Post by silence on Nov 20, 2006 21:04:54 GMT -5
As he brought his gigantic hands down upon the bloodied head of the former Pure Class Wrestling World Champion Ace Anderson, the palpitations of his heart ensued at breakneck speeds. The thumping on the sides of his forehead underneath his copious strands of stringy hair also came in a wave. Low lumps of flesh arose on his arms and back, the very tiniest of bumps, aptly named gooseflesh. While he used the ropes to tie up the arms of the already beaten mess that was Ace Anderson, he could hardly see. The only sound in his ears, the sound of Ralph, very soon to be known as The Voice, shouting his orders. Everything came back into focus as he started to the opposite side of the ring, building up speed in a run as intense as he ever had. As he lifted his foot from the canvas and it connected with the face of Ace Anderson, he just could not help but don his sheerly evil smirk.
His dreadlocks were brushed aside, and he turned to the other one. Another legend. Al Laiman. He would also feel no remorse. As the head of Al Laiman crashed into the mat in a Silencer of cataclysmic proportions, the deafening roar of the crowd, fed by seething hatred for ruining this event for them all, fueled the adrenaline he still felt. He could have lifted a bus in that moment, high overhead, tossing it into the crowd, certain to cause destruction. Yet the destruction had already been laid. Pure Class Wrestling would know now. Silence did not play games. Silence did not show mercy. Silence did not have respect for anyone. That was the beginning. The beginning of an era of pain for Pure Class Wrestling. The exordium of Silence.
As the lights went out and he and Ralph disappeared to the back, his hands were shaking. The trembling extended from his elbows, down through to the tips of his fingers. If he was holding a drink, the contents would certainly meet the floor. He did not stop shaking until Ralph placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Silence. Are you alright?”
Silence turned to face Ralph, and as he looked into the eyes of his mentor, the shaking ceased. The grin returned. Ralph responded with a grin of his own, and they sat down in their new Pure Class Wrestling locker room. A pat on the back from Ralph assured Silence of his accomplishment, “let’s see them try to forget about that.”
They both knew it was very likely that it would never be forgotten. The monster who intruded on, to that point, possibly the greatest match in Pure Class Wrestling history. Monster that left in his wake the waste of two men who had fought to their own physical end. It was not even in that it would be challenging to commit what he did, but that it would have impact. Deep impact. A meteor breaking the atmosphere, and plummeting to the surface area of a planet. A hell of a lot of impact, indeed.
To think, that was the beginning. The end is also so much more satisfying. Silence and Ralph had much bigger plans in Pure Class Wrestling. Not just the World Championship, which was every man who stepped into the squared circle’s eventual goal; the ultimate test of one’s grit. They wanted to be remembered. As something dominant. Something fear-instilling. And they were succeeding.
Silence is an usher of sorts. The usher of a new age of pain for Pure Class Wrestling. A new age of destruction and dominance that shall not be equaled. Thankfully, he is not like another usher. The self-proclaimed Usher of Destruction. For then he would also earn the title of fool. Non Compos Mentis, Mark Twain once said: ‘It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.’ You, sir, have failed miserably.
A plain back backdrop and a face littered with rage are all that greets the eyes of the beholder. Lips unmoving, yet a stern and familiar voice punish the ears of those unworthy. Lighting shifts, revealing The Voice standing next to his beast, perfect postured and slightly annoyed.
Through your own speech, you have shown the foolhardiness of your own intelligence. For a man who claims a great education at every turn of the corner, you sure are lacking something resembling a brain. If you are truly trying to say that Silence has fallen at the hands of Gravedigger, when he has never been defeated by him, then I pray to the God I do not turn to that you make it through Trauma. Unfortunately for you, Silence does not show mercy. Not even for retards.
A pause for effect or self-reflection, the reasoning remains hidden in the mind of the man of many words. However, he does not leave things up for thought long, as he continues on his verbal rampage.
As for you, Gravedigger. Silence indeed is looking forward to meeting you once more, just as you must be itching for another shot to redeem yourself after the losses you suffered at his hands, and your own weapon. Silence’s reasoning, much different. He wants to inflict more pain upon you. More suffering. You and Non Compos Mentis shall fall at the hands of Silence and the World Champion, Grimm. You will be overwhelmed by Desolation and by Reticence, a flurry of nickname thunder that could possibly leave nothing but a lasting sting, as well as nothing to the imagination. Wait and see... and wait to hear... nothing but Silence...
Darkness and static, as they so often do, take over the surroundings. The Voice and Silence disappear into seemingly nothing, only to emerge at the monologue each man has grown to fear in the back of their own minds... Fallen, broken, simply dissolved...into an incomplete thought...
The distractions and sacrifices to be made in a career such as professional wrestling puts much on the shoulders of those brave enough to be involved, yet even the greatest of burdens could not keep Silence apart from his clockwork dreams.
But he was changing. He was becoming a different man. Confidence was welling up within him with each successful showing, each win, each Silencer, each Shadowplex. Every ounce of pain he inflicted added a droplet of confidence to his reservoir. Ralph noticed. Silence was beginning to notice. It may have been this increasing level of confidence and self-worth that brought about the dream. The dream unlike any he had dreamt before.
As sleep claimed him and he ventured to his realm beyond wake, he saw her. The face of his mother. Only the face of his mother, and she was speaking to him. Although he could not hear the words. He wanted to cry out to her. But no words left him. He wanted to hear her. But his ears heard nothing but silence. He wanted to reach out and touch her. His hands were not there. He was nothing. And within seconds, she was nothing. poof.
Up he went, straight up, fully expecting the abhorrent feelings of the Afterward. Yet it did not come. No cold sweat, no burning innards. No discomfort, none but the longing to hear what his mother was saying to him in the dream.
