Post by Zachariah Blood on Jul 14, 2013 0:04:33 GMT -4
”Ignorance is something I have no patience for.”
The words are not spoken but instead typed out letter by letter on the screen before us. A sharp imagination could hear the keystrokes as they happened and could feel the malice emanating off the message even as it stands so stark and white against the black background. The blinking cursor drops down a couple lines and further messages spell out on the screen.
”Do any of you even listen to yourselves when you speak? I thought once upon a time that I had seen the worst the wrestling world had to offer while I toiled the independents, packing up and moving my life on a day’s worth of notice when tears and fears caused promoters to eject me from their companies. But first in FCW, then in wAw and now here in APW…I see that even in upper-echelon promotions, nothing has changed.”
There’s a faint, almost-inaudible hum starting to manifest in the background. The darkness behind the words seems to flicker, evidence of this given better by the slight distortion and warping of the typed-out message. The tapping of fingers upon keys is no longer imaginary…it, too, is starting to become audible.
”Contenders have no drive to succeed…
Champions are lethargic on their gilded pedestals…
And the true visionaries are overrun by the meek and senseless.
That…is the way of the wrestling world whether you speak of APW or elsewhere. This is what the business has been reduced to: cookie-cutter talents following the same paths, making the same mistakes and almost lulling the very drones who make their work possible through tickets and merchandise into a brain-degrading torpor. The same matches, the same spiels every damn week…and for what? To hold a few pretty trinkets that mean less in the hands of dregs than yesterday’s trash? To be ‘immortalized’ on some thrown-together DVD extravaganza that will be forgotten in mere weeks?”
Hatred seeps into every word, every letter. The grinding of teeth and the twisting of nerves and senses alike, a cacophony of frustrated torment to play in time with the burgeoning chaos behind the screen’s swirling and sputtering.
”Not anymore. We are the new beginning, the end of the old ways. We have come to wash away your lies and deceit with the universal truth that is pain. Pure, unbiased…fair. We shall not discriminate in who we destroy to spread our message and achieve our mission. And we shall not be deterred. Defeat will not slow us. Resistance will only empower us. Fear will be the sustenance we consume. You will hate us for what we do but in time you will realize it was for the best. Suffering is the only true path to understanding.
From Meltdown to Asylum to Overdrive we shall advance. From the summer solstice to the winter equinox and back again we shall persevere. Our ascent is as inevitable as the passing of time, as certain as the eventual entropic demise of the universe at large and as unstoppable as death itself. We don’t want your adulation or your blessings. We do not crave acceptance or justification. We will satisfy ourselves with your suffering and the revolution soon to come.”
The screen twists before us, the noise of garbled static coming off like electronic death throes. The words are wiped away with a metallic whimper, the darkness still percolating and twisting even with nothing disturbing its perfection. Then…another line. Each letter comes with the audible force of a hammer, echoing up to the very last keystrokes:
”We are The Unforgiven. Welcome to our pain. Welcome…to your future.”
The screen finally gives up the ghost, cutting to the static. The words ‘pain’ and ‘future’ persist however, emblazoned in blood-red against the electronic snow and bars of warped color. Then the whole of it is reduced to a single, bright horizontal line degrading to a dot before…nothing.
It’s another piece of unspoiled country land…but in contrast to the appealing peace of Sentinel’s chosen slice of peace and quiet, the land upon which we now look as daylight starts to give up the ghost, this place fairly bleeds malice. The tall, half-bare trees appear to be overtaken with sadness, branches and foliage drooping like tears halfway through the fall. Even the tall grass drops as though the weight of the world is on its proverbial shoulders. In the near-darkness this is all we can make out, though, the only light coming from behind a shadow standing atop a low, arching bridge spanning a swiftly-running creek of crystalline water.
The slightly-hunched form, its arms folded upon the banister, seems to be staring at the cold water below. One hand holds a red votive candle, freshly-lit. When it hears the snap of a twig underfoot the head turns and glares in the direction of us, of the camera. The camera comes around to show the neatly-shaven and tattooed visage of Zachariah Blood. Dressed in all black, he glares first…then simply stares before turning back to the creek. After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, he speaks.
