Post by Kyle on Dec 13, 2016 18:01:49 GMT -5
The Wrestling Championship Federation’s corporate offices in downtown Reading, Pennsylvania was abuzz with activity in the immediate weeks before One. Nothing like the biggest show of the year to send the producers, employees, and interns into overdrive. How Sebastian Knight was able to secure any time for himself amidst all of the hubbub was simply shocking. Well, that is until people made the connection between the quiet, looming man and Efron Knight, the French-Canadian millionaire and newest sponsor of WCF Co. That kind of relation certainly had its benefits.
There was a intensity behind the long frame of the man, who sat on the edge of the hardback chair like a coiled spring, just waiting to explode out of the position. Were this the ring, no one would’ve given it a second thought. That’s just how fighters were. Here, though, it was off-putting, strange even. It was like no one had taught Knight how to relax in the company of others. No. He sat upright, poised and dangerous, an animal in Armani.
“They’re ready for you, sir,” the young secretary behind the welcome desk said in a bubbly voice. If she was perturbed Knight’s mannerisms, she hid it behind her dedication to her work and her sing-song personality.
Knight was at the desk within seconds, placing both hands on the countertop in a mechanical motion. Stiff was the word to describe him as he watched the little blond woman shuffle through a pile of neon-colored post-it notes. “Mister Kowalski and Mister Blaine’s meeting will be over any moment now just down the hall there,” she gestures with a nod over her left shoulder while at the same time reaching for a black Sharpie marker. “Room 104, just go in when everyone else clears out. Name, please?” She holds the pen poised over a name tag.
“Sebastian Knight,” the man said, eyes intent on the woman’s hand. S-E-B-A-S-T . . . she hesitates. She looks up, a question on the tip of her tongue when the man speaks up. “I-a-n, miss.”
“Ooh, thank you,” the secretary replies, finishing out the name without difficulty. She hands Sebastian the tag and gives the man a warm smile before returning to her work.
Stepping around the desk, Sebastian continues down the hallway to his meeting. The first trash can he passes, he tosses the balled-up nametag away.
Kowalski and Blaine were poised over a laptop when Sebastian stepped into the room and sat across from them. Kowalski was the senior of the two, a graying architect in charge of the arena floorplan and design for all of the WCF’s major events; Blaine was an intern with thick-rimmed glasses and a Game of Thrones t-shirt underneath his cheap blazer. They were, to be frank, quite the pair, and Sebastian Knight only further muddled the dynamic in the room.
Kowalski takes a sip of his coffee mug before breaking the silence. “I was told you wanted to see the set up we got for One this weekend?” Knight nods, eyes moving from the architect to the laptop that Blaine turned to face him. On the screen was a 3D model of Madison Square Garden with the old WCF touch: wrestling ring, entrance ramp, and even the titantron.
Blaine couldn’t help but speak up. The enthusiasm behind his words stemmed from more than just passion for his work; it came from his passion for the sport as well. “Your basic set up by any stretch of the imagination, though we did have to compensate for a few props that a few of the wrestlers requested. Lester, for instance, requested that there be room for a pia—“ Then, silence; Blaine looks into the eyes of Sebastian Knight and can tell that he didn’t care.
An awkward silence hangs in the room before Kowalski finally speaks up, crossing his arms. “So, what is it, then?
“I’m going to need more room,” Sebastian replied. No inflection, no emotion. Just a statement, through and through.
“What kind of room?”
“Two platforms,” Knight says, finally moving to point at the 3D model, “here and here, large enough to accommodate sizable groups of people. Oh, and the entrance flap needs to be widened as well.”
Kowalski shakes his head. “Nope, can’t do it. It is six days before One, and those aren’t minor changes.”
“You can.” A pause. “You will.”
The two men stare at one another, neither man yielding an inch. Then Kowalski stands abruptly, grabbing the laptop and slamming it shut. “Fuck you,” the man said with venom, his face a scarlet shade of red. He storms over to the door, Blaine one step behind him like a baby duck, before turning to look back at Knight, who hadn’t even bothered to turn around. “Who do you think you are?”
The door slams. Sebastian Knight flinches, but his eyes never look up from the table in front of him.
Who do you think you are?
Who?
Fucking who?
Black screen
Footage of WCF All-Axxess from New York City begins to play, the week-long fan experience leading up to One. Hank Brown is moving through the crowd and interviewing these passionate men and women. The clips are short and spliced together to create this montage of thoughts. A bombardment of beliefs.
