Post by Level-Two on Nov 11, 2009 21:56:29 GMT -4
''One's'' Inner Demon (2)
Rememberence is the pretext for a modern war
Posion Pen: Your freindly reminder
You people make me sick. Standing atop your ivory tower; firing shots of dirty looks, spit mixed with hatred, so pricisely that every fiber of myself is a made a target to you. You treat me like shit, you laugh at me, you watch me run my circuit routine and you clap when I jump and do that old familar trick you expect from me. That's all I am to you anymore; entertainment.
Nobody cares about what I have to go through nor the struggles I have to go through to get there; because it's become expected of me to do so, regardless. You people pushed me; I reached below my sanity to pick up that bar and you cheered me on when I lifted it over my head. You loved me when I threw it through the arena roof, above the planes, above the sky, into the fucking atomosphere and completed great heights no other man had acomplished before me.
Then something happened. You tossed me another bar; then another, you passed me the weight you couldn't lift on your own shoulders and you expected me to carry it. Suddenly, the atomosphere wasn't good enough. Suddenly, the bars weren't going high enough for you. I bled sweat, I cried blood and I did everything in my power to go higher then the bar I have set myself and I've nearly killed myself doing it...
And what the fuck do I have to show for it now? Where are you people, the same ones who cheered me on when I was on the way up, where have you gone now? Simple. Searching for your next meal ticket, to leech off, to suck on, to kill. All the while running my name through the dirt with the souls of your dirty boot with no remorse. You think I'm just going to take it?
No, I revolt.
I go back to my roots. I rip into myself; and I take every, fucking single quality you EVER claimed made me a bad person and hold it above my head in pride. I take everything, you ever thought that was still pure about me and I intergrate it into the dirty, venom, acid burning part of me and I double dip in it, to make sure I extract every last fiber of evil from my soul.
It's about time I start being myself again. It's about time, I revert back to my upmost sucessful philisophy, that got me where I am today. I've been held back by your chains of morality for too long and it's about time I rip the cuffs and release that old familar part of me. The part that needs to win, needs to strive for the best and accepts nothing less then being the best, at all times.
It's a shame you're going to get the best of me, Mr. Micheal Lively. It's a shame that in the realms of your own ignorance, you've decided to prepare yourself on the basis not of what I am capable of; but what I have displayed to you, the blind.
I beg of you, do not worry, my naive freind. For when you step on that white canvas, trying to prove to the world that you really are the shit, you smell like—I'm going to make a picasso peice out of you. Not with shades of black and gray, however. I am going to wipe away the blindless from your eyes ; you, much like the rest of the world...
And you'll see quite what I am capable of with your new colors of sight. It's a pretty picture; once you see past all the broken bones, crushed dreams, and countless faces that acompanny them.
I promise.
The Daughter
The old legs of the small wooden table served as placement for the countless scrap books and albums that aligned itself ontop. Patricia Lewis didn't have a big house but perhaps the reception differed from the pair of eyes looking at it and what those eyes have seen in the past. For example, you're eyes are blood shot red, observant as ever, and you can't focus on a damn thing because it isn't that street corner you have known for ten years of your life. Or, you could be seeing things through eyes—so wealthy, so used to loosing himself in his own home, that nothing could compare to the size of his castle he's pratically built himself...
Yeah, you see things through my eyes.
A clock hung the back wall which was so big, that it made the rest of the kitchen small. The clock rang, singaling a new hour, while I glossed over various photos, all which had been frozen in time, with a simplistic snap of a camera and the familar white light to acompanny it. Time. That's what the real beauty was in picture. Our life rolls by so quickly with so many bumps and through the puddles of mud—that it's rewarding to stop and cherish a moment that will never leave you.
''It's a shame you don't have any pictures to share, Lester''
Her words sent a chill down my spine. In a sense that feeling was snapshot in itself, it would last as long as I thought about it and would return to me whenever the moment was right. I didn't know what bothered me most, the fact that I lied to Patricia—or the fact that the very few pictures I have are locked away, embedded in an attic somewhere in Canada.
''I wouldn't sweat it too much Patricia, take my word for it, when I say they probably wouldn't be anything special'' I said to Patricia whom held a plastic sheet of old photos in the grips of her angelic hands. She lifted her head to meet with my emotionless eyes. Although, I thought about the old times as horrible as they were, no longer did they affect me—it infact rarely even got me angry anymore.
''What do you mean? I'd love to see your family...'' Patricia Lewis expressed rasing her eyebrow in a showmanship of intrigue. ''Like your brother; he's still around with you, isn't he?''
