Post by CM Poor on Sept 2, 2012 19:05:38 GMT -5
[Natalie]
The words echo in the back of her mind.
"No f*cking way!"
"Brennan did it! He won Survival of The Fittest!"
Brennan did it.
Brennan did it.
Brennan did it.
No matter how many times she plays it back, the images and words still invoke the same stream of tears down her soft, youthful face. There's no use holding them back. The mere sight of him is nearly impossible to comprehend. His clothes are tattered. Ragged. His face is sunken and haggard. Those ungodly mutton chops she used to ride him endlessly about have spread into a half grown shadow of stubble, adding a tired quality to his already sleepless face. Even as the blood streams down his face, here was a man she could read like a book. Just to look at him, he hadn't slept in days. Maybe weeks. Where a normal man would have fallen in submission to the sheer dementia that would have come with a clinical case of sleep deprivation, they'd both shared so much about their own demons and dark days for her to know that this pure, unbridled energy that emitted from him, in spite of his haggard complexion and tired state, was being fueled by an unstopped flow of neverending, nonstop boozing.
The mere thought of it is enough to turn the steady stream of tears running down her face into yet another full blown breakdown. She fumbles for the remote, jamming buttons until she's finally able to pause the screen on a picture perfect shot of her rock. Her totem. Her love, David Brennan, grinning a sleazy, tired, intoxicated smile, as he's hoisted upon the shoulders of the two men she knows only as Kyzer and Drakz - the two men she holds personally responsible for David's whirlwind regression into the monster she knows only from the tales of horror and consumption that David had shared with her years before.
His face is so familiar, like a book she's read a thousand times before, but now, the pages have torn. The edges faded. The words blotted and yellowed. Where one sat the warm comfort of familiarity now resides something of a shadow - a reflection - of the man, the David Brennan, that she once knew. For a week now, she's sat here, engrossed in the couch they once shared, in the minute, humble apartment they once called home, replaying those words and those images again and again and again. With each passing remark of "Brennan did it", she glances at the phone perched upon the table beside her, waiting for even the slightest shrill tone to sound.
She'd spring to life in a heartbeat. David would be on the other end of the line, and he'd have a nonstop boarding pass waiting for her at the nearest airport. The flight would be brief, but it would feel like hours before she'd land, and come running down the tarmac, to be swept up in the warmth and comfort of his strong, encompassing embrace. Finally, he'd say, he was taking her away from all of this. Finally, they would leave behind the faded, yellowed pages of their lives before, and turn the page to put the first dob of ink down on their own words. A fresh slate. A clean page.
She wipes the tears away, fumbling with the remote once more, drawing the television off, leaving her in a temporary darkness before clicking on a lamp that rests upon the same table as the phone that will not ring. Fed up with waiting, she reaches for the receiver, and bringing it to her ear, she jams a series of numbers. The phone rings for what seems like forever, but finally, the other end clicks, and she's greeted by a groggy, but seemingly interested, inquisitive response, before she even has a chance to speak a word. He must have caller ID.
"It's me. Yes, I'm fine. You're right. The both of you. I want in, so what have you got planned?"
[David]
"Looking good, mate. Looking good."
He should have expected the fanfare. One mustn't expect anything less from the incomparable Drakz. His words are accentuated by a one man round of applause as Drakz rises from his perfectly villainous seat, situated in the center of the grand hall of The New Epoch's secret lair. His boastful, English comrade seems to have caught the attention of all who reside here, as David spots, out of the corner of his eye, DMK peering irritably out from beyond a half opened door. David and Drakz come together with a firm handshake, Drakz patting David on the back as he motions toward a second seat just beside his, looking no less decadent or villainous than his own. A testament to the sheer power of Drakz' bellowing calls of mockery and fanfare, they are joined not a moment later by none other than Michael Kyzer, who cups an affirming hand on David's shoulder before taking his own seat across from the two of them.
David hadn't spent much time here at the lair before today. Call it a subconcious thing, call it the result of distractions now behind him, but to take in the place now, he could appreciate it as a grand substitute, a fitting step up, even, from the now charred remains of Kyzer's old homestead, where David had spent many an indulgent evening since aligning himself with such company.
"That's a new look for you, David."
