Post by "Iron Heart" Ethan King on May 1, 2016 6:29:46 GMT -5
POURING RAIN
The night had come alive, rain echoed and pattered against the city sidewalks and flooded the outdoor areas of the college campus, winds blew and sent pamphlets and flyers scrambling off into the pitch black. Excited voices blew up into a frenzy as the man of the hour, Ethan King, stepped into the school gymnasium, set up with countless white tables and equally pale chairs, as well as a small, makeshift stage coupled with a microphone rising up from the ground, backed up by a wooden podium. Expectant faces and cheerful smiles greeted the young man as he walked through the foyer and onto the hardwood flooring.
Toward the edge of the gym, plates of food and alcoholic beverages were situated on rectangular tables that extended around virtually the entire right side of the room, Ethan King smiled ruefully as he waved a hand dismissively at a girl two years his elder – eagerly and hopefully offering him a cup of some concoction clearly put together by a group of troublemakers at the campus… or Eddie Felt.
Sudoku walked beside the young United States Champion, carrying the belt for him with a smile full of joy and pride, he ushered Ethan along, beckoning for him to take his place amongst the schools greats and stand at the podium. He obliged reluctantly, a weary smile on his face after a long flight and drive back to the campus, accompanied by both his sister, Kylie, and his girlfriend, Cara Segreti. The three had gone their separate ways shortly after return, leaving Ethan to contemplate his future alone. It was only moments later he received the call that would lead him into this very situation, staring into the crowds of people that had gathered to support him, to celebrate his victory, to ask him questions and get the mandatory responses, responses that promised they too could reach their dreams and goals with hours of long, hard work.
Ethan’s gut churned, he looked through the rows and columns of people sitting down, glancing up at him as he took his position at the podium, he brought the microphone toward his lips, licking them hesitantly and coughing. A wild cheer went up from the back of the gym, Ethan chuckled whilst turning a shade red.
Ethan: Before I get started… I’d like to thank everyone for showing up. I literally didn’t know this was going down until like… three hours ago. Big props to everyone who set this up, everyone who planned it from the very beginning… and for everyone whose been showing support for The Pride since we debuted a few months ago. We’ve taken a few hits, but that hasn’t stopped us, and it’s partly thanks to all the work you guys have been putting in. I can’t state how appreciative I am, and I’m sure if Gabriel and Eddie were around, they’d be saying the exact same thing.
His bites the inside of his cheek lightly, knowing that he’s getting away with murder here. The group of students are still smiling and clapping, as if they don’t realize the words sound like they’ve been written directly on the palm of his hand. His half-hearted grin, leagues below his natural, easy-going smile isn’t doing much to support him. He coughs into the microphone once again, glancing over at Sudoku, looking for some type of assistance. The older man steps up to his feet gracefully, cupping his hands over his mouth as he surveys the crowd.
Sudoku: Could we get a few questions for our champion? It’s the least you could do, he’s come back from a long trip, after all!
Hands immediately rise up in unison, some especially eager students leaning over their seats and tables in anticipation, Ethan’s lips break out into a smile as he turns his hand about and points at the nearest person to him. It takes him a few moments, but he remembers the iconic bleach-blonde hair of the girl he picked out in the group. Instantly taking him back to a few weeks ago, when the same girl was sneering at him in disdain after his fails attempt to topple the #BeachKrew.
His smile fades away.
Sudoku: Georgia, go ahead.
Georgia: So, like… now that you’ve actually done something worth cheering about… how long do you think it’ll be before your pitching in money for the school? You’re basically famous now, are you going to help the same people who brought you up to this position?
Ethan wanted to step down from the podium and leave for the night, but he willed a confident smile over his face, eyebrows raising curiously at the question.
Ethan: I’ll be helping out the school in any way I can… obviously with the whole wrestling gig I’m not going to be around twenty-four seven to provide help but… I’ll do what I can. As long as I’m keeping this place up and running and getting to see you guys, I’m all for giving financial assistance and doing promotional work, if that’s what’s needed.
Another voice in the crowd picked up, carrying through from around the middle of the gymnasium to where he stood. The young male, clearly drunk judging by the numerous spilled cups and the slurred note in his voice, got up to his feet and loudly began speaking.
: Ayyyy, so… what happened to dem boys Griff and Felt anyway? Did they leave you hanging, bro?
Ethan: I… Eddie hit me up a little while ago telling me he had some stuff to go through, I’m pretty sure he’s crashing at someone’s place right now? All I know is he’s safe, and still kicking ass over in the WCF.
: And Griff?
Ethan: Gabriel… he’s… we honestly don’t know what happened man. One night he just went out, said he had some business to take care of, and we haven’t seen him since. We’ve contacted authorities and conducted some of our own searches with friends and whatnot but… I don’t know man, it’s not looking great.
: So what does that mean for The Pride? Are all of you gonna split up and head your separate ways, try make something of yourselves as individual competitors? After you choke in the first round of Trios, how long yall gonna last?
The audience went silent, Ethan fixed the collar of his shirt and wiped away a few beads of sweat present on his brow. He hesitated momentarily, before raising the microphone even closer to his lips, clearly flustered.
Ethan: Look, dude. Everything’s going to be okay. Eddie’s going to be back soon, Gabriel will hopefully turn up… and we’ve got Tiffany White by our side this Sunday. She’s a respectable competitor in her own right. She held the TV Title, she stood up against people that most would be straight-up scared of. That’s someone we believe in, that’s someone we know can help get the job done. That’s why we’re going to walk out Sunday Night and go all-out, pick up yet another W, and head on to the second round of the tournament. You got that, or do I need to say it again for you?
Two of the young man’s friends grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him back down to his seat, Ethan nodded his thanks and looked to the crowd once more. His hand began to point outward, looking to give another person a chance to ask a question, but a small nudge on the shoulder garnered his attention, his head swiveled to the right, eyes opening slightly at the sight of Sudoku standing next to him. The man leaned in toward his ear and whispered…
Sudoku: We’ll take a break for a second. I know you just got started, but we need to calm everyone down a bit. Just go out, dance a little, have some fun. Miguel’s over in the corner, if you want to see another friendly face.
He gave him a gracious smile, before motioning for him to walk away from the podium and down the small set of stairs leading off the stage. The older man pulled the microphone towards him.
Sudoku: Thank you everyone for your eagerness to ask this young man some questions, he’ll be answering some more in a bit. But we thought we’d get everyone into a more relaxed mood by starting the dance! Find some partners, head on up toward the stage, drinks and food are still all around. Enjoy yourselves, Ethan will be back shortly.
He nodded toward a man in the corner, who began playing…
RiFF RAFF - AQUABERRY DOLPHiN
Ethan glanced at the local DJ in the corner, dabbing and whipping like a #FUCCBOI, much to the amusement of all the people seated, who were inspired by this white man’s incredible dancing ability and starting making their way towards the stage.
Ethan shook his head miserably, and navigated through the SEA of people carrying their drinks and shouting out in excitement. Through a bit of weaving and swaying, Ethan managed to make it to the corner where Miguel sat in relatively unscathed. He was greeted with a welcoming smile and a solid handshake.
Miguel: Looks like my advice worked, my dude. You fucking killed it.
Although stoic on the outside, Ethan’s chest was welling up with pride on the inside, he nodded his head in a rather demure manner, as if not willing to take full credit for the victory.
Ethan: You played a big part man… I seriously don’t know how I would’ve done it without you lighting the fire. A couple days before the match? I felt like absolute shit, for real.
Miguel clapped him on the shoulder, and with his free hand offered his friend a drink. From Ethan’s perspective, it looked like urine, but he took it anyway and swallowed down a hearty swig. He wiped away a bit of the excess from his lips with the back of his hand, whilst nodding his thanks.
Miguel: Don’t mention it. Anyway, you hype for this week, or what? This is where you prove that shit wasn’t a fluke, that you’re going to be taking names from here on out.
Ethan: You know what? I think I am dude. I’m done thinking I’m not good enough, that’s not going to get me anywhere. I’m coming in with full confidence, it’s either that or I end up back where I started… and I don’t think I’m willing to let go of this feeling I got right now.
Miguel: What feeling?
Ethan: Pride.
The two exchanged an amused glance, and broke out into shared laughter.
Miguel: Fuck you, dude.
Ethan: Sorry, I had t-
His lips stopped moving, he lurched forward and staggered forward a step, nearly losing his balance entirely. Miguel supported him with two strong hands holding him up by the shoulders, a concerned expression taking over his features.
Miguel: You good?
Ethan: I…
Black dots began to fill his vision which was already swimming to begin with, his legs lost any remnants of strength they once had when they carried him into this packed building. He coughed loudly, although the sound was washed out by the sounds of blaring music in the background.
Miguel: Dude! I got you. Hold on, I’ll get you out of here.
Miguel dragged the virtually limp Ethan with a sense of urgency, carrying him along, his feet sliding helplessly against the hardwood as Miguel got him out of the cramped up, congested dance floor and table area. The two friends were in the foyer, and with outside assistance from a few concerned ‘partygoers’, Ethan was being laid down in a separate room that appeared to be some type of first aid room. Ethan’s eyes fluttered, his arms tried to rise upward to get him up off the bed he had been helped onto, but his swimming vision only saw the ghost of a smile on Miguel’s face, as he fell into…
THE LAIR OF THE KINGMAKER…
“Hello, my child. I take it you had a comfortable journey here?”
Ethan was awake.
Ethan was alert.
Instinctively, he took stock of his surroundings. Before him stood a sleek throne, flushed with royal reds and embedded with golden jewelry and shining silver. A man was seated on the throne, his eyes holding an amused glint within them, his chiselled features framed by the flowing dark hair that hung at his sides. Atop of that little head of his sat a crown, and on that defined face a curious little smile. Ethan’s head cranked around as his eyes analysed the throne room.
There was no-one else, only him…
And his Maker.
“I would prefer it if you spoke with me, rather than gawked at our wonderful surroundings. Show no fear, speak to your Maker, King.”
Ethan couldn’t help but smile at the play on words.
“I… I don’t even know what I’m doing here. One minute I-“
“You’re a champion now, Ethan. Uphold your honour, don’t shy away from the responsibility.”
He rose his hand, as if calling for him to stand. He obliged, looking at the man in front of him with a quizzical expression.
