Post by Kyle on Feb 5, 2017 15:35:33 GMT -5
Rhythmic was his knee as he bounced his leg up and down, up and down, as the impatience was setting in in that back seat of the stretch limousine. He sat alone—not even the driver was there, behind the wheel—waiting for another to join him. He, a champion and a self-proclaimed king, forced to bow to the whims of another . . . madness. His elation excised, his temperament taxed, and yet he still waited. He still hadn’t step completely out of this looming shadow. And so he tapped away in the night, waiting.
The door opened, and in climbed Efron Knight.
“Sorry to keep you in limbo, son,” his father said with only the barest hint of sincerity behind his voice. “It may be the last time in Philadelphia for a while, so I had to celebrate with the rest of the board.”
His cheeks were flushed red from the alcohol, and he didn’t look like he was in full control of his broad frame as he took a seat opposite his son. That didn’t stop him, though, from cracking open a bottle of Courvoisier L'Esprit—priced at over seven thousand dollars—and pouring two glasses. “To yet another successful defense of the prestigious Television Championship.”
Sebastian clinked his glass against his father and took a sip of the liqueur; his father finished the glass off in a single gulp. Knight leaned back against the leather, watching his father struggling to pour himself a second glass. “Did you watch me tonight?” He asked, his tone flat.
Efron’s whole body seem to freeze for a moment, before he shrugged his shoulders. “Course I did,” he said as he replaced the brandy on the rack from which it came. There was an awkward silence and then, with emotion rarely seen behind his eyes, Efron stared back at his son. “That whole thing with the chair, after that match you had with the rookie . . . that was all for the show, right? You weren’t actually going to break the boy’s leg, right?”
Fear.
Genuine fear was painted across Efron Knight’s face. Sebastian would be lying to himself if the sight of it didn’t please him. But he was in a good mood, and this was not the time to sever his current place in the world. So he conceded, appeased.
“Yes, just for the show, father,” Sebastian replies.
Efron stares a moment more, before nodding. “Good,” he says, half to himself, “good.” Tapping the window behind his head to signal to the driver to pull out, the two Knights sat in somber silence for the rest of the ride.
And Sebastian Knight had stopped tapping his leg against the ground.
The scene fades
“Annihilation.”
The audio feed opens against a back screen.
“I was mere moments away from it, before the unfortunate intervention of one Stephen Anderson thwarted me. And it felt . . . odd, truth be told. It isn’t often that one finds himself standing in the position where he, with a single movement, can break another man’s place in this world. Its cold, in case you were wondering. The steel in your hands. Your heart, too. Frozen in time, and you become the spark in which to set this inert blaze off. Sure, Adam Burnett is still walking today, but he and his friend could not rob me of the feeling I felt when I stood there and took a turn at playing God.
No one has.
Because I realized, in that breath of immortality, that I have brushed against this feeling before. Every single week, I have stepped into that ring had sampled, tasted, this concept of dominance that I felt ever so clearly last weekend. My matches in this company have just been a series of close calls, me unknowingly throwing myself against this invisible wall—or, perhaps, it is better to say my opponents found their bodies crashing against it. It cracked, but never broke away completely. My opponents, as the cliché goes, was saved by the bell. One, two, three and then I stop short; I never try to see where I can go if I continue the assault. Until Sunday. Until Adam Burnett. I have seen the other side, and I long for a chance to experience it once more.
Bless you, Seth Lerch.
You saw this as a week off for a lot of the men and women in the back, but I was not given this same respite. Initially, I was off-put by this new development. I mean, I’ll admit I look golden in comparison to the other names on the marquee, but damn, it did sting a little bit that I would be associated with them. But then, I saw an opportunity, just as I think you saw yourself. Jack Timbers and Captain Rump, they aren’t challengers. They’re barely even opponents. They’re simply a chance.
A chance for continuation of what I started the moment I wrapped that steel chair around Adam Burnett’s leg.
And that doesn’t bode well for either of them."
A pause in the audio.
“Captain Rump. A name that rolls off the tongue about as well as he himself does when getting out of bed. A man that other men choose to turn their name up away from, and not just because be is physically nauseous to be in the presence of, but also simply because he’s a fucking pitiful excuse of a wrestler. This lard of a human being chose to walk into a company of murderers, rapists, and psychos with a generic mask and a flimsy, flabby grasp on even the most basic concepts of wrestling. He pats himself on his chest like he’s claiming responsibility for something, or trying to draw attention to himself—and he does, the way his stomach ripples like he was a physical representation of the initial formation of a tsunami in the fucking ocean—just so he could declare to the world just who the hell he is.
