Post by Kyle on Jan 8, 2017 16:33:18 GMT -5
CLINK
A soft, insignificant sound, the way the thumbtacks bounced against the side of the glass bowl. To anyone else, it easy to dismiss. Grating sure, but not something many would dwell on. Only someone who had felt the metal pierce his body would hear it, feel it, in a different way.
CLINK
Sebastian Knight winced.
“Sorry,” said the nurse with genuine remorse in her voice as he she continued to search his scalp for any remaining tacks.
“Don’t apologize,” Knight replied as he stared at the back wall of the makeshift infirmary. “You’re just doing your job.”
He had been, too, which is why he wouldn’t allow himself to complain. He had allowed the numbers to get the better of him, allowed him to be struck behind the head not once, but twice. He didn’t deserve pity, nor did he desire it. The pain reminded him of his shortcomings, the tacks markers that mapped out his failure. He needed this. He wanted this.
And, in a sickening way, he liked it too.
CLINK
This time Sebastian Knight didn’t even blink.
“All done,” the nurse said, wiping her bloodied gloves on a nearby rag.
Sebastian Knight nodded as he pushed himself to his feet; only now did he notice that his knee didn’t hurt anymore. Despite himself, he grinned.
Until he heard, barely through the thick walls of the room, an echoing chant.
The smile faded. He hadn’t escaped it yet. That meant there was still more to do.
Sebastian Knight collected his coat and stepped out the room as the scene faded
The following audio clip begins to play over the black screen
“The difficulty with being a predator is that both of your eyes sit at the front of your head. A naturally designed mechanism for beasts whose main focus is on the attack, the offense. One on one, I’d take a predator any day of the week. The prey, sure they can look both ways at the same time, but they have their blind-spots too. Spots that can be exploited.
Spots I have exploited.
The same can be said for two predators facing off, too; in the end, the stronger will prevail. Go beyond that, put three or more in the match, and suddenly strength isn’t the end all, be all. The predator is forced to divide his attention between multiple opponents. His greatest offensive weapon can, in a split second, his weakest defense.
I would know; I looked the wrong way this past Sunday night. I put up a hell of a fight between two men who are of a like mind as myself, but more than once I found myself hit across the back of the head when I wasn’t looking. I was blindsided because in a match like this, amidst the chaos, you just can’t see everything. Andre knows it too, and Steven as well. Andre hit me, and Steven hit Andre. Boom, boom, and new number one contender.
But it seems I made a statement Sunday because I have been given the opportunity to compete in a match very similarly designed for the Television title. But there’s a difference this time.”
A pause in the audio
“This time I get to step into the ring with two motherfucking sheep.”
Another pause
“Ryan Callaghan probably things he and I are alike given our similar backgrounds. Two boys with a golden spoon in their mouths and the world at their fingertips, am I right? Poster children to an upbringing most people could only see in the movie theaters. But that is where the comparisons stop, right? Unlike me, you’ve tried to make your own path without having to use your family’s wealth. ‘Just call me Rocco because I want to wear a name known only for the accomplishments I achieved underneath it.' Bitch, that’s why your parents gave you two of them. But you wouldn’t care what your parents had to do to even get you in the position where you could make a selfish, disrespectful decision like you’ve made.
Fuck off with that.
Like, Rocco is a gamble, a game where the play isn’t designed equally. But you, you’re the type of cat who would be dealt a straight flush at the table and say ‘five new ones, dealer.’ You’re so intent on earning your place at the table that you don’t realize that all of it, beginning and end, is dictated by forces beyond your comprehension. But that’s on you, kid. By all means, fold at the pressure of the easy road. But don’t you dare look across the table at my own stack of chips and denounce me for accepting my own hand I’ve been dealt. We’re not alike, Rocco, and we’re not equals. And you want to know why?
Because Sunday night, you’re stepping into the ring with myself and FPV, not the other way around.
You were a name added as an afterthought to keep the match unpredictable. Alone, I would have snapped Frankie over my knees like I was taking a deep breath. I would’ve walked over all of his hard work and stomped The Brotherhood name further into the hole I created with Lester Parish’s head. With you in the match, though, I’m forced to watch my back. At least last Sunday I had two competitors surrounding me who had earned the right to be there. You? You edged out a win over the esteemed competition of Captain Rump and Vinnie ‘Pass me that facepaint’ Jones.
I’m shaking in my boots.
You’ve done nothing to earn this opportunity, Rocco, and you know it. You’re a counterbalance to what would’ve otherwise been a one-sided affair. Be grateful. Smoke that next blunt in Seth Lerch’s honor; its because of him that you’re getting this opportunity to stand out, albeit in a losing effort. Not your Dad. Not you. Seth Lerch.
