Maelstrom I: Memory Lane
Jun 19, 2018 19:36:50 GMT -5
Odin Balfore, Joey Flash, and 3 more like this
Post by God King Dune on Jun 19, 2018 19:36:50 GMT -5
The WCF World Title fills the screen in all its glory. Rust-red splotches cover the intricate golden insignia, the dried blood of its owner serving to add a sense of barbarism to the otherwise unblemished beauty of the belt. It’s jostled a bit as the sound of a motor fades in, and water sprays atop of the blood-stained emblem before a large, calloused hand snatches it out of the frame.
Dune mans the wheel of a small motorboat, his massive rottweiler by his side as they speed away from a yacht a few hundred yards at their back. Before him is a clear-blue Hawaiian lagoon, barren aside from a stilted over-water bungalow and the wooden dock that leads from it to the forested beach. He closes on the dock as a voice comes in over the radio.
Freeman: We’ve got the anchor dropped out here so if you need anything just holler. You grabbed your snorkel...thing, right?
Dune: Got it.
Freeman: And your floaties? Be a shame if the sea swallowed you before Odin could.
Dune: Nope, figured I'd have the old girl teach me how to doggy paddle.
Freeman chuckles wryly.
Dune: Really though, sure you don’t want to come ashore?
Freeman: Nah, I’m in the lap of luxury, kid. I’ve got some deep sea fishing to do, maybe a few dives, who knows?
Dune: So a full on bender’s in order.
Freeman: That’s about the right of it.
Dune: Well careful out there. All sorts of monsters in the deep.
Freeman: Don’t worry about us. It’s you who’s got a monster to deal with, and not the bedtime story kind.
Dune: Good thing Odin’s got the same problem. Catch me something out there, maybe a nice fat squid.
Freeman: Only if you come back with the Title.
Dune: That’s the idea. Over and out.
He docks the boat then grabs his things before calling for his hound. The beast follows him eagerly toward the small hut as his eyes find the screen.
Dune: Time to settle in. It’s gonna be a long couple days until Blast. If only there was something I could do to make them fly by.
His thoughts turn to the mighty Asgardian who’s earned the full brunt of his scorn.
Dune: Maybe a deep dive would help...a trip down memory lane, if you will.
He sets his bag inside before walking over to the edge of the dock and draping the belt over his shoulder. It gleams in the Hawaiian sun as he speaks.
Dune: I debuted on the inaugural Slam of 2015, and in less than twenty matches, I was WCF World Champion. I’ve done great things here, things most wrestlers can only dream of. That’s not an embellishment, it’s an undeniable fact. Most don’t even manage to show up to their second match, let alone survive and thrive at the highest level for years on end.
But I’m not the first to set off down a path of true greatness and supremacy. I’m not the first to become a pillar of the WCF. Before me there was ICE Beckman. Before me there was Steve Orbit and Jonny Fly. Before me there was Creeping Death, Slickie T, and Bobby Cairo…
Before me, there was Odin Balfore.
That’s right. It’s not my past but the All Father’s I’m interested in, and now’s the time to navigate our way through it. Now’s the time to deconstruct it. Now’s the time to feed the otherworldly ego of Odin Balfore, and I’m going to serve it up on a platter befitting a self-proclaimed God of professional wrestling.
He cuts off as a gust of wind hits his ear. But it’s not the wind that gives him pause. It’s the faint whisper that’s carried in on it, one that passes on some unintelligible phrase, save for a single word.
“...Dune.”
At first he thinks little of it, but when he sees the perked ears and riled demeanor of his rottweiler, a chill runs up his spine, and for some reason his eyes are drawn to the forest. Disconcerting as it is, he shuts it out of his mind and continues.
Dune: As much as you’ve done to provoke my ire of late, Odin, a discussion of the greatest of all-time can’t be had without pitching your name into the fire. Few have soared as high as you. You were a legend years before I burst onto the scene. It only took me five months to go from curtain jerker to World Champion, but you, Odin...you shot up faster than your Jam Willy when you get a glimpse of yourself in a mirror or hear praise attached to your name.
You fast became one of the most feared wrestlers on the roster. Just over a month after your debut, you bested the U.S. Champ to win your first Title. But you weren’t satisfied. You wanted more, something that defines you to this day. And with the first ever Ultimate Showdown on the horizon, you saw the ladder that led straight to the top of WCF Mountain. You were on fire, and no one was gonna snuff out the flames...not legends pre-dating you...not the World Champion...no one. And when Ultimate Showdown finally arrived, sure enough, you conquered it just like you said you would.
“So I have spoken. So it shall come to pass.”
Your words rang true, Odin. Two months into your career, you were flying high as the World Champion. Not a bad foundation to build on. And in displaying that sort of dominance over the WCF, you had every right to start calling yourself the Bad Motherfucker. It takes a bad motherfucker to win Ultimate Showdown. I know that just as well as you.
But your reign didn’t last long before the rug was pulled out from under you. WCF went bye bye, and with it your World Title. When Seth finally got his shit together, it was the legendary Vacant holding the belt, not you. But you wouldn’t allow yourself to be deprived of it for long.
Helloween 2011. What a night for you, Odin...the night you became a two-time WCF World Champion by pinning the great Johnny Reb. It was a glorious coronation of a competitor who, in just under half a year, had become the dominant force in wrestling. Some may even call it your finest hour. Once more you were flying high atop WCF Mountain. All was right with the world.
It was perfect…
Until Corey Black flung you from the pinnacle at One.
Just think of it...a legend undone by the legend. A God made mortal by a mere man. The All Father, fucked in the ass by Daddy Black on the grandest stage of them all.
And this after calling your shot with more confidence than ever. You didn’t give Black a chance in hell of pinning you for the Title. You dismissed him entirely, passed one of the all-time greats off as dried up dog shit stuck to the bottom of your bootheel. And after claiming victory before the opening bell had even rung, you capped off your brazen shit talking with those famous words:
“So I have spoken. So it shall come to pass.”
