Post by Phil Atken on Jan 26, 2013 17:23:13 GMT -4
We fade into a very dimly lit room, a single bulb flying backwards and forwards above a slightly rotund and messy haired figure.
Voice: After last week's Asylum many people asked me an incredibly understandable question. Why, just why oh why oh why, do I hate the idea of being labled as a politician? Why does hate run deep through my veins at the very idea I'm classified to be in the same class of shyster as my esteemed Survive and Conquer opponent? It is certainly a question worth exploring, I'll grant you that much.
Indeed, as the lights begin to get a little brighter, we are treated to the rather stern visage of Phil Atken, leaning against an oak desk and glaring his eye holes down the camera, peering into your very soul. The World Heavyweight Championship sits neatly on the table by his side, the light glistening off of its freshly polished surface. Behind Phil, on the wall, hang a few tattered posters from Michael Callahan's political career as well as a scattered mixture of our signs, boards, leaflets and other paraphernalia of a variety of political parties.
Atken: As a child, I never quite understood the idea that history was written by the winners. Surely history exists in and of itself and those who write about it are merely reporting their observations, surely history is nothing more than a statement of facts. How could you possibly add a personal spin to events that have already happened? The innocence of youth allows you to have faith in the human condition, it allows you to believe that you can trust those trying to teach you, that the facts and values they wish to instill into you are indeed true facts and just values. As you begin to grow older though, as that hair begins to grow from every little crevice in your body, you start to begin to question those facts. You watch the television and you watch the political class bickering about the mundane and the miniscule as more people stand on the employment line. You begin to question why you should trust authority, why you should believe that these self-serving maniacs are looking after your best interests as they continue to pocket countless campaign “contributions” from those who wish to add more homeless to our streets. It certainly makes you wonder about the convictions of the men who wish to pursue that career, I'm sure you'll agree.
Atken begins to wander behind the desk, continue to look dead centre at the camera as he slowly tears down some of the British political posters adorned on the wall of the room, slowly dropping them to the ground as he does so.
Atken: Maybe it's been my own struggles of the past. Those dark years of trying to get enough independent show bookings to get my next meal, to pay my rent, to see my family. Politicians, they didn't seem to care much about me then, I believe I was a “scrounger” in their books. Republicans in particular though, they seemed dead set on legislation to kick me right out of dear ole American. I can move past those days but I can't forget them and I have to admit, now the money has begun to roll in, I have to laugh at the campaign donation calls that have come my way. Still those scars of the past have left me with a real issue with those self-proclaimed representatives, those who will lie to my face as they tell me their looking out for me. Similar to our illustrious leader on Asylum in a way, are they not Reginald? My dear old buddy... looking out for our best interests by allowing TJ to stand proudly over a knocked out Sally Talfourd, to allow him to actually proclaim delight in the brain damage he no doubt inflicted on our former World Heavyweight Champion. Hell, to encourage him to knock out other people too. There's a certain respect in a submission expert, to allow someone to tap out when they reach their limit but to knock someone out like a common thug? That's what you want for Asylum? That's what you want me to represent as your champion? Maybe I should just toss the belt Michael Callahan's way if we continue to crumble into the pit of despair on the road to hell that the X Number of Pillars sent us forth into. Maybe there's truth to that old saying that you can't fight city hall given my first title defense is against an uncrowned contender, a slippery, slimy, scumbag of a politician at that. Why not just whip my mother out of her retirement home and shit on her head while you're at it.
With the British posters sufficiently ripped to shreds and former a fine line of confetti on the floor, Phil moves on to his small collection of American political flim flam.
Atken: Yet, despite the mayhem and madness that is allowed to be unleashed under the banner of “competitive spirit”, I always seem to be the one labelled as the schemer with ulterior motives. I won the World Heavyweight Championship by methods that challenge the old ways, the ways that have been drilled into many a young wrestler's skull as the only acceptable way to climb the ladder. Bleed for the fans, leave your soul on the mat, don't leave the ring until you've broken every bone in your body for the braying sheep that paid ten bucks and came to the arena ten beers deep. I'm the bad guy for saying enough, for saying that this needs to end, that we have families, that we have children, that we want to live our last days on this Earth with the ability to bend our knees and pick up our grand children. Somehow, thanks to the brain washing of those “looking after” us, so many plucky youngster think the only way to behave in the ring is to crush spines and skulls with little forethought for the hospital trip that follows. I want wrestling to be a thinking man's game, to put those pawns in place and carefully plot your moves. This sport was designed for the mind, it was designed for men of wits and now look who leads the charge. By becoming champion, I thought I could change it, that I could change the culture embedded within but I am sadly just one man, I have a voice, I have a say but as a single individual you can only take change so far. Perhaps that's why I find this gentleman so disappointing.