Michael was referring, of course, to David's latest indulgence, which he was sporting today rather boastfully - a new wardrobe. By the 18th or 19th bottle following his victory in the Elimination Chamber, he'd formulated the notion that now that he had earned his spot among the top tier, elite of the WFWF competition, he'd earned the right to dress the part, too. Imagine, then, the irritability of any number of Las Vegas' finest men's boutiques, their owners being called in a drunken stupor in the wee hours of the morning, and being summoned to their shops to help devise a complete wardrobe - one that carries with it a flair of arrogance and importance, while still maintaining the street wise, homegrown skinhead sensibilities that had come to define David beyond the bottle. Even if they were irritated by the ravings of a drunken skinhead waving a wad of bills in their faces at 3am, they didn't show it - not at least as far as David's hazy perception could see. DMK swore up something good about being called upon to drive said drunken, skinhead lunatic out on his early morning shopping spree, but in the end, David found himself with a wealth of form fitting, black t-shirts, neatly pressed jeans but more than a few black slacks as well, several pairs of the finest boots Vegas had to offer, a couple ties and collars for special occassions, and a variety of coats, ranging from bombers, to leathers, to the simple, black blazer he sports today.
"High f*cking time, too. It was beginning to get a bit embarassing standing next to you in those tattered rags you called clothes."
As if to accentuate the fact that the three of them now shared the common bond of dressing well, Drakz runs his hands down the neatly pressed collar of his own suit, pausing as he reaches the end, staring longingly at the spot where he would have previously sported the International Title most arrogantly strapped around his waist. It was jarring to see him without it - David himself had even found himself coming to terms with the fact that were he allowed, Drakz would be wearing that thing everywhere. Not one to dwell, Drakz quickly looks up once more, clapping his hands together in a firm grasp, breaking the brief tension and silence with his usual, arrogant grin.
"....but, we get a piece of gold strapped around that waist of yours, you might even start looking like one of the gang, hear?"
"Funny you mention that - I had the same thing on my mind."
"Naturally. We find ourselves most uniquely poised for our plan of attack, given your exemplary performance in the tournament this past week."
"What better leverage to weigh in our corner but the top prize in the game - right, right. Thanks in great part to the guy I had to step on to get there. Should we be expecting my old pal Ace any time soon?"
"My guess is he'll be around when it's safe for him to come around. He played quite the hand at the PPV. I wouldn't place my bets on the ease of being Ace Bennett at this immediate moment, but we'll fold him in, in time."
"And til then?"
"Revel in the air of victory, for f*ck's sake. You're off to a good start. Don't let the midget discourage you, either. He's here to help, above all else. Speaking of which, you've had a delivery."
As if on cue, DMK emerges from another room set apart from the grand hall, towing behind him a tightly wrapped pallet of boxes, five by five, stacked eight layers high, emblazoned with a myriad of shipping labels. David leads the group over, and motions for the midget to cut the wraps.
"...let this contender bullsh*t get to your head, f*ckin' alchy..."
Continuing to mutter as he slices, David makes for the first opening, pulling down one of the cases. He breaks the cardboard open with little effort, procuring from within a bottle that dwarf his typical, transparent go-to High Life longnecks. The bottle is regal looking, black, with gold lettering and trim across the label - German. The gold script spells out the words that bring a smile to David's face - "Erdinger Weissbeer Dunkel".
"You've got this. Is it good?"
"Got to be better than that Yank sh*t he drinks. Only 200 cases? What're you gonna do by the end of next week, mate?"
"Didn't you hear the man? Revel in the air of victory."
[Revolution]
"All that talk's a lot of pissing in the wind.
My father fancies himself something of an embodiment. 'The American Dream', he calls it. He used to tell me, when I was younger, about this great, fanciful dream that once encapsulated what it meant to be American. You're born. You're raised. You come to embrace your own lay of the land - your own, minute piece of the world that you have been given, raw and unresolved, to mold in your own image. You grow up. You make your way, and if you are true, blue blooded, one for all and all for me vested American, you conquer. You command. You step on those that would stand in your way to get everything you could possibly want out of life, and when you finally reach that place, that promised land, laden with the glare of golden opportunity, you take your seat upon that throne, and you dare anyone to rip the world from your cold, dead hands.
