Different Match, Same Assholes
Aug 26, 2013 18:07:00 GMT -4
Jason Cashe and Evan De Parker like this
Post by Zachariah Blood on Aug 26, 2013 18:07:00 GMT -4
A few days shy of the Meltdown Super Show, early Saturday afternoon to be precise, most of the APW superstars booked for the broadcast are either sitting at tables before piles of pictures, shirts and what-have-you, taking pictures and chatting with the fans or manning special attractions about the interior of the Palace of Auburn Hills. There are booths where fans can cut their own promos, a play ring for the smaller fans with plenty of bounce to rumble about in and even a few arcade cabinets set up with the new APW Rasslemania video game. Those are getting plenty of attention…especially the one that has, of all people, Sentinel standing at it alongside a young man of about twelve.
Apparently the big mute bastard enjoys a video game now and again. Who knew?
Talon is manning (womaning?) one of the promo booths, hers having a fair-sized line set up behind the fifteen-year-old currently trying her hand between the camera and the green screen. Every so often she comments on the young woman’s work, advice which is put to use with enthusiasm near as we can tell. Over the din of the goings-on in the middle of the arena we can’t hear what’s being said but it’s clear that a good time is being had by all. So where, then, are the Masochist and Lady Rayne? Signing autographs and taking pictures, if you can believe it. Despite their evil ways, they have their fans. Both are more than cordial with those who vie for their time, standing for pictures and signing umpteen shirts, photos and posters without so much as a snarl.
Surreal. That’s the only word for it. Cutting away from all this, we move to what could be considered their ‘green room’ for this little event which, from the noise, we can tell is still going on outside. Within this private chamber, The Unforgiven look ill at ease. Is it because they had to make nice with the fans for a few hours? Perhaps they’re just a bit tired from the constant motion and conversation that comes with these fan-access style events. Zachariah is sitting on the sofa, leaned forward with his head resting on raised, folded hands. Rayne is sitting back on the same piece, arm draped along the back with one leg crossed over the other. Talon is standing before the mirror, palms flat against the counter, staring into her own eyes. The Silence Behind the Violence? He’s nowhere to be seen.
Zachariah Blood: ”These assholes again. Didn’t we just fucking do this a few weeks ago, kicking the shit out of these two clowns? Different match, same assholes. Figures.”
Talon doesn’t avert her attention nor break her silence, but Rayne turns toward Zachariah with her hand moving to rub up and down his back through the mesh top hugging his torso.
Lady Rayne: ”Yes, and with the title on the line, no less.”
Zachariah Blood: ”And for the month following that, we’ve been tearing apart champions current and former, like Logan Alexander and Shadow, yet…here we are.”
Lady Rayne: ”And where exactly are we, pet?”
We can actually hear the grating of Zachariah’s teeth, his jaw shifting as his angry expression contorts further.
Zachariah Blood: ”Back in the ring with those second-generation assholes once again, having to prove ourselves once again, destroying so-called talent well beneath our pay grade to scrape up another title shot ONCE AGAIN.”
Normally, Rayne would take in some amusement at Zachariah’s honest candor, nodding in agreement with a twisted little smile on her face. Instead, she’s nodding slightly in agreement with an impassive expression on her face.
Zachariah Blood: ”Did I miss something here? Who exactly has proven themselves more worthy of a match against the Dying Breed for the titles? Certainly not Sang Rèal, who took yet another loss to the champs a few weeks ago. Champions, need I point out, that lost to Aubrey Parker in a handicap match. A fucking two-on-one match and they couldn’t whip a woman?! Are you fucking shitting me?! And we have to earn a match with these jive-talking nuggets who couldn’t carry our boots in a real fight?! FUCK!”
The feeling is there that if Talon hadn’t been standing before it, the previously-obscured cell phone held in Zachariah’s hand would have been hurled it’s way at rocket speed. He’s on his feet in a second, shrugging off Rayne’s attempt at a consoling gesture as he starts to pace before her and the sofa.
