Post by Kyle on Feb 19, 2017 14:42:09 GMT -5
“You know, if I had known we would’ve been stuck here for a whole month, I would’ve tried to talk that kid to keep the show in Philly.”
Indiana offered little in way of luxuries to inspire the affluent to stay within its boundaries for more than twenty four hours, but yet here two stood, admiring the empty fields that would so soon bloom with stalks of corn and buds of spring to come. There they stood, Efron and Sebastian Knight, on the side of the road, each with a Montecristo No. 4 between their index and middle fingers. The smoke of the cigars spread across the fields like a translucent fog that only allowed some of the sunset light through them. Like fire drawn deep from the black insides of the dark knights. They had both, in a way, had razed a field down in their life, one way or another.
Knight knew of a few more he’d like to burn down before it was all said and done. But, sadly enough, his opportunity had been taken away from him.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Efron said to his left, looking up into the still face of his son. His cheeks were flushed; this look had become the norm in recent months. A habit formed, if Knight choose to ever recollect, shortly after his unfortunate accident last November, the accident that nearly ended his career before it even begun. Two rosy shields bracing themselves against, what? Knight had not pinpointed the origins of the fear behind his father’s eyes, but he did have a guess.
“I’m thinking of next week,” Sebastian replied, drawing on the cigar. He liked the feeling of the smog in his lungs. His next words escaped his lips on the coattails of a hazy cloud. “The opportunities I have, and the ones that I do not.”
“That Anderson kid,” Efron said, scoffing. “He isn’t worth it, Sebastian. You haven’t allowed him to be worth it.” His father was tipsy, his lips loose. “You try to tear down your opponents to nothing every week, which does not allow for them to ever been seen as credible when its all said and done.”
Silence falls over the pair, until finally Efron sighs. “My father told me a story once about two men who served as knights in the First Crusade. Both men were involved in the sack of a city one Summer night, and both set fire to a single building in the entire city. Yet at the end of the battle, only one knight was exalted; the other, executed. And do you want to know why?” Efron turns to his son. “Because of who was in the building. The exalted knight burned down a building where one of the enemy’s top officers was bunkering down in, while the knight who found himself executed burned down an orphanage where two dozen women and children were hiding.”
“There’s a fine line between a champion and a monster, Sebastian,” Efron said, throwing his cigar to the ground. “And if you’re standing in the middle of a black field with nothing but the bodies of defenseless victims around you, I promise you that you will not be seen as the former.”
Efron walked away, heading back to where the car had been parked while Sebastian watched his father’s cigar smoke on the ground in front of him. It was a dry evening and, even now, he could see the closest clumps of grass already glowing in an orange hue. Part him wanted to walk away then and there just to spite. But then a monster he’d truly be.
Sebastian Knight ground the cigar butt out, smothering the flames beneath his feet, and walked away wondering what was so bad about being seen as a monster . . .
The scene fades
An audio feed over a black screen follows
“To those of you who have grown tired of the repetitiveness and the two-dimensionality of these little hype videos—erm, audio clips—I’d like to sincerely apologize. I wish I could provide a complex explanation as to why I have become so formulaic in my approach to my title defenses week-to-week, but its actually rather simple. My opponents, in one way or another, have lacked the capability to inspire me to go beyond past efforts, to really redefine what it means to be the reigning Television Champion, and thus have found themselves subject to my predictable, yet still successful, tirade. Cue the singular statement with an emphasized expletive.
You’re a fucking disgrace, Vic Vegas.”
A low chuckle is heard over the audio feed.
“The sad part about it is what my father said to me earlier this week struck a chord. I have, to put it gently, often approached my opponents like they were a piñata. Something that I needed to strike down with a barrage of sharp barbs and honest truths, until their sweet innards spilled onto the ground and is then devoured by ravenous children . . . too strong?
But, as much as I liked to satisfy my own personal desire to walk over my opponents, I do realize that I haven’t been building myself much of a resume on which to base myself on. And that, believe me, is not an insult to any one of my opponents; it stems more from my approach to them. Its like calling my opponent an old man. If beat him, I just beat up an old man. I lose . . . well look who just got beat by an old man. The logic holds true to anything I have to say about my opponents. If I want them to look respectable, look good opposite my name in the marquee, I have to build them up even if they are incapable of living up to my hype for them.
And then I look at you, Vic, and I cannot even muster a fuck to give.
You’re a generic, wannabe badass who thought a little alliteration and a geographically-bound surname would be enough to make you a star. Throw in some archetypal themes about gambling and fate, and maybe a nice little catchphrase to sprinkle on your bland promos like it was fucking salt, and we got ourselves a winner, right? There was another individual once who made a similar attempt like you have, Vic—Montana, I believe was her name—but now’s she’s just riding giant balls naked and sticking her tongue like she was trying to taste her former glory, so can we really call you a success story? Are you really inspiring to children like she once was.