Because if he wanted to watch matches so off-kilt that they weren’t fun, he would’ve gone to watch you in your fucking gymnasiums.
Now that is an apt description. Rocco Callaghan, the boy so incapable of escaping the naïve, child, schoolyard bullshit way of life resorts to wrestling in the very same elementary schools he wished he still resided in. ‘No Daddy, I don’t need no lunch money.’ I’ll earn it by myself by fighting in front of the twenty to thirty people also stuck in this miserable, eight A.M to three-thirty P.M way of life. A low-life, wannabe, excuse of a competitor.
Do me a favor and take a look Sunday night; remind yourself that you’re not in a fucking backyard anymore. And maybe, if you’re smart, you’ll take this advice too: Grow the fuck up.
Grow up before you go from toking blunts to just another token name among so many others.”
A pause
“And then there’s you, Frankie. At least Rocco has the decency to wear his inadequacy like a badge of honor. You hide behind outdated accolades and undeserving monikers. ‘The Lone Wolf?’ Oh, it must’ve stung when Kevin Bishop took one look at the gimmick, the way of life, you claimed to represent in your most recent run in the company and said, ‘Eh, I can beat that.’
Does it sting worse to know that everyone looks at you that way?
But I’ll give you this, Frankie: you have the self-confidence that is unmatched by anyone in this company. There are others more arrogant than you, but they are two different concepts I think. Arrogance stems more from one’s own ability than motivation; Joey Flash can still win a match even if he’s feeling a little doubtful of himself. But your self-confidence, Frankie, stems not from ability but your capability to inflate your own sense of worth despite its blatant mediocrity. You have a knack of convincing yourself to persevere, despite your failures and your limitations, for far longer than anyone truly expected. ‘I’m a respectable champion,’ your whole demeanor seems to scream. ‘I belong here.’
Yeah, right.
The only reason you’re in the match, Frankie, is because as the champion you’re required to be. But don’t kid yourself into thinking that Seth hasn’t tried to come up with a way of having a Television title match without your name on the marquee. Thought he had the perfect scenario last week with #BeachKrew, but old Frankie is too tricksy. He lets Kevin eat the pin for him while still making it out as if you tried your best. Slipped through the trap, Frankie did.
This week, though, he doesn’t have anywhere to escape to.
Because if you leave, tuck tail and run, I’ll just beat baby Rocco and walk away with his title, make him wish he never left the safety of his dorm room. But you won’t do that, will you, Frankie? You’re in too deep with this whole fighting champion gimmick to back down from a real threat to your title reign. No, FPV is going to step into the ring in an attempt to maintain his honor and he will end in similar fashion to his fellow brothers over the last few weeks.
Like a lamb on the altar.”
A pause on the audio.
“It may feel like mere coincidences to someone stuck on the inside, but I can see what you men have become in this company: a sacrifice. Kidd Krazzy to Crazy J, Kevin Bishop to Pantheon. Lester Parish to me. Damian Kaine to me. Examples exceed the space in which I can work, FPV, but if you don’t believe me, just wait for Sunday. I’ll give you the example that will leave the strongest impression on your memory.
The Brotherhood are sheep, Frankie.
You think its coincidence that you all live on a fucking farm?
And you are but a lone wolf in their clothing, Frankie. Not because you chose to, decided to prey upon them, but because you lost. Luckily for you, it had been before you won that Television title, else I wouldn’t have even bothered to put your name on my lips. You’ve somehow garnered up a few defenses with this belt around your waist, but as your track record goes, you have to slip up soon. Some would say you did last week against Pantheon, but the title is still yours; in my book, that alone is a win enough for you. But the advantage of having a partner to throw under the bus is gone this go round.
You throw me Rocco, and I’ll just take your title and go.
It’s going to come down to who can look at the two other men and say ‘I can overcome them.’ You think, Frankie, that since you have the experience and the champion’s advantage that you’ll be able to do just that. Like I said, self-confidence; you’ll ride that mantra right to the very end. You’ll fight and fight well enough to say, as per usual, you tried your best. But, before the night is over, you’ll be on your back looking up into my eyes. And you’ll think, in the final moments, ‘I’ve been here before.’
Look at your wrists, Frankie, at the scars. Feel familiar yet?”
A final pause in the audio
“Sunday night I step into the ring with two sheep and I will not allow the wool to be pulled over my eyes again. I fell short because I didn’t quite understand the difficulty of a triple threat scenario, but considered me a learned man now. I will be looking both ways when I step into the ring, though from where you’re sitting, it will probably look like I’m shaking my head.
Know that I’m doing that too.
Because when I look at my two opponents, I can’t help but do just that.”