Zachariah Blood: ”The shit of it is that I already know…hell, the world knows...that there’s no use expecting anything groundbreaking from them. Every goddamn week it’s the same promo, the same match, the same attitude. There’s being stuck in a rut and then there’s grinding a trench into concrete. Sang Rèal has done the latter and yet someone up in APW’s ivory tower thinks the idea of them getting within sniffing distance of the tag straps equals money and ratings…”
Zachariah is slowly calming into a more controlled fury but his words are no less sharp, their force unhindered.
Zachariah Blood: ”…and whoever that is should spare us and the fans and just take a nose-dive out of a twenty-story window. Excuse the fuck out of me for being crass and offensive in what I say and do, but at least I’m real. Sang Rèal are nothing but caricatures traipsing around in fancy suits, being chauffeured in shiny limos and talking a level of shit that’s usually reserved for Hall of Famers and multiple-time World Heavyweight Champions. They’re neither. They’re a couple of daddy’s boys with silver spoons jammed up their asses, spending every moment they’re not devaluing this company in the ring deep-throating each other’s egos. How’s that for description?
That’s what eats them up the most, too. They haven’t done anything in this business worth screaming about and there they are…still talking, still acting like they’re the king’s nuts. What do they have, one truncated title reign in a dead company? Some time spent as a lackey of another loudmouth who has actually managed to back up some of his trash talk? You think we don’t know where you’ve come from and what you’ve done, Sang Rèal? Our goddamn managers, Lady Rayne and Talon, have won more titles than you by themselves. Yet they follow us, putting their considerable influence, intelligence and grace behind this runaway train of pure destructive force. What does that say for us…and what does it say for you?”
Rayne doesn’t hide her pleasure at those comments, watching Blood with a fire in her eyes. Talon’s attention turns toward Blood, then toward the camera, to which she nods once before breaking her silence.
Talon: ”You’re nothing to us. The last time you faced my Destroyer and Pain Personified, you were nothing more than fodder. We tore you apart after taking your best move, putting you out of the match with little effort. The only possible benefit you can take from that encounter was that our efforts to decimate you left our backs open for the champions to slide in and take the cheap win. Good on them. They couldn’t have done it without you. Don’t think that we’ve forgotten…and don’t think that we’ll let you walk out of Auburn Hills as the number one contenders, either.”
Zachariah and Rayne both nod in agreement before the former lashes out again.
Zachariah Blood: ”Get this through your well-coiffed skulls, assholes: Tuesday night is a continuation of dominance. I dare you to say, no, fuck that…I dare you to THINK that we’re out of your league. Delude yourselves into thinking you’ll beat us as you put on another dog and pony show paid for with daddy’s money. Maybe do another one of your ratings-dropping Roll Call segments where you toss out gimp jokes, make cracks at our managers or speculate about why Sentinel doesn’t talk. Do all of the above if you’re so inclined. But before you do…I suggest you pay attention to Shockwave. You might learn something.”
It’s at that point that the door opens, three sets of eyes turning toward it. The camera pans over to show the Silent Destroyer himself, Sentinel, entering the room. He nods to Rayne and Zachariah, both returning the gesture, and walks over to Talon. She affects a small yet genuine smile in her Destroyer’s direction and he leans down to brush his lips briefly against her temple while pressing something into her hand. Leaning against the counter at her side, he watches, as do the others, while she reads whatever is on the smartphone he just gave to her.
Talon’s lips move slightly though not enough for someone to read her words. Her brows lift, then narrow, and she glances up at Sentinel with an ‘are you sure?’ type of look. This gets Rayne’s attention and she motions for the phone. Talon tosses it her way and after a few moments of perusing by Blood and his Mistress, they both smirk evilly before handing it back to Sentinel, who pockets it.
Lady Rayne: ”It’s time. Sentinel, be a dear and load up the car. Zachariah, go with him. Talon, you and I have a few details that need working out while they handle that.”
All parties nod and the scene fades to black as they hasten to the task at hand.