Zachariah Blood: ”Nice to see that you didn’t get lost. Around here…one wrong step can mean the end of you. Quicksand, poisonous snakes…even a ghost or two if your mind is open enough. Not that it would matter. They believe in you even if you don’t believe in them. People talk so much about Australia being one of the most dangerous places on the planet and to an extent, they’re right.
Those people have never walked through the bayou at night.”
Once more he turns his tattooed eye on the cameraman, jerking his head slightly toward the barely-visible path leading into the swamp.
Zachariah Blood: ”Follow me. Step off the path at your own peril. I will not be responsible for what happens to you if you do.”
The tension is obvious given the momentary tremor of the camera’s focus before it starts to follow Zachariah (at a safe distance, of course) into the swamp. His candle is all that lights the way, hot wax soon pooling beneath the burning wick and threatening to spill with every step.
Zachariah Blood: ”Whether they choose to acknowledge it or not, APW as a whole now knows why we’re here. Our explanation was clear. If they cannot understand it then they were never meant to be a part of the solution in the first place. Titles are the means to an end, a way to hurt others and to bring wave after wave of would-be contenders pounding down on our door so we can exterminate their dreams as we break their bodies in the teaching of our lessons. Make no mistake: we want those championships. Our tongues crave the taste of gold and leather having been deprived for so long. And we will do whatever is necessary to have it once again.
The folly of Sang Réal and the Dying Breed is in the fact that they don’t take us seriously. History is right there before your eyes, but you have to open the book and turn the pages yourself. No one can do it for you. Instead, you crack jokes and blatantly ignore what’s been set before you. I shall not stand and say it was for your own good because I don’t give a damn about what’s ‘good’ for you. I am a sadist and a masochist. What’s good for me is suffering for everyone else. What’s good for everyone else…is insipid bullshit to me. From the first moments of our tenure in APW we warned all of you. You chose not to listen then and you persist to this day.”
Zachariah stops, bringing the candle around with him as he turns, a few red drops of wax sliding down the textured surface. They drip onto his unprotected flesh and he hisses in what can only be termed ecstasy.
Zachariah Blood: ”Now…you get what you deserve.”
He licks his lips slightly, wetting them down and making them glisten slightly in the candlelight. A few more drops patter audibly onto his flesh as he turns back around, resuming his stroll without turning ot see if the camera is following him.
Zachariah Blood: ”Sang Réal has been cutting the same damn promo for years and it was old the first time around. Money and heredity are the only way to the top, apparently. There’s no need to actually work for it. Just throw some money around and suck the right dicks and you’ll eventually get what you want. But even the ambrosia of the gods takes like crap when you’re trying to get the taste of shame out of your mouths. Allow me to humbly illustrate something for you, Sang Réal, in terms that you dripping-chin fops can understand.”
Blood stops again, spreading his arms wide. Red wax splashes about, some landing on the ground while some splatters upon him. It’s far from within his attention, though.
Zachariah Blood: ”I came from nothing, with nothing. My family name means nothing to the world and less to me. The only money I possess is what I earned through blood and suffering, through making other men cry like children for mercy I didn’t care to give. When someone else had something I coveted, I took it by force. When others used words to achieve their ends, I used my hands to tear those words from their throats as blood-curdling screams. I reached this point in the wrestling business, in my career, without the bedazzled crutches the two of you lean on every time you open your mouths. And that eats you alive, because without your last names and daddy’s trust fund, you two fuckers wouldn’t be worth a damn in this business.
The two of you negotiate and try to cow the masses and your opponents with snappy comebacks and witty verbiage. You’re nothing more than wrestling’s answer to Statler and Waldorf…only less funny. You’ve got a retort for everything but the problem is that your asses can’t keep up with your sharp tongues. You slash your own throats before your opponents even have a chance to beat the shit out of you. But I will not be deprived of my pleasure Sunday night. No, I will rip the two of you apart and I’ll love every goddamn minute of it. You’re in this match as little more than comic relief, just a pair of warm bodies in the way of The Unforgiven’s ascent.”
