Post by Kyle on Oct 18, 2015 15:27:01 GMT -5
The video opens to three scenes all occurring at the same time, dividing the screen into three separate, flowing stories.
Atticus Sinclair stood at the front of the small study room, deep within the labyrinth that was the basement of The Church. Its main sanctuary, where prayer and worship was held, as well as the aesthetic decor seemingly required by all buildings of the religious required, were in plain view for all to see, believer or visitor alike. To be inducted into this family, though, came with access to its deeper levels, where the real learning was achieved. Take the small class Atticus found himself instructing this one afternoon with a dozen or so teenage youth who had seen and lived among the Portland underbelly. Ever since the efforts of two former members of The Church, a certain class of individual had been attracted to this family. They were useful, yes, in the form they came in when this family had been first enacted. Now, though, their Lord sought a different sort of follower and Atticus was tasked with helping their flock find their place in this new world. So he did, or at least attempted, in this cozy room in the recesses of The Church.
"Take a look at yourselves," Atticus intoned to the group of youth, all with their scalps shorned as was required to live among this family. They too wore robes like Atticus, though of lesser quality, but it was not their clothes that spoke to their pasts; nay, the neck tattoos depicting one gang affiliation or another, the scars from back alley fights under the Portland moon, and the needle imprints along the veins in the arms, visible when the sleeves were rolled up. These were the marks of just who they had been. "Just who do you all look like you're trying to be?"
"Bunch of pot heads dressing up like some fucking Catholics for Halloween," Neville, the strong-humored spirit of the room replied almost immediately, inciting snickering from his fellow pot heads in the room. Atticus only nodded.
"Exactly. It helps you fit in with one another that way." Atticus pulled out from the folds of his robe a water bottle, a glass cup, and a hankerchief. "Before, you were vagrants, drug pushers, and the scum of the Portland night life." This harsh statement cut the snickers to a bare minimum; even Neville didn't smile at the statement from their leader before them. Elsewhere, something like would've been enough to provoke a fight beneath the stars. "Our Lord saw merit in you, though, and have welcomed you into his home to show you not what you were missing, but what you can gain through him." Atticus looks around the room, gesturing to the display of items before him that he had placed on the table in front of him. "Now, who am I?"
This time, silence lingered, as the youth wracked their minds for an answer. Then young, quiet Kyle, spoke up from the back of the room. "You were like us?"
Atticus smiles as he cloth into the water. "I was just as broken as you all, if not more, before our Lord found me." Then, taking the cloth, Atticus began to scrub at his forehead, wiping away a thick layer of concealing makeup, revealing a tattoo of an eye staring back at the youth before him. For several minutes, Atticus worked at his head, dipping the cloth into the water until it ran brown from the make up as the man revealed to the small crowd before him the black ink that had wrote his past. His entire scalp was covered in black ink, intricate and confusing tattoos, by the time Atticus was done. "Yet through our Lord's teaching and a little alteration, I appear as if I've been nothing but a servant all of my life. Trade your robes for suits and you can suddenly infiltrate any place imaginable. You were not brought here to be hidden away, but to be molded into messengers, crafted to the tasks your best suited for. From there, we can spread the message of our salvation at universities, in corporations, in places of the world that you never thought you'd ever go. And it is all achievable by the perception cast by one's image."
Atticus placed the cloth onto the table, letting droplets of water run down his scalp to drop off of his chin; the youth sat mesmerized at the transformation that Atticus Sinclair had undergone before their very eyes. "Now go, my fellow brothers, and reflect on the men you wish to be, not the men that you are. Because with our Lord's blessing, you can be whoever you wish to be. So go, go and prepare for the transformations to come." And with that, Atticus remained fixated at the front of the room until he found himself alone in it, the youth disappearing for personal time with their Lord. Atticus ran his hands across his scalp, eyes closed, while the third eye atop his head watched the camera.
"Give a man a beard and a flannel shirt and he can infiltrate the rural south, a southern redneck to the bone. Give a man an imposing figure and a brutal finisher and he can become a wrestler. Give him a pig and a dark secret and he becomes one of the biggest up and comers in the WCF today. But do not give him a name, for he already has many; he, he is Legion."
