Post by occulo on Jan 17, 2016 8:16:07 GMT -5
Grain by grain. Every particle of it. Every last mote of dust, and every last milligram of respect washed down the drain in a clockwise whirlpool. The clockwork had ticked from the morning of togetherness, brotherhood and friendship and tocked its way to the dusk of hostility, condemnation and fury. When the desert sun goes down, the twilight massacre can take hold…it will take hold. Dune, you’re mispronounced, that’s right, you’re DONE. Occulo spat it into the plughole and winced at the tint of blood in it. He stared up and let the hot jet of water cleanse his face. The image of Dune staring at him and almost seething through that god damned mask of his embedded itself into anywhere he looked like Pazazu following Reagan’s mother. Although the devil Dune is not, he had become an embodiment of hate and evil that the fed had grown wary of.
He twisted the silver tap of the shower and immediately threw a warm, soft white towel over his head. The force Dune had inflicted on him didn’t have even a slight bit of remorse, nor did it feel like he held back on his once comrade. He was a big problem, and Occulo felt irritated that one had arisen so soon in the year. Can’t catch a fucking break. The match at Slam had crumbled into nothingness but still ended up with body wracking pain. He knew Seth would pit them against each other sooner or later, so let’s not worry about Dune until then. Until then…
He threw a grey t-shirt on together with some blue jeans. He wondered who he would be facing this Sunday. He’d quite happily take a one on one with Ultimate Destroyer at the moment, something brainless. His phone buzzed and he took a deep breath.
“Occulo and Howard Black vs Steve Orbit and Spencer Adams”
Occulo: Interesting.
He displayed an excited grin and clicked his phone on to standby.
Fucking Steve Orbit. A legend.
He put one hand on his keys and then looked down at his gym bag.
Fuck it.
CUT
A couple of brown mice dart their way across the undergrowth of a frosty forest floor. They nimbly jump across broken twigs and rotting, fallen tree trunks, not daring to look back at the threat that loomed over head. The blinding sunshine glimmered on the icy layer on the cracked leaves and the occasional pockets of water that had formed where possible. The mice darted into a small hole at the bottom of a mossy tree, just as the talons of a chocolate brown and white hawk landed with a slight skid on nearby rock. Its smooth, feathered head tilted left and right, trying to hunt down the scent of its rodent lunch. It let out a shrill cry and then quickly spread its wings, as Occulo sprinted within feet of it. His heavy breathing and paddy footsteps formed a percussion, collaborating with the woodwind breaking of foliage and sticks. The hawk would have to come back another day.
The edge of the forest was in sight, and Occulo burst through it like a harpoon. His speed was such though, that he did not see a stone that had been dislodged in the ground by some animals that were grazing in this field a while ago. His big right toe hit the stone and with a panicked gasp he fell forward, face first onto the grassy ground.
Occulo: Fuck
Instead of getting back up, he flopped on to his back and stared up at the sky. Some slow footsteps approached him and he looked to his right. A couple of black, slightly muddy boots formed the base of some green waterproof pants. He sat up and looked up at the rest of the man. He was wearing a dark fleecy coat and a black hat, with tiny spots of paint here and there offering much needed colour to his attire. His face suggested he was a man in his fifties, perhaps early sixties. Anyway, he offered his hand, which
Occulo took with a grateful smile.
Occulo: Thank you
The man had a European accent and was slightly gruff.
Man: No problem
Occulo noticed on his back was a large rucksack with what looked like an easel sticking out the top.
I was just about to set easel up to do watercolours and you burst out the forest and fell flat on your face. Are you hurt?
He said this with exaggerated hand gestures, almost like subtitles in case Occulo didn’t understand his more than passable English.
Occulo: I’m fine thank you. I was just out on a run. Keeping healthy, you know?
Man: Oh! Yes.
Occulo: So you’re a painter. Where are you from?
Man: Oh, yes. I paint. From Bulgaria. Tolbuhkin. I like to paint landscapes. Forests. I also paint people in landscapes.
Occulo: Oh very good. Yeah I bet you create some rather beautiful images.
Man: Yes. Would you like to see?
Occulo: Sure. Let’s head up to the top of this hill though.
He nods excitedly and they walk up to the top of the grassy hill. No, not THAT hill. They sit down and look out over the forest, which stretches out for miles.
