Post by bad guy™ on Jan 19, 2015 22:59:24 GMT -5
__
The Ecstasy Paradox Part 2: Burden In My Hand
__
October 18th, 1996: Ira, Vermont
Samael: I f*cking hate this town. Seriously.
Jax: Why?
Samael: Too damn small for me.
Jax: Getting small town fever again, Sammy?
Samael: Small village. Town. Hell, Rutland County and Vermont as a whole’s too damn small for my liking.
Sam grabs a pack of smokes from his jeans pocket and lights up. Inhale. Exhale.
Some things never change.
Jax: You know, you really shouldn’t be smoking.
Samael: I’m 16. F*cking sue me, Jax. What’s anyone gonna do? Better yet, who the hell would even care?
Sam, against a brick wall, plants his boot upon it, sliding his backpack off of his shoulders and to the side. He lets his shoulders slump, his chin in his chest.
Jax: Talking like that isn’t really going to gain you many friends. Brooding and self-depsication...
Samael: You mean deprecation?
Jax: I was close. But bro, that sh*t won’t get you anywhere. If anything it’s gonna piss someone off.
Samael: Oh yeah?
Jax: There’s nothing people with f*cked up lives hate more than another person complaining about how terrible their lives are. That’s why people go see movies. At least they don’t have to get pissed with someone because they’re so damn selfish they think the pity party is being thrown like a competition.
Samael: You think I’m purposely throwing a f*cking pity party because I’m smart enough to know this town’s so small ain’t nobody gonna give a sh*t about whether I do something as small as smoking a cigarette? Christ, you’re dense.
Jax: Dude, it’s not just the smoking. It’s constantly happening. You’re constantly getting into arguments and fights because of your one upping. BECAUSE people get pissed at you.
Samael: I just like pointing out that their lives could be a hella worse. I’m trying to be encouraging.
Jax: It’s not helpful to anyone. No wonder everyone calls you a prick.
Samael: So I can’t help someone out by reminding them they’re not the only person in the world?
Jax: All you’re doing is making people feel small by making yourself out to be big, even if its negative. You’re selfish.
Samael: Well, that’s a nice thing to say.
Jax: Truth sucks.
Samael takes one last drag and stomps the butt out. He picks his bag up and throws it over his shoulder.
Jax: Running away? I thought this conversation could be civil.
Samael: I’ve gotta go brood away from people who it’ll bother. Let the world’s people fix their sh*t on their own.
Sam starts walking away when he’s interrupted by Jax.
Jax: That’s your problem, Sam. This town? It’s people? It’s not too small. You just think you’re so big.
Sam comes to a complete stop, a slight glance through his hair over his shoulder.
Samael: If you believe that’s the truth, then you’re the most gullible person. Ever. I’ve got to get to work.
Sam pulls his Walkman’s headphones up on his ears, ‘Burdon In My Hand’ hitting his drums deep in his ears, a calming sensation over his body. Mix the lyrics…
‘Follow me into the desert, as thirsty as you are. Crack a smile and cut your mouth, and drown in alcohol.’
…with the leftover bitter, cool taste of now stale menthol resting on his tongue…
‘I shot my love today, would you cry for me? I lost my head again, would you lie for me?’
Samael: **under his breath** If he thinks I think I’m so big, he’s underestimating my opinion of myself. What I think about myself is the truth, and it is nothing more than a tool to garner anger from those I seek to set straight. To fix them before they become like me. That’s why I learned how to fight. That’s why I teach others who seek the knowledge of fighting, so they too can take arms to those who look to push their agendas, to help them fight conformity. To fight in a way to ensure you win the battle and the war. The cause I took up. It’s…
‘Just a burden in my hand…’
Samael: Perfect.
Samael keeps walking towards the studio for the lesson when a shrill louder than Chris Boyle breaks through his massive Walkman headphones. He pulls them off onto his neck and pokes his head around the corner and hits his back against the brick wall on his own side as quick as he can. His eyes, wide. He puts his head out again to get a better look
For Ira being a small town, regardless of the opinion of Samael, this isn’t something anyone expects to see.
‘ Just a burden in my hand, just an anchor on my heart. It’s just a tumor in my head, and I’m in the dark.’
Samael sighs, no matter how cold he is, there’s a large differential between the coldness in one’s mind and the shutting down of a person’s heart completely. Samael drops his bag at his feet and turns the corner down the side street doing the right, not smart, thing.
Samael: HEY.