Atken finally stops his consistant and yet absent minded destruction of political posturing and looks towards the tattered remains of some Michael Callahan commemorative tea towels. Phil's eyes seem to meet the eyes of the cloth Callahan as he continues to speak.
Atken: Politicians are branded at birth, it is a trait of their very nature, it is embedded in their DNA to betray their own beliefs for a quick buck. To lick they finger, point it up to the sky and sway wherever that wind may blow, that is their prime directive. You may believe in them for a while, you may even agree with them sometimes but they always, always let you down. They stick that knife into your heart and they twist it gleefully as their next victim watches on, thanking them for their service. They are the hitmen of belief and I thought I had shielded myself from all of the lies that surround them. Yet as last year progressed, I watched Michael Callahan with respect, he didn't want to use weapons, he didn't want to bow down to the blood thirsty regime that runs our beloved Asylum. I found myself casting aside his heinous beliefs because I thought I had finally found myself a brother in arms. Someone who saw wrestling through the same eyes I did. Someone who lusted for change to those classic days of the birth of this great sport. Someone who valued brain over brawn. Then came Martinez...
Atken mutters “Martinez” again under his breathe, shaking his head like a disappointed father after his son just lost the under 8s football game at the local park.
Atken: Still, a good story teller always begins at the most sensible place, do they not? Begin at the beginning, that's what I was always told, so why don't we?
Phil once again returns to the front of the ole oak desks, taking a brief moment to admire his World Heavyweight Championship before he snaps his head back towards the camera.
Atken: Michael Callahan has had a blessed career in APW, very rarely defeated, a man Jason Kash had to pry the Suicidal Championship away from, a man who topped every single list as the next World Heavyweight Champion, the future Rasslemania headliner, hell the future President the way some people were getting carried away. Michael Callahan was “that guy”, he had the internet articles, the magazine covers, the television interviews, the radio appearances. It's hard to dispute the fact that in the year of our lord, twenty aught twelve, Michael Callahan was the shining Asylum superstar with a rocket attached to his skinny bone arse. See, that's the interesting thing about history, without context, Callahan looks like one hell of a talented young son of a gun, don't he? A safe fresh face that you could trust with the keys to the house.
Phil begins to absent mindedly tap the top of his title.
Atken: I suppose some may say that I am, was, will always be jealous of Michael Callahan, that I always saw myself in his place, that it was my burning desire to be the golden child of the brand, that I wanted to be given the gold star. There's probably an element of truth to that, after all, there's a reason that it's entirely fitting that we find ourselves in the ring at Survive and Conquer. You may not remember this funnest of fun facts Mike but Survive and Conquer 2012, LIVE from Miami Florida, your first day on the job, the day you immediately became that rising star, that golden boy people just couldn't wait to hate... I was in the ring that night with you. I suppose I can't be too bitter about your amazing arrival to APW, your mind boggling success... I had the power to stop it before it began. Almost did too if memory serves me correct, which it normally does.
Atken looks down at his own title again, staring deeply in to it as he tries to drag forth his memories of that very bout.
Atken: A championship scramble, me, you and three other competitors, battling it out to make a name for ourselves. Trying to impress our corporate overlords by putting our bodies on the line in an attempt to get a taste of that sweet APW title gold. To have our names etched into a history book as an APW champion. I remember it so clearly, ten seconds remained, I was almost, almost out the door as champion when you went down for the final pinfall. I was powerless to stop you, I believe you'd extended me the courtesy of being handcuffed to the ropes. The seconds counted down... the referee slapped the mat for three and all I could do was witness the birth of the consummate politician. The bell rang and my dreams of gold died in a ditch while the first of 210 days began for you, Mike. I always remember that day, I left the arena with a dislocated shoulder and had to pay my own bills for the repair. It made me question working for a company that would allow such pain and agony with extreme disregard. It began to sow the seeds that brought me to my greatest victory at Christmas Chaos, it began to make me realise that we were replaceable meat to APW, part of a rotating cast of hundreds at President Jeff's abattoir. It took some time after that loss for it all to come together, for it all to click but once I solved the puzzle, once I removed the blinkers... well... we are where we are. Yet, as I started to blink in the new daylight, I start to see the real you Michael. Not this Pro-Life, staunchly Republican upholder of family values that you wished for history to recognise you as but rather the psychotic danger who posed a very real and serious issue to the well being of many as you marched forward in your deranged campaign to smash a baseball bat into the skulls of as many ladies as you possibly could.