‘Look at me guys,’ he shouts to the few who even bother to glance at him, taking deep and frequent breathes due to the strain of even this little, original thought, ‘I’m a literal asshole!’
Really?
Adding the captain moniker did little to pull this disgusting excuse of a gimmick out of the nether regions that is the WCF undercard. No, instead it highlighted your incapability to even take an idea and make it your own. And even beyond that you’re perceived as a non-threat to the point that the very man whose own gimmick you’re were so directly infringing upon, Captain Pantheon, has not even made an attempt to eradicate your half-assed attempt at riding his coattails. At Rise Up, we saw Captain Pantheon and Captain Brotherhood, but not you. Why? Because you’re seen as some fat-ass leper in this company that no one wants to put their hands on. Not because they’re afraid of what you can do to them, but because they don’t want to be lumped in with you be mere by association.
But me? I’ll manage.
Because as the Television Champion, I am expected to suck it up and compete in these weekly debacles against the men and women Seth decides is deserving to be in the same ring as a real champion for a night. I will not make the same mistake of FPV, who in an effort to elevate this championship to the upper echelons with an open challenge relegated himself to disqualification finishes with Jared Holmes and retention despite his performance in tag-team matches. No, I’ll embrace the position I have found myself, standing opposite the dregs of the WCF roster, with a smile and an implicit demand: feed me more. Keep these underwhelming, untalented hacks coming my way. Alone, they’re nothing, but together . . . together, given time, they’ll make a nice, long list of names on which my reign will reside.
Remember that, Captain, that you are worth jack shit to me.
Remember, and accept, because those are the only two actions which you’re capable of performing come Sunday night. I’m not looking for a match with you, not in the slightest. I don’t think it possible for you to provide me a challenge, and I’m not the one to carry my opponents for the sake of entertainment. Nothing about you is entertaining, Rump. No, I’m looking to continue my annihilation of any and all who drew the short stick in Seth Lerch’s little chess game and found themselves in a match with me. Consider my elbow upside your head my stamp of approval, that, at least for a brief second, you were a part of history in this company.
And by God, you’re so fucking big that I’m not likely to miss the mark.”
Another pause.
“And I haven’t forgotten you, Jackie boy, so don’t get your fecal-stained draws in a knot. The broad blanket terms I just threw over Rump’s deplorable derriere is large enough to cover you as well, cover you to the point that you’ll asphyxiate from the stench of your own body before we even have to meet in that ring Sunday night.
You understand all of the words I just said? Or should I dumb it down for you a bit?
God, I’d make a joke that would draw a connection between your own pitiful existence and your Canadian heritage, but then I would be wrongfully insulting an entire fucking country, and my own lineage to boot, just to poke fun at, what, you?
Not worth my fucking time.
Alas, I will not be allowed that luxury Sunday night, when I’m forced to step into the ring with you in defense of my Television Title. But, you know, that’s okay. You’ve done just enough in your short time in this company to make me enjoy kicking your unwashed ass around that ring. You could’ve been like my past opponents—let the generic shoot about my father and my entitlement dribble off your chin like you were a wheelchair-bound spastic—and then be done with it. And don’t get me wrong, what I’ve seen of you in the last two weeks has not instilled any sort of confidence in me. By God, you’ve made me consider vaccinating in the hopes that the autism does set in and I am then allowed a respite of dealing with an loose-minded loser like yourself.
But goodness me, Sebastian has the bad case of the crabs?
Seriously?
I have suffered from the foreknowledge that there is a man out there who believes he has a chance to defeat me come Sunday, and is slandering my very existence every single time he opens my his mouth and utters my name. Not everyone Jack Timbers interacts with follows about wrestling, nor do they know who I am. And to have this man tainting my name and my identity because he thinks he’s actually fit to be Television Champion. Un-fucking-acceptable.
Which is why I intend to break your jaw, Jack Timbers.”
A chuckle over the audio.
“For the show, of course.”
One final pause.
“And then maybe, maybe, you no-bodies from the lowest parts of this company will view a match with me differently. Come, take your five seconds of fame in the limelight, and then get knocked back down where you belong. Don’t think you can beat me. Don’t stain my status in the company from the spittle that is your attempt to appear credible in this company.
Take this as an example.
