Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jun 3, 2019 19:16:27 GMT -5
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“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.”
― Eric Roth, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button Screenplay
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Thursday 16th June 2019 - 6.01pm
Location - Hangtown, Unknown
Weather-stained wooden decking that comprises the porch creaks like the branches of aging trees surrounding it with every oscillation of a rocking chair. The very struts that support the seat over the arched beams crunch and splinter, signalling their decay of years gone past. Such distressing sounds disturb the roosting rooks, calling out to their brethren as they source quieter environs in which to rest their weary wings. With the birds departing into the distance, all has turned quiet, save for the scraping groans of the chair.
Though the sun beams down an opening in the trees, the awning over the porch keeps each of its guests in perpetual shade. The composing, organic smell of the woodland rose into their nostrils in waves like a miasma; alluvial and palliative. Granny looks up from her knitting for a moment to allow each of her individual senses to absorb the wonderful world around her. She is satisfied after no more than a minute before gazing at the statuesque monstrosity that is in her company.
Slumped against outer wall of the shack, Dominic has one gargantuan knee pulled up close to his chest to allow one arm to rest on it. The other leg trails across the length of the floorboards, the rubber soles of his boots are but mere microns away from the veranda’s bottom railing. His eyes have wandered into the distance, trying to penetrate the belt of trees to follow the sinuous pathway that leads back to a less secluded part of Hangtown.
She was not used to having guests; Ruth and Phinehas being the only major exceptions. The Zenith’s presence did not disturb her as much as the rooks did.
“Something on your mind, dear?” Granny asks sweetly.
“Hmph,” Dominic snorts, turning his head to left so that the wizened old lady cannot see into the depths of his eyes. “Plenty,” he confirms. His snort had not been snide. Rather, affirmation. There he sits; a blind fool of fate and a slave of circumstance. An unwilling soldier drafted into the war between two sides, one of which he has yet to truly choose. It is if Life itself is a bard that demands his listeners dance. He refuses to cooperate. All he wants to be is a shadow on the wall of time.
“Would you like to talk about it?” she says warmly. Dominic continues to avert his eyes. The grunt he produces this time is a denotation of his lack of ambition to engage in such a conversation. The old lady hums to herself. The awkward silence is thankfully disrupted as if on cue by Ruth, carrying a serving tray in either hand, using her hip to bump the door open. On each tray, a filled bowl precariously threatens to slide across the flat surface unless it is perfectly horizontal. Sitting much more contently is a plate containing two thick slices of homemade bread and a glob of freshly churned butter.
“Here we are,” Ruth announces, lowering one tray down towards Granny’s lap. “A nice, steaming hot bowl of butternut squash soup.”
“Oh, thank you, my love!” Granny says excitedly, placing her knitting to one side to make room for her meal. Ruth uses her newly freed hand to provide extra stability to the second tray, motioning across the porch towards The Zenith. He visibly shudders at the prospect of consuming such a concoction, yet Ruth’s relentless staring eventually causes him to give way. He would much prefer something meatier. Picking up a silver spoon, he scoops a small amount from the top, blows on it gently before sliding it into his mouth.
It is an unusual amalgamation of nuttiness and sweetness with a hint of the soil that the primary ingredient was prised from. If it had a taste, it would be what Autumn would taste like. Tearing away one corner from the bread, pinching it at it’s crust, Dominic skims it over the top of the soup.
“Well?” Ruth asks inquisitively, keen for some feedback regarding her gastronomic prowess.
“The bread’s nice,” is the only compliment that Dominic provides, much to Ruth’s chagrin. Observing such disapproval on her face is enough to raise a mildly amused smile from The Zenith. “To be fair, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” comes another backhanded remark. Ruth motions to protest, but upon quickly spotting Granny shake her head from over her shoulder, she simply smiles right back.
