Post by Non Compos Mentis on Sept 29, 2006 12:34:35 GMT -5
[The sound of beating thumps on a cold concrete floor rattles the ears into a reverberating zing. Over and over the clubbing noise beats down onto the mind like the blunt end of a hammer pummelling the temple. The noise thuds once then echoes over and over through the long, straight corridor that is unseen ahead of where we are. The noise clunks again and again like the repetitive march of the lonely night watchman occupying his long hours of solitary work by walking through the halls constantly. The noise of the trudging boots is accompanied by the equally insanity inducing noise of a drip of water, hitting the floor with a blip of acknowledgment at random intervals.
Rising from the back of our attention is another noise, or a procession of noises stringed together into an incomprehensible sentence. This inaudible babble continues unabated in a low but quiet drone of a voice from very near us but we see nothing in the darkness that surrounds us. The footsteps grow quicker and louder, moving towards us at a rate of knots. Then it stops.
CLANG CLANG CLANG
The massive sound of metal hitting metal just inches from our heads, on a door that keeps us from walking out into the long, concrete corridor.]
SHUT THE HELL UP IN THERE, SOME OF US HAVE SOME SANITY LEFT…. AND WANT TO KEEP IT.
[The footsteps trudge off down the corridor again and the drip hits the ground once more. Inside our room there is only silence as the inaudible mumblings stop. We look around and, sitting on the ground on what appears to be padding that extends up the walls and over our head, is a man. His hair matted and scruffy but still shoulder length manages to cover his face from sight. He is wearing sweat stained off white clothing consisting of pants, a vest and a crumpled up shirt. He starts to mumble again and the footsteps grow closer and louder once again. The dripping stops and is replaced by the noise of pouring, water pouring into a cup.]
Goddamnit
[The door swings open to reveal the grey corridor and a man standing in the doorway wearing a security outfit, holding a cup of water in his hand.]
WHAT DO YOU WANT? YOU WANT A DRINK, IS THAT IT?
[The man throws the water at the shadowy figure cowering in the corner and drenches him.]
That’ll teach you to talk Rhodes
[The door slams shut and rattles our ears. The man in the corner begins to shiver uncontrollably as the cold of the night couples with the chill of the water. He was scared, lonely and freezing and nobody was going to help him. The guard was a sadistic bastard that wanted people to suffer and everyone else that passed was too self obsessed to say anything.]
That guy was a bastard to end all bastards. I needed help, I needed somebody to keep me from trying to hurt myself. He wasn’t that person. He just kept jumping out infront of me and pushing me further and further into the wallows of my self pity. He kept using his power to abuse me, to force me down by any means necessary. That guy was my nightmare.
[The man in the room begins to sob, his mind degenerating into a mess of failure and agony. He felt it wasn’t needed to hold back his emotions anymore because sooner or later he’d come back and shut him up even if he wasn’t speaking. All the pain in his mind came flooding out of his eyes in a torrent of ice cold tears that plunged him ever deeper into the cold, depressing nausea he was already in.]
He would put me in cells with people twice as big as me and wanted to call me Susan and make me feel like a bitch, he’d leave me in a room with two pyromaniacs and a box of matches and watch me squirm, he would put me in a room with a nightmare and watch intently as I crumbled to the ground under it. He would stack every odd he could find against me and watch it beat me into a bloody pulp. But every once in a while, once every blue moon, I managed to beat the odds. Jingo the maniac serial stabber found that one out when the bastard put me in a room with him and a fruit knife. It’s hard to stab someone if you only have three fingers on each hand.
[The man in the corner continues to cry himself into a damp mess, once every minute of so mopping away the water on his face with the soiled shirt sleeve on his arm. The boots become louder once more as the man grows closer and closer to the door again. Suddenly it flies open, the door bursting open with force.]
FUCKING CRYBABY, I’LL SHOW YOU WHERE THIS GETS YOU
[The security guard walks into the room and looms over the man for a few seconds with a sadistic grin on his face. He hauls the man to his feet with pure strength and pulls him out into the corridor, still sobbing. He then sets off down the corridor, yanking the man along with him through the row of equally decrepit cells.]