Silence glanced at the clock. Three thirty in the morn. As good a time as any for a stroll. He doubted he would get to sleep after that. Before he descended from his bed to the nighttime-cold floor, he closed his eyes. For a split second, he re-envisioned the face of his mother. His own sugarplum, in plenty of time for the holiday season. He saw her lips moving, she was speaking. But what was she saying? He prayed he would find out someday.
His dreadlocks were brushed aside, and he turned to the other one. Another legend. Al Laiman. He would also feel no remorse. As the head of Al Laiman crashed into the mat in a Silencer of cataclysmic proportions, the deafening roar of the crowd, fed by seething hatred for ruining this event for them all, fueled the adrenaline he still felt. He could have lifted a bus in that moment, high overhead, tossing it into the crowd, certain to cause destruction. Yet the destruction had already been laid. Pure Class Wrestling would know now. Silence did not play games. Silence did not show mercy. Silence did not have respect for anyone. That was the beginning. The beginning of an era of pain for Pure Class Wrestling. The exordium of Silence.
As the lights went out and he and Ralph disappeared to the back, his hands were shaking. The trembling extended from his elbows, down through to the tips of his fingers. If he was holding a drink, the contents would certainly meet the floor. He did not stop shaking until Ralph placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Silence. Are you alright?”
Silence turned to face Ralph, and as he looked into the eyes of his mentor, the shaking ceased. The grin returned. Ralph responded with a grin of his own, and they sat down in their new Pure Class Wrestling locker room. A pat on the back from Ralph assured Silence of his accomplishment, “let’s see them try to forget about that.”
They both knew it was very likely that it would never be forgotten. The monster who intruded on, to that point, possibly the greatest match in Pure Class Wrestling history. Monster that left in his wake the waste of two men who had fought to their own physical end. It was not even in that it would be challenging to commit what he did, but that it would have impact. Deep impact. A meteor breaking the atmosphere, and plummeting to the surface area of a planet. A hell of a lot of impact, indeed.
To think, that was the beginning. The end is also so much more satisfying. Silence and Ralph had much bigger plans in Pure Class Wrestling. Not just the World Championship, which was every man who stepped into the squared circle’s eventual goal; the ultimate test of one’s grit. They wanted to be remembered. As something dominant. Something fear-instilling. And they were succeeding.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Silence is an usher of sorts. The usher of a new age of pain for Pure Class Wrestling. A new age of destruction and dominance that shall not be equaled. Thankfully, he is not like another usher. The self-proclaimed Usher of Destruction. For then he would also earn the title of fool. Non Compos Mentis, Mark Twain once said: ‘It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.’ You, sir, have failed miserably.
A plain back backdrop and a face littered with rage are all that greets the eyes of the beholder. Lips unmoving, yet a stern and familiar voice punish the ears of those unworthy. Lighting shifts, revealing The Voice standing next to his beast, perfect postured and slightly annoyed.
Through your own speech, you have shown the foolhardiness of your own intelligence. For a man who claims a great education at every turn of the corner, you sure are lacking something resembling a brain. If you are truly trying to say that Silence has fallen at the hands of Gravedigger, when he has never been defeated by him, then I pray to the God I do not turn to that you make it through Trauma. Unfortunately for you, Silence does not show mercy. Not even for retards.
A pause for effect or self-reflection, the reasoning remains hidden in the mind of the man of many words. However, he does not leave things up for thought long, as he continues on his verbal rampage.
As for you, Gravedigger. Silence indeed is looking forward to meeting you once more, just as you must be itching for another shot to redeem yourself after the losses you suffered at his hands, and your own weapon. Silence’s reasoning, much different. He wants to inflict more pain upon you. More suffering. You and Non Compos Mentis shall fall at the hands of Silence and the World Champion, Grimm. You will be overwhelmed by Desolation and by Reticence, a flurry of nickname thunder that could possibly leave nothing but a lasting sting, as well as nothing to the imagination. Wait and see... and wait to hear... nothing but Silence...
Darkness and static, as they so often do, take over the surroundings. The Voice and Silence disappear into seemingly nothing, only to emerge at the monologue each man has grown to fear in the back of their own minds... Fallen, broken, simply dissolved...into an incomplete thought...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The distractions and sacrifices to be made in a career such as professional wrestling puts much on the shoulders of those brave enough to be involved, yet even the greatest of burdens could not keep Silence apart from his clockwork dreams.
But he was changing. He was becoming a different man. Confidence was welling up within him with each successful showing, each win, each Silencer, each Shadowplex. Every ounce of pain he inflicted added a droplet of confidence to his reservoir. Ralph noticed. Silence was beginning to notice. It may have been this increasing level of confidence and self-worth that brought about the dream. The dream unlike any he had dreamt before.
As sleep claimed him and he ventured to his realm beyond wake, he saw her. The face of his mother. Only the face of his mother, and she was speaking to him. Although he could not hear the words. He wanted to cry out to her. But no words left him. He wanted to hear her. But his ears heard nothing but silence. He wanted to reach out and touch her. His hands were not there. He was nothing. And within seconds, she was nothing. poof.
Up he went, straight up, fully expecting the abhorrent feelings of the Afterward. Yet it did not come. No cold sweat, no burning innards. No discomfort, none but the longing to hear what his mother was saying to him in the dream.
Silence glanced at the clock. Three thirty in the morn. As good a time as any for a stroll. He doubted he would get to sleep after that. Before he descended from his bed to the nighttime-cold floor, he closed his eyes. For a split second, he re-envisioned the face of his mother. His own sugarplum, in plenty of time for the holiday season. He saw her lips moving, she was speaking. But what was she saying? He prayed he would find out someday.