I didn’t catch your name. Mine’s John. John Mullins.
The painter holds his hand out
Man: Miroslav. Miroslav Yotov. I was name after famous painter from my country. He paint people. People as big subject of picture with stunning scenery in background. Lots of vivid colour yes?
Occulo: Yeah. Yeah I understand. Is that the style you use?
Miroslav: Kind of. Look.
He reaches into his bag and hands him a thick sketchbook. Occulo opens it and his eyebrows raise slightly. They do indeed contain images of people, but with a grim undertone.
The first picture is of a forest , but the trees are impaling a naked man’s body, who lies dead on the bed of spike like trees. The trails of blood drip down from the trees and form rivers which disappear off the page. The skyline above shows two whispy almost Van Gogh like clouds, which form into circles, which Occulo then realises are two breasts. “I guess women inherited the Earth here”
He flicks to the next page.
An ideal, beautiful and yellow beach. A brilliant blue sea with the occasional white horse here and there. But at closer look, the landscape is under a glass dome and the sun is a single hanging light bulb. He could just make out the faintest impression of men in suits in the sky, and the extreme edges of the sands and sea are separated into small rectangles with faint dollar signs on them.
He flicks to the next page.
The next one shows three silhouettes. One a jet black, one a dark blue, and one a dark orange. The black and blue men stand hand in hand. The third orange man stands, with his hand disconnected from the others. His legs…his legs blend into the upper half of a sand timer, with the sand trickling down into the bottom half, which forms a mountain with a tonne of bones and skulls around its base.
Occulo looks up at Miroslav who is readying his paints.
He looks back at the painting, closely. Closer, and closer, his heart beating quicker and quicker. He looks at the face of the man in orange. Beads of sweat accumulate on his forehead as he stares at the sheer look of absolute terror on his face, behind what looks like a mask.
Miroslav snaps the sketchbook shut and snatches it away from him
Miroslav: Why do you look at my work with such disgust?
Occulo finally blinks and shakes his head
Occulo: No, no not disgust Miroslav. Resonance. The last painting I was looking at, why did you draw that?
Miroslav holds the book closely and frowns his eyebrows, as if very self-conscious all of a sudden
Miroslav: I don’t…I don’t like to say reason.
Occulo: Why not?
Miroslav: It is why I keep work away from gallery. They always want to write essay and nail small square of writing next to all work.
Occulo: Well I guess it adds meaning, you know, an extra dimension to-
Miroslav: NO
Occulo: Okay…
He starts to frantically pack away his gear into his bag
Miroslav: I do not know why one cannot just paint. Why must everyone say that everything happen for reason? Perhaps thing
happens just…just because. Because it was supposed to happen. Finding reason and meaning is pointless. Just accept. Accept and move…and how do you say…
Occulo: I-
Miroslav: I paint work because I want to paint work.
Occulo: Okay that’s fine Miroslav. I have no problem with that. I was just curious.
Miroslav: John, you don’t know me. You don’t know why I paint here and not in my country. My parents name me after painter and
want me to paint the beautiful people like in his. They rich. They have nice home and never see problem. They are beautiful people, and they talk every day with beautiful people. I grow sick of beautiful people. In one of his painting, is woman with beautiful blonde hair. Bronze skin. Naked if not for a beautiful white sheet. She carry plump, beautiful purple grapes in beautiful home. A beautiful white dove flies above her that has flown in to her home. You see, this is how my parents expect to see everyone. Pure and like god or goddess. But because they like this, and because I grow up with defect they force me to paint like Miroslav all these beautiful people, and I feel like they punish me because I am not these people. So instead of paint what they see in mirror, I paint what I see. I paint people and the land like I see it. Beautiful but always shrouded in sinister motive and agenda. They don’t see. They are myopic. They no see beyond the rim of their cocktail glass. They hate my work. Hate my paintings.
Occulo: They see what you see as realism, as surrealism.
Miroslav stops packing and looks at Occulo as if someone had just released him from death row for a crime he didn’t commit
Miroslav: Yes. It is they who see surrealism.
Occulo: Miroslav, these pictures, you should feel no shame. They are stunning. Nobody can ever tell you that what translates from
your eyes to the tip of your brush is wrong.
Miroslav: Thank you
Occulo thought about that last picture. How had he painted something so scarily resonant?