It sounds quite similar to something happening now really. The power hungry enforcer, forcing me back into corners, stacking the odds against me. Trying to ruin me. Trying to stamp his authority on my head like he’s branding me. I wonder just who that reminds me of. The new guy, the head honcho, the one who does it ‘his way, his rules’. Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Yep, Skylar Marshall. That’s definitely it.
Why does he fell it is necessary to keep stacking the odds against me. Sure enough last week he made me tag with the person that I’ll be fighting for MY title at Deadly Intentions. This week I face him and 2Guys alongside a team that I have along and not so brilliant past with. In fact, you could say that we hate each other and that it would be impossible to work together. ICON. These two would turn their backs on me the moment they first had a chance. I’m practically going into a 5 on 1 handicap match here and its because Skylar has no knowledge of how wrestling works. People hate People and if they get put into a match alongside each other, shit happens.
[The guard continues to pull the man down the corridor until he reaches a corner and turns before going down another, equally dull and dingy, corridor. The sound of the dripping tap fades away into the distant obscurity and is replaced by incessant screaming from several voices in the near vicinity.]
You are going to learn to respect me asshole. You don’t just break up and cry when I tell you to shut the hell up.
The bastard treated me like shit on the bottom of him shoe. He thought that trying to kill me and flush me down a plughole would make me shut up. He thought wrong. If anyone has learnt anything about me it is that I don’t give up to anyone. If you treat me like shit then you had better be prepared for a backlash. I have faced insurmountable odds for most of my life and I have had plenty of people treat me like crap and I proved them wrong, my way. If Skylar thinks that putting me in one sided matches is going to be a no-risk way of making money then he had better watch his ass because, if he keeps it up, I will be coming for it. He will be enraging somebody who can do a lot more damage than he thinks. He will be angering somebody who will go to lengths nobody else will go to. He will be pissing me off.
I can take being put in a Ladder match against Seth Sinn for my North American championship, hell I quite fancy the idea. But the fact remains it was my choice to accept or reject the idea and Skylar, once again, stuck his fat nose into it and took the deal away from me. Then he puts me as Seth Sinn’s partner for a tag match against any of my wishes, clearly wanting me to be in a 3-1 handicap match. THEN, he puts me in a team with ICON so that I can be in a 5-1 handicap match and be decimated.
But one thing that takes away the sting is that he has given me a chance to rid PCW of the presence of HHW. He has allowed me to face Seth Sinn for the HHW World Title as well as my North American Title. And when I win I can prove that I am better than everybody HHW had to offer, including the current PCW champion, Lantlas. To that I thank Skylar Marshall, but for everything else I curse him. For everything else he has earned my rivalry and my anger but not my respect. He has backed me into a corner yet again, and now I have no choice but to fight back like I have done so many times before.
[The screaming pierces the ears in a dizzying kaleidoscope of noise. The guard keeps the depressed and sobbing man in toe by ripping at his shirt but finally stops and slams him against the wall, crushing his back in the process.]
STAY THERE AND DON’T RUN
[The man pulls a non-descript object out of one of his trouser pockets and then a large collection of keys from off his belt. He sifts through them, looking for one key in particular and eventually reaches out to the door. Meanwhile, the man has degenerated into a near-comatose state, showing no emotion, no movement, barely breathing. The guard opens a door in front of him and walks in, shouting some in-audible orders at the assumed occupant of the room. The man on the outside of the room slowly falls down the wall in a lazy slump until his rear-end hits the cold, damp concrete floor. The guard exits the room and takes a moment to acknowledge that the man is on the floor.]
WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING.
[The guard grabs the shirt and vest of the man and lifts him to his feet with one powerful heave. He then moves him into the doorway and shoves him into the room. This room is sparkling white apart from one object that has been left on the floor by the guard, what we now recognise as an opened flick knife. On the opposite side of the larger room is another man, thin and scrawny looking with hair even thinner and scraggy than the first man’s. He seems completely focused on the knife as if it is an item of worship.]
I assume you know Jingo. Have fun Bitch.
