Post by Slade "The Main Man" Craven on Nov 24, 2012 23:41:34 GMT -4
[glow=darkgreen,9,200]THEN...[/glow]
Hank the orderly is leading a bruised and straight jacketed Slade Craven down a hallway. Blood is trickling from the corner of Slade’s mouth. Nevertheless, Craven is smiling. Hank is not. They march on with Hank wielding his nightstick, but British pussies would call it a “baton.” American’s know batons are for cheerleaders. Slade smirks as they stop in front of a heavy door. Hank pushes Slade against the wall and then opens the door. He whispers in Slade’s ear (not in the erotic way).
“You think you’re getting out of here Craven?” “You’re never leaving.”
Slade just chuckles as he looks back out of the corner of his eye. “We’ll see.”
Hank grabs Slade and slings him before the opening and then kicks Craven inside.
[glow=darkgreen,9,200]NOW...[/glow]
Several days have passed as Slade sits in his padded cell. He lies on the floor, feet kicked up along the wall staring at the ceiling. No one has removed him from his straight jacket. There are still a few drops of blood on it from the assault. Nothing was said about his attack. Craven has kept quiet. He knows ratting on Hank won’t do a damn thing, the man has worked at this place for years and he wasn’t lying when he told Slade that HE ran the asylum. Most everyone was afraid of Hank. Ironically, the man with the last name that means “coward” was the one man who wasn’t one. Slade stares up at the ceiling humming the Merry Unbirthday song over and over again, thinking about his match coming up tomorrow night. Suddenly the sound of sliding metal breaks his concentration.
“Slade?” Doctor Rosenstein’s voices calls through the little window in the door.
“What’s up Doc?”
“How are we feeling today?”
“There 1,728 pads on my walls and ceiling, and 1,452 little padded buttons at the center of each four corner connection. I’ve counted them six times this week. I haven’t named them yet though.”
Rosenstein shuts the window with a loud clank. Outside stands an APW official with Chief Orderly Hank.
“I told you the man was nuts.”
“That’s enough Hank.” Rosenstein chides him.
“Is Slade competent to compete, Doctor?” The APW official asks.
“I honestly don’t know.” Rosenstein shakes his head. “We will have to bring him in for an evaluation. Hank, can you bring Slade up to my office?”
“Doctor,” Hank starts, “I don’t think that is such a good idea. You know what happened last time he was let out of his room.”
“He’s been in there ALL WEEK?” The APW official realizes, he's taken aback. “What is the meaning of this? Rosenstein...?!”
“Calm down Mr. Markwell.” The shrink puts up his hands to halt him. “I know you read last week’s incident report, we have restricted him to his room because, even restrained, Slade has proven to be very resourceful and highly dangerous.”
“But he didn’t really hurt anyone.”
“Yes, the guards were alright but the chief orderly stated that Slade became very hostile before being confined to his room, attempted to attack him and flee. You never know what a caged animal may do.”
“Slade Craven is not an animal.” Markwell states.
“I disagree” Hank turns his head and shows a bruise, one he couldn’t have gotten from Slade.
“How have you been feeding him?”
“Every day, three times.” Rosenstein assures. “He eats with his feet.”
Markwell looks dumbfounded.
“Like I said he is very resourceful.”
“He has a match tomorrow night. He needs to be on a plane in four hours.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. Markwell. However, it is my assessment that Craven is not competent enough to compete and would be a danger to not only himself but his opponent, Keaton Saint.”
“Reginald Schmidt is not going to accept that without a proper psyche review.” Markwell insists.
Rosenstein sighs and nods.
“Alright,” he concedes. “Hank, move him to my office.”
Twenty minutes later
“Patient 74021, Session fourteen: subject Slade Craven. Psychological review to determine mental competency.”
Rosenstein and Slade Craven are sitting in the office. Well, Slade isn’t sitting; he is strapped to a dolly just like Hannibal Lecter, face mask and all. Chief Orderly Hank stands by the door, arms folded across his chest. Behind the two-way glass stands Mr. Markwell, watching on with several interns who are studying psychology at the local university. Markwell watches carefully, looking for hope that Slade may be able to perform tomorrow night. Inside the office, Rosenstein speaks into his tape recorder.
