Post by Level-Two on Oct 22, 2010 3:37:59 GMT -4
There's no better way to prepare for a war then knowing the battlefield. The environment is always an unknown element that is better off discovered but I had no qualms with not allowing my opponents in on the open secret. History has shown that men fighting on their own home turf have an advantage of the invaders for many different reasons. First, the invaders the -challengers- aren't human beings fighting for their life's, beliefs or even themselves, but instead for the land they wish to steal. Second, there is nothing more dangerous then a cornered cat with claws. In many cases, even an overpowered army couldn't deal with the much smaller foe. Lastly, home field advantage. The defenders knew every hill, every blind spot, every hitch in the earths cracked surfaced and exploited it to their benefit. In most cases, they'd win and even sometimes when they weren't so lucky, they'd always put up a fight.
While Sally Talfourd was bound to hit the salon and Mark Mania would study hours of tape until his eyes bled, Young Mannie would smoke a few spliffs to calm his nerves before hitting the biggest stage of his entire career. Nathaniel Havoc was said to dance half naked in goat blood sacrifices and Criss Cassidy would be praying to god he makes it out of hell alive, I'll be here. In this metal factory, watching hell be built right before my eyes, it really is something beautiful.
Welcome to Tokyo, Japan . The Elimination Chamber was being built in a large facility, with several workers electric sawing their way to what was envisioned to be one of the most feared structures in all of wrestling. The chain link had not yet been laced amongst the half-built structure, but the chain went on for several miles. The facility was loud and sparks flew in every directions, just stepping on scene was a hazard. I was equipped with a ridiculously uncomfortable set of ear phones to protect my ear drums and dressed in a garb that made the prospect of self-nudity, so much more endearing... well, probably not for you.
Through the scent of molten metal and the multiple gears turning, I could still strain my ears to hear mumblings of Jason Blackburn who stood beside me. I was sandwiched in between him and a Japanese American who was hired to lead the project and made sure the elimination chamber structure reached it's destination in Japan.
''Hey, you'd think they'd have more Chinese children working here, huh?''
Jason Blackburn says, straining his voice. A useless effort considering what it was he felt he was obligated to say. Annoyed, I turn to Jason Blackburn to acknowledge his enquiry.
''Goddamn it, Jason. First of all, we are amongst the Japanese here in Japan not the Chinese and second of all not everyone in an Asian country works in a sweatshop!''
''I...''
''Jason, I don't care if they all the same. They aren't, now get it over it! We're in Japan for more important things and they don't include you spouting your ignorance on a nationwide stage! If you have any questions direct them to Mr. Kim beside me...''
Jason Blackburn flashes me a look of displeasure. His eyes slowly crawled past me and onto Mr. Kim the foreman of operations.
''So how much does this thing weigh?''
I sighed. I knew this was an opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to gain a jump on my opponents, it's no secret that I needed one. It was important to formulate a strategy well before the match had taken place. Mr. Kim had provided me with the dimensions, the hot spots and virtually the entire blue print to the cell.
''What do you plan to do with that?''
Jason Blackburn asks as he adjusted a large pair of eye-goggles over his eyes. Mr. Kim smiles pointing at the dimensions with a sense pride as I further broke it down to the simpleton dressed in fancy attire that made him look smarter then he actually was. Jason Blackburn was a smart man when it came to promoting something or even running a business but his street smarts were as good as bum status.
''It's real simple. If I know every inch of the cell, it'll help me close off my opponents and control the ring, thus dictate the pace of the match—which is going to help me greatly considering my stamina tank is scheduled to overwork itself in this slobber knocker...''
''Well, isn't that practically useless considering how many people maybe in the chamber at once?''
''Well, there's only six of us. Only five are eligible to start off the match. Out of those five, two will be plagued with the unfortunate honour. With those odds, there's a chance Young Mannie might be one of the first man in—which means he's likely the first man out before a third person has a chance to enter the chamber. In short, there's a good chance I'll be stepping in one on one with someone at some point and it's important I plan for it accordingly. And if all else fails, I have six holding cells of plexiglass to toss someone's helpless body through...''
Jason Blackburn ponders the though before shrugging his shoulders and taking my word for it, for what it's worth. Jason Blackburn had some ideas for the chamber match of his own, unfortunately many of them weren't implemented and one could guess why if they thought long and hard enough.
''That's all good and dandy, but what's wrong with my ideas? Why didn't you collaborate with Mr. Kim here and make a much bigger and badder cell?''
''Your kidding me right? You raised the possibility of having my chamber pod custom heated and a built in television just in-case I got bored...''
''Well, it sounded good when I originally thought about it...''
''That's because you were trying to manage my career drunk again, Jason. Look, in a week from now when President Jeff beats Biggs and retakes his position as APW president, you'll get your job back and I'll be nothing more then your client but for now, I'm your boss and this is my title match and we're going to do things my way...''
''One's'' Night in Hell/Love Triangle (11)
Several days later we were back in the United States. The trip to Tokyo, Japan was considered to be somewhat of a success though it was only a part of the puzzle. The next time, I'd return to Japan it wouldn't be for scouting nor sight seeing, but to compete the elimination death chamber once and for all.
In the upper echelon of Liberty City, I was in one of several different offices Jason Blackburn now had around town. In fact, he bought this one just this week. There was nothing of note inside of the office, it was bland and served nothing more then a future safe house for business. Today, Jason Blackburn was in a particularly good mood which only raised my cause for suspicion.
It wasn't just me who had everything on the line a week from now, Jason did too. Jason Blackburn originally worked for President Jeff has Action Packed Wrestling promoter and talent scout. He eventually met me and promised to set me up on a huge tour schedule across several global wrestling federations where I'd compete against some of the worlds best stars. And although he kept his end of the bargain, I bailed. I couldn't leave my girlfriend, Patricia Lewis behind. Not to mention, I didn't feel I had much to prove. After several years in this business, I've nearly accomplished it all. In turn due to my last minute decision; Jason Blackburn felt I owed him in more ways then one. Either, he'd sue me for everything I had—or I was to allow him to manage my career, thus pushing him into the spotlight.
Fortunately, a loop-hole in the contract agreement meant that the position could only be held up by the owner of the promotion, overseeing it. With the exodus of President Jeff sometime later, Biggs decided to rule in my favour, freeing me from the grips of Jason Blackburn. Since then, he's been humbled. So much so, he has turned into my lackey and because of it, he's much more tolerable. He's closest thing to a friend, I got. Those don't last long in this business. And if history repeats itself, this one won't either.
''What's wrong, champ?''
Jason Blackburn asks breaking the ice with the mere sound of his voice. We sat at a small table across from each-other. Jason Blackburn had a stack of papers laid out in-front of him and a black brief case he lugged around with him perched up onto the mapplewood table top.
''Nothing, nothing at all. I'm just thinking, that's all...''
''About what? Your title defence this week end?''
''Yeah, yeah that...''
''Don't sweat it, man. I have got everything covered. I put together a solid last minute mini-training camp that it'll get you ready for your match. I've called the best weight trainers, the best wrestling coaches, a yoga master and get this... a psychiatrist to make sure there's no screws in the head of yours loose. You need to get your head right for a match like this...''
I uttered the words ''Thanks'' sarcastically under my breath. It quite possibly could have been that Jason Blackburn was truly trying to help me out for my own benefit but the implications of a larger plot hung in the balance. I can't trust him. I can't even trust myself. If Jason Blackburn was to resume his roll as my manager; me being champion would only add to his bankroll. Money is always the motivation, right?
''Unfortunately, it's not all good news here. I gave a call to all those numbers you gave me and unfortunately, I got nadda, zilch, a big fat nothing...''
Great, just great. A lot good a new training coach and a psychiatrist does you when fending off five hungry challengers looking for your blood. All my life, I've been told to keep your friends close but your enemies closer... but no one ever told me your better off with no enemies in the distance, either. I made plenty of them over my career. There isn't one person in this business, I haven't parted ways with—and although it wasn't always my undoing necessarily, the fact remains; I have no allies.
''So you mean to tell me Mark Mania didn't see the benefits of us working together in this match?''
''Well, I wouldn't know. I couldn't get past his secretary, who let me know she wasn't going to be sending any messages of mine to him because of a Mark Mania Enterprises policy. Maybe he gets fan calls all the time?''
''You sent him a fan message? Goddamn it, Jason. This serious. Please tell me you tried to contact Nathaniel Havok?''
''Actually I did... try. Unfortunately, there is no number for parts unknown. That guy lives in a bat cave or something. You'll need to think of something else if you want to get your message across...''
I slammed my fist against the table top in a fit of rage as Jason Blackburn slowly clenched his eyes shut.
''Goddamn it. We all know the case with Young Mannie and Criss Cassidy probably doesn't even have a phone, citing technology as some sort of mark of the beast. For fuck sakes, how the hell am I going to win a match like this, five against one? I mean, sure I've done things like this before—but never under the extremes of a chamber against competition like this. I need a miracle...''
''Unfortunately, you aren't going to get it, champ. Sally Talfourd is certainly having none of it, especially after already trusting you once and ending up on the wrong side of a beat down. Maybe you can ask her out on a date and swindle her through the pulsations of her vagina?''
''Repulsive. I rather just lose my APW world championship then to resort to something has downright degrading as that. Face it, we've got nothing left to work with here...''
Feeling defeated I excused myself from the table and slowly wandered off to a near by window looking from above, down below. Jason Blackburn was sure to follow me as we both looked through the glass and out onto the street below.
''This is it, Jason. This is where this shit ends! I dug my own grave and now I'm going to have to dirt spit my way out of it. Things have finally caught up with me and you know as well as I do—this all was too good to be true...''