But all that came to pass was proof that the same old shit talk doesn’t count for shit in the ring, especially coming from you. Your silly catchphrase has almost done more damage to your credibility than your fall from grace at One seven years ago. It’s longevity is baffling considering how many times it’s been proven false. After failing to uphold it time and again in the ring, it’s entirely dismissable at this point.
But it’s just a small piece of the gimmick you’ve built for yourself, that house of cards practically begging to be blown over by the slightest breeze from the proper angle; the front you hide behind to make your emotionally crippled ass come off as calloused and ready for anything. Nothing can phase you, Odin...except when it does. And when that happens, you pour on the excuses until enough time has passed that people lose interest.
That’s just what you did in the wake of the biggest loss of your career. Instead of giving credit where credit was due, you blamed your failure to defend the Title to Corey Black on everyone but yourself. It was the special guest referee’s fault. It was Seth Lerch’s fault. It was a screwjob in favor of the establishment, otherwise known as the excuse of a bitch whose delicacy is only surpassed by his ego. You got beat clean as a fucking whistle, Odin, and you knew the only one to blame for your failure was yourself.
You didn’t have the heart to admit your inferiority that night. It clearly ate away at you, but you refused to let it show. Your ego wouldn’t let you. Instead, you carried on as if it never happened, hiding behind that convenient shell of a gimmick and slipping a veil of delusion over your eyes that continues to mask them to this day. Truth is, you never recovered from that match - not fully. 2011 was the undisputed peak of your WCF career, and try as you might to eclipse it seven years later, it’s not going to happen. Because I'm here now, Odin. And I promise you, I’m going to be just as good to you as Corey Black was that night at One so long ago.
He lets the World Title fall into his hands, and he gazes at the dried blood spilled from wounds inflicted by Odin. His eyes flick up toward the endless sea before the jungle draws his attention again. When he turns that way, an image flashes in his mind’s eye...that of a great statue in the deep, its eyes glowing and staring right through him. It’s gone as quick as it came, blasted away by another whisper on the wind.
“Come to me.”
The rottweiler lets out a confused bark as Dune remembers what the Overseer of the Tower of the Wastes had said a week before.
“Anywhere you blow the Hellhorn, the Tower will appear.”
Somehow convinced of a correlation between the whispers and the Tower, he walks back inside, removes the Hellhorn from his bag, and stands in the open doorway. After a moment’s hesitation, he sets the tri-horn to his lips and blows. Smoke pours out of the horn’s three mouths along with its deep, multi-toned wail. Soon the echo fades, and he’s about to speak when a faraway noise catches his ear - a sustained, subdued bellow coming from the jungle, one so deep its nearly inaudible. It’s felt as easily as it’s heard, and his hound growls as the sound reverberates through her ears.
Almost instinctively, Dune goes inside, sets the Title down, and snatches up his bag. He whistles for his dog, who’s quick to his side. They make their way through the hut, down the dock, and along the beach toward the deep bellow and the jungle it emanates from.
Dune: I ought to be inside resting up for Monday, but no. Something tells me I’m on the right path. Something tells me this has everything to do with Blast and my impending battle with the All Father.
His eyes flick over at the screen.
Dune: If you hadn’t guessed, the time for feeding the unsurpassed ego of Odin Balfore is over. He does enough of that on his own, no need for second or third helpings from me. But the trip down memory lane doesn’t have to end. In fact it’s vital that we continue, even if we’ve crossed over to the other side of the tracks. This is the side he doesn’t want you to see, doesn’t want you to remember. It’s the side that leaves him vulnerable and exposed, and when I’m through, the reason will be all too clear.
I almost pity you, Odin. Your rapid ascent and subsequent fall broke you. Deny it all you want, but after Corey Black blew your back out and sent you home without a goodbye kiss, something changed inside you. You were never again the truly dominant force you once were. Some would say you weren’t hungry enough to keep your spot. They’d say you didn’t want more, like you did after winning the U.S. Title early on in your career.
But they’re wrong.
The long, enduring failure that followed your second World Title reign wasn’t for lack of trying. In the wake of that fateful night, your trademark overconfidence and regurgitated shit talk made it clear that you wanted that top spot just as bad as ever...more so even, what with Corey Black making you just as much his bitch as Thomas Bates would prove to be years later. But try as you might, you couldn’t reclaim your place on the throne.
Over and over you failed to spread your wings and fly again, failed to prove you were the best in the business, and the reason’s simple: because despite claiming you were...you weren’t. It’s the age-old trap that 99% of wrestlers fall into. You weren’t good enough anymore, and yet you refused to see it. You reached your peak early on, settled in thinking you were untouchable, and turned a blind eye to better men who surpassed you and left you in the dust. By the time I signed my first WCF contract in 2015, you still hadn’t caught on to it. By then you were a legend of a bygone era, reduced to a challenging yet entirely defeatable opponent defined by senselessly spouting off and self-fellating more than anyone in the locker room.
Well here we are, three years later, and nothing’s changed. You’ve had a good return run so far, and you’ve swallowed so much of your own cum that it’s a wonder you haven’t dammed up your throat with it. But this Monday I’m going to show the world just how surmountable the once great Odin Balfore is.
I’ve got to give you credit though, Odin. After Corey Black gaped you at One and reclaimed the World Title for his own, you didn’t quit outright. That’s something that separates you from almost every World Champion in recent memory. You kept going, even if you weren’t capable of achieving the success you had in your rookie year. You kept going because you still thought you were the best. You still knew it, even though you were the only one. But unsurprisingly, as it turns out, the best wasn’t even on your radar...and his name was Jonny Fly.