“There’s a lot resting on your shoulders, my child. Your friend failed me, he wasn’t strong enough to carry on with my legacy. He didn’t want to be my greatest supporter, and my number one prospect. Instead, he thought it would be better to spit in my face and decline the greatest honour of all. I pray you don’t make the same mistake, child.”
“I don’t understand. What am I doing here? You don’t understand, I’m…”
“No, child. YOU are the one who doesn’t understand. How can you sit here and mock me, act as if you don’t know that this was your destiny!”
A stern, stoic expression crossed over the Kingmaker’s face, his brow furrowed inward, cold eyes burrowing through him.
“I’m… I’m sorry, there’s just…”
“So much pressure, isn’t there?”
The Kingmaker waved a hand around, and the throne room evaporated. All that remained was the throne itself, which he was still sitting on, back straight and elegant. He shot a look into the distance, causing Ethan’s eyes to follow with him, to the widespread land. To the vast mountain ranges and the expansive forests, as well as the townspeople who lived in the city beneath them.
“It only grows more difficult with time, my child. Becoming a champion of the people is the first step, it teaches you a lot. I went through the same thing, I became one of the cornerstones of the world we work in today. Every week, I bled and destroyed for my Kingdom, the Kingdom I now rule with an iron fist. And what did the people do?”
Silence.
“They laughed, they mocked, they jeered, they booed. All-in-all, they dismissed me. Do you want to be dismissed, my child? Do you want to be looked upon like some sort of joke? Like you don’t belong, like you’re never going to be anything more than just the people’s pet?”
“No.”
“You’re just a product for their entertainment. Just like I was, but I rose above all, I conquered. Are you going to be a conqueror, are you going to defeat the powers that be?”
“Yes.”
“FOOL.”
Propelled backward by a wave of invisible energy, Ethan soared through the air, eyes facing toward the sky and the wall of perfect white clouds before him, before he crashed down into the ground. The smell of blood and dirt washed over him, he coughed and spluttered whilst gasping for oxygen – the wind knocked out of him after the powerful blow. By the time he mustered the will to sit back up, the Kingmaker was towering over him, sleek physique and cruel eyes glaring down over him with apathy and disgust.
“I, Ethan King, am the power now. I am the one and only power in the world you live in, I am the one you look up to, I am the one you see in your dreams, and I am the one that will decide when and where you have your moment. Don’t you dare try and overrule me, the man who made YOUR dream possible. Without me, you are nothing.”
He pauses, recomposing himself.
“You have disappointed me, my child. I truly thought you would prove to be better than this. But… there is hope yet. You only have to prove yourself, if you’re willing to do so. If not… then you will meet your demise. Slowly, painfully, even.”
“I’m… I’m not sure….”
A scream escapes from the Kingmaker’s mouth, his eyelids throwing themselves completely open to reveal a blood-red iris and hollow, lifeless pupils. The Kingmaker’s face appears directly in front of Ethan, to which the young man tries to recoil backward, only to be dragged in by some unseen power.
“God you’re a fuccin faggot, aren’t ya Ethan? You had to let everyone down again, trust a spineless, limp-dicked fuck like yourself to accomplish something as monumental as that.”
With a snap of the fingers, Ethan’s body is warped onto a wooden stage, with rows of people lined up on neatly organized seats, each of their eyes locked on the man in front of him. Ethan’s eyes fearfully dance around, after gaining his bearings, he feels the cold iron of a blade pressed up against his throat. When his head inevitably turns upward, he sees him.
The Kingmaker.
“Make your move, faggot. Kill, or be killed.”
I’m trying to reach you.
Trying to reach you.
TRYING TO REACH YOU.
Ethan’s eyes lock with The Kingmaker’s, those hollow, lifeless eyes. Devoid of passion, devoid of hope, only the dead flame that is now seeping its way into Ethan’s mind…
And completely taking over.
“Fuccin do it!”
The Kingmaker searches through Ethan’s green-blue eyes once more, and smiles.
He knows he’s won, as he contentedly watches Ethan draw breath to speak…
You're Mine, Now.
“So this is how it ends between us, huh Orbit? What a fucking way to go out, you useless cunt. Three weeks in a way against a guy you simply can’t beat in any way, shape or form, unless we’re counting losing every important match by a fucking landslide as an accomplishment.
Let’s get something straight here, you fucking loser. Just because you’re telling me you respect my abilities and shit, just because you KNOW I’m not just some joke you can demolish, doesn’t mean you stand a chance against me. In reality, it’s the complete fucking opposite. You’re stepping up to get fucking massacred once again, for the third week straight.
At first, you probably thought I was the underdog. After all, I was coming up against the esteemed Steve Orbit, right? A former World Champion, a legend who had done it all and had come back for another run, to try and show this new influx of talent that he still had what it takes to reach the top.
How did that fucking work for you? Three months in (or was it four? Nobody really gives a fuck) and you’ve accomplished sweet fuck all, you’ve walked back into the federation and gotten the biggest wake-up call of your life. Not only did you drop nearly all of your matches against Logan, but you dropped a World Title AND United States Title chance. Ladies and gentlemen, please watch as Bonnie Blue steps away from the role of ‘biggest choke artist’… and in comes your new holder of the award… STEVE ORBIT!
Yes, folks. This is what has happened to one of the hypest motherfucker’s on the roster. At least, that’s what he probably used to think he was, then he got hit with this right hand and realized that he ain’t got shit on the new blood. Now he’s staring into the eyes of a straight up killer, your current United States Champion, the hottest and fastest rising star in the history of the business, Ethan King.
What was it you were saying, buddy? If you somehow managed to win at Aftermath, you’d give me another shot at YOUR United States’ Champion? If only that were the reality. For you man? This was a pipe-dream, something you created in your own mind, your own little tale that you twisted and tried to turn into a reality. Unfortunately for you, there’s some people you just can’t beat. But you ALMOST got the job done, right? You had me on the ropes, not once, but twice? Your standing there with your participation award and smiling, knowing that you almost showed me up. That you were almost back to the peak you once hit all that time ago, back when you actually meant something, you know what I’m saying?
But besides that participation award you got, now you’re stepping up into the Trios Tournament with two guys that at the moment couldn’t even GET an award at the special fucking Olympics. I didn’t realize all the legends would be lining up for me to knock the fuck down the moment I won a championship around here. Hey, Sanchez! Now I know how you feel, getting this piece of shit title and getting thrown softballs like Logan and shit, like that even means anything.
That’s what this is, right? This is where Eddie Felt and Tiffany White get to sit back and watch as Ethan King single-handedly dismantles this team that was at one point probably considered favourites to win this shit, until they realized that this boy Ethan King could fucking obliterate their best member and smile while doing it.
And make no mistake about it, Steve Orbit definitely is the MVP of this F-Grade, lumped together pile of trash that’s looking like ThreeYung2Die right about now. Then again, that’s how basically all of these teams are gonna be looking the moment they step up to the ROTY. That’s Rookie of the Year for all of you fucking spastics that are gonna be dropping real quick the moment you’re unfortunate enough to step into the ring with me.
But don’t get me wrong, dude. This isn’t a matter of you not being good enough to get through the first round of the tournament. I’m sure if you were coming up against the TUB led Fake-DRG you’d maybe stand a bit of a chance. Hell, throw you in against The Family and you’d probably be a fucking favourite, but against us?
Dude, this isn’t a match. This is a fucking execution. Straight up.
And that’s just how it’s going to have to go for you, now isn’t it? You put in all this effort to try and gather this group of all-stars that could potentially carry you to the Trios Titles, and earn you a couple shots at another belt or two while you were at it… but while you were scavenging through the tip you decided to just say “fuck it” and pick the first two people that came in mind.
And even then, you’re still the fucking third wheel on this team. The team is named after the two guys who are probably going to be quitting after the monumental beatdown they receive at Slam, because let’s be real… who the fuck are these guys again?
The “Future” Jeff Purse?
Get the fuck out of here, bro. That ship sailed a long time ago, and now you’re staring into The Future King. That’s right, it’s Future v Future, except one of these guys already lost the touch that helped him reach his peak back in nobodygivesafuckingdamn.
Congrats, bro. You’re a WAR Winner, you’ve held a World Title. I bet you’re puffing your chest out right about now, aren’t ya? Knowing that you and the rest of your team are better than us… at least in one fucking category, which is accolades. Not saying much, considering all up you’ve been here about twenty times longer than us, and even then you still pale in comparison to our abilities.
And that shit ain’t even an exaggeration. This is just the cold, hard truth. These guys are stepping up into a massacre and they don’t even know it. Purse’s cock got a little bit of a rise the moment Orbit decided he was done dealing with real superstars like Fly and Corey Black, and decided to pick him. HIM! Jeff Purse, of all fucking people. Of all the useless, irrelevant, unwanted cunts in the federation, you picked him.
The guy whose got nothing better to do than jump on Dag’s shit and hope for the fucking best. And yeah, I hope you all see the irony in that statement, because this just proves how pathetic this guy is. When The Pride began annihilating Dag Riddik, it was a statement, it was us making an impact. It was us showing that we gave no fucks about these bottom-feeding scrubs that perpetuated their self-importance over the internet, but when Purse does it?
Dag fucking bodies this guy.
#LMAO
And you’d think a former world champion would at least have some pride about him, you know? You’d think he would at least have the ability to step up on twitter and drop some bombs, take some names. But nope, nope, nope. This guy drops the ball yet again and fails on a consistent basis, similar to how he fails to do anything of worth every time he returns and tries to make a big deal about himself, like we actually give a fuck about some Pantheon dick-riding scrub that won the Trios Titles that one time with guys that are twelve times better than him on his best day.
Isn’t this just history repeating itself, Purse? You hopping on the bandwagon with two guys that, while just as vapid, inane and delusional as you are, better than you could ever hope to be? Is this how you plan on coming back and making a splash in the WCF, by latching onto whoever you can and hoping they can carry you through to the promised land?
Fuck dude, I can already hear you crying now. “But Ethan! At Hellimination, I was the only one who gave our team a fighting chance!”
Give us them excuses, throw em out and scream them to the high heavens and above. It don’t mean shit man, like Orbit, you get those silver medals and flaunt them around like they actually mean shit. Except… there’s a difference, you’re never even coming in fucking second. You’re one of those guys hanging around at the back of the pack, choking on the dust of everyone and anyone. Bring in Grime, fuck it, bring in Slime and watch this failure drop yet another important match.
At WAR? You drop the ball.