“I think Joey Flash will be our next World Champion,” said a mother of two.
The video slowly begins to pan out, and the shadow of a figure begins to form in the forefront of the montage that keeps on rolling.
“Kevin Bishop is my champion,” said the middle-aged man
The camera has panned out enough the shadow has become a man, sitting in front of a television. A silhouette illuminated by the glare of the monitor. Visual is lost on the screen, but viewers can hear the increase of pace of the clips. They can see the tension in the figure’s poise, as well.
“Zero Tolerance,”
“Jayson Price . . .”
And then, there were only two names, two thoughts, cacophonic repetition.
The monitor, and the whole scene, goes dark, silent. And, then, a voice-over:
“They don’t know who I am.”
Cut to a sparring scene in a nondescript gym. A pale man with curly hair shrouding much of his face in shadows is pressing against his opponent, who was wearing padded gloves and helmet, absorbing the elbow strikes the man was throwing. The camera moves around the ring to capture a close-up on the man’s face as he pushes his sparring partner up against the ropes. Strong features. A five o’clock shadow that gave him the finest hint of ruggedness. And piercing eyes, a shade of brown like molten earth. Fire. Passion.
“They don’t care to know who I am.”
Cut to the Knight again, seated just off-stage of a promo set. He’s crouching, back against the wall and hands held in front of him, forearms resting of knees. Waiting. The camera crew could be seen nearby, setting up, laughing and enjoying themselves. He watched them. Waiting.
“Its not like I haven’t given them a good indication of what I represent.”
Shattered glass. Bloody handprint. H E L L O. Images that were suddenly there, and then not.
“But it’s okay, truly it is.”
The producer standing beside the camera crew turns to Knight and waves him over, directing him to move over in front of a black WCF banner. Knight obliges. He turns to face the producer, the camera, and soon, the world. The producer holds his hand high and begins to count.
“Its okay because they’ll know who I am soon enough.”
Sparring scene again, back in the center of the ring as Sebastian Knight throws a massive spinning elbow at the head of his partner.
A THUD as the body hits the mat, with the camera looking up at Knight standing over it.
Shattered glass
Bloody handprint
H E L L O
Then, darkness
“Sciar.”
Same WCF backdrop, same Sebastian Knight. A stool had been procured for the man to sit on, legs propped on the middle rung of the chair. His hands were in his jacket pocket. Eyes looking down, though not in fear, but in contemplation. A build-up.
“In the Latin tongue, it means ‘I will be known.’ A verb, spoken in the passive voice, you see, because it is not an action that just be performed. If I were to say ‘I am known,” I would say instead scior.”
A pause, as Sebastian Knight finally looks up to face the camera.
“But scior I am not, Lester Parish.”
A shrug as he shifts his position on the stool, placing his long legs onto the ground and leaning back. His whole posture, his stiffness, was fading slowly away the longer the camera rolled.
“At least, not in the way that I had hoped. They know my name. Sebastian Knight. It so easy to just look at the list of the matches for One and read the names list. But the thing that bothers me, Les, the thing that bothers me about this whole thing is: They see my name, but they don’t see it.” Knight shakes his head. “They don’t bother to try.”
Knight sighs.
“They don’t bother to try to look beyond what has been thrust upon them. Fueled by exposure, they are. Show them a picture of a lion that’s labeled ‘cat,’ and they’re going to call it a cat. Show them a cave and label it a hole, and they’ll call it a hole. Show them a picture of sweet Miss Kelly with the label ‘Lester Parish’s ex-lover,’ and they’ll ‘say she’s better off without him.’”
Sebastian physically winces at the barbed comment before chuckling.
“Just poking bears, Lester. I just don’t want you worrying about silly things like wills or lost lovers the next time you’re talking about me. Tis disrespectful, is all”
Knight settles back into his perched position on the stool, watching the camera for a moment as he recollects himself.
“The point I was trying to make, Lester, before I side-tracked myself was this: the fans wouldn’t be wrong with their claims. A cat and a hole. Safe answers for safe people. Forget stepping out of their comfort zone. Forget being wrong. They don’t bother to see the wild animal, the vicious fighter, in the lion because its not what they had been told. And the hole.” A pause, as Knight leans forward, his posture suggesting he had a secret to share. “Well, with the hole, they don’t even try to see beyond it. They don’t see it as the place in which go deeper than anywhere else in the world to find riches. Gold. Diamonds. Vast wealth that was molded and formed, under pressure, away from the people’s eyes and ears. Excellency amidst obscurity.”