“Well there’s plenty more if you want it,” she sardonically adds. This appears to lighten Dominic’s spirits further. Their camaraderie had been a welcome change from the daily grind of distributing his obligations to The Chronological Order and learning the lessons that could only be offered in Hangtown. Ruth, on the other hand, is far less well-receiving of such light-hearted humour. “You know, just because we’ve welcomed you here doesn’t mean that you strictly belong here,” she bites.
“Now, now, Ruth,” Granny tries to calm the younger Dillinger. “Let us not be rude to our guest. That being said, you have been staying in Hangtown for a long time now. Why don’t you return home for a while and visit some of your friends and family? You are entitled to recreational time, you know. You’re not under Horacio Mortimer’s jurisdiction here.”
“But I will be if I go back,” Dominic replies with a faint laugh. He would never say it, out of concern as coming across as cheesy, but Dominic considers Hangtown to be his home now.
The beautiful thing about Hangtown is that it feels as though it exists in it’s own pocket of time. Not to an inter-dimensional extent. That notion is simply ludicrous. Instead, it is as though Dominic can spend and indefinite, almost hyperbolic amount of time in Hangtown before leaving for his next venture at precisely the right time. It feels like he’s been here for years, when in fact, it has been only a few days. In spite of the warmth of the springtime sun shining on his skin, there is a perpetual chill that he has constantly felt deep within his bones that does not subside until he happens to head back into civilisation.
Despite being one of the figureheads of The Order, Dominic’s path only crossed with Horacio’s fortnightly when the two would travel to wherever Pure Class was emanating from on that occasion. Recently, they had travelled separately. Even when in each other’s company, both men hardly spoke a word to one another. This was not due to distain or disrespect. It was just the way things were; just the way he liked it.
That being said, Dominic would be lying to himself if he said that he didn’t have reservations.
“So much had happened since I first met Horacio,” he awkwardly says, not wishing to divulge into too much detail. “The falling out with Shawn, the debacle of being a father to Dawn, then not being the father, the discovery of the Watchmen and the introductions to Marx and Dolores, the latter whom is a total enigma to me. And while the apparitions of Amy had been left mostly in the past, there are still moments of lingering malcontent that hinders my desire to keep her there.” Ruth and Granny exchange intrigued looks.
“What do you think, Granny?” Ruth snickers deviously. “Should we tell him?”
“Maybe if he eats all his dinner like a good boy,” Granny crows. The reaction they both receive startles them into silence. With animalistic voracity, Dominic lifts the soup bowl to his lips like a mug and guzzles what is left of its contents down in five impetuous glugs, thick droplets trickle down the length of his long unshaven beard. He rips a chunk of bread apart with his teeth, crumbs find their way into his facial hair also. All the while, he stares coldly towards Ruth and Granny, not willing to play their game the way they want him to. Within seconds, his bowl is empty. He uses the final slab of bread to mop up any remnants congealed to the rim of the bowl and the base before wolfing that down too. In stunned disbelief.
“Anyone for seconds?” Ruth asks jokingly.
“No!” comes a ferociously blunt boom as the culprit smothers his lips with his sleeve, drawing it across his mouth as a form of cleansing.
“Not for me, love,” Granny chuckles. “I’ve still got plenty here.” She notices the impatience growing on Dominic’s face. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to finish my meal,” she politely states. Desiring nothing more than to tip the bowl down her gullet in the way that he had done himself, Dominic refrains from such depravity by returning his attention out across the veranda. He endeavours to occupy himself with thoughts less frustrating than those offered by The Chronological Order and The Black Hand being at each other’s throats. He loathed discussing matters that mentally affected him. Like any fight, it was one that he wanted to win on his own merit.
In truth, The Zenith is rarely truly vocal of his intentions. Horacio Mortimer acts as his hype man, for it is in line with his duty. But even then, it is nowhere near on the same level of consistently tedious drivel promoting their own splendour as Kyle Shane and David Hunter. Despite Kyle Shane having a list of attributes as long as The Zenith’s arm that he can use as a ‘go to’ for any argument that he wants to make. In contrast, Hunter’s accolades can counted on one hand.