Even just an hour after the fact, the parking lot of the Joe Louis Arena is mostly empty. Leaning against a sleek, silver 2013 Ford Excursion is the Silent Destroyer and next to him is his comparatively-diminutive partner, the Patron Saint of Suffering. Zachariah is this close to smiling, his eyes telling the story of just how much pleasure he took in what went down at the conclusion of the main event. But of course, the little bastard isn’t going to flash those pearly whites for a freakin’ television camera. Sentinel, on the other hand, looks stoic. It’s hard to tell whether he’s satisfied, irritated or some other emotion entirely when it comes to their destruction of Terry Marvin and the final demand of payment from one Aubrey Jessica Parker.
Zachariah looks ready to speak but Sentinel pushing off from the vehicle has him pause. The big man tosses back his unbound main of blue-black hair, staring a frozen hole through the camera (figuratively speaking, of course) and makes damn sure that the attention of the world is on him. It seems…as though the big man is about to break his silence. The world holds it’s breath and…
…
…
…
…he holds out his hands, palms up, for the world to see. He says not a word, but the blood of the long-reigning World Heavyweight Champion still staining them says plenty. Zachariah barks out a note of cold laughter without breaking his evil expression and gestures to the crimson-handed giant.
Zachariah Blood: ”So, Sang Rèal…you got something smart to say now?”
Sentinel closes his hands into tight fists before folding them across his broad chest once again, staring impassively at the camera while Zachariah exults in his own way.
Zachariah Blood: ”The top dog in this company, the World Heavyweight Champion, King of all the Lords Imperial…battered, broken, bleeding. If there’s still a shred of doubt in your minds of what we’re capable of, then you’re bigger fools than even we imagined. Make excuses about how he was wiped out from his match with Parker or how we were picking the bones. That’s loser talk, right there. Champions in this business know from the moment the metal and leather touches their hands that their heads have to be on a swivel. Marvin is no different. This time, he forgot that cardinal rule and it cost him a pint or two thanks to my Destroyer of a partner. And as for Parker? A message was sent her way, too. We will be looking for our payment very, very soon.”
Exiting from the driver’s seat of the vehicle, Talon steps in to place next to Sentinel, one of his thickly-muscled arms going around her shoulders as she leans into him with a difficult-to-discern look on her face. It’s between satisfaction and fury…somewhere.
Talon: ”No one deserves the right to question us. You people don’t get to ask the reason why. What we did to Terry Marvin is between us and the New Sindicate. No one else. If they have an issue with it, we aren’t hard to find. Just follow the trail of blood and screams that will start anew with Sang Rèal on Tuesday night.”
Sentinel nods once as Zachariah takes over again.
Zachariah Blood: ”The name calling has already begun, in your heads if not out loud…you, Connor and Murphy, and the rest of the dregs who tune in each and every week. We’re traitorous slime with no honor, attacking those who have helped us, those who did not deserve our wrath. We’re monsters and we should be put down in a fashion that our type demands. And that’s where you’d be wrong. Traitors would have to pledge themselves to a cause and then betray it for the opposing side to be worthy of that appellation. We are not traitors.
Biting the hand that feeds us? Well, Aubrey would actually have to supply the nourishment we crave for us to sink our fangs into her flesh. No, what we did was warn her that payment is due. We’ve done what has been asked of us time and again, going far beyond what is proper. We have given…and now…we are taking. First the number one contender spot for the tag straps and then our payment. And everyone…EVERYONE…deserves to suffer as far as we’re concerned. No one is clean. Marvin and Parker have their skeletons. So do the Dying Breed, Sang Rèal and everyone else on the damn roster. One thing you’ll never be able to accuse us of is playing favorites. Not after earlier tonight.”
Talon: ”Nothing personal, though…just business. As Zachariah alluded to, the grace period for little Miss Parker is long since over. Logan Alexander, Shadow and now Terry Marvin…we’re done with working for spec. She’s going to come through on her agreement or things will get extremely painful for her to a level even more heinous than it was for her ‘dear friends’ at our hands. But as I said, it’s all business. Just like what we have planned for you, Sang Rèal. Your suffering happens first. The blood-red sun is about to set on your title hopes for the foreseeable future, courtesy of my Destroyer and the little hellhound standing at his side.”