It must have killed you to watch helplessly as he came to overshadow you in a matter of a few months. By the time you lost the Title at One, he was dominating the competition as you could only claim to in promos before failing to follow through in the ring. He defeated you and everyone else in Ultimate Showdown a year after you won it, firmly ensconcing himself as the king - the God, if you will - of what’s become a sacred annual WCF tradition. That is, until he was knocked off his throne by another, the WCF World Champion who walked to and from the ring with the Title in hand...the only World Champ in WCF history to retain at Ultimate Showdown:
Me.
I did what you couldn’t, Odin. In the match surpassed only by WAR in sheer toughness, I outlasted Jonny Fly - without question the greatest WCF wrestler in history - along with seven of the top competitors from one of the most talent-filled rosters the WCF has even known. And if I’m capable of swatting Fly when he’s at his best, as he was that night in 2015, I can handle you at yours.
I’m ready for it, Odin. I’m fully anticipating the toughest match of my career this Monday - tougher than ICE Beckman. Tougher than Jonny Fly and all the others I outlasted at Ultimate Showdown. Tougher than Joey Flash - the single-most talented opponent I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing a ring with one-on-one. I was ready for them too, Odin, and even when they hit me with their best, I won out.
I hope that’s what I get from you. I want it more than you want praise and reassurance from those you look down upon. But your best hasn’t been good enough for years. You’d never admit it, but in baselessly touting yourself as the infallible GOD of wrestling you might have been for a few months in 2011, all you’re doing is grasping at the nostalgia of yesteryear like a hungry eight year old zeroing in on mommy’s tit. But she’s right there to slap the little shit away and scold him for it, just like I’ll be forced to do in the ring this Monday. Of course, you won’t be helpless to defend yourself. Far from it. Despite your shortcomings, you’ll always be a WCF legend and an all-time great. Thing is, I’m right there with you, even if you choose to deny it. And if your history of completely dismissing all-time greats before meeting them in the ring is any indication, this Monday isn’t going to go well for you.
But I won’t make the same mistake you’ve been making your entire career. You won’t hear me claim this match is already in the bag, as you’ve convinced yourself it is. In reality I’ve probably got as good a shot of losing this match as I do of winning. I’m not too full of myself to admit it. My ego isn’t so over inflated as to prohibit me from imagining the very idea of losing to a great fighter. But I do have every confidence that I’m going to defend the WCF World Title against you, Odin. You may well be my greatest challenge to date, but I’m up to task. I’m every bit the pillar of the WCF that you are, and you know as well as I do that you don’t come to hold up this company by being a pushover.
He comes to a cliff that marks the end of the beach. The deep bellow is clearer than ever now and all the more haunting for it. It emanates from the jungle, and he turns toward the lush, overgrown wilderness before reaching into his bag and unsheathing a machete. He’s about to take a slice at the underbrush when his arm is stopped mid-swing by another windswept whisper that hits his ears.
“Come drink from the waves.”
His arm drops to his side as another vision befalls his mind’s eye, that of a glass encased city in a state of utter decay. Again the image is gone in a flash, and he glares ahead, his knuckles white as he death-grips the machete.
Dune: Stay back, girl.
He puts some distance between himself and the hound before he begins slicing a trail through the jungle. It thins out a few yards in, and as the two of them follow the low roar, they stumble directly upon the mouth of a cavernous lava tube from which both the sound and a fiery glow emanate. Dune doesn’t hesitate before entering the Hellish tunnel, and his beast is at his side as his deep voice booms through his mask.
Dune: I hope it’s you up ahead calling out to me, Odin, but I’ve never been a fortunate man. Whoever it is - whatever it is - I’ll find out soon enough. Until then, allow me a distraction, allow me to ease my mind with talk of someone I can control...Godly as you may be.
The prophets were wrong about 2012. The end of the world didn’t come to pass, but what did was the downfall of Odin Balfore. Few could have foreseen it, especially after your meteoric rise to the top. And by the end of 2013, you still hadn’t picked yourself back up, despite every effort to do so. Your sights never left the top of WCF Mountain, and yet in two years you hardly left the ground. All you managed to do was win the Internet, TV, and Hardcore Titles once apiece and win the Tag Titles twice.
And that’s it. Aside from a few disappointing one-off appearances from 2014 to 2017, that’s your career between One 2011 and your return in 2018. It’s the overwhelmingly lackluster majority of your historic run in the WCF. Five reigns with lesser Titles, only one of them lasting more than a few weeks. That’s it. That was the best you could do.
For some it’d be a satisfying couple years. For some it’d be just fine. But not for you. For you - for the way you carry yourself - it’s shit. It’s a disgrace to your name and all others who can call themselves WCF legends. Those aren’t the accomplishments or a world-eating monster. Anyone who sticks around for a couple years is going to have a few shitty runs with lesser belts. You’re not supposed to be just anyone though. According to you, you’re supposed to be more. But unlike you, Odin, the history books don’t lie, and the truths they tell contradict the revisionist history you’ve been preaching since your virtual demise six years ago.
On paper, the only reason you’re in the discussion of greatest-of-all-time is thanks to the first six months of your career when you were flying high. The rest would have you forgotten in six weeks, if that. But you’ve done a masterful job of hiding it. Week in and week out for years on end, you’ve slaved at building up your cardboard castle to mask the way things truly are, all for the sake of feeding your ego.
What an epic tale. What a tragedy.
What a disappointment…
Or so I thought.
Because in my initial disappointment upon unearthing the truth - with Odin Balfore finally laid bare, figuratively speaking - it occurred to me that the trip down memory lane can’t end without the telling of the whole tale. You see, it’s not your early successes that define you, Odin. Nor is it your consistent failures thereafter. It’s your passion. It’s your desire to be the best. It’s your almost inhuman ability to never quit, to never die...to rise up and reclaim the World Title after six years of failing to do so.
Yours is a tale of heart, Odin. And in some ways, it breaks mine to know what I have to do this Monday.