But where they know only narcissism and nihilistic egotism, The Zenith knows only calculated destruction.
This time last year, Kyle was on top of the world. He was World Champion. Yet, he certainly felt cheated about not being part of the annual Icemman Invitational Tournament. The mouth-watering brackets of Grimm facing Dominator, along with Seromine against the still-then Gabriel, were the most anticipated semi-final matches in the tournament’s history for many years. On the other hand, Kyle Shane force-fed himself down the world’s throat. Because he had to. How else could you make sure, as the company’s top champion, you appear superior to everybody else when you have to face Tyler Fucking Scott in a championship match on Pay-Per-View. He ran an illegal betting pool just so that the public could see that he was doing something, anything, that might remind them that he is still relevant, even if only for a few fleeting seconds.
The chinks that had formed in Shane’s armour have become visible for all to see. It is quite pathetic to see Kyle struggle out of the crater formed when his championship reign fell from grace. He hasn’t quite been the same man since. Kyle Shane has been NERFED harder than the Children of Thanos in [/i]’Infinity War.’[/i] And just like another ’Endgame,’ this is going to end in tears for the God sapped of his power.
Many have claimed that the inauguration of both Dominator and Gerard Angelo followed very similar paths. Both men were facing two authoritarian champions of industry that had overcome everything thrown in front of them up to that point in time. There is one significant difference between them though.
When Gerard Angelo defeated Kyle Shane, it was an upset.
When Dominator defeated Stormm, it was an inevitability.
If anything, Stormm will be salivating at the prospect of delivering some comeuppance to The Zenith. After all, should he manage to survive Kyle Shane, Justin would end up facing the man who had systematically destroyed his legacy in the space a single night.
To reiterate his superiority over the fallen champion would be a salubrious thought. One that could very realistically be enforced. As noble as Justin’s desires to win on behalf of the deceased Luis Malave, it will only serve a kick in the teeth if he is unable to make good on his promise. To stake such a bold claim is sacrilegious.
Unlike Stormm, The Zenith is one who keeps his promises, no matter how malevolent. He had already promised to methodically pick apart the duo of Holden Ross and David Hunter in quick succession. Half of this vow had been achieved. Once the other half comes to pass, and should the opportunity present itself, The Zenith would make another vow to Stormm; to subject him to the same heartbreak and anguish that was bequeathed to him at Mass Destruction, leaving him to mourn over the loss of two old friends.
Stormm and Kyle have been the ones that have broken records. Dominator would be the one to break the record breakers themselves, no matter which of them he is set to face.
“Ah, that was lovely,” Granny smacks her lips upon slurping down the last spoonful of soup. Ruth takes her tray, placing it just inside the front door for the time being. “I hope you’re ready,” Granny smiles as Dominic turns his head to look at her with an expectant grin etched on his face.
“You should feel honoured,” Ruth declares. “Granny doesn’t tell these sorts of chronicles to just anyone, you know.”
“Now, before I tell you my tale, you should know that the consequences for mishandling this information will be severe,” Granny warns, her voice turning as cold as the air around her. The sun hides behind a cloud the first chance it gets. “While I don’t necessarily know you, I trust Phinehas’ judgement. He has told me that you have remained loyal, despite temptation, so I’m willing to take this risk. On your head be it. Am I understood?”
“Yes.” Dominic fractiously agrees. Uncertainty as to whether or not The Temporal King comprehends just how dire the consequences could be is evident on Ruth’s face.
“As you already know, once you are in The Black Hand, there is no turning back,” Ruth says with just as much cruelty. “There is no escape. There will be no respite or reprieve. You must understand this.”
