Post by Mr. Showtime on Oct 2, 2015 19:59:09 GMT -5
The inauguration of the President is time honored tradition. Every man to every hold this prestigious honor has taken the oath. George Washington was the first in New York on the balcony of Federal Hall. Each of his successors would follow suit as decreed by the United States Constitution. On Friday, January 20th, 2017, the forty-fifth President will take that same oath and address the nation.
“Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght stood in the portcullis of the West Front of the US Capitol building. There was no mandate that this location must host the president on his opening day, but since Regan this is where it’s been held. Michael Wryght insisted that it be moved to his home state of New Jersey. He wanted to walk out on the steps of America’s original capital and take his place in the annals of history with his own people.
This request was shot down quickly. His campaign manager and future Chief of Staff was the first to oppose. Wryght was no longer just a New Jersian, but now about to take the steps to become the leader of the free world. It would give the country the wrong opinion. Wryght told Mr. Harmsworth that he was already the President-elect, so it didn’t matter. Which was apparently the wrong thing to say, and lost the argument before it began.
He’d been in Washington for a few weeks, and sadly it gave him the feel of his Hollywood dates. Smiling people all secretly, or openly, hating you. It was sickening, but Showtime didn’t have much choice. Not that he ever did. Perfection was the only one that Showtime was sure was on his side. It was a hard fought election and somehow he won. He attributed it to the American people wanting someone fresh. Or it was the collapse of his competition in the debates. Though secretly, deep down, he knew that it was all because of The Black Hand.
“Are you alright?” asked Perfection, as she rest her hand on his shoulder. He was in a bit of a trance as he looked out over the masses of people come to see him take office. He was nervous. More nervous then he’d ever been. This was a pivotal moment in history, and it all surrounded him.
He looked her deep in the eyes and replied, “I was born for this.” She was hooked by that patented half smile of his. The American public was hooked too. He had the charisma that all the other candidates lacked. The Republicans came off crass and the Democrats came off aloof. Showtime came off charming and sincere. The type of candidate that people fawned towards.
The door creaked open and the head of Joshua Harmsworth popped in. “Are you almost ready to leave Mr. Showtime behind and emerge as Mr. President?” The comment surprised Wryght. He’d been Mr. Showtime for so long and not even the secret service would let him keep that as his code name. They decided on Griffin instead. One of many things he’d given up, though it would only be for at most eight years.
“I was born ready.”
“Great, let’s go kill Mr. Showtime,” added Mr. Harmsworth with a smug smile.
The comment was chilling, but fleeting. Wryght body quaked and he was suddenly standing at the doors with all of his loved ones around him. It was freezing outside, but he refused to wear anything more than a simple black suit jacket. Clean and classy. The same nervous intern that followed Wryght through the campaign was by his side once more, with the Lincoln Bible in his hand.
“Have you decided what section you’d like this open to yet, sir?”
“Revelations,” replied Showtime sternly. His blood was running cold, as if something had happened. He couldn’t tell what was wrong but something wasn’t right.
“What passage?”
“Random is fine, but tell everyone who asks that it was something more profound.”
Without the doors opening or the first sudden burst of cold hitting his face, Wryght was already on his way. He didn’t know how he begun descending the stairs, but he was on his way. His memory of the day was becoming choppy as he walked towards The Honorable John G. Roberts, Jr., current Chief Justice of the United States. Wryght scanned the seats at all of the smiling faces as they rose at his presence. His eyes locked with his mother’s and sister’s as they applaud. The others on the terrace were high ranking officials, celebrities and important people of God knows what.
Wryght looked out to the crowd. It was a legitimate sea of people. Plumes of steam came from their freezing mouths and they bobbed up and down dancing like waves. He would have never expected to recognize anyone in the crowd, but expectations were made to be broken.
To his left he made out the wild red hair of who he thought was Phinehas Grimm. Though he was mistaken, he wasn’t too far off. The man was far too young to be Phinehas, but was the spitting image of his former self, Arkham. There was a rage and hatred that was shot Wryght’s way. These two men loathed each other and it wouldn’t be until their later years that they’d actually get along. Close to his brother’s side was a clean shaved young Billy Sadistic. Friend, enemy, brother. All words that could be used to describe him. All of which probably used during similar times. These were the two that it all began with.