Samael is many things in the end, but one is not a coward.
In the street, three guys that Samael recognizes when they turn around (small town, remember?) spread apart to turn and look at the voice shouting from behind them. Before the kid in the middle can say anything to Sam, Sammy leaves his feet, driving a high knee into the chest of the middleman. When he drops back, Sam catches a glimpse of where that shrill came from.
A girl, around the same age…maybe a year younger, than Sam, is standing before him now, a look of a powerful mix of thanks and terror written upon her face. Though her face, unlike those of the kids around him now, was not one he recognized. Before he can usher her away, Sam’s arm is grabbed. In one fluid motion, Sam grabs the wrist of the guy who’s attached to his arm and spins himself underneath to gain the leverage and delivers a HARD push kick into his ribs. As he falls, Sam turns to the third and before he can react his balance goes…perhaps his instinct kicking in as he falls, but his face burning in pain, his eye seeing a thick, dark glop falling from his eyelashes and onto his hand. Blood.
Sam’s stomach churns. His vision goes blurry, but he can make out the figure moving towards him. He raises his arm to protect his head and suddenly, all feeling in his hand is gone. Samael raises his leg and catches something, hard, as there is a yelping and the figure in front of him falls to its side. Sam pulls himself to his feet and staggers into a wall. Sam uses the hand he has feeling in to wipe away the blood from his eye. His vision, slightly hazy, but much better than it was just a few seconds ago. He looks at his arm and sees something stuck in his hand. A wash of adrenaline flows over Sam, pulling the pocket knife out of his hand and dropping it in a garbage pan against the wall.
Samael: **panting, adrenaline fueled** I don’t know what’s more f*cking embarrassing. Getting poked and scratched by that piss of a knife, or being a fighter and letting myself get taken down by f*gs who spend their time off in singlets and rolling on a mat with other man. F*cking wrestlers.
The first guy is nearly to his feet when Sam walks towards him and throws a heel kick into his face, hopefully breaking his nose. When the second guy starts getting up, Sam takes a look at the girl who’s standing there, completely frozen.
Samael: Don’t just stand there, Christ! Get the hell outta here. NOW!
The girl starts to back away, turns and runs. As The Wrestlers start to come to…
Samael: F*ck.
Sam follows suit behind the girl.
‘Kill your health and yourself, and kill everything you love. And if you live you can fall to pieces, and suffer with my ghost.’
__
January 18th, 2015: Ira, Vermont
Samael: And that’s exactly what I told Tugarin when The Midget left me with him. I told him how I got my scar, and why **lifts his hand up to the Skype camera** this thing isn’t good for much at all.
Malakai: I’m guessing Zmey’s not exactly cultured enough to realize you essentially ripped The Rumble scene out from West Side Story?
Samael: Bernardo and Riff didn’t live through The Rumble. I did.
Malakai: Wait…you’re trying to say…
Samael: Yes dude. I actually got these scars protecting a girl I had never met from three bunghole wrestling jocks I went to school with. And the scars came from a tiny ass pocket knife that couldn’t ever hurt anyone else BUT me apparently. F*cking Christ, man.
Malakai: What ever happened to that girl, then?
Samael: Why the hell do you care about what happened to her? Here I was with nasty injuries, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. I wound up suffering a fate worse than the loss of feeling and vision. Don’t you care about that?
Malakai: Fine, I’ll humor you. What happened to you as a result of this that you claim it to be worse than what had just happened to that girl?
Samael: Three years later…I wound up MARRYING that girl.
Malakai: No sh*t? It was real AND it was Phoe?
Malakai sits back in his bed, closing his eyes, the pain getting to him immensely. But somehow, the poor bastard manages to crack a smile and laugh.
Malakai: Wait a minute…you sure it wasn’t worse for HER marrying YOU?
Samael: Of everything I just f*cking told you, THAT’S what you got from it?! Christ you’re f*cking as dumb as the wrestlers that day.
Malakai: I…am a wrestler.
Samael: Thus my point stands.
Malakai: You…are a wrestler.
Samael: Correction. I am a martial arts instructor given a contract to fight people for money.
Malakai: You’re gonna keep bending the truth?
Samael: Well, lying to everyone, and myself, has gotten me this far in life. Why quit while you’re ahead?
Malakai: True dat.
"Ok, less about you an more about me, selfish prick."
Samael: So you never let me finish my story.
Malakai: Sorry. Right. So what did Tugarin say?
Samael: What do you think?
Malakai: Nothing?