What I don't think he knows now, or what he even knew then, is that I reject that claim. Not the notion - that course of life, 'The American Dream', the unbridled spirit to take what you want and leave none behind - that's a virtue that's lost on humanity today. I reject the claim that Jack Brennan is the personal embodiment of the human fighting spirit. he's found his seat upon that throne, but his mountain is a facade. It's weak. It's unsaturated. And all it would take is one loose tongue, one Freudian slip, and it would all come crashing down like the fragile house of cards that he's really built. His empire is volatile - unstable. The emperor would like to think that I'd have been a better man, had I followed in his foot steps. Taken my place at his side, ready to man the reigns when his time was up. But compare our hands.
A man like Michael Kyzer doesn't waste his time at the bottom. That's why they fear him, and it's why they've come to fear me. The records speak for themselves. No titles to speak of. After nearly a year in the game, some might call that a lame duck competitor, but again, let the records speak. Losses? Drakz, Schneider, Drake Elias, and Raider. A comrade in arms, two Hall of Famers and World Champions, and a man once said to be on par with yours truly in regard to sheer, raw prospect. And with Drake Elias out of the picture, and Drakz in my corner, I've turned triumph over the once mighty Raider, and round two against Phillip Schneider is only a cycle away - and as luck would have it, his reign at the top, his throne above this house of cards that he's built is up for grabs. Lame duck, indeed.
The shine of golden opportunity is blinding. So many get caught up in the ends that they forgoe the importance of establishing a strong and sustainable means, and so they create what they perceive as an empire, that's paper thin, can't hold water, and with the right amount of force, just one odd tip of the balance, will come crashing down from beneath them. Jack Brennan knows this. It's what keeps his insecurities so severe about what he has that he turns to cold blooded murder to justify his ends. Phillip Schneider knows this. What more could be said about a man who relies so heavily on skewers, barbed tire, and any other number of contruction and gardening prods to justify his ends? His empire his only as stabile as the emperor that commands it, and in a few weeks' time, I'll be there to tip the balance.
They'll try and stop me, of course. All great conquerors meet varying degrees of resistence, of revolution. How great the resistence weighs entirely on how great the threat. Once more, we refer to the history books. Five shows in - we pit a man against another who fancies himself a career killer. He loses footing, but he continues the ascent. And so we create an army to face his. They fall. We pit him against a man who's created another paper thin facade of becoming a loose cannon, taking his aggressions out on anyone smaller and weaker than himself. Well, surely that won't deter the threat, but as reward for his triumph, we stick him in a death chamber with six other competitors, the very best of the best. Unknown quantities. Former champions. We put him in the ring from the very start. No man could possibly beat those odds.
And what is it they say, about history repeating itself?
And so it is, that I find myself on the very cusp of that highest mountain, within arm's reach of that top prize, just a well placed bottle and a Fresh Cut away from taking Phillip Schneider's coveted World Heavyweight Title away from him, and bringing it back home to The New Epoch, the once and future dominating force in the WFWF, where it so rightfully belongs. Like all great conquests, the final stretch is the toughest. The road between here and there is bound to be laden, littered, with the very best the WFWF has to try and stop me from attaining that spot they so desperately seek to prevent me from reaching.
They'll start with Mak Cross and Yukio Blaze.
Two men with one very striking thing in common: neither one could be the one to stop me inside that chamber, and neither one had to endure the duration of the match. I guess you could call this that one last shot at redemption. Another thing these two have in common - a likely need to find some redemption after a piss poor showing.
Blaze came out on top in his qualifying match, but really, that's water under the bridge in regard to the showing you were hoping for now, isn't it? I mean, normally, I'd do that same old song and dance and harken back to the history books, but they're hardly congruous now, aren't they? All that prestige, all that glory, all that fame that decorates your past is really just that, isn't it? The past. A bygone. An afterthought, in an age soon to be dominated by one of the very men this company has come to fear and hate. How sweet would it be, Yukio, to be able to step into that ring, and get the upper hand on the number one champion for the World Heavyweight Championship - scracth that - your former World Heavyweight Championship? To be the hero the WFWF truly needs? The face of the resistance, the rallying point for the WFWF's losing battle against The New Epoch?
My best guess? That ship has sailed, and left you on the dock back in Las Vegas.
With any luck, you'll have a bit of company in the realm of those left behind in the form of Mak Cross. Mak, what's the record now? How many times have you stepped up to me, not even on your own, but with one or more contenders who could help you finish the job, and you still haven't managed to get that upper hand? Are you just another one of the little people that Yukio Blaze is so desparately hoping are trailing in his footsteps, hoping for him to lead the charge? If so, were you asleep when the message got delivered in Vegas? Left to your own defenses, you didn't have a snowball's chance in hell. What makes you think this time, or the time after that, or the time after that, is going to be any different?
