Post by Mr. Showtime on Mar 25, 2013 21:39:09 GMT -5
The eyes of “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght twitch under closed lids. The tips of his fingers tell him that he currently lies on a ring canvas, and from one hell of a shot. There’s an uproar! The crowd is enjoying something, which doesn’t bode well for Wryght. He can tell that there is movement around him, but his senses are dulled and he’s barely hanging onto consciousness.
Suddenly, his eyes pop open into bright spotlights, causing him to see spots. Looking away he finds himself sitting in the middle of a ring surrounded by a black abyss. He checks himself for damage as he rubs his vision into seeing order. Alone, he is looking into the nothing with nowhere to go. He has heard that dreams can lead one to his destiny. He’s also heard that they can lead one to his doom.
Over the past few weeks Showtime has been plagued by vivid dreams; the types that cause you to check your windows just to make sure everything is alright. Certainly he can tell this is just tonight’s expected visit. With nothing visible the ring becomes his restless prison. In a feeble attempt to get comfortable he begins to pace, which leads him to start bouncing off the ropes. Generally one can get a feel for the ring, but this one just does not feel right, making it all the worse.
Finally, in the distance, he notices a faint blue glow. He’s drawn quickly to the sign, and already he is diving out of the ring and breaking into a full run. He is anxious to see what lies ahead until suddenly he finds himself surrounded by terrifying blue flames. They erupt in a U-shape in front of him radiating not heat, but a chilling wind. He attempts to take a step back when the ground comes to life as ice turning up around his ankles. He’s trapped while looking up at a blue and black mist giving way to a judge’s bench towering over him. The mist dissipates and an oversized gavel crashes down on its sound block.
“Court is in session,” growls the judge, still demanding attention with his hammer of justice. Showtime cannot believe his eyes when he sees the scowl of “The Icemann” Luis Malave. Luis scrutinizes Wryght with an oversized eye until he is forced to break the silence.
“I thought you were in the islands?”
“Silence, Slug!” demands the Icemann. “The charge is grand treason! Are you ready to enter your plea? “
“Treason?” Showtime echoes. “You made your own bed when you went back on your word.”
“Let the record show that the defendant has entered a not guilty plea,” Luis dictates. “You came in, disguised as a friend, and when you didn’t get your way you overthrew me. You found the one person that could swing the shareholders. You found the one man willing to stoop to your level to orchestrate your own coup. You expected that since you were trying to buy the crowd’s support they wouldn’t notice your crimes. Obviously they have and you’re nothing more than a selfish brat getting his way.”
“It was you, Luis…”
“Silence, mutineer! We have no time for your creative reasoning,” bellows the judge and the ice around Showtime’s ankles tighten. A chant of “Guilty!” begins to rise up around them as the unforgiving grip of panic rises up inside Showtime’s chest. He tries to pull away from the ice but falls onto his ass.
The blue flames around them intensify and Luis leans in, “The masses have spoken, and they find you guilty!” His gavel erupts again as he fades into the back. His laugh booms from the shadows as Showtime catches a glimpse of something swinging. Again it is seen, but this time a bit closer. It’s a swinging ax with a blade forged from ice, and with each swing it inches closer to Showtime. Panic sets in as he furiously tries to rip his legs from their icy prison.
It comes one swipe from his toes and shatters his ankle coolers. Showtime is quick to roll backwards away from the danger. He races back to the ring with hopes that nothing is following. He can’t help but feel bad about how things went down. Luis and Showtime were truly friends and the politics of the business ruined that. Showtime’s vision of the future included Luis, but apparently it wasn’t to be.
On the opposite side of the abyss there glows a red ambient light. He steps towards it and slips down a chute that swirls him down. He picks up speed and sees flashes of half images race past him. The face of Ace Anderson laughs at him. Sean Rhodes pats the world title on his shoulder. Luis Malave pounds his gavel. His attention is drawn front and center to see the black and white outline of a man with long hair. His back is turned but his presence shoots chills down Showtime’s spine.