''What are you talking about, man? You're the world heavyweight champion, the baddest man on the planet! We own an underground empire that is going to own this city one day, mark my words. Me and you are a two man tandem the world has never seen!''
I quickly snapped around swatting Jason Blackburn's arm away from me as he tried to wrap it around my neck. He stumbled backwards being motivated by fear more then physical force. His face was twisted with uncertainty as he shook his head back and forth trying to sway with my sudden change in attitude.
''We aren't a fucking team, Jason. President Jeff is going to beat Biggs and when he does you'll own me like you did several months ago and I'll be without an APW world championship and absolutely fuck-all to show for...''
''Woah, woah, woah. First of all how can you be so sure that President Jeff is going to defeat Biggs, anyways?''
I snarl as I look out onto the street below, eyeing a new red corvette sitting in the parking lot. I point at the expensive vehicle while tapping on the window pane methodically. Subsequently Jason Blackburn's eyes shift across the street and towards the parking lot where his car was parked.
''The new car, Jason? This new office? I'm debt to fight club, Jason. So let me ask you, how the fuck did you pay for all this, huh? How did you buy a new corvette and fit the bill for this new safe house or even the top notch training team you put together for me out of the goodness of your heart?''
Jason Blackburn lowers his head and swallows his saliva right before he looked back up at me, pleading with the motion of his hands.
''It's not what you think. I was going to pay for all this later. You said it yourself, President Jeff is going to beat Biggs, right? Look, I'm not out fuck you over—I promise. Win or lose, you can trust me...''
Jason Blackburn reaches out for an embrace to which I shrug off bitterly. I trusted no one. There was only one person that I knew I had in my corner at that was Patricia Lewis—but even she couldn't help me even if she wanted too.
There's a time in every man's career; where he realizes he truly has been beaten. Where he realizes the odds are simply beyond him and that he's only making a fool of himself, pretending otherwise. Although, I may have beaten myself into a state of self defeat, pain is something I have become accustom too... while losing, is more like an allergic reaction.
They say desperate times call for desperate measures and at this point, I'm frantically dialling area codes.
It was only a matter of time before I found myself on ground level, marching across traffic which comes to a screeching to a halt at my presence. At this point, my mind has become blurry—the thoughts in my head right now are drained out with frantic screaming and constant spamming of the horn function on the steering wheels.
I don't know what has gotten into me as of late, especially right now. And although, I knew exactly what I was looking for I couldn't be quite sure I hadn't already found it. It was like she was here before I ever entered that brand new red corvette.
SMASH!
The glass window shattered into thousands of pieces and fell to the concrete like the confetti that was bound to fall for the new APW world champion.
The few years I spent as a lowlife teenage hoodlum finally did me some good as I hot wired the vehicle; and quickly jumped behind the wheel, perhaps it was right then now in this very moment where I sealed my untimely fate. I strapped myself in...
This was going to be a bumpy ride to hell.
The engine's horsepower roared like a lion as sped off down the road until I served out onto the highway. The new corvette was moving as fast as my non-nonsensical thoughts were through my head, a race to finish line. I fiddled around with a knob on the stereo assigning one hand to the wheel; I felt I needed something to put me at ease as I approached 100 mph—but there was nothing on. Like everything else, the radio was as good dead.
The soundtrack of my life.
Lifting my head to refocus on the road was enough to save me from smashing into the back end of a mini van which was a certain call for disaster. Two pale small faces turned their heads to me with their big dark eyes watching the mad man behind them, surely fearing their life's I cursed under my breath turning my attention to the station to which the radio dial had now been stuck on.
''This is Sports news 97.5 and your host, Jim Bellamy. With me, I have a special guest here today, his name is familiar to most! Andrew Meltzer! The brother of another special unnamed blogger known for his misinformation and highly speculative inside sources!''
''Thanks for having me, Jim...''
''Yes, unfortunately it's not under the most time friendly restraints. You have an opportunity meeting to attend and we only have you on for five minutes, so let's get things started—and give your thoughts on a few events going on this weekend...''
''Well, I feel obligated to speak upon the APW and Level-Ones APW world championship title defence at one night in hell...''
''Of course! You have met Level-One on several occasions, correct?''
''Yeah, we worked with each-other a few times. Often, I'd provide him stats and scouting reports about his opponents. Though, I don't have any particular biases in his favour—actually, this time around, for first time in the champions career; I don't believe the safe bet is on him and apparently the fans agree...''
''Well this quite the new development. In a straw poll done just a few weeks ago, Level-One was ranked number one when voters were asked, if he'd retain the APW world championship at one night in hell—but that was before all the developments that has taken place leading up to the match, correct?''
''Absolutely. We saw Level-One lose the beat the clock challenge that would have gave him a significant advantage in the elimination chamber. A week later, we saw him take the pin fall to Sally Talfourd. He would pick up a win true to form a week later but that was against Young Mannie; who some say, should have won the first blood match as Level-One technically was the first man to bleed whether the referee saw it or not. All this goes against the assertion that Level-One is on the top of his game...''
''He's also kept a relatively closed profile leading up to this match which has lead some wrestling experts to believe that Level-One has lost the spark relatively quickly has become far too relaxed as world champion. It's not good for business and I'm sure the APW management wouldn't lose any sleep if Level-One was dethroned at one night in hell, Meltzer...''
''Absolutely. The APW is cleaning house. President Jeff looks to regain his spot as APW chairman in match against Biggs and rumblings of an inside source tells us that a second promotion under the APW banner is currently in the works; no doubt is the APW looking to shake things up, and any one of these five competitors could quite possibly serve that purpose if they could walk out of Japan with victory...''
''Any last words before you go, Mr. Meltzer?''
''Yeah, it goes out to the champion himself. Get ready. Your going to need everything you have in that tank of yours and more. Everything but the stars of the universe are aligned against you, your going to need to dig deep and do whatever the hell you need to do to win. And considering, it's one night in hell—he might just have to cut a deal with the devil or something...''
''Ha-Ha. Nicely played. We'll be back after this commercial break...''
I closed my eyes and kicked the vehicle into it's highest gear and everything after that became a blur. At some point death flashed before me, I stomped on the breaks—a sign that I was not yet ready to pass, but death or life is beyond me now.
The taste of metal fills my mouth, bitter and forever lasting. A cold stream of blood influenced by the October chill runs down my face and into my mouth to quench my thirst. I tried to get up, but I couldn't move—the seat belt latched onto me pinning me to my chair inside a crushed car. Ironically, thoughts freely escape me and all I can do now is observe and observe for not much longer.
In a twisted pile of wreckage I lay, until I hear several voices calling, eventually easing me into a deep state of unconsciousness.
Am I dead?
''What the hell is this? Where am I? I can't see anything, I can't feel anything—am I alive? Is this what death feels like? Anyone? Anyone at all?''
...
''Great. So this is the life, huh? The elaborate life after death!? This can't be happening. There has to be more then being stuck talking to yourself for all eternity, I could have done that alive. No 72 virgins? Fuck, I must have died and went straight to hell...''
The man in the white mask says:
''Not quite...''
''I heard that! It's you! Your back! Why can't I see you?''
''...because technically your dead. Actually, your currently on your way to the hospital as we speak. They are pulling out a defibrillator to jump start your heart. So, you may want to choose now whether or not you want to live or die...''
''I don't know about you but living seems like a foregone conclusion right about now...''
''Says the guy who drove himself face first into a concrete security wall, you know, your word doesn't exactly mean very much right about now. I digress. It's important that you understand the consequences that will come with your choice however...''
''Alright, alright. Get on with it then, will you!?''
''If you choose life you will get exactly what you are looking for. I, the man in the white mask will step aside and let the devil we both know take control of you—however the consequences that shall follow are beyond my control. If you choose death, you will be granted with peace, love, and forgiveness...''
''I don't know the latter is starting to sound a little fruity. If I die, will I really have 72 virgins to myself or is that just some silly bullshit rounda-bout-rumour?''
''There will be no misogynist fantasies nor filth on my watch. You've had your fun destroying the product of mother nature and mankind with your destructive time spent on this earth. I speak for the entire universe when I say, it is better off without you...''
''Aren't you an honest son of a bitch? Fuck it. I want life!''
''Very well then...''
I slowly opened my eyes slowly introducing myself to the bright artificial lights above my hospital bed. Squinting, I could see a large figure standing over my bed. It was the man in the white mask. He slowly backed away from me as I reached out to grab him;
''Oh my god your alive!''
A voice cries out as Patricia Lewis barrels down on top of me like a ton of bricks. I lifted my head in a panic looking past her and towards the man in the white mask who with his back towards me, exited the hospital room never once hesitating to look back. Patricia shifts her head in the direction of my eyes, now starring directly at me with a bright smile across her face before she leans in to plant a kiss on my lips. She lets out a yelp in excitement while I wander about in my own confusion.
''I can't believe your up already the doctor said you weren't going to be awake for a few days!''
''So, I really didn't die?''
Patricia Lewis looks at me with confusion on her face before she lets out a light hearted giggle. She probably figured my the lopsidedness was just a byproduct of the accident
''No, silly, of course you didn't die—but you did loose your vitals on the way to the hospital. How are you feeling right now?''
''I'm feeling okay, I think...''
Where was she? Certainly something more then a bad headache had to come out of this crash, right? I probably wouldn't have put my life at risk for nothing or at least would have took the multiple head shots with a chair option to ring her back in. Fuck.
''Lester I know your in no condition to really talk about this but what the hell were you doing in that car in the first place? You know you don't even own a license, never mind a car! You could have died tonight and our kids would have grown up without a father...''
''I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking and it won't happen again, I promise...''
Patricia Lewis sat next to me on my bed stroking my forehead which had been slashed with various cuts and painted with black and blue bruises. With my head against the pillows I turned my head to the side and looked up at her.