He laughs…a dark, hateful sound without smile or mirth behind it. More like a growl from an amused beast than the chuckle of a grown man.
Zachariah Blood: ”Fodder. Useless, mewling, twitching fodder. What you deserve is suffering and you will get what you deserve.”
His head snaps around, expression as cold as death.
Zachariah Blood: ”Follow exactly in my step until I stay otherwise.”
The camera moves up and down to signify nodding as Zachariah takes measured steps now along a darkened path he knows by memory. Such is fortunate because one brief glance downward shows us only dark stones residing in something…murky.
Zachariah Blood: ”Eyes forward.”
His snapping comment brings the camera to facing forward again, his motion incessant.
Zachariah Blood: ”As for the champion’s, they’re little better. They’re more worried about their moniker and what others think of them than they are about the danger they’re stumbling head-long into. Typical fan-pandering tripe, the death knell of any self-respecting beast who has lost his fangs. Dying Breed…you’re pathetic.”
There’s a wobble and the sound of something thick, viscous, shifting in the wake of Zachariah’s near misstep. But he doesn’t waver himself. His body adjusts easily to the uneven step and with a short hop he’s back on solid ground. He gives one glance back to the cameraman, sniffs and keeps moving.
Zachariah Blood: ”I don’t care why you call yourselves that though I have an inkling. Not unlike why we refer to ourselves as The Unforgiven, in fact. It’s a message to the precious few who have the brain cells to find the meaning. You see yourselves as the last of a dwindling generation, fighting to keep some high-and-mighty tradition alive, tossing around idealism like confetti, cluttering the air and ground with your baseless mantra. Am I close? Does it matter? Will it make a difference Sunday night?
Maybe. No. Hell no.
The two of you need to wake up and pull the gauze from your eyes. Get a real eyeful of the danger you and your title reign are in. Unlike Jair pertaining to my partner’s message, I actually paid attention to what he said in his near-incoherent address. The problem with that is little of note was discussed. There’s nothing any of your kind can teach me about earning accolades or old school and you need to realize that. Earning is stepping into a dilapidated ring on some farm that time forgot, fighting a mental hospital escapee for five bucks and a baloney sandwich. Old school is having a veteran pissed off about never making it big using you as his stress doll under the guise of ‘teaching you the ropes’. How many times did any of you fight through shit like that to reach this point?”
The candle slowly dwindles, the light becoming dimmer by tiny degrees as more and more liquid red drips down onto Zachariah’s flesh in hot, painful rivulets. It fairly coats half his hand but he doesn’t seem to care.
Zachariah Blood: ”Dying Breed…”
He spits on the ground in disgust.
Zachariah Blood: ”You’re shams as men and champions. Sunday night, you’d better fight like your life is on the line if you want to hold those belts for another second. Because you may be damn good at what you do, but you’re not willing to sink to the depths that Sentinel and I are. You’re not ready to experience true horror the likes of what we can produce. First match, tenth match, hundredth match…it makes no difference. Pain is universal. It is both art and weapon that we wield with mastery beyond your understanding.”
The path seems more even now, less dangerous. But that doesn’t stop the cameraman from staying right with Blood. Their path appears to be turning now, perhaps heading back to the bridge…
Zachariah Blood: ”You epitomize the ignorance and arrogance you speak out against. Practice what you preach much? No, that would be too easy and it’s obvious that you like doing things the hard way.”
Turning to face the camera, Zachariah holds up the candle so it properly illuminates his face, his expression feral.
Zachariah Blood: ”We’ll be happy to acquiesce…to take your championships and to break your second-generation spines…to give APW a further taste of the pain that is their future. I say once more, with all sincerity:"
Blood blows out the candle with a simple exhale, letting darkness overtake.
Zachariah Blood: ”Welcome.”
