''One's'' Slaughter house

[Level-Two]

‘’One’s’’ Slaughter house (Insert Michael Lively)

A page out of one’s journal.

Look at you. Look at me. Look around you fools! We are human, we bleed, we sweat, and we die all the same, no immunity. We may look at things different, but we all are looking at the exact same thing. We may string together different sentences, but we all are talking only to prove a point. We have opinions; and there assholes. The only thing different, is some are shittier than others. We are all human; we are one in the same.

There’s only one thing that has ever made us different. It isn’t the color of our skin, religion, or even our dicks below our belts. It’s personality. It what we are defined by; we are all clones of humanity, our personality is what sets us apart. Originality, keeps us all sane. Now who wants to try to take that from US?

I stand with a clenched iron fist; before I ever give into this machine you’ve people have become apart of. There isn’t a single person like me alive on this earth. They can mimic me, they can act like me, but they will never be me. And with that, I leave half of an entire human race disappointed.

You see though, many people have taken the way of this machine. They dress like the machine, talk like the machine, they begin to even think like the machine. A machine which was programmed by the greatest evils around. Politicians, clothing companies, and wrestling promotions have all created this machine to keep you blinded from the harsh reality. Please, bare with me. For I have the slight of hand that removes the curtain from your eyes.

I’ve observed a perfect example, a man with a brain of a circuit board, programmed with the machine’s ignorance which he has taken it upon himself to claim as his own. He speaks like the machine; telling me the way I act, the person I am, is only inferior to the machine. In the background, thousands of voices agree with him—and hundreds of arms reach out to pull me into the box with them. And no matter how hard they tug?

…they’ve failed.

---

2’oclock. I’ve been sitting here for an hour now, every so often I stared upwards to the clock, wondering when I’d finally be called in. I wasn’t used to waiting, on the road everything moves in fast forward. So quick infact, the option of rewinding it and slowing the world down is impossible.

Last night, I had received an urgent call from APW offices. A man with a rugged voice warned me that this meeting was very important, and that I didn’t have much choice but to attend.

However, I knew the last time I was called out of town to appear at a corporation’s headquarters was with the EWC. There, I was approached and assigned a manager to look over me; the EWC made that monster. I only helped breed, Mr. Mc Phee. How much do I regret that?

The physiology behind the whole theory is mind boggling. The truth is all we are to these corporations is stock. Bad stock and good stock. If I was running around acting reckless with no supervision, and was so happened to be injured during the course of it all—I’d become bad stock.

No longer could I put money in the promoter’s pockets, no longer could I bring them ratings, no longer could I provide them with entertainment. I glanced up at the APW banner placed inside the buildings, before shaking my head. There isn’t anyone around here that gives a shit about me, or you for that matter. Anything good for you? Well, it makes them money.

I knew this. I was the type of guy to go against the grain. I was the type of guy, who would taunt, and laugh at bosses; just daring them to fire me, because I knew just how much I was worth to them. I can’t tell you how many times I thought of not showing up, failing to sit here and rot for an hour, hoping that someone would call my name and get this entire thing over with. It’s clear, I flirt with trouble.

‘’Level-One? Mr. Osborne is ready to see you’’ A voice shot out across from me, as the guy waltzed passed me, pointing towards the door in which emerged from. With a slight nod, I rose from my seated position and headed towards the entrance of the door. The situation got my blood pumping, my heart racing towards no direction…

‘’Hey, there’’ A feminine voice shouted out, taking me out of surprise. I looked up as a man sat on the edge of his desk, his hands folded in his lap. His hair slicked back, with pink highlights in the mix. He wore glasses, and a pink polo vest. ‘’How are you doin’? Take a seat, sweetie’’ Mr. Osborne stated with excitement shooting through his voice.

‘’I may just stand’’ I shot back firmly, trying to disappoint his gaydar. I was almost sure he was going to ask me on a date after this was all said and done. ‘’Not to be rude, by why the hell am I here?’’

Mr. Osborne’s eye brows rose over the tip of his glasses, before conjuring up a smile that would turn any normal person’s stomach over. ‘’Well, the APW has called upon me to help you out’’ Mr. Osborne claimed with excitement. ‘’I’m going to help you, Level-One, re-invent yourself! Now let’s get to work!’’ Mr. Osborne stated, before pushing himself off his desk quickly slipping behind it.