I am sorry if I react strongly. I paint now.
Occulo: It’s okay Miroslav. Please do. Can I ask you though…that last picture…where…where did you draw it? That is all I wish to know.
Miroslav flicks to it in his book.
Miroslav: I paint when watching documentary. About the coalition and Middle East. America relationship with Iraq, you know?
Kind of makes sense. But he didn’t buy it. Leave it there Occulo, let a man paint. Let this mysterious muse be just that.
Occulo: Okay Miroslav. It makes sense now.
He gets to his feet and stretches a couple of times.
I have to leave Miroslav.
Miroslav: Oh, John, please, tell me, how do you see man?
Occulo: Well, I think anything can happen to a man once you let go of him. Whether you let go on purpose or through a situation
you cannot control. You can let go of him and he can fall into oblivion and bring people as much sorrow as they brought you happiness. I guess it is whether you can reach out to them again that matters.
Miroslav: Can you?
Occulo looks towards the forest
Occulo: No. Not when they do something unforgivable.
Miroslav: I am sorry
Occulo: Take care Miroslav
Miroslav: Goodbye my friend
He nods and runs down the other side of the hill as we
CUT
The painting stuck in his head, and it irritated him like an annoying song that you just can’t shake. It was look on the orange man’s face. Leave it. Try to. He was sat on a rocky ledge next to a gushing river, which was swollen thanks to recent and prolonged heavy rain.
Occulo: So I must face a legend that goes by the name of Steve Orbit on Sunday. You know I respect you Steve, your position as legend has been cemented and as sure as this river cascades down this hillside, that status will stick with you forever. So our battle at Slam will be somewhat of a special one for me. It will be the first time we’ve locked horns and for you, an indication of just where you are in your career. You’ve been here a long while, and you’ve faced opponent after opponent, some are still here and some are long gone. Thankfully. You’ve won pretty much everything there is to win here and I cannot possibly doubt your wrestling ability or sheer presence in the WCF. So am I completely lost for words? Am I completely devoid of a leg to stand on should I even begin to attempt to tell you just how I have the upper hand?
Not quite Orbit. You see the gushing and admiration of you ends there. You see I am aiming to reach such a status as your own. When I’ve been here as long as you have, I’m going to be remembered as the guy who truly achieved greatness with a wake of adversity behind me. Just like you did. Your past is certainly chequered, and there is one question I have for you. Why the sudden interest in becoming a wrestler? You walked on Joey’s coat tails and bang out of nowhere “I’m enjoying Pimping 101, but shit I really feel like beating someone up in a ring”. Was it a medium of self-defence? Did you want to learn how to tackle a perhaps over-aggressive “client” of one of your women? Nah that can’t be it, you’d have just taken up martial arts or something. But no you stepped in to the world of sports entertainment.
You’ll probably be asking yourself by now, “well, what about you Occulo? You’ve stated before you took up wrestling as a medium of self-defence” yeah that is true. But I had literally nothing else going on Steve. I had nobody to tell me what direction to go in, I had no idea what I was good at or how I could contribute to anything. So I found wrestling. Wrestling taught me self-defence and I discovered this creative output in it. That I could face a whole spectrum of characters and pray that I could even be good at it. Turns out I was. When I joined I looked up to these all-stars, these veterans and champions. Natural ICE Beckman, Jonny Fly, Steve Orbit. These guys were the pilots of the mothership that cast a dark, cold shadow on the rookies. Hey, remember Polar Phantasm, what a weird fuck he was huh?
I digress, so there I am looking up to you and I learn more and more about you all through your promotional material. Soon the thick, damaged skin becomes more and more transparent and starts to thin out. I discover these pasts you all have. Fly: poor family, no parents, orphanage to great father figure, streets to wrestling. Beckman: Drunk brawler to wrestling. Orbit: Troubled childhood to pimping to wrestling. Polar Phantasm – Christ knows, maybe a morphed polar bear or something. It became clear, nobody entered the WCF a happy man. I sat in my dressing room wondering if this place was some kind of halfway home…and as the weeks went on I realised it was. It really was. I mean these people entered with nothing except the philosophy of hurt or be hurt, and rose from gutter obscurity to global superstar. I didn’t feel sympathy Steve, I didn’t feel low or ashamed, no what I did feel, was for the first time ever, a real feeling of belonging. I have not once felt lonely since signing my name on the contract. I mean fuck, the WCF roster has brought more baggage with them than all the words airports combined.
