Surprises and Clichés
Jan 22, 2017 15:11:07 GMT -5
"Iron Heart" Ethan King and The CAPTAIN like this
Post by Kyle on Jan 22, 2017 15:11:07 GMT -5
The Wells Fargo Center was like a chessboard and he, Sebastian Knight, a King. Or, at least, so he felt.
Truth be told, that wasn’t a suitable metaphor at all. Kings cowered behind their subordinates, trying his best to keep his distance from the enemies trying to take what was his. A singular movement, he was allowed, always only one step ahead of the pursuit, the checkmate. Sebastian Knight, as he sauntered through the back halls of the arena with his Television Title displayed proudly across his shoulder, seemed not to face such limitations as all. But damn, it did feel good to have complete rule over his own little kingdom.
And to watch Adam Burnett’s own world crumble away piece by piece . . . well that was just a bonus.
Not even the arrival of Hank Brown with cameraman in tow could wipe the grin off of Knight’s face. The trio continued in step for a few moments in silence that is eventually broken by WCF’s resident interviewer. "Could this grin be the result of your first successful defense of the Television title, Sebastian Knight?”
“Oh, that?” Knight replies, shaking his head. “The inevitable never does much to excite me, Hank. Surprises, the events out of one’s control, that’s what makes me smile the most.”
“How so?” Hank asks, his own incomprehension apparent across his face.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sebastian replies, pointing a finger off-camera. “Tonight, out there, we witnessed Jaice Wilds secure a number one contendership for the Alpha title. Normally, who would care right? I mean, its fucking Jaice Wilds. But,” he holds a finger in the air, “But it does mean something because, prior to tonight, there had already been another contender.”
Hank nods. “Adam Burnett.”
Sebastian Knight claps for Hank. “Adam Burnett, who walked around proud of his homegrown roots, his undefeated streak, and his shot at Jason O’Neal’s title. Well, Ethan King broke one, Jaice Wilds stole another, and no one gave two shits about the first one anyway. One fell swoop, and I didn’t even have to lift a finger.”
Sebastian sighs as Hank stares at the man sideways. “One thing you’ve never answered, Sebastian,” Hank finally asks, “is why you detest Adam Burnett so much? What, in your eyes, does he represent that you so vehemently oppose?”
Sebastian grin fades for a moment, before finally shrugging. “Because, Hank, Adam Burnett represents something that I find so distasteful in this modern society. A—“
“Cliché.”
Darkness fills the screen, as the audio clip kicks in.
“In a world of over seven billion people, I’ll admit its difficult to escape the trap of similarity with your fellow man. That is, simply put, the reality of this world and of our existence. What the sport of wrestling provides a select few is the chance to reinvent themselves into something different. We place ourselves in front of a special lenses that warps reality, actuality, as we know it. A white wall. An empty canvas. A blank fucking slate. And when Adam Burnett stared into this lenses, he lacked the imagination to create the identity befit for men of our status.
He only saw himself. What was meant to project was used only to reflect. ‘Let me be me!’ he shouted, but no one heard, because he had made this whole little world a place where only he could be present in.
The WCF was then forced to compensate for Adam’s failure, and a cliché was born. The young man who worked for the opportunities he has had. The guy who never talks bad about his opponents and their actions. A genuine, nice human being. A hero, even, in the making. The same, rehashed story told a hundred times over. The only thing that changed was the face each man or woman wore.
A mask, some would say.”
A pause in the audio.
“I wish you wore a similar mask, Captain Pantheon, instead of the one you created for yourself when you had stared through the lens yourself. At least the, it would’ve been a face designed with the end goal of success in mind, and not a veil for laughable inadequacy that you currently represent.”
Another pause.
“Perhaps you would’ve called yourself ‘Me,’ similar to Adam Burnett’s own cry to just be himself, before you would proceed to butcher the English language in an attempt to appear formidable in the eyes of those watching. You certainly see yourself as exactly that, lulled into a false sense of security by the cheers and applause from the only human who find your act entertaining at all: children. Fucking children, who have been nursed on clichés ever since mother tucked them into bed and read them fairy tales.
That’s the only real place for the hero motif, I think, where the author has full control over how the story ends, and where the only surprises are the ones he or she created themselves.