He reaches the end of the lava tunnel and steps out into a vast cavern hall. The sustained roar is crystal clear now, hauntingly deep and almost songlike in its resonance against the surrounding walls. The hall is lit by a lake of fire fed by several molten-lava falls at the far end. A hot, sustained wind bathes him in its breath as he moves toward the magma pool, but another whisper stops him in his tracks.
“Bring forth the fire.”
The beast bays at the words, her ferocity multiplied two and threefold by the cavernous echo. A third vision accompanies the whisper, this time of a lighthouse on a rocky shore beneath a blanket of stars. This one, too, is gone in an instant, and it’s then that Dune notices a great chasm before him. He orders the hound to stay before he closes on it and leans over for a better look. Gazing into the abyss, his heart skips a beat.
There, at the bottom of the chasm, the beautifully shaded teal-blue water is offset by the terrible force of a great maelstrom that whips it around with furious motion, the powerful hydraulic roar kicking up wind that speaks to him again.
“Cast yourself asunder.”
A fourth image rolls across his mind’s eye. This time he sees himself leaping into the vortex below...sees his hound baying from above as he’s dragged deeper and deeper into the depths.
The vision fades as a low growl issues from the rottweiler, and Dune sets his bag down before reaching in and pulling out his indestructible Nokia Brick. He punches in a number, and after a few moments, a beam of light shoots out of the Brick before forming into a crystal clear hologram of Freeman. The old man is wearing sunglasses and laying out on the deck of the yacht. He takes a sip from a glass before acknowledging Dune.
Freeman: Done with the island so soon? Come on over, we’re having a good old time. The Captain just -
Dune: Freeman, write this down. 22°12'46.0"N 159°21'12.3"W.
Freeman sits up in his chair and takes his shades off.
Freeman: Ah come on, Dune, what the fuck are you doing? Where are you?
Dune: Those are my coordinates. Write them down in case...just, write them down.
Freeman frantically searches for a pen and paper, mumbling angrily under his breath as Dune repeats the coordinates.
Freeman: Alright got it. Now where the fuck are you?
Dune: I’m in a cave at the end of a lava tunnel. There’s a giant whirlpool, and...something’s down there, Freeman. Something’s calling out to me. No shit.
Freeman: Ok wow, that’s great kid. Now head back to the beach, this isn’t adventure time. For fuck’s sake there’s a whirlpool on the yacht.
Dune: Can't do that. I’m going in.
Freeman: Wait, you’re what?! No, quit fucking around! You’ve got a World Title match with Odin to worry about! You can't -
Dune: I got the pup with me. I’m gonna send her back to the beach, but in case she doesn’t want to leave, come get her, would you?
Freeman: Dune! Goddamnit, wait just a -
Dune: Gotta go.
He ends the call, scattering the hologram to the wind, and he gazes into the maelstrom.
Dune: Look at that, Odin. That’s chaos down there. So why is it I find myself wanted to plunge into the depths? Why would anyone in their right mind want to take that risk?
It’s the same reason I’ve willingly thrown myself into the maelstrom that is making enemies with Odin Balfore: to find out what lies beyond. To find out how it ends. To find out if I can be the one left standing when we get there. I’m sure you can relate. You sought the same thing in pitting yourself against me. And so here we are, ready to demolish one another without so much as a trace of fear of being demolished. We’re a different breed, you and I. And while you may have been relatively harmless for six years, you’ve finally managed to dig in and accomplish something of note this year. Congratulations, Odin. It’s about fucking time.
2018 has been the return to form of the All Father you’ve been touting yourself as since day one. Despite two of the shortest World Title reigns in WCF history, you’ve been utterly dominant. It’s made you relevant again, and it goes without saying that it’s fed your ego to bursting. Right now, in your eyes, you’re unstoppable. No one can defeat you. How could they? You’re the All Father - who could stand in the face of such might and majesty?
His icy blue eyes flick up at the screen.
Dune: Only a pillar of the WCF.
Only a man whose flame burns brighter than yours.
Only a legend who’s built his legacy on the same foundation as you...that of unrivaled passion and relentlessness.
Only me, Odin.
Only me.
I’m the only one capable of denying you all you’ve fought to reclaim since 2011, but you’re not taking me seriously. A win against me at Blast would be the most meaningful of your entire career, but you’re looking right through me, just like you’ve always done. You’re up there on that precipice in the sky, ready to ride the wind, ready to establish yourself as the truly dominant force of the WCF, which you haven’t been in six long years. You’ve waited so long to fly, and finally the time has come. This is it. Everything has lead up to this day, to this moment.
It’s all lead up to me.
But this Monday, just when you think it’s safe to spread your wings and fly again, you’re going to take that leap of faith...only to look over when it’s too late and realize your wings have already been cut.
It’s going to be just like old times, Odin.
Call it a trip down memory lane. One last fall from grace, courtesy of the rightful WCF World Champion.
He reaches down and pulls a fist-sized diamond-shaped device from his bag, then presses it against the mouth of his mask. It clasps on with a satisfying "click" before a blue light flashes, and an automated female voice follows.
“Snorkel activated.”
He stands up, then gives his rottweiler a firm pat on the side and motions toward the tunnel.
Dune: Go on girl, go find Freeman.
The beast understands her master’s wishes, but she whines all the same.
Dune: It’s okay. Go get him. Go on.
Reluctantly, she makes her way toward the tunnel and the beach that lies beyond, looking back over her shoulder as she goes.
She watches as Dune turns around. She sees him stick his head out over the chasm, gazing down into the maelstrom one final time. And when he leaps out over the unseen water below, the beast turns and charges after him. But she doesn’t follow suit. She slides to a halt on the brink, baying like some hound of hell at the maelstrom as its fury begins to wane. Finally it subsides entirely, though the hound’s fury only grows as her master fails to appear.
The camera floats out over the still water as the beast begins to howl in heartbreaking desperation. Her echo fills the hall as, without warning, we succumb to gravity and fall through the chasm toward the water below. It rushes up to greet us, and as we break the surface, nothing but darkness exists below.
