Post by "Iron Heart" Ethan King on May 7, 2016 22:39:45 GMT -5
VIRTUE AND VICE
Weary and worn down by the eventful night from before, Miguel Myles emerged into the organized office in shambles. Dirty blonde hair tousled and thrown around in an assortment of random strands and flicks, his usual confident strides cut short by the lack of sleep and general tiredness that filled his being and caused him to glide languidly across the dark maroon carpet. Upon nearing the room, his palm shot out from underneath the heavy leather jacket that he wore, shoving the plain-white door roughly.
The man who sat before him, feet spread out comfortably on the spacious desk situated in front of him, smiled cordially, eyes lighting up in excitement at the sign of his pet project. Indeed, this was the man at the head of the operation todestroy Ethan King bring REALity to the world.
White-Suit.
As always, he wore his patented, perfectly fitted white suit, matched with a black tie, the outfit somehow managing to help his entrancing amber eyes penetrate and equally infuriate the already perturbed Miguel even more. White-Suit pretended not to take notice of his acquaintances negative demeanor, instead pointing subtly with his index finger toward the leather chair a few meters in front of him.
But White-Suit knew.
He always knew.
He watched with interest as his young protégé bent over to take a seat while letting out a tired sigh, the ghost of a smile began to play at his lips, his regular amused and somewhat mocking expression making its way over his pale features.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miguel. Although I didn’t expect our next meeting to be quite so soon. Is it true, then?”
Immediately, he caught the minuscule twitch of that Miguel’s left eye made, he smiled contentedly, nodding his head.
“By that look, I’ll assume you’ve brought him under the influence?”
The left corner of Miguel’s lip contorted, yet he showed no other hint of uncertainty. He hardly faltered, but the older, sharper man could see through the confident façade, and he could break through those walls in an instant. With his feet still hung up on the desk, he tilted his head to the side, offering his protégé a mild grin. The younger man sat up straight, trying to assume an informative look.
“No… not yet, anyway. He got a taste of it, just a little sample. I could tell it ruined him the moment he woke up though, the moment he stopped seeing the visions. He had that look… you know the one I’m talking about, right? The bewildered, surprised look he puts on that fucked up little face of his? Yeah, I saw it. I could see right into that soul of his, could see his whole world falling down around him. He’s lucky he needed to catch a flight tomorrow to Mexico, or I would’ve had him entirely under my control.”
White-Suit chuckled, a mocking note entering his voice.
“Remember, Miguel. It’s my control. It would appear our mutual friend is more resistance than our other recent projects, most struggle to break out of the trance so suddenly after the first hit. Very well, you know what you must do. Hit him with a larger dosage this time, has he told you what type of visions he’s been seeing?”
Promptly, White-Suit pulled out a notepad from a small drawer, flicking out a pen at the same time. Miguel’s face scrunched up, as if trying to remember the events that had taken place the previous night. Once it hit him, he slumped in his chair, slightly relieved.
“Yeah. At first, I couldn’t get much out of him. He just kept saying that “it wasn’t him” and how “that wasn’t the real Ethan.” Eventually, he decided to open up. There’s some kind of all-powerful being living in that dimension you put him in, some influential figure that seems to gain all control of him. Apparently, one look from the man sent Ethan into a rage, a frenzy that he couldn’t prevent. It cut deep, I could tell.”
Intrigued, White-Suit jotted down a quick selection of dot points, before laying the pen down. His feet slid off the table deliberately, planting down on the ground with authority. His eyes, an eternal dance of amber flame, struck deeper into the very mind and soul of Miguel Myles.
“Tell me, did Ethan manage to give the figure a name, the man who tormented him?”
“He did, he called him the ‘Kingmaker.’ Although the being he spoke to never said that name, he thought it an appropriate title for the man he saw.”
“Interesting. As you know, the figures in these dreams are ripped straight out of REALity and implanted into these visions, albeit as different forms of themselves. Did he make any connections with someone from his past or present?”
“No, he seemed too far gone to make any sort of connection.”
White-Suit nodded, steadily breathing and contemplating the information. He put on a plastic smile for the young, clueless man in front of him, the pawn in this eternal game of chess, the one who would lead Ethan King into the pit of despair promised land. White-Suit brushed himself off, before pushing himself up to his feet, standing straight and elegant, just as he had been taught from the age of five. With a few paces, he walked round the edge of the table, patting his naïve little friend on the shoulder.
“You’ve done exceptionally well Miguel. You’ve exceeded any expectation I could’ve laid down upon you, for that, you will be rewarded. But for now, I want you to get into contact with the school. After all, there’s a large-scale party that you’re meant to be hosting, correct?”
Miguel shot up to his feet, realization dawning on him. His tired legs wobbled underneath him, but White-Suit was there.
White-Suit was always there to help.
Miguel took a moment to gather his sensed, steadying himself and making eye contact with hisemperor leader.
“I do. The celebration yesterday was only the beginning. I believe he’ll be entirely ‘under the influence’ by the time we’re done.”
“And you made sure to invite him?”
“I have. He’ll be arriving at the airport on Tuesday, the party will commence later that night. There shouldn’t be any suspicion from him. From what I know, he hasn’t even contacted Eddie about the occurrence, he’s far too confused at the moment. By the time he realizes…”
White-Suit smiles.
“It’ll already be too late.”
Miguel nods, backing away a few paces.
“I’ll take my leave now. I will be certain to update you on my progress, my next report should come in the day after the party.”
“Perfect.”
Miguel inclined his head downward in a show of respect, White-Suit waved his hand dismissively toward the door. The young man’s face turned a tinge red, but he succeeded in slowly trudging out of the room, feet pattering against the ground one by one as he excited the office.
In an unusually stoic manner, White-Suit paced deliberately toward the rectangular window which made up almost the entirety of the back wall. His hand slowly stretched out to grab a file from the drawer he opened earlier, pulling out a yellow file with a white page slipped inside of it. Delicately, he lifted it out from the file, the face of Ethan King appearing front and centre on the page. At the window seal laid a red marker, which he reached out for and latched onto, before neatly crossing out Ethan’s face and name.
Almost uncharacteristically, White-Suit glanced out the window wistfully, a slight hint of regret matching the rueful, sad smile that lent itself over his lips.
“Oh, how naïve the young are.
“You’re not a King, Ethan.
“And HE will not make you one.”
YOU ARE NOT THE ONE
“Welcome back, Ethan!”
“Dude, you fucking killed it out there. Taking it to a stacked team like that.”
“What’s the strategy for your next match?”
Ethan, with a demure smile matched only by the way he shyly stepped forward through the college crowd that surrounded him. To him, it didn’t feel right. To be standing here with everyone staring at him, for it to be him holding all the spotlight. Eddie and Gabriel weren’t here to celebrate their impactful debut with him, they weren’t here to take in some of the credit. It were him and only him that had to face the crowd and talk to the public, to give them what they wanted to hear, to tell them that ‘everything would be alright’, even when he knew deep down that everything had been fucked the moment they had decided to bite off more than they could chew.
But, he couldn’t come outright and say that, he couldn’t ruin the public image of the group, he didn’t have that in him. Lately, he felt like he didn’t have a lot in him at all. Even with all the talent, even with all the praise, even with the title he had unceremoniously dumped into the sleek sports bag he had slung around his shoulder and walked onto campus with.
It didn’t change a fucking thing.
A girl in the crowd caught the eye of Ethan, she politely requested she take a photo with the self-made star, he reluctantly agreed, pulling out the title he had won merely a week ago and displaying it meekly to the surrounding crowd. They cheered and whooped loudly for the young hero, who held a fake, plastered-on smile while the photo had been taken, before dropping the title back into the bag and carrying it along with him toward the dormitory. The group of people attempted to follow, but where forced back by the tandem of Miguel and Sudoku, who assisted the United States Champion into retiring into the facility. With a relieved sigh, he stepped past the wide-open glass doorway and nodded briefly to a few passing residents of the dormitory who weren’t apart of the earlier crowd.
A couple sets of stairs, a turn of the key, and Ethan King was in his home away from his home, followed by the ever-present Miguel Myles, who shared his weary look and sluggish movements.
“Glad that’s over with?”
Ethan shot him a sidelong glance, a rueful grin coming over him while he brushed away a stray hair.
“Yeah, I thought we’d never get through the front entrance. I didn’t even do all that much, I just secured a draw for the team. Just keeping the dream alive, you know what I mean?”
Miguel laughed aloud, an incredulous look coming over him.
“You need to stop being humble and shit. You know that’s not how everyone are looking at you right now. They’re seeing a guy that’s taken the fight to three of the greatest in the game, and that you’re doing it on a consistent basis. People are starting to realize what you’re about man, they know you aren’t no joke. Your title win proved it, and this only solidifies it. Now you just got to come away with the goods next time, rather than just evening it up. Get what I’m saying?”
Ethan paced over to the window, dumping the bag he held on the floor.
“I know what you’re talking about, but I think I’d rather just talk about something different, you know? For almost the entire year, that’s all we’ve been talking about. About starting up The Pride brand, about debuting, about training and doing everything we could to succeed and make it work. I just need a break man, even if it’s only for a day or two.”
Miguel scoffed and moved to sit down on the sloped grey couch, reaching for the TV remote at the same time and clicking the big red button. You know, to turn the fucking thing on? Yeah, he did that.
“That’s cool dude. I feel you on that. You just have to realize… people are looking up to you now man. You have a responsibility to uphold.”
The words of the Kingmaker FLASHED before him, sounding out louder in his mind than they ever did in his ears.
“You’re a champion now, Ethan. Uphold your honour, don’t shy away from the responsibility.”
His mind went numb, muscles tensing up and seizing all former movement. In a monumental effort, he managed to slump down onto the bed right by the window, panting heavily. Face still stunned and glaring straight ahead at the empty white wall, Miguel looked at him with interest, and a devious smirk that curled around his lips.
“I struck a nerve, have I?” He thought, calmly. He got up and walked toward the unmoving Ethan, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and jerking him forward, he snapped out of the shock. Miguel laughed jokingly and punched him playfully.
“You good man? You went all googly eyed and shit, thought you just got a text saying you failed your assignment or something.”
Ethan’s eyes danced around in circles, evaluating the room suspiciously, seemingly oblivious to the young man standing before him. In a moment of realization, he looked up at the looming Miguel and forced a tremulous smile.
“Yeah, I’m good. Nothing to worry about here, just… just cramped up. I don’t fucking know. Anyway, back to what I had been saying earlier…”
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
“Why don’t we head out tomorrow, or tonight even? Just let me clear my head a little, forget about all the wrestling drama and whatnot. Maybe we can bring a couple people along too, get something popping?”
Miguel shook his head briskly.
“No can do.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to tell you the moment you got back since you’re clearly a stressed, but since you brought this up… we’ve got a party to go to tomorrow my dude. It’s going to be hype, me and the guys decided to set something up.”
“You do realize this is like… the fifth major, and I’m talking… MAJOR party in like… a two month span?”