Showtime began to search through the masses for anyone else. He realized that a strong concentration was made up of his past. His father was seen hiding in the shadows. People from his early wrestling career, Luis Malave, J.B. Dean, and others. Next were a wave of people from his Hollywood career. He hated most of them minus the few gems in the bunch. Even though Showtime won awards, he felt that those were lost years.
His eyes next landed on three hardened faces. Justin Kaard, Sean Rhodes and Eira. Strange that all of them would be here in the same spot. It was two and a half years ago when the four of them were last in the ring together. It seemed like a lifetime. It was strange that Wryght couldn’t remember the outcome of that fateful night at Deadly Intentions VI. He remembered it being brutal, but the end escaped him.
He locked eyes with Eira first, and he could almost hear her hiss. The two never saw eye to eye and she thwarted him on more than one occasion. He knew that the Order and the Hand were at odds, and this moment must pain her to witness. Though maybe not as bad as if she lost that North American title back to Showtime. Was that the outcome? She would have taken that personally, especially since their altercations the weeks before. He found it strange that on the biggest stage in the world he was thinking of his wrestling past.
He couldn’t help himself. He wouldn’t refer to those as easier time, but they were definitely more enjoyable. The rigor and structure of his current life was mundane. Something Wryght mused would kill Justin Kaard. The Adrenalin King wouldn’t stand for these confines. He couldn’t even wait his turn for his Word Title shot. They had Skylar Marshall in their corner. They could have waited until the title was lost then Kaard could have recaptured it for Marshall’s Law. There should be some sort of team loyalty and that little twat knew nothing of being a team player. Always thinking that we were out to get him, only for Wryght to prove the team player he actually was. Doing everything he could for someone else to capture the World Title.
Last was Non Compos Mentis, the trash-man himself. Wryght would never forgive himself for losing his shot at being an Icemann Invitational Tournament winner. He was convinced that he was destined to win that honor. Not that he should be complaining at this moment, but there were principalities at play. He’d always been a sucker for the tournaments and came in second more than once. Though the loss to NCM stung worse then he’d expected. The way that smug bastard looked at his afterwards sent daggers through his blood. Wryght took solace in the fact that he became a Grand Slam Champion first, but that was only in public. Privately it ate away at him that he didn’t have it all.
“An entire gaggle of twats,” growled Michael.
“Excuse me?” asked the Chief Justice. Wryght didn’t realize that he’d stopped in front of the bible and said the word twat to the head of the judicial system. Slightly embraced, Wryght just shrugged his shoulders and placed his hand on the Lincoln Bible. The touch of the holy text was chilling. As if each page was made of thin sheets of melt resistant ice. His hand recoiled, but he replaced it as Roberts gave him a queer look. It wasn’t normal for a president to hate the touch of a bible. It was strange to Wryght as well, but he fought through the sheer pain.
The Chief Justice whispered to Wryght, “I assume you know the oath or would you like to repeat after me.”
Wryght raised a surprised eyebrow and just began to speak, “I do solemnly swear…”
Wryght broke off as a glint of light caught his eye. It was as if someone with a watch was playing a trick on him in class. Michael was at the blackboard and someone was making the pale winter sun dance on his face. It was extremely annoying, but he couldn’t turn back now.
“That I will faithfully execute…” the flash hit his eye again and he was pulled from his oath a second time. He scanned the crowd again looking for the perpetrator. No one seemed guilty, but everyone was enamored by his stumble over the oath. He tried to press on.
“The office of President of the United States, and will do the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend,” there was a deafening crack over the crowd and a majority hit the deck as Wryght finished, “the Constitution of the United States.”
Time stood still as the final word left his mouth, and a burst of red erupted from his chest. It splattered the John Roberts across the chest and face. He could tell he was falling but it took forever. He heard the shrill cries of the witnesses as it pierced the January morn. The lead bit through him with cold precision. The person who’d done this was a professional and no one would ever find him.
Wryght grasped for the sky as he fell, looking for anyone to help him stop this. Just when you need help the most, none are there to give it to you. He felt his back hit the marble and as his head followed suit it was ripped back up.
Showtime was not in Washington D.C. but in his bedroom in central New Jersey. His heart was racing and he was short of breath. His left pectoral muscle was tighter then he’d ever felt it. It had all been a dream but it was all so real. He was under the impression that you couldn’t be hurt in a dream. A wives’ tale proven wrong on this night. He clutched his chest and sucked in gulp after gulp of air.
“What happened?” asked a startled Perfection as she was pulled out of her own slumber. “Are you alright?”