''How's Jason doing?''
''He's alright. He's in the lobby. He wouldn't tell me how you got into his car but that's irrelevant right now. All that matters is that you're okay...''
''Does he plan on coming in?''
''I'm not sure. I asked him but he said he needed a few moments to himself. You really should give him more credit then you do, Lester. He really is a good friend...''
''Yeah, your probably right. Let me go out and apologize to him. I really fucked this one up...''
I tried to pull myself to an upright position but Patricia Lewis put her body weight against mine in attempt to hold me still. Patricia shook her head side to side and looked down at me as if I had three heads.
''What in the world are you thinking? You can't get up, Lester. You can't even walk. You broke your leg, your ribs and your wrist has a minor sprain...''
''So? What the hell is that supposed to mean?''
''It means that you can't get out of this bed until you're free to do so by a Doctor. You certainly won't be defending that APW world championship of yours this weekend. I'm sorry, Lester...''
Patricia says softly, trying to break the news to me as lightly as she can. I simply shake my head back and forth. It can't be true. This all couldn't have been for nothing. I feel worse then I did before. At least before the crash I had a fighting chance but now, I can't even compete. And I have no-one but myself to blame...
No, I can't go down this—not after all I've been through. I refuse... I REFUSE to lay down and let some other son of a bitch take what's mine. I am the champion. I worked my ass off night in and night out to win the championship and I will undermine that by throwing it away! Sure, Mark Mania would make a great champion one day and Sally Talfourd could make history by being the first female to hold such a prestigious title—that's fine that's dandy, but NOT on my watch. Not in my ring. And certainly, not on one night in hell in one of the biggest matches the APW has had in years.
Fuck you!
I shoved Patricia off of me, ripping the sheets covering me off and tossing them onto the floor. Patricia Lewis back stepped away from me as she watched me place a broken foot on the ground and stepped right out of bed. She looked at me horrified by the monster she saw. I ripped various chords monitoring my breath pattern and heart rates, before I swatted a silver tray with an orange, bred and butter and cup of milk off of a nearby table and onto the floor.
''Jesus Christ, Lester!''
Patricia Lewis uttered under her breath before letting out a blood curdling horrific scream. This was sure to alert someone else in the building, who would tend to her aid. My body grew extremely tense, eventually seizing up with pain I promise you I had never felt before. I tried to scream but my vocal chords were as good as tied, they were of no use. Jason Blackburn was the first one to come to the aid of Patricia as he stuck his head through the door and saw me standing on all fours.
''What the hell is going on here? Lester, it's good see you upright... wait, your upright!? Dude... how is that even possible!?''
Jason Blackburn marches towards me making the effort to reach out for a warm embrace but instead is revealed of the air in his lungs, as I drive a knee into his sternum causing him to collapse to floor. Jason Blackburn gasps for air as he squirms on the ground like a dying worm. Patricia Lewis simply stumbled around to the other side of the bed as I stormed out of the room.
The power I felt was something I can't describe. I was somewhat in control but for most part, she owned me; and that was the way, it had to be—it had to be that way, if I was going to win.
This was the game changer...
''Aw, poor Level-One thought he was going to be all alone? Fool. You should know better then to underestimate our bond. I knew it was only a matter of time before you'd come calling again. I must say, I'm impressed by your loyalty...''
''Well, your not the only one who's impressed. I can barely feel any of the injuries from the accident...''
''Feel!? Don't be so foolish. Of course you can't feel. I am pain. The fact that I can function in your body alone without killing you is something that I admire. With me in control, you can't be stopped! The best thing this elimination chamber match has to offer his pain and if you can't feel that—then there is nothing that can get in our way...''
''Unless they kill us...''
''And we won't let that happen... isn't that right? And if you think for a second your going to let me carry all your weight this time around hun, you're sadly mistaken...''
''You don't need to worry about that. I am committed. After all, it is me who comes to you this time...''
''Mmm, yes. I must say it couldn't have come at a better occasion. This is quite the birthday present, you are far too kind, baby...''
I approached the hospital exit doors which had been locked. Thrusting a clenched fist forward I was able to penetrate the glass window and flip the lock from the outside in, kicking the door wide open as I made my escape into the night.
Winning was never a guarantee but now it was a likely hood. There wasn't much of a chance that in the foreseeable future someone could stop Level-One in his current state. Now once again possessed by the demon that he had exorcized on several occasions; she was back stronger then ever and would prove to be the ally Level-One needed to fend off the pack of wolves vying for his blood. A modern day Frankenstein had been released amongst the population and now no one was safe.
If all this hadn't felt so real, he probably would have guessed it was all just a dream.
This is the moment you've all been waiting for, isn't it? I'm not referring to the blood thirsty crowd cheering me on to my death or even berating me in victory. Instead it is directed at my opponents, my fellow competitors on the invitee list at one night in hell. There is no secret a purge of greatness within the APW is on it's way, and it's starting with Biggs and hopes to end with me. Needless to say, the odds aren't in my favour.
Well, you fuckers have gotten your shot. Take the gun, aim it at my head—and pull the trigger, if you have a set, coward! A fitting anology for a thug like Young Mannie who has no buisness in a wrestling ring. In fact, I'm almost disgusted of myself for giving this ungreatful peice of shit a chance most men would salivate over. The only reason you still have a job here in the APW—is simply because you and your thug brigade have stumbled upon a cash cow of a gimmick and your milking it for all it's worth.
You don't have the talent nor physical ability to compete with someone as well rounded as I, and you came to realize this a few weeks ago when I extracted blood from your body like a vampire kicking it's fix. You can bitch and moan and claim that you should have won, but you didn't. In fact, if you had any sense of direction you would have never thrown me into the referee in the first place. Your action coupled by in-action resulted in your demise. It was ugly, but it was never meant to be pretty—how's your head feeling by the way?
Even if you did possess the physical ability and natural talent to compete with the likes of me—you lack the intelligence to put either into effective use. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to realize, you lack one. Though, let's be honest. You were to busy ''thuggin'' on the street corner to get a real education. You were the biggest moron in middle school after you failed grade eight three times and was the only kid with a moustache that sat at the back of the class. You graduated supplying the school principle with coke and prostitutes and eventually dropped out of high school to get your ''hustle'' on. Good god. In the end to make a long story short—you were hired by APW scouts too lazy to run a background check of your thuggery. Good to know APW follows the golden standard around here, huh?
It's amazing how some glorified curtain jerker, who was granted a filler slot in a main-event match by the champion himself, could be as delusional as you are, Mannie. Do you honestly believe you have a shot? Fuck it, why bother. You'll just shout your explanation to me, dawg! I do admit though, you've been entertaining over the past few weeks. Go on, read the message boards. People see you as a glorified version of Branden Harvey, only Branden Harvey realizes he's an underachiever and doesn't willingly get his ass kicked by world heavyweight champions. You aren't in my league and you certainly aren't worth my breath. Hell, you aren't even worth ME taking YOUR breath... you insignificant pissant.
You are not much use to me, anymore. Originally, you were my pawn in my game—but now, your nothing more then a unfortunate by product of my ill-advised decisions. I don't regret my choice simply because your some type of threat, which you are not—but because I am sure I could have found someone willing to play the role in helping me remain champion in the name of keeping the universe balanced—even if this roster is served with self-centred, ego driven surfs who will never make anything of themselves in the name of their own ignorance. So be it. Your decision—or in decision-- has put you against me, rather then to work with me will result in your timely elimination from this match. You've made yourself out to be nothing more then a pawn of the Sally Talfourds and Mark Mania's of this match and thus will be removed from this game because of it. Not everyone can be the king, Young Mannie.
You aren't Level-One thus you can't win.
You know for the life of me, I can't figure why John Green was replaced with the likes of Criss Cassidy. That's not to necessarily say that John Green actually deserved a spot in this match after he rode Mark Mania coattails to a dusty finish but that if anyone should have been removed from this match it would be Young Mannie... in due time, perhaps. Nonetheless, Criss Cassidy is one of two of the newest last minute additions to this match which means management probably didn't think much of him before now as if he truly deserved a spot in this match, he would have got it before John Green had a chance to waste his.
Criss, let's be honest. You can't win so why bother? It would be in your best interest to put any hard feelings between each-other aside long enough to watch each-others back in this match. I know Sally Talfourd and Mark Mania are absolutely livid that you've been placed into this match last minute because that's one less person they have had fooled. Leading into this match John Green was drinking Mark Mania's koolaid was ready to just about lay down if not meant allowing Mark Mania to swindle the world title away from it's rightful owner.
Though, I'm aware you have Morales. Which actually is nothing more then another word for ''limitations''; you've set up on an artificial pedestal as to gain higher ground above those you deem unfit for your sky gods love and as to not be lowered to the level of a non-believer that you value as scum, worthy a death sentence. This morale high ground will serve no more of an advantage to you as it did for Biggs and his bad case of blue balls he suffered with his hot piece of ass Ellie, before their wedding.
With that said, this morale high ground you tout above my head is nothing more then a facade to hide the great sins you've committed. What those are, I don't know—but you wouldn't be kind enough to share, would you? It's funny those who choose to judge others, often put themselves in a position as to not be judged themselves. I air my dirty laundry on a Saturday night; where as you have troubles shooting a decent promo out of the confines of the save havens of a church and bell tolls.
Despite what you may believe I am not the devil. In fact, I'm your light. You may believe that even entertaining the thought of you aligning yourself with me for one night only is equivalent to striking a deal with the devil but let's cut the bullshit. If you were really as lordly as you claim to be; you wouldn't even be entertaining the thought of wrestling on a show with such symbolic meanings behind it. One night in hell isn't just a play on words, Cassidy. It's a reality.
