,” he mutters under his breath.
Even as he looks up, The Zenith stares onwards, not even twitching to his comments.
“As much as I wish that things could go back to the way they were, I’m not going to stand here and beg,” Horacio says firmly and confidently; a trait that has recently bereaved him. “I have here some envelopes. I can’t tell you what is in them as they aren’t all sealed by my tongue, but I do suggest that you at least take the time to read them.” As he speaks, he produces a plastic ring-binder sleeve that harnesses a series of envelopes and leaflets, all of different sizes and girths. He tries to hand them to Dominic, but he is unmoving towards Horacio.
He resorts to placing them at the foot of Amy’s grave.
“Like I said,” Horacio says assertively, “I’m not going to beg. What I do want you to do is consider the time we have spent together. There are positives and negatives to every relationship. Business, romantic, friendly, it is simple human nature. All I ask is that you consider the factors that have caused you the greatest disruption. Dwell on them. Then figure what needs to be done to ensure it doesn’t happen again.” With that, Horacio begins to walk along the leafy path that leads to car park on the opposite side of the crematorium building to that which Dominic had passed. “You know where to find me if you need me,” Horacio calls as he enters his car. The splutter of an engine is a good enough indication that he is now out of seeing and hearing distance.
Slowly, he weaves the straps of his rucksack off his shoulders, allow his giant arms to slip through. He drops the bag to the ground, picking up the plastic sleeve of envelopes that Horacio had left behind. He slides the zipper in an arc and plunges his arm inside, replacing the envelopes in his hands with a lump hammer from the confines of the bag. He peers over his shoulder. Horacio’s vehicle nears the bottom of the hill, coming to a stop at the junction before pulling away once the coast is clear.
“The lies,” Dominic finally answers Horacio’s question now that he is out of earshot. “The deceit. The ‘not knowing’ even when I thought I knew. Differentiating between what was truth and what wasn’t.” His voice suddenly grows more erratic and unhinged. “Like knowing if a baby girl you’d raised for a year had even a single drop of your own fucking blood going her veins, or whether her mother was too afraid of the ramifications of telling the truth!”
He winds his leg back, throwing the sole of his boot forcefully at the gravestone. The marble stone cracks at the base, falling to the ground with a sickening thump.
Blinded by rage-inducing memories, he dives downwards, the sledgehammer-like head cracks against the stone sending chippings and even a couple of sparks into the air.
“You did this!” he roars, throwing the hammer down one again. “This is what you’ve done to me!” He strikes the ruined gravestone twice more, before tossing the weapon to one side.
Mere seconds of unadulterated anger have resulted in the total desecration of what was meant to be a permanent physical representation of what Amy’s life had meant to her loved ones. Memories are destined to fade, even if only temporarily.
It is only as he stares back at the destruction by his black hand that he realises that his actions have now left a permanent reminder of the pain her death has caused him, but nowhere near the same level of pain that the lies during her life had. The headstone would likely be replaced over time, but the memory of his thoughtlessness would come back to haunt him one day.
But at this moment in time, he feels no remorse. His time in Hangtown has made him realise so much, but old habits die hard. Phinehas and Ruth had both witnessed The Zenith’s violent outbursts even in the midst of the deepest states of meditation. Evidently, something more is needed. Justin Michaels knows many of The Black Hand’s quote-unquote ‘secrets,’ but not all of them. There would be some morsels of knowledge that Stormm would know that Dominic had yet to learn, and vice-versa, but Phinehas had at least spent time with Dominic over the course of the last couple of months, teaching him how to harness the power that comes with such knowledge in the most efficacious methods possible.
Vengeance is too easy a reason to justify one’s hatred. Nevertheless, Dominator feels that he has done more than the vast majority of the PCW roster to earn a shot at Kyle Shane’s World Title, or even Justin’s own North American Title, as opposed to The Deadly Rumble being the only booth that would punch his ticket. Gerard Angelo, while on great form, as evident from winning said rumble, is partnering with an unlikely ally, facing instead one of the most cohesive units in PCW today; The Black Hand. A name that, over the years, has instilled fear and infamy falling upon the ears of their transgressors.
The snapping. The crackling. The popping. They would all be reborn in the fires of Dominator’s fury.
A satisfied smirk appears on his face, one born of his most recent actions and those forthcoming.
He picks himself up off the ground, scooping up the lump hammer and dropping it into his rucksack, briskly walking away from the scene of the crime as he begins to zip the bag back up. He withdraws one of the envelopes, tearing it open and jiggling the paper inside free. It appears to have been written on an old-world typewriter. The letters are blocky. Ink smudges litter the page. Some writing has faded from the envelope’s front face.
“Do n-t ope- unt-l ---day -th June”
“For the attention of Dominic Atkinson and Amy Trenton-Metallinos,”
“Forgive me for not presenting this to you both face-to-face. As you are well aware, my time is extremely precious and, as such, I needed a considerable amount of it to come up with the words that best explain my reasoning.”
“As I know, Dominic has been contributing a percentage of his Pure Class Wrestling salary into The Chronological Order to fund events, marketing and so on and so forth. This has been the case since his debut. However, with recent victories within The Order, as well as an interesting opportunity on the horizon with, shall we say, some old friends, I have decided that these contributions no longer have a need to continue.”
“I am also presenting you with a reimbursement for the money you have spent over the course of the last twelve months. Enclosed is a cheque for thirty nine thousand pounds…”
“For the attention of Dominic Atkinson and Amy Trenton-Metallinos,”
“Forgive me for not presenting this to you both face-to-face. As you are well aware, my time is extremely precious and, as such, I needed a considerable amount of it to come up with the words that best explain my reasoning.”
“As I know, Dominic has been contributing a percentage of his Pure Class Wrestling salary into The Chronological Order to fund events, marketing and so on and so forth. This has been the case since his debut. However, with recent victories within The Order, as well as an interesting opportunity on the horizon with, shall we say, some old friends, I have decided that these contributions no longer have a need to continue.”
“I am also presenting you with a reimbursement for the money you have spent over the course of the last twelve months. Enclosed is a cheque for thirty nine thousand pounds…”
Dominic’s eyes bulge open. Disbelieving of such fortune, he rummages around inside of the envelope. Indeed, he pulls out a narrow slip of paper; a banker’s cheque with the exact amount described in Horacio’s letter written both alphabetically and numerically. His jaw drops, but nonetheless continues to read the remainder of the letter.
“…which should be more than enough for the two of you to move into a place of your own, or redecorate the home you currently own if that is where you choose to spend the rest of your days. How you use the money is up to you, of course. Consider it an early wedding gift from me.”
“I know I do not say this nearly enough, but I would like to thank the both of you for your continuous support and loyalty to The Chronological Order.”
“Kind regards,”
“Horacio Mortimer”
“I know I do not say this nearly enough, but I would like to thank the both of you for your continuous support and loyalty to The Chronological Order.”
“Kind regards,”
“Horacio Mortimer”
Dominic cannot believe his luck. Of course, this letter had been previously presented to him long ago. However, with so much happening over the past four to five months, something as mundane and insignificant as a letter had not been high on his priority list.
Money is hardly the compensation that he wanted to accept for his recent shortcomings. However, this did at least give him some options as to how quickly to could rectify the damage done in his life. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. Horacio’s number is on speed dial. The phone barely even rings before it is answered.
“If you are willing to turn around, then so am I,” The Zenith metaphorically states to his mentor, having been given the tools necessary to rebuild the bridges thought to have been broken.