That is, until our eyes adjust.
Then, a shadowy figure can be seen swimming away from us, down into the depths...down toward a faraway light that continually rotates in and out of existence before we cut.
Dune mans the wheel of a small motorboat, his massive rottweiler by his side as they speed away from a yacht a few hundred yards at their back. Before him is a clear-blue Hawaiian lagoon, barren aside from a stilted over-water bungalow and the wooden dock that leads from it to the forested beach. He closes on the dock as a voice comes in over the radio.
Freeman: We’ve got the anchor dropped out here so if you need anything just holler. You grabbed your snorkel...thing, right?
Dune: Got it.
Freeman: And your floaties? Be a shame if the sea swallowed you before Odin could.
Dune: Nope, figured I'd have the old girl teach me how to doggy paddle.
Freeman chuckles wryly.
Dune: Really though, sure you don’t want to come ashore?
Freeman: Nah, I’m in the lap of luxury, kid. I’ve got some deep sea fishing to do, maybe a few dives, who knows?
Dune: So a full on bender’s in order.
Freeman: That’s about the right of it.
Dune: Well careful out there. All sorts of monsters in the deep.
Freeman: Don’t worry about us. It’s you who’s got a monster to deal with, and not the bedtime story kind.
Dune: Good thing Odin’s got the same problem. Catch me something out there, maybe a nice fat squid.
Freeman: Only if you come back with the Title.
Dune: That’s the idea. Over and out.
He docks the boat then grabs his things before calling for his hound. The beast follows him eagerly toward the small hut as his eyes find the screen.
Dune: Time to settle in. It’s gonna be a long couple days until Blast. If only there was something I could do to make them fly by.
His thoughts turn to the mighty Asgardian who’s earned the full brunt of his scorn.
Dune: Maybe a deep dive would help...a trip down memory lane, if you will.
He sets his bag inside before walking over to the edge of the dock and draping the belt over his shoulder. It gleams in the Hawaiian sun as he speaks.
Dune: I debuted on the inaugural Slam of 2015, and in less than twenty matches, I was WCF World Champion. I’ve done great things here, things most wrestlers can only dream of. That’s not an embellishment, it’s an undeniable fact. Most don’t even manage to show up to their second match, let alone survive and thrive at the highest level for years on end.
But I’m not the first to set off down a path of true greatness and supremacy. I’m not the first to become a pillar of the WCF. Before me there was ICE Beckman. Before me there was Steve Orbit and Jonny Fly. Before me there was Creeping Death, Slickie T, and Bobby Cairo…
Before me, there was Odin Balfore.
That’s right. It’s not my past but the All Father’s I’m interested in, and now’s the time to navigate our way through it. Now’s the time to deconstruct it. Now’s the time to feed the otherworldly ego of Odin Balfore, and I’m going to serve it up on a platter befitting a self-proclaimed God of professional wrestling.
He cuts off as a gust of wind hits his ear. But it’s not the wind that gives him pause. It’s the faint whisper that’s carried in on it, one that passes on some unintelligible phrase, save for a single word.
“...Dune.”
At first he thinks little of it, but when he sees the perked ears and riled demeanor of his rottweiler, a chill runs up his spine, and for some reason his eyes are drawn to the forest. Disconcerting as it is, he shuts it out of his mind and continues.
Dune: As much as you’ve done to provoke my ire of late, Odin, a discussion of the greatest of all-time can’t be had without pitching your name into the fire. Few have soared as high as you. You were a legend years before I burst onto the scene. It only took me five months to go from curtain jerker to World Champion, but you, Odin...you shot up faster than your Jam Willy when you get a glimpse of yourself in a mirror or hear praise attached to your name.
You fast became one of the most feared wrestlers on the roster. Just over a month after your debut, you bested the U.S. Champ to win your first Title. But you weren’t satisfied. You wanted more, something that defines you to this day. And with the first ever Ultimate Showdown on the horizon, you saw the ladder that led straight to the top of WCF Mountain. You were on fire, and no one was gonna snuff out the flames...not legends pre-dating you...not the World Champion...no one. And when Ultimate Showdown finally arrived, sure enough, you conquered it just like you said you would.
“So I have spoken. So it shall come to pass.”
Your words rang true, Odin. Two months into your career, you were flying high as the World Champion. Not a bad foundation to build on. And in displaying that sort of dominance over the WCF, you had every right to start calling yourself the Bad Motherfucker. It takes a bad motherfucker to win Ultimate Showdown. I know that just as well as you.
But your reign didn’t last long before the rug was pulled out from under you. WCF went bye bye, and with it your World Title. When Seth finally got his shit together, it was the legendary Vacant holding the belt, not you. But you wouldn’t allow yourself to be deprived of it for long.
Helloween 2011. What a night for you, Odin...the night you became a two-time WCF World Champion by pinning the great Johnny Reb. It was a glorious coronation of a competitor who, in just under half a year, had become the dominant force in wrestling. Some may even call it your finest hour. Once more you were flying high atop WCF Mountain. All was right with the world.
It was perfect…
Until Corey Black flung you from the pinnacle at One.
Just think of it...a legend undone by the legend. A God made mortal by a mere man. The All Father, fucked in the ass by Daddy Black on the grandest stage of them all.
And this after calling your shot with more confidence than ever. You didn’t give Black a chance in hell of pinning you for the Title. You dismissed him entirely, passed one of the all-time greats off as dried up dog shit stuck to the bottom of your bootheel. And after claiming victory before the opening bell had even rung, you capped off your brazen shit talking with those famous words:
“So I have spoken. So it shall come to pass.”
But all that came to pass was proof that the same old shit talk doesn’t count for shit in the ring, especially coming from you. Your silly catchphrase has almost done more damage to your credibility than your fall from grace at One seven years ago. It’s longevity is baffling considering how many times it’s been proven false. After failing to uphold it time and again in the ring, it’s entirely dismissable at this point.