[As the guard leaves the room a wry smile creeps silently onto the face of the original man, a sadistic smirk or deadly intent and renewed vigour. He waits until the guard has locked the door then rushes at the thinner man in a frenzy of bloodlust, knocking him to the ground in the process. The man turns his attention to the knife laid on the extra soft padding of the room and picks it up in his left hand before looking back at the man who is now scared and fearing for his safety.]
Give me your hand
Rising from the back of our attention is another noise, or a procession of noises stringed together into an incomprehensible sentence. This inaudible babble continues unabated in a low but quiet drone of a voice from very near us but we see nothing in the darkness that surrounds us. The footsteps grow quicker and louder, moving towards us at a rate of knots. Then it stops.
CLANG CLANG CLANG
The massive sound of metal hitting metal just inches from our heads, on a door that keeps us from walking out into the long, concrete corridor.]
SHUT THE HELL UP IN THERE, SOME OF US HAVE SOME SANITY LEFT…. AND WANT TO KEEP IT.
[The footsteps trudge off down the corridor again and the drip hits the ground once more. Inside our room there is only silence as the inaudible mumblings stop. We look around and, sitting on the ground on what appears to be padding that extends up the walls and over our head, is a man. His hair matted and scruffy but still shoulder length manages to cover his face from sight. He is wearing sweat stained off white clothing consisting of pants, a vest and a crumpled up shirt. He starts to mumble again and the footsteps grow closer and louder once again. The dripping stops and is replaced by the noise of pouring, water pouring into a cup.]
Goddamnit
[The door swings open to reveal the grey corridor and a man standing in the doorway wearing a security outfit, holding a cup of water in his hand.]
WHAT DO YOU WANT? YOU WANT A DRINK, IS THAT IT?
[The man throws the water at the shadowy figure cowering in the corner and drenches him.]
That’ll teach you to talk Rhodes
[The door slams shut and rattles our ears. The man in the corner begins to shiver uncontrollably as the cold of the night couples with the chill of the water. He was scared, lonely and freezing and nobody was going to help him. The guard was a sadistic bastard that wanted people to suffer and everyone else that passed was too self obsessed to say anything.]
That guy was a bastard to end all bastards. I needed help, I needed somebody to keep me from trying to hurt myself. He wasn’t that person. He just kept jumping out infront of me and pushing me further and further into the wallows of my self pity. He kept using his power to abuse me, to force me down by any means necessary. That guy was my nightmare.
[The man in the room begins to sob, his mind degenerating into a mess of failure and agony. He felt it wasn’t needed to hold back his emotions anymore because sooner or later he’d come back and shut him up even if he wasn’t speaking. All the pain in his mind came flooding out of his eyes in a torrent of ice cold tears that plunged him ever deeper into the cold, depressing nausea he was already in.]
He would put me in cells with people twice as big as me and wanted to call me Susan and make me feel like a bitch, he’d leave me in a room with two pyromaniacs and a box of matches and watch me squirm, he would put me in a room with a nightmare and watch intently as I crumbled to the ground under it. He would stack every odd he could find against me and watch it beat me into a bloody pulp. But every once in a while, once every blue moon, I managed to beat the odds. Jingo the maniac serial stabber found that one out when the bastard put me in a room with him and a fruit knife. It’s hard to stab someone if you only have three fingers on each hand.
[The man in the corner continues to cry himself into a damp mess, once every minute of so mopping away the water on his face with the soiled shirt sleeve on his arm. The boots become louder once more as the man grows closer and closer to the door again. Suddenly it flies open, the door bursting open with force.]
FUCKING CRYBABY, I’LL SHOW YOU WHERE THIS GETS YOU
[The security guard walks into the room and looms over the man for a few seconds with a sadistic grin on his face. He hauls the man to his feet with pure strength and pulls him out into the corridor, still sobbing. He then sets off down the corridor, yanking the man along with him through the row of equally decrepit cells.]
It sounds quite similar to something happening now really. The power hungry enforcer, forcing me back into corners, stacking the odds against me. Trying to ruin me. Trying to stamp his authority on my head like he’s branding me. I wonder just who that reminds me of. The new guy, the head honcho, the one who does it ‘his way, his rules’. Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Yep, Skylar Marshall. That’s definitely it.