Atticus opens his eyes, together all three staring at the camera.
"You already knew that; I didn't need an exposition to introduce our esteemed messenger to you, and yet it was still added. Why, you may ask, why bother? Hasn't Legion done enough already to have proven his worth. He finished sixth in War and he's only been in the company for two months. He's been undefeated and unpinned outside of the War match, conquered the men he said he would conquer. Men like Hog Wilder, Circe Cicero, and Johnny Reb have had a good taste of just who he is. These accomplishments, these statements, should speak for themselves. Yet they go in one ear and out the other of our esteemed owner Seth Lerch, who still sees Legion as nothing more than a pig farmer. Thus we find ourselves in this fiasco of a match. Billy and Johnny Rabid versus Legion and Adam Young"
Atticus only shakes his head as he grabs the cloth off the table, using it to soak up the water that splashed on the table during his cleansing.
"One would think the display Legion put on in regards to The Hardcore Redneck would've been evident to Seth Lerch, if nothing else; the so-called cohesion one witnessed between Legion and Adam Young in the War match has been grossly misinterpreted. That was not the coming together of two men of seemingly similar backgrounds in a collective effort to greatness; it was a carrion feasting on the slain victims that Legion tossed around the ring, above consuming on such rotten meat himself. No, Legion and Adam Young are not, as one would say, friends in this business. Legion proved it last week when he allowed Adam Young to throw everything he could at him before dropping him on his head. As simple as that, yet the message was still not clear. This isn't the case where Seth just throws Dustin Beaver into a match with #BeachKrew just because they're all fucking annoying and deserving one another. Nay, this is those in power associating Legion with men of lesser quality because they are too thick or too blind to see just what he has done and what he is capable of."
Tossing the cloth back on the table, Atticus focuses back on the camera, his tattoos reflecting the light above every time he moved.
"And these complaints, these outrages, can simply be directed to his partner without even bringing his opponents this week into the picture. But I, for the sake of not being hypocritical, won't do so. Because you see, skin deep, Billy and Johnny Rabid are just as useless as Legion's partner this week. Indeed on paper, King Tub and the Brit with a fake California tan aren't any higher quality opponents for our Lord's chosen messenger."
Atticus nods, pointing to the camera.
"Yeah, you're not fooling me Johnny Rabid. Your stereotypical beach bud from Cali doesn't just call someone a, and I'm quoting here, 'fooking plum,' not if he wants to play a convincing part."
Atticus steps around the table, hiking up the skirt of his robe, revealing another tattoo: a red dragon coiled around his ankle with the Imperial State Crown of British Monarchy perched atop its scaly head.
"Because you see, I am no idiot. I was born and raised in the streets of London, Johnny, and I bear more than this self-inflicted scar of my time in the motherland. Where do you hail from, Johnny, and what are you running from that you have found yourself in the WCF? Because everyone in this company are on a path forward; they all have goals they'd like to achieve in their time here. But their motivation stems from the things in their lives in their past, the things they are trying to escape. Adam Young is looking to escape obscurity, Billy obesity, and Legion his old, worthless self. We are all men with pasts that we try to mask, try to conceal, and you've done a piss poor time thus far of doing so, Johnny."
Atticus continues forward, grabbing one of the chairs recently occupied by one of the youth, taking a seat without taking his eyes off the camera.
"But there is no denying, Johnny, that you fit the ideals of what a true wrestler is, there is no denying that. You've waltzed into the WCF with your spray-on tan to cover your pale heritage, weighing in at the precise number of two hundred and twenty six pounds as if the restrictions on the weight classes were still a thing in this business, and you've gone all out since arriving in this company. You've wanted to make this name of yours known, embedded in the mind of those here in the WCF so they won't question, won't wonder, why a man like you just up and appeared in this company. You've already proven yourself to be more in this business and you haven't even had a match. So why now?
I see the truth, Johnny, but do you?"
Atticus taps the eye atop his forehead.
"You're new blood here in the WCF but you're not new, Johnny. You've been a fighter all your life, looking to prove yourself beyond the limitations you found yourself in your past. Maybe it was the location, maybe the people, or maybe it was just your own inability to exceed expectations. You failed, in some capacity, I know you have, so you fled, hoping a new name, some fake hair dye, and a brash persona will work wonders in your new life. Moreso, you're a wrestler, not a man who simply joined the business, but was one born into it. How ever can you come, short, with such drive and experience?