But here, in the WCF, there is no real place for someone like you Captain. This is the land where unstable and vicious men roam, and where good, genuine souls come to be corrupted. It is not happenstance, either, but the response to the observations made by every single individual before they step into this company. We look, and we ask ourselves ‘will this work?’ We all possess a piece, a thread, that connects us to men who have come before us. Its just too difficult to avoid. I bear similarities to men who have called the WCF home in the past. Eric Price. Remus Micayle—“
“—All men who, one way or another, a comparison could be drawn. The goal is to overcome the similarities before they take deep root and you just become one name among others. Ryan O’Callaghan tried to connect himself to me, and failed, and will be forgotten in due time. I hope not to suffer the same fate.
And you’re no different, Captain. You did not develop in a vacuum, but instead with your eyes fixated on the television screen where our message was so brazenly displayed. You took the ‘Don’t Try This at Home’ disclaimer to heart and left your homeland to come to America and wrestle. Your qualifications? Very little besides a rampant imagination and the lack of self-respect to lower yourself to this position of an animated super hero. Its certainly not something we’ve seen in the WCF before, save maybe for a rare, singular appearance here and there in the opening match on Slam over the years. Your efforts have even spawned some hellacious copies in the last few months, what between Joe Smarts outright gimmick infringement to Captain Rump’s bodacious posterior.
You must be fucking proud, Captain, for your performances and the response it has caused.
But don’t go and see yourself as something truly original in this company, because you’re not. Your mere name, Captain Pantheon, is a testament to your inability to be anything more than a loose attachment to another man’s success. The only reason Zombie McMorris or Corey Black or Joey Splash hasn’t stepped in and shattered the mockery of their stable’s name is because they find you laughable. They pity you, Captain, and your feeble-minded attempt to be relevant. The only reason Cap N’ Crook has last so long is because Steven Singh hasn’t quite figured out a way to rid himself of you without losing his tag team title in the process. Should you display any modicum of talent beyond what is necessary to be the weak link in a tag team, or should you try to further yourself at his expense, he’d just sever his connection to you and the titles you hold together be damned. He would, Captain, because Stephen knows he can just win another belt.
Don’t deceive yourself into thinking the same thing, Captain.”
A pause.
“You think yourself capable of surprising me come Sunday night. You think that I’m underestimating your ability in the ring. You are wrong, Captain, on both counts. Because you see the thing about an estimation is the lack of a clear, exact answer to the problem. But I possess no guess when I look at you, Captain. I have only a clear understanding of who you are and why I will beat you at Slam.
You’re a fucking joke.
And that is why you don the mask, all in the hopes that when the people finally realize this on their own, they associate it with the mask, the character, and not the man behind them both. You try ever so desperately to create this divide each week, so that when the lights dim, the camera stops rolling, you can take that mask off in front of the mirror and still have the strength to look yourself in eye. Still have the strength to believe that you belong at all.
But I can see past the badly enunciated names and the cartoonish demeanor to watch this poor, pitiful man cling so desperately to his partner and to men who wouldn’t give him the fucking light of day if he didn’t title himself after them, in the hopes that he can remain relevant in this company. That’s the man I fight Sunday night, not the caricature that he so foolishly represents.
Because that is the thing the fans never understand when they sit on the opposite side of the lens, what you didn’t know when you yourself sat there: its not the characters, the identities, who fight in that ring, but the men who represent them. My money or my status will not fight this fight for me, Captain, no more than your childish heroics or your adolescent audience will.
Neither my father nor the adoring children will sway the outcome of this match.
It will come down, simply put, to you and me, Captain. And when push comes to shove, you will buckle under the pressuring of knowing I am not a man to budge against your attempt to further to cliché story you so wish to represent. The whole super hero style, Captain, requires willing participants in the theatrics, so as to further the illusion of reality. Men willing to sacrifice their own identities for the sake of the overall thematic story that is Captain Pantheon’s success story so represents. The underdog. The hero.
Makes you almost think that we’re stuck in the middle of a children’s story, just waiting for the predetermined happy ending that this genre so heavily relies upon.”
Sebastian chuckles at the brush against the unseen wall.
“Surprise fucking surprise, Captain.
The world which you represent is one that instills a false sense of hope and inevitability in the young boys and girls who call you their hero. Sure, they comprehend hardship; no hero in their little books lives without a little bit of it in their lives. But they know, they just do, that the hero will overcome in the end. It just can’t happen any other way. So they’re going to watch Sunday with this framework in mind. They’re going to watch me beat you in that ring and label it hardship. They are going to watch me break you and think its all just building up to the inevitable finale.
And then I’m going to pin you, and those poor children are going to be left wondering if life has always been one of lies.
And in your case, Captain, they are. You have deceived people for too long, and represented a life that is not simply meant for greatness. Not when its at my own expense. No, I may be wealthy, but that’s not a price I’m willing to pay. I’ll see you Sunday. Please don’t expect this to be as fun as a fucking dive into a ball pit, because it won’t.”