“I think it you that needs to understand,” Dominic slowly rises to his feet, towering over Ruth and the still-seated Granny. “There has been a lot of crap going on in my life that I haven’t been able to control, or even have a hope of beginning to get my head around. The common denominator in every scenario is The Chronological Order. I know they are linked to The Black Hand, but exactly how and why is all I want to know. If I am able to obtain this knowledge, then I can at least begin to comprehend why Horacio acts as he does. I am not asking on Horacio’s behest. This is of my own initiative. So, I implore you. Please confide in me the knowledge that I seek.” The passion concealed behind the acrimony in his voice is able to reach the ears of Granny and Ruth.
“Please don’t raise your voice to me,” Granny scolds Dominic in a quiet, yet ominously stern voice. The Zenith looks more relieved that he has been able to vocalise one of his many grievances unto ears that are open for a change. He bows gratuitously and apologetically, displaying nothing but respect towards Granny. Ruth can at least admire Dominic’s ability to recognise his wrongdoing, no matter how small in the grand scheme of things. “Now then,” she begins. “sometime throughout the halcyon years of The Black Hand’s formation, one of the original founders tried to introduce the concept of time being the greatest force in the known universe; even greater than what The Black Hand represented. The idea was ridiculed for it’s implausibility, so the man left in order to search for his own truths, no matter how misguided his friends and companions deemed them to be.”
“Of course, one cannot just decide leave The Black Hand,” Ruth interrupts. “The punishment for such a crime was far more severe way back when than it is in modern times.” Dominic notices her cautionary glare towards him. “Not that we don’t still frown upon such things,” she adds threateningly. Dominic curls an amused lip upwards, repressing another snort that could be misconceived as arrogant. He waves a brief dismissive hand like a half-hearted flag of surrender.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dominic assertively reiterates.
“Nevertheless,” Granny resumes, “The Black Hand could not allow this man to just walk free. He knew too much. And if that information were to be spread publicly, it could have compromised us completely. As such, The Black Hand would do as they do; watch events unfold from afar. One wrong step and that would be the end of it. Fortunately though, it turns out that the outside world was equally as unreceptive towards the idea that Time itself was greater than any deity. This, of course, was during a time where religion was prevalent in a world where science was nothing more than theories and speculation.”
“There’s obviously no way that the idea was suddenly abandoned,” Dominic states. “If it was so heavily criticised way back when, how does The Chronological Order exist today?”
“I’m getting to it,” Granny huffs at Dominic’s impatience. Apologetically, Dominic hunkers himself back down into a comfortable seated position. “When he returned to Hangtown, he was imprisoned for treason. During his incarceration, he befriended a fellow cellmate and explained his idea to him. He, unlike everybody else, agreed with the notion. Together, they formed the first manifestation of The Chronological Order; The Temporal Vanguard. Rather than use Time to disprove religion, they offered words of encouragement about utilising time wisely. The Black Hand took notice and agreed to hear them out. So charming were the duo that they eventually started to win over more and more residents of Hangtown, before, eventually, word spread back into the outside world.”
“Surely Horacio already knows this?” Dominic says, mainly to himself.
“You’ve heard of “The Book Of The Black Hand,” no doubt?” Granny enquires. Dominic nods silently, not wishing to instil ill will towards Horacio due his avarice towards obtaining such knowledge. “We’re well aware that Horacio would like to read the pages for himself,” Granny adds clairvoyantly, as if reading Dominic’s mind. He splutters as if to protest such an invasion, yet instead of producing an argument, he shrugs as a prompt for Granny to continue. “And for good reason. All this information, along with much more, is documented in that book.”
“It is vital that we keep it safe, for obvious reasons,” Ruth says to Dominic before turning to Granny with a smile. “I remember you telling me about the thieves that infiltrates Hangtown when you were just a little girl and how you alone managed to keep it hidden away until they were… how do I put this… disposed of?”
“Very eloquent,” Dominic’s sarcasm seeps through.