A light begins to shine a little brighter in the room on one single picture on the small, a grinning Michael Callahan standing over Sally Talfourd, a baseball bat in hand.
Atken: I tagged with you Mike, I tagged with you to try and guide you back to the light, to see that the way forth was not weapons and malice, it was scouting, it was research, it was holding rules to the letter, it was science. You didn't see it my way then, you still don't see it now. You gladly and gleefully smashed Sally Talfourd in the face with a baseball bat. I stood in the ring, Anthony Bailey stood in the ring... sure I'm a wiser man so I took advantage of the situation and rolled him up... but we were stunned. That maniacal grin that swept your face as you swung, the glee oozing out of every orifice as Sally slumped to the mat, blood gushing out of her... that was the real you. That wasn't politician Mike, that wasn't the gladhanding do-gooder and upholder of Pro-Life Values, the political mask had slipped and we all saw the real you.
Atken grabs the picture off the wall and brings it closer towards the camera, trying to embed the image in the manic Callahan onto the camera.
Atken: That's why Survive and Conquer is so meaningful to me, I let you loose, I stood powerless to stop the rise of Michael Callahan exactly one year ago and many people ended up falling victim to your deranged ways. My friends, Dirk Dickwood, Hank... they fell victim to your vicious methods of dispensing self-justified vengeance. I wasn't strong enough to stop you a year ago, I was not the tactician that I am now. To lose to you again on the anniversary of the fulfilment of the dark prophecy? It doesn't bear thinking about. You seem to wish to paint yourself as the new flag bearer in the scrapper category of this industry but you're nothing like the contemporaries you wish to be attached to. Just because you managed to defeat Anthony Bailey without whipping out your penis substitute and you managed to confuse our mentally deficient audience with your smoke and mirrors political jiu-jitsu doesn't mean that men like me have forgotten the evil that permeates your soul. You've ran to where the wind was blowing and now you've found yourself teetering at the edge of the abyss.
I've always wanted to find out if a politician falls over a cliff, does he make a sound? Why don't we find out on Sunday?
Voice: After last week's Asylum many people asked me an incredibly understandable question. Why, just why oh why oh why, do I hate the idea of being labled as a politician? Why does hate run deep through my veins at the very idea I'm classified to be in the same class of shyster as my esteemed Survive and Conquer opponent? It is certainly a question worth exploring, I'll grant you that much.
Indeed, as the lights begin to get a little brighter, we are treated to the rather stern visage of Phil Atken, leaning against an oak desk and glaring his eye holes down the camera, peering into your very soul. The World Heavyweight Championship sits neatly on the table by his side, the light glistening off of its freshly polished surface. Behind Phil, on the wall, hang a few tattered posters from Michael Callahan's political career as well as a scattered mixture of our signs, boards, leaflets and other paraphernalia of a variety of political parties.
Atken: As a child, I never quite understood the idea that history was written by the winners. Surely history exists in and of itself and those who write about it are merely reporting their observations, surely history is nothing more than a statement of facts. How could you possibly add a personal spin to events that have already happened? The innocence of youth allows you to have faith in the human condition, it allows you to believe that you can trust those trying to teach you, that the facts and values they wish to instill into you are indeed true facts and just values. As you begin to grow older though, as that hair begins to grow from every little crevice in your body, you start to begin to question those facts. You watch the television and you watch the political class bickering about the mundane and the miniscule as more people stand on the employment line. You begin to question why you should trust authority, why you should believe that these self-serving maniacs are looking after your best interests as they continue to pocket countless campaign “contributions” from those who wish to add more homeless to our streets. It certainly makes you wonder about the convictions of the men who wish to pursue that career, I'm sure you'll agree.
Atken begins to wander behind the desk, continue to look dead centre at the camera as he slowly tears down some of the British political posters adorned on the wall of the room, slowly dropping them to the ground as he does so.