Harsh laughter and a shriek of fear emit before the feed cuts out.
The words are not spoken but instead typed out letter by letter on the screen before us. A sharp imagination could hear the keystrokes as they happened and could feel the malice emanating off the message even as it stands so stark and white against the black background. The blinking cursor drops down a couple lines and further messages spell out on the screen.
”Do any of you even listen to yourselves when you speak? I thought once upon a time that I had seen the worst the wrestling world had to offer while I toiled the independents, packing up and moving my life on a day’s worth of notice when tears and fears caused promoters to eject me from their companies. But first in FCW, then in wAw and now here in APW…I see that even in upper-echelon promotions, nothing has changed.”
There’s a faint, almost-inaudible hum starting to manifest in the background. The darkness behind the words seems to flicker, evidence of this given better by the slight distortion and warping of the typed-out message. The tapping of fingers upon keys is no longer imaginary…it, too, is starting to become audible.
”Contenders have no drive to succeed…
Champions are lethargic on their gilded pedestals…
And the true visionaries are overrun by the meek and senseless.
That…is the way of the wrestling world whether you speak of APW or elsewhere. This is what the business has been reduced to: cookie-cutter talents following the same paths, making the same mistakes and almost lulling the very drones who make their work possible through tickets and merchandise into a brain-degrading torpor. The same matches, the same spiels every damn week…and for what? To hold a few pretty trinkets that mean less in the hands of dregs than yesterday’s trash? To be ‘immortalized’ on some thrown-together DVD extravaganza that will be forgotten in mere weeks?”
Hatred seeps into every word, every letter. The grinding of teeth and the twisting of nerves and senses alike, a cacophony of frustrated torment to play in time with the burgeoning chaos behind the screen’s swirling and sputtering.
”Not anymore. We are the new beginning, the end of the old ways. We have come to wash away your lies and deceit with the universal truth that is pain. Pure, unbiased…fair. We shall not discriminate in who we destroy to spread our message and achieve our mission. And we shall not be deterred. Defeat will not slow us. Resistance will only empower us. Fear will be the sustenance we consume. You will hate us for what we do but in time you will realize it was for the best. Suffering is the only true path to understanding.
From Meltdown to Asylum to Overdrive we shall advance. From the summer solstice to the winter equinox and back again we shall persevere. Our ascent is as inevitable as the passing of time, as certain as the eventual entropic demise of the universe at large and as unstoppable as death itself. We don’t want your adulation or your blessings. We do not crave acceptance or justification. We will satisfy ourselves with your suffering and the revolution soon to come.”
The screen twists before us, the noise of garbled static coming off like electronic death throes. The words are wiped away with a metallic whimper, the darkness still percolating and twisting even with nothing disturbing its perfection. Then…another line. Each letter comes with the audible force of a hammer, echoing up to the very last keystrokes:
”We are The Unforgiven. Welcome to our pain. Welcome…to your future.”
The screen finally gives up the ghost, cutting to the static. The words ‘pain’ and ‘future’ persist however, emblazoned in blood-red against the electronic snow and bars of warped color. Then the whole of it is reduced to a single, bright horizontal line degrading to a dot before…nothing.
…
It’s another piece of unspoiled country land…but in contrast to the appealing peace of Sentinel’s chosen slice of peace and quiet, the land upon which we now look as daylight starts to give up the ghost, this place fairly bleeds malice. The tall, half-bare trees appear to be overtaken with sadness, branches and foliage drooping like tears halfway through the fall. Even the tall grass drops as though the weight of the world is on its proverbial shoulders. In the near-darkness this is all we can make out, though, the only light coming from behind a shadow standing atop a low, arching bridge spanning a swiftly-running creek of crystalline water.
The slightly-hunched form, its arms folded upon the banister, seems to be staring at the cold water below. One hand holds a red votive candle, freshly-lit. When it hears the snap of a twig underfoot the head turns and glares in the direction of us, of the camera. The camera comes around to show the neatly-shaven and tattooed visage of Zachariah Blood. Dressed in all black, he glares first…then simply stares before turning back to the creek. After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, he speaks.