I, for one, definitely wouldn’t allow you anywhere near a school zone.
‘Come inside this nice little van, kids, and I’ll show you why the House always wins.’”
A pause in the audio.
“I recognize what is expected of me, I truly do, but when opponents like Vic Vegas are fed to me each week, I struggle to do anything more than what I’ve always done. And it cannot be denied that is has been a successful formula in recent weeks. My whole career, actually. Take away that unfortunate New Year’s Bash match and I’m undefeated in this company. Undefeated. I have faced former World Champions and men Joey Flash would avoid like leprosy, and I have overcome them all.
And yet Vic Vegas thinks he of all people could be the one to change it.
Nope.
Vic Vegas is a child trapped within time. He, like so many others, developed a love for this sport because of men who looked like his companion, who possesses an equally intimidating and awe-inspiring name of Pit Boss, like this was the fucking 1990s. Yet, at the same time, he has adopted this modern look in the hopes to look like he was here for the future, that he wasn’t some throwback to a bygone era. So fixated on appearances that he overlooks the most important quality of a wrestler: talent. Have no talent, and no one even bothers to care what you look like at all. And so, for the sake of your understanding, Vic, I’m going to repeat myself. But, because I have no desire to waste more of my precious breath, I’m just going to do this . . .”
[Rewind]
“You’re a fucking disgrace, Vic Vegas.”
[Fast-Forward]
“. . . And then I’m going to devote myself to Sunday, where I intend on decimating you in the right like I have to everyone person in this company who has been forced to stand opposite me. I asked for Stephen Anderson, Vic, but instead I got you. Needless to say, I’m not too pleased about this turn of events. But I’m going to suck it up and do what I’ve always done: win.
And you’re just going to suck, Vic Vegas.
Then, maybe, I’ll consider what my father said. Maybe I’ll start building up my opponents so when, months from now, when I’m not the champion any longer, people will seen my reign as something more than a series of beatdowns on undeserving, underwhelming opponents. But that won’t start this week. It won’t start with you Vic. You’ve done nothing in this company beyond remind us that a little creativity can go a long way between being a nobody and being somebody like me. But know this, Vic: You’ll never be me.
You won’t even come close.”
The scene fades
Indiana offered little in way of luxuries to inspire the affluent to stay within its boundaries for more than twenty four hours, but yet here two stood, admiring the empty fields that would so soon bloom with stalks of corn and buds of spring to come. There they stood, Efron and Sebastian Knight, on the side of the road, each with a Montecristo No. 4 between their index and middle fingers. The smoke of the cigars spread across the fields like a translucent fog that only allowed some of the sunset light through them. Like fire drawn deep from the black insides of the dark knights. They had both, in a way, had razed a field down in their life, one way or another.
Knight knew of a few more he’d like to burn down before it was all said and done. But, sadly enough, his opportunity had been taken away from him.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Efron said to his left, looking up into the still face of his son. His cheeks were flushed; this look had become the norm in recent months. A habit formed, if Knight choose to ever recollect, shortly after his unfortunate accident last November, the accident that nearly ended his career before it even begun. Two rosy shields bracing themselves against, what? Knight had not pinpointed the origins of the fear behind his father’s eyes, but he did have a guess.
“I’m thinking of next week,” Sebastian replied, drawing on the cigar. He liked the feeling of the smog in his lungs. His next words escaped his lips on the coattails of a hazy cloud. “The opportunities I have, and the ones that I do not.”
“That Anderson kid,” Efron said, scoffing. “He isn’t worth it, Sebastian. You haven’t allowed him to be worth it.” His father was tipsy, his lips loose. “You try to tear down your opponents to nothing every week, which does not allow for them to ever been seen as credible when its all said and done.”
Silence falls over the pair, until finally Efron sighs. “My father told me a story once about two men who served as knights in the First Crusade. Both men were involved in the sack of a city one Summer night, and both set fire to a single building in the entire city. Yet at the end of the battle, only one knight was exalted; the other, executed. And do you want to know why?” Efron turns to his son. “Because of who was in the building. The exalted knight burned down a building where one of the enemy’s top officers was bunkering down in, while the knight who found himself executed burned down an orphanage where two dozen women and children were hiding.”
“There’s a fine line between a champion and a monster, Sebastian,” Efron said, throwing his cigar to the ground. “And if you’re standing in the middle of a black field with nothing but the bodies of defenseless victims around you, I promise you that you will not be seen as the former.”