He slides through the colorless man and lands in a soft heap. There is a rancid smell in the air and Showtime finds himself in a landfill. He cups his hand over his nose and mouth, but with no effect. Slowly from the feet up, waste builds to materialize into the outline of a man. By the way that the figure carries himself, Showtime can tell that it is solidifying into some version of Sean Rhodes.
“Well if it isn’t the Trash-man,” sneers Showtime.
“Mikey,” Rhodes lets out a long groan. “Have you no shame?”
“None to show you.”
“Every man that has fought for the PCW World Title has earned it. They’ve battled their way to the top and fought tooth and nail to stay there. They are tournament, rumble and overall winners. They’ve all proven their worth and none of them were buyers. None needed to connive their way into a title match the way you have. In your world you think that money buys everything.”
“That’s where you are wrong,” corrects Showtime. “Money only opens the door and leads you to the path of success. It has to be you that takes advantage of a situation when it arises. You can drop the holier than thou act, because it is running thin. You may have made all the right moves in the ring to get yourself in this position, but it takes a personality to be the face of a promotion. A place like this doesn’t need a good wrestler as its champion. It needs a famous good wrestler; someone that the people know, and they all know me,”
“You don’t get it. It’s more than an achievement to own this title. This is the pinnacle of our sport. No other promotion can compare to Pure Class Wrestling; once you hit this echelon there is no going back. The problem is that you’re not good enough and you never were. Trapped in the midst of the mid-card, never showing you had what it took to be PCW’s best. You’ve been successful in other places, with lesser talents, but this is the big leagues.”
Showtime growls and looks away from his approaching apparition. Rhodes struck a nerve that stings exceptionally. After years of not living up to his potential, Showtime has always wondered if he was good enough compared to the other PCW legends. They all have that je ne sais quoi about them that sets them apart from the rest. It’s a taste that Showtime burns for.
Rhodes takes another step closer and collapses into a wave of green ooze. It comes crashing down on Showtime and whisks him away. He is completely engulfed as his lungs feel about to burst from oxygen deprivation. The liquid washes him up against the ring and he is left gasping for air. He tries to wipe away the slime, but finds himself completely dry.
His head is spinning when he notices a faint orange glow from across the abyss. He gets to his feet and checks himself again. Slowly he approaches as an uneasy feeling begins to creep over him. It’s the feeling that comes over him in the presence of one man. Showtime wouldn’t call it fear, though some may, but he would describe it more of a feeling of readiness. This is when his body tenses up and begins to take deeper breathes. His eyes focus to become a bit keener and his fingertips begin tingle. It’s the feeling he always receives when approached by Phinehas Grimm.
Showtime pushes forward and stumbles into a corn field. Ear after ear of corn smacks himself in the face as he finds himself in a maze of maize. While he pushes past stalk after endless stalk his feeling becomes overwhelming. It’s so heavy that his longtime rival could be felt breathing down Showtime’s neck. He glances over his shoulder to see the low hanging straw hat of a scarecrow. The black birds caw out and flee into the air as a light breeze dances through the grain.
The scarecrow reaches up and pulls the stick, which holds him up, out of his back. As if it were a staff, the scarecrow props himself up while his hat tips up ever so slightly. Showtime notices his eyes beginning to glow red, illuminating a beard of the same color.
“So does this make you the ghost of Christmas yet to come?” Showtime jests. “Sorry to say you aren’t the one that I have feared most of all.”
“It’s never been about fear with us,” replies the voice of Phinehas Grimm, taking a step forward. “It’s always the excitement of another epic clash. The ability for two men to go out there and put each other through more physical punishment than men should be able to withstand. Betrayals, tricks, and glass shards to the face have come between the two of us, nothing causing the other to back down. We’ve always met in situations like the coming storm. Fighting once again to see who can withstand the most pain. Without Phinehas Grimm, there is no Michael Wryght.”