If you want to win this championship, you WILL be doing the devils work. This elimination chamber match embodies everything about Satan. This match is fuelled with under tones of violence, pain and agony. The endgame is greed. Greed for fame, greed for status and greed for personal gain. Assuming you show up, the only question is—are you going to fight alongside the one man who has been crucified along the way, or will you join the majority vote to lynch the poor son of a bitch who was on the wrong end of a broom stick in a witch hunt?
As for Satan himself; how about Nathaniel Havok? The wild card in this entire puzzle. Unlike, Young Mannie and Criss Cassidy, his vices one way or another won't hold him back from quite possibly walking away with the APW world championship in his poessession; but how exactly does he plan to do such a thing?
Sure on the surface; I'm the easy scapegoat with a target on my back the size of Texas but is it really that simple? Perhaps, Nathaniel Havok would find it in his best interests to ensure I stay around a little bit longer then everyone else. Perhaps, Nathaniel Havok could do what he can to keep me alive in this match as an element of a distraction as he targets his unsuspecting opponents. Yes, I said opponents! I'm not the only one in this goddamn match! Though, you probably couldn't tell due to the constant jocking for my head on a plague.
While Nathaniel Havok doesn't strike me as a mindless sheep willing to follow a herd to the slaughter he is masked with a big question mark of uncertainty and cannot be trusted to make a decision, never mind a wise one. Nathaniel Havok has made it to the elimination chamber by wielding steel chairs taking aim at noggins seemingly at random which only adds to the entire equation. Nathaniel Havok should realize however that with me out of this match early, he's bound to be the next target. With John Green out of the picture, Mark Mania is bound to replace him with what he see's as the next best thing in Sally Talfourd. It must be her tits and her willingness to take skeet directly in the face! I digress.
To be honest though, Nathaniel Havok has an advantage that I don't. He's a pure novelty when it comes to trash core wrestling Trevor Blackwell was famous for bringing into the confines of an APW ring to it's misfortune. This chamber of hell suits him like a one peice suit that matches his frilly looking hair. I may have the raw talent, the heart and the ability to withstand significant amounts of pain—but nobody understands this element better then Nathaniel Havok. I may have watched this structure be built from the ground up, I may understand the hot spots and I may know every inch of this cell—but Nathaniel Havok can do a handstands on innovations, I struggle to think up. There's no heights that son of a bitch won't climb, there's no depths he won't fall—there's nothing he won't do to ensure we all go home empty handed. He flirts with death, slaps it on its ass, and takes it home to give birth to his hell child.
Nathaniel Havok is the most dangerous man in this match.
I know there's always time for shameless self promotion but this is not it. Nathaniel Havok is the man Sally Talfourd and Mark Mania and every other son of a bitch in this chamber needs to focus on... not me! Sure, I'm the champion—but I can't climb up the chamber walls like a spider, swing across it like a monkey, and virtually sky dive to a world heavyweight championship now, can I? If Sally Talfourd and Mark Mania had a brain, they'd worry about Nathaniel Havok and less about me... after-all, I've had less then superb preformances as of late...right!? Right!
With that said, Nathaniel Havok you are pale in comparison to myself, natrually. You may have the jump on me in this stupid chamber match that has done nothing but stack the odds against me—but in a singles match, I have you beat for the one-two-three, ten out of ten times! So don't for a split second take my praise to your hair-dyed head, kid. You still have a long ways to go and the only way you walk out with MY APW world championship is if someone is stupid enough to let you. Hopefully, Mark and Mania and Sally Talfourd can collectively rub the brain cells together to put some heat on you, as well. And if not, you need to come to your senses and work alongside me and prove you really are as good as you say you are. Hell, unlike every other emotionally bent butthurt cry baby in this match—me and you have a clean slate to work with here. Don't muck it up...
Speaking of ''mucking'' it up, how about Mark Mania? You know old man, I actually respected you for a hot second after you ripped off your silly mask and decided to embrace the ass hole you really are—but then suddenly, you were thrown upon my property like trash to be disposed of and that was all that was needed to ruffle your feathers and have you lead a lynch party against me. Rather then shaking my hand and realizing I truly was the better man, you decided to be bitter about your shortcomings and refused to give me the credit I deserved.
I never cheated. I don't cheat. In fact, I don't think I have ever cheated in my entire life! The fact that the referee wasn't paying attention when I pinned your ass to the mat like a donkeys tail—isn't my responsibility nor do I get a cheque at the end of the night for being a honest, good guy but in the heat of the moment you refused to acknowledge this. The truth is, I was the better man. I am the better man. And I am going to find a way to prove that I am a better man once again, even if it means killing me because I laugh in the face of death, old man. Ha. Ha.
There isn't much chance of us working together at all. You've drawn your line with a stick of envy, filled with jealousy ink. I can't say I'm angry if anything I'm more disappointed. We could have been great allies. I mean, neither of us can really be trusted—but as we both plotted against each-other waiting for the right time to stick a knife into the others back, we could have done some damage around here. Maybe, it's still possible. Maybe, after this is all said and done and the elimination chamber serves as a bloody stamp on your career, you'll realize I am not a liar either. A liar when I say, not everyone can be APW world champions, Mark. It's time to find a new line of work—swallow your ego, old man.
In twisted way, I still respect you. I respect your for taking this challenge head on. I respect you for doing everything in your power to stack the deck against me. Hell, I respect the fact that you were in the depths of hell—smoking, drinking, fucking prostitutes—whatever the hell were your vices that held you back a few years ago has been broken in two and released the Mark Mania the experts came to know. I respect you as a competitor even if you really aren't in my league.
Though, I'd be stupid to underestimate you. You have an opportunity to sit back in the cell and watch the bloody massacre play out with front row seat tickets. You have the chance to watch and observe and -maybe- even listen if the screams are loud enough. This gives you a chance to formulate a plot of your own well before the chamber door opens up and realizes you into hell the freshest man in and you have John Green to thank for laying down as fast as he did for you.
I won't lie—your late entry into this match leaves questions in my head that have still gone unanswered. I admit that the uncertainty of the equation of Mark Mania has left me in a state of anxiousness I haven't felt in years, but that's exactly what I need. I need to understand just how big of a threat you and everyone else but Young Mannie is to me and my APW world championship. You just like everyone else plays an important piece to me remaining in the APW world title picture and one fucking miscalculation throws the entire thing into squalor—but you are exactly what I need in this match to keep me doing, when I feel like stopping, dropping and rolling onto my back allowing death to take me.
Thank you, Mark Mania.
Perhaps, the rough weeks leading up to this match is nothing more then a segway into what's to come. Or perhaps, it's a sign of something much bigger that lingers beneath the surface of simplicity and obviousness. Sally Talfourd that last magician working her magic over Level-One tag team competition, holding my shoulders against the canvas for three seconds on a Thursday Night. Maybe that's what I needed. A bucket of ice cold water waking me up from my slumber, reminding me that it's not enough to be good nigh in and night out—that only cuts it half of the time. You need to be amazing every fucking night! Quite possibly, Sally Talfourd was just doing her job in this entire thing and that's to keep Level-One humble.
Sally Talfourd despite I was virtually a scapegoat for Biggs less then par performance, I acknowledge that I came up short. You got me, like a cap gun held to a prisoners head—but really, what good has that done you now? If I would have won that tag match—if I would have won that beat the clock challenge—would it really have been to my advantage or that of my undoing? I can't help but feel for a quick second, I was becoming too comfortable. Too confident. Something you can get away with in a singles match with it all on the line but not in a six person elimination chamber where so many undetermined factors rest in construction of the cell itself, never-mind the competitors within it!
I acknowledge that your sitting pretty in this match in more ways then one. I know that you have a silent agreement amongst the others in this match to gang up on me and take me out of this match nice and early, but at the end of the day—how do you plan on holding them to their word? How can be so certain that these men have fallen for you, the evil succubus? More implicitly, fallen for you to the degree that they'd be willing to give up a world title in your honour? Your tits, tongue and flesh wound you call a vagina may have brought up a long way in life, Sally—but it's evident, it will not bring you a world title as long as I live. So, I guess it's real simple. If you DO want to win, kill me.
I'm sure you thought when you beat me in a throw-away tag match that it would rattle me. That you'd get in my head. That'd you'd thwart my plans for world domination in this sport. Well sorry Sally, you've predicted wrong again. You've rattled my cage. You've stuffed your useless mantra down my throat under the guise of food for thought. More importantly, you have given me more motivation to break free and finally release the beast upon you helpless sons of bitches.
I hear your ramblings about how you plan to win this match. Everyone has been talking about winning. Winning this, winning that—winning the APW world title and everything that comes with it. You have it all wrong, idiots. You are confused. Misled. Misinformed. This isn't about winning. This isn't even about proving a point. This is hell. This is place where little girls like you Sally Talfourd, just don't belong. This isn't about the numbers game or the consequences that come with it.
This is about surviving, surviving everything you motherfuckers throw at me until you break yourselves trying to exert the strength, will and heart needed to break me. I survive the elimination chamber, you dont. The rest is real simple. I survive, I win. I win, I keep my championship and the LEGEND...
Survives.
They say one night in hell is a place no man wants to go, but I don't believe that's so. You all may possess traits and abilities that gives you an advantage over me but I have the homefield advantage, so take your filthy shoes off at the door and don't ring the doorbell more then once.
''Welcome home, Lester Only...''
While Sally Talfourd was bound to hit the salon and Mark Mania would study hours of tape until his eyes bled, Young Mannie would smoke a few spliffs to calm his nerves before hitting the biggest stage of his entire career. Nathaniel Havoc was said to dance half naked in goat blood sacrifices and Criss Cassidy would be praying to god he makes it out of hell alive, I'll be here. In this metal factory, watching hell be built right before my eyes, it really is something beautiful.