“Yeah, and?”
Ethan shrugged, conceding the point. He hesitantly began to gather his strength and move up to his feet, making certain to hold onto anything that could support him as he made his way to his own bed, his feet dragged ponderously behind him, shoulder slumped forward in what by now had become sheer exhaustion. He offered a smile to his friend, however perfunctory the motion was.
“I’m going to take a nap, remind me about the party when I get back up… I’ll probably forget about that shit the moment I drift off.”
“Will do. See you later.”
Ethan nodded before disappearing off into his own little sanctuary, he dumped himself onto the bed, limbs spread out in all directions. His thoughts wandered for what felt like a few minutes at most, but as he began to fade away, falling deeper and deeper into his own subconscious…
There he was again.
His (King)maker.
“So much pressure, isn’t there?”
The voice paused, a mocking laugh reverberating through his mind and echoing louder and louder with each drawn out cackle.
“You’re just a product of their entertainment.
“And don’t you EVER forget that.”
Return of the King(maker)
The sky above was clear and tinged with darkness as the two friends arrived in a car manned by the one and only Miguel Myles, who cleanly pulled the vehicle up onto the curb and promptly killed the engine, before giving a curt nod to Ethan in the passenger seat. Ethan took no notice, blankly staring ahead whilst clawing for the inner handle of the door, which he eventually found. A step out of the car and into the clean afternoon air to change the dampened mood of the young man, who solemnly filed in behind Miguel who wandered fervently ahead, clearly excited to see the result of his careful planning with his associate. His feet sent him soaring up a relatively long set of stone steps heading up to the household, while Ethan went along far more gradually, Miguel was weaving in, out and between a group of people near the front door. Upon glancing upward, Ethan noticed the select few people that had a look which told him he would soon be accosted, motivated by wanting to avoid their questioning and excitement, he skipped along the last few steps, ignoring their expectant faces and shooting the gap through the group – straight into the front entrance.
He smiled in a relieved manner, while catching a quick glimpse of himself in the rather expensive looking mirror situated on the wall not too far ahead of the doorway. A flick of his hand sent the brownish bangs hanging over his forehead swooping upward. Similarly, he began to dust his shirt off brusquely out of sheer instinct, slowly narrowing his eyes as he analysed himself in the reflection. With a gulp and a semi-confident nod, he paced further along the hall, catching a few looks from intrigued groups of students.
“That can’t be him, can it?”
“It has to be, I heard he goes to school around here.”
“Should we ask him?”
“No! That would be way too embarrassing. What if he’s just some random?”
Shaking his head ruefully, his feet continued to eat up the distance between him and the end of the hallway, a sharp left saw him emerge into the kitchen area. Unlike the hall, which was littered with royal carpets, highly-priced paintings and an abundance of people, the kitchen was the proud owner of many spilled drinks, emptied cups and people that were far too intoxicated at this stage of the night. Ethan tensed as his nostrils absorbed the full force of the alcohol’s stench, which was far more present on the hunched over people present on the tables and kitchen counters that he passed by. A scrunch of the nose and the hasty movements of his feet allowed him to escape from this hell relatively unscathed.
With a sigh of relief, he made it through the now open set of glass doors that gave access to the spacious backyard. Now it became highly evident that THIS was where the majority of the noise he heard earlier was coming from, a fedora wearing fuckboy (fuccboi?) was ever-so-present in the corner, bopping his head to the rhythm of the shitty music he was pumping from the oversized set he was using to bring joy to the masses of people that were half-dancing/half doing absolutely fuck all.
At a circular white table located toward the left of the outdoor area, far from the fedora wearing DJ and the legion of cramped up people dancing and drinking to his sick beats sat Miguel and three people whom Ethan could not identify. The one to his friend’s right wore a mask that concealed his face, the other wore a Hoodie that cast a light shadow over his otherwise clearly visible face. Miguel’s face lit up in recognition upon seeing Ethan curiously glance in their direction, he waved him over with a few motions of the hand.
Ethan did the best he could to put on the easy-going grin and the relaxed look he was rather known for back on home turf. He failed miserably, but he seemed oblivious to the fact as he made his way over to the group and hastily pulled out a chair from underneath the stark white table. He heard a chuckle from the one wearing the Hoodie, who leaned next to Miguel and said:
Hoodie: What’s he all worked up about?
Ethan shot him a look, eye widening, but Hoodie didn’t react. His hollow eyes only shooting chills down the spine of the now seated Ethan, who rested his arms on the sides of the plastic chair. Miguel pretended to not hear what Hoodie said, instead nudging Mask with his elbow.
Miguel: Well, introduce yourselves. I’m trying to get my drink on.
As he said the words, he gestured toward the glass bottle in front of him, pulling said bottle up to his lips and consuming the yellow liquid held within it. Mask offered Ethan a hand, who took it hesitantly and shook. Mask’s grip was soft and timid, but his hands were undoubtedly cold, far too cold even for a night such as this. Ethan’s hand recoiled backward unnaturally, he tried to cover it up with a quick smile, but Mask paid that act no mind. Rather, his eyes only watched Ethan with interest and a slight hint of amusement.
Mask: I’m Maxwell. Friends call me Mask. And that asshole over there? We just call him Hoodie.
Ethan: H-Hoodie?
Hoodie: If you want to look like a dickhead you can call me that. If not, just say H.
Ethan swallowed nervously, it was almost as if Mask and Hoodie could sense it. They shared a smile, Miguel finally decided to put his bottle down after taking an unbearably long swig, the glass thudding against the table softly.
Miguel: Small talk out of the way? Great. Let’s get our boy a drink.
Mask: I got him.
Mask reached beneath the table, a few telling clinks sounded as glass bottles clashed. A second later, he was sliding a bottle over to Hoodie, who caught it with a solid grip around the neck and thanked him with a nod. Miguel and Mask exchanged a look, the former subtly jerking his thumb toward the kitchen area from underneath the table, out of the view of the nerve-filled Ethan. An incredulous, bewildered tone hits Miguel’s voice as he glares at Mask.
Miguel: You seriously didn’t get a drink ready for him? I literally told you I’d be bringing him over.
Mask’s shoulders rise in a nonchalant shrug.
Miguel: Whatever dude. Go grab him a drink, will you?
Abruptly, Mask rises up off his seat. Only now does Ethan realize how tall and slender the man is, hovering at around six foot eight with lanky limbs. His body bobs up and downwards as he makes his way into the kitchen, fumbling around for what is presumably a drink for Ethan. The smile Miguel gave him was apologetic.
Miguel: Sorry, he’s a little forgetful.
Ethan: All good. Where’d you guys meet anyway?
Miguel’s eyes averted his for only a split-second, but Ethan’s tiredness and with how on edge he felt prevented him from noticing the movement.
Miguel: Well, we all went high school together. Had some crazy times together, neither of them go to College though, so I just catch up with them whenever I can.
Instinct tells Ethan there’s something out of place, something that he’s clearly missing, but he shrugs the feeling off. A few seconds later, he’s greeted with by the slender figure of Mask, whose long right arm is extended outward, offering him another glass bottle. Ethan politely smiles and notices the beverage is already open, he takes a light sip before resting it on the table in front of him. Miguel chuckles and leans forward.
Miguel: Come on dude, I know you’re a lightweight but at least chug down a bit more!
Hoodie: Can’t handle his liquor, huh?
Miguel: Not a bit.
Impetuous nature getting the better of him, the brash Ethan reaches back for the bottle and takes a long swig that matches the one taken by Miguel earlier. The encouraging looks from Miguel and Hoodie turn to satisfaction, as they sarcastically applaud their ‘friend.’
And as Ethan eyes Miguel’s associates, the men with the hollow, lifeless eyes and the mysterious appearances, he can’t help but feel a sense of dread.
His stomach churns.
And the black spots appear once again, head swimming with visions of him.
The Kingmaker.
USURPER
A repeated ticking sound emanates from a clock hanging above the throne being seated upon by the glorious Kingmaker, who has his arms stretched out comfortably on the gold encrusted arm rests of the plush red seat. He has a welcoming smile on his face, one of glee and bliss. No longer is face lined with anger like it was the last time he had met with his pet project…
Ethan King.
The young man is ushered in by a set of faceless knights, their helmets encasing their faces, the slits where eyes would usually be showing nothing but a dark abyss, only serving to further agitate the already delirious Ethan. As he walked down the carpet laid before his feet, faceless servants and knights that were already in the throne room gave reverent nods, some even bowing before their Future King.
Kingmaker: Welcome home, my child.
Ethan: This isn’t my home.
Kingmaker: Why, of course it is. What would make you think any differently?
FLASHbacks.
Ethan: You… you fucking killed me! You executed me before everyone, why am I still here?
He looks up at the Kingmaker.
Ethan: I don’t want to be here.
Kingmaker: Don’t disappoint me again Ethan, not after the foolish things you said last time. You are not a brainless child, don’t stoop to the level of those who try to usurp me.
Ethan: What are you talking about?
The Kingmaker rises from his throne, glaring daggers at the man before him.
Kingmaker: There is an usurper Ethan, he looks to claim my throne and take everything away from me. He is dangerous. A slithering serpent who spends him time pandering to the authorities that be, trying to gain their protection, their power, everything that could see the end of my reign. These are not times of peace, WAR is approaching and the land is being divided as we speak.
Ethan: I don’t understand…
Kingmaker: Armies are gathering, a storm is brewing, and you are one of my last hopes. Sure, sure. There is a tournament being held now, but only for now. Once the dust settles and a victory is named, that is when the real tragedies will occur. When the world stops turning and everything is reduced to ash. I have put my faith in you, and you have taken my kindness for granted. What did I do to deserve this, my child?
Ethan: You… you’re trying to manipulate me. You’re making me someone that I’m not. I’m not…
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Kingmaker: You’re not what?
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Ethan’s throat tightens, he can’t let out any words. The Kingmaker cocks his head to the side, his face stoic and unmoving.
Kingmaker: I know what you are.
He takes a pace toward him.
Kingmaker: I know who you are.
His feet descend down the stairs leading to his throne, he stops himself upon reaching Ethan, whom he rests a solemn, tired hand upon.
Kingmaker: You, Ethan King… are the true usurper.
Face pale and eyes widen, Ethan King drops to his knees, hands upward in complete and utter defeat.
Ethan: Don’t! Not again, not again.
Painstakingly slow, he cradles himself up into a ball at The Kingmaker’s feet, a pleading look on his face.
Ethan: Just take me away, I don’t want to be here… I don’t want to be here. Let me out.
The Kingmaker smiles sadly, before kneeling over the distraught Ethan.
Kingmaker: As you wish.
And with a snap of the fingers, he’s arrived at his final destination.
The Shark’s Lair.