I drew a deep breath which detailed by undisire to answer her question. Almost shyly, I nodded my head taking a few seconds before I answered her.
''My brother is more complicated that I am and our relationship, is quite possibly the rocket science I'll never managed to figure out'' I said in the process of lowering my head.
''My brother is around physically, but my brother will never be around. Not like he used to be nor was—when he lost his legs, he lost his life''
''You can't die; when your still breathing, Lester'' Patricia countered swifly, as she pushed the photo album across the table, aligning it with my chest. These photos were familar; in fact, we had just went through them together for the past hour...
''This is your father; what exactly is your point?''
Patricia took a deep breath letting out a long sigh. I could feel the air from her mouth as she exhaled and finally occured to me that she had moved in closer; perhaps such movement was so natrual between us two, it took me time to notice. She pointed down at the photo of her father; he was mid-aged, built, and had a smile that had been passed down to his daughter which she suported with great justice and said:
''It is my father Lester... it's my father before he did two tours in IRAQ'' I looked up at her, as she nodded her head and stood up from the chair she had sat in. ''I'd appreciate it if you took some time to go out and speak to him sometime; I know he has some pretty cool freinds in a Veteran's home nearby...''
''Seriously?'' I asked us both out loud, not sure about the entire thing. I was the fense; I really was, but that she leant over...
and smiled.
''Yeah, serious...''
We are all soldiers in war...
Today, was special day, especially for a proud American like Patricia Lewis. I on the other hand, try as hard as I possible can to forget this day, nearly every year. I respected the men who were willing to fight to death to defend their country in high honor; but the motivations behind these wars made me sick to my stomach.
Sgt. Swanson and Capt. Barson knew a fair share about war; so much that it would make a barbed wire roped match, fillled with C4 explosives, look like childs play. These men delt the real deal and what I had done in the ring, was nothing to the evil they ecountered on the battle feilds. Missing limbs, stepping over dead bodies, losing close freinds to road side bombs that killls anything that comes in contact with—this is what these men encountered every day of their lifes, for years on end.
''So son, what is it you doin' for a livin'?'' Sgt. Swanson asked me, as we sat together in a fairly crowded room. I shrugged my shoulders and bowed my head almost as if I had been embarassed; in some social areas of Soceity, being a blood lusting, fire spitting, ass kicking freak—for the sole purpose of entertainment was seen as barbaric, and quite possibly a step above prostitution.
''I'm a professional wrestler'' I said as Capt. Barson nodded his head in awknowledgement.
''You must be somethin' big then'' the old captain says, seemingly impressed. ''You know, wrasslin' is lot like the battlefield, you know?'' he said to Sgt. Swanon's dissagreement.
''They ain't nothing alike, Barson. You should know that after all we've been through on the force; ain't nothing can compare to steppin' on that battlefield'' Sgt. Swanons assured me with a light tap on my shoulder with his fragile hand. ''I bet you have never seen the blood and guts I have''
''Typical of Swanson'' Capt. Barson whispered leaning towards my shoulder. ''He ain't got the type of philisophy of looking at things like I do''
''You mouthing off about that Philisophy talk, ain't ya Barson!?'' Sgt. Swanson countered, knowing his longtime freind better then anyone else. Barson, the younger of the two, didn't pay him too much attention.
''I ain't the biggest wrasslin' fan around but I know it's the closest thing to stepping into the middle of a war, on battlefield''
''Really?'' I asked to which he nodded his head up and down matter of factly ensuring me that he knew what he was talking about. He fixed the glasses on his face and leaned forward before resuming forward with his point.
''Think bout' it. Your in the ring, and it's just you and the other guy on the other side. You don't know him at first, you don't know where he comes from, you don't know his family, you don't know what exactly he's fighting for or what he's willing to do to win—all because you have one thing in mind. You gotta win. In your own mind and heart, you gotta win''
Sgt. Swason paid no attention to the either of us, as he sat quietly in his chair staring blankly, right infront of him, with no emotion written on his face. I tilted my head towards the former Captain who calmly waited for my response.
''Yeah, but in wars; you can never win'' I added. This struck a nerve in Swanson; with twich in face, but for whatever reason the old man kept his rebuttle within himself. Years ago, Sgt. Swanson would've never been able to keep his cool, he was a self proclaimed hot head in the stories he told—but the old age took that part right out of him, and perhaps made him all the wiser.