Because this isn't your home, Johnny, and Seth Lerch isn't looking to father you while you're here. You've chosen to leave the old you, to become someone completely new to the business. And Seth . . . Seth is going to remind you over and over and over that that is all you will be here. He doesn't view greatness like you'll be coming in thinking he will. Because you're still stick on the man who you once were, Johnny, not who you want to be. At skin level, you're Johnny Rabid, the Apex Predator. But in your heart, below the surface, you're still J--"
Atticus pauses, shaking his head.
"No, I won't spoil the fun. We will simply come full circle, Johnny; you're just another fookin' plum thinking he can be something in this company, only to be squished under Legion's boot."
Atticus stomps his foot for emphasis as he leans forward to face the camera.
"As to you, Billy, I will at least give you a semblance of respect for the things you've accomplished in this company. You've come a long way from the Taco Bowl and the five second breathers that have defined your career thus far. You've, as one with a sick humor, would say that you've been on a roll recently, steamrolling over the competition, even flattening the former United States champion David Sanchez in the War match. Of course, you didn't do it in the following week in the match that really mattered, instead let Gemini Battle steal the victory out from under you while you were probably taking another breather or something. That was your opportunity, Billy, to prove to everyone you're more than the man you appear to be.
You've had your ups and downs, Billy, and I'm not just referring to your breasts when you walk to the ring. No, you've been the competitor who has surprised more people in the WCF than even Legion. Not because you're spectacularly good, Billy, only that you're not wretchedly terrible. Men see Legion and they see a competitor, an individual fit for the rigors that a career in the WCF entails; people look at you and wonder simply how you fit through the door of the arena. Or the car that drove you from the airport. Or the plane that somehow carried you across the ocean to Hawaii. Maybe you just took a boat, though heaven forbid you fall overboard, lest we'd have a second Titanic and Tsunami in East Asia.
I promised I wouldn't be hypocritical and I've tried really hard up until this point, but you're just too much to handle, Billy, in a serious manner. I don't doubt your heart, don't doubt your desire to achieve success like your best friend John Barber did in his time here. Thing is you're not John Barber, at least physically speaking, and in the whole scheme of things, you cannot possibly expect someone like Legion to bend over and heave every time you shoot the ropes. Oh, don't get me wrong, he will let you; he let Adam Young actually hit him last week, so you would think you simply breathing won't bother him. But eventually, the numbers in his head will become too much, Legion will get agitated, and he'll drop you on your head. Because Six Three, Three Six may have him utterly confused, but four hundred and seventy five pounds is something he can work with.
Billy, I have faith that in time you can become someone in this company, but this week will not mark the start of it. Legion has been a caged animal all week and he's far more Rabid than your partner will hope to ever be. He's a dangerous man, one who has ended careers already in his short time here. And even with Adam Young weighing him down this week, he will still come out stronger than you can ever hope to achieve. So do yourself a favor and don't even bother coming to the ring this week, because you'll be out of more than breathe once Legion is done with you."
And with that, the scene abruptly fades.
The professor finds himself seated alone in his office, the stacks of papers to grade sitting atop his desk and various volumes on mathematical theories lining the bookshelf above his head. Most people probably notice the framed photo hanging on the wall beside the window with a very interesting image depicted: that of the professor wearing wrestling tights and boots alongside a redneck looking fellow in a cowboy hat, both hoisting high identical Championship belts with the initials IWF written across the front of them. The Professor looks up from his computer to look at the photo.
The door knocks.
"My office hours are over," The professor yells at the door, eyes never leaving the photo. "Come back next week."
The door opens and in steps Atticus Sinclair, his tattoos hidden away and his robe as pristine as always.
"Now, now, Professor McCalister, you know I'm here for more than to discuss declaring a major. I'm here in search of an answer."
And with that, the door shuts, the scene fading out one final time.