“But without Michael Wryght, there is no Phinehas Grimm. It’s only fitting that we meet here.”
“Isn’t it? The problem for you is that this story has already been written. Nothing will change for you in PCW, because you will always fall short in my shadow. I have cursed you for your earlier misdeeds to make it my mission to keep you from the PCW glory. I’ve already had my hands on it twice, and it will be even sweeter as I claim it thrice at your expense.”
“No, Phinehas, this is my time. This game of ours has gone on long enough and it’s time that you step out of the way. All of our former battles have led up to this point to give me the experience I need to get past you; the annoying furry red hump that you are.”
Showtime can see the white of Scarecrow Grimm’s teeth as he grins. He slams down his walking stick and the blade of a sickle snaps out. Showtime is just quick enough to duck the first swipe and he could swear that the second took a few inches from the top. He rolls into a dense thicket of green stalks and scurries away from danger. Swipe after swipe of the sickle mows down corn with Showtime narrowly escaping each time before tumbling head first into a mine shaft cart.
The cart speeds away while Showtime turns himself right side up. He peers over the edge to see himself going deeper and deeper into the sweet smelling tunnel. Images flash around him of pictures that haunt his dreams. Finally the colorless man appears in front of him again. As it flaps in the darkness, it begins to enrich with color. The long hair beings to turn blue and the face is a fair shade of white. In the man’s hair he sees a slight point at the top of his ear and Showtime is devastated to realize that it is Lantlas. Showtime can hear him laughing as the cart comes to a sudden stop and is dumped over the side.
Showtime lands hard into the ring, finding his world turned completely upside down. The image of the Elven Warrior shames Showtime. It reminds him of the opportunity that he had once lost; an opportunity to unify the PCW World and International Titles. He had just finished his grueling series with Grimm and before he knew it he was thrust into a seemingly hopeless situation. He hadn’t been able to savor his capture of the International title which he’d spilled so much blood for, but he was given a chance for something greater.
In front of him was the opportunity to put a fashionable dent in arguably the greatest career in wrestling history. It was his chance to propel himself from lowly mid-carder to full-fledged main eventer. When that opportunity came what did Showtime do? He squandered it. He let the chance to taste greatness slip between his hands and proceeded to fall into a downward spiral of self-pity. It wasn’t fair, he claimed, but it couldn’t have been any fairer. He had proven himself to be one of the elite, but lost all credibility the moment he couldn’t continue to prove it.
“It wasn’t the end of the world, you know,” says a kind voice from behind Showtime. Showtime tries to glance over to see who it is, but the man stands shoulder to shoulder with Wryght. Wherever Showtime looks the man looks in the exact opposite direction.
However, Showtime knows that unmistakable voice and replies, “I figured I’d meet you here.”
“Great minds think alike,” he replies. Showtime finds himself standing back to back with himself. Maybe it’s to save the space time continuum, but Showtime is never able to get a true glance at himself. “You cannot let the shadows of your past cloud your future. You’re not the same man you were then. Last time, you were broken and bruised. You were only a shell of the man that you were and now you are even stronger.”
“Say what you will, but I have put myself in a must win situation. In the beginning, no one believed I deserved to be in this position. In time the critics may have silenced, but that will only continue if I win. Without a victory, I’m nothing more than a poser who bought his way to a chance at the championship. Only a movie star who returns when he has a big movie to promote; only getting this opportunity for the profitability factors. I’ve always been a wrestler first…”
“False,” declares the phantom Showtime. “You’ve always been a showman first. Something about your drive is fueled by the reaction of the crowd. Regardless if they love you or hate you, as long as you are garnering a strong reaction it propels you. Don’t forget that you turned down this road of villainy because that is what they wanted. You are their savior, preventing another boring main event. They desired someone to ignite the fire under your competitors and now you have a match full of emotion. You’re inside the heads of both Sean and Phinehas, so all you need to do is keep yours.”
“It is my time,” replies the real Showtime with his sly smile.
