Post by Deleted on Jun 30, 2016 5:04:03 GMT -5
[Cut to a gravel pit in a country view of a gravel pit and this makeshift grill. A loud, fan-like whirling fights the sound of crackling charcoal. A shirtless Lester Parish comes into frame wearing a leather apron and welder’s mask. He bends down to lower the blower’s setting. He speaks near the camera though muffled.]
“WCF… a long time has passed since the coals first took on warmth. We see it now for what it has succumbed to—what influences have leeched from its kindling. Fans remember when those same coals glowed magnesium white, hotter than a sun, and they were happy then. Talent bellowed a great fervor into the furnace to create the bower of old. This fire burnt, shedding layers of whitening. Ash spewed from the epicenter with a harsh blowback. Once a flame escapes its reins, there’s nothing to do but watch it devour. Inch by inch, it immolated everything of the house of Lerch. No force illustrates the anger of Nature better than fire. We feed it until can no longer feast. The wake from its pyroclastic mission leaves us wanting more. We’re starving from the ashes in our hands. Hope drove us to critical measures. We wished upon a lie and took without an acid test. But I think we’ve fed these lies—all of it—for far too long.”
[Parish turns the blower up to its max, bellowing the flaming pit. Calipers grip molten steel from the pyre. He transfers that glowing slab into a trough of water. Howling waters boil as the metal cools. Parish turns back into frame. Sunlight reflects off his protective visor.]
“If you stop the flames in time, a product can be salvaged from certain destruction. Art arises from chaos. A phoenix gains its blazing wings, soaring above the wretched land. Behold the forge—a marvel of classical past. We’ve forgotten the art, assuming metals will always come in their desired shapes. We look beyond the sweat and pained strokes that births tools. Metallurgy demands a careful hand, and I am the one it desires. Twice now, I ran the gauntlet, and twice the difficulty increased. Be it street-made or disguised as toughness, I surpassed these challengers. A matchup should entail a similar strain of effort. One should mind their moves. Calculate and destroy: I shall continue this mantra until life is drawn from my body. If we do not stymy the heat, our futures will wilt. Impurities, permanent and irremovable, can coagulate into our veins. Those lucky enough to escape improperly cure, shattering upon impact. There is a dividing power that we can stop. It begins at yet another Slam, birthplace of schism from its diversions.”
“From the steel I shall deliver a blessed child: A metal son to avenge us all. Forging a new path for this company will not be easy. Nor will it happen in a week. Time and planning will decide the paths we take. I have my own to carve, littered with those whom saw meager ideas from the ring. They flocked, a casual murder cawing for a bite of the carcass. Carrion, all of them, drawn to the arena because they want to be seen. If you join the pride, perhaps a morsel will come your way. Hyenas barking the sniveling beasts. Be sure of this, I am not your savior, WCF. I am a cleanser against impurities. Generations pass their alleles until a perfect specimen may be born. I am not that specimen. My generation has long gone, leaving only these bones and sagging skin behind. Rust oxidized my joints. Brick-laid bones cracking after decades of overuse. I am not your indigo child. Harken this truth: I’ve actually found him. Soon he will receive the blade.”
“Hank Brown here with newcomer Lester Parish. Lester, do you have time for a few questions?
“Shoot.”
[The camera picks up the sound of him flipping through a steno pad. Parish holds the phone down, keeping both out of view.]
“Fans are curious about your style. Some people call you a cheater.”
“I am survivor. Mr. Brown, have you won a fight before? Or do you fantasize about a perfect KO? It seems like you have no idea how to fight. How’s that sound?”
“Marvelous. Okay, next question. You won at Blast and are now the official number one contender for Television Title. What are you plans preparing for this matchup?”
“A match lasts minutes. The preparation takes days, even weeks to muster. I am not about to jeopardize my blueprints on an interview. Don’t you have a valet to bother?”
“I wish LP. One more, if you can Lester. What is this Plague you keep warning us about?”
“Are you hermetically sealed until the show? Or have you succumbed to it already?”
“No, but can you tell us what to expect come Slam?”
“The Plague is not a about combatants or titles. I speak of an overwhelming influence. An eye descending upon the people from the mysterious pyramid. We’re engaged in a war so cold our brains froze. Every day it encroaches from its darkened spot, a cosmic terror that will strike everyone down. I am no antidote, but I’ve seen the cure. It permeates the weak. It channels the strong. By every God ever devised this is no sickness: the Plague is our synergy.”
“Sounds more like a hostile takeover.”