But it’s just a small piece of the gimmick you’ve built for yourself, that house of cards practically begging to be blown over by the slightest breeze from the proper angle; the front you hide behind to make your emotionally crippled ass come off as calloused and ready for anything. Nothing can phase you, Odin...except when it does. And when that happens, you pour on the excuses until enough time has passed that people lose interest.
That’s just what you did in the wake of the biggest loss of your career. Instead of giving credit where credit was due, you blamed your failure to defend the Title to Corey Black on everyone but yourself. It was the special guest referee’s fault. It was Seth Lerch’s fault. It was a screwjob in favor of the establishment, otherwise known as the excuse of a bitch whose delicacy is only surpassed by his ego. You got beat clean as a fucking whistle, Odin, and you knew the only one to blame for your failure was yourself.
You didn’t have the heart to admit your inferiority that night. It clearly ate away at you, but you refused to let it show. Your ego wouldn’t let you. Instead, you carried on as if it never happened, hiding behind that convenient shell of a gimmick and slipping a veil of delusion over your eyes that continues to mask them to this day. Truth is, you never recovered from that match - not fully. 2011 was the undisputed peak of your WCF career, and try as you might to eclipse it seven years later, it’s not going to happen. Because I'm here now, Odin. And I promise you, I’m going to be just as good to you as Corey Black was that night at One so long ago.
He lets the World Title fall into his hands, and he gazes at the dried blood spilled from wounds inflicted by Odin. His eyes flick up toward the endless sea before the jungle draws his attention again. When he turns that way, an image flashes in his mind’s eye...that of a great statue in the deep, its eyes glowing and staring right through him. It’s gone as quick as it came, blasted away by another whisper on the wind.
“Come to me.”
The rottweiler lets out a confused bark as Dune remembers what the Overseer of the Tower of the Wastes had said a week before.
“Anywhere you blow the Hellhorn, the Tower will appear.”
Somehow convinced of a correlation between the whispers and the Tower, he walks back inside, removes the Hellhorn from his bag, and stands in the open doorway. After a moment’s hesitation, he sets the tri-horn to his lips and blows. Smoke pours out of the horn’s three mouths along with its deep, multi-toned wail. Soon the echo fades, and he’s about to speak when a faraway noise catches his ear - a sustained, subdued bellow coming from the jungle, one so deep its nearly inaudible. It’s felt as easily as it’s heard, and his hound growls as the sound reverberates through her ears.
Almost instinctively, Dune goes inside, sets the Title down, and snatches up his bag. He whistles for his dog, who’s quick to his side. They make their way through the hut, down the dock, and along the beach toward the deep bellow and the jungle it emanates from.
Dune: I ought to be inside resting up for Monday, but no. Something tells me I’m on the right path. Something tells me this has everything to do with Blast and my impending battle with the All Father.
His eyes flick over at the screen.
Dune: If you hadn’t guessed, the time for feeding the unsurpassed ego of Odin Balfore is over. He does enough of that on his own, no need for second or third helpings from me. But the trip down memory lane doesn’t have to end. In fact it’s vital that we continue, even if we’ve crossed over to the other side of the tracks. This is the side he doesn’t want you to see, doesn’t want you to remember. It’s the side that leaves him vulnerable and exposed, and when I’m through, the reason will be all too clear.
I almost pity you, Odin. Your rapid ascent and subsequent fall broke you. Deny it all you want, but after Corey Black blew your back out and sent you home without a goodbye kiss, something changed inside you. You were never again the truly dominant force you once were. Some would say you weren’t hungry enough to keep your spot. They’d say you didn’t want more, like you did after winning the U.S. Title early on in your career.
But they’re wrong.
The long, enduring failure that followed your second World Title reign wasn’t for lack of trying. In the wake of that fateful night, your trademark overconfidence and regurgitated shit talk made it clear that you wanted that top spot just as bad as ever...more so even, what with Corey Black making you just as much his bitch as Thomas Bates would prove to be years later. But try as you might, you couldn’t reclaim your place on the throne.
Over and over you failed to spread your wings and fly again, failed to prove you were the best in the business, and the reason’s simple: because despite claiming you were...you weren’t. It’s the age-old trap that 99% of wrestlers fall into. You weren’t good enough anymore, and yet you refused to see it. You reached your peak early on, settled in thinking you were untouchable, and turned a blind eye to better men who surpassed you and left you in the dust. By the time I signed my first WCF contract in 2015, you still hadn’t caught on to it. By then you were a legend of a bygone era, reduced to a challenging yet entirely defeatable opponent defined by senselessly spouting off and self-fellating more than anyone in the locker room.
Well here we are, three years later, and nothing’s changed. You’ve had a good return run so far, and you’ve swallowed so much of your own cum that it’s a wonder you haven’t dammed up your throat with it. But this Monday I’m going to show the world just how surmountable the once great Odin Balfore is.
I’ve got to give you credit though, Odin. After Corey Black gaped you at One and reclaimed the World Title for his own, you didn’t quit outright. That’s something that separates you from almost every World Champion in recent memory. You kept going, even if you weren’t capable of achieving the success you had in your rookie year. You kept going because you still thought you were the best. You still knew it, even though you were the only one. But unsurprisingly, as it turns out, the best wasn’t even on your radar...and his name was Jonny Fly.
It must have killed you to watch helplessly as he came to overshadow you in a matter of a few months. By the time you lost the Title at One, he was dominating the competition as you could only claim to in promos before failing to follow through in the ring. He defeated you and everyone else in Ultimate Showdown a year after you won it, firmly ensconcing himself as the king - the God, if you will - of what’s become a sacred annual WCF tradition. That is, until he was knocked off his throne by another, the WCF World Champion who walked to and from the ring with the Title in hand...the only World Champ in WCF history to retain at Ultimate Showdown:
Me.
