Post by Jaice Wilds on Jan 6, 2019 23:51:34 GMT -5
Wilds is in the Order Compound, pacing the floor. Damien Kaine flanks him, sitting on a stool nearby. Wilds huffs, coming to a stop as a bald black man in a fine Armani suit walks in. He nods, Wilds rushing up and embracing the man.
Jaice Wilds: Aaron. I was afraid you had forgotten about me. How are things?
Aaron Simon Kalis nods to Kaine, who returns in kind. He turns his attention back to Wilds, a sigh.
Kalis: Tamika and the twins are fine. Brian is… well, he's just barely reached adulthood, and he wants to do things on his own. It's trying, dealing with that boy.
Jaice and Aaron sit across a coffee table from each other in the congregate area of the compound. Kalis removes a manilla envelope from his suit jacket, sliding it across the table.
Kalis: Here's what we managed to collect. You had reason to be suspicious; looks like all these guys were paid through the same account in the Caymans and had tickets paid for with checks from similar bank checks under bogus names. We spoke to our man there; got the paper trail backtraced through at least 3 more banks before we hit another minor snag. This person- or persons- know what they're doing.
Jaice looks over the stack of paperwork, shaking his head as he eyeballs various information.
Jaice Wilds: I'm assuming fake socials and falsified addresses?
Simon chuckles.
Kalis: Hell. One of our bank leads took us to a fire station that has been abandoned for damn near a century. Couple of hobos and squatters; but nothing of note as far as leads. We're still digging, but it's getting cold at this point.
Wilds slaps the papers down on the table, Aaron smiles. He sits back as Damien brings in drinks, grabbing up his shot of Jack while Aaron pops the cap of his Don Julio 1942. Jaice sighs, Kalis taking a swig before turning to his friend.
Kalis: To be fair, paranoia has become a second nature in our business. The Order has made enough foes to retain our heads on swivels. For what it's worth; none of our sources indicate Order enemies within the wrestling community, so this is someone closer to you specifically. I'll keep digging, but I have a feeling this is something that will come to you while we're working. Until then… have a drink and try to relax, my brother.
Wilds scoffs, picking up the paperwork again. Kalis shakes his head, turning to Kaine.
Kalis: So, how's fatherhood?
Damien Kaine: It's crazy, man. I don't know how people do this sometimes.
Kalis raises his bottle, Kaine raising his glass to meet it.
Kalis: Booze, my friend. Copious amounts of booze. But only when they're asleep or elsewhere.
Kaine and Kalis share a laugh as Wilds puzzles over his papers, the Order enjoying a moment of… well, whatever this is.
--------------
The following is a letter addressed to Vincent Augustine; intercepted and published to the WCF website.
Wilds Championship Federation is proud to announce that you, Vincent Augustine, are the first in a long, long line of victims for the returning Jaice Wilds. And I know what you're thinking.
“What is it that makes this Wilds character such a big deal?”
Could it be the ten years I've spent in the business? Clawing, scratching, tearing my way through the barriers set above my head to become a household name? The decade spent jumping from fed to fed, looking for a worthy challenge?
Could it be the titles he's accumulated the world over?? A Television Title and Tag Team Championships in the South Pacific. Aggression, Genocide and 201 Titles in Georgia, Florida and California, respectively.
Could it be his associations? Heading up “The Faction”, one of the most successful groups in the South Pacific? Being named as a general with the Order of Chaos, the archetypal war machine brought to prominence almost 16 years ago? Only this year being brought into the ranks of the Guardians??
One could make an argument that any or all of these things are reason to take notice of the man you are slated to face. But the accolades are merely the proverbial icing on the cake. The thing you need to understand, Vincent, is that I'm not like any veteran you may have seen before. Unlike the Steven Singh’s of the business, I still have fuel left in the tank. I know I can hold my own yet, and I'm not stepping away from the action anytime soon.
Unlike the Corey Blacks of the world, I'm not so stuck on myself that I only make appearances against the worthy. Or, perhaps more accurate, those who are on the rise and thus are capable of re-lighting my own dying candle. I suppose being desperate enough for relevancy to cling to the next gen's big names is better than fading away; but I feel jumping to management as a sort of guiding light would be far less demeaning. At least Singh-a-long has the self-respect to be a leader rather than a faltering addict. Yes, I said it; the CD's of the world are addicts, looking for the next big thing to bring them a hint of recognition as time rolls on. Although, there is one form of veteran that is even more pathetic than this.