Showtime didn’t know it but tears were streaming down his face. He could answer at first, but finally he said, “I’m dead.”
“What?”
“This Presidential race is going to kill me,” he said with solemn eyes. “You’re looking at a dead man.”
“Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght stood in the portcullis of the West Front of the US Capitol building. There was no mandate that this location must host the president on his opening day, but since Regan this is where it’s been held. Michael Wryght insisted that it be moved to his home state of New Jersey. He wanted to walk out on the steps of America’s original capital and take his place in the annals of history with his own people.
This request was shot down quickly. His campaign manager and future Chief of Staff was the first to oppose. Wryght was no longer just a New Jersian, but now about to take the steps to become the leader of the free world. It would give the country the wrong opinion. Wryght told Mr. Harmsworth that he was already the President-elect, so it didn’t matter. Which was apparently the wrong thing to say, and lost the argument before it began.
He’d been in Washington for a few weeks, and sadly it gave him the feel of his Hollywood dates. Smiling people all secretly, or openly, hating you. It was sickening, but Showtime didn’t have much choice. Not that he ever did. Perfection was the only one that Showtime was sure was on his side. It was a hard fought election and somehow he won. He attributed it to the American people wanting someone fresh. Or it was the collapse of his competition in the debates. Though secretly, deep down, he knew that it was all because of The Black Hand.
“Are you alright?” asked Perfection, as she rest her hand on his shoulder. He was in a bit of a trance as he looked out over the masses of people come to see him take office. He was nervous. More nervous then he’d ever been. This was a pivotal moment in history, and it all surrounded him.
He looked her deep in the eyes and replied, “I was born for this.” She was hooked by that patented half smile of his. The American public was hooked too. He had the charisma that all the other candidates lacked. The Republicans came off crass and the Democrats came off aloof. Showtime came off charming and sincere. The type of candidate that people fawned towards.
The door creaked open and the head of Joshua Harmsworth popped in. “Are you almost ready to leave Mr. Showtime behind and emerge as Mr. President?” The comment surprised Wryght. He’d been Mr. Showtime for so long and not even the secret service would let him keep that as his code name. They decided on Griffin instead. One of many things he’d given up, though it would only be for at most eight years.
“I was born ready.”
“Great, let’s go kill Mr. Showtime,” added Mr. Harmsworth with a smug smile.
The comment was chilling, but fleeting. Wryght body quaked and he was suddenly standing at the doors with all of his loved ones around him. It was freezing outside, but he refused to wear anything more than a simple black suit jacket. Clean and classy. The same nervous intern that followed Wryght through the campaign was by his side once more, with the Lincoln Bible in his hand.
“Have you decided what section you’d like this open to yet, sir?”
“Revelations,” replied Showtime sternly. His blood was running cold, as if something had happened. He couldn’t tell what was wrong but something wasn’t right.
“What passage?”
“Random is fine, but tell everyone who asks that it was something more profound.”
Without the doors opening or the first sudden burst of cold hitting his face, Wryght was already on his way. He didn’t know how he begun descending the stairs, but he was on his way. His memory of the day was becoming choppy as he walked towards The Honorable John G. Roberts, Jr., current Chief Justice of the United States. Wryght scanned the seats at all of the smiling faces as they rose at his presence. His eyes locked with his mother’s and sister’s as they applaud. The others on the terrace were high ranking officials, celebrities and important people of God knows what.
Wryght looked out to the crowd. It was a legitimate sea of people. Plumes of steam came from their freezing mouths and they bobbed up and down dancing like waves. He would have never expected to recognize anyone in the crowd, but expectations were made to be broken.
To his left he made out the wild red hair of who he thought was Phinehas Grimm. Though he was mistaken, he wasn’t too far off. The man was far too young to be Phinehas, but was the spitting image of his former self, Arkham. There was a rage and hatred that was shot Wryght’s way. These two men loathed each other and it wouldn’t be until their later years that they’d actually get along. Close to his brother’s side was a clean shaved young Billy Sadistic. Friend, enemy, brother. All words that could be used to describe him. All of which probably used during similar times. These were the two that it all began with.
Showtime began to search through the masses for anyone else. He realized that a strong concentration was made up of his past. His father was seen hiding in the shadows. People from his early wrestling career, Luis Malave, J.B. Dean, and others. Next were a wave of people from his Hollywood career. He hated most of them minus the few gems in the bunch. Even though Showtime won awards, he felt that those were lost years.