Zachariah Blood: ”Nice to see that you didn’t get lost. Around here…one wrong step can mean the end of you. Quicksand, poisonous snakes…even a ghost or two if your mind is open enough. Not that it would matter. They believe in you even if you don’t believe in them. People talk so much about Australia being one of the most dangerous places on the planet and to an extent, they’re right.
Those people have never walked through the bayou at night.”
Once more he turns his tattooed eye on the cameraman, jerking his head slightly toward the barely-visible path leading into the swamp.
Zachariah Blood: ”Follow me. Step off the path at your own peril. I will not be responsible for what happens to you if you do.”
The tension is obvious given the momentary tremor of the camera’s focus before it starts to follow Zachariah (at a safe distance, of course) into the swamp. His candle is all that lights the way, hot wax soon pooling beneath the burning wick and threatening to spill with every step.
Zachariah Blood: ”Whether they choose to acknowledge it or not, APW as a whole now knows why we’re here. Our explanation was clear. If they cannot understand it then they were never meant to be a part of the solution in the first place. Titles are the means to an end, a way to hurt others and to bring wave after wave of would-be contenders pounding down on our door so we can exterminate their dreams as we break their bodies in the teaching of our lessons. Make no mistake: we want those championships. Our tongues crave the taste of gold and leather having been deprived for so long. And we will do whatever is necessary to have it once again.
The folly of Sang Réal and the Dying Breed is in the fact that they don’t take us seriously. History is right there before your eyes, but you have to open the book and turn the pages yourself. No one can do it for you. Instead, you crack jokes and blatantly ignore what’s been set before you. I shall not stand and say it was for your own good because I don’t give a damn about what’s ‘good’ for you. I am a sadist and a masochist. What’s good for me is suffering for everyone else. What’s good for everyone else…is insipid bullshit to me. From the first moments of our tenure in APW we warned all of you. You chose not to listen then and you persist to this day.”
Zachariah stops, bringing the candle around with him as he turns, a few red drops of wax sliding down the textured surface. They drip onto his unprotected flesh and he hisses in what can only be termed ecstasy.
Zachariah Blood: ”Now…you get what you deserve.”
He licks his lips slightly, wetting them down and making them glisten slightly in the candlelight. A few more drops patter audibly onto his flesh as he turns back around, resuming his stroll without turning ot see if the camera is following him.
Zachariah Blood: ”Sang Réal has been cutting the same damn promo for years and it was old the first time around. Money and heredity are the only way to the top, apparently. There’s no need to actually work for it. Just throw some money around and suck the right dicks and you’ll eventually get what you want. But even the ambrosia of the gods takes like crap when you’re trying to get the taste of shame out of your mouths. Allow me to humbly illustrate something for you, Sang Réal, in terms that you dripping-chin fops can understand.”
Blood stops again, spreading his arms wide. Red wax splashes about, some landing on the ground while some splatters upon him. It’s far from within his attention, though.
Zachariah Blood: ”I came from nothing, with nothing. My family name means nothing to the world and less to me. The only money I possess is what I earned through blood and suffering, through making other men cry like children for mercy I didn’t care to give. When someone else had something I coveted, I took it by force. When others used words to achieve their ends, I used my hands to tear those words from their throats as blood-curdling screams. I reached this point in the wrestling business, in my career, without the bedazzled crutches the two of you lean on every time you open your mouths. And that eats you alive, because without your last names and daddy’s trust fund, you two fuckers wouldn’t be worth a damn in this business.
The two of you negotiate and try to cow the masses and your opponents with snappy comebacks and witty verbiage. You’re nothing more than wrestling’s answer to Statler and Waldorf…only less funny. You’ve got a retort for everything but the problem is that your asses can’t keep up with your sharp tongues. You slash your own throats before your opponents even have a chance to beat the shit out of you. But I will not be deprived of my pleasure Sunday night. No, I will rip the two of you apart and I’ll love every goddamn minute of it. You’re in this match as little more than comic relief, just a pair of warm bodies in the way of The Unforgiven’s ascent.”