I looked on perplexed. ‘’Wait a second. Re-invent myself? Why the hell do I need to be reinvented?’’ I asked, as Mr. Osborne began to sort through a dour on his desk.

‘’Don’t be silly, level. The fans, they aren’t getting you. Your fellow rostermates, they think your overrated sweetheart. You stick out like a soar thumb’’ I shook my head in disbelief; maybe taking a seat wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

‘’I’m sorry, but I don’t think I need to change anything about me. I’m a former world champion, the true expert, and the best god damn wrestler in the world. What more do I have to prove?’’ I asked, as Mr. Osborne pulled out a stack of folders. He held out his hands in-front of them. Amongst them they had their own profiles. Fyre Angel, Sabur, Twister, Dr. Matt. My eyes traveled over them in confusion.

‘’This right here sweetie, this is what you need to be’’ Mr. Osborne said, before reaching over and picking up yet another folder, before tossing it at me. ‘’Take a look at the Jesus...’’

I glanced down at it. On the front was picture of Michael Lively, and his mother. ‘’Do I have one of these?’’ I asked, in which Mr. Osborne nodded his head emphatically.

‘’That’s the problem sweetie, nobody knows what you are. Bad guy, good guy. Gimmick, no gimmick?’’ I looked up at him, before shaking my head tossing Michael Lively’s profile back at him.

‘’There is no way I’m listening to…’’

Mr. Osborne shook his head in protest, placing his hand in the air likes the flamboyant gay he was. ‘’The truth is, Level. You aren’t what these guys are. I mean, your talented don’t get me wrong. But you aren’t relevant enough. I know in each one of your promotions, a morale story is tied into it—and it does serve some meaning, but it isn’t direct enough. It isn’t…simplistic enough. That’s what these fans need’’

I bit my tongue. And simply shook my head, before leaning into my chair. ‘’My life wasn’t supposed to be aired to the masses; the camera’s present was all part of the promotions deals. Why can’t they shut of the camera, and leave me alone if that’s the case?’’ Mr. Osborne sighed.

‘’Well…the APW can’t do that. All I’m saying is that you tone everything down. Forget about your ex-girlfriend; forget about all your drama. Leave your life alone for months at least. I need you to be in the GYM working out, backstage watching a match. I need you in the ring, shooting promos. Do you have a gimmick? Why don’t we give you a gimmick? You know, like the real wrestlers.’’

‘’You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’’ I shot back, throwing my feet up on his desk. Just as quickly, he reached over and pushed them off.

‘’This isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you. Sabur, he likes cows. That’s his gimmick. Dr. Matt? He’s a doctor, how about another gimmick. Michael Lively? He portrays Jesus’’

‘’That has chosen to take a path of a wrestler?’’ I interjected

‘’Precisely’’ Mr. Osborne retorted. ‘’I have a list of every gimmick in the book. All, we need to do is go over them and choose one’’

‘’Why can’t I be myself?’’ I pondered. In which Mr. Osborne simply shrugged his shoulders.

‘’Because that’s too boring. That’s not what people want to see. Gimmicks sell. Ring promos, sell. Nobody wants this new school stuff, we goin’ back to the basics honey’’

‘’Basics?’’

Mr. Osborne didn’t seem to hear me, as he continued on. He was way too into himself. ‘’A few on this list, just off the top of my head. Wife beater, porn-star, druggy…hardcore king, hardcore queen, anything hardcore including extremely extreme hardcore…’’

‘’Too much hardcore’’

‘’…How about Extreme Superstar ?’’

‘’Pathetic’’

‘’How about X-Treme Superstar?’’

‘’I said pathetic…’’

Mr. Osborne looked at me fairly agitated as he flipped the page, and then continued on once again. ‘’…How about Mankind?’’