Talon smirks at Zachariah as he raises a brow with the same expression, albeit confined to his eyes.
Zachariah Blood: ”Listen to the lady, kids. I bite once and I never let go. The best you could come at us with last time was some cock-and-bull about our entrance themes and something about our team’s name. That from a pair who thinks they’re destined to rule this company and the business as a whole…fat lot of good it did you, eh? After what went down in the Joe Louis, your arguments as to why you might beat us just dropped to nothing. What will you badmouth this time? Our win-loss records which everyone can look up in moments online? How I enjoy having Rayne beat the shit out of me with sticks or whatever suits her? Maybe you’ll have another joke, just like everyone else, about how Sentinel doesn’t talk.
See, that’s what irks me about you and almost everyone else in this company: you always take the easy way out. Pick at what’s on the surface but ignore the core of the matter. ‘Hey, this big fucker doesn’t talk! Let’s make jokes about his mental acumen!’ ‘Hey, this guy’s into masochism…let’s include him in the same boat as those pawn shop freaks from Pulp Fiction!’ And so on and so on. Yet when it comes time to get in the ring with us, you either end up on your back or walk off with a limp, wondering what the fuck happened. How long before you get it through your heads that we are just what we say we are: the most dangerous team in APW today?”
Zachariah shakes his head as the door on the other side of the SUV opens and closes. Lady Rayne comes around, passing a bottle of water to Zachariah which he drains to half with one gulp. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, he fixes a glare on the camera.
Talon: ”Being dangerous isn’t just about wins and losses or titles. It’s about saying you’re going to do something and doing it. It’s about making sure that either through pain or another form of sublime suffering, your opponents…or victims…never forget your name. It’s about making a mark. That’s what we do.”
Zachariah nods once again.
Zachariah Blood: ”And whether we beat you down and earn, once again, the top contender spot or just beat you to within an inch of your lives, making sure any win you get is a full-on Pyrrhic, we’ll make that mark. You’ll never forget us or what we can do to you, Sang Rèal. Even if you do eke out a win, we’ll make damn sure you’re in no condition to make the most of it. No matter what happens…we win…and you lose.
Talon: ”Welcome to our pain.”
The foursome stare through the camera at those watching before we cut to black for the last time.
Apparently the big mute bastard enjoys a video game now and again. Who knew?
Talon is manning (womaning?) one of the promo booths, hers having a fair-sized line set up behind the fifteen-year-old currently trying her hand between the camera and the green screen. Every so often she comments on the young woman’s work, advice which is put to use with enthusiasm near as we can tell. Over the din of the goings-on in the middle of the arena we can’t hear what’s being said but it’s clear that a good time is being had by all. So where, then, are the Masochist and Lady Rayne? Signing autographs and taking pictures, if you can believe it. Despite their evil ways, they have their fans. Both are more than cordial with those who vie for their time, standing for pictures and signing umpteen shirts, photos and posters without so much as a snarl.
Surreal. That’s the only word for it. Cutting away from all this, we move to what could be considered their ‘green room’ for this little event which, from the noise, we can tell is still going on outside. Within this private chamber, The Unforgiven look ill at ease. Is it because they had to make nice with the fans for a few hours? Perhaps they’re just a bit tired from the constant motion and conversation that comes with these fan-access style events. Zachariah is sitting on the sofa, leaned forward with his head resting on raised, folded hands. Rayne is sitting back on the same piece, arm draped along the back with one leg crossed over the other. Talon is standing before the mirror, palms flat against the counter, staring into her own eyes. The Silence Behind the Violence? He’s nowhere to be seen.
Zachariah Blood: ”These assholes again. Didn’t we just fucking do this a few weeks ago, kicking the shit out of these two clowns? Different match, same assholes. Figures.”
Talon doesn’t avert her attention nor break her silence, but Rayne turns toward Zachariah with her hand moving to rub up and down his back through the mesh top hugging his torso.
