Post by Kyle on Jan 29, 2017 17:24:59 GMT -5
Darkness
“A story is told of a farmer who built a home on land that he believed to be unowned. Unbeknownst to him, the land was in fact owned by another, and the two men found themselves in disagreement on who owned the house now. The farmer claimed that because he built it, it belonged to him; the second man—we’ll say he was a soldier in the local Lord’s court—said that all on the land belonged to him. Weeks went by with no solution in sight, until finally a man in minstrel robes walked by the men and offered his services. The power of fate, this man claimed to possess. He boasted he only needed to touch the ground, and the very earth itself would reveal to him the true ownership. Looking for a conclusion to the matter, the two men agreed, and watched as the man knelt down and pressed his palm to the ground."
ONE!
Kyle Steel: Ladies and gentlemen… the winner of this match, via pinfall… ETTTTHAANNN… KIINNNGGG!
Freddy Whoa: Sebastian Knight retains!
“The man in robes asked in this conflict involved a King, but the men shook their head. There was only a farmer and a soldier. So the mediator tried a second time, placing his hand on the green grass beneath him”
TWO!
Freddy Whoa: HE'S DONE IT! King pins Burnett!
Zach Davis: Sebastian Knight retains his belt!
“Again the man in robes inquiries about a king, but a king there was not; only a farmer and a soldier. The mediator cracks his knuckles, rolls his neck, and places his hand on the ground for a third and final time.”
Three?
“The soldier chose that moment to strike, knocking the farmer’s head clean from his shoulders, while the man in robes was not looking. The body dropped to the ground at the very moment that the mediator looked away, a smile on his hands. ‘I have the answer,’ he says in satisfaction. ‘No need,” the soldier replies, watching the pool of blood ground across the ground, ‘so do I.’”
A final shot is shown from the most recent Slam with Sebastian Knight and Adam Burnett staring each other down in front of a black screen.
“This is my motherfucking house”
The scene fades
*****
“A story is told of a farmer who built a home on land that he believed to be unowned. Unbeknownst to him, the land was in fact owned by another, and the two men found themselves in disagreement on who owned the house now. The farmer claimed that because he built it, it belonged to him; the second man—we’ll say he was a soldier in the local Lord’s court—said that all on the land belonged to him. Weeks went by with no solution in sight, until finally a man in minstrel robes walked by the men and offered his services. The power of fate, this man claimed to possess. He boasted he only needed to touch the ground, and the very earth itself would reveal to him the true ownership. Looking for a conclusion to the matter, the two men agreed, and watched as the man knelt down and pressed his palm to the ground."
ONE!
Kyle Steel: Ladies and gentlemen… the winner of this match, via pinfall… ETTTTHAANNN… KIINNNGGG!
Freddy Whoa: Sebastian Knight retains!
“The man in robes asked in this conflict involved a King, but the men shook their head. There was only a farmer and a soldier. So the mediator tried a second time, placing his hand on the green grass beneath him”
TWO!
Freddy Whoa: HE'S DONE IT! King pins Burnett!
Zach Davis: Sebastian Knight retains his belt!
“Again the man in robes inquiries about a king, but a king there was not; only a farmer and a soldier. The mediator cracks his knuckles, rolls his neck, and places his hand on the ground for a third and final time.”
Three?
“The soldier chose that moment to strike, knocking the farmer’s head clean from his shoulders, while the man in robes was not looking. The body dropped to the ground at the very moment that the mediator looked away, a smile on his hands. ‘I have the answer,’ he says in satisfaction. ‘No need,” the soldier replies, watching the pool of blood ground across the ground, ‘so do I.’”
A final shot is shown from the most recent Slam with Sebastian Knight and Adam Burnett staring each other down in front of a black screen.
“This is my motherfucking house”
The scene fades
*****
“Hello, Adam.”
The scene reopens to Sebastian Knight seated on a throne. A palanquin, to be more specific, that had been shaped to look like the seat for a King. He sat relaxed, unafraid, with his legs spread out before him and his back leaning against the wood in a slouch. The WCF Television title was mounted on a rack above his hair, like a golden, glorious crown. A scene of decadence, royalty, but also a sobering seriousness to it. The eyes, that’s where one could tell. Brown orbs in which the light of his smug, white grin did not reach. Cold, harsh eyes, that held a focused gaze on the camera opposite him for a few tense seconds.
“Perhaps you recognize this chair on which I sit, Adam; it was the very one that carried me to the ring at One, right before my fateful debut against the departing Lester Parish. A beginning, one could say, and also an end. Mine and yours respectively, Adam.”
Sebastian nods.
“Just think back to that night and you may finally begin to wrap your mind around this truth. Adam Burnett had already wrestled that night, defeated Psychopomp for the number one contendership for the Alpha Title. It spoke of a grand beginning for the new faces in this company, a genuine gentleman who had earned his position in this company and his shot at the gold. A bright light so recently lit that there seemed little doubt that it would so quickly be outshined.
And then this throne parted through the curtains.
And a man, a child in the whole scheme of things, was carried to the same ring that other men had worked years for to reach, claiming it in a way as his own. His own little kingdom. It was a statement that didn't sit well with some. It became the butt of bland jokes, a barb meant to prick and rip away at the skin of the man in the hopes that they would find weakness or inexperience below the surface.
Instead, they found only impatience and an unwavering desire to knock somebody’s fucking block off.”