Atticus bore a food of tray down a long hallway, carpeted in red. His steps were slow, concise, purposed as he made his way down this hall to deliver the nourishment to the tortured soul. To viewers, the mutterings of this soul were inaudible, but they were ringing in the bald priest's ears as he continued along the way. His padded, slippered feet barely made a sound, carrying the scene along in utter silence save for the occasional ting of silverware on the ceramic bowl of fruit. Atticus finally reached a heavy, metal door at the end of the hallway, a clash of styles with the Gothic paneling and carpeting of the long hallway leading up to it. It was visibly locked from the outside with an old, Eighteenth century style padlock, one requiring a very large, antique key that Atticus so happened to bear alongside the food. Balancing the tray on the fingertips of one hand, Atticus deftly handled the blocky key in his other hand, slipping it into the lock and turning with an audible click. He let the lock dangled loosely on the handle of the door as he pushed into the room, gracing viewers with a look into the man Legion had become. At first glance, the WCF competitor looked sound of spirit and mind as he sat straight-back on the cot in the corner of the room. Then his visage, his stoic presence, would twitch like a spark had ignited upon his composure, bringing on the onslaught of the numbers. He didn't even note Atticus' arrival as one such fit came over him, bringing about the dreaded sequence: Six Three, Three Six. He muttered the words under his breathe, spoke them aloud, even yelled them to the ceilings and the walls who yielded no response. But not to Atticus; Legion did not speak to Atticus for he could not. Nay, since Legion's hasty interruption of his God, he had been stricken with muteness. Cruel, yes, but Uzzah the Israelite would've welcomed that punishment fully over the one he received from his own God. Legion could still eat, though, as was evident by the empty tray of food already in the room, resting atop the metal table with its single chair in the center of the room. It was there that Atticus proceeded to, changing out the old for the new, before stepping back to the door that Legion made no attempt towards. He had been tasked simply to bring the soul his food, but the human side of Atticus won him over, drawing forth the words in his heart. "Have you discovered the answer, Legion?" The bearded man looked hard in the direction that Atticus stood, but he did not look at the man; he stared at the walls, the ceiling, but not Atticus. It was they who spoke, not the man before him. And he replied, "Six Three, Three Six." Indeed, Legion could speak nary a word save those. Atticus stepped out of the room, locking it behind him as he stood in the hallway once more. He broke its silence, though, by pulling out a cell phone from the inner folds of his dark robe. Dialing the only number in the phone, it picked up after only the second ring. "My Lord, he has not gotten any closer to the truth. How shall we proceed?" Before Atticus receives the reply, the scene fades to black. | From the safety of the open-aired living room, Nathan von Liebert watched with a cold interest the home of Jeff Purse. He had pulled a simple stool, three legged and Modern in style, to the window of the room, giving him a good view across to the street where he expected the expecting Kari Purse to be resting her sore back or soaking her aching feet. He wore not the street clothes of a vagrant, like for so long he haunted the halls of the WCF in, but instead in a suit, tailored to his specific dimensions. His hair, though as long as always, was worn back in a ponytail and his wild beard trimmed down to a respectable length. He was safe in the confines of the home, whose normal residents had taken a long vacation out of the country at the urging of the God--for Gods had such capabilities--so that he could use the home in peace. The attire was simply an act for those watching, to fool those in plain sight, in broad daylight. A pair of such fools turned the corner on the street of this luxury neighborhood, a haven for the wealthy and the naive. The cop cruiser slowly rolled past the houses, naive eyes scanning the bushes and the street corners, completely missing the man waving to them in the open window of the home. They had waved the first time, when a different pair of eyes--for these law-enforcers didn't think consistency would yield results--had waved to him as he stood on the front porch the other morning, waiting for his daily paper to arrive. He needed only nice clothes and a nice home to fool the masses to his true character. The watching eyes carried on down the street, satisfied with their efforts, while not impeding the God in his efforts in the slightest. He dropped his hand, his left hand, back into his lap while he returned his focus onto the home where his future lay. He had enjoyed watching her grow over the months, looking forward to the happiness and joy to come following the screaming and the pain. Alas, that was how life was, the line draw in the sand between life and death. Pain and Suffering came in both circumstances, though the latter proved more finite than the former. Nathan's life, his existence, had up until this point been nothing but unanswered questions and unfinished buiness. For once, he wished to end a story without the possibility of a happy ending. So the God watched, waiting for his chance, unhindered by the slow process of it all. Too often he had gone and then just appeared again, touting his excellence and his divine strength, as if expecting it was to be believed to be garnered in the absence from the seeing eyes. This time, though, was different. He returned not on the accolades of his past, but borne by the messages sent by a conquered soul from his past. Legion was his creation, his weapon, sent to awake the fear and the dread in the souls who knew just what he was capable of. Jeff Purse's had been easy to awake; dangle that carrot with knives strapped