He awakes to the smell of blood, sweat and alcohol, it takes him a moment to realize the stench is coming from him. Surprised and confused, he sways hesitantly as he picks himself up to his feet inch by inch and bit by bit. His eyes stare outward into the pitch black that encompasses him, allowing him to see nothing except his own fear written in the lines and spots that circulate through his vision. A shining spotlight appears before him, a circle of yellow in the darkness, he moves towards it, but before he can, he’s stopped by the sound of footsteps quickly approaching. He stops, realizing that someone else is taking the spotlight.
Shark: Oh look, another Pride faggot being sent straight into the deep end. Who’d thought I’d get to kill the dreams of yet another one of these fuccbois.
Ethan’s eyes oddly start to adjust to the dark, the spotlight fading away as his vision becomes seemingly enhanced. Now, on the ocean-blue walls that surround both him and The Shark, are sets of propped up, decapitated human heads that appear to have been severed unevenly with a blade. Ethan’s mouth is agape as he takes in a sharp intake of breath.
Shark: What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little blood? A little pain? A little sorrow? Sad way to go out, huh? Having to stare into the cold, dead eyes of all the losers I’ve murdered before you. Hey! Look over there, there’s your boy Eddie Felt.
The Shark grasps him roughly by the head and twirls his head around, forcing him to look into the lifeless eyes of a decapitated Eddie Felt. Ethan groans, stomach churning and eyes shutting tightly.
Shark: Don’t have the guts to look him in the eye? Typical. Fucking typical. You had your shot, you had your chance to prove you could serve underneath the Kingmaker, leave your mark on this place, prove that you were the second coming. But guess what?
He leans in towards the unmoving Ethan, his cologne and minty fresh breath overtaking all other smells rushing through Ethan’s nose.
Shark: I’ve taken your place. Now I’m the one with the keys to the kingdom. Your run is dead, your lives are considered forfeit. You see yourselves as champions. Hell, in the eyes of the masses, you may even be a champion. But… it’s too little…
ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
Shark: I did see potential in you though, I can see directly through your act, little Ethan. You’re a monster, aren’t you? You’re just a bit better than the rest of us at hiding it.
He pauses, before slapping him in the face.
Shark: But that doesn’t make you a hero.
And with a steel toed boot, Ethan receives a kick to the face, his mouth immediately overcome by the taste of both blood and iron, and he falls away into oblivion.
USURPER II
“You’re falling away, my child.”
He hears the words ring out in his mind, but he can’t open his eyes, he can’t.
The voice grows harsher, colder, crueler.
More monstrous.
“Listen here you fuccin faggot, you have got to be one of most pathetic, disgusting, weak-willed rodents I have ever witnessed in my entire reign over this kingdom. You have one shot, one chance to prove that I shouldn’t just end your life and leave you resting in that eternal bodybag for the rest of your fuccin existence. You hear me?”
Ethan groans.
“Now do it.”
“Do… what?”
“End them.”
“I… I don’t think I can.”
“Then you’ve left me no choice.”
A sensation begins to come over him, leaving only one thought in his mind.
I’m Trying To Reach You.
Trying To Reach You.
Reach You.
You.
You’re Mine Now, Forever…
And Always.
Ethan eyes snap open, and now he’s in a room that’s completely white. A perfect white, he’s seated on a stool that’s been placed directly in front of a camera.
He smiles.
“Congratulations, Team Stale Fucks. You walked into Round One and came out firing on every single cylinder imaginable, and failed to beat The Pride while we were sitting around throwing jabs, testing the waters, trying to understand just how bad you guys really are.
And don’t you worry, we understand a lot now.
We understand why the three of you have each had some of the most disappointing returns in the history of the WCF.
We understand why Orbit, the best member of that shit-show of a team, fell to his knees and succumbed to the greatness that IS The United States Champion, Ethan King.
We understand why Jeff Purse is so caught up about the past, the present, and the future, because the guy still think he’s got it, when he never really fucking had it in the first place.
We understand why Polar Phantasm is too shook too scared to even really talk about the guys he’s coming up against, which is why he spends all his time talking about this FPV has-been. Because that’s what Polar’s about, he’s about teaming up has-beens and beating has-beens, because that’s his best chance at remaining relevant in an interesting that’s ever-changing.
These faggots can’t adapt to the situations at hand, they see a group of fresh-faces and they immediately think they stand a chance, that they the favorites up in this shit. That’s what Jeff’s been spreading on the internet, right? That this team of returning irrelevant non-factors are the favorites to win a tournament filled with all-star teams that’ll hit them with one power punch and drop them straight on their fucking asses?
Because that’s exactly what this shit is. I’m telling you, round one was us just getting a feel for what these guys got left in a tank. I didn’t even bother throwing them straights and hooks, those uppercuts and those overhands, because I didn’t need to. Me at my absolute worst managed to take Jeff Purse’s shitty kick and turn it around into something more spectacular than that whole fucking team combined.
Don’t you get it by now, Purse? You aren’t better than me. You aren’t better than anyone on this team. You aren’t even better than anyone on your own team, and the only reason you aren’t going to be getting pinned on Sunday is because there just happens to be a team full of incompetent fuckwits that somehow manage to be less entertaining and talented than you. But don’t worry, we’ll get to them later. For now? Carry on with the execution, because that’s exactly what this shit is. Purse is the first one to get hung, then Polar, and then Orbit. It’s that returnee circle of life, these boys come back and try to make an impact and they get their heads taken off, or they get the life choked out of them. Plain and simple.
Orbit’s gotten like, one legitimate win since he came back, and ever since I arrived in the picture, he’s been seething, he’s been given opportunity after opportunity, chance after chance to try and take this young gun Ethan King out, to put him in his place, to prove that he’s still got it. But what ends up fucking happening?
Right. You get out performed each and every time, without failure. And that’s going to be a perpetual fact for the rest of your career Orbit, that’s what you’re going to realize every time we repeat this dance, every time you try and match me but end up getting eviscerated at every turn.
Just look at you, all hung up on a single loss. For a guy talking about how fucking successful he is, you’re getting all twisted at the fact you lost to ya boy. Yeah, that’s right. For those of you who don’t know, this so-called legend in Steve Orbit got his ass pinned by someone he and his team think is sooooo far below him, but look what happened, am I right?
Facts are facts, and the fact remains that the record book is in my favour. The fact remains that you’ve never been able to put me away. You’ve had three chances at it, and each time you’ve walked out empty handed, each time you’ve looked like the inferior competitor because… well… because you simple ARE.
And don’t come up in here telling the world any differently, the shits been proven over and over again. This is Joey Flash bodying Gemini Battle. This is Spencer Adams bodying Kyle Kemp. This is Los Tiburones straight up murdering Derek Moreno, it ain’t even a fucking contest. Steve Orbit steps into the arena and Ethan King shows him up. Every. Single. Time.
And that’s how it goes, forever and always.
And you can sit there and cry out that I’ll never be a bigger name then you, or that I’ll never reach the level that you once did, but we all know that’s just a straight up lie. That’s a defensive mechanism, that’s instinct. That’s a shell of a man succumbing to greatness, that’s a shell of a man shuddering his final, dying breaths. That’s Steve Orbit trying to promise to the crowd that he’ll always be remembered as one of the best, whilst deliberately ignoring the fact that his place is soon about to be taken by somebody that’s #BetterThanHim.
Sorry Kyle Kemp.
So you know what, Orbit? Suck a fucking dick. Continue to hang back around in the midcard and waste every single opportunity that you’re handed by the higher ups, the guys that seem to think that you’re still relevant in today’s WCF. Choke on more title shots. Hey, who knows? Maybe you’ll get another shot at that Final Destination Briefcase some time and you can fail to win it not once, not twice, but THREE times.
Bear responsibility for your fuck-ups, your lack of skill and effort meant that you inadvertently let Logan of all fucking people become World Champion, and that just sums up how pathetic you are. It sums up this most recent portion of your career, and that’s the portion where you get overshadowed by everyone and everything. Even in our most recent match, you had to rely on Jeff Purse just to remain competitive.
While I was hovering around at my C-Game, letting you guys get your licks in, making sure the crowd wasn’t bored by yet another squash match in a tournament that’s filled with lackluster teams being led by equally lackluster leaders in bitches like Cathy Fitch (don’t worry bae, I’ll be fucking you up in a bit, just you wait).
This is Steve Orbit in a nutshell, and this is where his story ends. Maybe not in the typical sense, but it’s happening nonetheless.
Orbit, you’re walking to your literal death on Sunday. I’m done throwing jabs at your weak ass, I’m done stooping to your level and making sure I don’t get sanctioned for murdering one of the least valuable assets on the fucking roster. After this week, it all ends. There isn’t going to be an Orbit v King Five, there isn’t going to be yet another match where I flat out embarrass you and make you look like some Ultimate Destroyer wannabe. This week? I obliterate. And next week? I forget all about you.
It’s on to the next one for me. But for you?
It’s the end of the road.
So long, Steve Orbit.
Moving on forward to Stale Cunt #2, it’s Jeff Purse. I bet you’re feeling pretty good about yourself, right? You came back and managed to look semi-competent, you weren’t on that Phantasm return level shit. Nah, you managed to one up the second best guy on your team and not eat a pinfall on your first match back. Congratulations.
And this is as far as you go.
You, Jeff Purse, are fucking pathetic. There’s nothing else to describe it. My day job is killing fools on twitter, I can go from #murking Dag, to putting that exact same act on Logan in an instant. You come up in here? And you’re immediately making yourself out like a fool, talking about how you’re the favourites and shit. This team of A-Grade failures that have spent their returns TALKING about how good they are, without even SHOWING any fucking trace of that talent they talk about.
I could go grab fifteen special needs children, and even the most delusional of them would be able to grasp the concept that your whole team is fucking ass. You’ve got two mediocre legends who will have to do the heavy lifting, and then you got yourself, Jeff Purse, the guy who I’m sure was oh-so certain he’d be taking a little rook to school in his last match up.
How’d that plan work out for ya? The back of your head still ringing from when I #KilledYouWithFire?
Don’t even answer that.
It’s alright though man. Keep doing you. Keep posting trash promos where you do nothing but make parodies because you got nothing better to do than try and follow that Torture Hype. You want to try and do something original and get that Promo of the Year but then you realize that you messed up because you were dropping that shit against the hypest team in the fucking tournament.
I’m sorry, Purse. I’m sorry that you’re a brainless cunt who seems to think he’s superior to anyone in this federation. I’m sorry that you’re the type of guy to get straight-up ignored by Dag because you’re deemed not skilled enough to even garner his attention. I’m sorry that while you’re the predicted anchor and downfall of your team, you’re still putting in all this effort to try and set things straight, even though we all knew from the moment this clusterfuck of a team was announced that no matter what you did, it was always going to flop.
And now? This too is where you fall. For you, this is your final epiphany. This is where you go on that Steve Orbit ride and take a quick fall from grace. It’ll be quick because you were never that high up to begin with, you were just another over hyped motherfucker who got shown up by guys that are infinitely better than him.
Funny you’re all about this Future Elements shit, because you’d literally need to go into another dimension to find a reality where Jeff Purse isn’t a talentless sack of shit.
