Post by Deleted on Mar 25, 2014 16:33:39 GMT -5
[I'm posting this mostly to give you kids a look at Schon, so you can begin getting that creepy tingle up your spine sooner rather than later. 
Any feedback is welcomed as long as it's honest. Thanks!]
"Why am I still in Philadelphia?"
This is a question he has asked himself countless times since he successfully managed to deliver the death knell to Kyle Cross's most recent endeavor. The answer of course is simple. He's still here because his benefactor told him to be here. Of course. That was months ago, now. Almost immediately after LWA had ceased operations. And he'd heard nothing since. But still, he did his due diligence, even though there were myriad other things he'd rather be occupying himself with. Spending some of the loads of money his benefactor had heaped upon him in reward for his part in foiling Cross yet again would be a fine p[lace to start as far as he was concerned. But no. "Keep a low profile," his benefactor had told him. "You'll hear from me when I need you. Be ready."
Months ago. He'd been left hanging ever since. Choking on the very pedestrianism of this God-forsaken city. Oh, sure, Philadelphia was indeed a city of grandeur, if you knew where to look for it. On it's face, though....he'd found Philadelphia to be especially dirty. 'Dirty' might not be wholly accurate, but there simply was no better word for it. Then, at the turn of the year, he'd heard the rumblings about eWo opening back up, and thought surely his benefactor would call on him to do something there. Surely. But rumors seemed to beget only more rumors and eWo still hadn't made any announcement midway through the month. And of course, still no call. It galled him to be stuck with nothing to do but keep an eye on Jack Darling on the off-chance his benefactor might want it done.
Doing so without being discovered by anyone close to Darling could have been difficult, had he not had the savvy that one of his particular nature seemed to always possess. Not that he'd learned much of value. He'd documented what he had gleaned, and put it away for future use, should it prove necessary. But the waiting, as someone once said, truly had proved to be the hardest part. Hard? No. Infuriating. Mind-numbingly boring. Normal. That may have been the most irritating part; having to abstain from most of his regular activities to keep Darling from discovering him operating in 'his town'.
Darling had stated on more than one occasion how much he'd like to see his entrails loosely scattered over so much pavement. He sincerely doubted that the "Professional Bastard" had either the capability or the fortitude to see such a thing done personally, but a man with as much money as Jack Darling was bound to know someone who knew someone who several someone's who would be more than willing to accommodate most any wish, provided the recompense was generous enough. He himself had been one of those "someone's" on several occasions. But his benefactor wouldn't care about any hazards to him, not as long as something needed doing. Scott Free had been all too willing to let everyone believe that he had masterminded the kidnapping of Darling's daughter, something he likely regretted when he fell from that cage in Germany. Darling had assaulted Free with all the righteous anger that a father who loved his daughter could muster in that match, once his darling Rosalyn had been produced by Hunter Hartmann. Not that it mattered. His benefactor always preferred anonymity until it was time to be seen, anyway. The fact that he had concocted the plan to whisk the lass away, and contacted Free about it would only have served to rile Darling in directions that were not productive to the overall plan, had he been aware beforehand. Free was supposed to be around to see the end of it, but then, not even eWo was around for the true end.....and in reflection, that in itself had prevented the true end from occurring, even though the objective itself was achieved.
And if more than a handful of people were aware of that particular gem, he'd eat someone else's hat. No one would recall it now, though. eWo had finally risen from the ashes of it's most recent demise. It seemed that every voice that could muster sound was rejoicing at the return of Epic Wrestling of late. Ever since Cody Clark had seen fit to admit the rumors were indeed true, the fans, critics and even wrestlers themselves had hailed the return as a boon of biblical proportions. Kelly Godless sprung to mind at the thought, for some reason. So, he'd bit. He'd agreed to appear at the first edition of Violence with no contract. Those details could be worked out later, after all. For now, he was still doing his due diligence.