to it over the heads of he and his family and fear took over. Fear because in his heart he knew this was one situation out of his control. Indeed, he could do little across the sea in Hawaii to prevent this: Nathan tapped a button on his phone and, across the street, the door bell to the Purse abode rang. At the same time, his own phone buzzed, an unrecorded number looking him in the face. Nathan answered immediately, knowing the number, for he knew all numbers. He listened to the other end of the line, before smiling. "Leave it to me, my son. I know just the man who can help us." And with that, Nathan rose from his stool and turned away from the window; by the time Kari Purse, swollen in pregnancy, answered the door, Nathan had already disappeared. The scene faded out soon after. | The Professor turned away from the chalkboard, chalk full of math equations beyond the understanding of the common man, turning to face the room full of college students. He was a strong, young man, not much older than the sea of faces staring back at him; he had the face of genius and of excellence and they all knew it. His hair, bleach blond, was worn in a bowl cut style, like that of a child, and his wire-rimmed glasses were, to blunt, that of a nerd or a geek. Beneath the tacky clothing that he wore, though, was a chiseled and trimmed physique honed by years of physical exercise and activity. He hadn't always been a Professor of Mathematics at the University of Virginia, but he was now. To those faces watching, he was simply their professor; they could see the man inside of him, the man deeper than the skin. Indeed, the girl on the front row raised her hand with a question for the professor standing there, seeking his knowledge and experience in that regard; she thought him perfect for her, possessing all of the answers. And he thought, as he looked upon the studious girl in the front row with . . . well with the following thoughts: I wish she'd raise both hands, more symmetrical that way. What was her name again? Um, Katherine . . . Katherine Jones. Fourteen letters, I can appreciate that. Hmm, I've see her at the dining hall. Short girl, I'd place her at five foot three, sixty three inches. Six and three, one number so good, the other so bad. Ah, the daily plight of a man with disparnumerophobia, or a fear, nay a hatred, of odd numbers. Then the beauty of the question pierced the professor's veil of introspection, providing him the relief he had found over the years: numbers. The girl sought an answer, nearly pleaded with the professor to show her how it was done, and to both of their relief, he turned back to the chalkboard, his hands flying across the black surface, chalk in each hand, spanning the expanse as he sought the solution to both her and his problem. The professor entered a different world when numbers were involved, a world of perfection and evenness that he rarely found in the waking world. From nothing, he created greatness, pulling the secrets of the past and nature itself from the recesses of his mind and producing rational and logical sequences for them. He was only twenty-six, thankfully not at the prime of his life--for you see, to be prime would to be indivisible by anything save the dreaded number one and still remain whole--and he was on top of the world. This wasn't by Good Will, he wasn't hunting for anything, because he had already found it on his own accord. And this was one time where the professor could accept to be alone, to be odd. He should've known that it was not the case, though; there would always be that second figure above him who made his life whole. Behind him, he heard the door open and close, an odd sound given the fact that the lecture was only halfway over. Turning around mid-equation, the professor looked to the top of the auditorium to face the new arrival, only to drop the chalk in surprise. Standing at the top was a shadow from his past, appearing into his life for the first time in years. He was better dressed, with his hand pulled back, looking the full part of a student at this university. But the professor knew that the look was only skin deep and, in this case, he knew what was underneath. The figure held up his hand, his left hand, in seemingly genuine abashment. "I believe I've walked into the wrong class," he said, his voice calm and chilling. "I'll come back another time." And with that, the figure disappeared as quickly as he appeared, letting the door shut behind him. The professor stared up at the emptiness for a moment before turning to face the chalkboard again, hoping to finish the equation. But the numbers didn't speak to him this one time. With a sigh, and without turning to face the sea of faces, he spoke to the students, "Class dismissed." And they, being simple students with little care, left without question. But the professor . . . he was left with so, so many questions. The scene fades out. |
1400 Hours / October 16, 2015
The Church / Portland, Oregon
The Church / Portland, Oregon
Atticus Sinclair stood at the front of the small study room, deep within the labyrinth that was the basement of The Church. Its main sanctuary, where prayer and worship was held, as well as the aesthetic decor seemingly required by all buildings of the religious required, were in plain view for all to see, believer or visitor alike. To be inducted into this family, though, came with access to its deeper levels, where the real learning was achieved. Take the small class Atticus found himself instructing this one afternoon with a dozen or so teenage youth who had seen and lived among the Portland underbelly. Ever since the efforts of two former members of The Church, a certain class of individual had been attracted to this family. They were useful, yes, in the form they came in when this family had been first enacted. Now, though, their Lord sought a different sort of follower and Atticus was tasked with helping their flock find their place in this new world. So he did, or at least attempted, in this cozy room in the recesses of The Church.