He laughs…a dark, hateful sound without smile or mirth behind it. More like a growl from an amused beast than the chuckle of a grown man.
Zachariah Blood: ”Fodder. Useless, mewling, twitching fodder. What you deserve is suffering and you will get what you deserve.”
His head snaps around, expression as cold as death.
Zachariah Blood: ”Follow exactly in my step until I stay otherwise.”
The camera moves up and down to signify nodding as Zachariah takes measured steps now along a darkened path he knows by memory. Such is fortunate because one brief glance downward shows us only dark stones residing in something…murky.
Zachariah Blood: ”Eyes forward.”
His snapping comment brings the camera to facing forward again, his motion incessant.
Zachariah Blood: ”As for the champion’s, they’re little better. They’re more worried about their moniker and what others think of them than they are about the danger they’re stumbling head-long into. Typical fan-pandering tripe, the death knell of any self-respecting beast who has lost his fangs. Dying Breed…you’re pathetic.”
There’s a wobble and the sound of something thick, viscous, shifting in the wake of Zachariah’s near misstep. But he doesn’t waver himself. His body adjusts easily to the uneven step and with a short hop he’s back on solid ground. He gives one glance back to the cameraman, sniffs and keeps moving.
Zachariah Blood: ”I don’t care why you call yourselves that though I have an inkling. Not unlike why we refer to ourselves as The Unforgiven, in fact. It’s a message to the precious few who have the brain cells to find the meaning. You see yourselves as the last of a dwindling generation, fighting to keep some high-and-mighty tradition alive, tossing around idealism like confetti, cluttering the air and ground with your baseless mantra. Am I close? Does it matter? Will it make a difference Sunday night?
Maybe. No. Hell no.
The two of you need to wake up and pull the gauze from your eyes. Get a real eyeful of the danger you and your title reign are in. Unlike Jair pertaining to my partner’s message, I actually paid attention to what he said in his near-incoherent address. The problem with that is little of note was discussed. There’s nothing any of your kind can teach me about earning accolades or old school and you need to realize that. Earning is stepping into a dilapidated ring on some farm that time forgot, fighting a mental hospital escapee for five bucks and a baloney sandwich. Old school is having a veteran pissed off about never making it big using you as his stress doll under the guise of ‘teaching you the ropes’. How many times did any of you fight through shit like that to reach this point?”
The candle slowly dwindles, the light becoming dimmer by tiny degrees as more and more liquid red drips down onto Zachariah’s flesh in hot, painful rivulets. It fairly coats half his hand but he doesn’t seem to care.
Zachariah Blood: ”Dying Breed…”
He spits on the ground in disgust.
Zachariah Blood: ”You’re shams as men and champions. Sunday night, you’d better fight like your life is on the line if you want to hold those belts for another second. Because you may be damn good at what you do, but you’re not willing to sink to the depths that Sentinel and I are. You’re not ready to experience true horror the likes of what we can produce. First match, tenth match, hundredth match…it makes no difference. Pain is universal. It is both art and weapon that we wield with mastery beyond your understanding.”
The path seems more even now, less dangerous. But that doesn’t stop the cameraman from staying right with Blood. Their path appears to be turning now, perhaps heading back to the bridge…
Zachariah Blood: ”You epitomize the ignorance and arrogance you speak out against. Practice what you preach much? No, that would be too easy and it’s obvious that you like doing things the hard way.”
Turning to face the camera, Zachariah holds up the candle so it properly illuminates his face, his expression feral.
Zachariah Blood: ”We’ll be happy to acquiesce…to take your championships and to break your second-generation spines…to give APW a further taste of the pain that is their future. I say once more, with all sincerity:"
Blood blows out the candle with a simple exhale, letting darkness overtake.
Zachariah Blood: ”Welcome.”
Harsh laughter and a shriek of fear emit before the feed cuts out.