“Then what are you doing wasting your time here?” asks the phantom Showtime as the real one abruptly awakes. The sun is barely rising, but he has no intent to return to bed. It is time to get serious. It is Showtime!
Suddenly, his eyes pop open into bright spotlights, causing him to see spots. Looking away he finds himself sitting in the middle of a ring surrounded by a black abyss. He checks himself for damage as he rubs his vision into seeing order. Alone, he is looking into the nothing with nowhere to go. He has heard that dreams can lead one to his destiny. He’s also heard that they can lead one to his doom.
Over the past few weeks Showtime has been plagued by vivid dreams; the types that cause you to check your windows just to make sure everything is alright. Certainly he can tell this is just tonight’s expected visit. With nothing visible the ring becomes his restless prison. In a feeble attempt to get comfortable he begins to pace, which leads him to start bouncing off the ropes. Generally one can get a feel for the ring, but this one just does not feel right, making it all the worse.
Finally, in the distance, he notices a faint blue glow. He’s drawn quickly to the sign, and already he is diving out of the ring and breaking into a full run. He is anxious to see what lies ahead until suddenly he finds himself surrounded by terrifying blue flames. They erupt in a U-shape in front of him radiating not heat, but a chilling wind. He attempts to take a step back when the ground comes to life as ice turning up around his ankles. He’s trapped while looking up at a blue and black mist giving way to a judge’s bench towering over him. The mist dissipates and an oversized gavel crashes down on its sound block.
“Court is in session,” growls the judge, still demanding attention with his hammer of justice. Showtime cannot believe his eyes when he sees the scowl of “The Icemann” Luis Malave. Luis scrutinizes Wryght with an oversized eye until he is forced to break the silence.
“I thought you were in the islands?”
“Silence, Slug!” demands the Icemann. “The charge is grand treason! Are you ready to enter your plea? “
“Treason?” Showtime echoes. “You made your own bed when you went back on your word.”
“Let the record show that the defendant has entered a not guilty plea,” Luis dictates. “You came in, disguised as a friend, and when you didn’t get your way you overthrew me. You found the one person that could swing the shareholders. You found the one man willing to stoop to your level to orchestrate your own coup. You expected that since you were trying to buy the crowd’s support they wouldn’t notice your crimes. Obviously they have and you’re nothing more than a selfish brat getting his way.”
“It was you, Luis…”
“Silence, mutineer! We have no time for your creative reasoning,” bellows the judge and the ice around Showtime’s ankles tighten. A chant of “Guilty!” begins to rise up around them as the unforgiving grip of panic rises up inside Showtime’s chest. He tries to pull away from the ice but falls onto his ass.
The blue flames around them intensify and Luis leans in, “The masses have spoken, and they find you guilty!” His gavel erupts again as he fades into the back. His laugh booms from the shadows as Showtime catches a glimpse of something swinging. Again it is seen, but this time a bit closer. It’s a swinging ax with a blade forged from ice, and with each swing it inches closer to Showtime. Panic sets in as he furiously tries to rip his legs from their icy prison.
It comes one swipe from his toes and shatters his ankle coolers. Showtime is quick to roll backwards away from the danger. He races back to the ring with hopes that nothing is following. He can’t help but feel bad about how things went down. Luis and Showtime were truly friends and the politics of the business ruined that. Showtime’s vision of the future included Luis, but apparently it wasn’t to be.
On the opposite side of the abyss there glows a red ambient light. He steps towards it and slips down a chute that swirls him down. He picks up speed and sees flashes of half images race past him. The face of Ace Anderson laughs at him. Sean Rhodes pats the world title on his shoulder. Luis Malave pounds his gavel. His attention is drawn front and center to see the black and white outline of a man with long hair. His back is turned but his presence shoots chills down Showtime’s spine.