Welcome to Tokyo, Japan . The Elimination Chamber was being built in a large facility, with several workers electric sawing their way to what was envisioned to be one of the most feared structures in all of wrestling. The chain link had not yet been laced amongst the half-built structure, but the chain went on for several miles. The facility was loud and sparks flew in every directions, just stepping on scene was a hazard. I was equipped with a ridiculously uncomfortable set of ear phones to protect my ear drums and dressed in a garb that made the prospect of self-nudity, so much more endearing... well, probably not for you.
Through the scent of molten metal and the multiple gears turning, I could still strain my ears to hear mumblings of Jason Blackburn who stood beside me. I was sandwiched in between him and a Japanese American who was hired to lead the project and made sure the elimination chamber structure reached it's destination in Japan.
''Hey, you'd think they'd have more Chinese children working here, huh?''
Jason Blackburn says, straining his voice. A useless effort considering what it was he felt he was obligated to say. Annoyed, I turn to Jason Blackburn to acknowledge his enquiry.
''Goddamn it, Jason. First of all, we are amongst the Japanese here in Japan not the Chinese and second of all not everyone in an Asian country works in a sweatshop!''
''I...''
''Jason, I don't care if they all the same. They aren't, now get it over it! We're in Japan for more important things and they don't include you spouting your ignorance on a nationwide stage! If you have any questions direct them to Mr. Kim beside me...''
Jason Blackburn flashes me a look of displeasure. His eyes slowly crawled past me and onto Mr. Kim the foreman of operations.
''So how much does this thing weigh?''
I sighed. I knew this was an opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to gain a jump on my opponents, it's no secret that I needed one. It was important to formulate a strategy well before the match had taken place. Mr. Kim had provided me with the dimensions, the hot spots and virtually the entire blue print to the cell.
''What do you plan to do with that?''
Jason Blackburn asks as he adjusted a large pair of eye-goggles over his eyes. Mr. Kim smiles pointing at the dimensions with a sense pride as I further broke it down to the simpleton dressed in fancy attire that made him look smarter then he actually was. Jason Blackburn was a smart man when it came to promoting something or even running a business but his street smarts were as good as bum status.
''It's real simple. If I know every inch of the cell, it'll help me close off my opponents and control the ring, thus dictate the pace of the match—which is going to help me greatly considering my stamina tank is scheduled to overwork itself in this slobber knocker...''
''Well, isn't that practically useless considering how many people maybe in the chamber at once?''
''Well, there's only six of us. Only five are eligible to start off the match. Out of those five, two will be plagued with the unfortunate honour. With those odds, there's a chance Young Mannie might be one of the first man in—which means he's likely the first man out before a third person has a chance to enter the chamber. In short, there's a good chance I'll be stepping in one on one with someone at some point and it's important I plan for it accordingly. And if all else fails, I have six holding cells of plexiglass to toss someone's helpless body through...''
Jason Blackburn ponders the though before shrugging his shoulders and taking my word for it, for what it's worth. Jason Blackburn had some ideas for the chamber match of his own, unfortunately many of them weren't implemented and one could guess why if they thought long and hard enough.
''That's all good and dandy, but what's wrong with my ideas? Why didn't you collaborate with Mr. Kim here and make a much bigger and badder cell?''
''Your kidding me right? You raised the possibility of having my chamber pod custom heated and a built in television just in-case I got bored...''
''Well, it sounded good when I originally thought about it...''
''That's because you were trying to manage my career drunk again, Jason. Look, in a week from now when President Jeff beats Biggs and retakes his position as APW president, you'll get your job back and I'll be nothing more then your client but for now, I'm your boss and this is my title match and we're going to do things my way...''
''One's'' Night in Hell/Love Triangle (11)
Several days later we were back in the United States. The trip to Tokyo, Japan was considered to be somewhat of a success though it was only a part of the puzzle. The next time, I'd return to Japan it wouldn't be for scouting nor sight seeing, but to compete the elimination death chamber once and for all.
In the upper echelon of Liberty City, I was in one of several different offices Jason Blackburn now had around town. In fact, he bought this one just this week. There was nothing of note inside of the office, it was bland and served nothing more then a future safe house for business. Today, Jason Blackburn was in a particularly good mood which only raised my cause for suspicion.
It wasn't just me who had everything on the line a week from now, Jason did too. Jason Blackburn originally worked for President Jeff has Action Packed Wrestling promoter and talent scout. He eventually met me and promised to set me up on a huge tour schedule across several global wrestling federations where I'd compete against some of the worlds best stars. And although he kept his end of the bargain, I bailed. I couldn't leave my girlfriend, Patricia Lewis behind. Not to mention, I didn't feel I had much to prove. After several years in this business, I've nearly accomplished it all. In turn due to my last minute decision; Jason Blackburn felt I owed him in more ways then one. Either, he'd sue me for everything I had—or I was to allow him to manage my career, thus pushing him into the spotlight.
Fortunately, a loop-hole in the contract agreement meant that the position could only be held up by the owner of the promotion, overseeing it. With the exodus of President Jeff sometime later, Biggs decided to rule in my favour, freeing me from the grips of Jason Blackburn. Since then, he's been humbled. So much so, he has turned into my lackey and because of it, he's much more tolerable. He's closest thing to a friend, I got. Those don't last long in this business. And if history repeats itself, this one won't either.
''What's wrong, champ?''
Jason Blackburn asks breaking the ice with the mere sound of his voice. We sat at a small table across from each-other. Jason Blackburn had a stack of papers laid out in-front of him and a black brief case he lugged around with him perched up onto the mapplewood table top.
''Nothing, nothing at all. I'm just thinking, that's all...''
''About what? Your title defence this week end?''
''Yeah, yeah that...''
''Don't sweat it, man. I have got everything covered. I put together a solid last minute mini-training camp that it'll get you ready for your match. I've called the best weight trainers, the best wrestling coaches, a yoga master and get this... a psychiatrist to make sure there's no screws in the head of yours loose. You need to get your head right for a match like this...''
I uttered the words ''Thanks'' sarcastically under my breath. It quite possibly could have been that Jason Blackburn was truly trying to help me out for my own benefit but the implications of a larger plot hung in the balance. I can't trust him. I can't even trust myself. If Jason Blackburn was to resume his roll as my manager; me being champion would only add to his bankroll. Money is always the motivation, right?
''Unfortunately, it's not all good news here. I gave a call to all those numbers you gave me and unfortunately, I got nadda, zilch, a big fat nothing...''
Great, just great. A lot good a new training coach and a psychiatrist does you when fending off five hungry challengers looking for your blood. All my life, I've been told to keep your friends close but your enemies closer... but no one ever told me your better off with no enemies in the distance, either. I made plenty of them over my career. There isn't one person in this business, I haven't parted ways with—and although it wasn't always my undoing necessarily, the fact remains; I have no allies.
''So you mean to tell me Mark Mania didn't see the benefits of us working together in this match?''
''Well, I wouldn't know. I couldn't get past his secretary, who let me know she wasn't going to be sending any messages of mine to him because of a Mark Mania Enterprises policy. Maybe he gets fan calls all the time?''
''You sent him a fan message? Goddamn it, Jason. This serious. Please tell me you tried to contact Nathaniel Havok?''
''Actually I did... try. Unfortunately, there is no number for parts unknown. That guy lives in a bat cave or something. You'll need to think of something else if you want to get your message across...''
I slammed my fist against the table top in a fit of rage as Jason Blackburn slowly clenched his eyes shut.
''Goddamn it. We all know the case with Young Mannie and Criss Cassidy probably doesn't even have a phone, citing technology as some sort of mark of the beast. For fuck sakes, how the hell am I going to win a match like this, five against one? I mean, sure I've done things like this before—but never under the extremes of a chamber against competition like this. I need a miracle...''
''Unfortunately, you aren't going to get it, champ. Sally Talfourd is certainly having none of it, especially after already trusting you once and ending up on the wrong side of a beat down. Maybe you can ask her out on a date and swindle her through the pulsations of her vagina?''
''Repulsive. I rather just lose my APW world championship then to resort to something has downright degrading as that. Face it, we've got nothing left to work with here...''
Feeling defeated I excused myself from the table and slowly wandered off to a near by window looking from above, down below. Jason Blackburn was sure to follow me as we both looked through the glass and out onto the street below.
''This is it, Jason. This is where this shit ends! I dug my own grave and now I'm going to have to dirt spit my way out of it. Things have finally caught up with me and you know as well as I do—this all was too good to be true...''
''What are you talking about, man? You're the world heavyweight champion, the baddest man on the planet! We own an underground empire that is going to own this city one day, mark my words. Me and you are a two man tandem the world has never seen!''
I quickly snapped around swatting Jason Blackburn's arm away from me as he tried to wrap it around my neck. He stumbled backwards being motivated by fear more then physical force. His face was twisted with uncertainty as he shook his head back and forth trying to sway with my sudden change in attitude.
''We aren't a fucking team, Jason. President Jeff is going to beat Biggs and when he does you'll own me like you did several months ago and I'll be without an APW world championship and absolutely fuck-all to show for...''
''Woah, woah, woah. First of all how can you be so sure that President Jeff is going to defeat Biggs, anyways?''
I snarl as I look out onto the street below, eyeing a new red corvette sitting in the parking lot. I point at the expensive vehicle while tapping on the window pane methodically. Subsequently Jason Blackburn's eyes shift across the street and towards the parking lot where his car was parked.
''The new car, Jason? This new office? I'm debt to fight club, Jason. So let me ask you, how the fuck did you pay for all this, huh? How did you buy a new corvette and fit the bill for this new safe house or even the top notch training team you put together for me out of the goodness of your heart?''