You and Beckman and Cairo etc are legends for a reason. In a literal sense, you are all closed books that all ended when you signed on the same dotted line, and so the opening of a fresh book took hold. Steve Orbit armed himself with all the hardship he had experienced with Violet and Joey and looked for that affirming moment, that absolute adrenalin explosion when everything was absolutely just fine. So what is my point here Steve? My point is your status, like everybody else’s here is one that can end as quickly as it can begin. All we are is a contract. A contract that can tear as easily as our flesh. You have had to deal with as much shit as you brought with you, learning about Fly and what happened to your Mother. I want to fight the real Steve Orbit, the great and multi-championship winning Steve Orbit. The WRESTLER Steve Orbit. I want to bring about that explosion of adrenalin that keeps us magnetically attracted to the ring. I want to lock horns with you in the ring and stare into your eyes to see how you tick. Above all, I want to beat you. I have to. I have to stare into these legend’s eyes that I looked up to back then and be better than them. The stars in my eyes have become fiery supernovas that seek only to destroy these other celestial bodies in the WCF Universe. Every single match is a learning experience no matter how long you have been around, and they say there is nobody better to learn from than the real masters themselves. I want to feel the eye blackening punch from a hand that has sweat both warm and cold over the years, a hand that has felt the motherly love of Violet and gentle push of Joey. Don’t treat this as a normal day at the office, a mid-January Slam, treat it as what it is. A chance to really show a guy that holds you in such high regard and has made that all too clear to you that you really are the absolute titan “The Mack” can be.
But what if you don’t Steve? What if you make me realise just why people say that you shouldn’t meet your heroes. What if that same guy that I watched fight the week before I signed my contract and made me wonder what the hell I was getting into was not the same guy I fought in the ring? I would dismiss you. I would forget you. I would completely disregard you as a threat and I would perhaps understand those fans that call you a “has been”. I mean, I’ve never heard it, but I haven’t ever listened for it…because it’s just not possible that Steve Orbit has passed his peak? If you disappoint me on Sunday, I will stop looking up and instead look around me. I would begin to confirm to myself that the real pillars that are holding this fed up are people like Joseph Malignaggi, Howard Black, Dune, Occulo. The great lake of the WCF that the devil once dipped his toe in froze over and the legends walked with such majesty upon it. But just how thin is that ice Steve? How many more times can you dance on it before it shatters and you are lost in the depths and frozen solid like your legacy? Only for the lake to freeze over again and the new age of the stronger generation, the class of 2014/15 skate over what was once yours. You came back full time after One, but was this truly a miscalculation on your part? Could you have come back at a worse time for you to rise to the top again? The answer is no, you couldn’t, and on Sunday me and Howard are going to show you the pages on your book are running thin, that the career of Steve Orbit is starting to languish and lack inspiration.
I’m not being naïve, am I Steve?
Spencer, it has not been long since we last fought has it? You lost in a match that cost you your esteemed gold. What happened? Were you let down, or did you let the rest of the team down? Anyway it doesn’t matter, because this Sunday me and Howard are going to give you a second chance to redeem yourself. It must have felt pretty crushing, to go from fighting Occulo, Howard Black and Joseph Malignaggi….to Adam Young in the space of a week, after losing your championship belt. Ouch. Seth sure loves kicking us whilst we’re down doesn’t he? But I bet you were glad to have an easy opponent to vent your frustration of loss on. You were impressive in that match, but let’s not get carried away. This Sunday you lose again. You have a legend in your corner but it won’t help you one iota. This is going to be the continuation of a bad start to 2016 for you Spencer. Your little filler match with Adam Young means nothing at the moment, but when you lose on Sunday it perhaps means that you’re only capable of beating the absolute drivel of the WCF. Me and Howard are going to storm this company this year, and the tidal wave won’t stop there.