At Hellimination? You drop the ball.
Your time at Pantheon? Wasted.
Your time in the WCF? Meaningless.
Your time as World Champion? Forgettable. Let’s get Jay Omega here and we can bring in yet another irrelevant Pantheon World Champion. Fuck, I could create a literal montage of all the moments this boy Jeff Purse has tried to strut his stuff and gotten raped harder than a thot trying to ride that Poondock THICK.
You see, Purse? This is just how the story goes for you, man.
>You appear all over twitter.
>Stop it, you irrelevant cunt.
>You don’t stop, you keep going. You get booked in a match.
>Oh shit, get hype. Jeff Purse is back yet again.
#OHWAIT
LMAO.
He fucking loses again!
Congratulations, my man. Not even past your prime and your already crawling up and dying like the worthless prick that you are. Come on, dude. Let’s hear it. Let’s hear how you’ve still got your best years ahead of you and that you can reach that peak once again. Let’s hear you give your best Steve Orbit impression and fuck it up because an F Minus level scrub like you can’t reach the D-Grade that your partner has been at since his return. And to think I’m dropping this legendary material on YOU of all people, when I could do it on someone important like… I don’t know…
Dag Riddik?
LOL.
My points been written all over this fucking shoot. Go through it, analyze it. Realize how fucking terrible you are and get back to me when maybe, just MAYBE, you’ve proven that you actually mean something. Take this as constructive criticism, whatever you want, whatever helps you sleep at night after you’ve been killed with fire and I’m feasting off of your fucking scraps, adding another killed legend to the list of people that have already dropped to YOUR United States Champion.
That’s right, Purse. Take Pride in knowing you’re facing the youngest US Champ that fuckin’ mattered, one of the most relevant men in the federation today, a guy that you look upon in awe even though you’ve already “accomplished more” in your little scrap book. Former World Champion my ass.
You know what? Unlike Orbit, I’m about to make a promise here, one that I’ll follow up on because I don’t choke in the clutch. Jeff Purse v Ethan King for the United States Title, whenever the situation calls for it. Whenever my schedules freed up after killing the remaining competition and throwing together what’s going to be regarded as the cleanest Trios Tournament sweet in the history of the WCF. Don’t worry man, I’ll be sharing the love all around. I’ll be getting my other title shots, I’ll be up at the top of the federation with this US Title wrapped around my THICK (shoutout to the poondocks) and then I’ll drop you once again.
In one fell swoop, I’m about to kill the remnants of Jeff Purse’s relevancy in the WCF, in one final flash this guy is going to be eviscerated in the worst way possible. Not only will he have the shame of letting down yet another team of superior talent, but I’m going to do it twice.
And after we’re done…
Stay retired, and die nameless.
And now, to the one and only #TwilightJobber, because this fucking guy wasn’t good enough to #GetSwoll and beat a chick that last we saw, was getting whooped all over the place. And that about sums up this guy in a nutshell, another overhyped motherfucker returning to the federation, only to be made out to be a literal joke.
Funny you end up going against Twilight, since you’re both about as fucking trash as the other. Twilight comes back and gets pinned with PUSH-UPS.
Yeah, I said it.
FUCKING.
PUSH-UPS.
Jared Holmes done killed this bitch a few months back, and now you’re coming out here and getting shot down by her in one match, in one match she ruined your great return and made you look like shit. Actually, scratch that. She proved that you simply ARE shit, while she’s one of those D-Grade Steve Orbit-type motherfucker’s, you’re a step below that.
Now, don’t get me wrong. You aren’t Jeff Purse level bad, I won’t put that burden upon anyone, but you know something’s up when you’re getting dropped by a former Family member.
Seriously, look at this teams fucking record against The Family. Orbit dropped numerous matches to Logan, both Purse and this Polar Phantasm faggot managed to somehow lose to Twilight, and now we’re here.
This isn’t Logan.
This isn’t Sarah Twilight.
This is the fucking Pride, and you know you done fucked up when you drew one of the best damn teams in the entire tournament in round one. But you know what? It’s all good. Go cry to Seth, go ask to be booked in some easier matches to ease yourself into your retur-oh wait nevermind, you already took the booking into your own hands, right… PP?
That’s what you did, right? You’re too busy hyping up matches with this FPV guy and you’re failing to realize that if you’re off your game, you’re going to be literally fucking murdered in your upcoming match. I’d say you down understand the gravity of the situation, but that’d be an understatement. This isn’t some foregone conclusion type shit, this is that “yep these guys are absolutely fucked” type shit, and yet you choose to remain ignorant. You choose to act like this isn’t what’s going to happen, you’re all hopeful and joyful, excited to be returning for this esteemed tournament…
The tournament where you get made out to be a fool, which is what you truly deserve. Another court jester stepping into my kingdom, about to get his shit kicked in like the bitch he is, like the bitch he always was, but nobody ever saw.
Allow me to expose you, just like I’m about to expose the rest of your pathetic team.
In a world of dipshits and perennial underachieves, you somehow manage to avoid both of these categories and fall into something that’s hardly seen by the human race. Yes, Polar, you’ve gone so far under that you’re dipping into them “mission abort” levels of ability. It’s that one moment where everybody in the room realizes that you’ve never been anything more than a placeholder in the federation. Talent enhancement? Nah, fuck that. That’s a compliment for a guy like you, I’d rather give a gold star to a dead kid and let his limp corpse head into the ring and take a couple punches than you, because that’s basically what you are.
Polar Phantasm, the walking punching bag, the returnee on a mission, the man so hyped up about his potential match with FPV that he’s gonna get his head cut clean off. You’re a low life with delusions, delusions that tell you you’ll emerge unscathed, that you’re going to be victorious and that you’ll actually mean something once again. After months of being considered a nobody, after going under the radar and getting no publicity after reaching the heights you once did, you face the God-Squad lead by the reigning United States Champion.
The moment I raise my hand and call for the end, you’ll be knocked with that Eddie Felt knee that’s going to feel like a 100 of those bitch ass Pimp Slap’s, and you’ll be fading back into obscurity along with the rest of your little group. While you watch me grab Jeff Purse and fucking decapitate him right in the middle of the room, while you watch me Kill him with Fire and ensure he never gets back up to wrestle in a WCF ring again, you’re gonna be thinking…
“Why the fuck did I even bother?”
And you’ll be right to think that. It’s a hard thing to accept, but Polar Phantasm…
You never stood a chance.
And that’s just something you’re going to have to come to terms with, something that you’ll have to accept.
But I want you to know something dude, I want you to realize that this was just the way it was meant to be, it wasn’t just a sheer coincidence you were set up to face me in the first round, it wasn’t just bad luck. It was fate, it was destiny, it was all of that and more. It was set up the moment I beat your boy Steve Orbit and had him questioning his life, questioning his whole damn career the moment I gave him the debilitating loss that sends him even further down into the pack of average-joes that clamour and pander to Kings such as myself, hoping that I give them any attention.
And trust me when I say… all eyes are going to be on you come Sunday Night, you’ll be getting all the publicity you could’ve ever imagined. After I’m done ruining your whole squad, you’re not only going to be thanking me, but you’re going to be praying to based Seth, kneeling before him and kissing his feet, because THIS is your defining moment. This is when you get the most cheers you ever have in your pitiful career, because you’re not facing just any average team, not some jacked up old cunts (such as yourselves) who think they mean something anymore.
And I know, I know. You’re not all that old, you’re still young, you’ve still got your whole lives and careers ahead of you. At least, that’s what you’re saying NOW. But what’s going to happen when, like Steve Orbit, I outperform you so much that you question your whole existence? I’ve already got you scared, got you running, got you wondering why you’re even bothering with this shit when I’m already murdering you this badly verbally… but when we get in the ring?
Dude, this isn’t even a contest.
And you know what? You can blame Steve Orbit, you can blame the guy whose been whispering all these kind, nice little words into your ear, telling you that the guy that’s made him a laughing stock not once, but twice, isn’t all that. That he’s just an overhyped, eager rookie trying to make a name for himself. He’ll tell you all of that, without realizing that he was once in that same position, except even he couldn’t have hoped to make an impact like I have.
Two months, ladies and gentlemen. That’s all it took for me to walk into this federation and take gold from a champion who by some critics was deemed unbeatable for that United States Title, this thing that I’m carrying with me and pissing on because at this point… I could literally shit on the fucking title and people would still be calling this thing one of the most prestigious belts in the competition. That’s what happens when I, Ethan King, decide I’m done fucking around and take what’s most valuable to the individuals who live and breathe on these minor successes.
Steve Orbit picks up one fucking win in countless months, and decides to say that’s he’s finally picked himself back up to his feet, that’s he’s finally gotten some momentum.
Jeff Purse decides that he hasn’t become totally irrelevant, that he had some success by becoming a Trios Champion, and that’s he’s still got it.
And Polar Phantasm thinks he’s going to be winning with guys like these. In one fucking era, which isn’t even all that long in WCF terms, these guys literally entered and departed from their primes. In an age where monsters like Dune dominate for months on end, reigns by Orbit and Purse look weak and pale in comparison to what can be accomplished now by the talent that’s been popping up.
This week is just another example of that process of evolution, where the weak are slowly being weened out by people that are just plain better than them in every way imaginable. It’s a shame, really. While I’m dropping some of the hottest fucking fire available to the WCF, the only stuff I’m getting in response is weak sauce, lukewarm shit at best.
And these are the legends that we’re supposed to be afraid of? The guys that were once at the top of this federation, the cornerstones and centrepieces of the great WCF? Fuck, give me #BeachKrew and the shitty 2015 DRG over these pathetic cunts any day of the week. It’s almost as if we’re being expected to drop our game to their level just so they can keep up.
They may have been quick, but we’re just that much quicker.
They might think they’re smart, but they’re playing chess with us and just throwing the pieces randomly around the room, hoping they connect with anyone and anything, hoping that any of their meaningless points somehow draw some kind of reaction from the audience who long ago stopped giving a fuck about these guys.
And that’s what this all comes down to in the end. It’s just a waiting game at this point. This whole teams abilities have dwindled down to virtually nothing, all hope has been lost for these guys who at once were looked upon in awe. Now? We’re just waiting for everyone, and I mean everyone, to stop caring. To stop reacting, to stop showing love for people who long ago stopped giving in the performances that midcarders in todays’ WCF drop on the daily. How long do we put up with it? How long do we put up with these guys stooping around the mid-card, stealing away the opportunities from guys that could, 100 times out of 100, completely obliterate them?