Atken: Maybe it's been my own struggles of the past. Those dark years of trying to get enough independent show bookings to get my next meal, to pay my rent, to see my family. Politicians, they didn't seem to care much about me then, I believe I was a “scrounger” in their books. Republicans in particular though, they seemed dead set on legislation to kick me right out of dear ole American. I can move past those days but I can't forget them and I have to admit, now the money has begun to roll in, I have to laugh at the campaign donation calls that have come my way. Still those scars of the past have left me with a real issue with those self-proclaimed representatives, those who will lie to my face as they tell me their looking out for me. Similar to our illustrious leader on Asylum in a way, are they not Reginald? My dear old buddy... looking out for our best interests by allowing TJ to stand proudly over a knocked out Sally Talfourd, to allow him to actually proclaim delight in the brain damage he no doubt inflicted on our former World Heavyweight Champion. Hell, to encourage him to knock out other people too. There's a certain respect in a submission expert, to allow someone to tap out when they reach their limit but to knock someone out like a common thug? That's what you want for Asylum? That's what you want me to represent as your champion? Maybe I should just toss the belt Michael Callahan's way if we continue to crumble into the pit of despair on the road to hell that the X Number of Pillars sent us forth into. Maybe there's truth to that old saying that you can't fight city hall given my first title defense is against an uncrowned contender, a slippery, slimy, scumbag of a politician at that. Why not just whip my mother out of her retirement home and shit on her head while you're at it.
With the British posters sufficiently ripped to shreds and former a fine line of confetti on the floor, Phil moves on to his small collection of American political flim flam.
Atken: Yet, despite the mayhem and madness that is allowed to be unleashed under the banner of “competitive spirit”, I always seem to be the one labelled as the schemer with ulterior motives. I won the World Heavyweight Championship by methods that challenge the old ways, the ways that have been drilled into many a young wrestler's skull as the only acceptable way to climb the ladder. Bleed for the fans, leave your soul on the mat, don't leave the ring until you've broken every bone in your body for the braying sheep that paid ten bucks and came to the arena ten beers deep. I'm the bad guy for saying enough, for saying that this needs to end, that we have families, that we have children, that we want to live our last days on this Earth with the ability to bend our knees and pick up our grand children. Somehow, thanks to the brain washing of those “looking after” us, so many plucky youngster think the only way to behave in the ring is to crush spines and skulls with little forethought for the hospital trip that follows. I want wrestling to be a thinking man's game, to put those pawns in place and carefully plot your moves. This sport was designed for the mind, it was designed for men of wits and now look who leads the charge. By becoming champion, I thought I could change it, that I could change the culture embedded within but I am sadly just one man, I have a voice, I have a say but as a single individual you can only take change so far. Perhaps that's why I find this gentleman so disappointing.
Atken finally stops his consistant and yet absent minded destruction of political posturing and looks towards the tattered remains of some Michael Callahan commemorative tea towels. Phil's eyes seem to meet the eyes of the cloth Callahan as he continues to speak.
Atken: Politicians are branded at birth, it is a trait of their very nature, it is embedded in their DNA to betray their own beliefs for a quick buck. To lick they finger, point it up to the sky and sway wherever that wind may blow, that is their prime directive. You may believe in them for a while, you may even agree with them sometimes but they always, always let you down. They stick that knife into your heart and they twist it gleefully as their next victim watches on, thanking them for their service. They are the hitmen of belief and I thought I had shielded myself from all of the lies that surround them. Yet as last year progressed, I watched Michael Callahan with respect, he didn't want to use weapons, he didn't want to bow down to the blood thirsty regime that runs our beloved Asylum. I found myself casting aside his heinous beliefs because I thought I had finally found myself a brother in arms. Someone who saw wrestling through the same eyes I did. Someone who lusted for change to those classic days of the birth of this great sport. Someone who valued brain over brawn. Then came Martinez...
Atken mutters “Martinez” again under his breathe, shaking his head like a disappointed father after his son just lost the under 8s football game at the local park.
Atken: Still, a good story teller always begins at the most sensible place, do they not? Begin at the beginning, that's what I was always told, so why don't we?
Phil once again returns to the front of the ole oak desks, taking a brief moment to admire his World Heavyweight Championship before he snaps his head back towards the camera.
Atken: Michael Callahan has had a blessed career in APW, very rarely defeated, a man Jason Kash had to pry the Suicidal Championship away from, a man who topped every single list as the next World Heavyweight Champion, the future Rasslemania headliner, hell the future President the way some people were getting carried away. Michael Callahan was “that guy”, he had the internet articles, the magazine covers, the television interviews, the radio appearances. It's hard to dispute the fact that in the year of our lord, twenty aught twelve, Michael Callahan was the shining Asylum superstar with a rocket attached to his skinny bone arse. See, that's the interesting thing about history, without context, Callahan looks like one hell of a talented young son of a gun, don't he? A safe fresh face that you could trust with the keys to the house.