Samael: You’re smarter than you look.
Malakai starts hacking up a lung. He grabs a bottle of water and chugs it down, beating his chest to make the quick pain go away.
"Christ, how much time does he even have left?"
Malakai: Sorry.
Samael: It’s fine man, take your time.
"No. It’s not fine. Sure, I feel bad that he’s dying…mainly because I still need him. But still."
Malakai: Did you hammer home to Tugarin in that very…non descript room, that you’re to be trusted above all else?
Samael: In better choice words for the situation at hand, yes, I did.
Malakai: Do you think it got through?
Samael: I never know if I’m talking to a voice recorder or a brick wall.
Malakai: Sounds like my conversations back in the day with Trace Demon.
Samael: Tell me about it. It’s a time will tell thing with Tugarin, though. I know that much.
Malakai is very short of breath, trying to catch his breath while making some kind of sense.
Malakai: So…how’s…your…situation…
Samael: You got my picture message, right?
Malakai opts to nod his head instead of speak. He really is getting worse.
Samael: It’s a bit of a surreal feeling. Here I am, living my life, allowing myself to become chiseled by the forging of our war, and then this is dropped into my life. Out of the blue. At first, I didn’t believe Phoe. Sure, the little girl fit the age of the time, but remember I found Phoe in bed with someone else at roughly the same time.
Malakai: And she…never gave you a…reason to think…during the divorce…?
Samael: Remember, most of it was handled through the mail. She allowed me the house because she was moving in with him, and since that was all I was really concerned about since I didn’t have much in the way of a bank account, I had no chance, reason, or want to see her. So almost seven years later she drops this bomb on me, kind of threw me for a loop.
Malakai: I’m…happy for you. Have you…talked to Phoe about…seeing…Anna, right?
Samael: Yeah, Anna’s her name. She’s beautiful. A spitting image of me.
"Self serving victory there, at least."
Samael: But no, we haven’t talked much about seeing her. I only sent you that message because I needed to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. You don’t respond means I’m in the clear.
Malakai: You almost sound…disappointed?
"Sh*t. Backpedal."
Samael: Not about finding out I HAVE a kid, no. But allow me some chance to bang my head against the wall for not believing Phoe. I’m not one to turn my back on anyone. Phoe ever being in my life, and you being as close to me as you are, full proof of that. But the way she came out of the blue and was so matter of fact about it…it was…like one of those corny soap operas on ABC.
Malakai: You know how Julia told me we were pregnant?
Samael: A broken condom with a paper attached saying ‘SURPRISE!?’
Malakai: Nope.
Samael: Well that’s essentially what happened to me seven years after the fact. So like I said, sorry if I’m not as thrilled about the way she went about it.
Malakai: At least she told you. She could have waited.
"Would have been for the f*cking best. I have more important sh*t to do."
Samael: Yeah, I guess you’re right.
Malakai: As a father, I can tell you that without a doubt, you’ve been given what was the greatest gift in MY life once was.
"And one can only hope my gift lasts about as long as yours, savvy?"
Samael: Yeah, I may have to ask you for some…tips or something. That how this sh*t goes?
"Or follow the tips you gave me and let my daughter play in traffic and somehow get shot and solve all of my problems."
Malakai: Heh…not quite. But something tells me you’ll get the hang of it. You’re acting cold, but deep down there’s still the hint of humanity there that got you to save her. Save me. And take to your true calling. You’ve still got a chance…something I don’t have. You better make the best of it. For me. You’re still a good guy Sam, like it or not.
"And you’re still a piss poor judge of character."
Samael: I guess it’s wait and see then, right?
Malakai: It’s a learning game, yeah.
Samael: Then I guess I’ll learn.
Malakai: So enough of that brooding! Come on. Tell me more. Tell me what the hell happened that this bomb got dropped on you. See if it’s more sensical than what you compared it to.
Samael: Trust me. It’s not.
__
So I’m hearing…rumblings. Rumbling’s I’m not really too happy about. Rumblings that don't have me winning this week. That kind of irks me. For starters, let’s take a look at my recent history. What have I done since coming back after SuperBrawl? Everything I said I would. I said Battle at the Garden that I would make a name for myself. Driving a steel chair into the face of The Demon’s favorite demon? I didn’t allow the shadow of Shawn Malakai hang over me. My choice to join the KoKaine Konspiracy? Sure. But considering absolutely no one knows about Malakai’s involvement but me and The Calgary Kid? I’d say that I did a respectable job getting my name out there as more than the katana wielding butch some bungholes on the Internet have been so kind as to call me.