Enough is enough.
Steve Orbit. After this, you’re fucking done. After I’m done making a fool of you for the third time straight, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you’re done wasting your time around here, getting your ass kicked week in, week out. I want you to look at your eternally superior competitor and take comfort in knowing that never once in our miniature war did you ever have the upper-hand, that you never had me on the ropes, that you ever had me questioning if I could defeat you. Because I knew it, we all knew it. That it was all just a matter of time, before I dropped you on your head and left you dazed.
Don’t think any differently, buddy. When it’s all said and done, once I’ve pinned Jeff Purse and you’re wondering what went one, you’ll stare into these eyes and you’ll fucking bend the knee. You’ll drop before your one and only King, and that will be the end of that. The tale of Steve Orbit, finally ended up after years and years of hard work, commitment and dedication, that all led to him getting fucking bodied.
And you can tell your teammates the exact same thing, because that’s the fate that’s laid out for all of them. Whether it be Jeff Purse in a few weeks, or Polar Phantasm after he’s done messing around at XIII. I don’t care.
This is where your stories end.
And this…
Is where a true legend begins."
The Kingmaker smiles at Ethan, and draws the blade away from his throat. The insulting demeanour from before is suddenly dropped, and he’s back to being kind and courteous.
“Excellent work, my child. I knew you could do it, I always had faith.”
Then, his eyes go into a crazed frenzy once more.
“SIKE!”
In one fluid motion, the blade is drawn back fully, and then directed straight toward the neck, cutting it at the perfect angle and lopping Ethan King’s head right off, blood sprays into the air, spilling onto the hollow timber and dripping onto the ground. The Kingmaker’s face is drenched in the sticky liquid, he grabs the decapitated head by the shoulders and raises it high into the sky.
“You’re no true King.”
I AM AWAKE.
I AM ALERT.
Ethan King sits directly up from the bed, drenched in sweat and the odor of alcohol. He forces his eyes open, and is immediately greeted with the view of Miguel Myles, giving him a kind-hearted, benevolent smile.
Miguel: It’s alright man, just go back to sleep. Everything’s okay.
Ethan glared around the room suspiciously, as if trying to catch a sight of the Kingmaker, the man who tormented him.
Ethan: That wasn’t me man, that wasn’t me. That’s not who I am, alright? I’m not… I’m not…
Miguel: It’s all good. Don’t worry about it. Go to sleep. You’ll wake up and forget all about it.
Ethan: I’m not…
With a delicate touch, Miguel pushed Ethan down to the bed, resting the back of his head on the soft pillow, still covered with his sticky sweat. Ethan whispered the words to himself.
“I’m not cold blooded at heart.
I’m not cold blooded at heart.
I’m not cold blooded at heart.
That wasn’t me.
That wasn’t me.
It wasn’t.”
From seemingly out of nowhere, a child ran down his spine, and the face of the Kingmaker FLASHED before his eyes once more.
“That was you.
And you know it.”
2014
Seven men, each fitted with extravagant black suits coupled with ties and briefcases, filed into the lavishly furnished office. Extravagant portraits of country landscapes hung on the maroon walls, dim lights gave the somewhat darkened office a mysterious edge to it, chairs were brusquely pulled from underneath tables; men soon seating themselves upon the plush, leather objects. At once, the seven men placed their own briefcase upon the beautifully carved circular table. The first six men, whilst upper-class and dignified, evident by the way they sat up straight and peered around with narrowed, sharp eyes… there was nothing out of the ordinary about them. The seventh man however, was of a different upbringing, a different breed.
A different monster.
His eyes were an entrancing amber, flecked with golden sparks that reflected the dim lights. His lips, while thin and pale, were curled up in an amused smile. While the rest of his peers were all-business and entirely formal, he had an aura of complete and utter certainty, of entire belief and confidence. It oozed out of him, the way he leaned backward with those upturned lips, the expectant and amused looks he shot at those who sat across from him. He fixed the collar of his white suit; the only one being worn at the table tonight.
He deliberately exaggerated the movement of hunching forward, resting his hands together politely in front of him, his smile growing wider as he assessed the group.
White Suit: I’d like to believe you all know exactly why we’re here.
The man directly to his right swivelled on his chair slightly, giving him a perplexed look.
: You’d be right in that assumption. I’m still not sure if we all buy what you’re selling though. There’s a huge amount of risk in this little scheme of yours, one that some of us not be willing to take. The stakes are high, it may not be in our best interest to accept him as ‘The One.’
White Suit chuckled while shooting a glance at the rest of the table. In one fluid motion, he spreads out his arms, as if welcoming the others to say their peace.
White Suit: Well? What about the rest of you? Do you all have some sort of problem with the man in question? Do you think he may not be able enough, skilled enough, TALENTED enough to carry on the legacy? To carry on with what those of the past – and we here today, have been working on for so, so long? If so, speak your mind. Let me know what troubles you, allow me to dispel all these notions that the man in question is someone not worthy of taking this position.
Silence ensued, eyes darted curiously around the room, trying to find who would be the first to break, who would be the first to lose their cool in the face of the White Suit and his all-encompassing presence. Someone toward the back of the room, concealed partially by the lack of light in that area of the room, gulped nervously, before clearing his throat. The White Suit clapped cheerily.
White Suit: Excellent work, Simon. Finally, SOMEONE with some backbone around here, someone willing to take a stand. Tell me, what do you take issue with?
Simon: There still hasn’t been enough research done on the boy. He’s hardly out of high school yet, he’s constantly surrounding himself with the presence of friends and family. We’ve only seen him at his best, never in times or trouble or need. We’re still unsure of how he will handle himself in those situations, when things don’t go exactly to plan, when danger strikes and he’s left with nothing but his own wits and knowledge to protect himself. How can we be confident in someone with such little experience?
White Suit: Ah, but Simon. Weren’t you of a similar age before I brought you in with open arms? When I brought you into this room and allowed you to become one of us? Allow me to be clear with you; this is no mere child. He is a providence, he will amount to far more than you ever will in your lifetime. Do you understand that?
He drew breath to respond, but cut himself short. He sighed, before reluctantly agreeing.
Simon: Yes, sir. I understand. It’s just… the man in question…
The man to his left interjected.
: No, sir. I cannot stand for this. I won’t. Simon is right – he’s still surrounded by security and friendship. He won’t leave them, he won’t leave all of that just to side with us. We won’t be able to offer anything to him at first. It’ll be YEARS before the boy is experienced enough in our methods that we will be able to convert him, to bring him in and shape him into something great. His mind is far too innocent, far too naïve at the moment. I know that, you know that. We all know that. And we all know that this isn’t the way we work. We don’t take a stab in the dark and hope that we come out with a gem, we carefully select who we want, we plan accordingly. We don’t just… just… rush headlong into the situation like a wild bull, sir.
White Suit: You pain me, Marcus. You truly do. Have I not told you before that this is more than just a hunch? Words have been whispered into the winds and have been carried to me via the wings of soaring birds. The higher powers meet, they tell me all I need to know. They tell me that he very well may be ‘The One.’ They also remind me about what we stand for.
Slowly, he opens up the steel briefcase in front of him, the locks clicking open whilst White Suit pushes the lid open. His bony hand warps around the laptop being held inside the case, before latching onto it and gently laying it down on the wood before him. A push of a button and a quick turn of the screen, and a word flashes up on the screen.
REALITY.
White Suit: We are not just simply businessmen, or government officials, or average citizens. We are not in the pursuit of some ridiculous notion being perpetuated by the masses, our cause isn’t one of rashness or fear. We form this council and discuss potential bearers of the flame for one reason, and one reason only. We are the ones who are hidden by the shadow, but light the spark for change. We’re here to promote REALITY, gentlemen. We are here to usher in a new era, and it all starts with the man in question. Do we take him on board, along with whomever he may bring along into our plans, and craft him into the centrepiece… the foundation for all things to come? To carry him into this room and help him understand that he truly can make a difference, if he is willing to sacrifice it all? Or do we miss yet another opportunity to take destiny, to take FATE itself into our own hands. What say you, my friends?
The question hangs in the air, the men all exchange knowing looks with each other – this is where they make the decision. White Suit offers them a contrite, apologetic smile, his voice suddenly very reverent.
White Suit: My apologies. I should not have accosted you all in such a manner, and I appreciate your candidness with me.
He addresses the last few words at both Marcus and Simon, who nod, stoic expressions framed over their faces. White Suit glances around the table, eyebrows raised curiously.
White Suit: Well then, shall we put it to a vote?
The group all nod in agreement.
White Suit: Excellent. Proudly say ‘Aye’ if you are in full acceptance of the man in question being the next one in line to be brought into our order, to be trained in our ways and to follow our footsteps. If you disagree with this notion, then say ‘Nay.’ Dale. We’ll start with you.
The balding man seated next to White Suit contemplates his options quickly. After coming to a decision, he nods confidently, a slight smile touching his lips.
Dale: Aye.
White Suit gestures for the next man to continue, the rest follow in suit.
: Aye.
: Aye.
: Aye, sir.
Marcus: …
White Suit: Marcus?
Marcus: …Aye
Simon: N-…
White Suit smiles, realizing he’s won.
Simon: A-… Aye.
With a clap and a hearty grin, White Suit pops up to his feet, shutting his laptop close and filing it back into the briefcase. He inclines his head towards the men.
White Suit: I will get into contact with our prospect when the time is right. For now, gentlemen. Carry on with your respective projects. Once we have gained the trust of the man in question, everything shall fall into place shortly.
SIX MONTHS LATER…
White Suit and the man in question walk side by side, the latter wearing a hoodie that can’t contain his messy hair, and fails miserably to conceal the enigmatic blue-green haze that fills his eyes. He has a smile etched over his face and is leaning ever-so-slightly to the left, as if trying to gain just a bit more knowledge from the awe-inspiring figure speaking to him.
White Suit: You know, we weren’t certain you were going to accept our invitation. We’re very glad you decided to take a chance here.
He gives the young man a reassuring pat on the shoulder, flashing him a brilliant white smile.
White Suit: You’re going to become something great, Ethan.
The young man smiles ruefully, going a tinge red, while almost laughing at the statement itself.
Ethan: Well… I’m always willing to give it my best shot! I… I actually kind of forgot your name. Would you mind…?