Captain Rump, Jack Timbers . . . you have lost before the bell has even rung. Everything that comes after will simply be your decision on how long you’d still like to compete in the wrestling ring after Sunday night. Best choose wisely, before I just make it for you.
I’ll see you then.”
The audio fades
The door opened, and in climbed Efron Knight.
“Sorry to keep you in limbo, son,” his father said with only the barest hint of sincerity behind his voice. “It may be the last time in Philadelphia for a while, so I had to celebrate with the rest of the board.”
His cheeks were flushed red from the alcohol, and he didn’t look like he was in full control of his broad frame as he took a seat opposite his son. That didn’t stop him, though, from cracking open a bottle of Courvoisier L'Esprit—priced at over seven thousand dollars—and pouring two glasses. “To yet another successful defense of the prestigious Television Championship.”
Sebastian clinked his glass against his father and took a sip of the liqueur; his father finished the glass off in a single gulp. Knight leaned back against the leather, watching his father struggling to pour himself a second glass. “Did you watch me tonight?” He asked, his tone flat.
Efron’s whole body seem to freeze for a moment, before he shrugged his shoulders. “Course I did,” he said as he replaced the brandy on the rack from which it came. There was an awkward silence and then, with emotion rarely seen behind his eyes, Efron stared back at his son. “That whole thing with the chair, after that match you had with the rookie . . . that was all for the show, right? You weren’t actually going to break the boy’s leg, right?”
Fear.
Genuine fear was painted across Efron Knight’s face. Sebastian would be lying to himself if the sight of it didn’t please him. But he was in a good mood, and this was not the time to sever his current place in the world. So he conceded, appeased.
“Yes, just for the show, father,” Sebastian replies.
Efron stares a moment more, before nodding. “Good,” he says, half to himself, “good.” Tapping the window behind his head to signal to the driver to pull out, the two Knights sat in somber silence for the rest of the ride.
And Sebastian Knight had stopped tapping his leg against the ground.
The scene fades
*****
“Annihilation.”
The audio feed opens against a back screen.
“I was mere moments away from it, before the unfortunate intervention of one Stephen Anderson thwarted me. And it felt . . . odd, truth be told. It isn’t often that one finds himself standing in the position where he, with a single movement, can break another man’s place in this world. Its cold, in case you were wondering. The steel in your hands. Your heart, too. Frozen in time, and you become the spark in which to set this inert blaze off. Sure, Adam Burnett is still walking today, but he and his friend could not rob me of the feeling I felt when I stood there and took a turn at playing God.
No one has.
Because I realized, in that breath of immortality, that I have brushed against this feeling before. Every single week, I have stepped into that ring had sampled, tasted, this concept of dominance that I felt ever so clearly last weekend. My matches in this company have just been a series of close calls, me unknowingly throwing myself against this invisible wall—or, perhaps, it is better to say my opponents found their bodies crashing against it. It cracked, but never broke away completely. My opponents, as the cliché goes, was saved by the bell. One, two, three and then I stop short; I never try to see where I can go if I continue the assault. Until Sunday. Until Adam Burnett. I have seen the other side, and I long for a chance to experience it once more.
Bless you, Seth Lerch.
You saw this as a week off for a lot of the men and women in the back, but I was not given this same respite. Initially, I was off-put by this new development. I mean, I’ll admit I look golden in comparison to the other names on the marquee, but damn, it did sting a little bit that I would be associated with them. But then, I saw an opportunity, just as I think you saw yourself. Jack Timbers and Captain Rump, they aren’t challengers. They’re barely even opponents. They’re simply a chance.
A chance for continuation of what I started the moment I wrapped that steel chair around Adam Burnett’s leg.
And that doesn’t bode well for either of them."
A pause in the audio.
“Captain Rump. A name that rolls off the tongue about as well as he himself does when getting out of bed. A man that other men choose to turn their name up away from, and not just because be is physically nauseous to be in the presence of, but also simply because he’s a fucking pitiful excuse of a wrestler. This lard of a human being chose to walk into a company of murderers, rapists, and psychos with a generic mask and a flimsy, flabby grasp on even the most basic concepts of wrestling. He pats himself on his chest like he’s claiming responsibility for something, or trying to draw attention to himself—and he does, the way his stomach ripples like he was a physical representation of the initial formation of a tsunami in the fucking ocean—just so he could declare to the world just who the hell he is.