“Slade,” he begins. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Well, 36 years and eleven months ago my parents hooked up, then my father made a rather personal deposit that led to a sperm fertilizing an egg in my mother’s uterus, which inevitably grew into a fetus that later emerged from the womb and grew into the person bound before you, but something tells me that’s not what you were asking. So DOCTOR, (Slade's tone becomes very sarcastic) next time you ask a question make sure you specify so I can answer it properly; lest you write down that I am insane for answering a generalization to the best of my ability.”
Rosenstein is not pleased.
“Fine,” he says very matter-a-factly, “Slade, do you know why you have been institutionalized?”
“Passive voice, a very indirect way of asking a question, Doc. Yes I know why you people institutionalized me. In the past ninety days I’ve entered and exited two comas, I’m suspected of major damage to my hippocampus and they also believe my adrenal responses are through the roof; not to mention the whole speaking in third person aspect. So yes, I know why I am locked up.”
The doctor sighs.
“If you were to compete tomorrow night, do you feel you would perform professionally or would your rage and instability take control?”
“How could instability take control doctor? Did I appear unstable during the ladder match?”
“You landed on a patron, hospitalizing him.”
“Wasn’t my fault.”
“You didn’t have to climb that ladder.”
“I was trying to win my match.”
“Your frustrations are apparent, Slade.” Rosenstein comments. “Your futile attempts to re-harness your career are numerous. Don’t you suspect it would be better if you just retired gracefully?”
“Gracefully?” Slade scoffs. “With the record I’ve had? How is that graceful? You sure you shouldn’t be the one locked up?”
Rosenstein rubs his temples. Slade’s change in attitude, when knowingly in front of an APW official, makes it hard to deem him crazy.
“Slade, do you want to talk about last week’s incident?”
“Sure, I celebrated my Unbirthday, nothing wrong with that.”
“You assaulted two guards.”
“That tried to poop on my party. We weren’t causing any problems, then they said we were getting rowdy and tried to break it up. I apologized to them but you haven’t mentioned that have you?”
Rosenstein starts to speak but Slade interrupts him.
“You know Doc, you lock me up in here with your incompetent interns, dumbass doctors, naughty nurses and sadistic staff (Hank’s eye twitches in anger at the mention) and you expect results. You know what I think? I think you want to keep me here. You don’t think anyone here is sane and you want to keep us under the thumb of Nurse Ratchett back there...”
Hank holds his anger.
“...all thinking you’re making the world a safer place. I tell you, if those people at APW knew what was going on here, they’d shut you down. If the humane society knew what was going on, they’d arrest you.”
Behind the glass Markwell looks concerned; he has not heard any of this before. The interns assure him that it’s just crazy talk and that they are all good people here (yeah right).
“Slade, why haven’t you mentioned these issues before?”
“Because there wasn’t an outsider,” He cocks his restrained head toward the painting that is really the two-way glass. “Here to hear it.”
“Slade,” Rosenstein recovers and reassures, “there is nothing malicious going on here. You’re just projecting your own issues into the real world because you cannot deal with them in your mind. You know that we work hard here to help people. You really do need help.”
“You think so? Why don’t you let me out then and we’ll see how crazy I really am?”
Rosenstein doesn’t speak for a moment. Behind the glass, Mr. Markwell taps his fingers awaiting an answer.
“So what’s it going to be, Doc?”
What is the definition of insanity? Repeating the same action multiple times and expecting a different result. Every time “The Main Man” has stepped into the ring and Keaton Saint has been an opponent, regardless if it was one on one, tag match or a scramble, Slade Craven has not succeeded. Then again, most every match “The Main Man” has taken part in during the past what, six months, he has not succeeded. Many people out there use this to call me crazy; I am also one of them.
But that’s what makes this job so much fun, being the crazy one. It means I have an excuse. I can look at ALL my past failures and just simply state: “Didn’t happen.” A lot of people think that losing one’s mind is a bad thing. Why? You can’t get yelled at for being crazy. It’s not my fault I took one too many finishers, chair shots and launching myself off ladders only for it to end...well painfully.