White Suit: Of course, I’m-
CUT TO BLACK.
The night had come alive, rain echoed and pattered against the city sidewalks and flooded the outdoor areas of the college campus, winds blew and sent pamphlets and flyers scrambling off into the pitch black. Excited voices blew up into a frenzy as the man of the hour, Ethan King, stepped into the school gymnasium, set up with countless white tables and equally pale chairs, as well as a small, makeshift stage coupled with a microphone rising up from the ground, backed up by a wooden podium. Expectant faces and cheerful smiles greeted the young man as he walked through the foyer and onto the hardwood flooring.
Toward the edge of the gym, plates of food and alcoholic beverages were situated on rectangular tables that extended around virtually the entire right side of the room, Ethan King smiled ruefully as he waved a hand dismissively at a girl two years his elder – eagerly and hopefully offering him a cup of some concoction clearly put together by a group of troublemakers at the campus… or Eddie Felt.
Sudoku walked beside the young United States Champion, carrying the belt for him with a smile full of joy and pride, he ushered Ethan along, beckoning for him to take his place amongst the schools greats and stand at the podium. He obliged reluctantly, a weary smile on his face after a long flight and drive back to the campus, accompanied by both his sister, Kylie, and his girlfriend, Cara Segreti. The three had gone their separate ways shortly after return, leaving Ethan to contemplate his future alone. It was only moments later he received the call that would lead him into this very situation, staring into the crowds of people that had gathered to support him, to celebrate his victory, to ask him questions and get the mandatory responses, responses that promised they too could reach their dreams and goals with hours of long, hard work.
Ethan’s gut churned, he looked through the rows and columns of people sitting down, glancing up at him as he took his position at the podium, he brought the microphone toward his lips, licking them hesitantly and coughing. A wild cheer went up from the back of the gym, Ethan chuckled whilst turning a shade red.
Ethan: Before I get started… I’d like to thank everyone for showing up. I literally didn’t know this was going down until like… three hours ago. Big props to everyone who set this up, everyone who planned it from the very beginning… and for everyone whose been showing support for The Pride since we debuted a few months ago. We’ve taken a few hits, but that hasn’t stopped us, and it’s partly thanks to all the work you guys have been putting in. I can’t state how appreciative I am, and I’m sure if Gabriel and Eddie were around, they’d be saying the exact same thing.
His bites the inside of his cheek lightly, knowing that he’s getting away with murder here. The group of students are still smiling and clapping, as if they don’t realize the words sound like they’ve been written directly on the palm of his hand. His half-hearted grin, leagues below his natural, easy-going smile isn’t doing much to support him. He coughs into the microphone once again, glancing over at Sudoku, looking for some type of assistance. The older man steps up to his feet gracefully, cupping his hands over his mouth as he surveys the crowd.
Sudoku: Could we get a few questions for our champion? It’s the least you could do, he’s come back from a long trip, after all!
Hands immediately rise up in unison, some especially eager students leaning over their seats and tables in anticipation, Ethan’s lips break out into a smile as he turns his hand about and points at the nearest person to him. It takes him a few moments, but he remembers the iconic bleach-blonde hair of the girl he picked out in the group. Instantly taking him back to a few weeks ago, when the same girl was sneering at him in disdain after his fails attempt to topple the #BeachKrew.
His smile fades away.
Sudoku: Georgia, go ahead.
Georgia: So, like… now that you’ve actually done something worth cheering about… how long do you think it’ll be before your pitching in money for the school? You’re basically famous now, are you going to help the same people who brought you up to this position?
Ethan wanted to step down from the podium and leave for the night, but he willed a confident smile over his face, eyebrows raising curiously at the question.
Ethan: I’ll be helping out the school in any way I can… obviously with the whole wrestling gig I’m not going to be around twenty-four seven to provide help but… I’ll do what I can. As long as I’m keeping this place up and running and getting to see you guys, I’m all for giving financial assistance and doing promotional work, if that’s what’s needed.
Another voice in the crowd picked up, carrying through from around the middle of the gymnasium to where he stood. The young male, clearly drunk judging by the numerous spilled cups and the slurred note in his voice, got up to his feet and loudly began speaking.
: Ayyyy, so… what happened to dem boys Griff and Felt anyway? Did they leave you hanging, bro?Ethan: I… Eddie hit me up a little while ago telling me he had some stuff to go through, I’m pretty sure he’s crashing at someone’s place right now? All I know is he’s safe, and still kicking ass over in the WCF.
: And Griff?Ethan: Gabriel… he’s… we honestly don’t know what happened man. One night he just went out, said he had some business to take care of, and we haven’t seen him since. We’ve contacted authorities and conducted some of our own searches with friends and whatnot but… I don’t know man, it’s not looking great.
: So what does that mean for The Pride? Are all of you gonna split up and head your separate ways, try make something of yourselves as individual competitors? After you choke in the first round of Trios, how long yall gonna last?The audience went silent, Ethan fixed the collar of his shirt and wiped away a few beads of sweat present on his brow. He hesitated momentarily, before raising the microphone even closer to his lips, clearly flustered.
Ethan: Look, dude. Everything’s going to be okay. Eddie’s going to be back soon, Gabriel will hopefully turn up… and we’ve got Tiffany White by our side this Sunday. She’s a respectable competitor in her own right. She held the TV Title, she stood up against people that most would be straight-up scared of. That’s someone we believe in, that’s someone we know can help get the job done. That’s why we’re going to walk out Sunday Night and go all-out, pick up yet another W, and head on to the second round of the tournament. You got that, or do I need to say it again for you?
Two of the young man’s friends grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him back down to his seat, Ethan nodded his thanks and looked to the crowd once more. His hand began to point outward, looking to give another person a chance to ask a question, but a small nudge on the shoulder garnered his attention, his head swiveled to the right, eyes opening slightly at the sight of Sudoku standing next to him. The man leaned in toward his ear and whispered…
Sudoku: We’ll take a break for a second. I know you just got started, but we need to calm everyone down a bit. Just go out, dance a little, have some fun. Miguel’s over in the corner, if you want to see another friendly face.
He gave him a gracious smile, before motioning for him to walk away from the podium and down the small set of stairs leading off the stage. The older man pulled the microphone towards him.
Sudoku: Thank you everyone for your eagerness to ask this young man some questions, he’ll be answering some more in a bit. But we thought we’d get everyone into a more relaxed mood by starting the dance! Find some partners, head on up toward the stage, drinks and food are still all around. Enjoy yourselves, Ethan will be back shortly.
He nodded toward a man in the corner, who began playing…
RiFF RAFF - AQUABERRY DOLPHiN
Ethan glanced at the local DJ in the corner, dabbing and whipping like a #FUCCBOI, much to the amusement of all the people seated, who were inspired by this white man’s incredible dancing ability and starting making their way towards the stage.
Ethan shook his head miserably, and navigated through the SEA of people carrying their drinks and shouting out in excitement. Through a bit of weaving and swaying, Ethan managed to make it to the corner where Miguel sat in relatively unscathed. He was greeted with a welcoming smile and a solid handshake.
Miguel: Looks like my advice worked, my dude. You fucking killed it.
Although stoic on the outside, Ethan’s chest was welling up with pride on the inside, he nodded his head in a rather demure manner, as if not willing to take full credit for the victory.
Ethan: You played a big part man… I seriously don’t know how I would’ve done it without you lighting the fire. A couple days before the match? I felt like absolute shit, for real.
Miguel clapped him on the shoulder, and with his free hand offered his friend a drink. From Ethan’s perspective, it looked like urine, but he took it anyway and swallowed down a hearty swig. He wiped away a bit of the excess from his lips with the back of his hand, whilst nodding his thanks.
Miguel: Don’t mention it. Anyway, you hype for this week, or what? This is where you prove that shit wasn’t a fluke, that you’re going to be taking names from here on out.
Ethan: You know what? I think I am dude. I’m done thinking I’m not good enough, that’s not going to get me anywhere. I’m coming in with full confidence, it’s either that or I end up back where I started… and I don’t think I’m willing to let go of this feeling I got right now.
Miguel: What feeling?
Ethan: Pride.
The two exchanged an amused glance, and broke out into shared laughter.
Miguel: Fuck you, dude.
Ethan: Sorry, I had t-
His lips stopped moving, he lurched forward and staggered forward a step, nearly losing his balance entirely. Miguel supported him with two strong hands holding him up by the shoulders, a concerned expression taking over his features.
Miguel: You good?
Ethan: I…
Black dots began to fill his vision which was already swimming to begin with, his legs lost any remnants of strength they once had when they carried him into this packed building. He coughed loudly, although the sound was washed out by the sounds of blaring music in the background.
Miguel: Dude! I got you. Hold on, I’ll get you out of here.
Miguel dragged the virtually limp Ethan with a sense of urgency, carrying him along, his feet sliding helplessly against the hardwood as Miguel got him out of the cramped up, congested dance floor and table area. The two friends were in the foyer, and with outside assistance from a few concerned ‘partygoers’, Ethan was being laid down in a separate room that appeared to be some type of first aid room. Ethan’s eyes fluttered, his arms tried to rise upward to get him up off the bed he had been helped onto, but his swimming vision only saw the ghost of a smile on Miguel’s face, as he fell into…
THE LAIR OF THE KINGMAKER…
“Hello, my child. I take it you had a comfortable journey here?”
Ethan was awake.
Ethan was alert.
Instinctively, he took stock of his surroundings. Before him stood a sleek throne, flushed with royal reds and embedded with golden jewelry and shining silver. A man was seated on the throne, his eyes holding an amused glint within them, his chiselled features framed by the flowing dark hair that hung at his sides. Atop of that little head of his sat a crown, and on that defined face a curious little smile. Ethan’s head cranked around as his eyes analysed the throne room.
There was no-one else, only him…
And his Maker.
“I would prefer it if you spoke with me, rather than gawked at our wonderful surroundings. Show no fear, speak to your Maker, King.”
Ethan couldn’t help but smile at the play on words.
“I… I don’t even know what I’m doing here. One minute I-“
“You’re a champion now, Ethan. Uphold your honour, don’t shy away from the responsibility.”
He rose his hand, as if calling for him to stand. He obliged, looking at the man in front of him with a quizzical expression.
“There’s a lot resting on your shoulders, my child. Your friend failed me, he wasn’t strong enough to carry on with my legacy. He didn’t want to be my greatest supporter, and my number one prospect. Instead, he thought it would be better to spit in my face and decline the greatest honour of all. I pray you don’t make the same mistake, child.”
