Post by Eddie "Shiro" Felt on Apr 17, 2016 13:59:42 GMT -5
"Appealing only because they're just that unappealing."
The stench of cigarette smoke hung the air. American Spirits; a familiar odor. The air all around was thick and heavy, bearing down on Eddie's body with its oppressive force. Eddie sunk lower into the creaking wooden chair he was seated upon, his foot colliding with the thick oak leg of the large table he was seated at, squinting across the candlelit room, hoping to make out any tangible shapes from beyond the inky blackness that swallowed the perimeter of the fire's light. A gloved hand extended into his field of view, fingers curled except for the index, which seemed to be focused on him and only him. He glanced to both the right and left and swallowed when he realized the man who had brought him here, a mysterious Man in Black who'd answer all of his inquiries with "our mutual friend wants to see you" had seemingly vanished into thin air. Now, there was only him and the owner of the hand that inched ever closer to the candle, grabbing the circular glass container and pulling it closer to the opposite end of the table. Semi-liquid wax sloshed on the top layer; a rough, harsh ebb and flow that collided with the glass walls, staining them with molasses-thick, blood red wax.
"You're an easy man to find, Eddie."
The voice was shrill, distinctly feminine, accompanied by a slight giggle as the hand brought the candle every closer to the woman's face. The first rays of light shone upon its owner, revealing first the frayed ends of stringy red hair, followed by her gaunt, pasty, unkempt face. Eddie squinted harder as she stepped around the table and approached him. As her footsteps drew ever nearer, he began to see the rest of her; ribs almost poking through her stained-yellow-as-her-teeth tank top, her feet shambling, almost dragging along the floor, and her vacant eyes. She seemed to be a million miles away, but still she kept those empty eyes trained on Eddie, a smile spreading across her lips, splitting her chapped lips.
Screen name: KissMeIWasIrish.
"I wasn't hiding," Eddie responded, cautiously eyeing the candle. With each step the woman took, the wax sloshed more; more wax burned. She set the candle back on the table and took a seat on the edge, laying her hands atop Eddie's, bony fingers curling around his flesh.
"You're right. You were busy attention-whoring. Playing a great little dancing monkey on TV, preaching to a choir full of idiots who'd never believe you. You know as well as I do that the information we provide; the ideas we champion will never catch on in the public consciousness. At best you're reaching the same group of people who already believe in this shit. But it's okay. It's okay."
Her grip on his hand tightened and she shushed him, squeezing his palm and whispering under her breath like a mother calming a protesting child. She licked some of the blood from her lips and pushed herself off the table, taking a knee down by him and kissing his hand. Her lips felt like sandpaper on his bare flesh, scraping against his palm, shaving off skin cells.
"What'd you want me for?"
"Oh we'll get to that in time. First, I want to make sure you're the man I'm looking for. Give me both of your hands."
Eddie hesitated for a moment. The thought dawned on him that this was his last chance; he could still walk away. He could get up and walk out and move on with his life, away from the seeming black hole of madness that was KissMeIWasIrish. Yet, he found himself drawn, almost magnetically to his seat. He could get up but he also couldn't, not even if he wanted to, and despite the fact that every firing synapse in his brain screamed how terrible of an idea staying put was, that's exactly where he stayed. He wanted this. Or at least he thought he did. He sighed, and turned his other hand so it was palm-up and offered them to his contemporary.
"Perfect."
She grabbed a hold of both of his hands and gestured for Eddie to close his eyes. As his eyes rolled shut and Eddie focused on the sea of red that struck his eyes via the candle, the sound of her shrill, almost cacophonic voice filled his ears.
"I want you to remember how you got here."
The red turned to black and before he knew it, he was back in the car as it pulled to the stop right outside of the apartment building. A run down, condemned old lot in a neighborhood he'd never heard of before (which didn't surprise him; a non-Chicago native). The building was imposing, or at least it probably used to be. While still large, the bricks were broken, cracked, miscolored; you name it. Shards of glass littered the grass, stomped into the soft earth. Eddie looked out the window and stared dumbfounded at the building, palms shoved against the glass. Eyes wide, mouth agape. He remembered the distinct sense of dread he felt, a chill down his spine as he approached the large wooden doors.
"We're here," said the cab driver, the Man in Black, with a sly smirk on his face.
"Now I want you to know that you are in control."
He saw the blackness again; the gaping maw of oblivion opened wide, its serpentine jaws unhinged, ready to swallow him whole. He saw the red again; the lake of fire, burning, scorching his skin with the flames of one hundred thousand hells. The woman squeezed his palms and giggled, leaning in close enough that he could smell her putrid breath.
"I want you to remember the chase. How you collapsed."