Lady Rayne: ”Yes, and with the title on the line, no less.”
Zachariah Blood: ”And for the month following that, we’ve been tearing apart champions current and former, like Logan Alexander and Shadow, yet…here we are.”
Lady Rayne: ”And where exactly are we, pet?”
We can actually hear the grating of Zachariah’s teeth, his jaw shifting as his angry expression contorts further.
Zachariah Blood: ”Back in the ring with those second-generation assholes once again, having to prove ourselves once again, destroying so-called talent well beneath our pay grade to scrape up another title shot ONCE AGAIN.”
Normally, Rayne would take in some amusement at Zachariah’s honest candor, nodding in agreement with a twisted little smile on her face. Instead, she’s nodding slightly in agreement with an impassive expression on her face.
Zachariah Blood: ”Did I miss something here? Who exactly has proven themselves more worthy of a match against the Dying Breed for the titles? Certainly not Sang Rèal, who took yet another loss to the champs a few weeks ago. Champions, need I point out, that lost to Aubrey Parker in a handicap match. A fucking two-on-one match and they couldn’t whip a woman?! Are you fucking shitting me?! And we have to earn a match with these jive-talking nuggets who couldn’t carry our boots in a real fight?! FUCK!”
The feeling is there that if Talon hadn’t been standing before it, the previously-obscured cell phone held in Zachariah’s hand would have been hurled it’s way at rocket speed. He’s on his feet in a second, shrugging off Rayne’s attempt at a consoling gesture as he starts to pace before her and the sofa.
Zachariah Blood: ”The shit of it is that I already know…hell, the world knows...that there’s no use expecting anything groundbreaking from them. Every goddamn week it’s the same promo, the same match, the same attitude. There’s being stuck in a rut and then there’s grinding a trench into concrete. Sang Rèal has done the latter and yet someone up in APW’s ivory tower thinks the idea of them getting within sniffing distance of the tag straps equals money and ratings…”
Zachariah is slowly calming into a more controlled fury but his words are no less sharp, their force unhindered.
Zachariah Blood: ”…and whoever that is should spare us and the fans and just take a nose-dive out of a twenty-story window. Excuse the fuck out of me for being crass and offensive in what I say and do, but at least I’m real. Sang Rèal are nothing but caricatures traipsing around in fancy suits, being chauffeured in shiny limos and talking a level of shit that’s usually reserved for Hall of Famers and multiple-time World Heavyweight Champions. They’re neither. They’re a couple of daddy’s boys with silver spoons jammed up their asses, spending every moment they’re not devaluing this company in the ring deep-throating each other’s egos. How’s that for description?
That’s what eats them up the most, too. They haven’t done anything in this business worth screaming about and there they are…still talking, still acting like they’re the king’s nuts. What do they have, one truncated title reign in a dead company? Some time spent as a lackey of another loudmouth who has actually managed to back up some of his trash talk? You think we don’t know where you’ve come from and what you’ve done, Sang Rèal? Our goddamn managers, Lady Rayne and Talon, have won more titles than you by themselves. Yet they follow us, putting their considerable influence, intelligence and grace behind this runaway train of pure destructive force. What does that say for us…and what does it say for you?”
Rayne doesn’t hide her pleasure at those comments, watching Blood with a fire in her eyes. Talon’s attention turns toward Blood, then toward the camera, to which she nods once before breaking her silence.
Talon: ”You’re nothing to us. The last time you faced my Destroyer and Pain Personified, you were nothing more than fodder. We tore you apart after taking your best move, putting you out of the match with little effort. The only possible benefit you can take from that encounter was that our efforts to decimate you left our backs open for the champions to slide in and take the cheap win. Good on them. They couldn’t have done it without you. Don’t think that we’ve forgotten…and don’t think that we’ll let you walk out of Auburn Hills as the number one contenders, either.”
Zachariah and Rayne both nod in agreement before the former lashes out again.