Knight leans back, holding his arms wide.
“Pleasure to meet you, Lester. Consider yourself my first exposure, my first real test in this big, new world.”
A pause, as Knight lets his hands drop back to his side.
“Because I just have this itch, this feeling, that you haven’t been blinded by my background. I just feel like you see a little of yourself within me. You have your mask, I have my empty slate. Two men with a shrouded past. Well, here is a news flash for you: I agree.” Knight pauses again, nodding his head while he lets his statement sink in. “Because, you see, I think you and I are more alike than the people understand. You’re a man who has been molded by pressures of this earth as well. But it isn’t quite like my diamonds, though; no, this is slightly different. You’re a creator, Lester, a weaver of mighty tales and mightier thoughts. I’ve listened to you speak, been mesmerized by it. There’s a fire within you, Lester. You are magma.
And, like magma, you stiffen up once you reach the surface. You step in that ring, and you become nothing more than a rock wall to push over.”
Knight shakes his head suddenly, holding his hands up as if to pause himself.
“Wait, that doesn’t entirely work. No, people are going to here me say that, call you magma, and they’ll respond like, ‘But Sebastian, its magma that becomes new islands in the ocean. Hawaii, Sebastian!” Each time Knight repeats his name, he says it with a nasally voice that clashes with his otherwise smooth way of speech. “And I’ll have to concede my point. Lester Parish is more like a newly formed island, not a rock wall. Just waiting for man to walk all over him, to claim him like so many islands and so many times Lester Parish had been claimed before.
A fucking stepping stone, if you will, dear fans.”
Sebastian Knight grins.
“That’s all your precious mentalist is: a brain teaser. An affront to the norm, an exception the comfort zone you so often cling to. Your mind chooses him to succeed over me because you know his name over mine. But he’ll fall short. Your brain tells you to pick him because of his size and strength in a fight. But He. Will. Fall. Short. Like a never ending line of dominos, and Lester Parish is every single piece.
Because that, that, is Lester Parish’s comfort zone.
Lester Parish breathes fire into his words when he sits in the confine of his home, but is breathless in the ring. He is the right hand, the shadow, the friend of Kevin Bishop Monday through Saturday, and then the walking, living sacrifice on Sunday. I was there two weeks, ago, Lester, when you and your leader faced Pantheon. You fought hard and you fought well, but by the end, it was you pushing yourself to your knees, begging Zombie McMorris to choose you. ‘Pick me, pick me’ your eyes screamed, not your precious leader. ‘This is what I was made for. This is who I am!’
And most of all, Lester Parish plays his hand a farmer, digging so desperately in the dirt, because he’s looking to go back to where he came from. To leave this big, bad world, where his body hurts and his love leaves him. Scratching, clawing, longing for the sanctity of the cold ground where magma like him was at its happiest.
Well just go on and click your shiny red heels, Dorothy, because I’m about to send you back to the home you long for so dearly.”
Sebastian stands up out of the stool, moving closer to the camera.
“Because like I said, Lester, I am a diamond, and diamonds just don’t get put back once they’ve been discovered. No, they’re cut and crafted and sold to the world. Men buy them, women long for them, and children are dazzled by them. I have climbed out of my hole, Lester Parish, and I’m looking to show the fans come Sunday that I am deserving. We’ll step into that ring and we’re going to have a hell of a fight. You hit hard, that I cannot deny, and you’re going to be itching to prove yourself against this upstart rookie. But it will be my name at the end of the day that people will remember, not yours.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Knight pulls the phone out and reads the message to himself before holding it up to the camera with a smile.
“And sometimes it just pays to be worth it.”
Knight pockets the phone.
“But, Lester, a different Knight on a different night awaits you. Stay in your comfort zone. Or don’t. Either way, the outcome is the same. Come One, I will be the winner.”
Sebastian Knight shrugs his shoulders as the scene slowly fades out.
“After that, by all means, take a fucking dirt nap.”
Darkness.
There was a intensity behind the long frame of the man, who sat on the edge of the hardback chair like a coiled spring, just waiting to explode out of the position. Were this the ring, no one would’ve given it a second thought. That’s just how fighters were. Here, though, it was off-putting, strange even. It was like no one had taught Knight how to relax in the company of others. No. He sat upright, poised and dangerous, an animal in Armani.