I looked on in dismay. ‘’This is fucking unbelievable. Look, I’m not taking upon any of your recommendations, so you can put those little folders back into your desk, and allow me to get the fuck out of here’’

Mr. Osborne cried out, before throwing his head into his hands. ‘’Oh, no! I’ve failed, now I’ll never get a job’’ I watched on in disbelief; just waiting for that Ashton Kutcher douche bag to appear so I could stomp his face in. This was too much to believe. ‘’…Can you do me one favor, please! It’s my only shot’’

I sighed, before leaning over. ‘’I’m willing to hear you out…’’

‘’As part of this meeting agreement with the APW; I had booked you for a house show tomorrow night; please show up, and shoot your in-ring promo. I figured given all my persuasion, you’d jump up at the chance to re invent yourself’’

‘’Why exactly is that?’’ I questioned, Mr. Osborne who removed his hand from his face. Pointing to the stack of papers.

‘’All these guys did…’’ Mr. Osborne exclaimed, before wiping away a few tears. ‘’Oh, my. I’m going to lose my job’’

‘’I’m a decent guy; I’ll throw in a few words for you. And…I’ll do the house show for you. That’s it though’’ I said sitting up at of my chair. Mr. Osborne sobbed, removing his glasses from his face; he was pretty bent out by the entire situation.

‘’Thank you so much, dear’’ Mr. Osborne said standing up reaching over to shake my hand, with a measure of hesitation I shook it. Before I walked out the door, Mr. Osborne pondered one the last question…’’…Is this going to be part of your promo next week?’’

I turned back, and shrugged my shoulders. ‘’Maybe…sure, why not. Why?’’

Mr. Osborne shrugged his shoulders, before running his hands through his hair. ‘’It’s longer than two minutes; nobody likes long and drawn out, promos. No. Not in the APW…’’

I shook my head and laughed to myself.

‘’I thought the motto was; it’s about quality, not quantity?’’

---

I refuse to confirm. I refuse to become ‘’like them’’. A mockery is only made of something, people do not understand. I once asked myself, why must people bring up my writings? Why must there be a select few who try to diminish my writings? Why must they grab my pen; and suck the ink until my pen it’s run dry?

…The truth hurts.

I don’t listen to them. I don’t give into the machine. The machine is strong, powerful—but the machine is just that, a machine. I’m man. I’m human. The most dominate specious on this planet. The others? The people whose souls that belong to the machine? Well; the sheep span for miles. All ignorant. All blinded. All dumbed down, and stupefied willing to do whatever the person in-front of them tells them to do; and so the cycle progresses.

Like everything though; the cycle must come to and end. I can’t open the entire world’s eyes, no. I can however open yours. When your time rolls by, and your chosen to meet paths with me? I’ll sharpen my blade. You’ll step up in-front of me, and will say the same thing that the sheep said before me; and you will say the same thing the sheep behind you will say once he steps up here.

Only, when I swing my blade. Only when your throat is cut; and your life is passing before you, will you know—following that sheep before you, was the biggest mistake you could've ever made. Last minute enlightenment casted down upon your for a few seconds; before your soul rests for an eternity.

…No more time to write, another sheep awaits. Mr Lively, can you hear me?

---

The scene fades into the ring, where Level-One stands on by in a small ring—with about 300 fans around him in a small house show type crowd. A few fans get rowdy; and display their hate for him in a few choice words that make up quite an interesting sentence; infact too interesting for us to repeat. But he was used to it by now, and in return he smiled.

I know you all probably didn’t expect me to show up here; but hell, neither did I. Why you ask? Well, because I grew a pair of balls—and developed a thing called ‘’Originality’’ something that defied YOUR boundaries; a thing called ‘’Outside of the box’’. Now, I know you all aren’t the smartest sheep in the barn—but perhaps by the end of my little rendezvous here; you could separate yourself from the pack, and paint yourself black.

The fans get rowdy, as they boo and beat on the barrier; Level-One only returns a pleased smile, he’s already proven a point. Holding back his laughter; he paces slowly and almost methodically back and forth in between the ring.

Ever since I stepped foot in the wrestling business; I’ve heard about ‘’wrongs’’ and ‘’rights’’. You see, if I smack someone with a steel chair, I’m a bad guy. If I shake someone’s hand, that makes me the good guy. Why? Because that’s simplistic, you people don’t think in-depth. Which is why, you don’t see through Michael Lively’s front, and it’s why you don’t call him out on it; but I’m not afraid to do just that.