Zachariah Blood: ”Get this through your well-coiffed skulls, assholes: Tuesday night is a continuation of dominance. I dare you to say, no, fuck that…I dare you to THINK that we’re out of your league. Delude yourselves into thinking you’ll beat us as you put on another dog and pony show paid for with daddy’s money. Maybe do another one of your ratings-dropping Roll Call segments where you toss out gimp jokes, make cracks at our managers or speculate about why Sentinel doesn’t talk. Do all of the above if you’re so inclined. But before you do…I suggest you pay attention to Shockwave. You might learn something.”
It’s at that point that the door opens, three sets of eyes turning toward it. The camera pans over to show the Silent Destroyer himself, Sentinel, entering the room. He nods to Rayne and Zachariah, both returning the gesture, and walks over to Talon. She affects a small yet genuine smile in her Destroyer’s direction and he leans down to brush his lips briefly against her temple while pressing something into her hand. Leaning against the counter at her side, he watches, as do the others, while she reads whatever is on the smartphone he just gave to her.
Talon’s lips move slightly though not enough for someone to read her words. Her brows lift, then narrow, and she glances up at Sentinel with an ‘are you sure?’ type of look. This gets Rayne’s attention and she motions for the phone. Talon tosses it her way and after a few moments of perusing by Blood and his Mistress, they both smirk evilly before handing it back to Sentinel, who pockets it.
Lady Rayne: ”It’s time. Sentinel, be a dear and load up the car. Zachariah, go with him. Talon, you and I have a few details that need working out while they handle that.”
All parties nod and the scene fades to black as they hasten to the task at hand.
--- THE FOLLOWING EVENING, ONE HOUR AFTER THE CONCLUSION OF SHOCKWAVE ---
Even just an hour after the fact, the parking lot of the Joe Louis Arena is mostly empty. Leaning against a sleek, silver 2013 Ford Excursion is the Silent Destroyer and next to him is his comparatively-diminutive partner, the Patron Saint of Suffering. Zachariah is this close to smiling, his eyes telling the story of just how much pleasure he took in what went down at the conclusion of the main event. But of course, the little bastard isn’t going to flash those pearly whites for a freakin’ television camera. Sentinel, on the other hand, looks stoic. It’s hard to tell whether he’s satisfied, irritated or some other emotion entirely when it comes to their destruction of Terry Marvin and the final demand of payment from one Aubrey Jessica Parker.
Zachariah looks ready to speak but Sentinel pushing off from the vehicle has him pause. The big man tosses back his unbound main of blue-black hair, staring a frozen hole through the camera (figuratively speaking, of course) and makes damn sure that the attention of the world is on him. It seems…as though the big man is about to break his silence. The world holds it’s breath and…
…
…
…
…he holds out his hands, palms up, for the world to see. He says not a word, but the blood of the long-reigning World Heavyweight Champion still staining them says plenty. Zachariah barks out a note of cold laughter without breaking his evil expression and gestures to the crimson-handed giant.
Zachariah Blood: ”So, Sang Rèal…you got something smart to say now?”
Sentinel closes his hands into tight fists before folding them across his broad chest once again, staring impassively at the camera while Zachariah exults in his own way.
Zachariah Blood: ”The top dog in this company, the World Heavyweight Champion, King of all the Lords Imperial…battered, broken, bleeding. If there’s still a shred of doubt in your minds of what we’re capable of, then you’re bigger fools than even we imagined. Make excuses about how he was wiped out from his match with Parker or how we were picking the bones. That’s loser talk, right there. Champions in this business know from the moment the metal and leather touches their hands that their heads have to be on a swivel. Marvin is no different. This time, he forgot that cardinal rule and it cost him a pint or two thanks to my Destroyer of a partner. And as for Parker? A message was sent her way, too. We will be looking for our payment very, very soon.”
Exiting from the driver’s seat of the vehicle, Talon steps in to place next to Sentinel, one of his thickly-muscled arms going around her shoulders as she leans into him with a difficult-to-discern look on her face. It’s between satisfaction and fury…somewhere.