This is all they have to offer, and this is why the future has already been written, in the blood of anyone who would stand in our way, drawn from the pen of The New Epoch. Xavier Pierce would have you to believe that a storm is coming. A revolution. And he's right. But he doesn't know it. He thinks the revolution will be spelled by the fall of The New Epoch. The triumph of good over evil. An ingrained sense of right over wrong.
That revolution is a lie.
The revolution is the situation of Michael Kyzer and Drakz as the true legends of the WFWF. When the book is closed on the WFWF, the pages won't harken back to the days of ZMaster, or Justa Mazing, or a house of cards champion who spent his salad days running around pretending to be a homeless insane. When those pages are filled, they will talk of the undisputed, most recognizable name in the company, Michael Kyzer. They will talk of the unparalleled accomplishments of one of the most time tested, brilliant minds in the company. Not of Yukio Blaze, or of Mak Cross, but of Drakz. And on the final page, before one must begin a new chapter in the future of what is to come for the WFWF, they'll warn of the new force atop that mountain. A man who triumphed over every odd, who built his empire out of the ruins of those who would doubt him or stand in his way. A man who defined, in a way his father, corporate executives, or once and former World Champions could only dream of, the American Dream.
They'll talk, of course, of David Brennan.
There's no revolution anymore.
[Elsewhere]
"Exclusive interview, indeed. What exactly is it you need?"
"All inclusive access. Venues. Training facilities. Vendors. Catering situations. PR activities. Anywhere he can go, I need to be able to go as well."
"You've made your intentions clear, but I'm still failing to see the mutual benefit in granting this....most unusual request."
"Clean hands? If a return on your investment is what you're looking for, surely the health benefits to not only David Brennan, but not to mention anyone else he steps into the ring with as well, should be alluring enough."
"You're asking for an access pass to our top contender for the top prize in my company. You understand why I'm so hesitant to just relent..."
"What we're asking for is an opportunity to potentially save a life."
"That man is beyond saving."
"Only because you've given up on him. He desparately needs help, yes, but he's not beyond it. Not yet."
"And if 'help' necessitates the removal of one of my top draws?"
"Then you get me."
The words echo in the back of her mind.
"No f*cking way!"
"Brennan did it! He won Survival of The Fittest!"
Brennan did it.
Brennan did it.
Brennan did it.
No matter how many times she plays it back, the images and words still invoke the same stream of tears down her soft, youthful face. There's no use holding them back. The mere sight of him is nearly impossible to comprehend. His clothes are tattered. Ragged. His face is sunken and haggard. Those ungodly mutton chops she used to ride him endlessly about have spread into a half grown shadow of stubble, adding a tired quality to his already sleepless face. Even as the blood streams down his face, here was a man she could read like a book. Just to look at him, he hadn't slept in days. Maybe weeks. Where a normal man would have fallen in submission to the sheer dementia that would have come with a clinical case of sleep deprivation, they'd both shared so much about their own demons and dark days for her to know that this pure, unbridled energy that emitted from him, in spite of his haggard complexion and tired state, was being fueled by an unstopped flow of neverending, nonstop boozing.
The mere thought of it is enough to turn the steady stream of tears running down her face into yet another full blown breakdown. She fumbles for the remote, jamming buttons until she's finally able to pause the screen on a picture perfect shot of her rock. Her totem. Her love, David Brennan, grinning a sleazy, tired, intoxicated smile, as he's hoisted upon the shoulders of the two men she knows only as Kyzer and Drakz - the two men she holds personally responsible for David's whirlwind regression into the monster she knows only from the tales of horror and consumption that David had shared with her years before.
His face is so familiar, like a book she's read a thousand times before, but now, the pages have torn. The edges faded. The words blotted and yellowed. Where one sat the warm comfort of familiarity now resides something of a shadow - a reflection - of the man, the David Brennan, that she once knew. For a week now, she's sat here, engrossed in the couch they once shared, in the minute, humble apartment they once called home, replaying those words and those images again and again and again. With each passing remark of "Brennan did it", she glances at the phone perched upon the table beside her, waiting for even the slightest shrill tone to sound.