The young man bound to the wooden chair in front of him did not look scared. His name was Savio Sanchez, and he was either hopped up on something, or he was too stupid to live. Sweat poured down his face, despite the frigid temperatures outside. And though the warehouse Ruby had selected for this little endeavor provided some protection from the elements, it was not climate controlled. His own breath misted in front of him each time he spoke.
"We know your little group of derelicts works the area in question, Savio. I tire of this, really. I'd rather be sitting in front of a fire with a nice brandy. Simply tell me what I want to know, and we can all go home, safe and sound. Promise."
"Fuck you. Unlike you, I value my life, and-"
It had gone back and forth like this for nearly forty minutes.
"Enough!"
He stepped toward the bound man, and leaned in close to his face.
"Obviously, you value no such thing, Savio. If you did, we'd be done here already. Don't worry about what might happen to you at some point down the road, hey? Worry about what most assuredly will occur if you do not give me what I want."
Savio chose that particular moment to expectorate at him, blanketing much of his face in spittle. The smile that crossed his face in return never reached his eyes. Savio looked mortified. He wiped the spit from his face, and looked at his fingers. A day-long soak in his whirlpool would not be enough to convince him he'd removed the filth hr now felt infested with. Dirty Sanchez, indeed. Savio tried to pull back as his saliva covered fingers reached in close, and put the fluid back where it came from with prejudice. Savio gagged from the abuse his throat had taken. It likely wasn't the first time. He nodded to Ruby, and she produced a very rusty looking pair of pliers from a satchel. Savio spied her with a mixture of contempt and mortification. Ruby moved behind the young man, all the while with him twitching and trying to look back to see what she was up to.
"Relax, Savio," he said calmly. "This is going to hurt, but it will be over more quickly if you don't resist."
Ruby then applied the pliers to one of Savio's fingernails, propped her foot against the back of the chair, and yanked before the youth could react. Savio's eyes went wide and he inhaled sharply, freezing there for a small moment. Then he screamed the scream of someone who was not only in immense pain, but someone who was just realizing the true situation he was in. Fear battled pain in his voice as the scream stretched. Blood dripped from the tip of his finger behind the chair. Finally, Savio ran out of breath. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he paled visibly as he muttered quietly in Spanish.
"What's that, Savio? Are you ready to cooperate now? It didn't have to be this way, my friend. And it need not be anything more. Just tell me what you know, and all of this will end."
Spittle dribbled from Savio's mouth as he tried to form words. He actually was managing to speak, but everything was coming out Spanish at this point. Luckily, Ruby had a working knowledge of the language.
"He says he needs a doctor. He wants you to promise he'll get to one before he tells you anything."
He nodded. Then, he placed a hand carefully on Savio's shoulder.
"You have my word, friend. We'll drop you at the nearest hospital as soon as you tell us what we want to know."
Savio relaxed.
"Th-the girl....no one has seen her there for a long time, m-man. He comes and goes a lot. Stays gone for days at a time, sometimes longer. He's gone now, we don't know where, or when he'll be back. Oh, FUCK this hurts, man!"
His breath was ragged, as if someone had just saved him from drowning and he was trying to catch his breath.
"Keep going, Savio. We'll get done more quickly. Focus, man."
Savio nodded, then continued.
"We steer clear of his area when he's around, man. When he's gone, we can do what we like, but he's a dick about his 'hood, man. When he's around we stay away. But yeah, man, the girl.....I think she ain't coming back no more, man."
He smiled. Again, it wasn't genuine, but it was was closer to it this time. Ruby returned the pliers to the satchel, and tossed it over her shoulder, then departed to start the car.
"See? That wasn't so hard, hey?"
He pulled the cell phone he'd taken off of Savio out of his pocket, and laid it on his lap.
"I have to be going now, Savio. You've been most helpful. You have my thanks."
Savio looked bewildered.
"W-what? you promised to get me to a doctor, man!"
He was already walking away.
"I believe the number is 9-1-1. Good luck. Ruby ties excellent knots."