Sebastian smirks, as he leans forward and pats the armrest with his open palm.
“And here we stand one month later, with no Alpha title shot for the little Adam that could, and with the throne still firmly in place. This chair has taken on a new meaning since then, one that best represents the reason, the concept, that Mister Burnett and I find ourselves so opposed to one another: bearing.”
Sebastian nods, leaning back.
“The ground that we walk upon, the foundation on which we stand. Adam Burnett detests me so adamantly because I stand on a foundation so vastly different from his own. Don’t believe me? It’s the very same things my former opponents have all said about me. Wealth. Entitlement. His father. All buzzwords for the broken of spirit.
But Adam’s distaste is drawn from a different perspective, a different experience of the world. My former opponents, they had little room to attack my upbringing. Ryan Callaghan and Ethan King were cut from the same cloth as I, and was faced with hypocrisy should they have been so quick to attack me. Lester Parish was a man who only just recently received respect in the world after his earlier transgression against the world; he too faced the possibility of being two-faced as he stood opposite me. And Stalker . . . well let’s be real, who gives a fuck about Stalker and his backstory.
But not Adam. The hard-working Midwesterner, adopted into a white family in no-where, Nebraska. Faced with racial tension and backwards thought, he was forced to work harder than those around him to earn his place in this company and in this world. The lovable Indy star turned lovable rookie. His foundation was built blood, sweat, and tears. He left a little of it all on that walk down to the ring at One, stains on both history and the future. It seems legitimate, then, to be upset after watching a man who seemed no different than himself be carried to the ring on a throne he ‘didn’t earn.’ That he wasn’t forced to walk the same way as you, to take same steps as you took.
To be seemingly carried right over all the hardship and toil.
I do get it, Adam, I actually do, though I do not believe it right for you to dislike me for that alone. I, just as yourself, has always used what has been available to me in life. I cannot help it that I had a father who say me who was worth investing in so heavily in recent weeks.”
A pause
“I cannot help it that your own father, despite everything he may have claimed, saw you only as just another charity-case nigger."
Sebastian grins a feral grin.
“Its not my fault, Adam, that your own time here in the WCF has been so rough since I’ve arrived; I played no part in any of it, save for my short participations in your infrequent air times. You want to blame someone for your recent string of losses? Go find Ethan King. Bitter about your loss of the number one contendership? Curse Jaice Wilds to hell when you’re watching him compete in the match you believed to be yours. Upset about every twist and turn that has happened in the last month?” Knight points off stage. “Seth Lerch’s office is that way. I cannot lay claim to your recent misfortunes.
Only the one to come.
Because finally, finally I get my chance to put actions behind the words I have spoken so far. I know it looked like I was flustered last week, when Seth declared this match for Rise Up. And I was, at least for a brief time. But then I was given an opportunity to collect myself, and I saw the worth behind this match. I saw the opportunity to silence the loudest protester against who I am and what I represent. Entertainment. Excellence. Success. The real foundations of my rule.
And there you were, standing opposite of me, a bitter mockery of them all.
As the cliché goes, sometimes the only way to get things done is to do themselves. That’s something that is often overlooked when it comes to me and my performances. My wealth and my status has not come into play in a single one of my matches here in the WCF. My father certainly didn’t step through those ropes to win the Television Title for me. You look past where I came from and you still find a man who can fight and win. While you were giving fucking tours to Stephen Anderson like this was college and he was prospective Cornhusker, I was establishing my name in this company. My name, not anyone else’s.
But hey, what can I say, you feel disrespect, right?"
Sebastian chuckles.
“So fucking what! It’s a feeling you should probably accept before you and I face off Sunday night, because it isn’t one that’s just going to fade after we’re done. You see this as a match where shortcomings can be overcome and failures can be turned around. I see this as another notch on the sword and another successful defense in the record books. And you better hope that, years from now, people looking back on the year twenty-seventeen in the WCF only see these books. Let them just see your name among many others, unable to grasp the story beyond the simple fact that you lost. Pray they don’t discover the recording of the match, so they’re not subject to what actually happened.
Murder.
A motherfucking homicide on that pitiful excuse of a career that you still so naively has a chance of redeeming. Your credibility was shattered the moment the charlatan pinned your shoulders against the mat two weeks in a row. The King by name alone started something that I, the rightful owner f this throne and its crown, intends on finishing. And if you think Ethan disrespected you, you’re in for a rude awakening. Ethan King tears down the walls of a man’s psyche because he clawing for a chance to the upper echelon, to escape matches with men like fucking Vinnie Jones. Me?
I’m going to do it just because I can.”
Sebastian holds his hands wide, gesturing to the scene around him.
“Because I’m already exactly where I want to be. Sure, there are some bigger crowns afloat here in the WCF, but they’ll fit above this head just as easily as the current one. They will come with time, I have no doubt. Until then, I’m biding time and butchering opposition. Don’t get me wrong, I welcome any sign of rebellion or uprising.
My throne can only rise ever higher with each body buried beneath it, a pyramid to the heavens themselves.”
A final pause.
“And as you can see, Adam, I seemed to be a little grounded at the moment. Its high time I ascend to the air once more, and it just satisfies me to know it will be at your expense. And, despite all of your hard work, there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.
Ambrosia, sweet Adam, pales in comparison to the taste of inevitability. I’ll see you Sunday.”
The scene fades