Jason Blackburn lowers his head and swallows his saliva right before he looked back up at me, pleading with the motion of his hands.
''It's not what you think. I was going to pay for all this later. You said it yourself, President Jeff is going to beat Biggs, right? Look, I'm not out fuck you over—I promise. Win or lose, you can trust me...''
Jason Blackburn reaches out for an embrace to which I shrug off bitterly. I trusted no one. There was only one person that I knew I had in my corner at that was Patricia Lewis—but even she couldn't help me even if she wanted too.
There's a time in every man's career; where he realizes he truly has been beaten. Where he realizes the odds are simply beyond him and that he's only making a fool of himself, pretending otherwise. Although, I may have beaten myself into a state of self defeat, pain is something I have become accustom too... while losing, is more like an allergic reaction.
They say desperate times call for desperate measures and at this point, I'm frantically dialling area codes.
It was only a matter of time before I found myself on ground level, marching across traffic which comes to a screeching to a halt at my presence. At this point, my mind has become blurry—the thoughts in my head right now are drained out with frantic screaming and constant spamming of the horn function on the steering wheels.
I don't know what has gotten into me as of late, especially right now. And although, I knew exactly what I was looking for I couldn't be quite sure I hadn't already found it. It was like she was here before I ever entered that brand new red corvette.
SMASH!
The glass window shattered into thousands of pieces and fell to the concrete like the confetti that was bound to fall for the new APW world champion.
The few years I spent as a lowlife teenage hoodlum finally did me some good as I hot wired the vehicle; and quickly jumped behind the wheel, perhaps it was right then now in this very moment where I sealed my untimely fate. I strapped myself in...
This was going to be a bumpy ride to hell.
The engine's horsepower roared like a lion as sped off down the road until I served out onto the highway. The new corvette was moving as fast as my non-nonsensical thoughts were through my head, a race to finish line. I fiddled around with a knob on the stereo assigning one hand to the wheel; I felt I needed something to put me at ease as I approached 100 mph—but there was nothing on. Like everything else, the radio was as good dead.
The soundtrack of my life.
Lifting my head to refocus on the road was enough to save me from smashing into the back end of a mini van which was a certain call for disaster. Two pale small faces turned their heads to me with their big dark eyes watching the mad man behind them, surely fearing their life's I cursed under my breath turning my attention to the station to which the radio dial had now been stuck on.
''This is Sports news 97.5 and your host, Jim Bellamy. With me, I have a special guest here today, his name is familiar to most! Andrew Meltzer! The brother of another special unnamed blogger known for his misinformation and highly speculative inside sources!''
''Thanks for having me, Jim...''
''Yes, unfortunately it's not under the most time friendly restraints. You have an opportunity meeting to attend and we only have you on for five minutes, so let's get things started—and give your thoughts on a few events going on this weekend...''
''Well, I feel obligated to speak upon the APW and Level-Ones APW world championship title defence at one night in hell...''
''Of course! You have met Level-One on several occasions, correct?''
''Yeah, we worked with each-other a few times. Often, I'd provide him stats and scouting reports about his opponents. Though, I don't have any particular biases in his favour—actually, this time around, for first time in the champions career; I don't believe the safe bet is on him and apparently the fans agree...''
''Well this quite the new development. In a straw poll done just a few weeks ago, Level-One was ranked number one when voters were asked, if he'd retain the APW world championship at one night in hell—but that was before all the developments that has taken place leading up to the match, correct?''
''Absolutely. We saw Level-One lose the beat the clock challenge that would have gave him a significant advantage in the elimination chamber. A week later, we saw him take the pin fall to Sally Talfourd. He would pick up a win true to form a week later but that was against Young Mannie; who some say, should have won the first blood match as Level-One technically was the first man to bleed whether the referee saw it or not. All this goes against the assertion that Level-One is on the top of his game...''
''He's also kept a relatively closed profile leading up to this match which has lead some wrestling experts to believe that Level-One has lost the spark relatively quickly has become far too relaxed as world champion. It's not good for business and I'm sure the APW management wouldn't lose any sleep if Level-One was dethroned at one night in hell, Meltzer...''
''Absolutely. The APW is cleaning house. President Jeff looks to regain his spot as APW chairman in match against Biggs and rumblings of an inside source tells us that a second promotion under the APW banner is currently in the works; no doubt is the APW looking to shake things up, and any one of these five competitors could quite possibly serve that purpose if they could walk out of Japan with victory...''
''Any last words before you go, Mr. Meltzer?''
''Yeah, it goes out to the champion himself. Get ready. Your going to need everything you have in that tank of yours and more. Everything but the stars of the universe are aligned against you, your going to need to dig deep and do whatever the hell you need to do to win. And considering, it's one night in hell—he might just have to cut a deal with the devil or something...''
''Ha-Ha. Nicely played. We'll be back after this commercial break...''
I closed my eyes and kicked the vehicle into it's highest gear and everything after that became a blur. At some point death flashed before me, I stomped on the breaks—a sign that I was not yet ready to pass, but death or life is beyond me now.
The taste of metal fills my mouth, bitter and forever lasting. A cold stream of blood influenced by the October chill runs down my face and into my mouth to quench my thirst. I tried to get up, but I couldn't move—the seat belt latched onto me pinning me to my chair inside a crushed car. Ironically, thoughts freely escape me and all I can do now is observe and observe for not much longer.
In a twisted pile of wreckage I lay, until I hear several voices calling, eventually easing me into a deep state of unconsciousness.
Am I dead?
YAHOO NEWS!
TRAGEDY STRIKES WRESTLING WORLD!
The local police department has just released the following press release regarding the APW world heavyweight champion, Level-One.
''Earlier tonight at approximately 10: 23 PM EST, Lester Only also known as Level-One aged 26 was found in a demolished sports car which upon further investigation had turned up, stolen. The 26 year old wrestling icon had to be cut out of his vehicle were he is reportedly pronounced dead on the scene...''
This news comes just several days before Lester Only was set to defend his title at APW's one night in hell against five other competitors. The APW released a statement moments after this story has broken stating that they are ''deeply saddened'' by the events that had taken place tonight. Police are currently investigating what lead to the cause of the crash.
We'll be sure to update this story as it progresses.
TRAGEDY STRIKES WRESTLING WORLD!
The local police department has just released the following press release regarding the APW world heavyweight champion, Level-One.
''Earlier tonight at approximately 10: 23 PM EST, Lester Only also known as Level-One aged 26 was found in a demolished sports car which upon further investigation had turned up, stolen. The 26 year old wrestling icon had to be cut out of his vehicle were he is reportedly pronounced dead on the scene...''
This news comes just several days before Lester Only was set to defend his title at APW's one night in hell against five other competitors. The APW released a statement moments after this story has broken stating that they are ''deeply saddened'' by the events that had taken place tonight. Police are currently investigating what lead to the cause of the crash.
We'll be sure to update this story as it progresses.
''What the hell is this? Where am I? I can't see anything, I can't feel anything—am I alive? Is this what death feels like? Anyone? Anyone at all?''
...
''Great. So this is the life, huh? The elaborate life after death!? This can't be happening. There has to be more then being stuck talking to yourself for all eternity, I could have done that alive. No 72 virgins? Fuck, I must have died and went straight to hell...''
The man in the white mask says:
''Not quite...''
''I heard that! It's you! Your back! Why can't I see you?''
''...because technically your dead. Actually, your currently on your way to the hospital as we speak. They are pulling out a defibrillator to jump start your heart. So, you may want to choose now whether or not you want to live or die...''
''I don't know about you but living seems like a foregone conclusion right about now...''
''Says the guy who drove himself face first into a concrete security wall, you know, your word doesn't exactly mean very much right about now. I digress. It's important that you understand the consequences that will come with your choice however...''
''Alright, alright. Get on with it then, will you!?''
''If you choose life you will get exactly what you are looking for. I, the man in the white mask will step aside and let the devil we both know take control of you—however the consequences that shall follow are beyond my control. If you choose death, you will be granted with peace, love, and forgiveness...''
''I don't know the latter is starting to sound a little fruity. If I die, will I really have 72 virgins to myself or is that just some silly bullshit rounda-bout-rumour?''
''There will be no misogynist fantasies nor filth on my watch. You've had your fun destroying the product of mother nature and mankind with your destructive time spent on this earth. I speak for the entire universe when I say, it is better off without you...''
''Aren't you an honest son of a bitch? Fuck it. I want life!''
''Very well then...''
I slowly opened my eyes slowly introducing myself to the bright artificial lights above my hospital bed. Squinting, I could see a large figure standing over my bed. It was the man in the white mask. He slowly backed away from me as I reached out to grab him;
''Oh my god your alive!''
A voice cries out as Patricia Lewis barrels down on top of me like a ton of bricks. I lifted my head in a panic looking past her and towards the man in the white mask who with his back towards me, exited the hospital room never once hesitating to look back. Patricia shifts her head in the direction of my eyes, now starring directly at me with a bright smile across her face before she leans in to plant a kiss on my lips. She lets out a yelp in excitement while I wander about in my own confusion.
''I can't believe your up already the doctor said you weren't going to be awake for a few days!''
''So, I really didn't die?''
Patricia Lewis looks at me with confusion on her face before she lets out a light hearted giggle. She probably figured my the lopsidedness was just a byproduct of the accident
''No, silly, of course you didn't die—but you did loose your vitals on the way to the hospital. How are you feeling right now?''
''I'm feeling okay, I think...''
Where was she? Certainly something more then a bad headache had to come out of this crash, right? I probably wouldn't have put my life at risk for nothing or at least would have took the multiple head shots with a chair option to ring her back in. Fuck.