The audio fades to silence
Truth be told, that wasn’t a suitable metaphor at all. Kings cowered behind their subordinates, trying his best to keep his distance from the enemies trying to take what was his. A singular movement, he was allowed, always only one step ahead of the pursuit, the checkmate. Sebastian Knight, as he sauntered through the back halls of the arena with his Television Title displayed proudly across his shoulder, seemed not to face such limitations as all. But damn, it did feel good to have complete rule over his own little kingdom.
And to watch Adam Burnett’s own world crumble away piece by piece . . . well that was just a bonus.
Not even the arrival of Hank Brown with cameraman in tow could wipe the grin off of Knight’s face. The trio continued in step for a few moments in silence that is eventually broken by WCF’s resident interviewer. "Could this grin be the result of your first successful defense of the Television title, Sebastian Knight?”
“Oh, that?” Knight replies, shaking his head. “The inevitable never does much to excite me, Hank. Surprises, the events out of one’s control, that’s what makes me smile the most.”
“How so?” Hank asks, his own incomprehension apparent across his face.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sebastian replies, pointing a finger off-camera. “Tonight, out there, we witnessed Jaice Wilds secure a number one contendership for the Alpha title. Normally, who would care right? I mean, its fucking Jaice Wilds. But,” he holds a finger in the air, “But it does mean something because, prior to tonight, there had already been another contender.”
Hank nods. “Adam Burnett.”
Sebastian Knight claps for Hank. “Adam Burnett, who walked around proud of his homegrown roots, his undefeated streak, and his shot at Jason O’Neal’s title. Well, Ethan King broke one, Jaice Wilds stole another, and no one gave two shits about the first one anyway. One fell swoop, and I didn’t even have to lift a finger.”
Sebastian sighs as Hank stares at the man sideways. “One thing you’ve never answered, Sebastian,” Hank finally asks, “is why you detest Adam Burnett so much? What, in your eyes, does he represent that you so vehemently oppose?”
Sebastian grin fades for a moment, before finally shrugging. “Because, Hank, Adam Burnett represents something that I find so distasteful in this modern society. A—“
[STATIC]
“Cliché.”
Darkness fills the screen, as the audio clip kicks in.
“In a world of over seven billion people, I’ll admit its difficult to escape the trap of similarity with your fellow man. That is, simply put, the reality of this world and of our existence. What the sport of wrestling provides a select few is the chance to reinvent themselves into something different. We place ourselves in front of a special lenses that warps reality, actuality, as we know it. A white wall. An empty canvas. A blank fucking slate. And when Adam Burnett stared into this lenses, he lacked the imagination to create the identity befit for men of our status.
He only saw himself. What was meant to project was used only to reflect. ‘Let me be me!’ he shouted, but no one heard, because he had made this whole little world a place where only he could be present in.
The WCF was then forced to compensate for Adam’s failure, and a cliché was born. The young man who worked for the opportunities he has had. The guy who never talks bad about his opponents and their actions. A genuine, nice human being. A hero, even, in the making. The same, rehashed story told a hundred times over. The only thing that changed was the face each man or woman wore.
A mask, some would say.”
A pause in the audio.
“I wish you wore a similar mask, Captain Pantheon, instead of the one you created for yourself when you had stared through the lens yourself. At least the, it would’ve been a face designed with the end goal of success in mind, and not a veil for laughable inadequacy that you currently represent.”
Another pause.
“Perhaps you would’ve called yourself ‘Me,’ similar to Adam Burnett’s own cry to just be himself, before you would proceed to butcher the English language in an attempt to appear formidable in the eyes of those watching. You certainly see yourself as exactly that, lulled into a false sense of security by the cheers and applause from the only human who find your act entertaining at all: children. Fucking children, who have been nursed on clichés ever since mother tucked them into bed and read them fairy tales.
That’s the only real place for the hero motif, I think, where the author has full control over how the story ends, and where the only surprises are the ones he or she created themselves.
But here, in the WCF, there is no real place for someone like you Captain. This is the land where unstable and vicious men roam, and where good, genuine souls come to be corrupted. It is not happenstance, either, but the response to the observations made by every single individual before they step into this company. We look, and we ask ourselves ‘will this work?’ We all possess a piece, a thread, that connects us to men who have come before us. Its just too difficult to avoid. I bear similarities to men who have called the WCF home in the past. Eric Price. Remus Micayle—“
[STATIC]
“HIM”
[STATIC]
“HIM”
[STATIC]
“—All men who, one way or another, a comparison could be drawn. The goal is to overcome the similarities before they take deep root and you just become one name among others. Ryan O’Callaghan tried to connect himself to me, and failed, and will be forgotten in due time. I hope not to suffer the same fate.