When I joined the KoKaine Konspiracy, I swore to Donnie that I would do anything in my power to make sure Tugarin Zmey was the biggest name in the history of the WFWF. But, as I warned him, that was going to take some time. Tugarin may have talent, and Donnie’s delusions of his own grandeur and inflated valuation of his self worth aside, I see bright things in Zmey’s future because of his raw talent and my expert knowhow. However, I have to constantly remind Donnie that Zmey may be great, but in order to be the best, Zmey’s gotta be able to create the household namesake those who have come before him have created for themselves. Everyone knows Drakz because of his Grand Slam win. Everyone knows Trace Demon as the king of mindgames. Everyone knows Shawn Malakai as the ultimate, consummate professional underdog. Everyone knows EBR as the first real transfer star who made his name known in not one but two companies. Hell, everyone knows of that douchebag from Baltimore…well, bad example. He’s known for his piss poor attitude, but it got him some titles, right?
Point is, Zmey needs to be able to accomplish more than ride the coattails of the guy who was…somewhat with Michael Kyzer when he became world champion. I don’t have the guts to flat out say that to Donnie, but that’s because he’s already drugged me once in the last year. Not sure I’m gonna make it another go if he tries more of his…little games. But good news is, thanks to my expert know-how, Zmey took his first steps towards the path to immortality, and one more step away from Donnie so I can cut off the rattler off the snake and get the head out into the open.
I got Zmey his first championship.
Not DMK.
Not Ryan Brockie.
Me.
The names on the WFWF Tag Team Championships read Tugarin Zmey and Samael Ahriman.
We did it.
I did it.
I’ve remained undefeated since I returned to action at Grudge.
Kyle Matthews. Down.
Penny Shannon. Down.
Cameron Stone. Down.
Chase Landon. Down.
Jayson Garrett. Down. Twice.
And now I have this WFWF Tag Team Championship to show for it. I finally have real, solid, tangible proof that my fight is just. That my burden at hand is worthy. That Shawn’s trust was not misplaced. That DMK is going down. That Michael Kyzer will come out to play. All with this championship I’ll walk out this week with. Kind of funny what gold can do for someone who’s greedy and desperate and willing to fight for everything. Sure, perhaps it’s not worth as much as a blood diamond, but honestly the idea of something pulled out from war…it’s not nearly as appealing to me as something FORGED through fighting. What’s on the outside doesn’t nearly matter as much as what’s inside.
Ante Whitner is a stunning little example of a shiny exterior, a rough cut piece of work pulled from this war between the KoKaine Konspiracy, The Final Revolution, Hollywood Unhinged and S.O.S. Since arriving here he’s done a good job at getting a few people to take notice of him. By winning the National Championship, he effectively got my notice. Because by winning the National Championship, he effectively got in my way.
I, on the other hand, have been created in the heat of battle. The inside of Samael Ahriman can never be in doubt. I may be a liar, a cheat, a thief, a conniver and a hothead, but these are traits that have been expertly crafted over the course of thirty plus years. I’m a fighter. I’m a fighter with a f*cked up sense of justice with a chip on his shoulder and a knack for winning at any cost. That’s what makes me dangerous though. As a fighter, it is important to remain as calm as possible in the heat of battle, for this is the burden of my teaching. But in a hostile warzone like the WFWF, that gives me the edge. I have just as much as an animalistic nature in me as these savages. Difference is, I know when to turn it on, and when to turn it off. A combination of brains and brawn will get you many places. It’s gotten me this far.
But I’m in a bit of a weird situation this week. It’s virgin territory for me. It isn’t so much who I’m facing, but what the stakes in this match are. None. At all. Except for another notch in my win column. And that’s the problem. What have I done since I came back? Remained undefeated, taken down members of three of the biggest factions in recent memory, taken a man who’s name no one can say and put it on the map for the world to know and won myself a little bit of gold to boot. Now, here I am making one small request of Donnie. I want the Grand Slam, just about everyone BUT Donnie’s figured that out. If I didn’t know any better, I would say I think even Tugarin is, albeit slowly, putting the pieces together himself. And one of the things I need for the Grand Slam is to win a title I have no business being in the picture of. The lowest championship here in the WFWF. The National Championship. It’s a necessary evil to fulfill my self serving prophecy. I win it, I can toss it in the trash where it belongs and go back to my life in the elite circles of the WFWF. Bigger fish.