“That’s correct, dear,” Granny nods to Ruth. “It was then that we decided to create multiple copies of The Book; forgeries that look near identical to the original, but it’s contents are completely misleading.” Dominic takes this into consideration. Even if Horacio could find a way to get his hands on the book, it would be virtually impossible to tell if he had the authentic manuscript. Even though it was not Dominic’s own intention to act on Mortimer’s behalf, he had to admit, there is still a part of him that is rooting for him to succeed. After all, in spite of his faults, he had been played an influential role in reforming The Zenith as a person. These threads of respect were perhaps the only things keeping their professional relationship intact, as well as such threads now being intertwined with a group as prolific as The Black Hand.
It is at this point that Dominic notices Granny has something in her hand. He leans forward to obtain a suitable view. It was the photograph that Horacio had kept in his private study; the one depicting a younger version of himself alongside a duplicate in an older man’s body; his grandfather.
“Where did you get this picture from?” Dominic looks somewhat suspicious of The Dillingers.
“Fear not,” Granny says to restore some lost confidence in The Zenith, “this is merely from our own archives. It is within our best interest to remind ourselves of the past so that we may properly prepare for the future. If anything, that is one lesson that the old duffer that actually bears some validity.” Granny’s bony finger taps the glass pane where the old man is depicted. “That is Zachary Mortimer; Horacio’s grandfather.”
“Horacio has never really spoken to me about him at length,” Dominic admits. “Nor to anyone, really. Considering how sensitive a matter it is for him, I don’t have the patience to open old sores by asking him about his past.”
“Do you want to know?” Granny smiles. The Zenith’s interest peaks, prising his back away from the wooden wall and pivoting on his backside to face The Dillingers head on. “Shall I take that as a yes?” Granny chuckles as Dominic adjusts his posture until he is suitably comfortable. “Long after the original founder of The Temporal Vanguard was captured, it was discovered that, whilst he had eluded capture, he had fathered a family. A large family, at that. His bloodline spread through the country like pollen in the wind.”
“As generations of Mortimers came and went, the vast majority of them saw enough sense to steer clear of learning of their family’s heritage,” Ruth continues on Granny’s behalf. “Zachary couldn’t resist such temptation though. He went burrowing down the rabbit hole and discovered the truth. He wanted to reform The Temporal Vanguard, opting to rename it ‘The Chronological Order’ as so to not make the comparison too obvious for The Black Hand to spot. At first, we deemed this revival as unimportant. But, as we discovered, times had changed significantly from the vanguard’s inception. Zachary managed to gather a following; a following that vastly outnumbered our own.”
“Horacio told me that he was only five years old when his grandfather passed away,” Dominic states.
“Twenty seven years ago. Almost to the day.” Ruth announces as accurately as she can. “Yes, that will be a very sentimental day for Horacio. I thought about visiting him myself, but considering he is most likely going to be sharing his day with Dolores Aurelian, I figure I will excuse myself.” This necessitates a grimace to form amongst Dominic’s lips, hidden by the thicket of facial hair masking them. “Oh,” Ruth notices. “That seems to have ruffled some feathers.”
“There’s just something about that girl that I can’t quite put my finger on,” Dominic expresses his indignation with a gruff tone. “I have this feeling in my gut.”
“Maybe that’s because you ate your soup too quick,” Ruth tries her hand at some good-natured humour. Dominic does flicker a slight smile of amusement, but quickly dispels it.
“You know what I’m trying to say,” Dominic continues. “It’s something that’s beyond pure instinct. It is almost like I know that she is trouble, but I have no evidence to prove otherwise.”