“I don’t understand. What am I doing here? You don’t understand, I’m…”
“No, child. YOU are the one who doesn’t understand. How can you sit here and mock me, act as if you don’t know that this was your destiny!”
A stern, stoic expression crossed over the Kingmaker’s face, his brow furrowed inward, cold eyes burrowing through him.
“I’m… I’m sorry, there’s just…”
“So much pressure, isn’t there?”
The Kingmaker waved a hand around, and the throne room evaporated. All that remained was the throne itself, which he was still sitting on, back straight and elegant. He shot a look into the distance, causing Ethan’s eyes to follow with him, to the widespread land. To the vast mountain ranges and the expansive forests, as well as the townspeople who lived in the city beneath them.
“It only grows more difficult with time, my child. Becoming a champion of the people is the first step, it teaches you a lot. I went through the same thing, I became one of the cornerstones of the world we work in today. Every week, I bled and destroyed for my Kingdom, the Kingdom I now rule with an iron fist. And what did the people do?”
Silence.
“They laughed, they mocked, they jeered, they booed. All-in-all, they dismissed me. Do you want to be dismissed, my child? Do you want to be looked upon like some sort of joke? Like you don’t belong, like you’re never going to be anything more than just the people’s pet?”
“No.”
“You’re just a product for their entertainment. Just like I was, but I rose above all, I conquered. Are you going to be a conqueror, are you going to defeat the powers that be?”
“Yes.”
“FOOL.”
Propelled backward by a wave of invisible energy, Ethan soared through the air, eyes facing toward the sky and the wall of perfect white clouds before him, before he crashed down into the ground. The smell of blood and dirt washed over him, he coughed and spluttered whilst gasping for oxygen – the wind knocked out of him after the powerful blow. By the time he mustered the will to sit back up, the Kingmaker was towering over him, sleek physique and cruel eyes glaring down over him with apathy and disgust.
“I, Ethan King, am the power now. I am the one and only power in the world you live in, I am the one you look up to, I am the one you see in your dreams, and I am the one that will decide when and where you have your moment. Don’t you dare try and overrule me, the man who made YOUR dream possible. Without me, you are nothing.”
He pauses, recomposing himself.
“You have disappointed me, my child. I truly thought you would prove to be better than this. But… there is hope yet. You only have to prove yourself, if you’re willing to do so. If not… then you will meet your demise. Slowly, painfully, even.”
“I’m… I’m not sure….”
A scream escapes from the Kingmaker’s mouth, his eyelids throwing themselves completely open to reveal a blood-red iris and hollow, lifeless pupils. The Kingmaker’s face appears directly in front of Ethan, to which the young man tries to recoil backward, only to be dragged in by some unseen power.
“God you’re a fuccin faggot, aren’t ya Ethan? You had to let everyone down again, trust a spineless, limp-dicked fuck like yourself to accomplish something as monumental as that.”
With a snap of the fingers, Ethan’s body is warped onto a wooden stage, with rows of people lined up on neatly organized seats, each of their eyes locked on the man in front of him. Ethan’s eyes fearfully dance around, after gaining his bearings, he feels the cold iron of a blade pressed up against his throat. When his head inevitably turns upward, he sees him.
The Kingmaker.
“Make your move, faggot. Kill, or be killed.”
I’m trying to reach you.
Trying to reach you.
TRYING TO REACH YOU.
Ethan’s eyes lock with The Kingmaker’s, those hollow, lifeless eyes. Devoid of passion, devoid of hope, only the dead flame that is now seeping its way into Ethan’s mind…
And completely taking over.
“Fuccin do it!”
The Kingmaker searches through Ethan’s green-blue eyes once more, and smiles.
He knows he’s won, as he contentedly watches Ethan draw breath to speak…
You're Mine, Now.
“So this is how it ends between us, huh Orbit? What a fucking way to go out, you useless cunt. Three weeks in a way against a guy you simply can’t beat in any way, shape or form, unless we’re counting losing every important match by a fucking landslide as an accomplishment.
Let’s get something straight here, you fucking loser. Just because you’re telling me you respect my abilities and shit, just because you KNOW I’m not just some joke you can demolish, doesn’t mean you stand a chance against me. In reality, it’s the complete fucking opposite. You’re stepping up to get fucking massacred once again, for the third week straight.
At first, you probably thought I was the underdog. After all, I was coming up against the esteemed Steve Orbit, right? A former World Champion, a legend who had done it all and had come back for another run, to try and show this new influx of talent that he still had what it takes to reach the top.
How did that fucking work for you? Three months in (or was it four? Nobody really gives a fuck) and you’ve accomplished sweet fuck all, you’ve walked back into the federation and gotten the biggest wake-up call of your life. Not only did you drop nearly all of your matches against Logan, but you dropped a World Title AND United States Title chance. Ladies and gentlemen, please watch as Bonnie Blue steps away from the role of ‘biggest choke artist’… and in comes your new holder of the award… STEVE ORBIT!
Yes, folks. This is what has happened to one of the hypest motherfucker’s on the roster. At least, that’s what he probably used to think he was, then he got hit with this right hand and realized that he ain’t got shit on the new blood. Now he’s staring into the eyes of a straight up killer, your current United States Champion, the hottest and fastest rising star in the history of the business, Ethan King.
What was it you were saying, buddy? If you somehow managed to win at Aftermath, you’d give me another shot at YOUR United States’ Champion? If only that were the reality. For you man? This was a pipe-dream, something you created in your own mind, your own little tale that you twisted and tried to turn into a reality. Unfortunately for you, there’s some people you just can’t beat. But you ALMOST got the job done, right? You had me on the ropes, not once, but twice? Your standing there with your participation award and smiling, knowing that you almost showed me up. That you were almost back to the peak you once hit all that time ago, back when you actually meant something, you know what I’m saying?
But besides that participation award you got, now you’re stepping up into the Trios Tournament with two guys that at the moment couldn’t even GET an award at the special fucking Olympics. I didn’t realize all the legends would be lining up for me to knock the fuck down the moment I won a championship around here. Hey, Sanchez! Now I know how you feel, getting this piece of shit title and getting thrown softballs like Logan and shit, like that even means anything.
That’s what this is, right? This is where Eddie Felt and Tiffany White get to sit back and watch as Ethan King single-handedly dismantles this team that was at one point probably considered favourites to win this shit, until they realized that this boy Ethan King could fucking obliterate their best member and smile while doing it.
And make no mistake about it, Steve Orbit definitely is the MVP of this F-Grade, lumped together pile of trash that’s looking like ThreeYung2Die right about now. Then again, that’s how basically all of these teams are gonna be looking the moment they step up to the ROTY. That’s Rookie of the Year for all of you fucking spastics that are gonna be dropping real quick the moment you’re unfortunate enough to step into the ring with me.
But don’t get me wrong, dude. This isn’t a matter of you not being good enough to get through the first round of the tournament. I’m sure if you were coming up against the TUB led Fake-DRG you’d maybe stand a bit of a chance. Hell, throw you in against The Family and you’d probably be a fucking favourite, but against us?
Dude, this isn’t a match. This is a fucking execution. Straight up.
And that’s just how it’s going to have to go for you, now isn’t it? You put in all this effort to try and gather this group of all-stars that could potentially carry you to the Trios Titles, and earn you a couple shots at another belt or two while you were at it… but while you were scavenging through the tip you decided to just say “fuck it” and pick the first two people that came in mind.
And even then, you’re still the fucking third wheel on this team. The team is named after the two guys who are probably going to be quitting after the monumental beatdown they receive at Slam, because let’s be real… who the fuck are these guys again?
The “Future” Jeff Purse?
Get the fuck out of here, bro. That ship sailed a long time ago, and now you’re staring into The Future King. That’s right, it’s Future v Future, except one of these guys already lost the touch that helped him reach his peak back in nobodygivesafuckingdamn.
Congrats, bro. You’re a WAR Winner, you’ve held a World Title. I bet you’re puffing your chest out right about now, aren’t ya? Knowing that you and the rest of your team are better than us… at least in one fucking category, which is accolades. Not saying much, considering all up you’ve been here about twenty times longer than us, and even then you still pale in comparison to our abilities.
And that shit ain’t even an exaggeration. This is just the cold, hard truth. These guys are stepping up into a massacre and they don’t even know it. Purse’s cock got a little bit of a rise the moment Orbit decided he was done dealing with real superstars like Fly and Corey Black, and decided to pick him. HIM! Jeff Purse, of all fucking people. Of all the useless, irrelevant, unwanted cunts in the federation, you picked him.
The guy whose got nothing better to do than jump on Dag’s shit and hope for the fucking best. And yeah, I hope you all see the irony in that statement, because this just proves how pathetic this guy is. When The Pride began annihilating Dag Riddik, it was a statement, it was us making an impact. It was us showing that we gave no fucks about these bottom-feeding scrubs that perpetuated their self-importance over the internet, but when Purse does it?
Dag fucking bodies this guy.
#LMAO
And you’d think a former world champion would at least have some pride about him, you know? You’d think he would at least have the ability to step up on twitter and drop some bombs, take some names. But nope, nope, nope. This guy drops the ball yet again and fails on a consistent basis, similar to how he fails to do anything of worth every time he returns and tries to make a big deal about himself, like we actually give a fuck about some Pantheon dick-riding scrub that won the Trios Titles that one time with guys that are twelve times better than him on his best day.
Isn’t this just history repeating itself, Purse? You hopping on the bandwagon with two guys that, while just as vapid, inane and delusional as you are, better than you could ever hope to be? Is this how you plan on coming back and making a splash in the WCF, by latching onto whoever you can and hoping they can carry you through to the promised land?
Fuck dude, I can already hear you crying now. “But Ethan! At Hellimination, I was the only one who gave our team a fighting chance!”
Give us them excuses, throw em out and scream them to the high heavens and above. It don’t mean shit man, like Orbit, you get those silver medals and flaunt them around like they actually mean shit. Except… there’s a difference, you’re never even coming in fucking second. You’re one of those guys hanging around at the back of the pack, choking on the dust of everyone and anyone. Bring in Grime, fuck it, bring in Slime and watch this failure drop yet another important match.
At WAR? You drop the ball.
At Hellimination? You drop the ball.
Your time at Pantheon? Wasted.