‘Look at me guys,’ he shouts to the few who even bother to glance at him, taking deep and frequent breathes due to the strain of even this little, original thought, ‘I’m a literal asshole!’
Really?
Adding the captain moniker did little to pull this disgusting excuse of a gimmick out of the nether regions that is the WCF undercard. No, instead it highlighted your incapability to even take an idea and make it your own. And even beyond that you’re perceived as a non-threat to the point that the very man whose own gimmick you’re were so directly infringing upon, Captain Pantheon, has not even made an attempt to eradicate your half-assed attempt at riding his coattails. At Rise Up, we saw Captain Pantheon and Captain Brotherhood, but not you. Why? Because you’re seen as some fat-ass leper in this company that no one wants to put their hands on. Not because they’re afraid of what you can do to them, but because they don’t want to be lumped in with you be mere by association.
But me? I’ll manage.
Because as the Television Champion, I am expected to suck it up and compete in these weekly debacles against the men and women Seth decides is deserving to be in the same ring as a real champion for a night. I will not make the same mistake of FPV, who in an effort to elevate this championship to the upper echelons with an open challenge relegated himself to disqualification finishes with Jared Holmes and retention despite his performance in tag-team matches. No, I’ll embrace the position I have found myself, standing opposite the dregs of the WCF roster, with a smile and an implicit demand: feed me more. Keep these underwhelming, untalented hacks coming my way. Alone, they’re nothing, but together . . . together, given time, they’ll make a nice, long list of names on which my reign will reside.
Remember that, Captain, that you are worth jack shit to me.
Remember, and accept, because those are the only two actions which you’re capable of performing come Sunday night. I’m not looking for a match with you, not in the slightest. I don’t think it possible for you to provide me a challenge, and I’m not the one to carry my opponents for the sake of entertainment. Nothing about you is entertaining, Rump. No, I’m looking to continue my annihilation of any and all who drew the short stick in Seth Lerch’s little chess game and found themselves in a match with me. Consider my elbow upside your head my stamp of approval, that, at least for a brief second, you were a part of history in this company.
And by God, you’re so fucking big that I’m not likely to miss the mark.”
Another pause.
“And I haven’t forgotten you, Jackie boy, so don’t get your fecal-stained draws in a knot. The broad blanket terms I just threw over Rump’s deplorable derriere is large enough to cover you as well, cover you to the point that you’ll asphyxiate from the stench of your own body before we even have to meet in that ring Sunday night.
You understand all of the words I just said? Or should I dumb it down for you a bit?
God, I’d make a joke that would draw a connection between your own pitiful existence and your Canadian heritage, but then I would be wrongfully insulting an entire fucking country, and my own lineage to boot, just to poke fun at, what, you?
Not worth my fucking time.
Alas, I will not be allowed that luxury Sunday night, when I’m forced to step into the ring with you in defense of my Television Title. But, you know, that’s okay. You’ve done just enough in your short time in this company to make me enjoy kicking your unwashed ass around that ring. You could’ve been like my past opponents—let the generic shoot about my father and my entitlement dribble off your chin like you were a wheelchair-bound spastic—and then be done with it. And don’t get me wrong, what I’ve seen of you in the last two weeks has not instilled any sort of confidence in me. By God, you’ve made me consider vaccinating in the hopes that the autism does set in and I am then allowed a respite of dealing with an loose-minded loser like yourself.
But goodness me, Sebastian has the bad case of the crabs?
Seriously?
I have suffered from the foreknowledge that there is a man out there who believes he has a chance to defeat me come Sunday, and is slandering my very existence every single time he opens my his mouth and utters my name. Not everyone Jack Timbers interacts with follows about wrestling, nor do they know who I am. And to have this man tainting my name and my identity because he thinks he’s actually fit to be Television Champion. Un-fucking-acceptable.
Which is why I intend to break your jaw, Jack Timbers.”
A chuckle over the audio.
“For the show, of course.”
One final pause.
“And then maybe, maybe, you no-bodies from the lowest parts of this company will view a match with me differently. Come, take your five seconds of fame in the limelight, and then get knocked back down where you belong. Don’t think you can beat me. Don’t stain my status in the company from the spittle that is your attempt to appear credible in this company.
Take this as an example.
Captain Rump, Jack Timbers . . . you have lost before the bell has even rung. Everything that comes after will simply be your decision on how long you’d still like to compete in the wrestling ring after Sunday night. Best choose wisely, before I just make it for you.
I’ll see you then.”
The audio fades