If I smack you across your face with a steel chair; it’s because you fucking deserved it! If I shake your hand, it’s because you’ve earned my respect! Good guy, bad guy, to hell with that old school crap. And lively, just take a wild guess with what fate you’ll be suffering this week? I know you defiantly aren’t a brain child, so let me help you narrow this down. I don’t respect you.

Level-One lowers the microphone from his mouth, and receives a mixed reaction from the crowd. Neither Lively, or Level-One are liked by the public—the crowd had a hard time picking which person to hate

You stand in-front of the camera; with your cocky grin, your poster boy hair cut, and all the attitude a wife could find. You then proceed to play judge, jury and executioner—in attempts to diminish my ‘’promo’’ style. You call it garbage. You call it boring, long drawn out. Well; you can take your sports entertainment shit back in-front of your mirror; and start practicing that GIMMICK of yours. I’ve always proved myself in the outcome of my matches. Don’t take my word for it, just ask the countless people I’ve beaten—and then proceed to become one yourself.

Oh, but hell. I’m skipping ahead, aren’t I? I couldn’t forget your history lesson, despite sleeping half way through it. I must admit; you ranting about how you made such a good overdrive champion would really touch a soul or two, if you didn’t lose it a month ago. I mean, you had to jump into the tag picture in hopes of having someone to carry the other half of you just to stay relevant; so I guess all you can do is hold onto the past. But while your hands are full, juggling topics 6 months old; I’ll be grabbing onto the future, indulging in having my name announced the winner, once again.

You like everyone else on this goddamn roster; is spit driven by the EWC. You toss your insults, you show your hate—towards a company, you knew nothing about. A company, in which one point in time—there wasn’t even an option for guys like you to sink or swim, simply because you weren’t good enough to step in uncharted waters. I’ve proven myself on a world wide scale; I’ve been named one of the best wrestlers in the business to date; but I can understand if you haven’t noticed that in the APW. Let’s just say, Link and his pathetic attempts to take me out, and break me down—failed to give me the warm up I needed. But I’m sure, the Jesus will do?

Level-One cracked a sly smile, before slowly raising his shoulders almost helplessly. Lowering them, he peddled backwards leaning onto the support of the ring ropes

I’m sorry, you're misinformed. I’m sorry, you know nothing about the words you preach. I however; am NOT sorry for the embarrassment I will put you through. Each last word you spoke, every time you mentioned I was overrated, every last movement of your tongue in which you attempted to lash me with and break my sprits; like a floodgate it will open above your head, and you will drown in your own words, your own saliva, and your OWN shortcomings.

You really don’t think the APW would waste time on me, if I wasn’t what I said I was, do you? Face it; it’s clear to see Hurricane Jeff and his minions are waiting for the right time to unleash me from my chains, and if the wait is too long—I may just break free myself. You can tell your cow loving, pathetic champion, and friend of yours Sabur—that I’m gunning for him. I’ve got the aim. All I need is a bullet. All I need is one shot, and that APW world heavyweight championship is mine.

I guess that fears you, don’t it? The undefeated new guy; walks in and stomps the competition each and every week. You position is pivotal, and you know this. You don’t want to be knocked off your fading star, just yet. You want to take the first blow, you want to hit me hard and capitalize on the first shot; and I’m allowing you to do it. Max Carter, is giving you your shot. Clench those fist. Harbor that anger. Swing away. You won’t put a crack in my glass jaw…

Level-One taps his cheek, before nodding at the camera. Almost taunting for someone to hit him

You see Lively, what makes me so successful is exactly what you despise. Which hell, once you think about it—it really makes sense. What you see as boring, as irrelevant, or long and drawn out—others see amazing. You preach hate, anger, and stupidity—how can I expect you to see anything outside your religion? To connect with you, I figured I’d keep things simple. I’d figured, I’d shoot an in-ring promo. And maybe when hell freezes over one day? I’ll simply stand in-front of a camera, forget painting any pictures; I’d just talk myself to death. Talk. Talk. And talk again, just like Julian Bale.