He slides through the colorless man and lands in a soft heap. There is a rancid smell in the air and Showtime finds himself in a landfill. He cups his hand over his nose and mouth, but with no effect. Slowly from the feet up, waste builds to materialize into the outline of a man. By the way that the figure carries himself, Showtime can tell that it is solidifying into some version of Sean Rhodes.
“Well if it isn’t the Trash-man,” sneers Showtime.
“Mikey,” Rhodes lets out a long groan. “Have you no shame?”
“None to show you.”
“Every man that has fought for the PCW World Title has earned it. They’ve battled their way to the top and fought tooth and nail to stay there. They are tournament, rumble and overall winners. They’ve all proven their worth and none of them were buyers. None needed to connive their way into a title match the way you have. In your world you think that money buys everything.”
“That’s where you are wrong,” corrects Showtime. “Money only opens the door and leads you to the path of success. It has to be you that takes advantage of a situation when it arises. You can drop the holier than thou act, because it is running thin. You may have made all the right moves in the ring to get yourself in this position, but it takes a personality to be the face of a promotion. A place like this doesn’t need a good wrestler as its champion. It needs a famous good wrestler; someone that the people know, and they all know me,”
“You don’t get it. It’s more than an achievement to own this title. This is the pinnacle of our sport. No other promotion can compare to Pure Class Wrestling; once you hit this echelon there is no going back. The problem is that you’re not good enough and you never were. Trapped in the midst of the mid-card, never showing you had what it took to be PCW’s best. You’ve been successful in other places, with lesser talents, but this is the big leagues.”
Showtime growls and looks away from his approaching apparition. Rhodes struck a nerve that stings exceptionally. After years of not living up to his potential, Showtime has always wondered if he was good enough compared to the other PCW legends. They all have that je ne sais quoi about them that sets them apart from the rest. It’s a taste that Showtime burns for.
Rhodes takes another step closer and collapses into a wave of green ooze. It comes crashing down on Showtime and whisks him away. He is completely engulfed as his lungs feel about to burst from oxygen deprivation. The liquid washes him up against the ring and he is left gasping for air. He tries to wipe away the slime, but finds himself completely dry.
His head is spinning when he notices a faint orange glow from across the abyss. He gets to his feet and checks himself again. Slowly he approaches as an uneasy feeling begins to creep over him. It’s the feeling that comes over him in the presence of one man. Showtime wouldn’t call it fear, though some may, but he would describe it more of a feeling of readiness. This is when his body tenses up and begins to take deeper breathes. His eyes focus to become a bit keener and his fingertips begin tingle. It’s the feeling he always receives when approached by Phinehas Grimm.
Showtime pushes forward and stumbles into a corn field. Ear after ear of corn smacks himself in the face as he finds himself in a maze of maize. While he pushes past stalk after endless stalk his feeling becomes overwhelming. It’s so heavy that his longtime rival could be felt breathing down Showtime’s neck. He glances over his shoulder to see the low hanging straw hat of a scarecrow. The black birds caw out and flee into the air as a light breeze dances through the grain.
The scarecrow reaches up and pulls the stick, which holds him up, out of his back. As if it were a staff, the scarecrow props himself up while his hat tips up ever so slightly. Showtime notices his eyes beginning to glow red, illuminating a beard of the same color.
“So does this make you the ghost of Christmas yet to come?” Showtime jests. “Sorry to say you aren’t the one that I have feared most of all.”
“It’s never been about fear with us,” replies the voice of Phinehas Grimm, taking a step forward. “It’s always the excitement of another epic clash. The ability for two men to go out there and put each other through more physical punishment than men should be able to withstand. Betrayals, tricks, and glass shards to the face have come between the two of us, nothing causing the other to back down. We’ve always met in situations like the coming storm. Fighting once again to see who can withstand the most pain. Without Phinehas Grimm, there is no Michael Wryght.”
“But without Michael Wryght, there is no Phinehas Grimm. It’s only fitting that we meet here.”