So I find out I’m scheduled to face Ante Whitner, the WFWF National Champion. I feel a sense of pride. No, not facing that low level scrub. Well, not entirely. It’s what that scrub has around his waist that I need. Pinning him is just a piss poor consolation prize. So I think ‘Hey, Donnie came through for me! Yes, I’m intent on putting him out of business for good, but hey! Maybe I’ll cut out some of the short jokes.
Non title match.
Non.
Title.
Match.
You know, Donnie prides himself on being the best…agent(?) in the business, but Christ, if the talent who work with him has to do ALL of the leg work? I might as well tie him up, drag him to the ring and crucify him in the middle of the ring this week and egg on Kyzer and just take my f*cking chances with the MDS and Tugarin. He’s useless.
I ask one thing and can’t even get that. Donnie thinks he’s using me, and I let him have his fun by playing along just short of the ‘Yes massa’ calls Tugarin gives. But f*ck, I’m not a fighter. Sorry if I expect my battle scars to gain me more than a tag team partner I’m not interested in writing home about, and a child I really didn’t want.
Ok, maybe that last part was a little cold. Finding out you have a child…yes, it does something to you. Something only a father can understand. Finding out Anna was my child…that was certainly a culture shock. I’m a jet setter. A media socialite. I’m everything Ante Whitner wishes he could be and more than Michael Kyzer will ever be. So to find out you have a seven year old daughter to your ex wife…piss poor timing. Maybe if the bitch would have waited, like, a year to drop this on me I would be more understanding. But, now I have to play along for Anna and Malakai’s sake.
I’m on fire, but my heart’s cold as ice. And yet, it’s not completely black, dead and burnt to ashes. Yet. I have no problem lying to anyone, clearly. I have no problem hurting anyone, clearly. Yet, I find it impossible to hurt Anna by saying I want nothing to do with her or her whore of a mother. She’s no more to me now than a child born through a lie. Both Phoe not telling me, and the reason we’re f*cking divorced.
And as a result, I have to at least give her tie time of day. Again, if I wasn’t in the middle of a raging war that a portion of my life has been dedicated towards fighting in, maybe I would be more willing to give her the time of day and at least listen and see what sh*t sticks. I also chose to be honest to Malakai with all of this. Damn my cold but alive heart. I’m doing this for him, but now he’s more invested than I ever planned. I just wanted to use him to get the notches in my record that I wanted and then bounce. But now I don’t have it in me to start breaking away slowly because of everything he’s been though.
We all die. Everyone dies. Nothing but our names live forever, and that’s only if you’re lucky. I’m not so worried about Malakai’s cancer. He’s reserved to the fact that he’s going to die. He’s stopped fighting to at least go a little farther. As a fighter, my respect for him has been shot. But as the father of the biggest accident a man can perform, that of helping make a child, I have duties. And now that Malakai knows because I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut…the scars of tomorrow have gotten a bit deeper. Malakai lost a little girl not much younger than Anna. And while my life has changed drastically since the last time I truly cared, I feel an obligation to allow Malakai to live through me. I’m en route to accomplish everything he never did. Take out THE biggest name in the WFWF. Have a child that lives till eight. You know, the important things in life. If him living through me gets him to fight, perhaps there is still hope for him to regain my respect.
Ante Whitner has no idea what kind of a world he is entering by getting himself involved in the business of the KoKaine Konspiracy. In the business of Samael Ahriman. Kid, I have more on my plate than you’ll ever be able to eat in a lifetime. Try your best. Find out you’re a failure. Leave. Live. Die. Have a life like the normal dirt beneath my soles. Or, if you’re feeling awfully inspired, find a cause that means everything to you and let nothing deter you from it. Allow it to consume you to where nothing else in the world, no matter how much you know it should…don’t let anything else matter. Take up arms in a cause like mine. Follow my footsteps. Become the child following me, Samael, the Pied Piper of the WFWF. Allow a new Ante Whitner to be born this week! Rejoice! It can happen! Turn that imperfect blood diamond into something more precious. Something born, raised and ready to die in war. Allow the selfishness to consume you and allow this time in your life spit back out a new monster. One more capable of surviving in this mindset. Spare nothing. And while you may come out bronze, at least you’ll be precious like me, even if I’m always in a class above you.
For this is a premise composed from Lucifer himself, the all consuming feeling of self worth. My destiny for greatness is the burden in my hand.
What’s yours?
__
I dont know good luck 