"Take a look at yourselves," Atticus intoned to the group of youth, all with their scalps shorned as was required to live among this family. They too wore robes like Atticus, though of lesser quality, but it was not their clothes that spoke to their pasts; nay, the neck tattoos depicting one gang affiliation or another, the scars from back alley fights under the Portland moon, and the needle imprints along the veins in the arms, visible when the sleeves were rolled up. These were the marks of just who they had been. "Just who do you all look like you're trying to be?"
"Bunch of pot heads dressing up like some fucking Catholics for Halloween," Neville, the strong-humored spirit of the room replied almost immediately, inciting snickering from his fellow pot heads in the room. Atticus only nodded.
"Exactly. It helps you fit in with one another that way." Atticus pulled out from the folds of his robe a water bottle, a glass cup, and a hankerchief. "Before, you were vagrants, drug pushers, and the scum of the Portland night life." This harsh statement cut the snickers to a bare minimum; even Neville didn't smile at the statement from their leader before them. Elsewhere, something like would've been enough to provoke a fight beneath the stars. "Our Lord saw merit in you, though, and have welcomed you into his home to show you not what you were missing, but what you can gain through him." Atticus looks around the room, gesturing to the display of items before him that he had placed on the table in front of him. "Now, who am I?"
This time, silence lingered, as the youth wracked their minds for an answer. Then young, quiet Kyle, spoke up from the back of the room. "You were like us?"
Atticus smiles as he cloth into the water. "I was just as broken as you all, if not more, before our Lord found me." Then, taking the cloth, Atticus began to scrub at his forehead, wiping away a thick layer of concealing makeup, revealing a tattoo of an eye staring back at the youth before him. For several minutes, Atticus worked at his head, dipping the cloth into the water until it ran brown from the make up as the man revealed to the small crowd before him the black ink that had wrote his past. His entire scalp was covered in black ink, intricate and confusing tattoos, by the time Atticus was done. "Yet through our Lord's teaching and a little alteration, I appear as if I've been nothing but a servant all of my life. Trade your robes for suits and you can suddenly infiltrate any place imaginable. You were not brought here to be hidden away, but to be molded into messengers, crafted to the tasks your best suited for. From there, we can spread the message of our salvation at universities, in corporations, in places of the world that you never thought you'd ever go. And it is all achievable by the perception cast by one's image."
Atticus placed the cloth onto the table, letting droplets of water run down his scalp to drop off of his chin; the youth sat mesmerized at the transformation that Atticus Sinclair had undergone before their very eyes. "Now go, my fellow brothers, and reflect on the men you wish to be, not the men that you are. Because with our Lord's blessing, you can be whoever you wish to be. So go, go and prepare for the transformations to come." And with that, Atticus remained fixated at the front of the room until he found himself alone in it, the youth disappearing for personal time with their Lord. Atticus ran his hands across his scalp, eyes closed, while the third eye atop his head watched the camera.
"Give a man a beard and a flannel shirt and he can infiltrate the rural south, a southern redneck to the bone. Give a man an imposing figure and a brutal finisher and he can become a wrestler. Give him a pig and a dark secret and he becomes one of the biggest up and comers in the WCF today. But do not give him a name, for he already has many; he, he is Legion."