“We can banter Mr. Brown, but the Plague has its mission. Let me cram it into your brain, Hank. Apoptosis occurs when the oldest cells dissolve. This is large-scale replacement feeds the next generation. Cell death is an important function. A forest fire purges dying vegetation. Wholesale destruction so newer saplings can rise from the soil. You only see a wrestling ring; in my failing eyes, I see transcendence. That is the Plague, dear colleague. Now go write it up the website.”
[The camera picks up Hank Brown signing off from his remote. Cut to Parish sitting in a metal folding chair facing his webcam. A humming Edison bulb colors his facial features.]
“While I gauge these impurities, another matter comes to fruition. A three-man tag, pitted along lines of favor. On one side waits the heckler’s ammunition; the other will feature those bound to the people. For two weeks now, I’ve made it my mission to educate the WCF. Their willingness to rank in file disturbs me. I heard them cheer for Viceroy’s maiming. Erupt when I stole the hearts from him and Trevor Browning. This week I have more before me than a simple grapple. Two armies converge at the Marne. We’ll entrench behind the turnbuckles and watch the shells drop. By the humor of Lerch, my army will comprise an axis of evil. I assume they perch my masked face atop that loathed totem. WCF cannot decipher the differences of evil from innovation. The range of mental distress from genius. Invention comes from the dark until the light clicks on.”
[Parish pulls the cord once to extinguish the bulb, and then a second time to relight the space.]
“Captain of WCF, are you here to please them? Or do you strive to be their savior? Many men claim to be a beacon for this company. Others plant a flag to conquer it. Even fewer avert from conflict altogether. You seem to be in a rare fourth group. These types emulsify into a company to become single droplets from the densest fluids. Consider the latter our fan base, ticketholders that buy merchandise and pump their fists. Symbols do not blend into the mixture; no, they separate from it. You represent every little trap competitors fall into like punji sticks: Once the floor caves in, you writhe until expired. An antlion hides amongst their waving hands. If you look to crowds and see their dreams, you’ll know that you’re a distraction—not what they love most. Escapism at its finest. A hero for the people so they might pretend. Langston Hughes told us the truth: “Play, play, play.” People beg the musicians play on so the dawn of day will not come and their real lives return. The fans recoil from life because ring’s shadow obscures the harsh labors they endure weekly. All you do is imbue their lives with fattening lie. What were you in your vanity mirror this morning? Because it was not heroic.
Then along came symbiotic beings: Walker and Biohazard. Both names may not grace a hazcom label, but they both need a warning sticker. Like hermit crabs and sea anemones, they bedazzle as a functioning team. Going near them is a problem. They too work off confidence. Confidence fell Browning last time out, and saw Dee Norm lose multiple times—and surely more to come. The same will surround the Viceroy who thinks he’s passed me in the queue. No, the TV title needs meat to tenderize before an actual defense occurs. Alpine and I will perform as these maggots crave. Viceroy is a step up the ladder for our current champion. Sledgehammering his head into the canvas can’t be good for the butterfly and those fragile wings. Although he did well acting as the welcome mat for a returning legend. Really, there’s not much say about Biowalker, nor can the fans fathom their lingering presence. Carcinogens in a living form with chronic instability. Newcomers bow to those whose work defined this company. Their tandem bike rolls down the ramp, bringing a circus along. Sadly, no one cheers for the clowns.”
[Cut from static to an antique steam trunk lit by a basement window. A hand caresses its riveted hull inside a storage room. Opened boxes and packing peanuts little that cramped space. Parish speaks out of view.]
“As the steel cools, the smith will remove it for shaping, a polish and its final construction. These weeks of preparation coked the flames into a working forge. I never intended for my vision to envelop on day one. No, production is a process of measured time. Careful hands craft better than those on an express lane to glory. All roads led to Rome because its walls held strong for centuries—a feat not built in one day. We look for the lake that baptizes leaders with Excalibur. A sword from the lake is too easy—a monarchy won’t form in a single week either. There are easier routes, yet trodden paths are predictable. Assuming the steel will harden as expected will lead to failure. Smiths must obtain and train for a clever eye, noting any impurities to molten steel. Where it might bend, or spots where the steel turns blue. If left to its devices, heat will sunder all things. Plotting can only go so far. I’ve watched them in tapes. Every move has a tempo and calculation. There are no do-overs in a real fight albeit a possible rematch clause. A forge can build and destroy in its pyre. I have no problem tossing everyone, even those assigned to our corner, into its magma. My work builds towards this case. Each match represents a session of melting, molding and shaping of steel. This will be no different as I progress into step two: a countermeasure for the WCF and its growing impurities. When I capture the Television Title, whenever that match materializes, that belt will go into this vault. A place safe from covetous eyes. Here is the arc from which there will finally be a semblance of peace. Three men should worry, and two more should watch their backs. My art is yet to come. And they shall fear me! I will take all five of them down! Are you happy now, WCF? I am a destroyer of men...