She'd spring to life in a heartbeat. David would be on the other end of the line, and he'd have a nonstop boarding pass waiting for her at the nearest airport. The flight would be brief, but it would feel like hours before she'd land, and come running down the tarmac, to be swept up in the warmth and comfort of his strong, encompassing embrace. Finally, he'd say, he was taking her away from all of this. Finally, they would leave behind the faded, yellowed pages of their lives before, and turn the page to put the first dob of ink down on their own words. A fresh slate. A clean page.
She wipes the tears away, fumbling with the remote once more, drawing the television off, leaving her in a temporary darkness before clicking on a lamp that rests upon the same table as the phone that will not ring. Fed up with waiting, she reaches for the receiver, and bringing it to her ear, she jams a series of numbers. The phone rings for what seems like forever, but finally, the other end clicks, and she's greeted by a groggy, but seemingly interested, inquisitive response, before she even has a chance to speak a word. He must have caller ID.
"It's me. Yes, I'm fine. You're right. The both of you. I want in, so what have you got planned?"
[David]
"Looking good, mate. Looking good."
He should have expected the fanfare. One mustn't expect anything less from the incomparable Drakz. His words are accentuated by a one man round of applause as Drakz rises from his perfectly villainous seat, situated in the center of the grand hall of The New Epoch's secret lair. His boastful, English comrade seems to have caught the attention of all who reside here, as David spots, out of the corner of his eye, DMK peering irritably out from beyond a half opened door. David and Drakz come together with a firm handshake, Drakz patting David on the back as he motions toward a second seat just beside his, looking no less decadent or villainous than his own. A testament to the sheer power of Drakz' bellowing calls of mockery and fanfare, they are joined not a moment later by none other than Michael Kyzer, who cups an affirming hand on David's shoulder before taking his own seat across from the two of them.
David hadn't spent much time here at the lair before today. Call it a subconcious thing, call it the result of distractions now behind him, but to take in the place now, he could appreciate it as a grand substitute, a fitting step up, even, from the now charred remains of Kyzer's old homestead, where David had spent many an indulgent evening since aligning himself with such company.
"That's a new look for you, David."
Michael was referring, of course, to David's latest indulgence, which he was sporting today rather boastfully - a new wardrobe. By the 18th or 19th bottle following his victory in the Elimination Chamber, he'd formulated the notion that now that he had earned his spot among the top tier, elite of the WFWF competition, he'd earned the right to dress the part, too. Imagine, then, the irritability of any number of Las Vegas' finest men's boutiques, their owners being called in a drunken stupor in the wee hours of the morning, and being summoned to their shops to help devise a complete wardrobe - one that carries with it a flair of arrogance and importance, while still maintaining the street wise, homegrown skinhead sensibilities that had come to define David beyond the bottle. Even if they were irritated by the ravings of a drunken skinhead waving a wad of bills in their faces at 3am, they didn't show it - not at least as far as David's hazy perception could see. DMK swore up something good about being called upon to drive said drunken, skinhead lunatic out on his early morning shopping spree, but in the end, David found himself with a wealth of form fitting, black t-shirts, neatly pressed jeans but more than a few black slacks as well, several pairs of the finest boots Vegas had to offer, a couple ties and collars for special occassions, and a variety of coats, ranging from bombers, to leathers, to the simple, black blazer he sports today.
"High f*cking time, too. It was beginning to get a bit embarassing standing next to you in those tattered rags you called clothes."
As if to accentuate the fact that the three of them now shared the common bond of dressing well, Drakz runs his hands down the neatly pressed collar of his own suit, pausing as he reaches the end, staring longingly at the spot where he would have previously sported the International Title most arrogantly strapped around his waist. It was jarring to see him without it - David himself had even found himself coming to terms with the fact that were he allowed, Drakz would be wearing that thing everywhere. Not one to dwell, Drakz quickly looks up once more, clapping his hands together in a firm grasp, breaking the brief tension and silence with his usual, arrogant grin.
"....but, we get a piece of gold strapped around that waist of yours, you might even start looking like one of the gang, hear?"
"Funny you mention that - I had the same thing on my mind."
"Naturally. We find ourselves most uniquely poised for our plan of attack, given your exemplary performance in the tournament this past week."
"What better leverage to weigh in our corner but the top prize in the game - right, right. Thanks in great part to the guy I had to step on to get there. Should we be expecting my old pal Ace any time soon?"
"My guess is he'll be around when it's safe for him to come around. He played quite the hand at the PPV. I wouldn't place my bets on the ease of being Ace Bennett at this immediate moment, but we'll fold him in, in time."