Your time in the WCF? Meaningless.
Your time as World Champion? Forgettable. Let’s get Jay Omega here and we can bring in yet another irrelevant Pantheon World Champion. Fuck, I could create a literal montage of all the moments this boy Jeff Purse has tried to strut his stuff and gotten raped harder than a thot trying to ride that Poondock THICK.
You see, Purse? This is just how the story goes for you, man.
>You appear all over twitter.
>Stop it, you irrelevant cunt.
>You don’t stop, you keep going. You get booked in a match.
>Oh shit, get hype. Jeff Purse is back yet again.
#OHWAIT
LMAO.
He fucking loses again!
Congratulations, my man. Not even past your prime and your already crawling up and dying like the worthless prick that you are. Come on, dude. Let’s hear it. Let’s hear how you’ve still got your best years ahead of you and that you can reach that peak once again. Let’s hear you give your best Steve Orbit impression and fuck it up because an F Minus level scrub like you can’t reach the D-Grade that your partner has been at since his return. And to think I’m dropping this legendary material on YOU of all people, when I could do it on someone important like… I don’t know…
Dag Riddik?
LOL.
My points been written all over this fucking shoot. Go through it, analyze it. Realize how fucking terrible you are and get back to me when maybe, just MAYBE, you’ve proven that you actually mean something. Take this as constructive criticism, whatever you want, whatever helps you sleep at night after you’ve been killed with fire and I’m feasting off of your fucking scraps, adding another killed legend to the list of people that have already dropped to YOUR United States Champion.
That’s right, Purse. Take Pride in knowing you’re facing the youngest US Champ that fuckin’ mattered, one of the most relevant men in the federation today, a guy that you look upon in awe even though you’ve already “accomplished more” in your little scrap book. Former World Champion my ass.
You know what? Unlike Orbit, I’m about to make a promise here, one that I’ll follow up on because I don’t choke in the clutch. Jeff Purse v Ethan King for the United States Title, whenever the situation calls for it. Whenever my schedules freed up after killing the remaining competition and throwing together what’s going to be regarded as the cleanest Trios Tournament sweet in the history of the WCF. Don’t worry man, I’ll be sharing the love all around. I’ll be getting my other title shots, I’ll be up at the top of the federation with this US Title wrapped around my THICK (shoutout to the poondocks) and then I’ll drop you once again.
In one fell swoop, I’m about to kill the remnants of Jeff Purse’s relevancy in the WCF, in one final flash this guy is going to be eviscerated in the worst way possible. Not only will he have the shame of letting down yet another team of superior talent, but I’m going to do it twice.
And after we’re done…
Stay retired, and die nameless.
And now, to the one and only #TwilightJobber, because this fucking guy wasn’t good enough to #GetSwoll and beat a chick that last we saw, was getting whooped all over the place. And that about sums up this guy in a nutshell, another overhyped motherfucker returning to the federation, only to be made out to be a literal joke.
Funny you end up going against Twilight, since you’re both about as fucking trash as the other. Twilight comes back and gets pinned with PUSH-UPS.
Yeah, I said it.
FUCKING.
PUSH-UPS.
Jared Holmes done killed this bitch a few months back, and now you’re coming out here and getting shot down by her in one match, in one match she ruined your great return and made you look like shit. Actually, scratch that. She proved that you simply ARE shit, while she’s one of those D-Grade Steve Orbit-type motherfucker’s, you’re a step below that.
Now, don’t get me wrong. You aren’t Jeff Purse level bad, I won’t put that burden upon anyone, but you know something’s up when you’re getting dropped by a former Family member.
Seriously, look at this teams fucking record against The Family. Orbit dropped numerous matches to Logan, both Purse and this Polar Phantasm faggot managed to somehow lose to Twilight, and now we’re here.
This isn’t Logan.
This isn’t Sarah Twilight.
This is the fucking Pride, and you know you done fucked up when you drew one of the best damn teams in the entire tournament in round one. But you know what? It’s all good. Go cry to Seth, go ask to be booked in some easier matches to ease yourself into your retur-oh wait nevermind, you already took the booking into your own hands, right… PP?
That’s what you did, right? You’re too busy hyping up matches with this FPV guy and you’re failing to realize that if you’re off your game, you’re going to be literally fucking murdered in your upcoming match. I’d say you down understand the gravity of the situation, but that’d be an understatement. This isn’t some foregone conclusion type shit, this is that “yep these guys are absolutely fucked” type shit, and yet you choose to remain ignorant. You choose to act like this isn’t what’s going to happen, you’re all hopeful and joyful, excited to be returning for this esteemed tournament…
The tournament where you get made out to be a fool, which is what you truly deserve. Another court jester stepping into my kingdom, about to get his shit kicked in like the bitch he is, like the bitch he always was, but nobody ever saw.
Allow me to expose you, just like I’m about to expose the rest of your pathetic team.
In a world of dipshits and perennial underachieves, you somehow manage to avoid both of these categories and fall into something that’s hardly seen by the human race. Yes, Polar, you’ve gone so far under that you’re dipping into them “mission abort” levels of ability. It’s that one moment where everybody in the room realizes that you’ve never been anything more than a placeholder in the federation. Talent enhancement? Nah, fuck that. That’s a compliment for a guy like you, I’d rather give a gold star to a dead kid and let his limp corpse head into the ring and take a couple punches than you, because that’s basically what you are.
Polar Phantasm, the walking punching bag, the returnee on a mission, the man so hyped up about his potential match with FPV that he’s gonna get his head cut clean off. You’re a low life with delusions, delusions that tell you you’ll emerge unscathed, that you’re going to be victorious and that you’ll actually mean something once again. After months of being considered a nobody, after going under the radar and getting no publicity after reaching the heights you once did, you face the God-Squad lead by the reigning United States Champion.
The moment I raise my hand and call for the end, you’ll be knocked with that Eddie Felt knee that’s going to feel like a 100 of those bitch ass Pimp Slap’s, and you’ll be fading back into obscurity along with the rest of your little group. While you watch me grab Jeff Purse and fucking decapitate him right in the middle of the room, while you watch me Kill him with Fire and ensure he never gets back up to wrestle in a WCF ring again, you’re gonna be thinking…
“Why the fuck did I even bother?”
And you’ll be right to think that. It’s a hard thing to accept, but Polar Phantasm…
You never stood a chance.
And that’s just something you’re going to have to come to terms with, something that you’ll have to accept.
But I want you to know something dude, I want you to realize that this was just the way it was meant to be, it wasn’t just a sheer coincidence you were set up to face me in the first round, it wasn’t just bad luck. It was fate, it was destiny, it was all of that and more. It was set up the moment I beat your boy Steve Orbit and had him questioning his life, questioning his whole damn career the moment I gave him the debilitating loss that sends him even further down into the pack of average-joes that clamour and pander to Kings such as myself, hoping that I give them any attention.
And trust me when I say… all eyes are going to be on you come Sunday Night, you’ll be getting all the publicity you could’ve ever imagined. After I’m done ruining your whole squad, you’re not only going to be thanking me, but you’re going to be praying to based Seth, kneeling before him and kissing his feet, because THIS is your defining moment. This is when you get the most cheers you ever have in your pitiful career, because you’re not facing just any average team, not some jacked up old cunts (such as yourselves) who think they mean something anymore.
And I know, I know. You’re not all that old, you’re still young, you’ve still got your whole lives and careers ahead of you. At least, that’s what you’re saying NOW. But what’s going to happen when, like Steve Orbit, I outperform you so much that you question your whole existence? I’ve already got you scared, got you running, got you wondering why you’re even bothering with this shit when I’m already murdering you this badly verbally… but when we get in the ring?
Dude, this isn’t even a contest.
And you know what? You can blame Steve Orbit, you can blame the guy whose been whispering all these kind, nice little words into your ear, telling you that the guy that’s made him a laughing stock not once, but twice, isn’t all that. That he’s just an overhyped, eager rookie trying to make a name for himself. He’ll tell you all of that, without realizing that he was once in that same position, except even he couldn’t have hoped to make an impact like I have.
Two months, ladies and gentlemen. That’s all it took for me to walk into this federation and take gold from a champion who by some critics was deemed unbeatable for that United States Title, this thing that I’m carrying with me and pissing on because at this point… I could literally shit on the fucking title and people would still be calling this thing one of the most prestigious belts in the competition. That’s what happens when I, Ethan King, decide I’m done fucking around and take what’s most valuable to the individuals who live and breathe on these minor successes.
Steve Orbit picks up one fucking win in countless months, and decides to say that’s he’s finally picked himself back up to his feet, that’s he’s finally gotten some momentum.
Jeff Purse decides that he hasn’t become totally irrelevant, that he had some success by becoming a Trios Champion, and that’s he’s still got it.
And Polar Phantasm thinks he’s going to be winning with guys like these. In one fucking era, which isn’t even all that long in WCF terms, these guys literally entered and departed from their primes. In an age where monsters like Dune dominate for months on end, reigns by Orbit and Purse look weak and pale in comparison to what can be accomplished now by the talent that’s been popping up.
This week is just another example of that process of evolution, where the weak are slowly being weened out by people that are just plain better than them in every way imaginable. It’s a shame, really. While I’m dropping some of the hottest fucking fire available to the WCF, the only stuff I’m getting in response is weak sauce, lukewarm shit at best.
And these are the legends that we’re supposed to be afraid of? The guys that were once at the top of this federation, the cornerstones and centrepieces of the great WCF? Fuck, give me #BeachKrew and the shitty 2015 DRG over these pathetic cunts any day of the week. It’s almost as if we’re being expected to drop our game to their level just so they can keep up.
They may have been quick, but we’re just that much quicker.
They might think they’re smart, but they’re playing chess with us and just throwing the pieces randomly around the room, hoping they connect with anyone and anything, hoping that any of their meaningless points somehow draw some kind of reaction from the audience who long ago stopped giving a fuck about these guys.
And that’s what this all comes down to in the end. It’s just a waiting game at this point. This whole teams abilities have dwindled down to virtually nothing, all hope has been lost for these guys who at once were looked upon in awe. Now? We’re just waiting for everyone, and I mean everyone, to stop caring. To stop reacting, to stop showing love for people who long ago stopped giving in the performances that midcarders in todays’ WCF drop on the daily. How long do we put up with it? How long do we put up with these guys stooping around the mid-card, stealing away the opportunities from guys that could, 100 times out of 100, completely obliterate them?