Atticus opens his eyes, together all three staring at the camera.
"You already knew that; I didn't need an exposition to introduce our esteemed messenger to you, and yet it was still added. Why, you may ask, why bother? Hasn't Legion done enough already to have proven his worth. He finished sixth in War and he's only been in the company for two months. He's been undefeated and unpinned outside of the War match, conquered the men he said he would conquer. Men like Hog Wilder, Circe Cicero, and Johnny Reb have had a good taste of just who he is. These accomplishments, these statements, should speak for themselves. Yet they go in one ear and out the other of our esteemed owner Seth Lerch, who still sees Legion as nothing more than a pig farmer. Thus we find ourselves in this fiasco of a match. Billy and Johnny Rabid versus Legion and Adam Young"
Atticus only shakes his head as he grabs the cloth off the table, using it to soak up the water that splashed on the table during his cleansing.
"One would think the display Legion put on in regards to The Hardcore Redneck would've been evident to Seth Lerch, if nothing else; the so-called cohesion one witnessed between Legion and Adam Young in the War match has been grossly misinterpreted. That was not the coming together of two men of seemingly similar backgrounds in a collective effort to greatness; it was a carrion feasting on the slain victims that Legion tossed around the ring, above consuming on such rotten meat himself. No, Legion and Adam Young are not, as one would say, friends in this business. Legion proved it last week when he allowed Adam Young to throw everything he could at him before dropping him on his head. As simple as that, yet the message was still not clear. This isn't the case where Seth just throws Dustin Beaver into a match with #BeachKrew just because they're all fucking annoying and deserving one another. Nay, this is those in power associating Legion with men of lesser quality because they are too thick or too blind to see just what he has done and what he is capable of."
Tossing the cloth back on the table, Atticus focuses back on the camera, his tattoos reflecting the light above every time he moved.
"And these complaints, these outrages, can simply be directed to his partner without even bringing his opponents this week into the picture. But I, for the sake of not being hypocritical, won't do so. Because you see, skin deep, Billy and Johnny Rabid are just as useless as Legion's partner this week. Indeed on paper, King Tub and the Brit with a fake California tan aren't any higher quality opponents for our Lord's chosen messenger."
Atticus nods, pointing to the camera.
"Yeah, you're not fooling me Johnny Rabid. Your stereotypical beach bud from Cali doesn't just call someone a, and I'm quoting here, 'fooking plum,' not if he wants to play a convincing part."
Atticus steps around the table, hiking up the skirt of his robe, revealing another tattoo: a red dragon coiled around his ankle with the Imperial State Crown of British Monarchy perched atop its scaly head.
"Because you see, I am no idiot. I was born and raised in the streets of London, Johnny, and I bear more than this self-inflicted scar of my time in the motherland. Where do you hail from, Johnny, and what are you running from that you have found yourself in the WCF? Because everyone in this company are on a path forward; they all have goals they'd like to achieve in their time here. But their motivation stems from the things in their lives in their past, the things they are trying to escape. Adam Young is looking to escape obscurity, Billy obesity, and Legion his old, worthless self. We are all men with pasts that we try to mask, try to conceal, and you've done a piss poor time thus far of doing so, Johnny."
Atticus continues forward, grabbing one of the chairs recently occupied by one of the youth, taking a seat without taking his eyes off the camera.
"But there is no denying, Johnny, that you fit the ideals of what a true wrestler is, there is no denying that. You've waltzed into the WCF with your spray-on tan to cover your pale heritage, weighing in at the precise number of two hundred and twenty six pounds as if the restrictions on the weight classes were still a thing in this business, and you've gone all out since arriving in this company. You've wanted to make this name of yours known, embedded in the mind of those here in the WCF so they won't question, won't wonder, why a man like you just up and appeared in this company. You've already proven yourself to be more in this business and you haven't even had a match. So why now?
I see the truth, Johnny, but do you?"
Atticus taps the eye atop his forehead.