“Hangtown has that effect on people,” Ruth hums. Dominic curiously looks at Ruth, hoping that she would elaborate on this fact. “Did she not attempt to follow you here one time?” Ruth recalls, dashing Dominic‘s hopes. “As a matter of fact, isn’t she the first person that Horacio introduced to The Chronological Order? She has more knowledge of the current climate of Horacio’s incarnation of the vanguard than we do. Did you not think it might have been a wise investment of your time to learn a little bit about her rather than give her the cold shoulder?” Dominic shoots her an evil eye consumed by resentment. He cannot argue this though. Too often has a headstrong approach gotten the better of him in the long run. His time in Hangtown had reduced this somewhat, yet he still cannot help himself but curse his ill judgement. “Fortunately for you, I’ve done a bit of research of my own,” Ruth smiles, drawing a more attentive look from Dominic. “The Aurelians were… interesting folk,” Ruth reminisces aloud. “A very superstitious lot. They would read deeply into old wives’ tales, horoscopes and astrology.”
“She does have a pack of Tarot Cards that she often refers to,” Dominic states. “I always dismissed it as a bunch of nonsensical mumbo-jumbo.”
“If someone believes strongly enough in something, they can make it their own reality,” Ruth replies. “The Chronological Order is living proof of that.”
“Very well said,” Granny nods with approval. “And it is by convincing people en mass that what you believe will benefit them is something practiced the world over. Even big businesses want to convince you that they have the best products.”
“There must be more to Dolores than just Tarot Cards and horoscopes,” Dominic huffs in an effort to steer the conversation back on course.
“There sure is,” Ruth beams. “What I can gather from Dolores is that she can easily be led astray. She seems to gravitate towards anybody who gives her any sort of attention, which may be why she holds you in such ‘low regard,’ shall we say.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Dominic snarls.
“Like I said, you should have spoken to her and gotten to know her while you had the opportunity to do so,” Ruth explains. “Even when she was younger, the only crowd she hung around with were the bullies, but that was only because they were the only people who paid any attention to her, even though she was the butt of many of their jokes and pranks. Yet, she still managed to maintain a sense of innocence. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome; when prisoners fall in love with their captors. Horacio gave her all of his time, teaching her about The Chronological Order and such. She became infatuated with him, nay, obsessed with him. But for Horacio to spend so much time looking out for you and your best interests, it is quite likely that she has grown to despise you. He sends her on missions to gather information on you, spy on you. Heck, even as we speak she is on her way here right now.”
“She is?” Dominic glowers.
“Her and two of the other Watchmen,” Ruth states. “Matthew and Marx, is it? I’m surprised that they managed to make it here before, never mind remembering how they got here.”
“That’s something that I’ve never quite understood,” Dominic suddenly realises. “If an outsider enters Hangtown, they have no recollection of what happened during their time there once they’ve left. So why do I not get that some sort of amnesia?”
“Well, Hangtown must have accepted you,” Ruth guesses.
“Either that, or you share one of the bloodlines,” Granny adds. Ruth suddenly shoots Granny a look.
“Granny!” she gasps. Dominic and Ruth share the same look of disbelief on their faces.
“What are you talking about,” Dominic gawks. “Bloodlines? Tell me what’s going on!”
“That, I’m afraid, is something that you will need to discover on your own,” Granny discloses impartially. “Well… maybe this isn‘t the right time to tell you the full story, not if our Aurelian friend is on her way.” Granny cuts her fable off short as she motions to stand. Ruth assists her to her feet. “Thank you, dear,” she beams. “I’m afraid we will have to save the rest for next time, Dominic,”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Dominic replies sincerely, yet his lowers his head to newfound depths. Perhaps it the inconvenience of Dolores' approach that is the source of this angst. More probably, it is because the revelation of a bloodline of some sort links him to Hangtown. “There’s something you’re not telling me!” Dominic’s expression suddenly morphs into one of anger. Everything that he knew of his life up to that point had been a lie. More cozenage.
“There’s plenty that I’m not telling you,” Granny replies cryptically. “Not yet anyway.”
“Wait…” Dominic suddenly growls. “How do I know that all of this is actually true? I’m aware that The Black Hand are masters of deception, but how do I know that everything you’ve just said isn’t some sort of fabrication?”