He felt his heart beating, pounding out of his chest. His lungs sore, struggling to support his sprint. Legs weak, wobbling, like noodles supporting his weight. The sound of his feet pounding the pavement hurt his ears. Then, everything happened; his knees buckled, he stumbled. He breathed a quick sigh of relief at the idea that he didn't have to keep up anymore. His heart still beat like a wardrum, ready to explode at any moment. As he hit the ground he felt the cool sidewalk and laid out spread eagle, soaking in all of the darkness from the sky consumed by eldritch clouds forewarning of black days to come. The Man in Black stood over him, but only long enough to offer his hand, allowing him to rise back to his feet.
"Very good! Now, let's see how you see REALity. I want you to see the world for what it really is."
Heavy footsteps cut her off. The tableau of clouds faded from his mind, replaced by a pitch black void with nothing but bloody candles as far as the eye could see. Another footstep shook the ground beneath him, shaking the candles. Another footstep. Soon, he could see the source; a massive, almost mountainous, goat faced, bipedal beast. Thick black tentacles wrapped around the body of the beast, throbbing and pulsing in arhythmic patterns. What little fur the best did have was bloody and matted; the blood of its victims. Half of its face was covered in the bloody fur while the other side was an exposed skull. The beast stomped its way closer to Eddie, who backed away with eyes wide.
"What's wrong? Too scared to face it?"
"What a wonderful caricature of intimacy."
You ever see something that's about to happen, and time seems to slow down for that shit? Like one second everything's fine, but then you see something coming at you and for just a brief moment before it connects everything slows to a crawl. You think you can get out of the way, correct yourself, something. Anything. But really you can't do anything but watch and wait for it to happen.
That's what happened at Slam 350. I charged in without thinking, no plan in mind other than "break up the hold, prolong this match". I saw Beaver jump in front of me. I saw his foot cut through the air like a knife and while I recognized it, while I knew where it was going, it didn't seem to register with my body that I should move. And when it finally connected, the one thing I could focus on through the pain of a boot being driven into my nutsack was that I fucked up. This was on me. It wasn't Ethan's fault we lost that, nah, fuck that. That dude did all he could; he gave them the biggest disrespect he could give them from his position: he didn't tap. He didn't give them the satisfaction of knowing that they made him quit; that they made the Pride quit.
I'm sure if we were the weak group of rookies that everyone seems to think we are, our whole careers would be completely derailed by the one-two punch of Explosion and Slam 350, but here we are, still scraping, still fighting. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. You got Ethan fighting for a shot at the US Championship against a bonafide fuckin' legend in Steve Orbit. You got me facing off with a tenured veteran in Freezer Burn.
Speaking of, how's it going, man?
How's it feel knowing that the WCF doesn't care at all about literally anything you've done in your entire career? It goes beyond you having to work your way back up again; that shit's standard. You listen to the commentary during your matches, and it's "that kid Hammond" this and "upset victory" over Caleb Ronan. Now, nothing against Caleb Ronan of course, but aren't you supposed to be a legend?
You've wrestled all around the world, won belts in all sorts of promotions, given twenty plus years of your life to this profession, but when it comes to giving any of those prior accomplishments any kind of mention, WCF's like "new phone who dis?" like every single one of those two plus decades never even happened. Like they were just a fever dream, a vague caricature of experience; the glory, the anger, the heartbreak, all of that didn't happen. Now you've woken up; you're twenty years younger.
But you aren't. You're the same old man, worn down and ground into the dirt time and time again. You survived a plane crash; you survived all the brutal matches you've been through in your whole career and for what? For the commentary team at the promotion you're currently working for to condescend to you, you; Wayne Hammond, certified legend and bonafide stud? To call you a kid, to claim you're pulling of upset victories like you're the underdog; like you haven't stared down bigger and better without breaking a sweat, like you aren't you.
Then again, what is there to "Freezer Burn" Wayne Hammond, really? A "legend" with a losing record in the WCF? A losing record against the first and only man he's beaten thus far? Again, nothing against Caleb Ronan but shit man no wonder you're getting confused for a rook. Struggling to get through lower card talents, picking up "upset" victories over them; you've done nothing to inspire confidence. You've done nothing to live up to the reputation that should precede you. Right now, in the WCF, you aren't even a flash in the pan because then you'd have to, y'know, flash. Maybe now that you have that shot at any non-world title you'll find your stride but I'm not wasting my breath. Time's gotten the better of you man, you aren't the man you used to be. Every time you step out of that curtain now, you got the full weight of your legacy on your withered shoulders. Every match is bringing you closer to the natural conclusion of things; retirement. Full retirement, when you literally cannot go anymore. Every loss is a direct threat to your credibility because while it's true that any time you step between the ropes it has the potential to be your last, that's an even realer threat to you.
You don't want to go out lying on your back because some young buck dropped you on your head and snapped your neck like a twig.
You don't want the people who've followed your whole career to see you gassed before the bell rings, struggling desperately to hold onto past glories.
These are your struggles, man.
But you don't want them to be. You want to be feared.