There’s going to be a war this year, and there’s no doubt that Beachkrew will start to really try and assert themselves as the true force in this company. The Sentinels beat The People’s Choice, disregarding you as real competition for those idiots at Beachkrew. I don’t want to make an enemy of you Spencer, because you’re a good guy who has just as much animosity towards those Beachkretins as we do. You see not along ago they had control of this company, and what a tedious state of affairs it was. “I know, I’ll insert Sea into my name cos we are badass” yeah fuck off. Spencer, this Sunday we’ll go out there and show them just how utterly pitifully outmatched they are compared to us.
He hopped off the rock and carefully walked down to the river, splashing some of the ice cold water on to his face
CUT
He twisted the silver tap of the shower and immediately threw a warm, soft white towel over his head. The force Dune had inflicted on him didn’t have even a slight bit of remorse, nor did it feel like he held back on his once comrade. He was a big problem, and Occulo felt irritated that one had arisen so soon in the year. Can’t catch a fucking break. The match at Slam had crumbled into nothingness but still ended up with body wracking pain. He knew Seth would pit them against each other sooner or later, so let’s not worry about Dune until then. Until then…
He threw a grey t-shirt on together with some blue jeans. He wondered who he would be facing this Sunday. He’d quite happily take a one on one with Ultimate Destroyer at the moment, something brainless. His phone buzzed and he took a deep breath.
“Occulo and Howard Black vs Steve Orbit and Spencer Adams”
Occulo: Interesting.
He displayed an excited grin and clicked his phone on to standby.
Fucking Steve Orbit. A legend.
He put one hand on his keys and then looked down at his gym bag.
Fuck it.
CUT
A couple of brown mice dart their way across the undergrowth of a frosty forest floor. They nimbly jump across broken twigs and rotting, fallen tree trunks, not daring to look back at the threat that loomed over head. The blinding sunshine glimmered on the icy layer on the cracked leaves and the occasional pockets of water that had formed where possible. The mice darted into a small hole at the bottom of a mossy tree, just as the talons of a chocolate brown and white hawk landed with a slight skid on nearby rock. Its smooth, feathered head tilted left and right, trying to hunt down the scent of its rodent lunch. It let out a shrill cry and then quickly spread its wings, as Occulo sprinted within feet of it. His heavy breathing and paddy footsteps formed a percussion, collaborating with the woodwind breaking of foliage and sticks. The hawk would have to come back another day.
The edge of the forest was in sight, and Occulo burst through it like a harpoon. His speed was such though, that he did not see a stone that had been dislodged in the ground by some animals that were grazing in this field a while ago. His big right toe hit the stone and with a panicked gasp he fell forward, face first onto the grassy ground.
Occulo: Fuck
Instead of getting back up, he flopped on to his back and stared up at the sky. Some slow footsteps approached him and he looked to his right. A couple of black, slightly muddy boots formed the base of some green waterproof pants. He sat up and looked up at the rest of the man. He was wearing a dark fleecy coat and a black hat, with tiny spots of paint here and there offering much needed colour to his attire. His face suggested he was a man in his fifties, perhaps early sixties. Anyway, he offered his hand, which
Occulo took with a grateful smile.
Occulo: Thank you
The man had a European accent and was slightly gruff.
Man: No problem
Occulo noticed on his back was a large rucksack with what looked like an easel sticking out the top.
I was just about to set easel up to do watercolours and you burst out the forest and fell flat on your face. Are you hurt?
He said this with exaggerated hand gestures, almost like subtitles in case Occulo didn’t understand his more than passable English.
Occulo: I’m fine thank you. I was just out on a run. Keeping healthy, you know?
Man: Oh! Yes.
Occulo: So you’re a painter. Where are you from?
Man: Oh, yes. I paint. From Bulgaria. Tolbuhkin. I like to paint landscapes. Forests. I also paint people in landscapes.
Occulo: Oh very good. Yeah I bet you create some rather beautiful images.
Man: Yes. Would you like to see?
Occulo: Sure. Let’s head up to the top of this hill though.
He nods excitedly and they walk up to the top of the grassy hill. No, not THAT hill. They sit down and look out over the forest, which stretches out for miles.
I didn’t catch your name. Mine’s John. John Mullins.
The painter holds his hand out
Man: Miroslav. Miroslav Yotov. I was name after famous painter from my country. He paint people. People as big subject of picture with stunning scenery in background. Lots of vivid colour yes?
Occulo: Yeah. Yeah I understand. Is that the style you use?
Miroslav: Kind of. Look.