But just remember buddy – not everyone can be divine. Not everyone can be an ultra-talented megastar like the guy you’re looking at right this moment, the guy with all eyes on him because he took down a group of ‘legends’ that never stood a chance to begin with. This wasn’t you being at the wrong place at the wrong time, this was you just being an inane faggot that tried to mess with fate and destiny.
You’ve truly earned the ending I’ve laid out for you.
So long, Jeff Purse. You won’t be missed.
Die Nameless.
And now we rock up to the final, possibly least interesting member of the group. I say possibly because it’s pretty hard to somehow amount to less than two guys whose acts were worn out after their first year in the industry.
But yeah, I see you Polar. I see you and your team trying to make comparisons between you and I. Which is just retarded because in seven matches I’ve shown more potential and greatness than you did in your entire fucking career, but you know what? It’s all good. You can grasp and clutch at those straws, you can take shots in the dark and you can try to elevate your levels of importance by comparing yourself to newer, more superior talent, but that don’t mean shit in the end. You just gotta bring in the results, and so far? You’ve done nothing but missed the mark.
And you know what? I’m absolutely fine with you trying to act like you’ve somehow had some type of influence on me, like I’m based off of you or some shit, like I’m the second coming. You can believe that all you want, you can look at me and let your chest puff out in pride, happy to know that you’ve got someone to pass the torch t-
Just kidding, you fucking loser. You want to talk about cold? You’re looking at a guy with ice in his veins who steps up in the clutch. Unlike you or your team. You’ve seen what I’ve done, you’ve seen that I’ve whipped your partner three times over and made him look like a joke, and don’t think for one second I can’t re-enact that shit on you, because that’s an easier task than making Orbit look like the next Grime. Believe me on that one.
And speaking of losses and that, why not bring up another reason this is a complete fucking mismatch? There’s a difference of levels that perennial bottom-feeders such as yourselves fail to see, and it shows within our losses.
When I lose? The crowd are still cheering, they’re still awe-struck. They’re still in disebelief at the showings of courage and skill I put on display. They’re wondering when I’m going to get my shot at the big one, they’re wondering why I’m not already considered one of the top talents by management. They see the future in me, they see what’s going to be carrying this entire fucking federation for the years to come. And along with me? They see The Pride, they see a team that’s soon going to be considered the most stacked and unbelievable squad in the history of the company.
When you guys lose?
Steve Orbit gets laughed at, as everyone realizes they should’ve never got excited for the return in the first place.
Jeff Purse doesn’t even get a reaction at all. Everybody just expected it, they saw this stagnant fuck come out of his shell and instinctively knew that this guy was destined to just fail, over and over and over again. His time came, and his time past, and now he’s left as enhancement talent for the bigger and brighter stars that overtook him the moment they signed on with the WCF.
Polar Phantasm gets sneered at, everyone collectively sighs in relief as they thank god he didn’t fucking win and that the unwarranted hype doesn’t get furthered even more. They watched you drop like a fly to Sarah Twilight whose biggest moment in her WCF was watching Jared Holmes “Get Swoll.”
What the fuck even is this team, seriously?
What are we coming up against?
Better yet, why didn’t I just bring a fucking gun to the ring and end your miserable existences? Why didn’t I ensure that the WCF Universe would never have to see your smug faces again, still thinking you’re relevant and worthy of greatness.
Why didn’t I just end you right there and then? I could’ve straight up ended Orbit’s career for the fourth time over. I’ve already done it three times, I’ve already had him questioning his whole career and life by toying around with him for the better part of April, and now that trend is carrying forward into May.
The simple answer? I’m just having fun, man.
It’s fun watching these guys struggle, heads barely above water, trying their best to take in that all-important oxygen. It’s symbolic, they’re trying to reel in those wins but fail miserably, they try to bring in extra attention and fame but end up as nothing more than stats on my record. I get awarded with more bonuses for making these guys look good, and they get nothing out of it.
And what do they do?
They sit there and try to tell me that they showed they still got it, that I’m just an idiot that doesn’t know what he’s talking out. They’re madmen trying to tell the world the same point, repeating it every single fucking week, as if saying that they’re the best will somehow make everyone in the world bow in unison and admit that these guys aren’t as fucking bad as we know they are.
I’m a dream killer. Orbit had dreams of regaining his momentum. It had taken him so long to finally get passed that seemingly eternal roadblock in good old Logan, he finally got the win he so desperately needed against him, and when he was finally awarded with another shot at greatness, of winning a championship and elevating himself back up into the spotlight?
I crushed his dream in one moment. All it took was one shot, and he was looking up into the stars, wondering what the fuck happening.
Hint: I happened.
I ended you.
Jeff Purse had dreams of having a monumental return, of going up against some new-blood in a match where he could prove he was still one of the best things WCF had going for it, and that he wasn’t the useless retard we all knew and hated him for. And when he was under the bright lights, coming up against ya boy Ethan King?
I crushed his dream in one moment. I took his best shot, and broke his spirit as I left him barely able to stand. The only thing that didn’t stop me from completely destroying him? The fact I didn’t stand, the fact I decided to give this guy one last chance to prove he wasn’t totally inept.
Hint: You’re still fucking inept. Get over it.
Polar Phantasm also had dreams of having the big return, but those were already destroyed by the one and only Sarah Twilight. So what did he have left? His chance at staking his claim to glory, by taking out the young United States Champion and the rest of his crew. Show them up, and maybe, just maybe, he could pave his way to greatness once again through this Trios Cup Tournament.
But his run is already over. Only round two, and that was only because I was generous enough to breathe some life into this dead career. You should be thanking me, Polar. I’m saving your career… and now… I’m killing it.
Sorry, should’ve put a spoiler alert on that shit. But this shit was already a foregone conclusion from the very beginning, am I right? Especially when we’re all stepping into a ring with the most underrated, slept on team in the history of the tournament, am I right?
Nah, I’m just playing. These guys fucking suck. Ultimate Destroyer? Feels like I’m ripping into Bad News Benson all over again. Snake Venom? Am I playing online mode on UFC 2 or am I actually wrestling somebody? Like, who the fuck even name’s these perpetual jobbers anymore? We might as well call them up and call them Dead Faggot #1, #2 and #3. Isn’t that what they’re going to be after this match anyway?
Cathy Fitch be latching her lips onto any dick she can find on the fucking internet. She’s all up on the families nuts and shit, which makes sense. That stable so far has attracted all the mediocrity in the fed, it’s only right the best member of this entire team is the first one to go running off over to them, trying to give them that support they desperately need on twitter while your boy EK is dropping the hot fire on them.
But whose got your back, Cathy? While I’m straight up annihilating you in the ring, what’s gonna be left of Destroyer and Venom? They’re going to be laid the fuck out. Whether it be by a bitch ass Pimp Slap, or my boy Eddie Felt’s knee right in the back of their thick skulls, they’re going to be out for the count and I’m going to make you my bitch. Literally.
After this week? It’s not gonna be The Family’s nuts that you’re hopping on. Let’s get The Pride Bandwagon going, Member #1. Cathy Fitch. Congratulations, you are now more relevant than you will ever be in your entire lifetime. Feel proud, feel excited, feel glorified, you know aren’t entirely a bottom feeding scrub like the two guys that were signed on to compete with you for this tournament.
Oh, I’m sorry. Did you expect me to say something good about the team that were considered the underdogs against a team with the likes of Adam Young? Actually, scratch that. A team FILLED with Adam Young’s? Isn’t that basically what the Young Family is, anyway?
Damn, sounds like every team that’s got ‘Family’ in it sucks complete balls. Must be a coincidence.
I’m guessing that means next week, after these guys are eliminated and we’re through to facing teams that don’t completely suck, they’ll be calling themselves the “Cathy Fitch Family?” I don’t fucking know, never in my entire life have I seen three names that immediately tell you how fucking bad these guys are.
Snake Venom? This guy poisoned his entire career the moment he started by deciding it would be a good idea to start off with a name like that. Then again, it’s clear he needed something that would match his ability in the ring, which has been subpar to say the least.
Like I said, you were the underdogs against a group of guys that are considered the lowest of the low, so then what does that make you?
Need a hint? It means that collectively, you guys are arguably the fourth, fifth and sixth worst wrestler’s in the WCF. As a unit, that puts you as the second worst team in the tournament, and at the moment you’re coming up against one of, if not the best in the HISTORY of the cup.
So, what’s gotta be running through your minds right now? Is it Cathy Fitch still going on about her delusions of winning the whole damn thing? Is it Snake Venom trying to fathom why his parents even bothered to conceive, when they knew with their entire genetic makeup they’d just be royally screwing their child over in the long run? Is it Ultimate Destroyer realizing that he somehow managed to further ruined his already unimportant career by being teamed up with two people that in some fucking miracle, may ACTUALLY be worse than he is?
Damn, it’s a day for miracles, isn’t it? Unfortunately for you guys, you’ll be needing more than just sheer luck to even get a chance of victory. Never before have you seen a God Squad the likes of the one you’ll be facing on Sunday, never before have you seen them led by an individual who has caught the eye of so many legends and critics in such a short span of time. Never before have you seen someone the likes of Ethan King.
A monster.
A killer.
And a creator.
I created this opportunity for all of you, and you best remember that. I allowed you the chance to get your shots in against a team like the “Unstable Pimpelments” (speaking of shitty names). I’m giving you a chance to perhaps not get pinned. We can leave those honours for Jeff Purse or Polar Phantasm.
Then again, think about it. Getting pinned by me would be the single greatest thing any of you three ever accomplish in your careers, even when you combine all the non-existent accolades the three of you rack up together, it’ll never amount to the raise in publicity you got the moment Ethan King decided to drop you with his spectacular moves and end your fucking career right before it got started.
It’s one of those viral video type moments, you know what I’m saying? It’s when a legend in the sport is made, but not the typical type of legend. Not the legend that I’m going to be once I’ve racked up numerous World Titles, not the type of legend that’s known for accomplishing great things. No, there’s only one legend you guys will be remembered for.
And it’ll be the night where Ethan King makes your career, when I drop you right on your skull and have you wondering why the fuck you even bothered rocking up. You all could just leave this fate for the team I should’ve just murdered last week, but no, you think you know better than that.
You think you can mess with me.
You think you can usurp the King.
And you are sorely mistaken.
Cathy Fitch? Dead Faggot #1.
Ultimate Destroyer? Dead Faggot #2.
Snake Venom? Dead Faggot #3.
Unstable Pimpelments? All but gone.
And The Pride?
Moving on to bigger, better, and brighter things. And that’s how it will always be.
Trios Cup? We taking it.
Ultimate Showdown? I’m taking it.
WAR? One of us is taking it.
Hellimination? We taking it.
It’s all just a matter of time, and you guys are only here for the start of the ride. And I’m sorry it has to be that way.
I’m sorry you won’t get to see my grand design, where we turn the federation on its head and leave underachievers such as yourselves lying dead and buried at my feet.