"And til then?"
"Revel in the air of victory, for f*ck's sake. You're off to a good start. Don't let the midget discourage you, either. He's here to help, above all else. Speaking of which, you've had a delivery."
As if on cue, DMK emerges from another room set apart from the grand hall, towing behind him a tightly wrapped pallet of boxes, five by five, stacked eight layers high, emblazoned with a myriad of shipping labels. David leads the group over, and motions for the midget to cut the wraps.
"...let this contender bullsh*t get to your head, f*ckin' alchy..."
Continuing to mutter as he slices, David makes for the first opening, pulling down one of the cases. He breaks the cardboard open with little effort, procuring from within a bottle that dwarf his typical, transparent go-to High Life longnecks. The bottle is regal looking, black, with gold lettering and trim across the label - German. The gold script spells out the words that bring a smile to David's face - "Erdinger Weissbeer Dunkel".
"You've got this. Is it good?"
"Got to be better than that Yank sh*t he drinks. Only 200 cases? What're you gonna do by the end of next week, mate?"
"Didn't you hear the man? Revel in the air of victory."
[Revolution]
"All that talk's a lot of pissing in the wind.
My father fancies himself something of an embodiment. 'The American Dream', he calls it. He used to tell me, when I was younger, about this great, fanciful dream that once encapsulated what it meant to be American. You're born. You're raised. You come to embrace your own lay of the land - your own, minute piece of the world that you have been given, raw and unresolved, to mold in your own image. You grow up. You make your way, and if you are true, blue blooded, one for all and all for me vested American, you conquer. You command. You step on those that would stand in your way to get everything you could possibly want out of life, and when you finally reach that place, that promised land, laden with the glare of golden opportunity, you take your seat upon that throne, and you dare anyone to rip the world from your cold, dead hands.
What I don't think he knows now, or what he even knew then, is that I reject that claim. Not the notion - that course of life, 'The American Dream', the unbridled spirit to take what you want and leave none behind - that's a virtue that's lost on humanity today. I reject the claim that Jack Brennan is the personal embodiment of the human fighting spirit. he's found his seat upon that throne, but his mountain is a facade. It's weak. It's unsaturated. And all it would take is one loose tongue, one Freudian slip, and it would all come crashing down like the fragile house of cards that he's really built. His empire is volatile - unstable. The emperor would like to think that I'd have been a better man, had I followed in his foot steps. Taken my place at his side, ready to man the reigns when his time was up. But compare our hands.
A man like Michael Kyzer doesn't waste his time at the bottom. That's why they fear him, and it's why they've come to fear me. The records speak for themselves. No titles to speak of. After nearly a year in the game, some might call that a lame duck competitor, but again, let the records speak. Losses? Drakz, Schneider, Drake Elias, and Raider. A comrade in arms, two Hall of Famers and World Champions, and a man once said to be on par with yours truly in regard to sheer, raw prospect. And with Drake Elias out of the picture, and Drakz in my corner, I've turned triumph over the once mighty Raider, and round two against Phillip Schneider is only a cycle away - and as luck would have it, his reign at the top, his throne above this house of cards that he's built is up for grabs. Lame duck, indeed.
The shine of golden opportunity is blinding. So many get caught up in the ends that they forgoe the importance of establishing a strong and sustainable means, and so they create what they perceive as an empire, that's paper thin, can't hold water, and with the right amount of force, just one odd tip of the balance, will come crashing down from beneath them. Jack Brennan knows this. It's what keeps his insecurities so severe about what he has that he turns to cold blooded murder to justify his ends. Phillip Schneider knows this. What more could be said about a man who relies so heavily on skewers, barbed tire, and any other number of contruction and gardening prods to justify his ends? His empire his only as stabile as the emperor that commands it, and in a few weeks' time, I'll be there to tip the balance.
They'll try and stop me, of course. All great conquerors meet varying degrees of resistence, of revolution. How great the resistence weighs entirely on how great the threat. Once more, we refer to the history books. Five shows in - we pit a man against another who fancies himself a career killer. He loses footing, but he continues the ascent. And so we create an army to face his. They fall. We pit him against a man who's created another paper thin facade of becoming a loose cannon, taking his aggressions out on anyone smaller and weaker than himself. Well, surely that won't deter the threat, but as reward for his triumph, we stick him in a death chamber with six other competitors, the very best of the best. Unknown quantities. Former champions. We put him in the ring from the very start. No man could possibly beat those odds.