Phil begins to absent mindedly tap the top of his title.
Atken: I suppose some may say that I am, was, will always be jealous of Michael Callahan, that I always saw myself in his place, that it was my burning desire to be the golden child of the brand, that I wanted to be given the gold star. There's probably an element of truth to that, after all, there's a reason that it's entirely fitting that we find ourselves in the ring at Survive and Conquer. You may not remember this funnest of fun facts Mike but Survive and Conquer 2012, LIVE from Miami Florida, your first day on the job, the day you immediately became that rising star, that golden boy people just couldn't wait to hate... I was in the ring that night with you. I suppose I can't be too bitter about your amazing arrival to APW, your mind boggling success... I had the power to stop it before it began. Almost did too if memory serves me correct, which it normally does.
Atken looks down at his own title again, staring deeply in to it as he tries to drag forth his memories of that very bout.
Atken: A championship scramble, me, you and three other competitors, battling it out to make a name for ourselves. Trying to impress our corporate overlords by putting our bodies on the line in an attempt to get a taste of that sweet APW title gold. To have our names etched into a history book as an APW champion. I remember it so clearly, ten seconds remained, I was almost, almost out the door as champion when you went down for the final pinfall. I was powerless to stop you, I believe you'd extended me the courtesy of being handcuffed to the ropes. The seconds counted down... the referee slapped the mat for three and all I could do was witness the birth of the consummate politician. The bell rang and my dreams of gold died in a ditch while the first of 210 days began for you, Mike. I always remember that day, I left the arena with a dislocated shoulder and had to pay my own bills for the repair. It made me question working for a company that would allow such pain and agony with extreme disregard. It began to sow the seeds that brought me to my greatest victory at Christmas Chaos, it began to make me realise that we were replaceable meat to APW, part of a rotating cast of hundreds at President Jeff's abattoir. It took some time after that loss for it all to come together, for it all to click but once I solved the puzzle, once I removed the blinkers... well... we are where we are. Yet, as I started to blink in the new daylight, I start to see the real you Michael. Not this Pro-Life, staunchly Republican upholder of family values that you wished for history to recognise you as but rather the psychotic danger who posed a very real and serious issue to the well being of many as you marched forward in your deranged campaign to smash a baseball bat into the skulls of as many ladies as you possibly could.
A light begins to shine a little brighter in the room on one single picture on the small, a grinning Michael Callahan standing over Sally Talfourd, a baseball bat in hand.
Atken: I tagged with you Mike, I tagged with you to try and guide you back to the light, to see that the way forth was not weapons and malice, it was scouting, it was research, it was holding rules to the letter, it was science. You didn't see it my way then, you still don't see it now. You gladly and gleefully smashed Sally Talfourd in the face with a baseball bat. I stood in the ring, Anthony Bailey stood in the ring... sure I'm a wiser man so I took advantage of the situation and rolled him up... but we were stunned. That maniacal grin that swept your face as you swung, the glee oozing out of every orifice as Sally slumped to the mat, blood gushing out of her... that was the real you. That wasn't politician Mike, that wasn't the gladhanding do-gooder and upholder of Pro-Life Values, the political mask had slipped and we all saw the real you.
Atken grabs the picture off the wall and brings it closer towards the camera, trying to embed the image in the manic Callahan onto the camera.
Atken: That's why Survive and Conquer is so meaningful to me, I let you loose, I stood powerless to stop the rise of Michael Callahan exactly one year ago and many people ended up falling victim to your deranged ways. My friends, Dirk Dickwood, Hank... they fell victim to your vicious methods of dispensing self-justified vengeance. I wasn't strong enough to stop you a year ago, I was not the tactician that I am now. To lose to you again on the anniversary of the fulfilment of the dark prophecy? It doesn't bear thinking about. You seem to wish to paint yourself as the new flag bearer in the scrapper category of this industry but you're nothing like the contemporaries you wish to be attached to. Just because you managed to defeat Anthony Bailey without whipping out your penis substitute and you managed to confuse our mentally deficient audience with your smoke and mirrors political jiu-jitsu doesn't mean that men like me have forgotten the evil that permeates your soul. You've ran to where the wind was blowing and now you've found yourself teetering at the edge of the abyss.
I've always wanted to find out if a politician falls over a cliff, does he make a sound? Why don't we find out on Sunday?