He reaches into his bag and hands him a thick sketchbook. Occulo opens it and his eyebrows raise slightly. They do indeed contain images of people, but with a grim undertone.
The first picture is of a forest , but the trees are impaling a naked man’s body, who lies dead on the bed of spike like trees. The trails of blood drip down from the trees and form rivers which disappear off the page. The skyline above shows two whispy almost Van Gogh like clouds, which form into circles, which Occulo then realises are two breasts. “I guess women inherited the Earth here”
He flicks to the next page.
An ideal, beautiful and yellow beach. A brilliant blue sea with the occasional white horse here and there. But at closer look, the landscape is under a glass dome and the sun is a single hanging light bulb. He could just make out the faintest impression of men in suits in the sky, and the extreme edges of the sands and sea are separated into small rectangles with faint dollar signs on them.
He flicks to the next page.
The next one shows three silhouettes. One a jet black, one a dark blue, and one a dark orange. The black and blue men stand hand in hand. The third orange man stands, with his hand disconnected from the others. His legs…his legs blend into the upper half of a sand timer, with the sand trickling down into the bottom half, which forms a mountain with a tonne of bones and skulls around its base.
Occulo looks up at Miroslav who is readying his paints.
He looks back at the painting, closely. Closer, and closer, his heart beating quicker and quicker. He looks at the face of the man in orange. Beads of sweat accumulate on his forehead as he stares at the sheer look of absolute terror on his face, behind what looks like a mask.
Miroslav snaps the sketchbook shut and snatches it away from him
Miroslav: Why do you look at my work with such disgust?
Occulo finally blinks and shakes his head
Occulo: No, no not disgust Miroslav. Resonance. The last painting I was looking at, why did you draw that?
Miroslav holds the book closely and frowns his eyebrows, as if very self-conscious all of a sudden
Miroslav: I don’t…I don’t like to say reason.
Occulo: Why not?
Miroslav: It is why I keep work away from gallery. They always want to write essay and nail small square of writing next to all work.
Occulo: Well I guess it adds meaning, you know, an extra dimension to-
Miroslav: NO
Occulo: Okay…
He starts to frantically pack away his gear into his bag
Miroslav: I do not know why one cannot just paint. Why must everyone say that everything happen for reason? Perhaps thing
happens just…just because. Because it was supposed to happen. Finding reason and meaning is pointless. Just accept. Accept and move…and how do you say…
Occulo: I-
Miroslav: I paint work because I want to paint work.
Occulo: Okay that’s fine Miroslav. I have no problem with that. I was just curious.
Miroslav: John, you don’t know me. You don’t know why I paint here and not in my country. My parents name me after painter and
want me to paint the beautiful people like in his. They rich. They have nice home and never see problem. They are beautiful people, and they talk every day with beautiful people. I grow sick of beautiful people. In one of his painting, is woman with beautiful blonde hair. Bronze skin. Naked if not for a beautiful white sheet. She carry plump, beautiful purple grapes in beautiful home. A beautiful white dove flies above her that has flown in to her home. You see, this is how my parents expect to see everyone. Pure and like god or goddess. But because they like this, and because I grow up with defect they force me to paint like Miroslav all these beautiful people, and I feel like they punish me because I am not these people. So instead of paint what they see in mirror, I paint what I see. I paint people and the land like I see it. Beautiful but always shrouded in sinister motive and agenda. They don’t see. They are myopic. They no see beyond the rim of their cocktail glass. They hate my work. Hate my paintings.
Occulo: They see what you see as realism, as surrealism.
Miroslav stops packing and looks at Occulo as if someone had just released him from death row for a crime he didn’t commit
Miroslav: Yes. It is they who see surrealism.
Occulo: Miroslav, these pictures, you should feel no shame. They are stunning. Nobody can ever tell you that what translates from
your eyes to the tip of your brush is wrong.
Miroslav: Thank you
Occulo thought about that last picture. How had he painted something so scarily resonant?
I am sorry if I react strongly. I paint now.
Occulo: It’s okay Miroslav. Please do. Can I ask you though…that last picture…where…where did you draw it? That is all I wish to know.
Miroslav flicks to it in his book.
Miroslav: I paint when watching documentary. About the coalition and Middle East. America relationship with Iraq, you know?