And what is it they say, about history repeating itself?
And so it is, that I find myself on the very cusp of that highest mountain, within arm's reach of that top prize, just a well placed bottle and a Fresh Cut away from taking Phillip Schneider's coveted World Heavyweight Title away from him, and bringing it back home to The New Epoch, the once and future dominating force in the WFWF, where it so rightfully belongs. Like all great conquests, the final stretch is the toughest. The road between here and there is bound to be laden, littered, with the very best the WFWF has to try and stop me from attaining that spot they so desperately seek to prevent me from reaching.
They'll start with Mak Cross and Yukio Blaze.
Two men with one very striking thing in common: neither one could be the one to stop me inside that chamber, and neither one had to endure the duration of the match. I guess you could call this that one last shot at redemption. Another thing these two have in common - a likely need to find some redemption after a piss poor showing.
Blaze came out on top in his qualifying match, but really, that's water under the bridge in regard to the showing you were hoping for now, isn't it? I mean, normally, I'd do that same old song and dance and harken back to the history books, but they're hardly congruous now, aren't they? All that prestige, all that glory, all that fame that decorates your past is really just that, isn't it? The past. A bygone. An afterthought, in an age soon to be dominated by one of the very men this company has come to fear and hate. How sweet would it be, Yukio, to be able to step into that ring, and get the upper hand on the number one champion for the World Heavyweight Championship - scracth that - your former World Heavyweight Championship? To be the hero the WFWF truly needs? The face of the resistance, the rallying point for the WFWF's losing battle against The New Epoch?
My best guess? That ship has sailed, and left you on the dock back in Las Vegas.
With any luck, you'll have a bit of company in the realm of those left behind in the form of Mak Cross. Mak, what's the record now? How many times have you stepped up to me, not even on your own, but with one or more contenders who could help you finish the job, and you still haven't managed to get that upper hand? Are you just another one of the little people that Yukio Blaze is so desparately hoping are trailing in his footsteps, hoping for him to lead the charge? If so, were you asleep when the message got delivered in Vegas? Left to your own defenses, you didn't have a snowball's chance in hell. What makes you think this time, or the time after that, or the time after that, is going to be any different?
This is all they have to offer, and this is why the future has already been written, in the blood of anyone who would stand in our way, drawn from the pen of The New Epoch. Xavier Pierce would have you to believe that a storm is coming. A revolution. And he's right. But he doesn't know it. He thinks the revolution will be spelled by the fall of The New Epoch. The triumph of good over evil. An ingrained sense of right over wrong.
That revolution is a lie.
The revolution is the situation of Michael Kyzer and Drakz as the true legends of the WFWF. When the book is closed on the WFWF, the pages won't harken back to the days of ZMaster, or Justa Mazing, or a house of cards champion who spent his salad days running around pretending to be a homeless insane. When those pages are filled, they will talk of the undisputed, most recognizable name in the company, Michael Kyzer. They will talk of the unparalleled accomplishments of one of the most time tested, brilliant minds in the company. Not of Yukio Blaze, or of Mak Cross, but of Drakz. And on the final page, before one must begin a new chapter in the future of what is to come for the WFWF, they'll warn of the new force atop that mountain. A man who triumphed over every odd, who built his empire out of the ruins of those who would doubt him or stand in his way. A man who defined, in a way his father, corporate executives, or once and former World Champions could only dream of, the American Dream.
They'll talk, of course, of David Brennan.
There's no revolution anymore.
[Elsewhere]
"Exclusive interview, indeed. What exactly is it you need?"
"All inclusive access. Venues. Training facilities. Vendors. Catering situations. PR activities. Anywhere he can go, I need to be able to go as well."
"You've made your intentions clear, but I'm still failing to see the mutual benefit in granting this....most unusual request."
"Clean hands? If a return on your investment is what you're looking for, surely the health benefits to not only David Brennan, but not to mention anyone else he steps into the ring with as well, should be alluring enough."
"You're asking for an access pass to our top contender for the top prize in my company. You understand why I'm so hesitant to just relent..."
"What we're asking for is an opportunity to potentially save a life."
"That man is beyond saving."
"Only because you've given up on him. He desparately needs help, yes, but he's not beyond it. Not yet."
"And if 'help' necessitates the removal of one of my top draws?"
"Then you get me."
I dont know good luck 