My sincerest apologies.
But this is how it was always going to happen.
Die nameless."
Weary and worn down by the eventful night from before, Miguel Myles emerged into the organized office in shambles. Dirty blonde hair tousled and thrown around in an assortment of random strands and flicks, his usual confident strides cut short by the lack of sleep and general tiredness that filled his being and caused him to glide languidly across the dark maroon carpet. Upon nearing the room, his palm shot out from underneath the heavy leather jacket that he wore, shoving the plain-white door roughly.
The man who sat before him, feet spread out comfortably on the spacious desk situated in front of him, smiled cordially, eyes lighting up in excitement at the sign of his pet project. Indeed, this was the man at the head of the operation to
White-Suit.
As always, he wore his patented, perfectly fitted white suit, matched with a black tie, the outfit somehow managing to help his entrancing amber eyes penetrate and equally infuriate the already perturbed Miguel even more. White-Suit pretended not to take notice of his acquaintances negative demeanor, instead pointing subtly with his index finger toward the leather chair a few meters in front of him.
But White-Suit knew.
He always knew.
He watched with interest as his young protégé bent over to take a seat while letting out a tired sigh, the ghost of a smile began to play at his lips, his regular amused and somewhat mocking expression making its way over his pale features.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miguel. Although I didn’t expect our next meeting to be quite so soon. Is it true, then?”
Immediately, he caught the minuscule twitch of that Miguel’s left eye made, he smiled contentedly, nodding his head.
“By that look, I’ll assume you’ve brought him under the influence?”
The left corner of Miguel’s lip contorted, yet he showed no other hint of uncertainty. He hardly faltered, but the older, sharper man could see through the confident façade, and he could break through those walls in an instant. With his feet still hung up on the desk, he tilted his head to the side, offering his protégé a mild grin. The younger man sat up straight, trying to assume an informative look.
“No… not yet, anyway. He got a taste of it, just a little sample. I could tell it ruined him the moment he woke up though, the moment he stopped seeing the visions. He had that look… you know the one I’m talking about, right? The bewildered, surprised look he puts on that fucked up little face of his? Yeah, I saw it. I could see right into that soul of his, could see his whole world falling down around him. He’s lucky he needed to catch a flight tomorrow to Mexico, or I would’ve had him entirely under my control.”
White-Suit chuckled, a mocking note entering his voice.
“Remember, Miguel. It’s my control. It would appear our mutual friend is more resistance than our other recent projects, most struggle to break out of the trance so suddenly after the first hit. Very well, you know what you must do. Hit him with a larger dosage this time, has he told you what type of visions he’s been seeing?”
Promptly, White-Suit pulled out a notepad from a small drawer, flicking out a pen at the same time. Miguel’s face scrunched up, as if trying to remember the events that had taken place the previous night. Once it hit him, he slumped in his chair, slightly relieved.
“Yeah. At first, I couldn’t get much out of him. He just kept saying that “it wasn’t him” and how “that wasn’t the real Ethan.” Eventually, he decided to open up. There’s some kind of all-powerful being living in that dimension you put him in, some influential figure that seems to gain all control of him. Apparently, one look from the man sent Ethan into a rage, a frenzy that he couldn’t prevent. It cut deep, I could tell.”
Intrigued, White-Suit jotted down a quick selection of dot points, before laying the pen down. His feet slid off the table deliberately, planting down on the ground with authority. His eyes, an eternal dance of amber flame, struck deeper into the very mind and soul of Miguel Myles.
“Tell me, did Ethan manage to give the figure a name, the man who tormented him?”
“He did, he called him the ‘Kingmaker.’ Although the being he spoke to never said that name, he thought it an appropriate title for the man he saw.”
“Interesting. As you know, the figures in these dreams are ripped straight out of REALity and implanted into these visions, albeit as different forms of themselves. Did he make any connections with someone from his past or present?”
“No, he seemed too far gone to make any sort of connection.”
White-Suit nodded, steadily breathing and contemplating the information. He put on a plastic smile for the young, clueless man in front of him, the pawn in this eternal game of chess, the one who would lead Ethan King into the pit of despair promised land. White-Suit brushed himself off, before pushing himself up to his feet, standing straight and elegant, just as he had been taught from the age of five. With a few paces, he walked round the edge of the table, patting his naïve little friend on the shoulder.
“You’ve done exceptionally well Miguel. You’ve exceeded any expectation I could’ve laid down upon you, for that, you will be rewarded. But for now, I want you to get into contact with the school. After all, there’s a large-scale party that you’re meant to be hosting, correct?”
Miguel shot up to his feet, realization dawning on him. His tired legs wobbled underneath him, but White-Suit was there.
White-Suit was always there to help.
Miguel took a moment to gather his sensed, steadying himself and making eye contact with his
“I do. The celebration yesterday was only the beginning. I believe he’ll be entirely ‘under the influence’ by the time we’re done.”
“And you made sure to invite him?”
“I have. He’ll be arriving at the airport on Tuesday, the party will commence later that night. There shouldn’t be any suspicion from him. From what I know, he hasn’t even contacted Eddie about the occurrence, he’s far too confused at the moment. By the time he realizes…”
White-Suit smiles.
“It’ll already be too late.”
Miguel nods, backing away a few paces.
“I’ll take my leave now. I will be certain to update you on my progress, my next report should come in the day after the party.”
“Perfect.”
Miguel inclined his head downward in a show of respect, White-Suit waved his hand dismissively toward the door. The young man’s face turned a tinge red, but he succeeded in slowly trudging out of the room, feet pattering against the ground one by one as he excited the office.
In an unusually stoic manner, White-Suit paced deliberately toward the rectangular window which made up almost the entirety of the back wall. His hand slowly stretched out to grab a file from the drawer he opened earlier, pulling out a yellow file with a white page slipped inside of it. Delicately, he lifted it out from the file, the face of Ethan King appearing front and centre on the page. At the window seal laid a red marker, which he reached out for and latched onto, before neatly crossing out Ethan’s face and name.
Almost uncharacteristically, White-Suit glanced out the window wistfully, a slight hint of regret matching the rueful, sad smile that lent itself over his lips.
“Oh, how naïve the young are.
“You’re not a King, Ethan.
“And HE will not make you one.”
YOU ARE NOT THE ONE
“Welcome back, Ethan!”
“Dude, you fucking killed it out there. Taking it to a stacked team like that.”
“What’s the strategy for your next match?”
Ethan, with a demure smile matched only by the way he shyly stepped forward through the college crowd that surrounded him. To him, it didn’t feel right. To be standing here with everyone staring at him, for it to be him holding all the spotlight. Eddie and Gabriel weren’t here to celebrate their impactful debut with him, they weren’t here to take in some of the credit. It were him and only him that had to face the crowd and talk to the public, to give them what they wanted to hear, to tell them that ‘everything would be alright’, even when he knew deep down that everything had been fucked the moment they had decided to bite off more than they could chew.
But, he couldn’t come outright and say that, he couldn’t ruin the public image of the group, he didn’t have that in him. Lately, he felt like he didn’t have a lot in him at all. Even with all the talent, even with all the praise, even with the title he had unceremoniously dumped into the sleek sports bag he had slung around his shoulder and walked onto campus with.
It didn’t change a fucking thing.
A girl in the crowd caught the eye of Ethan, she politely requested she take a photo with the self-made star, he reluctantly agreed, pulling out the title he had won merely a week ago and displaying it meekly to the surrounding crowd. They cheered and whooped loudly for the young hero, who held a fake, plastered-on smile while the photo had been taken, before dropping the title back into the bag and carrying it along with him toward the dormitory. The group of people attempted to follow, but where forced back by the tandem of Miguel and Sudoku, who assisted the United States Champion into retiring into the facility. With a relieved sigh, he stepped past the wide-open glass doorway and nodded briefly to a few passing residents of the dormitory who weren’t apart of the earlier crowd.
A couple sets of stairs, a turn of the key, and Ethan King was in his home away from his home, followed by the ever-present Miguel Myles, who shared his weary look and sluggish movements.
“Glad that’s over with?”
Ethan shot him a sidelong glance, a rueful grin coming over him while he brushed away a stray hair.
“Yeah, I thought we’d never get through the front entrance. I didn’t even do all that much, I just secured a draw for the team. Just keeping the dream alive, you know what I mean?”
Miguel laughed aloud, an incredulous look coming over him.
“You need to stop being humble and shit. You know that’s not how everyone are looking at you right now. They’re seeing a guy that’s taken the fight to three of the greatest in the game, and that you’re doing it on a consistent basis. People are starting to realize what you’re about man, they know you aren’t no joke. Your title win proved it, and this only solidifies it. Now you just got to come away with the goods next time, rather than just evening it up. Get what I’m saying?”
Ethan paced over to the window, dumping the bag he held on the floor.
“I know what you’re talking about, but I think I’d rather just talk about something different, you know? For almost the entire year, that’s all we’ve been talking about. About starting up The Pride brand, about debuting, about training and doing everything we could to succeed and make it work. I just need a break man, even if it’s only for a day or two.”
Miguel scoffed and moved to sit down on the sloped grey couch, reaching for the TV remote at the same time and clicking the big red button. You know, to turn the fucking thing on? Yeah, he did that.
“That’s cool dude. I feel you on that. You just have to realize… people are looking up to you now man. You have a responsibility to uphold.”
The words of the Kingmaker FLASHED before him, sounding out louder in his mind than they ever did in his ears.
“You’re a champion now, Ethan. Uphold your honour, don’t shy away from the responsibility.”
His mind went numb, muscles tensing up and seizing all former movement. In a monumental effort, he managed to slump down onto the bed right by the window, panting heavily. Face still stunned and glaring straight ahead at the empty white wall, Miguel looked at him with interest, and a devious smirk that curled around his lips.
“I struck a nerve, have I?” He thought, calmly. He got up and walked toward the unmoving Ethan, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and jerking him forward, he snapped out of the shock. Miguel laughed jokingly and punched him playfully.
“You good man? You went all googly eyed and shit, thought you just got a text saying you failed your assignment or something.”
Ethan’s eyes danced around in circles, evaluating the room suspiciously, seemingly oblivious to the young man standing before him. In a moment of realization, he looked up at the looming Miguel and forced a tremulous smile.
“Yeah, I’m good. Nothing to worry about here, just… just cramped up. I don’t fucking know. Anyway, back to what I had been saying earlier…”
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
“Why don’t we head out tomorrow, or tonight even? Just let me clear my head a little, forget about all the wrestling drama and whatnot. Maybe we can bring a couple people along too, get something popping?”
Miguel shook his head briskly.
“No can do.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to tell you the moment you got back since you’re clearly a stressed, but since you brought this up… we’ve got a party to go to tomorrow my dude. It’s going to be hype, me and the guys decided to set something up.”
“You do realize this is like… the fifth major, and I’m talking… MAJOR party in like… a two month span?”
“Yeah, and?”