Kind of makes sense. But he didn’t buy it. Leave it there Occulo, let a man paint. Let this mysterious muse be just that.
Occulo: Okay Miroslav. It makes sense now.
He gets to his feet and stretches a couple of times.
I have to leave Miroslav.
Miroslav: Oh, John, please, tell me, how do you see man?
Occulo: Well, I think anything can happen to a man once you let go of him. Whether you let go on purpose or through a situation
you cannot control. You can let go of him and he can fall into oblivion and bring people as much sorrow as they brought you happiness. I guess it is whether you can reach out to them again that matters.
Miroslav: Can you?
Occulo looks towards the forest
Occulo: No. Not when they do something unforgivable.
Miroslav: I am sorry
Occulo: Take care Miroslav
Miroslav: Goodbye my friend
He nods and runs down the other side of the hill as we
CUT
The painting stuck in his head, and it irritated him like an annoying song that you just can’t shake. It was look on the orange man’s face. Leave it. Try to. He was sat on a rocky ledge next to a gushing river, which was swollen thanks to recent and prolonged heavy rain.
Occulo: So I must face a legend that goes by the name of Steve Orbit on Sunday. You know I respect you Steve, your position as legend has been cemented and as sure as this river cascades down this hillside, that status will stick with you forever. So our battle at Slam will be somewhat of a special one for me. It will be the first time we’ve locked horns and for you, an indication of just where you are in your career. You’ve been here a long while, and you’ve faced opponent after opponent, some are still here and some are long gone. Thankfully. You’ve won pretty much everything there is to win here and I cannot possibly doubt your wrestling ability or sheer presence in the WCF. So am I completely lost for words? Am I completely devoid of a leg to stand on should I even begin to attempt to tell you just how I have the upper hand?
Not quite Orbit. You see the gushing and admiration of you ends there. You see I am aiming to reach such a status as your own. When I’ve been here as long as you have, I’m going to be remembered as the guy who truly achieved greatness with a wake of adversity behind me. Just like you did. Your past is certainly chequered, and there is one question I have for you. Why the sudden interest in becoming a wrestler? You walked on Joey’s coat tails and bang out of nowhere “I’m enjoying Pimping 101, but shit I really feel like beating someone up in a ring”. Was it a medium of self-defence? Did you want to learn how to tackle a perhaps over-aggressive “client” of one of your women? Nah that can’t be it, you’d have just taken up martial arts or something. But no you stepped in to the world of sports entertainment.
You’ll probably be asking yourself by now, “well, what about you Occulo? You’ve stated before you took up wrestling as a medium of self-defence” yeah that is true. But I had literally nothing else going on Steve. I had nobody to tell me what direction to go in, I had no idea what I was good at or how I could contribute to anything. So I found wrestling. Wrestling taught me self-defence and I discovered this creative output in it. That I could face a whole spectrum of characters and pray that I could even be good at it. Turns out I was. When I joined I looked up to these all-stars, these veterans and champions. Natural ICE Beckman, Jonny Fly, Steve Orbit. These guys were the pilots of the mothership that cast a dark, cold shadow on the rookies. Hey, remember Polar Phantasm, what a weird fuck he was huh?
I digress, so there I am looking up to you and I learn more and more about you all through your promotional material. Soon the thick, damaged skin becomes more and more transparent and starts to thin out. I discover these pasts you all have. Fly: poor family, no parents, orphanage to great father figure, streets to wrestling. Beckman: Drunk brawler to wrestling. Orbit: Troubled childhood to pimping to wrestling. Polar Phantasm – Christ knows, maybe a morphed polar bear or something. It became clear, nobody entered the WCF a happy man. I sat in my dressing room wondering if this place was some kind of halfway home…and as the weeks went on I realised it was. It really was. I mean these people entered with nothing except the philosophy of hurt or be hurt, and rose from gutter obscurity to global superstar. I didn’t feel sympathy Steve, I didn’t feel low or ashamed, no what I did feel, was for the first time ever, a real feeling of belonging. I have not once felt lonely since signing my name on the contract. I mean fuck, the WCF roster has brought more baggage with them than all the words airports combined.