“Isn’t it? The problem for you is that this story has already been written. Nothing will change for you in PCW, because you will always fall short in my shadow. I have cursed you for your earlier misdeeds to make it my mission to keep you from the PCW glory. I’ve already had my hands on it twice, and it will be even sweeter as I claim it thrice at your expense.”
“No, Phinehas, this is my time. This game of ours has gone on long enough and it’s time that you step out of the way. All of our former battles have led up to this point to give me the experience I need to get past you; the annoying furry red hump that you are.”
Showtime can see the white of Scarecrow Grimm’s teeth as he grins. He slams down his walking stick and the blade of a sickle snaps out. Showtime is just quick enough to duck the first swipe and he could swear that the second took a few inches from the top. He rolls into a dense thicket of green stalks and scurries away from danger. Swipe after swipe of the sickle mows down corn with Showtime narrowly escaping each time before tumbling head first into a mine shaft cart.
The cart speeds away while Showtime turns himself right side up. He peers over the edge to see himself going deeper and deeper into the sweet smelling tunnel. Images flash around him of pictures that haunt his dreams. Finally the colorless man appears in front of him again. As it flaps in the darkness, it begins to enrich with color. The long hair beings to turn blue and the face is a fair shade of white. In the man’s hair he sees a slight point at the top of his ear and Showtime is devastated to realize that it is Lantlas. Showtime can hear him laughing as the cart comes to a sudden stop and is dumped over the side.
Showtime lands hard into the ring, finding his world turned completely upside down. The image of the Elven Warrior shames Showtime. It reminds him of the opportunity that he had once lost; an opportunity to unify the PCW World and International Titles. He had just finished his grueling series with Grimm and before he knew it he was thrust into a seemingly hopeless situation. He hadn’t been able to savor his capture of the International title which he’d spilled so much blood for, but he was given a chance for something greater.
In front of him was the opportunity to put a fashionable dent in arguably the greatest career in wrestling history. It was his chance to propel himself from lowly mid-carder to full-fledged main eventer. When that opportunity came what did Showtime do? He squandered it. He let the chance to taste greatness slip between his hands and proceeded to fall into a downward spiral of self-pity. It wasn’t fair, he claimed, but it couldn’t have been any fairer. He had proven himself to be one of the elite, but lost all credibility the moment he couldn’t continue to prove it.
“It wasn’t the end of the world, you know,” says a kind voice from behind Showtime. Showtime tries to glance over to see who it is, but the man stands shoulder to shoulder with Wryght. Wherever Showtime looks the man looks in the exact opposite direction.
However, Showtime knows that unmistakable voice and replies, “I figured I’d meet you here.”
“Great minds think alike,” he replies. Showtime finds himself standing back to back with himself. Maybe it’s to save the space time continuum, but Showtime is never able to get a true glance at himself. “You cannot let the shadows of your past cloud your future. You’re not the same man you were then. Last time, you were broken and bruised. You were only a shell of the man that you were and now you are even stronger.”
“Say what you will, but I have put myself in a must win situation. In the beginning, no one believed I deserved to be in this position. In time the critics may have silenced, but that will only continue if I win. Without a victory, I’m nothing more than a poser who bought his way to a chance at the championship. Only a movie star who returns when he has a big movie to promote; only getting this opportunity for the profitability factors. I’ve always been a wrestler first…”
“False,” declares the phantom Showtime. “You’ve always been a showman first. Something about your drive is fueled by the reaction of the crowd. Regardless if they love you or hate you, as long as you are garnering a strong reaction it propels you. Don’t forget that you turned down this road of villainy because that is what they wanted. You are their savior, preventing another boring main event. They desired someone to ignite the fire under your competitors and now you have a match full of emotion. You’re inside the heads of both Sean and Phinehas, so all you need to do is keep yours.”
“It is my time,” replies the real Showtime with his sly smile.
“Then what are you doing wasting your time here?” asks the phantom Showtime as the real one abruptly awakes. The sun is barely rising, but he has no intent to return to bed. It is time to get serious. It is Showtime!