[Parish kicks the camera over while still in its tripod. Parish walks away from a side-titled screen. Static cuts the video out.]
“WCF… a long time has passed since the coals first took on warmth. We see it now for what it has succumbed to—what influences have leeched from its kindling. Fans remember when those same coals glowed magnesium white, hotter than a sun, and they were happy then. Talent bellowed a great fervor into the furnace to create the bower of old. This fire burnt, shedding layers of whitening. Ash spewed from the epicenter with a harsh blowback. Once a flame escapes its reins, there’s nothing to do but watch it devour. Inch by inch, it immolated everything of the house of Lerch. No force illustrates the anger of Nature better than fire. We feed it until can no longer feast. The wake from its pyroclastic mission leaves us wanting more. We’re starving from the ashes in our hands. Hope drove us to critical measures. We wished upon a lie and took without an acid test. But I think we’ve fed these lies—all of it—for far too long.”
[Parish turns the blower up to its max, bellowing the flaming pit. Calipers grip molten steel from the pyre. He transfers that glowing slab into a trough of water. Howling waters boil as the metal cools. Parish turns back into frame. Sunlight reflects off his protective visor.]
“If you stop the flames in time, a product can be salvaged from certain destruction. Art arises from chaos. A phoenix gains its blazing wings, soaring above the wretched land. Behold the forge—a marvel of classical past. We’ve forgotten the art, assuming metals will always come in their desired shapes. We look beyond the sweat and pained strokes that births tools. Metallurgy demands a careful hand, and I am the one it desires. Twice now, I ran the gauntlet, and twice the difficulty increased. Be it street-made or disguised as toughness, I surpassed these challengers. A matchup should entail a similar strain of effort. One should mind their moves. Calculate and destroy: I shall continue this mantra until life is drawn from my body. If we do not stymy the heat, our futures will wilt. Impurities, permanent and irremovable, can coagulate into our veins. Those lucky enough to escape improperly cure, shattering upon impact. There is a dividing power that we can stop. It begins at yet another Slam, birthplace of schism from its diversions.”
“From the steel I shall deliver a blessed child: A metal son to avenge us all. Forging a new path for this company will not be easy. Nor will it happen in a week. Time and planning will decide the paths we take. I have my own to carve, littered with those whom saw meager ideas from the ring. They flocked, a casual murder cawing for a bite of the carcass. Carrion, all of them, drawn to the arena because they want to be seen. If you join the pride, perhaps a morsel will come your way. Hyenas barking the sniveling beasts. Be sure of this, I am not your savior, WCF. I am a cleanser against impurities. Generations pass their alleles until a perfect specimen may be born. I am not that specimen. My generation has long gone, leaving only these bones and sagging skin behind. Rust oxidized my joints. Brick-laid bones cracking after decades of overuse. I am not your indigo child. Harken this truth: I’ve actually found him. Soon he will receive the blade.”
“Hank Brown here with newcomer Lester Parish. Lester, do you have time for a few questions?
“Shoot.”
[The camera picks up the sound of him flipping through a steno pad. Parish holds the phone down, keeping both out of view.]
“Fans are curious about your style. Some people call you a cheater.”
“I am survivor. Mr. Brown, have you won a fight before? Or do you fantasize about a perfect KO? It seems like you have no idea how to fight. How’s that sound?”
“Marvelous. Okay, next question. You won at Blast and are now the official number one contender for Television Title. What are you plans preparing for this matchup?”
“A match lasts minutes. The preparation takes days, even weeks to muster. I am not about to jeopardize my blueprints on an interview. Don’t you have a valet to bother?”
“I wish LP. One more, if you can Lester. What is this Plague you keep warning us about?”
“Are you hermetically sealed until the show? Or have you succumbed to it already?”
“No, but can you tell us what to expect come Slam?”
“The Plague is not a about combatants or titles. I speak of an overwhelming influence. An eye descending upon the people from the mysterious pyramid. We’re engaged in a war so cold our brains froze. Every day it encroaches from its darkened spot, a cosmic terror that will strike everyone down. I am no antidote, but I’ve seen the cure. It permeates the weak. It channels the strong. By every God ever devised this is no sickness: the Plague is our synergy.”
“Sounds more like a hostile takeover.”
“We can banter Mr. Brown, but the Plague has its mission. Let me cram it into your brain, Hank. Apoptosis occurs when the oldest cells dissolve. This is large-scale replacement feeds the next generation. Cell death is an important function. A forest fire purges dying vegetation. Wholesale destruction so newer saplings can rise from the soil. You only see a wrestling ring; in my failing eyes, I see transcendence. That is the Plague, dear colleague. Now go write it up the website.”