“They’re ready for you, sir,” the young secretary behind the welcome desk said in a bubbly voice. If she was perturbed Knight’s mannerisms, she hid it behind her dedication to her work and her sing-song personality.
Knight was at the desk within seconds, placing both hands on the countertop in a mechanical motion. Stiff was the word to describe him as he watched the little blond woman shuffle through a pile of neon-colored post-it notes. “Mister Kowalski and Mister Blaine’s meeting will be over any moment now just down the hall there,” she gestures with a nod over her left shoulder while at the same time reaching for a black Sharpie marker. “Room 104, just go in when everyone else clears out. Name, please?” She holds the pen poised over a name tag.
“Sebastian Knight,” the man said, eyes intent on the woman’s hand. S-E-B-A-S-T . . . she hesitates. She looks up, a question on the tip of her tongue when the man speaks up. “I-a-n, miss.”
“Ooh, thank you,” the secretary replies, finishing out the name without difficulty. She hands Sebastian the tag and gives the man a warm smile before returning to her work.
Stepping around the desk, Sebastian continues down the hallway to his meeting. The first trash can he passes, he tosses the balled-up nametag away.
Kowalski and Blaine were poised over a laptop when Sebastian stepped into the room and sat across from them. Kowalski was the senior of the two, a graying architect in charge of the arena floorplan and design for all of the WCF’s major events; Blaine was an intern with thick-rimmed glasses and a Game of Thrones t-shirt underneath his cheap blazer. They were, to be frank, quite the pair, and Sebastian Knight only further muddled the dynamic in the room.
Kowalski takes a sip of his coffee mug before breaking the silence. “I was told you wanted to see the set up we got for One this weekend?” Knight nods, eyes moving from the architect to the laptop that Blaine turned to face him. On the screen was a 3D model of Madison Square Garden with the old WCF touch: wrestling ring, entrance ramp, and even the titantron.
Blaine couldn’t help but speak up. The enthusiasm behind his words stemmed from more than just passion for his work; it came from his passion for the sport as well. “Your basic set up by any stretch of the imagination, though we did have to compensate for a few props that a few of the wrestlers requested. Lester, for instance, requested that there be room for a pia—“ Then, silence; Blaine looks into the eyes of Sebastian Knight and can tell that he didn’t care.
An awkward silence hangs in the room before Kowalski finally speaks up, crossing his arms. “So, what is it, then?
“I’m going to need more room,” Sebastian replied. No inflection, no emotion. Just a statement, through and through.
“What kind of room?”
“Two platforms,” Knight says, finally moving to point at the 3D model, “here and here, large enough to accommodate sizable groups of people. Oh, and the entrance flap needs to be widened as well.”
Kowalski shakes his head. “Nope, can’t do it. It is six days before One, and those aren’t minor changes.”
“You can.” A pause. “You will.”
The two men stare at one another, neither man yielding an inch. Then Kowalski stands abruptly, grabbing the laptop and slamming it shut. “Fuck you,” the man said with venom, his face a scarlet shade of red. He storms over to the door, Blaine one step behind him like a baby duck, before turning to look back at Knight, who hadn’t even bothered to turn around. “Who do you think you are?”
The door slams. Sebastian Knight flinches, but his eyes never look up from the table in front of him.
Who do you think you are?
Who?
Fucking who?
*****
Black screen
“I can’t say I know who Sebastian Knight is," said an unfamiliar voice
Footage of WCF All-Axxess from New York City begins to play, the week-long fan experience leading up to One. Hank Brown is moving through the crowd and interviewing these passionate men and women. The clips are short and spliced together to create this montage of thoughts. A bombardment of beliefs.
“I think Joey Flash will be our next World Champion,” said a mother of two.
“Teddy Blaze is the bestest,” said a child, no more than four.
“I’ve never heard of that Sebastian Knight guy,” said a greasy-haired man wearing a ZMAC t-shirt.
The video slowly begins to pan out, and the shadow of a figure begins to form in the forefront of the montage that keeps on rolling.
“Kevin Bishop is my champion,” said the middle-aged man
“I’d party with #BeachKrew,” said the frat bro.
“Knight? Never heard of him,” said the mark in a Thomas Bates hoodie.