Why does he fell it is necessary to keep stacking the odds against me. Sure enough last week he made me tag with the person that I’ll be fighting for MY title at Deadly Intentions. This week I face him and 2Guys alongside a team that I have along and not so brilliant past with. In fact, you could say that we hate each other and that it would be impossible to work together. ICON. These two would turn their backs on me the moment they first had a chance. I’m practically going into a 5 on 1 handicap match here and its because Skylar has no knowledge of how wrestling works. People hate People and if they get put into a match alongside each other, shit happens.
[The guard continues to pull the man down the corridor until he reaches a corner and turns before going down another, equally dull and dingy, corridor. The sound of the dripping tap fades away into the distant obscurity and is replaced by incessant screaming from several voices in the near vicinity.]
You are going to learn to respect me asshole. You don’t just break up and cry when I tell you to shut the hell up.
The bastard treated me like shit on the bottom of him shoe. He thought that trying to kill me and flush me down a plughole would make me shut up. He thought wrong. If anyone has learnt anything about me it is that I don’t give up to anyone. If you treat me like shit then you had better be prepared for a backlash. I have faced insurmountable odds for most of my life and I have had plenty of people treat me like crap and I proved them wrong, my way. If Skylar thinks that putting me in one sided matches is going to be a no-risk way of making money then he had better watch his ass because, if he keeps it up, I will be coming for it. He will be enraging somebody who can do a lot more damage than he thinks. He will be angering somebody who will go to lengths nobody else will go to. He will be pissing me off.
I can take being put in a Ladder match against Seth Sinn for my North American championship, hell I quite fancy the idea. But the fact remains it was my choice to accept or reject the idea and Skylar, once again, stuck his fat nose into it and took the deal away from me. Then he puts me as Seth Sinn’s partner for a tag match against any of my wishes, clearly wanting me to be in a 3-1 handicap match. THEN, he puts me in a team with ICON so that I can be in a 5-1 handicap match and be decimated.
But one thing that takes away the sting is that he has given me a chance to rid PCW of the presence of HHW. He has allowed me to face Seth Sinn for the HHW World Title as well as my North American Title. And when I win I can prove that I am better than everybody HHW had to offer, including the current PCW champion, Lantlas. To that I thank Skylar Marshall, but for everything else I curse him. For everything else he has earned my rivalry and my anger but not my respect. He has backed me into a corner yet again, and now I have no choice but to fight back like I have done so many times before.
[The screaming pierces the ears in a dizzying kaleidoscope of noise. The guard keeps the depressed and sobbing man in toe by ripping at his shirt but finally stops and slams him against the wall, crushing his back in the process.]
STAY THERE AND DON’T RUN
[The man pulls a non-descript object out of one of his trouser pockets and then a large collection of keys from off his belt. He sifts through them, looking for one key in particular and eventually reaches out to the door. Meanwhile, the man has degenerated into a near-comatose state, showing no emotion, no movement, barely breathing. The guard opens a door in front of him and walks in, shouting some in-audible orders at the assumed occupant of the room. The man on the outside of the room slowly falls down the wall in a lazy slump until his rear-end hits the cold, damp concrete floor. The guard exits the room and takes a moment to acknowledge that the man is on the floor.]
WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING.
[The guard grabs the shirt and vest of the man and lifts him to his feet with one powerful heave. He then moves him into the doorway and shoves him into the room. This room is sparkling white apart from one object that has been left on the floor by the guard, what we now recognise as an opened flick knife. On the opposite side of the larger room is another man, thin and scrawny looking with hair even thinner and scraggy than the first man’s. He seems completely focused on the knife as if it is an item of worship.]
I assume you know Jingo. Have fun Bitch.
[As the guard leaves the room a wry smile creeps silently onto the face of the original man, a sadistic smirk or deadly intent and renewed vigour. He waits until the guard has locked the door then rushes at the thinner man in a frenzy of bloodlust, knocking him to the ground in the process. The man turns his attention to the knife laid on the extra soft padding of the room and picks it up in his left hand before looking back at the man who is now scared and fearing for his safety.]
Give me your hand