And that was something he could personally attest to. Perhaps he'd let her tie some more, later. Savio was cursing him in Spanish as he disappeared through the door.
So, it's finally happening. Again. What is this now, Clark....the fourth time you've opened eWo's doors? Bah, I hear you're sensitive, lately. I won't antagonize you further. For now. At any rate, Epic Wrestling is back, hey?!? People seem so excited about it. I must admit, I'm a tad aroused myself, professionally speaking of course. I've spent years carving up one victim after another in one dark hole after another for one master or another, to one end or another, but now......finally.....my mission is mine alone. There's something succinctly satisfying about that. Personally, I'm very pleased to be out of Philadelphia. Living like a rat to make sure Jack Darling didn't discover my presence chafed unlike any bond ever could. By the way, Jack, hi. I know you loathe my very existence, but that and four dollars will get you a cup of Starbucks, hey? You going to send your cronies after me, in some vain attempt at reprisal for what you've been led to believe happened nearly two years ago now?
Let me make something very clear to you, Jack. As you are so fond of instructing people to do, I know my place. And I know yours. You are in the position to quickly become the face of eWo. Your name carries the weight to make you an immediate impact player, thus your place in a match against Kyle Cross and Anthony Johns on Violence's return episode. Whomever of you three emerges victorious from that fracas will likely become favored to be the very first fourth-era champion of this company. And thus, the face of the company.
Now, my place is somewhere much darker than that, Jack. It's a dirty place where people don't leave the same way they came in. I'm sure you've heard that I enjoy the sight of blood. Mine, that of others, it really doesn't matter. I enjoy it immensely. In short, I'm perfectly content to carve up the bottom feeders eWo sends my way, while you bask in whatever glory you can garner for yourself. Any instinct in you to forget your place, as it were, to descend into the bowels of perdition for your perceived pound of flesh, and face of the company or not, you may not have a face at all. And no, my friend, that's not a threat. People in my 'place' don't bother with idle threats. But, I'm sure you're entirely too busy this week to even notice one such as me, hey? After all, Anthony Johns and Kyle Cross will be looking to shut your mouth as completely as you did Scott Free in Germany. Well perhaps not that completely, but you get the idea.
Speaking of my friend Kyle Cross...you know Cross, for someone who has garnered such a following of the masses, it seems you would need to be a lot more honest, at least with yourself. I do believe I heard you utter something to the effect that you were only a wrestler and nothing else. I assume the Kyle Cross who operated that company I practically single-handedly sabotaged last year was what....a doppelganger? A clone? An impostor? Running that little endeavor made you what? A promoter, that's what. A little lie, perhaps, or what the Americans refer to as a brain fart? Really, I get your point, Cross. You literally live for this business we all take part in. Be wary, however, that every single word you utter is subject to dissemination, and can be looked at in a myriad of ways by anyone with the perception to notice the cracks and crevices in what you say. You, regardless of what status you may attain beginning this week, I hope to see in the ring at some point.
Why, you ask? After all, you're a legend of this business. You've done it all, beat everyone not named Scott Free at LEAST once, achieved everything except the eWo Hall of Fame, and one would have to be crazy to actually WANT to meet you in the ring, hey? And you would assume that anyone who wanted to make your acquaintance inside the ring would simply be out for glory, right? Someone just trying to make a name at your expense, yes? But I think you're smart enough to know that glory is not something I seek.
Want to know why, really? Because it would be SO much fun to make someone bleed who really doesn't mind it. To make you bleed until you DO mind it. To tear away at someone who truly does give as good as they get. To leave you lying in our commingled blood, bits of flesh, a digit or two....I think I'd have to retire for lack of being able to achieve anything as satisfying. And if you think I can't do exactly that, Cross, well perhaps you should take a close look at what I'm going to do to James Dean this week. Because I know you, Cross. Thanks to my benefactor, I'm intimately aware of what is required to take you down. See, you're a man of rules, Cross, and that fact alone aided in shutting LWA down. You adhere to order, and shun chaos, because order, you can control, but chaos is unpredictable, uncontrollable. My benefactor relayed to me that creating chaos at every turn would make you lose your taste for it, and in the end, regardless of what you may say to the contrary, that's exactly what I did. I sowed chaos like Christians sow fear and hatred. And away LWA went. I'm sure Anthony Johns and Jack Darling are going to curse me for that before too long. After all, if not for me, you likely would still be operating LWA, and not in the ring with them. Tough luck, gentlemen. But I have digressed quite enough for the nonce. I have an opponent of my own to disassemble.