The camera has panned out enough the shadow has become a man, sitting in front of a television. A silhouette illuminated by the glare of the monitor. Visual is lost on the screen, but viewers can hear the increase of pace of the clips. They can see the tension in the figure’s poise, as well.
“Zero Tolerance,”
“FPV!”
“Who?”
“Jayson Price . . .”
“. . . Corey Black.”
“Who?!”
And then, there were only two names, two thoughts, cacophonic repetition.
“Lester Parish.”
“Sebastian Knight?”
“Lester Parish can . . .”
“don’t know . . .”
“Lester Parish will . . .”
“. . . don’t care”
“Lester Parish!”
“Wh—“
“Sebastian Knight?”
“Lester Parish can . . .”
“don’t know . . .”
“Lester Parish will . . .”
“. . . don’t care”
“Lester Parish!”
“Wh—“
The monitor, and the whole scene, goes dark, silent. And, then, a voice-over:
“They don’t know who I am.”
Cut to a sparring scene in a nondescript gym. A pale man with curly hair shrouding much of his face in shadows is pressing against his opponent, who was wearing padded gloves and helmet, absorbing the elbow strikes the man was throwing. The camera moves around the ring to capture a close-up on the man’s face as he pushes his sparring partner up against the ropes. Strong features. A five o’clock shadow that gave him the finest hint of ruggedness. And piercing eyes, a shade of brown like molten earth. Fire. Passion.
“They don’t care to know who I am.”
Cut to the Knight again, seated just off-stage of a promo set. He’s crouching, back against the wall and hands held in front of him, forearms resting of knees. Waiting. The camera crew could be seen nearby, setting up, laughing and enjoying themselves. He watched them. Waiting.
“Its not like I haven’t given them a good indication of what I represent.”
Shattered glass. Bloody handprint. H E L L O. Images that were suddenly there, and then not.
“But it’s okay, truly it is.”
The producer standing beside the camera crew turns to Knight and waves him over, directing him to move over in front of a black WCF banner. Knight obliges. He turns to face the producer, the camera, and soon, the world. The producer holds his hand high and begins to count.
“Its okay because they’ll know who I am soon enough.”
FIVE
Sparring scene again, back in the center of the ring as Sebastian Knight throws a massive spinning elbow at the head of his partner.
FOUR
A THUD as the body hits the mat, with the camera looking up at Knight standing over it.
THREE
Shattered glass
TWO
Bloody handprint
ONE
H E L L O
Then, darkness
*****
“Sciar.”
Same WCF backdrop, same Sebastian Knight. A stool had been procured for the man to sit on, legs propped on the middle rung of the chair. His hands were in his jacket pocket. Eyes looking down, though not in fear, but in contemplation. A build-up.
“In the Latin tongue, it means ‘I will be known.’ A verb, spoken in the passive voice, you see, because it is not an action that just be performed. If I were to say ‘I am known,” I would say instead scior.”
A pause, as Sebastian Knight finally looks up to face the camera.
“But scior I am not, Lester Parish.”
A shrug as he shifts his position on the stool, placing his long legs onto the ground and leaning back. His whole posture, his stiffness, was fading slowly away the longer the camera rolled.
“At least, not in the way that I had hoped. They know my name. Sebastian Knight. It so easy to just look at the list of the matches for One and read the names list. But the thing that bothers me, Les, the thing that bothers me about this whole thing is: They see my name, but they don’t see it.” Knight shakes his head. “They don’t bother to try.”
Knight sighs.
“They don’t bother to try to look beyond what has been thrust upon them. Fueled by exposure, they are. Show them a picture of a lion that’s labeled ‘cat,’ and they’re going to call it a cat. Show them a cave and label it a hole, and they’ll call it a hole. Show them a picture of sweet Miss Kelly with the label ‘Lester Parish’s ex-lover,’ and they’ll ‘say she’s better off without him.’”
Sebastian physically winces at the barbed comment before chuckling.
“Just poking bears, Lester. I just don’t want you worrying about silly things like wills or lost lovers the next time you’re talking about me. Tis disrespectful, is all”
Knight settles back into his perched position on the stool, watching the camera for a moment as he recollects himself.