I did what you couldn’t, Odin. In the match surpassed only by WAR in sheer toughness, I outlasted Jonny Fly - without question the greatest WCF wrestler in history - along with seven of the top competitors from one of the most talent-filled rosters the WCF has even known. And if I’m capable of swatting Fly when he’s at his best, as he was that night in 2015, I can handle you at yours.
I’m ready for it, Odin. I’m fully anticipating the toughest match of my career this Monday - tougher than ICE Beckman. Tougher than Jonny Fly and all the others I outlasted at Ultimate Showdown. Tougher than Joey Flash - the single-most talented opponent I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing a ring with one-on-one. I was ready for them too, Odin, and even when they hit me with their best, I won out.
I hope that’s what I get from you. I want it more than you want praise and reassurance from those you look down upon. But your best hasn’t been good enough for years. You’d never admit it, but in baselessly touting yourself as the infallible GOD of wrestling you might have been for a few months in 2011, all you’re doing is grasping at the nostalgia of yesteryear like a hungry eight year old zeroing in on mommy’s tit. But she’s right there to slap the little shit away and scold him for it, just like I’ll be forced to do in the ring this Monday. Of course, you won’t be helpless to defend yourself. Far from it. Despite your shortcomings, you’ll always be a WCF legend and an all-time great. Thing is, I’m right there with you, even if you choose to deny it. And if your history of completely dismissing all-time greats before meeting them in the ring is any indication, this Monday isn’t going to go well for you.
But I won’t make the same mistake you’ve been making your entire career. You won’t hear me claim this match is already in the bag, as you’ve convinced yourself it is. In reality I’ve probably got as good a shot of losing this match as I do of winning. I’m not too full of myself to admit it. My ego isn’t so over inflated as to prohibit me from imagining the very idea of losing to a great fighter. But I do have every confidence that I’m going to defend the WCF World Title against you, Odin. You may well be my greatest challenge to date, but I’m up to task. I’m every bit the pillar of the WCF that you are, and you know as well as I do that you don’t come to hold up this company by being a pushover.
He comes to a cliff that marks the end of the beach. The deep bellow is clearer than ever now and all the more haunting for it. It emanates from the jungle, and he turns toward the lush, overgrown wilderness before reaching into his bag and unsheathing a machete. He’s about to take a slice at the underbrush when his arm is stopped mid-swing by another windswept whisper that hits his ears.
“Come drink from the waves.”
His arm drops to his side as another vision befalls his mind’s eye, that of a glass encased city in a state of utter decay. Again the image is gone in a flash, and he glares ahead, his knuckles white as he death-grips the machete.
Dune: Stay back, girl.
He puts some distance between himself and the hound before he begins slicing a trail through the jungle. It thins out a few yards in, and as the two of them follow the low roar, they stumble directly upon the mouth of a cavernous lava tube from which both the sound and a fiery glow emanate. Dune doesn’t hesitate before entering the Hellish tunnel, and his beast is at his side as his deep voice booms through his mask.
Dune: I hope it’s you up ahead calling out to me, Odin, but I’ve never been a fortunate man. Whoever it is - whatever it is - I’ll find out soon enough. Until then, allow me a distraction, allow me to ease my mind with talk of someone I can control...Godly as you may be.
The prophets were wrong about 2012. The end of the world didn’t come to pass, but what did was the downfall of Odin Balfore. Few could have foreseen it, especially after your meteoric rise to the top. And by the end of 2013, you still hadn’t picked yourself back up, despite every effort to do so. Your sights never left the top of WCF Mountain, and yet in two years you hardly left the ground. All you managed to do was win the Internet, TV, and Hardcore Titles once apiece and win the Tag Titles twice.
And that’s it. Aside from a few disappointing one-off appearances from 2014 to 2017, that’s your career between One 2011 and your return in 2018. It’s the overwhelmingly lackluster majority of your historic run in the WCF. Five reigns with lesser Titles, only one of them lasting more than a few weeks. That’s it. That was the best you could do.
For some it’d be a satisfying couple years. For some it’d be just fine. But not for you. For you - for the way you carry yourself - it’s shit. It’s a disgrace to your name and all others who can call themselves WCF legends. Those aren’t the accomplishments or a world-eating monster. Anyone who sticks around for a couple years is going to have a few shitty runs with lesser belts. You’re not supposed to be just anyone though. According to you, you’re supposed to be more. But unlike you, Odin, the history books don’t lie, and the truths they tell contradict the revisionist history you’ve been preaching since your virtual demise six years ago.
On paper, the only reason you’re in the discussion of greatest-of-all-time is thanks to the first six months of your career when you were flying high. The rest would have you forgotten in six weeks, if that. But you’ve done a masterful job of hiding it. Week in and week out for years on end, you’ve slaved at building up your cardboard castle to mask the way things truly are, all for the sake of feeding your ego.
What an epic tale. What a tragedy.
What a disappointment…
Or so I thought.
Because in my initial disappointment upon unearthing the truth - with Odin Balfore finally laid bare, figuratively speaking - it occurred to me that the trip down memory lane can’t end without the telling of the whole tale. You see, it’s not your early successes that define you, Odin. Nor is it your consistent failures thereafter. It’s your passion. It’s your desire to be the best. It’s your almost inhuman ability to never quit, to never die...to rise up and reclaim the World Title after six years of failing to do so.
Yours is a tale of heart, Odin. And in some ways, it breaks mine to know what I have to do this Monday.
He reaches the end of the lava tunnel and steps out into a vast cavern hall. The sustained roar is crystal clear now, hauntingly deep and almost songlike in its resonance against the surrounding walls. The hall is lit by a lake of fire fed by several molten-lava falls at the far end. A hot, sustained wind bathes him in its breath as he moves toward the magma pool, but another whisper stops him in his tracks.