James Dean. Oh my, how lovely. Seems we've got a date this coming Tuesday, James. And you know what happens on a date, I presume. We're going to dance, my little caffer friend. My apologies. That was incredibly rude. I really don't have anything against blacks, hey? All men being born equal, and all. I'm sure that somewhere, deep down, you're an intelligent young man with plenty of skill in the ring, and even more to offer the world in general, James. When you're not busy selling drugs or driving your supposed best friend to suicide, that is. You know, I wonder... how's your budding relationship with the Linette girl working out? Oh, is that a touchy subject, James? Tell me, have you ever met anyone who acrtually got to know you and wanted to keep being around you? And no, I'm not referring to those women you pay for sex. Paying for it doesn't count, you know.
I realize that you likely don't know a great deal about me, James, but I've seen quite a bit about you. Mostly involving you looking at the pretty lights for three seconds or so. I'm curious, James. Have you ever defeated an opponent of any real caliber? Aside from exploits only captured on the cellphone of fish market passersby, that is. You may be wondering who I can lay claim to having bested. No one, really. But then, I've already stated that glory is not my game. Glory is for those who fancy themselves as 'pretty', 'powerful', or 'great'. Are you one of those, James? You don't really strike me as one of my ilk. I doubt you'd have the stomach for it, truly. I read somewhere on the internet that you had a rough childhood. Don't know how true any of it was, and it doesn't really matter if you grew up in a mansion or on some city's mean streets. Those street thug-types always think they know what toughness is, hey? They think that being able to pull a trigger and put some poor lout out of the world's misery without losing any sleep over it makes them 'hard'. Start pulling their fingernails out, then drive a nice tenpenny nail into where the fingernails used to be, and you'll see if they're truly tough or not. So, James, if you think you're some kind of 'thug tough', or some street messiah, I promise you that you have not seen the likes of me, friend. And once you're introduced to what it is that I am, you will regret it to whatever resides at the center of your being.
I'm not a man obsessed with wins, losses, title belts or any of the fluff that goes along with this business, James. In case I haven't given you enough hints, I really prefer to see how much damage I can inflict on body and mind before making my opponents bleed to as near death as is legally allowable. I understand that in Toronto, that limit is quite liberal. It's quite fun. For me, anyway. I consider it to be art, really. Or, as near to art as people in our profession are capable of producing.
So, James, the question for you this week isn't whether or not you're prepared to do whatever it will take to win our match. The question for you is whether or not I'm going to allow you to leave walking. Because win, lose or draw, James, I'm going to pull something out of you that you didn't think was even possible. I'm going to use you to create my very first work of art in eWo. Will it be a masterpiece? Not likely, hey? I simply don't think you possess enough moxie to keep it entertaining long enough to qualify. Perhaps that will work out better for you. The quicker I get bored, the more likely I am to end your suffering before it costs you something precious.
Regardless of how you enter the ring this week, James, you will be leaving minus some self-respect, some confidence in your abilities to do this, and of course, some blood.
Oh yes, there will be blood.
And there will be pain. How much of it can you stand, James? How much can you tolerate before you tell the referee you've had enough? How much can you take before you decide to hunt down the whore that birthed you and kill her for it? Believe me, friend, not only can I take whatever you can dish out, I will relish in it, then show you how irrelevant your efforts have been. They may have billed our encounter as a wrestling match, James, but that's not what you're in for this week. This week, you're invited to a true blue bloodbath.