“The point I was trying to make, Lester, before I side-tracked myself was this: the fans wouldn’t be wrong with their claims. A cat and a hole. Safe answers for safe people. Forget stepping out of their comfort zone. Forget being wrong. They don’t bother to see the wild animal, the vicious fighter, in the lion because its not what they had been told. And the hole.” A pause, as Knight leans forward, his posture suggesting he had a secret to share. “Well, with the hole, they don’t even try to see beyond it. They don’t see it as the place in which go deeper than anywhere else in the world to find riches. Gold. Diamonds. Vast wealth that was molded and formed, under pressure, away from the people’s eyes and ears. Excellency amidst obscurity.”
Knight leans back, holding his arms wide.
“Pleasure to meet you, Lester. Consider yourself my first exposure, my first real test in this big, new world.”
A pause, as Knight lets his hands drop back to his side.
“Because I just have this itch, this feeling, that you haven’t been blinded by my background. I just feel like you see a little of yourself within me. You have your mask, I have my empty slate. Two men with a shrouded past. Well, here is a news flash for you: I agree.” Knight pauses again, nodding his head while he lets his statement sink in. “Because, you see, I think you and I are more alike than the people understand. You’re a man who has been molded by pressures of this earth as well. But it isn’t quite like my diamonds, though; no, this is slightly different. You’re a creator, Lester, a weaver of mighty tales and mightier thoughts. I’ve listened to you speak, been mesmerized by it. There’s a fire within you, Lester. You are magma.
And, like magma, you stiffen up once you reach the surface. You step in that ring, and you become nothing more than a rock wall to push over.”
Knight shakes his head suddenly, holding his hands up as if to pause himself.
“Wait, that doesn’t entirely work. No, people are going to here me say that, call you magma, and they’ll respond like, ‘But Sebastian, its magma that becomes new islands in the ocean. Hawaii, Sebastian!” Each time Knight repeats his name, he says it with a nasally voice that clashes with his otherwise smooth way of speech. “And I’ll have to concede my point. Lester Parish is more like a newly formed island, not a rock wall. Just waiting for man to walk all over him, to claim him like so many islands and so many times Lester Parish had been claimed before.
A fucking stepping stone, if you will, dear fans.”
Sebastian Knight grins.
“That’s all your precious mentalist is: a brain teaser. An affront to the norm, an exception the comfort zone you so often cling to. Your mind chooses him to succeed over me because you know his name over mine. But he’ll fall short. Your brain tells you to pick him because of his size and strength in a fight. But He. Will. Fall. Short. Like a never ending line of dominos, and Lester Parish is every single piece.
Because that, that, is Lester Parish’s comfort zone.
Lester Parish breathes fire into his words when he sits in the confine of his home, but is breathless in the ring. He is the right hand, the shadow, the friend of Kevin Bishop Monday through Saturday, and then the walking, living sacrifice on Sunday. I was there two weeks, ago, Lester, when you and your leader faced Pantheon. You fought hard and you fought well, but by the end, it was you pushing yourself to your knees, begging Zombie McMorris to choose you. ‘Pick me, pick me’ your eyes screamed, not your precious leader. ‘This is what I was made for. This is who I am!’
And most of all, Lester Parish plays his hand a farmer, digging so desperately in the dirt, because he’s looking to go back to where he came from. To leave this big, bad world, where his body hurts and his love leaves him. Scratching, clawing, longing for the sanctity of the cold ground where magma like him was at its happiest.
Well just go on and click your shiny red heels, Dorothy, because I’m about to send you back to the home you long for so dearly.”
Sebastian stands up out of the stool, moving closer to the camera.
“Because like I said, Lester, I am a diamond, and diamonds just don’t get put back once they’ve been discovered. No, they’re cut and crafted and sold to the world. Men buy them, women long for them, and children are dazzled by them. I have climbed out of my hole, Lester Parish, and I’m looking to show the fans come Sunday that I am deserving. We’ll step into that ring and we’re going to have a hell of a fight. You hit hard, that I cannot deny, and you’re going to be itching to prove yourself against this upstart rookie. But it will be my name at the end of the day that people will remember, not yours.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Knight pulls the phone out and reads the message to himself before holding it up to the camera with a smile.
I just talked to Mister Lerch. You’ll have the stage you want.
~Best, Dad
~Best, Dad
“And sometimes it just pays to be worth it.”
Knight pockets the phone.
“But, Lester, a different Knight on a different night awaits you. Stay in your comfort zone. Or don’t. Either way, the outcome is the same. Come One, I will be the winner.”
Sebastian Knight shrugs his shoulders as the scene slowly fades out.
“After that, by all means, take a fucking dirt nap.”
Darkness.