Talon: ”No one deserves the right to question us. You people don’t get to ask the reason why. What we did to Terry Marvin is between us and the New Sindicate. No one else. If they have an issue with it, we aren’t hard to find. Just follow the trail of blood and screams that will start anew with Sang Rèal on Tuesday night.”
Sentinel nods once as Zachariah takes over again.
Zachariah Blood: ”The name calling has already begun, in your heads if not out loud…you, Connor and Murphy, and the rest of the dregs who tune in each and every week. We’re traitorous slime with no honor, attacking those who have helped us, those who did not deserve our wrath. We’re monsters and we should be put down in a fashion that our type demands. And that’s where you’d be wrong. Traitors would have to pledge themselves to a cause and then betray it for the opposing side to be worthy of that appellation. We are not traitors.
Biting the hand that feeds us? Well, Aubrey would actually have to supply the nourishment we crave for us to sink our fangs into her flesh. No, what we did was warn her that payment is due. We’ve done what has been asked of us time and again, going far beyond what is proper. We have given…and now…we are taking. First the number one contender spot for the tag straps and then our payment. And everyone…EVERYONE…deserves to suffer as far as we’re concerned. No one is clean. Marvin and Parker have their skeletons. So do the Dying Breed, Sang Rèal and everyone else on the damn roster. One thing you’ll never be able to accuse us of is playing favorites. Not after earlier tonight.”
Talon: ”Nothing personal, though…just business. As Zachariah alluded to, the grace period for little Miss Parker is long since over. Logan Alexander, Shadow and now Terry Marvin…we’re done with working for spec. She’s going to come through on her agreement or things will get extremely painful for her to a level even more heinous than it was for her ‘dear friends’ at our hands. But as I said, it’s all business. Just like what we have planned for you, Sang Rèal. Your suffering happens first. The blood-red sun is about to set on your title hopes for the foreseeable future, courtesy of my Destroyer and the little hellhound standing at his side.”
Talon smirks at Zachariah as he raises a brow with the same expression, albeit confined to his eyes.
Zachariah Blood: ”Listen to the lady, kids. I bite once and I never let go. The best you could come at us with last time was some cock-and-bull about our entrance themes and something about our team’s name. That from a pair who thinks they’re destined to rule this company and the business as a whole…fat lot of good it did you, eh? After what went down in the Joe Louis, your arguments as to why you might beat us just dropped to nothing. What will you badmouth this time? Our win-loss records which everyone can look up in moments online? How I enjoy having Rayne beat the shit out of me with sticks or whatever suits her? Maybe you’ll have another joke, just like everyone else, about how Sentinel doesn’t talk.
See, that’s what irks me about you and almost everyone else in this company: you always take the easy way out. Pick at what’s on the surface but ignore the core of the matter. ‘Hey, this big fucker doesn’t talk! Let’s make jokes about his mental acumen!’ ‘Hey, this guy’s into masochism…let’s include him in the same boat as those pawn shop freaks from Pulp Fiction!’ And so on and so on. Yet when it comes time to get in the ring with us, you either end up on your back or walk off with a limp, wondering what the fuck happened. How long before you get it through your heads that we are just what we say we are: the most dangerous team in APW today?”
Zachariah shakes his head as the door on the other side of the SUV opens and closes. Lady Rayne comes around, passing a bottle of water to Zachariah which he drains to half with one gulp. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, he fixes a glare on the camera.
Talon: ”Being dangerous isn’t just about wins and losses or titles. It’s about saying you’re going to do something and doing it. It’s about making sure that either through pain or another form of sublime suffering, your opponents…or victims…never forget your name. It’s about making a mark. That’s what we do.”
Zachariah nods once again.
Zachariah Blood: ”And whether we beat you down and earn, once again, the top contender spot or just beat you to within an inch of your lives, making sure any win you get is a full-on Pyrrhic, we’ll make that mark. You’ll never forget us or what we can do to you, Sang Rèal. Even if you do eke out a win, we’ll make damn sure you’re in no condition to make the most of it. No matter what happens…we win…and you lose.
Talon: ”Welcome to our pain.”
The foursome stare through the camera at those watching before we cut to black for the last time.