"You're new blood here in the WCF but you're not new, Johnny. You've been a fighter all your life, looking to prove yourself beyond the limitations you found yourself in your past. Maybe it was the location, maybe the people, or maybe it was just your own inability to exceed expectations. You failed, in some capacity, I know you have, so you fled, hoping a new name, some fake hair dye, and a brash persona will work wonders in your new life. Moreso, you're a wrestler, not a man who simply joined the business, but was one born into it. How ever can you come, short, with such drive and experience?
Because this isn't your home, Johnny, and Seth Lerch isn't looking to father you while you're here. You've chosen to leave the old you, to become someone completely new to the business. And Seth . . . Seth is going to remind you over and over and over that that is all you will be here. He doesn't view greatness like you'll be coming in thinking he will. Because you're still stick on the man who you once were, Johnny, not who you want to be. At skin level, you're Johnny Rabid, the Apex Predator. But in your heart, below the surface, you're still J--"
Atticus pauses, shaking his head.
"No, I won't spoil the fun. We will simply come full circle, Johnny; you're just another fookin' plum thinking he can be something in this company, only to be squished under Legion's boot."
Atticus stomps his foot for emphasis as he leans forward to face the camera.
"As to you, Billy, I will at least give you a semblance of respect for the things you've accomplished in this company. You've come a long way from the Taco Bowl and the five second breathers that have defined your career thus far. You've, as one with a sick humor, would say that you've been on a roll recently, steamrolling over the competition, even flattening the former United States champion David Sanchez in the War match. Of course, you didn't do it in the following week in the match that really mattered, instead let Gemini Battle steal the victory out from under you while you were probably taking another breather or something. That was your opportunity, Billy, to prove to everyone you're more than the man you appear to be.
You've had your ups and downs, Billy, and I'm not just referring to your breasts when you walk to the ring. No, you've been the competitor who has surprised more people in the WCF than even Legion. Not because you're spectacularly good, Billy, only that you're not wretchedly terrible. Men see Legion and they see a competitor, an individual fit for the rigors that a career in the WCF entails; people look at you and wonder simply how you fit through the door of the arena. Or the car that drove you from the airport. Or the plane that somehow carried you across the ocean to Hawaii. Maybe you just took a boat, though heaven forbid you fall overboard, lest we'd have a second Titanic and Tsunami in East Asia.
I promised I wouldn't be hypocritical and I've tried really hard up until this point, but you're just too much to handle, Billy, in a serious manner. I don't doubt your heart, don't doubt your desire to achieve success like your best friend John Barber did in his time here. Thing is you're not John Barber, at least physically speaking, and in the whole scheme of things, you cannot possibly expect someone like Legion to bend over and heave every time you shoot the ropes. Oh, don't get me wrong, he will let you; he let Adam Young actually hit him last week, so you would think you simply breathing won't bother him. But eventually, the numbers in his head will become too much, Legion will get agitated, and he'll drop you on your head. Because Six Three, Three Six may have him utterly confused, but four hundred and seventy five pounds is something he can work with.
Billy, I have faith that in time you can become someone in this company, but this week will not mark the start of it. Legion has been a caged animal all week and he's far more Rabid than your partner will hope to ever be. He's a dangerous man, one who has ended careers already in his short time here. And even with Adam Young weighing him down this week, he will still come out stronger than you can ever hope to achieve. So do yourself a favor and don't even bother coming to the ring this week, because you'll be out of more than breathe once Legion is done with you."
And with that, the scene abruptly fades.
The professor finds himself seated alone in his office, the stacks of papers to grade sitting atop his desk and various volumes on mathematical theories lining the bookshelf above his head. Most people probably notice the framed photo hanging on the wall beside the window with a very interesting image depicted: that of the professor wearing wrestling tights and boots alongside a redneck looking fellow in a cowboy hat, both hoisting high identical Championship belts with the initials IWF written across the front of them. The Professor looks up from his computer to look at the photo.
The door knocks.
"My office hours are over," The professor yells at the door, eyes never leaving the photo. "Come back next week."
The door opens and in steps Atticus Sinclair, his tattoos hidden away and his robe as pristine as always.
"Now, now, Professor McCalister, you know I'm here for more than to discuss declaring a major. I'm here in search of an answer."
And with that, the door shuts, the scene fading out one final time.