“You don’t.” Granny smirks, her deceptive smile warrants a pointy hat and a broomstick, if such items were readily available. A cascade of doubt wafts over him like the aroma of the forest. He dares not to think too deeply into this matter right now.
“Well this has been very insightful,” Dominic says as he hauls himself to his feet, “but I think it is high time that I take my leave.” He steps down from the porch, leaving a smiling Granny and a bemused Ruth behind.
“Where are you going?” Ruth calls.
“I’m going to see Horacio,” Dominic shouts back. “Or am I not allowed to leave these hallowed grounds?”
“Might I advise against leaving immediately?” Ruth’s suggestion is not so much an observation, but more of a plea. “I have my suspicions that Dolores is going to try and steal The Book Of The Black Hand. I am going to make sure that she gets what she wants.”
“You’re going to have her steal one of the fake copies?”
“You catch on fast,” Ruth winks.
“Well, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Dominic growls.
“There’s plenty of lumber that needs cutting,” Ruth’s proposition is more of an instruction on this occasion. “These wood burning stoves don’t fuel themselves, you know.” With that, Ruth hurries off towards the centre of Hangtown, perhaps to prepare the townsfolk of their impending arrivals. Dominic lets out a small huff. If anything, at least a little bit of manual labour would put him in a advantageous mindset heading into his oncoming bouts.
Many people might wonder what incentives each of the four semi-finalists have to win this prestigious tournament. Some answers are more obvious than others. Hunter needs this to catapult himself into the main event scene where he erroneously feels he deserves to be a part of. Kyle Shane needs it to rebuild his credibility, as does Stormm, although the latter’s motives seem more directed in commemoration towards the titular Icemann that has been lost to time. An admirable, almost heart-warming purpose, but ultimately one that will be wasted.
The one thing that all three have yet to prove is possessing the capability, the skill, the vim and vigor that is absolutely necessary to defeat such an immovable object as The Zenith. It is a tall order on any night, especially by the time that the opening bell of the final bout rolls around.
What, then, is Dominator’s motivation? He’s knocked off Hunter and Shane in Tag Team matches before, whilst his victory of Stormm is significantly more notorious. The Icemann Invitation Tournament trophy would make for a nice addition to his mantle. An injection of thousands of dollars would be of benefit to any man. But what good is any prize that cannot be contested for? A trophy will merely sit and gather dust. Money will dissipate to fund immaterial desires.
And what of the championship opportunity? Dominator already holds the North American Title and, despite being renowned as the man who rebuilt the Underground division, he has no need to waiver into old territory. Logically, that would only leave the World Championship. But then, this instantly raises a problem all of it’s own.
When Grimm wins his umpteenth World Championship, the conspiracy theorists shall surface with their outlandish claims that The Black Hand will disintegrate. In their opinion, Dominator would seek to usurp Grimm at the first opportunity. Dominator, the power-hungry fiend, just would not be able to curb his insatiable appetite without pulling up a seat to the table, ready to feast on the gold that shines the brightest throughout the entire federation.
How wrong those fools are.
What Dominator wants, above all else, is for The Black Hand and The Chronological Order to be revered as the most efficacious entities within not only Pure Class Wrestling, but indeed the entire wrestling landscape. The Temporal King has a kingdom to rule over, after all, but an empty promise is not good enough. By now, The Zenith would have liked to have thought that he had already sufficiently exerted himself as a force to be reckoned with.
Should Grimm happen to falter, The Zenith would be there, lying in wait, ready to bring the World Championship right back to The Black Hand almost instantaneously. He is a trump card ready to be played in a pinch.
That is all the incentive that The Temporal King needs.
The Temporal King’s victory cannot be prophesised as destiny or as fate. It is the result of the effortless computation of logic by following events that have transpired involving The Zenith throughout the passage of time. Endless triumph. Infinite potential.
A legacy being lived.