I'll see you in Toronto, James, but you might not want to be seen by anyone afterwards.
Rob a blood bank.
You're going to need it.
Any feedback is welcomed as long as it's honest. Thanks!]"Why am I still in Philadelphia?"
This is a question he has asked himself countless times since he successfully managed to deliver the death knell to Kyle Cross's most recent endeavor. The answer of course is simple. He's still here because his benefactor told him to be here. Of course. That was months ago, now. Almost immediately after LWA had ceased operations. And he'd heard nothing since. But still, he did his due diligence, even though there were myriad other things he'd rather be occupying himself with. Spending some of the loads of money his benefactor had heaped upon him in reward for his part in foiling Cross yet again would be a fine p[lace to start as far as he was concerned. But no. "Keep a low profile," his benefactor had told him. "You'll hear from me when I need you. Be ready."
Months ago. He'd been left hanging ever since. Choking on the very pedestrianism of this God-forsaken city. Oh, sure, Philadelphia was indeed a city of grandeur, if you knew where to look for it. On it's face, though....he'd found Philadelphia to be especially dirty. 'Dirty' might not be wholly accurate, but there simply was no better word for it. Then, at the turn of the year, he'd heard the rumblings about eWo opening back up, and thought surely his benefactor would call on him to do something there. Surely. But rumors seemed to beget only more rumors and eWo still hadn't made any announcement midway through the month. And of course, still no call. It galled him to be stuck with nothing to do but keep an eye on Jack Darling on the off-chance his benefactor might want it done.
Doing so without being discovered by anyone close to Darling could have been difficult, had he not had the savvy that one of his particular nature seemed to always possess. Not that he'd learned much of value. He'd documented what he had gleaned, and put it away for future use, should it prove necessary. But the waiting, as someone once said, truly had proved to be the hardest part. Hard? No. Infuriating. Mind-numbingly boring. Normal. That may have been the most irritating part; having to abstain from most of his regular activities to keep Darling from discovering him operating in 'his town'.
Darling had stated on more than one occasion how much he'd like to see his entrails loosely scattered over so much pavement. He sincerely doubted that the "Professional Bastard" had either the capability or the fortitude to see such a thing done personally, but a man with as much money as Jack Darling was bound to know someone who knew someone who several someone's who would be more than willing to accommodate most any wish, provided the recompense was generous enough. He himself had been one of those "someone's" on several occasions. But his benefactor wouldn't care about any hazards to him, not as long as something needed doing. Scott Free had been all too willing to let everyone believe that he had masterminded the kidnapping of Darling's daughter, something he likely regretted when he fell from that cage in Germany. Darling had assaulted Free with all the righteous anger that a father who loved his daughter could muster in that match, once his darling Rosalyn had been produced by Hunter Hartmann. Not that it mattered. His benefactor always preferred anonymity until it was time to be seen, anyway. The fact that he had concocted the plan to whisk the lass away, and contacted Free about it would only have served to rile Darling in directions that were not productive to the overall plan, had he been aware beforehand. Free was supposed to be around to see the end of it, but then, not even eWo was around for the true end.....and in reflection, that in itself had prevented the true end from occurring, even though the objective itself was achieved.
And if more than a handful of people were aware of that particular gem, he'd eat someone else's hat. No one would recall it now, though. eWo had finally risen from the ashes of it's most recent demise. It seemed that every voice that could muster sound was rejoicing at the return of Epic Wrestling of late. Ever since Cody Clark had seen fit to admit the rumors were indeed true, the fans, critics and even wrestlers themselves had hailed the return as a boon of biblical proportions. Kelly Godless sprung to mind at the thought, for some reason. So, he'd bit. He'd agreed to appear at the first edition of Violence with no contract. Those details could be worked out later, after all. For now, he was still doing his due diligence.
The young man bound to the wooden chair in front of him did not look scared. His name was Savio Sanchez, and he was either hopped up on something, or he was too stupid to live. Sweat poured down his face, despite the frigid temperatures outside. And though the warehouse Ruby had selected for this little endeavor provided some protection from the elements, it was not climate controlled. His own breath misted in front of him each time he spoke.