''Lester I know your in no condition to really talk about this but what the hell were you doing in that car in the first place? You know you don't even own a license, never mind a car! You could have died tonight and our kids would have grown up without a father...''
''I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking and it won't happen again, I promise...''
Patricia Lewis sat next to me on my bed stroking my forehead which had been slashed with various cuts and painted with black and blue bruises. With my head against the pillows I turned my head to the side and looked up at her.
''How's Jason doing?''
''He's alright. He's in the lobby. He wouldn't tell me how you got into his car but that's irrelevant right now. All that matters is that you're okay...''
''Does he plan on coming in?''
''I'm not sure. I asked him but he said he needed a few moments to himself. You really should give him more credit then you do, Lester. He really is a good friend...''
''Yeah, your probably right. Let me go out and apologize to him. I really fucked this one up...''
I tried to pull myself to an upright position but Patricia Lewis put her body weight against mine in attempt to hold me still. Patricia shook her head side to side and looked down at me as if I had three heads.
''What in the world are you thinking? You can't get up, Lester. You can't even walk. You broke your leg, your ribs and your wrist has a minor sprain...''
''So? What the hell is that supposed to mean?''
''It means that you can't get out of this bed until you're free to do so by a Doctor. You certainly won't be defending that APW world championship of yours this weekend. I'm sorry, Lester...''
Patricia says softly, trying to break the news to me as lightly as she can. I simply shake my head back and forth. It can't be true. This all couldn't have been for nothing. I feel worse then I did before. At least before the crash I had a fighting chance but now, I can't even compete. And I have no-one but myself to blame...
No, I can't go down this—not after all I've been through. I refuse... I REFUSE to lay down and let some other son of a bitch take what's mine. I am the champion. I worked my ass off night in and night out to win the championship and I will undermine that by throwing it away! Sure, Mark Mania would make a great champion one day and Sally Talfourd could make history by being the first female to hold such a prestigious title—that's fine that's dandy, but NOT on my watch. Not in my ring. And certainly, not on one night in hell in one of the biggest matches the APW has had in years.
Fuck you!
I shoved Patricia off of me, ripping the sheets covering me off and tossing them onto the floor. Patricia Lewis back stepped away from me as she watched me place a broken foot on the ground and stepped right out of bed. She looked at me horrified by the monster she saw. I ripped various chords monitoring my breath pattern and heart rates, before I swatted a silver tray with an orange, bred and butter and cup of milk off of a nearby table and onto the floor.
''Jesus Christ, Lester!''
Patricia Lewis uttered under her breath before letting out a blood curdling horrific scream. This was sure to alert someone else in the building, who would tend to her aid. My body grew extremely tense, eventually seizing up with pain I promise you I had never felt before. I tried to scream but my vocal chords were as good as tied, they were of no use. Jason Blackburn was the first one to come to the aid of Patricia as he stuck his head through the door and saw me standing on all fours.
''What the hell is going on here? Lester, it's good see you upright... wait, your upright!? Dude... how is that even possible!?''
Jason Blackburn marches towards me making the effort to reach out for a warm embrace but instead is revealed of the air in his lungs, as I drive a knee into his sternum causing him to collapse to floor. Jason Blackburn gasps for air as he squirms on the ground like a dying worm. Patricia Lewis simply stumbled around to the other side of the bed as I stormed out of the room.
The power I felt was something I can't describe. I was somewhat in control but for most part, she owned me; and that was the way, it had to be—it had to be that way, if I was going to win.
This was the game changer...
''Aw, poor Level-One thought he was going to be all alone? Fool. You should know better then to underestimate our bond. I knew it was only a matter of time before you'd come calling again. I must say, I'm impressed by your loyalty...''
''Well, your not the only one who's impressed. I can barely feel any of the injuries from the accident...''
''Feel!? Don't be so foolish. Of course you can't feel. I am pain. The fact that I can function in your body alone without killing you is something that I admire. With me in control, you can't be stopped! The best thing this elimination chamber match has to offer his pain and if you can't feel that—then there is nothing that can get in our way...''
''Unless they kill us...''
''And we won't let that happen... isn't that right? And if you think for a second your going to let me carry all your weight this time around hun, you're sadly mistaken...''
''You don't need to worry about that. I am committed. After all, it is me who comes to you this time...''
''Mmm, yes. I must say it couldn't have come at a better occasion. This is quite the birthday present, you are far too kind, baby...''
I approached the hospital exit doors which had been locked. Thrusting a clenched fist forward I was able to penetrate the glass window and flip the lock from the outside in, kicking the door wide open as I made my escape into the night.
Winning was never a guarantee but now it was a likely hood. There wasn't much of a chance that in the foreseeable future someone could stop Level-One in his current state. Now once again possessed by the demon that he had exorcized on several occasions; she was back stronger then ever and would prove to be the ally Level-One needed to fend off the pack of wolves vying for his blood. A modern day Frankenstein had been released amongst the population and now no one was safe.
If all this hadn't felt so real, he probably would have guessed it was all just a dream.
This is the moment you've all been waiting for, isn't it? I'm not referring to the blood thirsty crowd cheering me on to my death or even berating me in victory. Instead it is directed at my opponents, my fellow competitors on the invitee list at one night in hell. There is no secret a purge of greatness within the APW is on it's way, and it's starting with Biggs and hopes to end with me. Needless to say, the odds aren't in my favour.
Well, you fuckers have gotten your shot. Take the gun, aim it at my head—and pull the trigger, if you have a set, coward! A fitting anology for a thug like Young Mannie who has no buisness in a wrestling ring. In fact, I'm almost disgusted of myself for giving this ungreatful peice of shit a chance most men would salivate over. The only reason you still have a job here in the APW—is simply because you and your thug brigade have stumbled upon a cash cow of a gimmick and your milking it for all it's worth.
You don't have the talent nor physical ability to compete with someone as well rounded as I, and you came to realize this a few weeks ago when I extracted blood from your body like a vampire kicking it's fix. You can bitch and moan and claim that you should have won, but you didn't. In fact, if you had any sense of direction you would have never thrown me into the referee in the first place. Your action coupled by in-action resulted in your demise. It was ugly, but it was never meant to be pretty—how's your head feeling by the way?
Even if you did possess the physical ability and natural talent to compete with the likes of me—you lack the intelligence to put either into effective use. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to realize, you lack one. Though, let's be honest. You were to busy ''thuggin'' on the street corner to get a real education. You were the biggest moron in middle school after you failed grade eight three times and was the only kid with a moustache that sat at the back of the class. You graduated supplying the school principle with coke and prostitutes and eventually dropped out of high school to get your ''hustle'' on. Good god. In the end to make a long story short—you were hired by APW scouts too lazy to run a background check of your thuggery. Good to know APW follows the golden standard around here, huh?
It's amazing how some glorified curtain jerker, who was granted a filler slot in a main-event match by the champion himself, could be as delusional as you are, Mannie. Do you honestly believe you have a shot? Fuck it, why bother. You'll just shout your explanation to me, dawg! I do admit though, you've been entertaining over the past few weeks. Go on, read the message boards. People see you as a glorified version of Branden Harvey, only Branden Harvey realizes he's an underachiever and doesn't willingly get his ass kicked by world heavyweight champions. You aren't in my league and you certainly aren't worth my breath. Hell, you aren't even worth ME taking YOUR breath... you insignificant pissant.
You are not much use to me, anymore. Originally, you were my pawn in my game—but now, your nothing more then a unfortunate by product of my ill-advised decisions. I don't regret my choice simply because your some type of threat, which you are not—but because I am sure I could have found someone willing to play the role in helping me remain champion in the name of keeping the universe balanced—even if this roster is served with self-centred, ego driven surfs who will never make anything of themselves in the name of their own ignorance. So be it. Your decision—or in decision-- has put you against me, rather then to work with me will result in your timely elimination from this match. You've made yourself out to be nothing more then a pawn of the Sally Talfourds and Mark Mania's of this match and thus will be removed from this game because of it. Not everyone can be the king, Young Mannie.
You aren't Level-One thus you can't win.
You know for the life of me, I can't figure why John Green was replaced with the likes of Criss Cassidy. That's not to necessarily say that John Green actually deserved a spot in this match after he rode Mark Mania coattails to a dusty finish but that if anyone should have been removed from this match it would be Young Mannie... in due time, perhaps. Nonetheless, Criss Cassidy is one of two of the newest last minute additions to this match which means management probably didn't think much of him before now as if he truly deserved a spot in this match, he would have got it before John Green had a chance to waste his.
Criss, let's be honest. You can't win so why bother? It would be in your best interest to put any hard feelings between each-other aside long enough to watch each-others back in this match. I know Sally Talfourd and Mark Mania are absolutely livid that you've been placed into this match last minute because that's one less person they have had fooled. Leading into this match John Green was drinking Mark Mania's koolaid was ready to just about lay down if not meant allowing Mark Mania to swindle the world title away from it's rightful owner.
Though, I'm aware you have Morales. Which actually is nothing more then another word for ''limitations''; you've set up on an artificial pedestal as to gain higher ground above those you deem unfit for your sky gods love and as to not be lowered to the level of a non-believer that you value as scum, worthy a death sentence. This morale high ground will serve no more of an advantage to you as it did for Biggs and his bad case of blue balls he suffered with his hot piece of ass Ellie, before their wedding.
With that said, this morale high ground you tout above my head is nothing more then a facade to hide the great sins you've committed. What those are, I don't know—but you wouldn't be kind enough to share, would you? It's funny those who choose to judge others, often put themselves in a position as to not be judged themselves. I air my dirty laundry on a Saturday night; where as you have troubles shooting a decent promo out of the confines of the save havens of a church and bell tolls.