You and Beckman and Cairo etc are legends for a reason. In a literal sense, you are all closed books that all ended when you signed on the same dotted line, and so the opening of a fresh book took hold. Steve Orbit armed himself with all the hardship he had experienced with Violet and Joey and looked for that affirming moment, that absolute adrenalin explosion when everything was absolutely just fine. So what is my point here Steve? My point is your status, like everybody else’s here is one that can end as quickly as it can begin. All we are is a contract. A contract that can tear as easily as our flesh. You have had to deal with as much shit as you brought with you, learning about Fly and what happened to your Mother. I want to fight the real Steve Orbit, the great and multi-championship winning Steve Orbit. The WRESTLER Steve Orbit. I want to bring about that explosion of adrenalin that keeps us magnetically attracted to the ring. I want to lock horns with you in the ring and stare into your eyes to see how you tick. Above all, I want to beat you. I have to. I have to stare into these legend’s eyes that I looked up to back then and be better than them. The stars in my eyes have become fiery supernovas that seek only to destroy these other celestial bodies in the WCF Universe. Every single match is a learning experience no matter how long you have been around, and they say there is nobody better to learn from than the real masters themselves. I want to feel the eye blackening punch from a hand that has sweat both warm and cold over the years, a hand that has felt the motherly love of Violet and gentle push of Joey. Don’t treat this as a normal day at the office, a mid-January Slam, treat it as what it is. A chance to really show a guy that holds you in such high regard and has made that all too clear to you that you really are the absolute titan “The Mack” can be.
But what if you don’t Steve? What if you make me realise just why people say that you shouldn’t meet your heroes. What if that same guy that I watched fight the week before I signed my contract and made me wonder what the hell I was getting into was not the same guy I fought in the ring? I would dismiss you. I would forget you. I would completely disregard you as a threat and I would perhaps understand those fans that call you a “has been”. I mean, I’ve never heard it, but I haven’t ever listened for it…because it’s just not possible that Steve Orbit has passed his peak? If you disappoint me on Sunday, I will stop looking up and instead look around me. I would begin to confirm to myself that the real pillars that are holding this fed up are people like Joseph Malignaggi, Howard Black, Dune, Occulo. The great lake of the WCF that the devil once dipped his toe in froze over and the legends walked with such majesty upon it. But just how thin is that ice Steve? How many more times can you dance on it before it shatters and you are lost in the depths and frozen solid like your legacy? Only for the lake to freeze over again and the new age of the stronger generation, the class of 2014/15 skate over what was once yours. You came back full time after One, but was this truly a miscalculation on your part? Could you have come back at a worse time for you to rise to the top again? The answer is no, you couldn’t, and on Sunday me and Howard are going to show you the pages on your book are running thin, that the career of Steve Orbit is starting to languish and lack inspiration.
I’m not being naïve, am I Steve?
Spencer, it has not been long since we last fought has it? You lost in a match that cost you your esteemed gold. What happened? Were you let down, or did you let the rest of the team down? Anyway it doesn’t matter, because this Sunday me and Howard are going to give you a second chance to redeem yourself. It must have felt pretty crushing, to go from fighting Occulo, Howard Black and Joseph Malignaggi….to Adam Young in the space of a week, after losing your championship belt. Ouch. Seth sure loves kicking us whilst we’re down doesn’t he? But I bet you were glad to have an easy opponent to vent your frustration of loss on. You were impressive in that match, but let’s not get carried away. This Sunday you lose again. You have a legend in your corner but it won’t help you one iota. This is going to be the continuation of a bad start to 2016 for you Spencer. Your little filler match with Adam Young means nothing at the moment, but when you lose on Sunday it perhaps means that you’re only capable of beating the absolute drivel of the WCF. Me and Howard are going to storm this company this year, and the tidal wave won’t stop there.
There’s going to be a war this year, and there’s no doubt that Beachkrew will start to really try and assert themselves as the true force in this company. The Sentinels beat The People’s Choice, disregarding you as real competition for those idiots at Beachkrew. I don’t want to make an enemy of you Spencer, because you’re a good guy who has just as much animosity towards those Beachkretins as we do. You see not along ago they had control of this company, and what a tedious state of affairs it was. “I know, I’ll insert Sea into my name cos we are badass” yeah fuck off. Spencer, this Sunday we’ll go out there and show them just how utterly pitifully outmatched they are compared to us.
He hopped off the rock and carefully walked down to the river, splashing some of the ice cold water on to his face
CUT