Ethan shrugged, conceding the point. He hesitantly began to gather his strength and move up to his feet, making certain to hold onto anything that could support him as he made his way to his own bed, his feet dragged ponderously behind him, shoulder slumped forward in what by now had become sheer exhaustion. He offered a smile to his friend, however perfunctory the motion was.
“I’m going to take a nap, remind me about the party when I get back up… I’ll probably forget about that shit the moment I drift off.”
“Will do. See you later.”
Ethan nodded before disappearing off into his own little sanctuary, he dumped himself onto the bed, limbs spread out in all directions. His thoughts wandered for what felt like a few minutes at most, but as he began to fade away, falling deeper and deeper into his own subconscious…
There he was again.
His (King)maker.
“So much pressure, isn’t there?”
The voice paused, a mocking laugh reverberating through his mind and echoing louder and louder with each drawn out cackle.
“You’re just a product of their entertainment.
“And don’t you EVER forget that.”
Return of the King(maker)
The sky above was clear and tinged with darkness as the two friends arrived in a car manned by the one and only Miguel Myles, who cleanly pulled the vehicle up onto the curb and promptly killed the engine, before giving a curt nod to Ethan in the passenger seat. Ethan took no notice, blankly staring ahead whilst clawing for the inner handle of the door, which he eventually found. A step out of the car and into the clean afternoon air to change the dampened mood of the young man, who solemnly filed in behind Miguel who wandered fervently ahead, clearly excited to see the result of his careful planning with his associate. His feet sent him soaring up a relatively long set of stone steps heading up to the household, while Ethan went along far more gradually, Miguel was weaving in, out and between a group of people near the front door. Upon glancing upward, Ethan noticed the select few people that had a look which told him he would soon be accosted, motivated by wanting to avoid their questioning and excitement, he skipped along the last few steps, ignoring their expectant faces and shooting the gap through the group – straight into the front entrance.
He smiled in a relieved manner, while catching a quick glimpse of himself in the rather expensive looking mirror situated on the wall not too far ahead of the doorway. A flick of his hand sent the brownish bangs hanging over his forehead swooping upward. Similarly, he began to dust his shirt off brusquely out of sheer instinct, slowly narrowing his eyes as he analysed himself in the reflection. With a gulp and a semi-confident nod, he paced further along the hall, catching a few looks from intrigued groups of students.
“That can’t be him, can it?”
“It has to be, I heard he goes to school around here.”
“Should we ask him?”
“No! That would be way too embarrassing. What if he’s just some random?”
Shaking his head ruefully, his feet continued to eat up the distance between him and the end of the hallway, a sharp left saw him emerge into the kitchen area. Unlike the hall, which was littered with royal carpets, highly-priced paintings and an abundance of people, the kitchen was the proud owner of many spilled drinks, emptied cups and people that were far too intoxicated at this stage of the night. Ethan tensed as his nostrils absorbed the full force of the alcohol’s stench, which was far more present on the hunched over people present on the tables and kitchen counters that he passed by. A scrunch of the nose and the hasty movements of his feet allowed him to escape from this hell relatively unscathed.
With a sigh of relief, he made it through the now open set of glass doors that gave access to the spacious backyard. Now it became highly evident that THIS was where the majority of the noise he heard earlier was coming from, a fedora wearing fuckboy (fuccboi?) was ever-so-present in the corner, bopping his head to the rhythm of the shitty music he was pumping from the oversized set he was using to bring joy to the masses of people that were half-dancing/half doing absolutely fuck all.
At a circular white table located toward the left of the outdoor area, far from the fedora wearing DJ and the legion of cramped up people dancing and drinking to his sick beats sat Miguel and three people whom Ethan could not identify. The one to his friend’s right wore a mask that concealed his face, the other wore a Hoodie that cast a light shadow over his otherwise clearly visible face. Miguel’s face lit up in recognition upon seeing Ethan curiously glance in their direction, he waved him over with a few motions of the hand.
Ethan did the best he could to put on the easy-going grin and the relaxed look he was rather known for back on home turf. He failed miserably, but he seemed oblivious to the fact as he made his way over to the group and hastily pulled out a chair from underneath the stark white table. He heard a chuckle from the one wearing the Hoodie, who leaned next to Miguel and said:
Hoodie: What’s he all worked up about?
Ethan shot him a look, eye widening, but Hoodie didn’t react. His hollow eyes only shooting chills down the spine of the now seated Ethan, who rested his arms on the sides of the plastic chair. Miguel pretended to not hear what Hoodie said, instead nudging Mask with his elbow.
Miguel: Well, introduce yourselves. I’m trying to get my drink on.
As he said the words, he gestured toward the glass bottle in front of him, pulling said bottle up to his lips and consuming the yellow liquid held within it. Mask offered Ethan a hand, who took it hesitantly and shook. Mask’s grip was soft and timid, but his hands were undoubtedly cold, far too cold even for a night such as this. Ethan’s hand recoiled backward unnaturally, he tried to cover it up with a quick smile, but Mask paid that act no mind. Rather, his eyes only watched Ethan with interest and a slight hint of amusement.
Mask: I’m Maxwell. Friends call me Mask. And that asshole over there? We just call him Hoodie.
Ethan: H-Hoodie?
Hoodie: If you want to look like a dickhead you can call me that. If not, just say H.
Ethan swallowed nervously, it was almost as if Mask and Hoodie could sense it. They shared a smile, Miguel finally decided to put his bottle down after taking an unbearably long swig, the glass thudding against the table softly.
Miguel: Small talk out of the way? Great. Let’s get our boy a drink.
Mask: I got him.
Mask reached beneath the table, a few telling clinks sounded as glass bottles clashed. A second later, he was sliding a bottle over to Hoodie, who caught it with a solid grip around the neck and thanked him with a nod. Miguel and Mask exchanged a look, the former subtly jerking his thumb toward the kitchen area from underneath the table, out of the view of the nerve-filled Ethan. An incredulous, bewildered tone hits Miguel’s voice as he glares at Mask.
Miguel: You seriously didn’t get a drink ready for him? I literally told you I’d be bringing him over.
Mask’s shoulders rise in a nonchalant shrug.
Miguel: Whatever dude. Go grab him a drink, will you?
Abruptly, Mask rises up off his seat. Only now does Ethan realize how tall and slender the man is, hovering at around six foot eight with lanky limbs. His body bobs up and downwards as he makes his way into the kitchen, fumbling around for what is presumably a drink for Ethan. The smile Miguel gave him was apologetic.
Miguel: Sorry, he’s a little forgetful.
Ethan: All good. Where’d you guys meet anyway?
Miguel’s eyes averted his for only a split-second, but Ethan’s tiredness and with how on edge he felt prevented him from noticing the movement.
Miguel: Well, we all went high school together. Had some crazy times together, neither of them go to College though, so I just catch up with them whenever I can.
Instinct tells Ethan there’s something out of place, something that he’s clearly missing, but he shrugs the feeling off. A few seconds later, he’s greeted with by the slender figure of Mask, whose long right arm is extended outward, offering him another glass bottle. Ethan politely smiles and notices the beverage is already open, he takes a light sip before resting it on the table in front of him. Miguel chuckles and leans forward.
Miguel: Come on dude, I know you’re a lightweight but at least chug down a bit more!
Hoodie: Can’t handle his liquor, huh?
Miguel: Not a bit.
Impetuous nature getting the better of him, the brash Ethan reaches back for the bottle and takes a long swig that matches the one taken by Miguel earlier. The encouraging looks from Miguel and Hoodie turn to satisfaction, as they sarcastically applaud their ‘friend.’
And as Ethan eyes Miguel’s associates, the men with the hollow, lifeless eyes and the mysterious appearances, he can’t help but feel a sense of dread.
His stomach churns.
And the black spots appear once again, head swimming with visions of him.
The Kingmaker.
USURPER
A repeated ticking sound emanates from a clock hanging above the throne being seated upon by the glorious Kingmaker, who has his arms stretched out comfortably on the gold encrusted arm rests of the plush red seat. He has a welcoming smile on his face, one of glee and bliss. No longer is face lined with anger like it was the last time he had met with his pet project…
Ethan King.
The young man is ushered in by a set of faceless knights, their helmets encasing their faces, the slits where eyes would usually be showing nothing but a dark abyss, only serving to further agitate the already delirious Ethan. As he walked down the carpet laid before his feet, faceless servants and knights that were already in the throne room gave reverent nods, some even bowing before their Future King.
Kingmaker: Welcome home, my child.
Ethan: This isn’t my home.
Kingmaker: Why, of course it is. What would make you think any differently?
FLASHbacks.
Ethan: You… you fucking killed me! You executed me before everyone, why am I still here?
He looks up at the Kingmaker.
Ethan: I don’t want to be here.
Kingmaker: Don’t disappoint me again Ethan, not after the foolish things you said last time. You are not a brainless child, don’t stoop to the level of those who try to usurp me.
Ethan: What are you talking about?
The Kingmaker rises from his throne, glaring daggers at the man before him.
Kingmaker: There is an usurper Ethan, he looks to claim my throne and take everything away from me. He is dangerous. A slithering serpent who spends him time pandering to the authorities that be, trying to gain their protection, their power, everything that could see the end of my reign. These are not times of peace, WAR is approaching and the land is being divided as we speak.
Ethan: I don’t understand…
Kingmaker: Armies are gathering, a storm is brewing, and you are one of my last hopes. Sure, sure. There is a tournament being held now, but only for now. Once the dust settles and a victory is named, that is when the real tragedies will occur. When the world stops turning and everything is reduced to ash. I have put my faith in you, and you have taken my kindness for granted. What did I do to deserve this, my child?
Ethan: You… you’re trying to manipulate me. You’re making me someone that I’m not. I’m not…
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Kingmaker: You’re not what?
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Cold Blooded At Heart.
Ethan’s throat tightens, he can’t let out any words. The Kingmaker cocks his head to the side, his face stoic and unmoving.
Kingmaker: I know what you are.
He takes a pace toward him.
Kingmaker: I know who you are.
His feet descend down the stairs leading to his throne, he stops himself upon reaching Ethan, whom he rests a solemn, tired hand upon.
Kingmaker: You, Ethan King… are the true usurper.
Face pale and eyes widen, Ethan King drops to his knees, hands upward in complete and utter defeat.
Ethan: Don’t! Not again, not again.
Painstakingly slow, he cradles himself up into a ball at The Kingmaker’s feet, a pleading look on his face.
Ethan: Just take me away, I don’t want to be here… I don’t want to be here. Let me out.
The Kingmaker smiles sadly, before kneeling over the distraught Ethan.
Kingmaker: As you wish.
And with a snap of the fingers, he’s arrived at his final destination.
The Shark’s Lair.
He awakes to the smell of blood, sweat and alcohol, it takes him a moment to realize the stench is coming from him. Surprised and confused, he sways hesitantly as he picks himself up to his feet inch by inch and bit by bit. His eyes stare outward into the pitch black that encompasses him, allowing him to see nothing except his own fear written in the lines and spots that circulate through his vision. A shining spotlight appears before him, a circle of yellow in the darkness, he moves towards it, but before he can, he’s stopped by the sound of footsteps quickly approaching. He stops, realizing that someone else is taking the spotlight.