The audio fades.
A soft, insignificant sound, the way the thumbtacks bounced against the side of the glass bowl. To anyone else, it easy to dismiss. Grating sure, but not something many would dwell on. Only someone who had felt the metal pierce his body would hear it, feel it, in a different way.
CLINK
Sebastian Knight winced.
“Sorry,” said the nurse with genuine remorse in her voice as he she continued to search his scalp for any remaining tacks.
“Don’t apologize,” Knight replied as he stared at the back wall of the makeshift infirmary. “You’re just doing your job.”
He had been, too, which is why he wouldn’t allow himself to complain. He had allowed the numbers to get the better of him, allowed him to be struck behind the head not once, but twice. He didn’t deserve pity, nor did he desire it. The pain reminded him of his shortcomings, the tacks markers that mapped out his failure. He needed this. He wanted this.
And, in a sickening way, he liked it too.
CLINK
This time Sebastian Knight didn’t even blink.
“All done,” the nurse said, wiping her bloodied gloves on a nearby rag.
Sebastian Knight nodded as he pushed himself to his feet; only now did he notice that his knee didn’t hurt anymore. Despite himself, he grinned.
Until he heard, barely through the thick walls of the room, an echoing chant.
”Flash, Flash, Flash”
The smile faded. He hadn’t escaped it yet. That meant there was still more to do.
Sebastian Knight collected his coat and stepped out the room as the scene faded
*****
The following audio clip begins to play over the black screen
“The difficulty with being a predator is that both of your eyes sit at the front of your head. A naturally designed mechanism for beasts whose main focus is on the attack, the offense. One on one, I’d take a predator any day of the week. The prey, sure they can look both ways at the same time, but they have their blind-spots too. Spots that can be exploited.
Spots I have exploited.
The same can be said for two predators facing off, too; in the end, the stronger will prevail. Go beyond that, put three or more in the match, and suddenly strength isn’t the end all, be all. The predator is forced to divide his attention between multiple opponents. His greatest offensive weapon can, in a split second, his weakest defense.
I would know; I looked the wrong way this past Sunday night. I put up a hell of a fight between two men who are of a like mind as myself, but more than once I found myself hit across the back of the head when I wasn’t looking. I was blindsided because in a match like this, amidst the chaos, you just can’t see everything. Andre knows it too, and Steven as well. Andre hit me, and Steven hit Andre. Boom, boom, and new number one contender.
But it seems I made a statement Sunday because I have been given the opportunity to compete in a match very similarly designed for the Television title. But there’s a difference this time.”
A pause in the audio
“This time I get to step into the ring with two motherfucking sheep.”
Another pause
“Ryan Callaghan probably things he and I are alike given our similar backgrounds. Two boys with a golden spoon in their mouths and the world at their fingertips, am I right? Poster children to an upbringing most people could only see in the movie theaters. But that is where the comparisons stop, right? Unlike me, you’ve tried to make your own path without having to use your family’s wealth. ‘Just call me Rocco because I want to wear a name known only for the accomplishments I achieved underneath it.' Bitch, that’s why your parents gave you two of them. But you wouldn’t care what your parents had to do to even get you in the position where you could make a selfish, disrespectful decision like you’ve made.
Fuck off with that.
Like, Rocco is a gamble, a game where the play isn’t designed equally. But you, you’re the type of cat who would be dealt a straight flush at the table and say ‘five new ones, dealer.’ You’re so intent on earning your place at the table that you don’t realize that all of it, beginning and end, is dictated by forces beyond your comprehension. But that’s on you, kid. By all means, fold at the pressure of the easy road. But don’t you dare look across the table at my own stack of chips and denounce me for accepting my own hand I’ve been dealt. We’re not alike, Rocco, and we’re not equals. And you want to know why?
Because Sunday night, you’re stepping into the ring with myself and FPV, not the other way around.
You were a name added as an afterthought to keep the match unpredictable. Alone, I would have snapped Frankie over my knees like I was taking a deep breath. I would’ve walked over all of his hard work and stomped The Brotherhood name further into the hole I created with Lester Parish’s head. With you in the match, though, I’m forced to watch my back. At least last Sunday I had two competitors surrounding me who had earned the right to be there. You? You edged out a win over the esteemed competition of Captain Rump and Vinnie ‘Pass me that facepaint’ Jones.
I’m shaking in my boots.
You’ve done nothing to earn this opportunity, Rocco, and you know it. You’re a counterbalance to what would’ve otherwise been a one-sided affair. Be grateful. Smoke that next blunt in Seth Lerch’s honor; its because of him that you’re getting this opportunity to stand out, albeit in a losing effort. Not your Dad. Not you. Seth Lerch.