His eyes next landed on three hardened faces. Justin Kaard, Sean Rhodes and Eira. Strange that all of them would be here in the same spot. It was two and a half years ago when the four of them were last in the ring together. It seemed like a lifetime. It was strange that Wryght couldn’t remember the outcome of that fateful night at Deadly Intentions VI. He remembered it being brutal, but the end escaped him.
He locked eyes with Eira first, and he could almost hear her hiss. The two never saw eye to eye and she thwarted him on more than one occasion. He knew that the Order and the Hand were at odds, and this moment must pain her to witness. Though maybe not as bad as if she lost that North American title back to Showtime. Was that the outcome? She would have taken that personally, especially since their altercations the weeks before. He found it strange that on the biggest stage in the world he was thinking of his wrestling past.
He couldn’t help himself. He wouldn’t refer to those as easier time, but they were definitely more enjoyable. The rigor and structure of his current life was mundane. Something Wryght mused would kill Justin Kaard. The Adrenalin King wouldn’t stand for these confines. He couldn’t even wait his turn for his Word Title shot. They had Skylar Marshall in their corner. They could have waited until the title was lost then Kaard could have recaptured it for Marshall’s Law. There should be some sort of team loyalty and that little twat knew nothing of being a team player. Always thinking that we were out to get him, only for Wryght to prove the team player he actually was. Doing everything he could for someone else to capture the World Title.
Last was Non Compos Mentis, the trash-man himself. Wryght would never forgive himself for losing his shot at being an Icemann Invitational Tournament winner. He was convinced that he was destined to win that honor. Not that he should be complaining at this moment, but there were principalities at play. He’d always been a sucker for the tournaments and came in second more than once. Though the loss to NCM stung worse then he’d expected. The way that smug bastard looked at his afterwards sent daggers through his blood. Wryght took solace in the fact that he became a Grand Slam Champion first, but that was only in public. Privately it ate away at him that he didn’t have it all.
“An entire gaggle of twats,” growled Michael.
“Excuse me?” asked the Chief Justice. Wryght didn’t realize that he’d stopped in front of the bible and said the word twat to the head of the judicial system. Slightly embraced, Wryght just shrugged his shoulders and placed his hand on the Lincoln Bible. The touch of the holy text was chilling. As if each page was made of thin sheets of melt resistant ice. His hand recoiled, but he replaced it as Roberts gave him a queer look. It wasn’t normal for a president to hate the touch of a bible. It was strange to Wryght as well, but he fought through the sheer pain.
The Chief Justice whispered to Wryght, “I assume you know the oath or would you like to repeat after me.”
Wryght raised a surprised eyebrow and just began to speak, “I do solemnly swear…”
Wryght broke off as a glint of light caught his eye. It was as if someone with a watch was playing a trick on him in class. Michael was at the blackboard and someone was making the pale winter sun dance on his face. It was extremely annoying, but he couldn’t turn back now.
“That I will faithfully execute…” the flash hit his eye again and he was pulled from his oath a second time. He scanned the crowd again looking for the perpetrator. No one seemed guilty, but everyone was enamored by his stumble over the oath. He tried to press on.
“The office of President of the United States, and will do the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend,” there was a deafening crack over the crowd and a majority hit the deck as Wryght finished, “the Constitution of the United States.”
Time stood still as the final word left his mouth, and a burst of red erupted from his chest. It splattered the John Roberts across the chest and face. He could tell he was falling but it took forever. He heard the shrill cries of the witnesses as it pierced the January morn. The lead bit through him with cold precision. The person who’d done this was a professional and no one would ever find him.
Wryght grasped for the sky as he fell, looking for anyone to help him stop this. Just when you need help the most, none are there to give it to you. He felt his back hit the marble and as his head followed suit it was ripped back up.
Showtime was not in Washington D.C. but in his bedroom in central New Jersey. His heart was racing and he was short of breath. His left pectoral muscle was tighter then he’d ever felt it. It had all been a dream but it was all so real. He was under the impression that you couldn’t be hurt in a dream. A wives’ tale proven wrong on this night. He clutched his chest and sucked in gulp after gulp of air.
“What happened?” asked a startled Perfection as she was pulled out of her own slumber. “Are you alright?”
Showtime didn’t know it but tears were streaming down his face. He could answer at first, but finally he said, “I’m dead.”
“What?”
“This Presidential race is going to kill me,” he said with solemn eyes. “You’re looking at a dead man.”