Isn't that why you fuck with Hank Brown so much? I mean Jesus Christ, talk about stuck in the last era of pro wrestling, do you really think anyone on the roster watches you bullying Hank Brown, a fucking interviewer, and thinks "oh yeah, this guy's a badass." No, because that shit's fucking cowardly. Weak sauce shit from wannabe monsters desperately trying to cling onto an image that can mask glaring shortcomings. The guys who dance around playing "mind games" with their opponents because they're scared of getting punched in the mouth. They're scared that if they stop reaching for tasteless bullshit they'll fade into obscurity (ohai Dagvald Cooper). Come on, Wayne, say it ain't so. Say you aren't stuck in that same camp, a relic of the past when that would fly, when that would strike fear into the hearts of those across the ring from you.
Say it ain't so.
Now I know you think you got me all figured out. You got the Pride all figured out, just like everyone else on the roster with their idea of the type of people Ethan and I are. I'm just a goofy conspiracy theorist who'll only be remembered for telling Dagvald Cooper to go back to jerkin' his gherkin to ladies of the locomotive persuasion, or that dancing alien gif, or the entire #SaveAdamCooper movement. That the Pride are flash in the pan personified. That we peaked when we attacked #BeachKrew. That we jumped the shark when ZMac had to get himself DQ'ed to keep his Internet Championship against Griffin. That the two consecutive losses to #BeachKrew will sink our career under cold, uncaring waters.
We're still here.
While you, Wayne Hammond, the should-be legend wallow in lowercard Hell, these two rookies are over here inspiring debate. I've given this spiel before, but it's never not true. We fired the first shots. Took the fight to #BeachKrew and while it hasn't panned out quite as we hoped so far, we're far from through. They aren't gonna roll over us. We aren't going gently into that good night.
Meanwhile you're taking the path of least resistance; I'm sure you wouldn't have objected to another match against Caleb Ronan at this point. You two could go back and forth over that title shot in your possession; that vague assurance that some day, and that day may never come, you'll be able to challenge for any non-world title. That's your chance. Your ticket. Your way of proving that you're not done yet. You aren't going to roll over and die.
But this Slam?
It's the first day of the rest of your life, Wayne.
Here's the thing; I don't dislike you. Not really. I wish you the best of luck in this match, I do. I want you to prove to the WCF, to the world, to yourself that you are the legend you claim to be. The legend you want to be. I want to face the guy who's reached out and grabbed the stars. To stand across the ring from a King in this sport.
To beat a legend.
Pin him to the mat: one, two, three.
Because right now, Wayne?
It's step up or step aside time and I've eaten too many shots from Andre Aquarius and Dustin Beaver to go down so easily. To let you walk all over me. Legend or not, has-been or not, I'm not going down tonight. My redemption tour starts tonight. The Pride's redemption tour starts tonight. Mark it on your calendars, WCF: April 17th is the day the Pride proves once and for all that it is a force to be reckoned with, Griffin or no. Two losses to #BeachKrew or no. That despite all the adversity we've faced so far and everything that'll be thrown at us down the road, we won't break.
The Pride isn't going down that easy.
"And the habit of decomposing right before your very, la la la la, eyes."
Eddie's eyes snapped open and he lurched forward with a gasp, ice water sweat dripping from his brow. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady his breathing and violently pulled his hands away from the woman's grip. She cocked her head and looked at him with a sly smile on her face, eyes locked on his.
"What'd you see?"
He rubbed his eyes and sighed, pushing himself off the chair. The room was pitch black; a gaping, unformed oblivion and her voice seemed to come from every direction. On the center of where he remembered the table to be, a candle flickered to life, red wax bleeding down its sides, pooling up on the dank oak. He tried to take a step away from the table, but his legs wouldn't move. He looked down at his feet, faintly illuminated by the candle light. The floor was wax; he was sinking. He struggled to pull his feet out of the vaguely formed mush that was swallowing him slowly but surely, but every attempt at struggle only expedited the process. The table was sinking too.
He clenched his fist tightly, and it wasn't until his fingers fused together that he realized the truth. He wasn't sinking; he was melting.
Like Icarus, who'd flown too close to the sun. The wax in his wings melted.
Eddie's wax figure was melting, every second a step closer to being nothing but a puddle of dried wax on a hardwood floor.
In the blink of an eye he was gone.
His eyes opened and he found himself on all fours, breathing heavily, on the dirty tile floor of a public restroom. He blinked twice, trying to acclimate himself to his new surroundings before pushing himself off the floor. The red wax covered his hands, dribbling like molasses down his skin.
Then he saw the bloody knife next to him, and the dead man in the center of the room.
The woman's voice echoed in his ears: "What'd you see?"
His eyes snapped open again. He still wasn't in the room anymore; instead he was seated in a booth at a diner, the woman still clenching onto his hands.
"Am I awake?" he asked, looking around the diner for any prying eyes. The woman nodded with a smile on her face.
"What'd you see?"
Eddie pulled his hands away.
"I don't even--" Eddie stopped and gasped, staring dumbfounded at his hands.
There was a dried red stain on his wrist, mostly hidden by the cuff of his shirt.