''...and are you really thinkin' you truly win inside that ring, either?'' Capt. Barson retorted letting out an old gentle laugh. ''You wrasslers are too full of yourselfs to admit anyone else got the better of you. You take your victories, no matter how small they be—you ain't never truly won a match in your life when the other guy is refusin' to be beat''
''I guess losing comes in the form of our own minds, huh?'' I inquired; even if I truly didn't believe it. I shook my head free and quickly, changed the subject.
''Hey, Captain'' I said, as the old man raised his head slowly, like a turle coming out of his shell. ''You never did finish off that story, about the boy with the box...''
--
A slut named America
She's a pretty a lady on the outside; her image is that of a slinder one. The look in her eyes, drives you across the border in hopes that you'll fufill your own dreams of getting under her high-end clothes, she loves to wear. She talks real lovely, each word is potent, her presentation would appeal to nearly any man or women's pallet. This women has name; her name America.
On the inside however; it is all very different. America has eyes, only for the wealthy and powerfull—her lips of lust belongs to the men that stand above her. She works for these men, a high end prostitue
you could even call her; but yet, she still manages to be the pimp for you. She works for her special intrest, she lures you in with countless lies and tales of deceit; they make you happy, and they make you smile.
America loves her wars. She tells you that you are noble man and that you mean everything to her fighting for her saftey. You put your suit and you grab your sword and you fight for her willingly, with your heart held hostage, you've been led to believe your fighting for the right thing. You don't know your enemies nor do you understand why they have been chosen to be your target; and if you do, it's because America has sold you on her lies.
You do her dirty work, and America comes in to profit from it's resources. As far as you know, America loves everybody, and is all about acheiving world peace—and your service to her, hits a soft spot in her chest; she pretends that she loves you for it. All the while, surrounding herself with police, guns, to intemediate you, just incase you decide to get out of line...
I hate this bitch named, America.
Yet, I much like these soldiers put my life on the line—so men in big black suites and profit from my slow death; I preform like a circus monkey, which in part, keeps the masses distracted while genocide is celeberated. I do my part, to stay out of America's way, for her womenly scorn, could very well result in me dead, mysteriously overdosing on pain killers and steroids with two prostitues laid out beside me each with bullet in the back of their heads.
As much as I like the flaunt my world titles, my sucess, and my glory? I'm well aware of the evils that surround me. Apart of me knows the way I can survive America's wrath for blood lust in return for profits—is if I am just as fucked up, and as twisted as the rest of them. And so to keep me distracted, I close my eyes, walk down that curtain, and play in my own little world—a world in which men like Micheal Lively, simply aren't of any importance.
Today, is rememberence day, and don't you ever forget her name; because I know, you'll never forget mine.
Signed,
Level-One.
--
Where poppies no longer grow
A hospital room is quite possibly the most depressing place on earth; especially, with a life dependant on a machine. Perhaps, being hooked up to a machine is good thing, for a circuit board has not a mind of it's own and cannot feel the desire to kill. The man lied in the hospital with his eyes shut closed—it's been a while since he opened them.
''The last thing he saw was brightlight, he didn't hear the explosion'' The docotor said to Patrica Lewis, who stood next to me.
This was her father; and he was in coma. Unresponsive to the voices and faces watching above him, every so often. The constant beeping, can be heard twenty four hours straight, if you sat around long enough to listen to it.
''I'm sorry about this'' I said to Patricia Lewis whom nodded her head and looked up to me.
''Nothing to be sorry about—he's in this position because he did something he believed was right'' Patricia Lewis said looking at her father, standing at the end of his bed. ''I mean, I can't imagine you wanting to die anywhere else, besides the middle of the ring, am I not correct?''
I looked at her and then back at her father.
''Sounds about right'' I confessed.
''He's been like this for awhile; it's almost been a year, and he's still asleep. It's no surprise to me that he's fought it so long'' Patricia Lewis said with a smile crossing her face. The strength she got was passed down to her by her father. She was young, smart, and liberated in her own right—I just wish the America she looked up to had been prettier then, her.
''They thought about pulling the plug on him a few weeks ago, but I didn't agree with it'' Patricia Lewis said, putting her hand on her fathers leg. ''I always get the feeling that he'll wake up, and be with us again'' She added, this time turning towards me. Her eyes plead the case for her words that follow...
''It's why, you need to smooth things over with your family again. You still have them, Lester'' She said sending me into an immediate frenzy of deniel. I lifted my head and looked right into her eyes and told her...
''I never had any family''
Patricia looked away from me, as I slid my hands in my pocket and slowy turned back to her father. I watched him lie on the bed; if she hadn't told me he was in a coma, I would've thought he was dead. I took a deep sigh and lifted my head...