“Bring forth the fire.”
The beast bays at the words, her ferocity multiplied two and threefold by the cavernous echo. A third vision accompanies the whisper, this time of a lighthouse on a rocky shore beneath a blanket of stars. This one, too, is gone in an instant, and it’s then that Dune notices a great chasm before him. He orders the hound to stay before he closes on it and leans over for a better look. Gazing into the abyss, his heart skips a beat.
There, at the bottom of the chasm, the beautifully shaded teal-blue water is offset by the terrible force of a great maelstrom that whips it around with furious motion, the powerful hydraulic roar kicking up wind that speaks to him again.
“Cast yourself asunder.”
A fourth image rolls across his mind’s eye. This time he sees himself leaping into the vortex below...sees his hound baying from above as he’s dragged deeper and deeper into the depths.
The vision fades as a low growl issues from the rottweiler, and Dune sets his bag down before reaching in and pulling out his indestructible Nokia Brick. He punches in a number, and after a few moments, a beam of light shoots out of the Brick before forming into a crystal clear hologram of Freeman. The old man is wearing sunglasses and laying out on the deck of the yacht. He takes a sip from a glass before acknowledging Dune.
Freeman: Done with the island so soon? Come on over, we’re having a good old time. The Captain just -
Dune: Freeman, write this down. 22°12'46.0"N 159°21'12.3"W.
Freeman sits up in his chair and takes his shades off.
Freeman: Ah come on, Dune, what the fuck are you doing? Where are you?
Dune: Those are my coordinates. Write them down in case...just, write them down.
Freeman frantically searches for a pen and paper, mumbling angrily under his breath as Dune repeats the coordinates.
Freeman: Alright got it. Now where the fuck are you?
Dune: I’m in a cave at the end of a lava tunnel. There’s a giant whirlpool, and...something’s down there, Freeman. Something’s calling out to me. No shit.
Freeman: Ok wow, that’s great kid. Now head back to the beach, this isn’t adventure time. For fuck’s sake there’s a whirlpool on the yacht.
Dune: Can't do that. I’m going in.
Freeman: Wait, you’re what?! No, quit fucking around! You’ve got a World Title match with Odin to worry about! You can't -
Dune: I got the pup with me. I’m gonna send her back to the beach, but in case she doesn’t want to leave, come get her, would you?
Freeman: Dune! Goddamnit, wait just a -
Dune: Gotta go.
He ends the call, scattering the hologram to the wind, and he gazes into the maelstrom.
Dune: Look at that, Odin. That’s chaos down there. So why is it I find myself wanted to plunge into the depths? Why would anyone in their right mind want to take that risk?
It’s the same reason I’ve willingly thrown myself into the maelstrom that is making enemies with Odin Balfore: to find out what lies beyond. To find out how it ends. To find out if I can be the one left standing when we get there. I’m sure you can relate. You sought the same thing in pitting yourself against me. And so here we are, ready to demolish one another without so much as a trace of fear of being demolished. We’re a different breed, you and I. And while you may have been relatively harmless for six years, you’ve finally managed to dig in and accomplish something of note this year. Congratulations, Odin. It’s about fucking time.
2018 has been the return to form of the All Father you’ve been touting yourself as since day one. Despite two of the shortest World Title reigns in WCF history, you’ve been utterly dominant. It’s made you relevant again, and it goes without saying that it’s fed your ego to bursting. Right now, in your eyes, you’re unstoppable. No one can defeat you. How could they? You’re the All Father - who could stand in the face of such might and majesty?
His icy blue eyes flick up at the screen.
Dune: Only a pillar of the WCF.
Only a man whose flame burns brighter than yours.
Only a legend who’s built his legacy on the same foundation as you...that of unrivaled passion and relentlessness.
Only me, Odin.
Only me.
I’m the only one capable of denying you all you’ve fought to reclaim since 2011, but you’re not taking me seriously. A win against me at Blast would be the most meaningful of your entire career, but you’re looking right through me, just like you’ve always done. You’re up there on that precipice in the sky, ready to ride the wind, ready to establish yourself as the truly dominant force of the WCF, which you haven’t been in six long years. You’ve waited so long to fly, and finally the time has come. This is it. Everything has lead up to this day, to this moment.
It’s all lead up to me.
But this Monday, just when you think it’s safe to spread your wings and fly again, you’re going to take that leap of faith...only to look over when it’s too late and realize your wings have already been cut.
It’s going to be just like old times, Odin.
Call it a trip down memory lane. One last fall from grace, courtesy of the rightful WCF World Champion.
He reaches down and pulls a fist-sized diamond-shaped device from his bag, then presses it against the mouth of his mask. It clasps on with a satisfying "click" before a blue light flashes, and an automated female voice follows.
“Snorkel activated.”
He stands up, then gives his rottweiler a firm pat on the side and motions toward the tunnel.
Dune: Go on girl, go find Freeman.
The beast understands her master’s wishes, but she whines all the same.
Dune: It’s okay. Go get him. Go on.
Reluctantly, she makes her way toward the tunnel and the beach that lies beyond, looking back over her shoulder as she goes.
She watches as Dune turns around. She sees him stick his head out over the chasm, gazing down into the maelstrom one final time. And when he leaps out over the unseen water below, the beast turns and charges after him. But she doesn’t follow suit. She slides to a halt on the brink, baying like some hound of hell at the maelstrom as its fury begins to wane. Finally it subsides entirely, though the hound’s fury only grows as her master fails to appear.
The camera floats out over the still water as the beast begins to howl in heartbreaking desperation. Her echo fills the hall as, without warning, we succumb to gravity and fall through the chasm toward the water below. It rushes up to greet us, and as we break the surface, nothing but darkness exists below.
That is, until our eyes adjust.
Then, a shadowy figure can be seen swimming away from us, down into the depths...down toward a faraway light that continually rotates in and out of existence before we cut.