And pain is a great motivator, second only to poverty. I don’t want to get hurt again, so I’m going to do what it takes to avoid and overcome. And that’s what makes “going off your rocker” a benefit; because no one knows what I’ll do next.
But fighting Keaton Saint is hard. Not because the man can wrestle, he wrestles like a Brit, I mean bitch. But because you never know what he is going to do next. Perhaps they should lock him up too. He has a problem. The man thinks himself a Saint. Saints have to work miracles, three of them actually, before they attain that status and if my history lessons are correct, Keaton Saint hasn’t performed ONE.
So why should I respect you Keaton Saint? Why should I value a single word that comes out of your “self-righteous” mouth? I don’t.
Fighting Keaton is a problem because he always plays that “cool” card, that calm and collected card when deep down he knows he’s lost his mind too, just like he did his career. He can sit there and rationalize it and evaluate his options all he chooses but in the end he knows he has to unleash his full potential to succeed. Me, every time I try, it seems to blow up in my face.
And that’s not fun for Slade Craven. That’s not fun for the fans either. It sure wasn’t fun for the poor bastard I landed on two weeks ago. I hope he got my "Get Well Soon" card. I would have signed it but they won’t allow me anything sharp to write with.
They tell me I have to channel my anger, focus my attention and find other ways to solve my problems than “go for the ladder.” But ladders are fun! Still they told me to focus, so I am. I’m focusing on Keaton Saint. The 'Paragon' needs a proper lesson in professional wrestling. He needs to learn what it means to tap out. That feeling of pain just before the tendons and bone snap under the pressure. Keaton Saint can say he doesn’t know the meaning of "it" all he wants; but truth be told, everyone taps out at some point in their career. Tonight I plan to pop Keaton’s cherry.
And if he still refuses to believe in it, lock him up here with me. Maybe we could share a cell. They will be doubling up at the rate this world is losing its mind.
I can sit here all night and talk trash about how Keaton Saint looks like crap and talks with a funny accent, but that’s not what’s important. No what’s important is we close the book on Slade Craven versus Keaton Saint and open the door for Slade Craven heading toward Christmas Chaos.
Because I haven’t earned a single title shot since coming back. I want to earn something. I need to earn something. Give my life new purpose. That’s what the doctors say will help my recovery here. “Give your life meaning, Slade. Find what your heart desires and go for it.” So earning a title shot would give my life meaning but that isn’t enough for me.
I like belts, I like achievements but it’s not enough. No, enough comes from silencing someone who doesn’t shut up. I’m not talking about myself here. No, it won’t be enough until I take Keaton Saint and tear him a cosmos of new ones and teach him his place in this world. Don’t worry I’m not being egotistical here. I know that I am just a man, but I AM “The Main Man.”
And “The Main Man” has been walked on and kicked aside for far too long. It pains me to see the CraveNation in such disarray. The fans are wondering if Slade Craven has anything left in the gas tank. Don’t worry kids, I ate a lot of eggs and onions today. Slade Craven has plenty of gas in the tank.
It’s also an excellent battle strategy. Seriously, Keaton Saint locks me into an uncomfortable position. He applies pressure at an odd angle, wrenches in the hold and then...
MMMRPPPHH!
Gas bomb. Chemical warfare, make him let me go. Trust me I’ve pissed off entire planes before when I cut one 3 miles high without a great ventilation system. I can clear the ring with no trouble. Though tt’s the front few rows I’m worried about. It may get a little ‘eggy’ folks, I’m sorry. Keaton Saint, I’m not sorry. I hope you’re breathing hard, take a deep breath and taste the eggs tonight. Then when the match is over you can compare that to the taste of your inevitable failure. I bet they’re pretty similar.
So what was I talking about before I rambled on there? Oh yeah kicking Keaton Saint’s ass. Yes that would be fun. Is it crazy for me to think that after all these losses, all these failures I can FINALLY succeed? Not at all, Nick Watson did it.
So tonight, I think it’s time for Slade Craven to do something insane. Let’s go crazy folks, it IS Asylum after all. The fans paid good money to watch a red blooded American kicked the living crap out of some British pansy who sits around sipping coffee worrying about his past when he should be focused on what’s in front of him, me.
Tonight Slade Craven is here and he came to party!