Efron walked away, heading back to where the car had been parked while Sebastian watched his father’s cigar smoke on the ground in front of him. It was a dry evening and, even now, he could see the closest clumps of grass already glowing in an orange hue. Part him wanted to walk away then and there just to spite. But then a monster he’d truly be.
Sebastian Knight ground the cigar butt out, smothering the flames beneath his feet, and walked away wondering what was so bad about being seen as a monster . . .
The scene fades
*****
An audio feed over a black screen follows
“To those of you who have grown tired of the repetitiveness and the two-dimensionality of these little hype videos—erm, audio clips—I’d like to sincerely apologize. I wish I could provide a complex explanation as to why I have become so formulaic in my approach to my title defenses week-to-week, but its actually rather simple. My opponents, in one way or another, have lacked the capability to inspire me to go beyond past efforts, to really redefine what it means to be the reigning Television Champion, and thus have found themselves subject to my predictable, yet still successful, tirade. Cue the singular statement with an emphasized expletive.
You’re a fucking disgrace, Vic Vegas.”
A low chuckle is heard over the audio feed.
“The sad part about it is what my father said to me earlier this week struck a chord. I have, to put it gently, often approached my opponents like they were a piñata. Something that I needed to strike down with a barrage of sharp barbs and honest truths, until their sweet innards spilled onto the ground and is then devoured by ravenous children . . . too strong?
But, as much as I liked to satisfy my own personal desire to walk over my opponents, I do realize that I haven’t been building myself much of a resume on which to base myself on. And that, believe me, is not an insult to any one of my opponents; it stems more from my approach to them. Its like calling my opponent an old man. If beat him, I just beat up an old man. I lose . . . well look who just got beat by an old man. The logic holds true to anything I have to say about my opponents. If I want them to look respectable, look good opposite my name in the marquee, I have to build them up even if they are incapable of living up to my hype for them.
And then I look at you, Vic, and I cannot even muster a fuck to give.
You’re a generic, wannabe badass who thought a little alliteration and a geographically-bound surname would be enough to make you a star. Throw in some archetypal themes about gambling and fate, and maybe a nice little catchphrase to sprinkle on your bland promos like it was fucking salt, and we got ourselves a winner, right? There was another individual once who made a similar attempt like you have, Vic—Montana, I believe was her name—but now’s she’s just riding giant balls naked and sticking her tongue like she was trying to taste her former glory, so can we really call you a success story? Are you really inspiring to children like she once was.
I, for one, definitely wouldn’t allow you anywhere near a school zone.
‘Come inside this nice little van, kids, and I’ll show you why the House always wins.’”
A pause in the audio.
“I recognize what is expected of me, I truly do, but when opponents like Vic Vegas are fed to me each week, I struggle to do anything more than what I’ve always done. And it cannot be denied that is has been a successful formula in recent weeks. My whole career, actually. Take away that unfortunate New Year’s Bash match and I’m undefeated in this company. Undefeated. I have faced former World Champions and men Joey Flash would avoid like leprosy, and I have overcome them all.
And yet Vic Vegas thinks he of all people could be the one to change it.
Nope.
Vic Vegas is a child trapped within time. He, like so many others, developed a love for this sport because of men who looked like his companion, who possesses an equally intimidating and awe-inspiring name of Pit Boss, like this was the fucking 1990s. Yet, at the same time, he has adopted this modern look in the hopes to look like he was here for the future, that he wasn’t some throwback to a bygone era. So fixated on appearances that he overlooks the most important quality of a wrestler: talent. Have no talent, and no one even bothers to care what you look like at all. And so, for the sake of your understanding, Vic, I’m going to repeat myself. But, because I have no desire to waste more of my precious breath, I’m just going to do this . . .”
[Rewind]
“You’re a fucking disgrace, Vic Vegas.”
[Fast-Forward]
“. . . And then I’m going to devote myself to Sunday, where I intend on decimating you in the right like I have to everyone person in this company who has been forced to stand opposite me. I asked for Stephen Anderson, Vic, but instead I got you. Needless to say, I’m not too pleased about this turn of events. But I’m going to suck it up and do what I’ve always done: win.
And you’re just going to suck, Vic Vegas.
Then, maybe, I’ll consider what my father said. Maybe I’ll start building up my opponents so when, months from now, when I’m not the champion any longer, people will seen my reign as something more than a series of beatdowns on undeserving, underwhelming opponents. But that won’t start this week. It won’t start with you Vic. You’ve done nothing in this company beyond remind us that a little creativity can go a long way between being a nobody and being somebody like me. But know this, Vic: You’ll never be me.
You won’t even come close.”
The scene fades