Despite what you may believe I am not the devil. In fact, I'm your light. You may believe that even entertaining the thought of you aligning yourself with me for one night only is equivalent to striking a deal with the devil but let's cut the bullshit. If you were really as lordly as you claim to be; you wouldn't even be entertaining the thought of wrestling on a show with such symbolic meanings behind it. One night in hell isn't just a play on words, Cassidy. It's a reality.
If you want to win this championship, you WILL be doing the devils work. This elimination chamber match embodies everything about Satan. This match is fuelled with under tones of violence, pain and agony. The endgame is greed. Greed for fame, greed for status and greed for personal gain. Assuming you show up, the only question is—are you going to fight alongside the one man who has been crucified along the way, or will you join the majority vote to lynch the poor son of a bitch who was on the wrong end of a broom stick in a witch hunt?
As for Satan himself; how about Nathaniel Havok? The wild card in this entire puzzle. Unlike, Young Mannie and Criss Cassidy, his vices one way or another won't hold him back from quite possibly walking away with the APW world championship in his poessession; but how exactly does he plan to do such a thing?
Sure on the surface; I'm the easy scapegoat with a target on my back the size of Texas but is it really that simple? Perhaps, Nathaniel Havok would find it in his best interests to ensure I stay around a little bit longer then everyone else. Perhaps, Nathaniel Havok could do what he can to keep me alive in this match as an element of a distraction as he targets his unsuspecting opponents. Yes, I said opponents! I'm not the only one in this goddamn match! Though, you probably couldn't tell due to the constant jocking for my head on a plague.
While Nathaniel Havok doesn't strike me as a mindless sheep willing to follow a herd to the slaughter he is masked with a big question mark of uncertainty and cannot be trusted to make a decision, never mind a wise one. Nathaniel Havok has made it to the elimination chamber by wielding steel chairs taking aim at noggins seemingly at random which only adds to the entire equation. Nathaniel Havok should realize however that with me out of this match early, he's bound to be the next target. With John Green out of the picture, Mark Mania is bound to replace him with what he see's as the next best thing in Sally Talfourd. It must be her tits and her willingness to take skeet directly in the face! I digress.
To be honest though, Nathaniel Havok has an advantage that I don't. He's a pure novelty when it comes to trash core wrestling Trevor Blackwell was famous for bringing into the confines of an APW ring to it's misfortune. This chamber of hell suits him like a one peice suit that matches his frilly looking hair. I may have the raw talent, the heart and the ability to withstand significant amounts of pain—but nobody understands this element better then Nathaniel Havok. I may have watched this structure be built from the ground up, I may understand the hot spots and I may know every inch of this cell—but Nathaniel Havok can do a handstands on innovations, I struggle to think up. There's no heights that son of a bitch won't climb, there's no depths he won't fall—there's nothing he won't do to ensure we all go home empty handed. He flirts with death, slaps it on its ass, and takes it home to give birth to his hell child.
Nathaniel Havok is the most dangerous man in this match.
I know there's always time for shameless self promotion but this is not it. Nathaniel Havok is the man Sally Talfourd and Mark Mania and every other son of a bitch in this chamber needs to focus on... not me! Sure, I'm the champion—but I can't climb up the chamber walls like a spider, swing across it like a monkey, and virtually sky dive to a world heavyweight championship now, can I? If Sally Talfourd and Mark Mania had a brain, they'd worry about Nathaniel Havok and less about me... after-all, I've had less then superb preformances as of late...right!? Right!
With that said, Nathaniel Havok you are pale in comparison to myself, natrually. You may have the jump on me in this stupid chamber match that has done nothing but stack the odds against me—but in a singles match, I have you beat for the one-two-three, ten out of ten times! So don't for a split second take my praise to your hair-dyed head, kid. You still have a long ways to go and the only way you walk out with MY APW world championship is if someone is stupid enough to let you. Hopefully, Mark and Mania and Sally Talfourd can collectively rub the brain cells together to put some heat on you, as well. And if not, you need to come to your senses and work alongside me and prove you really are as good as you say you are. Hell, unlike every other emotionally bent butthurt cry baby in this match—me and you have a clean slate to work with here. Don't muck it up...
Speaking of ''mucking'' it up, how about Mark Mania? You know old man, I actually respected you for a hot second after you ripped off your silly mask and decided to embrace the ass hole you really are—but then suddenly, you were thrown upon my property like trash to be disposed of and that was all that was needed to ruffle your feathers and have you lead a lynch party against me. Rather then shaking my hand and realizing I truly was the better man, you decided to be bitter about your shortcomings and refused to give me the credit I deserved.
I never cheated. I don't cheat. In fact, I don't think I have ever cheated in my entire life! The fact that the referee wasn't paying attention when I pinned your ass to the mat like a donkeys tail—isn't my responsibility nor do I get a cheque at the end of the night for being a honest, good guy but in the heat of the moment you refused to acknowledge this. The truth is, I was the better man. I am the better man. And I am going to find a way to prove that I am a better man once again, even if it means killing me because I laugh in the face of death, old man. Ha. Ha.
There isn't much chance of us working together at all. You've drawn your line with a stick of envy, filled with jealousy ink. I can't say I'm angry if anything I'm more disappointed. We could have been great allies. I mean, neither of us can really be trusted—but as we both plotted against each-other waiting for the right time to stick a knife into the others back, we could have done some damage around here. Maybe, it's still possible. Maybe, after this is all said and done and the elimination chamber serves as a bloody stamp on your career, you'll realize I am not a liar either. A liar when I say, not everyone can be APW world champions, Mark. It's time to find a new line of work—swallow your ego, old man.
In twisted way, I still respect you. I respect your for taking this challenge head on. I respect you for doing everything in your power to stack the deck against me. Hell, I respect the fact that you were in the depths of hell—smoking, drinking, fucking prostitutes—whatever the hell were your vices that held you back a few years ago has been broken in two and released the Mark Mania the experts came to know. I respect you as a competitor even if you really aren't in my league.
Though, I'd be stupid to underestimate you. You have an opportunity to sit back in the cell and watch the bloody massacre play out with front row seat tickets. You have the chance to watch and observe and -maybe- even listen if the screams are loud enough. This gives you a chance to formulate a plot of your own well before the chamber door opens up and realizes you into hell the freshest man in and you have John Green to thank for laying down as fast as he did for you.
I won't lie—your late entry into this match leaves questions in my head that have still gone unanswered. I admit that the uncertainty of the equation of Mark Mania has left me in a state of anxiousness I haven't felt in years, but that's exactly what I need. I need to understand just how big of a threat you and everyone else but Young Mannie is to me and my APW world championship. You just like everyone else plays an important piece to me remaining in the APW world title picture and one fucking miscalculation throws the entire thing into squalor—but you are exactly what I need in this match to keep me doing, when I feel like stopping, dropping and rolling onto my back allowing death to take me.
Thank you, Mark Mania.
Perhaps, the rough weeks leading up to this match is nothing more then a segway into what's to come. Or perhaps, it's a sign of something much bigger that lingers beneath the surface of simplicity and obviousness. Sally Talfourd that last magician working her magic over Level-One tag team competition, holding my shoulders against the canvas for three seconds on a Thursday Night. Maybe that's what I needed. A bucket of ice cold water waking me up from my slumber, reminding me that it's not enough to be good nigh in and night out—that only cuts it half of the time. You need to be amazing every fucking night! Quite possibly, Sally Talfourd was just doing her job in this entire thing and that's to keep Level-One humble.
Sally Talfourd despite I was virtually a scapegoat for Biggs less then par performance, I acknowledge that I came up short. You got me, like a cap gun held to a prisoners head—but really, what good has that done you now? If I would have won that tag match—if I would have won that beat the clock challenge—would it really have been to my advantage or that of my undoing? I can't help but feel for a quick second, I was becoming too comfortable. Too confident. Something you can get away with in a singles match with it all on the line but not in a six person elimination chamber where so many undetermined factors rest in construction of the cell itself, never-mind the competitors within it!
I acknowledge that your sitting pretty in this match in more ways then one. I know that you have a silent agreement amongst the others in this match to gang up on me and take me out of this match nice and early, but at the end of the day—how do you plan on holding them to their word? How can be so certain that these men have fallen for you, the evil succubus? More implicitly, fallen for you to the degree that they'd be willing to give up a world title in your honour? Your tits, tongue and flesh wound you call a vagina may have brought up a long way in life, Sally—but it's evident, it will not bring you a world title as long as I live. So, I guess it's real simple. If you DO want to win, kill me.
I'm sure you thought when you beat me in a throw-away tag match that it would rattle me. That you'd get in my head. That'd you'd thwart my plans for world domination in this sport. Well sorry Sally, you've predicted wrong again. You've rattled my cage. You've stuffed your useless mantra down my throat under the guise of food for thought. More importantly, you have given me more motivation to break free and finally release the beast upon you helpless sons of bitches.
I hear your ramblings about how you plan to win this match. Everyone has been talking about winning. Winning this, winning that—winning the APW world title and everything that comes with it. You have it all wrong, idiots. You are confused. Misled. Misinformed. This isn't about winning. This isn't even about proving a point. This is hell. This is place where little girls like you Sally Talfourd, just don't belong. This isn't about the numbers game or the consequences that come with it.
This is about surviving, surviving everything you motherfuckers throw at me until you break yourselves trying to exert the strength, will and heart needed to break me. I survive the elimination chamber, you dont. The rest is real simple. I survive, I win. I win, I keep my championship and the LEGEND...
Survives.
They say one night in hell is a place no man wants to go, but I don't believe that's so. You all may possess traits and abilities that gives you an advantage over me but I have the homefield advantage, so take your filthy shoes off at the door and don't ring the doorbell more then once.
''Welcome home, Lester Only...''