"We know your little group of derelicts works the area in question, Savio. I tire of this, really. I'd rather be sitting in front of a fire with a nice brandy. Simply tell me what I want to know, and we can all go home, safe and sound. Promise."
"Fuck you. Unlike you, I value my life, and-"
It had gone back and forth like this for nearly forty minutes.
"Enough!"
He stepped toward the bound man, and leaned in close to his face.
"Obviously, you value no such thing, Savio. If you did, we'd be done here already. Don't worry about what might happen to you at some point down the road, hey? Worry about what most assuredly will occur if you do not give me what I want."
Savio chose that particular moment to expectorate at him, blanketing much of his face in spittle. The smile that crossed his face in return never reached his eyes. Savio looked mortified. He wiped the spit from his face, and looked at his fingers. A day-long soak in his whirlpool would not be enough to convince him he'd removed the filth hr now felt infested with. Dirty Sanchez, indeed. Savio tried to pull back as his saliva covered fingers reached in close, and put the fluid back where it came from with prejudice. Savio gagged from the abuse his throat had taken. It likely wasn't the first time. He nodded to Ruby, and she produced a very rusty looking pair of pliers from a satchel. Savio spied her with a mixture of contempt and mortification. Ruby moved behind the young man, all the while with him twitching and trying to look back to see what she was up to.
"Relax, Savio," he said calmly. "This is going to hurt, but it will be over more quickly if you don't resist."
Ruby then applied the pliers to one of Savio's fingernails, propped her foot against the back of the chair, and yanked before the youth could react. Savio's eyes went wide and he inhaled sharply, freezing there for a small moment. Then he screamed the scream of someone who was not only in immense pain, but someone who was just realizing the true situation he was in. Fear battled pain in his voice as the scream stretched. Blood dripped from the tip of his finger behind the chair. Finally, Savio ran out of breath. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he paled visibly as he muttered quietly in Spanish.
"What's that, Savio? Are you ready to cooperate now? It didn't have to be this way, my friend. And it need not be anything more. Just tell me what you know, and all of this will end."
Spittle dribbled from Savio's mouth as he tried to form words. He actually was managing to speak, but everything was coming out Spanish at this point. Luckily, Ruby had a working knowledge of the language.
"He says he needs a doctor. He wants you to promise he'll get to one before he tells you anything."
He nodded. Then, he placed a hand carefully on Savio's shoulder.
"You have my word, friend. We'll drop you at the nearest hospital as soon as you tell us what we want to know."
Savio relaxed.
"Th-the girl....no one has seen her there for a long time, m-man. He comes and goes a lot. Stays gone for days at a time, sometimes longer. He's gone now, we don't know where, or when he'll be back. Oh, FUCK this hurts, man!"
His breath was ragged, as if someone had just saved him from drowning and he was trying to catch his breath.
"Keep going, Savio. We'll get done more quickly. Focus, man."
Savio nodded, then continued.
"We steer clear of his area when he's around, man. When he's gone, we can do what we like, but he's a dick about his 'hood, man. When he's around we stay away. But yeah, man, the girl.....I think she ain't coming back no more, man."
He smiled. Again, it wasn't genuine, but it was was closer to it this time. Ruby returned the pliers to the satchel, and tossed it over her shoulder, then departed to start the car.
"See? That wasn't so hard, hey?"
He pulled the cell phone he'd taken off of Savio out of his pocket, and laid it on his lap.
"I have to be going now, Savio. You've been most helpful. You have my thanks."
Savio looked bewildered.
"W-what? you promised to get me to a doctor, man!"
He was already walking away.
"I believe the number is 9-1-1. Good luck. Ruby ties excellent knots."
And that was something he could personally attest to. Perhaps he'd let her tie some more, later. Savio was cursing him in Spanish as he disappeared through the door.