There are those who are still down to fight. Those who understand the draw power their names possess. These guys get offered multi-million dollar contracts to come in, get thrown against new kids and often paid a little extra to take a fall. These guys don't care much for their legacies; they merely want to be in front of a crowd making a couple grand for a couple minutes. It's a sorry, pathetic waste of talent, and Adam Young and the like should be ashamed of themselves. Those of us who have spent the better part of the decade in the business have a legacy to uphold, but these fools are soiling the foundations upon which this business is built. Goddamn disgusting.
You're likely sitting at home right now, boy, reading this. And you’re thinking to yourself, “why should I even care; this guy is focused on a thousand other things”. I assure you, Augustine, my focus is exactly where it needs to be. You see, we grew up in two very different worlds, Vincent. When you were five, you were in a classroom learning your alphabet. At five, I was learning how to sharpen tools and skin deadly animals to eat their carcasses. At ten, you were learning basic math skills and what sedimentary rocks were. At that age, I was learning how to hunt while avoiding predators three times my size. At fifteen, you were attending homecoming and learning calculus. At fifteen, I was learning how to balance on a tightrope and corralling jungle cats who got out of control. At twenty, you were in some college course, trying to collect your liberal arts degree. At twenty, I was collecting titles in the South Pacific and challenging the status quo.
You talk a big game. And unlike some, you actually manage to back it up. But you're a prizefighter. You come in here, looking to climb the proverbial ladder and claim your place at the top of the roster. You think that every member of the WCF is just another stepping stool to greatness.
But I am no one's footstool. I am a survivor, an innovator, a living legend. I don't fight for meager trophies; I fight to prove myself. I am in this business not because it's fun, or because it's a nice little hobby. I do this because I was born and raised to be a warrior. And in the ring, I am as at home as I ever was in the jungles of South America.
So Vincent, I implore you. Do not take this challenge lightly. I will destroy myself if it means annihilating my opposition. If you are not willing to push yourself beyond your own limitations, you won't last longer than five minutes with me. You aren't just facing another man, Augustine; you are facing a man who can harness your darkest fears and use them as weapons against you. You have been slated against a master of aerial innovation; a maniac with no limits; a king of chaos who will destroy anything and everything in his path.
When it comes to One, you have to ask yourself: do I have what it takes to match the Agent of Chaos??
And if you're honest with yourself, you'll find the answer: very likely not.
Jaice Wilds: Aaron. I was afraid you had forgotten about me. How are things?
Aaron Simon Kalis nods to Kaine, who returns in kind. He turns his attention back to Wilds, a sigh.
Kalis: Tamika and the twins are fine. Brian is… well, he's just barely reached adulthood, and he wants to do things on his own. It's trying, dealing with that boy.
Jaice and Aaron sit across a coffee table from each other in the congregate area of the compound. Kalis removes a manilla envelope from his suit jacket, sliding it across the table.
Kalis: Here's what we managed to collect. You had reason to be suspicious; looks like all these guys were paid through the same account in the Caymans and had tickets paid for with checks from similar bank checks under bogus names. We spoke to our man there; got the paper trail backtraced through at least 3 more banks before we hit another minor snag. This person- or persons- know what they're doing.
Jaice looks over the stack of paperwork, shaking his head as he eyeballs various information.
Jaice Wilds: I'm assuming fake socials and falsified addresses?
Simon chuckles.
Kalis: Hell. One of our bank leads took us to a fire station that has been abandoned for damn near a century. Couple of hobos and squatters; but nothing of note as far as leads. We're still digging, but it's getting cold at this point.
Wilds slaps the papers down on the table, Aaron smiles. He sits back as Damien brings in drinks, grabbing up his shot of Jack while Aaron pops the cap of his Don Julio 1942. Jaice sighs, Kalis taking a swig before turning to his friend.
Kalis: To be fair, paranoia has become a second nature in our business. The Order has made enough foes to retain our heads on swivels. For what it's worth; none of our sources indicate Order enemies within the wrestling community, so this is someone closer to you specifically. I'll keep digging, but I have a feeling this is something that will come to you while we're working. Until then… have a drink and try to relax, my brother.
Wilds scoffs, picking up the paperwork again. Kalis shakes his head, turning to Kaine.
Kalis: So, how's fatherhood?
Damien Kaine: It's crazy, man. I don't know how people do this sometimes.
Kalis raises his bottle, Kaine raising his glass to meet it.