[The camera picks up Hank Brown signing off from his remote. Cut to Parish sitting in a metal folding chair facing his webcam. A humming Edison bulb colors his facial features.]
“While I gauge these impurities, another matter comes to fruition. A three-man tag, pitted along lines of favor. On one side waits the heckler’s ammunition; the other will feature those bound to the people. For two weeks now, I’ve made it my mission to educate the WCF. Their willingness to rank in file disturbs me. I heard them cheer for Viceroy’s maiming. Erupt when I stole the hearts from him and Trevor Browning. This week I have more before me than a simple grapple. Two armies converge at the Marne. We’ll entrench behind the turnbuckles and watch the shells drop. By the humor of Lerch, my army will comprise an axis of evil. I assume they perch my masked face atop that loathed totem. WCF cannot decipher the differences of evil from innovation. The range of mental distress from genius. Invention comes from the dark until the light clicks on.”
[Parish pulls the cord once to extinguish the bulb, and then a second time to relight the space.]
“Captain of WCF, are you here to please them? Or do you strive to be their savior? Many men claim to be a beacon for this company. Others plant a flag to conquer it. Even fewer avert from conflict altogether. You seem to be in a rare fourth group. These types emulsify into a company to become single droplets from the densest fluids. Consider the latter our fan base, ticketholders that buy merchandise and pump their fists. Symbols do not blend into the mixture; no, they separate from it. You represent every little trap competitors fall into like punji sticks: Once the floor caves in, you writhe until expired. An antlion hides amongst their waving hands. If you look to crowds and see their dreams, you’ll know that you’re a distraction—not what they love most. Escapism at its finest. A hero for the people so they might pretend. Langston Hughes told us the truth: “Play, play, play.” People beg the musicians play on so the dawn of day will not come and their real lives return. The fans recoil from life because ring’s shadow obscures the harsh labors they endure weekly. All you do is imbue their lives with fattening lie. What were you in your vanity mirror this morning? Because it was not heroic.
Then along came symbiotic beings: Walker and Biohazard. Both names may not grace a hazcom label, but they both need a warning sticker. Like hermit crabs and sea anemones, they bedazzle as a functioning team. Going near them is a problem. They too work off confidence. Confidence fell Browning last time out, and saw Dee Norm lose multiple times—and surely more to come. The same will surround the Viceroy who thinks he’s passed me in the queue. No, the TV title needs meat to tenderize before an actual defense occurs. Alpine and I will perform as these maggots crave. Viceroy is a step up the ladder for our current champion. Sledgehammering his head into the canvas can’t be good for the butterfly and those fragile wings. Although he did well acting as the welcome mat for a returning legend. Really, there’s not much say about Biowalker, nor can the fans fathom their lingering presence. Carcinogens in a living form with chronic instability. Newcomers bow to those whose work defined this company. Their tandem bike rolls down the ramp, bringing a circus along. Sadly, no one cheers for the clowns.”
[Cut from static to an antique steam trunk lit by a basement window. A hand caresses its riveted hull inside a storage room. Opened boxes and packing peanuts little that cramped space. Parish speaks out of view.]
“As the steel cools, the smith will remove it for shaping, a polish and its final construction. These weeks of preparation coked the flames into a working forge. I never intended for my vision to envelop on day one. No, production is a process of measured time. Careful hands craft better than those on an express lane to glory. All roads led to Rome because its walls held strong for centuries—a feat not built in one day. We look for the lake that baptizes leaders with Excalibur. A sword from the lake is too easy—a monarchy won’t form in a single week either. There are easier routes, yet trodden paths are predictable. Assuming the steel will harden as expected will lead to failure. Smiths must obtain and train for a clever eye, noting any impurities to molten steel. Where it might bend, or spots where the steel turns blue. If left to its devices, heat will sunder all things. Plotting can only go so far. I’ve watched them in tapes. Every move has a tempo and calculation. There are no do-overs in a real fight albeit a possible rematch clause. A forge can build and destroy in its pyre. I have no problem tossing everyone, even those assigned to our corner, into its magma. My work builds towards this case. Each match represents a session of melting, molding and shaping of steel. This will be no different as I progress into step two: a countermeasure for the WCF and its growing impurities. When I capture the Television Title, whenever that match materializes, that belt will go into this vault. A place safe from covetous eyes. Here is the arc from which there will finally be a semblance of peace. Three men should worry, and two more should watch their backs. My art is yet to come. And they shall fear me! I will take all five of them down! Are you happy now, WCF? I am a destroyer of men...
[Parish kicks the camera over while still in its tripod. Parish walks away from a side-titled screen. Static cuts the video out.]