***
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So, it's finally happening. Again. What is this now, Clark....the fourth time you've opened eWo's doors? Bah, I hear you're sensitive, lately. I won't antagonize you further. For now. At any rate, Epic Wrestling is back, hey?!? People seem so excited about it. I must admit, I'm a tad aroused myself, professionally speaking of course. I've spent years carving up one victim after another in one dark hole after another for one master or another, to one end or another, but now......finally.....my mission is mine alone. There's something succinctly satisfying about that. Personally, I'm very pleased to be out of Philadelphia. Living like a rat to make sure Jack Darling didn't discover my presence chafed unlike any bond ever could. By the way, Jack, hi. I know you loathe my very existence, but that and four dollars will get you a cup of Starbucks, hey? You going to send your cronies after me, in some vain attempt at reprisal for what you've been led to believe happened nearly two years ago now?
Let me make something very clear to you, Jack. As you are so fond of instructing people to do, I know my place. And I know yours. You are in the position to quickly become the face of eWo. Your name carries the weight to make you an immediate impact player, thus your place in a match against Kyle Cross and Anthony Johns on Violence's return episode. Whomever of you three emerges victorious from that fracas will likely become favored to be the very first fourth-era champion of this company. And thus, the face of the company.
Now, my place is somewhere much darker than that, Jack. It's a dirty place where people don't leave the same way they came in. I'm sure you've heard that I enjoy the sight of blood. Mine, that of others, it really doesn't matter. I enjoy it immensely. In short, I'm perfectly content to carve up the bottom feeders eWo sends my way, while you bask in whatever glory you can garner for yourself. Any instinct in you to forget your place, as it were, to descend into the bowels of perdition for your perceived pound of flesh, and face of the company or not, you may not have a face at all. And no, my friend, that's not a threat. People in my 'place' don't bother with idle threats. But, I'm sure you're entirely too busy this week to even notice one such as me, hey? After all, Anthony Johns and Kyle Cross will be looking to shut your mouth as completely as you did Scott Free in Germany. Well perhaps not that completely, but you get the idea.
Speaking of my friend Kyle Cross...you know Cross, for someone who has garnered such a following of the masses, it seems you would need to be a lot more honest, at least with yourself. I do believe I heard you utter something to the effect that you were only a wrestler and nothing else. I assume the Kyle Cross who operated that company I practically single-handedly sabotaged last year was what....a doppelganger? A clone? An impostor? Running that little endeavor made you what? A promoter, that's what. A little lie, perhaps, or what the Americans refer to as a brain fart? Really, I get your point, Cross. You literally live for this business we all take part in. Be wary, however, that every single word you utter is subject to dissemination, and can be looked at in a myriad of ways by anyone with the perception to notice the cracks and crevices in what you say. You, regardless of what status you may attain beginning this week, I hope to see in the ring at some point.
Why, you ask? After all, you're a legend of this business. You've done it all, beat everyone not named Scott Free at LEAST once, achieved everything except the eWo Hall of Fame, and one would have to be crazy to actually WANT to meet you in the ring, hey? And you would assume that anyone who wanted to make your acquaintance inside the ring would simply be out for glory, right? Someone just trying to make a name at your expense, yes? But I think you're smart enough to know that glory is not something I seek.
Want to know why, really? Because it would be SO much fun to make someone bleed who really doesn't mind it. To make you bleed until you DO mind it. To tear away at someone who truly does give as good as they get. To leave you lying in our commingled blood, bits of flesh, a digit or two....I think I'd have to retire for lack of being able to achieve anything as satisfying. And if you think I can't do exactly that, Cross, well perhaps you should take a close look at what I'm going to do to James Dean this week. Because I know you, Cross. Thanks to my benefactor, I'm intimately aware of what is required to take you down. See, you're a man of rules, Cross, and that fact alone aided in shutting LWA down. You adhere to order, and shun chaos, because order, you can control, but chaos is unpredictable, uncontrollable. My benefactor relayed to me that creating chaos at every turn would make you lose your taste for it, and in the end, regardless of what you may say to the contrary, that's exactly what I did. I sowed chaos like Christians sow fear and hatred. And away LWA went. I'm sure Anthony Johns and Jack Darling are going to curse me for that before too long. After all, if not for me, you likely would still be operating LWA, and not in the ring with them. Tough luck, gentlemen. But I have digressed quite enough for the nonce. I have an opponent of my own to disassemble.