Enough is enough.
Steve Orbit. After this, you’re fucking done. After I’m done making a fool of you for the third time straight, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you’re done wasting your time around here, getting your ass kicked week in, week out. I want you to look at your eternally superior competitor and take comfort in knowing that never once in our miniature war did you ever have the upper-hand, that you never had me on the ropes, that you ever had me questioning if I could defeat you. Because I knew it, we all knew it. That it was all just a matter of time, before I dropped you on your head and left you dazed.
Don’t think any differently, buddy. When it’s all said and done, once I’ve pinned Jeff Purse and you’re wondering what went one, you’ll stare into these eyes and you’ll fucking bend the knee. You’ll drop before your one and only King, and that will be the end of that. The tale of Steve Orbit, finally ended up after years and years of hard work, commitment and dedication, that all led to him getting fucking bodied.
And you can tell your teammates the exact same thing, because that’s the fate that’s laid out for all of them. Whether it be Jeff Purse in a few weeks, or Polar Phantasm after he’s done messing around at XIII. I don’t care.
This is where your stories end.
And this…
Is where a true legend begins."
The Kingmaker smiles at Ethan, and draws the blade away from his throat. The insulting demeanour from before is suddenly dropped, and he’s back to being kind and courteous.
“Excellent work, my child. I knew you could do it, I always had faith.”
Then, his eyes go into a crazed frenzy once more.
“SIKE!”
In one fluid motion, the blade is drawn back fully, and then directed straight toward the neck, cutting it at the perfect angle and lopping Ethan King’s head right off, blood sprays into the air, spilling onto the hollow timber and dripping onto the ground. The Kingmaker’s face is drenched in the sticky liquid, he grabs the decapitated head by the shoulders and raises it high into the sky.
“You’re no true King.”
I AM AWAKE.
I AM ALERT.
Ethan King sits directly up from the bed, drenched in sweat and the odor of alcohol. He forces his eyes open, and is immediately greeted with the view of Miguel Myles, giving him a kind-hearted, benevolent smile.
Miguel: It’s alright man, just go back to sleep. Everything’s okay.
Ethan glared around the room suspiciously, as if trying to catch a sight of the Kingmaker, the man who tormented him.
Ethan: That wasn’t me man, that wasn’t me. That’s not who I am, alright? I’m not… I’m not…
Miguel: It’s all good. Don’t worry about it. Go to sleep. You’ll wake up and forget all about it.
Ethan: I’m not…
With a delicate touch, Miguel pushed Ethan down to the bed, resting the back of his head on the soft pillow, still covered with his sticky sweat. Ethan whispered the words to himself.
“I’m not cold blooded at heart.
I’m not cold blooded at heart.
I’m not cold blooded at heart.
That wasn’t me.
That wasn’t me.
It wasn’t.”
From seemingly out of nowhere, a child ran down his spine, and the face of the Kingmaker FLASHED before his eyes once more.
“That was you.
And you know it.”
2014
Seven men, each fitted with extravagant black suits coupled with ties and briefcases, filed into the lavishly furnished office. Extravagant portraits of country landscapes hung on the maroon walls, dim lights gave the somewhat darkened office a mysterious edge to it, chairs were brusquely pulled from underneath tables; men soon seating themselves upon the plush, leather objects. At once, the seven men placed their own briefcase upon the beautifully carved circular table. The first six men, whilst upper-class and dignified, evident by the way they sat up straight and peered around with narrowed, sharp eyes… there was nothing out of the ordinary about them. The seventh man however, was of a different upbringing, a different breed.
A different monster.
His eyes were an entrancing amber, flecked with golden sparks that reflected the dim lights. His lips, while thin and pale, were curled up in an amused smile. While the rest of his peers were all-business and entirely formal, he had an aura of complete and utter certainty, of entire belief and confidence. It oozed out of him, the way he leaned backward with those upturned lips, the expectant and amused looks he shot at those who sat across from him. He fixed the collar of his white suit; the only one being worn at the table tonight.
He deliberately exaggerated the movement of hunching forward, resting his hands together politely in front of him, his smile growing wider as he assessed the group.
White Suit: I’d like to believe you all know exactly why we’re here.
The man directly to his right swivelled on his chair slightly, giving him a perplexed look.
: You’d be right in that assumption. I’m still not sure if we all buy what you’re selling though. There’s a huge amount of risk in this little scheme of yours, one that some of us not be willing to take. The stakes are high, it may not be in our best interest to accept him as ‘The One.’White Suit chuckled while shooting a glance at the rest of the table. In one fluid motion, he spreads out his arms, as if welcoming the others to say their peace.
White Suit: Well? What about the rest of you? Do you all have some sort of problem with the man in question? Do you think he may not be able enough, skilled enough, TALENTED enough to carry on the legacy? To carry on with what those of the past – and we here today, have been working on for so, so long? If so, speak your mind. Let me know what troubles you, allow me to dispel all these notions that the man in question is someone not worthy of taking this position.
Silence ensued, eyes darted curiously around the room, trying to find who would be the first to break, who would be the first to lose their cool in the face of the White Suit and his all-encompassing presence. Someone toward the back of the room, concealed partially by the lack of light in that area of the room, gulped nervously, before clearing his throat. The White Suit clapped cheerily.
White Suit: Excellent work, Simon. Finally, SOMEONE with some backbone around here, someone willing to take a stand. Tell me, what do you take issue with?
Simon: There still hasn’t been enough research done on the boy. He’s hardly out of high school yet, he’s constantly surrounding himself with the presence of friends and family. We’ve only seen him at his best, never in times or trouble or need. We’re still unsure of how he will handle himself in those situations, when things don’t go exactly to plan, when danger strikes and he’s left with nothing but his own wits and knowledge to protect himself. How can we be confident in someone with such little experience?
White Suit: Ah, but Simon. Weren’t you of a similar age before I brought you in with open arms? When I brought you into this room and allowed you to become one of us? Allow me to be clear with you; this is no mere child. He is a providence, he will amount to far more than you ever will in your lifetime. Do you understand that?
He drew breath to respond, but cut himself short. He sighed, before reluctantly agreeing.
Simon: Yes, sir. I understand. It’s just… the man in question…
The man to his left interjected.
: No, sir. I cannot stand for this. I won’t. Simon is right – he’s still surrounded by security and friendship. He won’t leave them, he won’t leave all of that just to side with us. We won’t be able to offer anything to him at first. It’ll be YEARS before the boy is experienced enough in our methods that we will be able to convert him, to bring him in and shape him into something great. His mind is far too innocent, far too naïve at the moment. I know that, you know that. We all know that. And we all know that this isn’t the way we work. We don’t take a stab in the dark and hope that we come out with a gem, we carefully select who we want, we plan accordingly. We don’t just… just… rush headlong into the situation like a wild bull, sir.White Suit: You pain me, Marcus. You truly do. Have I not told you before that this is more than just a hunch? Words have been whispered into the winds and have been carried to me via the wings of soaring birds. The higher powers meet, they tell me all I need to know. They tell me that he very well may be ‘The One.’ They also remind me about what we stand for.
Slowly, he opens up the steel briefcase in front of him, the locks clicking open whilst White Suit pushes the lid open. His bony hand warps around the laptop being held inside the case, before latching onto it and gently laying it down on the wood before him. A push of a button and a quick turn of the screen, and a word flashes up on the screen.
REALITY.
White Suit: We are not just simply businessmen, or government officials, or average citizens. We are not in the pursuit of some ridiculous notion being perpetuated by the masses, our cause isn’t one of rashness or fear. We form this council and discuss potential bearers of the flame for one reason, and one reason only. We are the ones who are hidden by the shadow, but light the spark for change. We’re here to promote REALITY, gentlemen. We are here to usher in a new era, and it all starts with the man in question. Do we take him on board, along with whomever he may bring along into our plans, and craft him into the centrepiece… the foundation for all things to come? To carry him into this room and help him understand that he truly can make a difference, if he is willing to sacrifice it all? Or do we miss yet another opportunity to take destiny, to take FATE itself into our own hands. What say you, my friends?
The question hangs in the air, the men all exchange knowing looks with each other – this is where they make the decision. White Suit offers them a contrite, apologetic smile, his voice suddenly very reverent.
White Suit: My apologies. I should not have accosted you all in such a manner, and I appreciate your candidness with me.
He addresses the last few words at both Marcus and Simon, who nod, stoic expressions framed over their faces. White Suit glances around the table, eyebrows raised curiously.
White Suit: Well then, shall we put it to a vote?
The group all nod in agreement.
White Suit: Excellent. Proudly say ‘Aye’ if you are in full acceptance of the man in question being the next one in line to be brought into our order, to be trained in our ways and to follow our footsteps. If you disagree with this notion, then say ‘Nay.’ Dale. We’ll start with you.
The balding man seated next to White Suit contemplates his options quickly. After coming to a decision, he nods confidently, a slight smile touching his lips.
Dale: Aye.
White Suit gestures for the next man to continue, the rest follow in suit.
: Aye.: Aye.: Aye, sir.Marcus: …
White Suit: Marcus?
Marcus: …Aye
Simon: N-…
White Suit smiles, realizing he’s won.
Simon: A-… Aye.
With a clap and a hearty grin, White Suit pops up to his feet, shutting his laptop close and filing it back into the briefcase. He inclines his head towards the men.
White Suit: I will get into contact with our prospect when the time is right. For now, gentlemen. Carry on with your respective projects. Once we have gained the trust of the man in question, everything shall fall into place shortly.
SIX MONTHS LATER…
White Suit and the man in question walk side by side, the latter wearing a hoodie that can’t contain his messy hair, and fails miserably to conceal the enigmatic blue-green haze that fills his eyes. He has a smile etched over his face and is leaning ever-so-slightly to the left, as if trying to gain just a bit more knowledge from the awe-inspiring figure speaking to him.
White Suit: You know, we weren’t certain you were going to accept our invitation. We’re very glad you decided to take a chance here.
He gives the young man a reassuring pat on the shoulder, flashing him a brilliant white smile.
White Suit: You’re going to become something great, Ethan.
The young man smiles ruefully, going a tinge red, while almost laughing at the statement itself.
Ethan: Well… I’m always willing to give it my best shot! I… I actually kind of forgot your name. Would you mind…?
White Suit: Of course, I’m-
CUT TO BLACK.