Kalis: Booze, my friend. Copious amounts of booze. But only when they're asleep or elsewhere.
Kaine and Kalis share a laugh as Wilds puzzles over his papers, the Order enjoying a moment of… well, whatever this is.
--------------
The following is a letter addressed to Vincent Augustine; intercepted and published to the WCF website.
Wilds Championship Federation is proud to announce that you, Vincent Augustine, are the first in a long, long line of victims for the returning Jaice Wilds. And I know what you're thinking.
“What is it that makes this Wilds character such a big deal?”
Could it be the ten years I've spent in the business? Clawing, scratching, tearing my way through the barriers set above my head to become a household name? The decade spent jumping from fed to fed, looking for a worthy challenge?
Could it be the titles he's accumulated the world over?? A Television Title and Tag Team Championships in the South Pacific. Aggression, Genocide and 201 Titles in Georgia, Florida and California, respectively.
Could it be his associations? Heading up “The Faction”, one of the most successful groups in the South Pacific? Being named as a general with the Order of Chaos, the archetypal war machine brought to prominence almost 16 years ago? Only this year being brought into the ranks of the Guardians??
One could make an argument that any or all of these things are reason to take notice of the man you are slated to face. But the accolades are merely the proverbial icing on the cake. The thing you need to understand, Vincent, is that I'm not like any veteran you may have seen before. Unlike the Steven Singh’s of the business, I still have fuel left in the tank. I know I can hold my own yet, and I'm not stepping away from the action anytime soon.
Unlike the Corey Blacks of the world, I'm not so stuck on myself that I only make appearances against the worthy. Or, perhaps more accurate, those who are on the rise and thus are capable of re-lighting my own dying candle. I suppose being desperate enough for relevancy to cling to the next gen's big names is better than fading away; but I feel jumping to management as a sort of guiding light would be far less demeaning. At least Singh-a-long has the self-respect to be a leader rather than a faltering addict. Yes, I said it; the CD's of the world are addicts, looking for the next big thing to bring them a hint of recognition as time rolls on. Although, there is one form of veteran that is even more pathetic than this.
There are those who are still down to fight. Those who understand the draw power their names possess. These guys get offered multi-million dollar contracts to come in, get thrown against new kids and often paid a little extra to take a fall. These guys don't care much for their legacies; they merely want to be in front of a crowd making a couple grand for a couple minutes. It's a sorry, pathetic waste of talent, and Adam Young and the like should be ashamed of themselves. Those of us who have spent the better part of the decade in the business have a legacy to uphold, but these fools are soiling the foundations upon which this business is built. Goddamn disgusting.
You're likely sitting at home right now, boy, reading this. And you’re thinking to yourself, “why should I even care; this guy is focused on a thousand other things”. I assure you, Augustine, my focus is exactly where it needs to be. You see, we grew up in two very different worlds, Vincent. When you were five, you were in a classroom learning your alphabet. At five, I was learning how to sharpen tools and skin deadly animals to eat their carcasses. At ten, you were learning basic math skills and what sedimentary rocks were. At that age, I was learning how to hunt while avoiding predators three times my size. At fifteen, you were attending homecoming and learning calculus. At fifteen, I was learning how to balance on a tightrope and corralling jungle cats who got out of control. At twenty, you were in some college course, trying to collect your liberal arts degree. At twenty, I was collecting titles in the South Pacific and challenging the status quo.
You talk a big game. And unlike some, you actually manage to back it up. But you're a prizefighter. You come in here, looking to climb the proverbial ladder and claim your place at the top of the roster. You think that every member of the WCF is just another stepping stool to greatness.
But I am no one's footstool. I am a survivor, an innovator, a living legend. I don't fight for meager trophies; I fight to prove myself. I am in this business not because it's fun, or because it's a nice little hobby. I do this because I was born and raised to be a warrior. And in the ring, I am as at home as I ever was in the jungles of South America.
So Vincent, I implore you. Do not take this challenge lightly. I will destroy myself if it means annihilating my opposition. If you are not willing to push yourself beyond your own limitations, you won't last longer than five minutes with me. You aren't just facing another man, Augustine; you are facing a man who can harness your darkest fears and use them as weapons against you. You have been slated against a master of aerial innovation; a maniac with no limits; a king of chaos who will destroy anything and everything in his path.
When it comes to One, you have to ask yourself: do I have what it takes to match the Agent of Chaos??
And if you're honest with yourself, you'll find the answer: very likely not.