James Dean. Oh my, how lovely. Seems we've got a date this coming Tuesday, James. And you know what happens on a date, I presume. We're going to dance, my little caffer friend. My apologies. That was incredibly rude. I really don't have anything against blacks, hey? All men being born equal, and all. I'm sure that somewhere, deep down, you're an intelligent young man with plenty of skill in the ring, and even more to offer the world in general, James. When you're not busy selling drugs or driving your supposed best friend to suicide, that is. You know, I wonder... how's your budding relationship with the Linette girl working out? Oh, is that a touchy subject, James? Tell me, have you ever met anyone who acrtually got to know you and wanted to keep being around you? And no, I'm not referring to those women you pay for sex. Paying for it doesn't count, you know.
I realize that you likely don't know a great deal about me, James, but I've seen quite a bit about you. Mostly involving you looking at the pretty lights for three seconds or so. I'm curious, James. Have you ever defeated an opponent of any real caliber? Aside from exploits only captured on the cellphone of fish market passersby, that is. You may be wondering who I can lay claim to having bested. No one, really. But then, I've already stated that glory is not my game. Glory is for those who fancy themselves as 'pretty', 'powerful', or 'great'. Are you one of those, James? You don't really strike me as one of my ilk. I doubt you'd have the stomach for it, truly. I read somewhere on the internet that you had a rough childhood. Don't know how true any of it was, and it doesn't really matter if you grew up in a mansion or on some city's mean streets. Those street thug-types always think they know what toughness is, hey? They think that being able to pull a trigger and put some poor lout out of the world's misery without losing any sleep over it makes them 'hard'. Start pulling their fingernails out, then drive a nice tenpenny nail into where the fingernails used to be, and you'll see if they're truly tough or not. So, James, if you think you're some kind of 'thug tough', or some street messiah, I promise you that you have not seen the likes of me, friend. And once you're introduced to what it is that I am, you will regret it to whatever resides at the center of your being.
I'm not a man obsessed with wins, losses, title belts or any of the fluff that goes along with this business, James. In case I haven't given you enough hints, I really prefer to see how much damage I can inflict on body and mind before making my opponents bleed to as near death as is legally allowable. I understand that in Toronto, that limit is quite liberal. It's quite fun. For me, anyway. I consider it to be art, really. Or, as near to art as people in our profession are capable of producing.
So, James, the question for you this week isn't whether or not you're prepared to do whatever it will take to win our match. The question for you is whether or not I'm going to allow you to leave walking. Because win, lose or draw, James, I'm going to pull something out of you that you didn't think was even possible. I'm going to use you to create my very first work of art in eWo. Will it be a masterpiece? Not likely, hey? I simply don't think you possess enough moxie to keep it entertaining long enough to qualify. Perhaps that will work out better for you. The quicker I get bored, the more likely I am to end your suffering before it costs you something precious.
Regardless of how you enter the ring this week, James, you will be leaving minus some self-respect, some confidence in your abilities to do this, and of course, some blood.
Oh yes, there will be blood.
And there will be pain. How much of it can you stand, James? How much can you tolerate before you tell the referee you've had enough? How much can you take before you decide to hunt down the whore that birthed you and kill her for it? Believe me, friend, not only can I take whatever you can dish out, I will relish in it, then show you how irrelevant your efforts have been. They may have billed our encounter as a wrestling match, James, but that's not what you're in for this week. This week, you're invited to a true blue bloodbath.
I'll see you in Toronto, James, but you might not want to be seen by anyone afterwards.
Rob a blood bank.
You're going to need it.