If this was a story; yours would be pages of nothing but opinionated inaccuracies. But fuck it, let’s turn a page in your book to see what you’ve got? You brought up the idea that I was a ‘’cancer’’ and that I have ‘’spread’’ to the APW to kill it. Really? Because I’m sure if Hurricane Jeff decided to get up and leave on a four month vacation with seemingly no one in control—I’m sure the APW would be doing swimmingly well. Fuck, that. It was a sinking ship, and when I was tired of turning the wheel I let go of it. I wasn’t going to go down with it, and neither would you.

The people that preach the loudest; usually don’t have much to say. You’re pretty fucking obnoxious, Mr. Lively—but you haven’t said much of anything that warrants me taking you seriously. You’ve thrown many threats in my direction, and I’ve caught all of them. I looked at them, laughed at them, and put them up on the shelve with the countless others I have caught before. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. I really should stop accepting duplicates…

Level-One scratches his head; and pretends to look perplexed in mockery of Michael Lively. The crowd having enough of Level-One, unleashes yet another boo

But if your goal is to really stop me from holding ‘’gold’’ in the APW; then best of luck. I mean, I could easily defy your odds and move on down to the overdrive championship—but then I’d have to beat up Link again; which has become almost as bored as you have. Plus, I have a thing called…standerds, you know? I’m sure you father didn’t fuck your mom, being the first bitch he saw. Wait. On second thought...

Lively, you’re a joke. A comedy act. A bad one. You aren't Jesus, you defiantly isn’t no savoir. Your a women hating, egotistical...midcarder. Until you sling some REAL gold over your shoulders, and not some tin foil can that the overdrive championship is made of, then you have the right to open your mouth. Until, you prove yourself on a world wide scale; you should refrain from walking on the thin line of the equator. These aren’t things made up; to make my penis look bigger, or my resume more impressive; these my friends are facts.

Level-One glances down at his waist, where the Experts Championship is strapped tightly around his waist. Level-One walks over to the turn-buckle, before using it to step up onto and elevate himself above the ring, as he stares into the crowd

These champions you’ve claimed you’ve beaten? Are nothing like me. I’m sure they all told you the held over 25 titles, in a span in a year. I’m sure they’d tell you, they’ve been wrestling since the first promotion was built from the ground on up. I’m sure they claimed to be the greatest wrestler that ever lived; but they aren’t. I know this; because there is on one Level-One.. I don’t expect you, or anyone else for that matter to understand nor believe me; my words can’t describe this. This isn’t something I can pound into your head; like you attempt to do you credibility lively. This can only be expreinced by going head to head with me, toe to toe with me; and an audience ready to watch two men wage war.

You like everyone else Michael Lively—are ignorant. You believe what you see here, in the APW is all there is. Don’t get me wrong, this is one of the best promotions around today—but there is no best. We are all here; preaching about what we may know, or think we know. I’ve seen out-side the box, Lively. The box’s boundaries are all you know, so you repent the world outside it. I’m sorry, you think my personality is dry—because I don’t pretend to me a cartoon character, or a pathetic gimmick. I’m sorry, if you aren’t laughing by the end of my promos. I’m sorry, that I can’t live up to YOUR expectations.

…I am not sorry however; for being above them.

Level-One tilts his head; eying down at a group of rowdy fans trying to get towards the ring, but are barred from security. Staring at the three men intently for a few more moments, he turns his attention back to the ramp

Jesus. Momma’s boy. The women hater. The hottest shit going. The second coming—I don’t care, which one I have to go through. I don’t care if you show each one of your personalities all at once. I want you to bring them. I want you to bring that ignorance you’ve displayed to everyone watching in your little box to that ring; I won’t have to throw you over the top rope to show you there’s something just as big outside those ropes. Infact, I have not a single thing to prove to you. Just myself.

1…2…3

You lose. I win. I’m Level-One. And you aren’t. I'm not sorry...

Level-One drops the microphone, before hopping off the turn-buckle. All in one fluid motion he hits the deck, and rolls out under the bottom rope before marching up a small ramp. Clearly, having no intentions whatsoever of hanging out at the house show any longer