''I talked to a few pair of veterans today...'' I started off grabbing the attention of Patricia Lewis as she put her hand on my shoulder, to which I smiled too. ''They told me a story of a little boy, in a hospital bed, he had no legs''
''That's horrible''Patricia whined.
''The first time they met the boy, he had one leg. The boy gave them a wooden box; and when they opened it, it was empty. So they handed the wooden box back to the little boy, and he and his make shift crutch, made his way back home''
''Why are you telling me this?'' Patricia inquires, leaning into my chest.
''They saw the little boy again. This time, he was in a cheap wheel chair; with no legs. The little boy brought the wooden box back to the same pair of soldiers and handed it back to them. This time when they opened the box, a discarded peice of a landmine had been found inside. They looked at the boy, who smiled back at them''
''What happened after?'' Patricia asked this time, leaning away from me.
''I don't know; he never finished the story, but I have a feeling, the boy never had to travel across that feild, again''
It's a shame, isn't it? After all that hype, after all the shit talk from the filthy mouth of Pence Weatherlight, only for him to fall in a pit of his own failure again—I'm sure it pains you, as much as it does me. Apart of me wanted Pence Weatherlight to prevail; for the sake of his own credbility, taking home the world heavyweight championship was vital. Yet, another part of me, told me to stand up, raise my middle finger in revolt and remind him that I am not giving this title away to nobody, and that this time, he's out of luck.
I'm done with the handouts. I'm done with wrestling week to week with no long term goal set in mind. I know exactly, what I want out of the APW and I'm going to do everything in my power to receive it. It starts this week, in the form of Micheal Lively, who kick started my leap to the top. However, I show no gratitude for it—he just happened to be in the right place at the right time. He wasn't a step stone or anything that could push me forward in this business; he just held something, I never had the chance to get.
As for Micheal Lively, I figured I'd kick start this man to man dicsussion with a little show of gratitude. I mean, this is the same guy, who took a shit, piss, and spit all over the world title I hold today, and ran APW through the mud in a hissyfit. And now, he's a contracted superstar once again! It seems, President Jeff was tired of dipping into Mc Donalds applications, trying to build a roster off ''fuck-alls'' who couldn't flip a burger, nevermind win a fucking match—and crawled back to Micheal Lively.
Sure, Micheal Lively had to work to get his spot back on this roster, but honestly, beating President Jeff in a wrestling match, is like racing kids in wheel chairs on foot. He hasn't won a match in who knows how long, and is better off sitting behind his desk tossing nobodies infront of me for disposal on a weekly basis. It's what he does best. So as far as I'm concerned, Mr. Lively, you don't deserve a single thing you've gotten around here, nevermind a match with me.
What have you done since then anways? You made BDC your bitch and walked his ass around the arena with a dog leash? Very impressive. If only BDC wasn't like two years past his prime and didn't list a retirement home as his place of residence when signing up here, maybe people would've actually taken your preformance seriously. So in a few months, you've went to beating crippled kids in wheel chairs in foot races—to out lasting old men in a wrestling match. Where the fuck have I been?
Shit, the only reason this match has picked up any traction is for two reasons. The first; I'm in it. You could virtually sell anything with my name on it. I'm global. You say APW? They say, Level-One wrestles there, right? You say Micheal Lively? Nobody replies. Whatever your selling, Lively—nobodies fucking buying it on a large scale. Second of all; the APW fans are well aware that I've stomped your face through the back of your head and they can't wait to see me do it again. They need something to cheer, now that Pence Weatherlight has been proven to be a choke artist and a loud mouthed, fraud.
See, Lively. You might be able the incite the crowd and get them all fired up, spewing their hatred with your childish antics better then anyone; but clearly, it hasn't gotten you very far now, has it? Every damn night, I show you how it's done. Unlike you, I don't need to hurl insults at the crowd or act flamboyant to sell some fake ass, merchandise pulling image. People see me, my title, my long list of acomplishments; and they hate me because of it.
You would think a bunch of failures would envy success; but unfortunately that isn't how the world works and you display swimingly well. Face it, Lively. You can't fucking stand me; I make the acid in your stomach boil to that cold heart of yours. You hate me because everything I have said has been right, everything I've said has come true, and you can't stand that.
See, if we were to take YOUR words seriously, that old shitty promotion would still be around! With shoddy pyro, with clusterfuck main-events, headed by a douchebag, whom would pimp out his own wife if it meant receiving a title shot, anywhere; decided to become President Jeff Jr! The motherfucker was running a promotion out of his backyard for godsakes; and you didn't think twice before turning your back on the one company that had made you who you are.