Shark: Oh look, another Pride faggot being sent straight into the deep end. Who’d thought I’d get to kill the dreams of yet another one of these fuccbois.
Ethan’s eyes oddly start to adjust to the dark, the spotlight fading away as his vision becomes seemingly enhanced. Now, on the ocean-blue walls that surround both him and The Shark, are sets of propped up, decapitated human heads that appear to have been severed unevenly with a blade. Ethan’s mouth is agape as he takes in a sharp intake of breath.
Shark: What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little blood? A little pain? A little sorrow? Sad way to go out, huh? Having to stare into the cold, dead eyes of all the losers I’ve murdered before you. Hey! Look over there, there’s your boy Eddie Felt.
The Shark grasps him roughly by the head and twirls his head around, forcing him to look into the lifeless eyes of a decapitated Eddie Felt. Ethan groans, stomach churning and eyes shutting tightly.
Shark: Don’t have the guts to look him in the eye? Typical. Fucking typical. You had your shot, you had your chance to prove you could serve underneath the Kingmaker, leave your mark on this place, prove that you were the second coming. But guess what?
He leans in towards the unmoving Ethan, his cologne and minty fresh breath overtaking all other smells rushing through Ethan’s nose.
Shark: I’ve taken your place. Now I’m the one with the keys to the kingdom. Your run is dead, your lives are considered forfeit. You see yourselves as champions. Hell, in the eyes of the masses, you may even be a champion. But… it’s too little…
ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
Shark: I did see potential in you though, I can see directly through your act, little Ethan. You’re a monster, aren’t you? You’re just a bit better than the rest of us at hiding it.
He pauses, before slapping him in the face.
Shark: But that doesn’t make you a hero.
And with a steel toed boot, Ethan receives a kick to the face, his mouth immediately overcome by the taste of both blood and iron, and he falls away into oblivion.
USURPER II
“You’re falling away, my child.”
He hears the words ring out in his mind, but he can’t open his eyes, he can’t.
The voice grows harsher, colder, crueler.
More monstrous.
“Listen here you fuccin faggot, you have got to be one of most pathetic, disgusting, weak-willed rodents I have ever witnessed in my entire reign over this kingdom. You have one shot, one chance to prove that I shouldn’t just end your life and leave you resting in that eternal bodybag for the rest of your fuccin existence. You hear me?”
Ethan groans.
“Now do it.”
“Do… what?”
“End them.”
“I… I don’t think I can.”
“Then you’ve left me no choice.”
A sensation begins to come over him, leaving only one thought in his mind.
I’m Trying To Reach You.
Trying To Reach You.
Reach You.
You.
You’re Mine Now, Forever…
And Always.
Ethan eyes snap open, and now he’s in a room that’s completely white. A perfect white, he’s seated on a stool that’s been placed directly in front of a camera.
He smiles.
“Congratulations, Team Stale Fucks. You walked into Round One and came out firing on every single cylinder imaginable, and failed to beat The Pride while we were sitting around throwing jabs, testing the waters, trying to understand just how bad you guys really are.
And don’t you worry, we understand a lot now.
We understand why the three of you have each had some of the most disappointing returns in the history of the WCF.
We understand why Orbit, the best member of that shit-show of a team, fell to his knees and succumbed to the greatness that IS The United States Champion, Ethan King.
We understand why Jeff Purse is so caught up about the past, the present, and the future, because the guy still think he’s got it, when he never really fucking had it in the first place.
We understand why Polar Phantasm is too shook too scared to even really talk about the guys he’s coming up against, which is why he spends all his time talking about this FPV has-been. Because that’s what Polar’s about, he’s about teaming up has-beens and beating has-beens, because that’s his best chance at remaining relevant in an interesting that’s ever-changing.
These faggots can’t adapt to the situations at hand, they see a group of fresh-faces and they immediately think they stand a chance, that they the favorites up in this shit. That’s what Jeff’s been spreading on the internet, right? That this team of returning irrelevant non-factors are the favorites to win a tournament filled with all-star teams that’ll hit them with one power punch and drop them straight on their fucking asses?
Because that’s exactly what this shit is. I’m telling you, round one was us just getting a feel for what these guys got left in a tank. I didn’t even bother throwing them straights and hooks, those uppercuts and those overhands, because I didn’t need to. Me at my absolute worst managed to take Jeff Purse’s shitty kick and turn it around into something more spectacular than that whole fucking team combined.
Don’t you get it by now, Purse? You aren’t better than me. You aren’t better than anyone on this team. You aren’t even better than anyone on your own team, and the only reason you aren’t going to be getting pinned on Sunday is because there just happens to be a team full of incompetent fuckwits that somehow manage to be less entertaining and talented than you. But don’t worry, we’ll get to them later. For now? Carry on with the execution, because that’s exactly what this shit is. Purse is the first one to get hung, then Polar, and then Orbit. It’s that returnee circle of life, these boys come back and try to make an impact and they get their heads taken off, or they get the life choked out of them. Plain and simple.
Orbit’s gotten like, one legitimate win since he came back, and ever since I arrived in the picture, he’s been seething, he’s been given opportunity after opportunity, chance after chance to try and take this young gun Ethan King out, to put him in his place, to prove that he’s still got it. But what ends up fucking happening?
Right. You get out performed each and every time, without failure. And that’s going to be a perpetual fact for the rest of your career Orbit, that’s what you’re going to realize every time we repeat this dance, every time you try and match me but end up getting eviscerated at every turn.
Just look at you, all hung up on a single loss. For a guy talking about how fucking successful he is, you’re getting all twisted at the fact you lost to ya boy. Yeah, that’s right. For those of you who don’t know, this so-called legend in Steve Orbit got his ass pinned by someone he and his team think is sooooo far below him, but look what happened, am I right?
Facts are facts, and the fact remains that the record book is in my favour. The fact remains that you’ve never been able to put me away. You’ve had three chances at it, and each time you’ve walked out empty handed, each time you’ve looked like the inferior competitor because… well… because you simple ARE.
And don’t come up in here telling the world any differently, the shits been proven over and over again. This is Joey Flash bodying Gemini Battle. This is Spencer Adams bodying Kyle Kemp. This is Los Tiburones straight up murdering Derek Moreno, it ain’t even a fucking contest. Steve Orbit steps into the arena and Ethan King shows him up. Every. Single. Time.
And that’s how it goes, forever and always.
And you can sit there and cry out that I’ll never be a bigger name then you, or that I’ll never reach the level that you once did, but we all know that’s just a straight up lie. That’s a defensive mechanism, that’s instinct. That’s a shell of a man succumbing to greatness, that’s a shell of a man shuddering his final, dying breaths. That’s Steve Orbit trying to promise to the crowd that he’ll always be remembered as one of the best, whilst deliberately ignoring the fact that his place is soon about to be taken by somebody that’s #BetterThanHim.
Sorry Kyle Kemp.
So you know what, Orbit? Suck a fucking dick. Continue to hang back around in the midcard and waste every single opportunity that you’re handed by the higher ups, the guys that seem to think that you’re still relevant in today’s WCF. Choke on more title shots. Hey, who knows? Maybe you’ll get another shot at that Final Destination Briefcase some time and you can fail to win it not once, not twice, but THREE times.
Bear responsibility for your fuck-ups, your lack of skill and effort meant that you inadvertently let Logan of all fucking people become World Champion, and that just sums up how pathetic you are. It sums up this most recent portion of your career, and that’s the portion where you get overshadowed by everyone and everything. Even in our most recent match, you had to rely on Jeff Purse just to remain competitive.
While I was hovering around at my C-Game, letting you guys get your licks in, making sure the crowd wasn’t bored by yet another squash match in a tournament that’s filled with lackluster teams being led by equally lackluster leaders in bitches like Cathy Fitch (don’t worry bae, I’ll be fucking you up in a bit, just you wait).
This is Steve Orbit in a nutshell, and this is where his story ends. Maybe not in the typical sense, but it’s happening nonetheless.
Orbit, you’re walking to your literal death on Sunday. I’m done throwing jabs at your weak ass, I’m done stooping to your level and making sure I don’t get sanctioned for murdering one of the least valuable assets on the fucking roster. After this week, it all ends. There isn’t going to be an Orbit v King Five, there isn’t going to be yet another match where I flat out embarrass you and make you look like some Ultimate Destroyer wannabe. This week? I obliterate. And next week? I forget all about you.
It’s on to the next one for me. But for you?
It’s the end of the road.
So long, Steve Orbit.
Moving on forward to Stale Cunt #2, it’s Jeff Purse. I bet you’re feeling pretty good about yourself, right? You came back and managed to look semi-competent, you weren’t on that Phantasm return level shit. Nah, you managed to one up the second best guy on your team and not eat a pinfall on your first match back. Congratulations.
And this is as far as you go.
You, Jeff Purse, are fucking pathetic. There’s nothing else to describe it. My day job is killing fools on twitter, I can go from #murking Dag, to putting that exact same act on Logan in an instant. You come up in here? And you’re immediately making yourself out like a fool, talking about how you’re the favourites and shit. This team of A-Grade failures that have spent their returns TALKING about how good they are, without even SHOWING any fucking trace of that talent they talk about.
I could go grab fifteen special needs children, and even the most delusional of them would be able to grasp the concept that your whole team is fucking ass. You’ve got two mediocre legends who will have to do the heavy lifting, and then you got yourself, Jeff Purse, the guy who I’m sure was oh-so certain he’d be taking a little rook to school in his last match up.
How’d that plan work out for ya? The back of your head still ringing from when I #KilledYouWithFire?
Don’t even answer that.
It’s alright though man. Keep doing you. Keep posting trash promos where you do nothing but make parodies because you got nothing better to do than try and follow that Torture Hype. You want to try and do something original and get that Promo of the Year but then you realize that you messed up because you were dropping that shit against the hypest team in the fucking tournament.
I’m sorry, Purse. I’m sorry that you’re a brainless cunt who seems to think he’s superior to anyone in this federation. I’m sorry that you’re the type of guy to get straight-up ignored by Dag because you’re deemed not skilled enough to even garner his attention. I’m sorry that while you’re the predicted anchor and downfall of your team, you’re still putting in all this effort to try and set things straight, even though we all knew from the moment this clusterfuck of a team was announced that no matter what you did, it was always going to flop.
And now? This too is where you fall. For you, this is your final epiphany. This is where you go on that Steve Orbit ride and take a quick fall from grace. It’ll be quick because you were never that high up to begin with, you were just another over hyped motherfucker who got shown up by guys that are infinitely better than him.
Funny you’re all about this Future Elements shit, because you’d literally need to go into another dimension to find a reality where Jeff Purse isn’t a talentless sack of shit.