And you’re no different, Captain. You did not develop in a vacuum, but instead with your eyes fixated on the television screen where our message was so brazenly displayed. You took the ‘Don’t Try This at Home’ disclaimer to heart and left your homeland to come to America and wrestle. Your qualifications? Very little besides a rampant imagination and the lack of self-respect to lower yourself to this position of an animated super hero. Its certainly not something we’ve seen in the WCF before, save maybe for a rare, singular appearance here and there in the opening match on Slam over the years. Your efforts have even spawned some hellacious copies in the last few months, what between Joe Smarts outright gimmick infringement to Captain Rump’s bodacious posterior.
You must be fucking proud, Captain, for your performances and the response it has caused.
But don’t go and see yourself as something truly original in this company, because you’re not. Your mere name, Captain Pantheon, is a testament to your inability to be anything more than a loose attachment to another man’s success. The only reason Zombie McMorris or Corey Black or Joey Splash hasn’t stepped in and shattered the mockery of their stable’s name is because they find you laughable. They pity you, Captain, and your feeble-minded attempt to be relevant. The only reason Cap N’ Crook has last so long is because Steven Singh hasn’t quite figured out a way to rid himself of you without losing his tag team title in the process. Should you display any modicum of talent beyond what is necessary to be the weak link in a tag team, or should you try to further yourself at his expense, he’d just sever his connection to you and the titles you hold together be damned. He would, Captain, because Stephen knows he can just win another belt.
Don’t deceive yourself into thinking the same thing, Captain.”
A pause.
“You think yourself capable of surprising me come Sunday night. You think that I’m underestimating your ability in the ring. You are wrong, Captain, on both counts. Because you see the thing about an estimation is the lack of a clear, exact answer to the problem. But I possess no guess when I look at you, Captain. I have only a clear understanding of who you are and why I will beat you at Slam.
You’re a fucking joke.
And that is why you don the mask, all in the hopes that when the people finally realize this on their own, they associate it with the mask, the character, and not the man behind them both. You try ever so desperately to create this divide each week, so that when the lights dim, the camera stops rolling, you can take that mask off in front of the mirror and still have the strength to look yourself in eye. Still have the strength to believe that you belong at all.
But I can see past the badly enunciated names and the cartoonish demeanor to watch this poor, pitiful man cling so desperately to his partner and to men who wouldn’t give him the fucking light of day if he didn’t title himself after them, in the hopes that he can remain relevant in this company. That’s the man I fight Sunday night, not the caricature that he so foolishly represents.
Because that is the thing the fans never understand when they sit on the opposite side of the lens, what you didn’t know when you yourself sat there: its not the characters, the identities, who fight in that ring, but the men who represent them. My money or my status will not fight this fight for me, Captain, no more than your childish heroics or your adolescent audience will.
Neither my father nor the adoring children will sway the outcome of this match.
It will come down, simply put, to you and me, Captain. And when push comes to shove, you will buckle under the pressuring of knowing I am not a man to budge against your attempt to further to cliché story you so wish to represent. The whole super hero style, Captain, requires willing participants in the theatrics, so as to further the illusion of reality. Men willing to sacrifice their own identities for the sake of the overall thematic story that is Captain Pantheon’s success story so represents. The underdog. The hero.
Makes you almost think that we’re stuck in the middle of a children’s story, just waiting for the predetermined happy ending that this genre so heavily relies upon.”
Sebastian chuckles at the brush against the unseen wall.
“Surprise fucking surprise, Captain.
The world which you represent is one that instills a false sense of hope and inevitability in the young boys and girls who call you their hero. Sure, they comprehend hardship; no hero in their little books lives without a little bit of it in their lives. But they know, they just do, that the hero will overcome in the end. It just can’t happen any other way. So they’re going to watch Sunday with this framework in mind. They’re going to watch me beat you in that ring and label it hardship. They are going to watch me break you and think its all just building up to the inevitable finale.
And then I’m going to pin you, and those poor children are going to be left wondering if life has always been one of lies.
And in your case, Captain, they are. You have deceived people for too long, and represented a life that is not simply meant for greatness. Not when its at my own expense. No, I may be wealthy, but that’s not a price I’m willing to pay. I’ll see you Sunday. Please don’t expect this to be as fun as a fucking dive into a ball pit, because it won’t.”
The audio fades to silence