Now besides that fact you're already half put together, a sloppy peice of work who would've never became world champion, if I arrived a few months earlier—you still managed to be something. You took all that and you shat on it, Lively. You took a shit on it literly. Don't you realize, everything you've ever done has been summed up in that ONE defining moment?
If you had one iota of morality, you would never try to touch this belt with a ten foot pole. However it is quite clear, that you have no morality. You have no second thought. There is no voice in your head, that doubts the decisions you make. I know you'll be back again. Crawling, into the APW wasn't enough for you. You want what you felt was yours back; you have something prove and I understand that.
However, I'm going to do everything in my power to ensure that the same mistake doesn't happen twice, Lively. While everyone is trying to make this match out like it's a grudge match; I'm telling you exactly what this is about and where I stand. It comes down to preserving the most prestigious symbol in this business; and do this simply by beating you, furthermore proving you aren't worth receiving a title shot. In addition to this; reminding you about the cold hard fact that I am better then you and will always be better then you, as long as you make the ill-advised decision to step in the APW ring, a ring in which you clearly don't respect by the manner you walk around in it.
I mean seriously, you call yourself Jesus? There is no god. And if there was, he certainly wouldn't be as weak as you. You can't walk on water, fuck the most impressive thing you have done, is create a GOD-COMPLEX from a pile of your own shit held together by the string that sows your ignorance together. Each door to this complex is unlocked; with nothing inside. No meaning, no insight, just bold claims, a fancy catch phrases—that aren't a reality to what you are, but what you prayed you were.
The difference between me, you, and every hopefull on this goddamn roster, I've probably beaten more then twice is this; Facts follow my statements. When I tell you, I've been all around the world, and I've faced the best this sport has to offer—I have it all on tape, the world has seen it, it's all documented. When peices of shit like you, Mr. Lively, proclaim themselves as god—more often then not, you have a loss in your column and it comes from me.
However, the claim of you being, JESUS is quite cute and irony can't help but put a smile on this devils face. JESUS never existed; just like Micheal Lively, doesn't exist. You may exist in skin and bones, but the image you proclaim is all farce; it's all fairy tale. Let's get real, Lively. We're grown up's now. You maybe able to fool Jesse Nunez's impressionable fan base into believing that shit, but not me.
The best thing you every could've done; for the sake of your own credibility, was to take the hike the rest of your hooded clan took, straight out of the APW. The stinch has gone since Kenny Lambardo decided to fuck off who knows where; and I see no purpose for it to linger around with presence of yourself.
Regardless, the APW has yet still managed to propser under the circumstances of your dissapointing return. Shit, I really don't even notice you when you aren't hanging around in the main-event with me, it's quite pleasant. Quite frankly, the only way I and you can co-exist is if after this Monday, you crawl to President Jeff and you offer him the same blow and hand job package, that got your ass back into the APW in the first place; under the pretext that he NEVER books you in another match with me again.
Stupid cunt. I can hear you now; ''what about a tag team match?'' fuck tag teams and fuck you. Under no circumstance are you safe anywhere in my ring. Up until now, I barely remembered you still existed. Even now, I haven't kept up with the load of shit you've been talking—Pence Weatherlights voice has been louder, nevermind repeating the same shit three times over over the past several months!
So let me tell you this, Mr. Lively. You have TWO fucking valiable choices concerning your career within the APW. You can continue to preform here with your typical comedy schtick that coudln't get a laugh out of me, if your punchlines tickled my nut sack. In addition to not even rubbing the top of your skull with the glass ceiling, I've set around here. OR you can take option number two; get the fuck out and accept the fact that as long as I am here, you'll never be shit.
You need somewhere to go, you need somewhere to run? I hear, the EWC is hiring again. I have a few connections that would by-pass your mouth a few cold soars in the process. Just make sure you say hi to the familar faces for me; it's been a while since my fist has packed their faces in and apart almost misses it.
Either way, I'm looking to hurt you for your own good. This isn't a match for the ages, this isn't a match to remember; this is a fucking slaughter house and you've been tossed infront of the blade I proudly, weild. Don't you worry...
I'm going to gut you, your tears will wash the blood off my hands, and I'm going to leave you on the back of the mat much longer then three seconds, kid. This isn't a fucking game, this isn't something you can control, nor beat.
I'm Level-One; I above you, and you get NO further then me.