But just remember buddy – not everyone can be divine. Not everyone can be an ultra-talented megastar like the guy you’re looking at right this moment, the guy with all eyes on him because he took down a group of ‘legends’ that never stood a chance to begin with. This wasn’t you being at the wrong place at the wrong time, this was you just being an inane faggot that tried to mess with fate and destiny.
You’ve truly earned the ending I’ve laid out for you.
So long, Jeff Purse. You won’t be missed.
Die Nameless.
And now we rock up to the final, possibly least interesting member of the group. I say possibly because it’s pretty hard to somehow amount to less than two guys whose acts were worn out after their first year in the industry.
But yeah, I see you Polar. I see you and your team trying to make comparisons between you and I. Which is just retarded because in seven matches I’ve shown more potential and greatness than you did in your entire fucking career, but you know what? It’s all good. You can grasp and clutch at those straws, you can take shots in the dark and you can try to elevate your levels of importance by comparing yourself to newer, more superior talent, but that don’t mean shit in the end. You just gotta bring in the results, and so far? You’ve done nothing but missed the mark.
And you know what? I’m absolutely fine with you trying to act like you’ve somehow had some type of influence on me, like I’m based off of you or some shit, like I’m the second coming. You can believe that all you want, you can look at me and let your chest puff out in pride, happy to know that you’ve got someone to pass the torch t-
Just kidding, you fucking loser. You want to talk about cold? You’re looking at a guy with ice in his veins who steps up in the clutch. Unlike you or your team. You’ve seen what I’ve done, you’ve seen that I’ve whipped your partner three times over and made him look like a joke, and don’t think for one second I can’t re-enact that shit on you, because that’s an easier task than making Orbit look like the next Grime. Believe me on that one.
And speaking of losses and that, why not bring up another reason this is a complete fucking mismatch? There’s a difference of levels that perennial bottom-feeders such as yourselves fail to see, and it shows within our losses.
When I lose? The crowd are still cheering, they’re still awe-struck. They’re still in disebelief at the showings of courage and skill I put on display. They’re wondering when I’m going to get my shot at the big one, they’re wondering why I’m not already considered one of the top talents by management. They see the future in me, they see what’s going to be carrying this entire fucking federation for the years to come. And along with me? They see The Pride, they see a team that’s soon going to be considered the most stacked and unbelievable squad in the history of the company.
When you guys lose?
Steve Orbit gets laughed at, as everyone realizes they should’ve never got excited for the return in the first place.
Jeff Purse doesn’t even get a reaction at all. Everybody just expected it, they saw this stagnant fuck come out of his shell and instinctively knew that this guy was destined to just fail, over and over and over again. His time came, and his time past, and now he’s left as enhancement talent for the bigger and brighter stars that overtook him the moment they signed on with the WCF.
Polar Phantasm gets sneered at, everyone collectively sighs in relief as they thank god he didn’t fucking win and that the unwarranted hype doesn’t get furthered even more. They watched you drop like a fly to Sarah Twilight whose biggest moment in her WCF was watching Jared Holmes “Get Swoll.”
What the fuck even is this team, seriously?
What are we coming up against?
Better yet, why didn’t I just bring a fucking gun to the ring and end your miserable existences? Why didn’t I ensure that the WCF Universe would never have to see your smug faces again, still thinking you’re relevant and worthy of greatness.
Why didn’t I just end you right there and then? I could’ve straight up ended Orbit’s career for the fourth time over. I’ve already done it three times, I’ve already had him questioning his whole career and life by toying around with him for the better part of April, and now that trend is carrying forward into May.
The simple answer? I’m just having fun, man.
It’s fun watching these guys struggle, heads barely above water, trying their best to take in that all-important oxygen. It’s symbolic, they’re trying to reel in those wins but fail miserably, they try to bring in extra attention and fame but end up as nothing more than stats on my record. I get awarded with more bonuses for making these guys look good, and they get nothing out of it.
And what do they do?
They sit there and try to tell me that they showed they still got it, that I’m just an idiot that doesn’t know what he’s talking out. They’re madmen trying to tell the world the same point, repeating it every single fucking week, as if saying that they’re the best will somehow make everyone in the world bow in unison and admit that these guys aren’t as fucking bad as we know they are.
I’m a dream killer. Orbit had dreams of regaining his momentum. It had taken him so long to finally get passed that seemingly eternal roadblock in good old Logan, he finally got the win he so desperately needed against him, and when he was finally awarded with another shot at greatness, of winning a championship and elevating himself back up into the spotlight?
I crushed his dream in one moment. All it took was one shot, and he was looking up into the stars, wondering what the fuck happening.
Hint: I happened.
I ended you.
Jeff Purse had dreams of having a monumental return, of going up against some new-blood in a match where he could prove he was still one of the best things WCF had going for it, and that he wasn’t the useless retard we all knew and hated him for. And when he was under the bright lights, coming up against ya boy Ethan King?
I crushed his dream in one moment. I took his best shot, and broke his spirit as I left him barely able to stand. The only thing that didn’t stop me from completely destroying him? The fact I didn’t stand, the fact I decided to give this guy one last chance to prove he wasn’t totally inept.
Hint: You’re still fucking inept. Get over it.
Polar Phantasm also had dreams of having the big return, but those were already destroyed by the one and only Sarah Twilight. So what did he have left? His chance at staking his claim to glory, by taking out the young United States Champion and the rest of his crew. Show them up, and maybe, just maybe, he could pave his way to greatness once again through this Trios Cup Tournament.
But his run is already over. Only round two, and that was only because I was generous enough to breathe some life into this dead career. You should be thanking me, Polar. I’m saving your career… and now… I’m killing it.
Sorry, should’ve put a spoiler alert on that shit. But this shit was already a foregone conclusion from the very beginning, am I right? Especially when we’re all stepping into a ring with the most underrated, slept on team in the history of the tournament, am I right?
Nah, I’m just playing. These guys fucking suck. Ultimate Destroyer? Feels like I’m ripping into Bad News Benson all over again. Snake Venom? Am I playing online mode on UFC 2 or am I actually wrestling somebody? Like, who the fuck even name’s these perpetual jobbers anymore? We might as well call them up and call them Dead Faggot #1, #2 and #3. Isn’t that what they’re going to be after this match anyway?
Cathy Fitch be latching her lips onto any dick she can find on the fucking internet. She’s all up on the families nuts and shit, which makes sense. That stable so far has attracted all the mediocrity in the fed, it’s only right the best member of this entire team is the first one to go running off over to them, trying to give them that support they desperately need on twitter while your boy EK is dropping the hot fire on them.
But whose got your back, Cathy? While I’m straight up annihilating you in the ring, what’s gonna be left of Destroyer and Venom? They’re going to be laid the fuck out. Whether it be by a bitch ass Pimp Slap, or my boy Eddie Felt’s knee right in the back of their thick skulls, they’re going to be out for the count and I’m going to make you my bitch. Literally.
After this week? It’s not gonna be The Family’s nuts that you’re hopping on. Let’s get The Pride Bandwagon going, Member #1. Cathy Fitch. Congratulations, you are now more relevant than you will ever be in your entire lifetime. Feel proud, feel excited, feel glorified, you know aren’t entirely a bottom feeding scrub like the two guys that were signed on to compete with you for this tournament.
Oh, I’m sorry. Did you expect me to say something good about the team that were considered the underdogs against a team with the likes of Adam Young? Actually, scratch that. A team FILLED with Adam Young’s? Isn’t that basically what the Young Family is, anyway?
Damn, sounds like every team that’s got ‘Family’ in it sucks complete balls. Must be a coincidence.
I’m guessing that means next week, after these guys are eliminated and we’re through to facing teams that don’t completely suck, they’ll be calling themselves the “Cathy Fitch Family?” I don’t fucking know, never in my entire life have I seen three names that immediately tell you how fucking bad these guys are.
Snake Venom? This guy poisoned his entire career the moment he started by deciding it would be a good idea to start off with a name like that. Then again, it’s clear he needed something that would match his ability in the ring, which has been subpar to say the least.
Like I said, you were the underdogs against a group of guys that are considered the lowest of the low, so then what does that make you?
Need a hint? It means that collectively, you guys are arguably the fourth, fifth and sixth worst wrestler’s in the WCF. As a unit, that puts you as the second worst team in the tournament, and at the moment you’re coming up against one of, if not the best in the HISTORY of the cup.
So, what’s gotta be running through your minds right now? Is it Cathy Fitch still going on about her delusions of winning the whole damn thing? Is it Snake Venom trying to fathom why his parents even bothered to conceive, when they knew with their entire genetic makeup they’d just be royally screwing their child over in the long run? Is it Ultimate Destroyer realizing that he somehow managed to further ruined his already unimportant career by being teamed up with two people that in some fucking miracle, may ACTUALLY be worse than he is?
Damn, it’s a day for miracles, isn’t it? Unfortunately for you guys, you’ll be needing more than just sheer luck to even get a chance of victory. Never before have you seen a God Squad the likes of the one you’ll be facing on Sunday, never before have you seen them led by an individual who has caught the eye of so many legends and critics in such a short span of time. Never before have you seen someone the likes of Ethan King.
A monster.
A killer.
And a creator.
I created this opportunity for all of you, and you best remember that. I allowed you the chance to get your shots in against a team like the “Unstable Pimpelments” (speaking of shitty names). I’m giving you a chance to perhaps not get pinned. We can leave those honours for Jeff Purse or Polar Phantasm.
Then again, think about it. Getting pinned by me would be the single greatest thing any of you three ever accomplish in your careers, even when you combine all the non-existent accolades the three of you rack up together, it’ll never amount to the raise in publicity you got the moment Ethan King decided to drop you with his spectacular moves and end your fucking career right before it got started.
It’s one of those viral video type moments, you know what I’m saying? It’s when a legend in the sport is made, but not the typical type of legend. Not the legend that I’m going to be once I’ve racked up numerous World Titles, not the type of legend that’s known for accomplishing great things. No, there’s only one legend you guys will be remembered for.
And it’ll be the night where Ethan King makes your career, when I drop you right on your skull and have you wondering why the fuck you even bothered rocking up. You all could just leave this fate for the team I should’ve just murdered last week, but no, you think you know better than that.
You think you can mess with me.
You think you can usurp the King.
And you are sorely mistaken.
Cathy Fitch? Dead Faggot #1.
Ultimate Destroyer? Dead Faggot #2.
Snake Venom? Dead Faggot #3.
Unstable Pimpelments? All but gone.
And The Pride?
Moving on to bigger, better, and brighter things. And that’s how it will always be.
Trios Cup? We taking it.
Ultimate Showdown? I’m taking it.
WAR? One of us is taking it.
Hellimination? We taking it.
It’s all just a matter of time, and you guys are only here for the start of the ride. And I’m sorry it has to be that way.
I’m sorry you won’t get to see my grand design, where we turn the federation on its head and leave underachievers such as yourselves lying dead and buried at my feet.
My sincerest apologies.
But this is how it was always going to happen.
Die nameless."