Because if he wanted to watch matches so off-kilt that they weren’t fun, he would’ve gone to watch you in your fucking gymnasiums.
Now that is an apt description. Rocco Callaghan, the boy so incapable of escaping the naïve, child, schoolyard bullshit way of life resorts to wrestling in the very same elementary schools he wished he still resided in. ‘No Daddy, I don’t need no lunch money.’ I’ll earn it by myself by fighting in front of the twenty to thirty people also stuck in this miserable, eight A.M to three-thirty P.M way of life. A low-life, wannabe, excuse of a competitor.
Do me a favor and take a look Sunday night; remind yourself that you’re not in a fucking backyard anymore. And maybe, if you’re smart, you’ll take this advice too: Grow the fuck up.
Grow up before you go from toking blunts to just another token name among so many others.”
A pause
“And then there’s you, Frankie. At least Rocco has the decency to wear his inadequacy like a badge of honor. You hide behind outdated accolades and undeserving monikers. ‘The Lone Wolf?’ Oh, it must’ve stung when Kevin Bishop took one look at the gimmick, the way of life, you claimed to represent in your most recent run in the company and said, ‘Eh, I can beat that.’
Does it sting worse to know that everyone looks at you that way?
But I’ll give you this, Frankie: you have the self-confidence that is unmatched by anyone in this company. There are others more arrogant than you, but they are two different concepts I think. Arrogance stems more from one’s own ability than motivation; Joey Flash can still win a match even if he’s feeling a little doubtful of himself. But your self-confidence, Frankie, stems not from ability but your capability to inflate your own sense of worth despite its blatant mediocrity. You have a knack of convincing yourself to persevere, despite your failures and your limitations, for far longer than anyone truly expected. ‘I’m a respectable champion,’ your whole demeanor seems to scream. ‘I belong here.’
Yeah, right.
The only reason you’re in the match, Frankie, is because as the champion you’re required to be. But don’t kid yourself into thinking that Seth hasn’t tried to come up with a way of having a Television title match without your name on the marquee. Thought he had the perfect scenario last week with #BeachKrew, but old Frankie is too tricksy. He lets Kevin eat the pin for him while still making it out as if you tried your best. Slipped through the trap, Frankie did.
This week, though, he doesn’t have anywhere to escape to.
Because if you leave, tuck tail and run, I’ll just beat baby Rocco and walk away with his title, make him wish he never left the safety of his dorm room. But you won’t do that, will you, Frankie? You’re in too deep with this whole fighting champion gimmick to back down from a real threat to your title reign. No, FPV is going to step into the ring in an attempt to maintain his honor and he will end in similar fashion to his fellow brothers over the last few weeks.
Like a lamb on the altar.”
A pause on the audio.
“It may feel like mere coincidences to someone stuck on the inside, but I can see what you men have become in this company: a sacrifice. Kidd Krazzy to Crazy J, Kevin Bishop to Pantheon. Lester Parish to me. Damian Kaine to me. Examples exceed the space in which I can work, FPV, but if you don’t believe me, just wait for Sunday. I’ll give you the example that will leave the strongest impression on your memory.
The Brotherhood are sheep, Frankie.
You think its coincidence that you all live on a fucking farm?
And you are but a lone wolf in their clothing, Frankie. Not because you chose to, decided to prey upon them, but because you lost. Luckily for you, it had been before you won that Television title, else I wouldn’t have even bothered to put your name on my lips. You’ve somehow garnered up a few defenses with this belt around your waist, but as your track record goes, you have to slip up soon. Some would say you did last week against Pantheon, but the title is still yours; in my book, that alone is a win enough for you. But the advantage of having a partner to throw under the bus is gone this go round.
You throw me Rocco, and I’ll just take your title and go.
It’s going to come down to who can look at the two other men and say ‘I can overcome them.’ You think, Frankie, that since you have the experience and the champion’s advantage that you’ll be able to do just that. Like I said, self-confidence; you’ll ride that mantra right to the very end. You’ll fight and fight well enough to say, as per usual, you tried your best. But, before the night is over, you’ll be on your back looking up into my eyes. And you’ll think, in the final moments, ‘I’ve been here before.’
Look at your wrists, Frankie, at the scars. Feel familiar yet?”
A final pause in the audio
“Sunday night I step into the ring with two sheep and I will not allow the wool to be pulled over my eyes again. I fell short because I didn’t quite understand the difficulty of a triple threat scenario, but considered me a learned man now. I will be looking both ways when I step into the ring, though from where you’re sitting, it will probably look like I’m shaking my head.
Know that I’m doing that too.
Because when I look at my two opponents, I can’t help but do just that.”
The audio fades.
