The Future is Bleak
Dec 10, 2012 22:27:05 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Dec 10, 2012 22:27:05 GMT -5
The last lingering rays of the mid-winter sun begin to sink below the horizon of the Monongahela River as dusk settles over the city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh sits about three-quarters of the distance between Erie and Elizabeth; the former capital of industry for the the Pennsylvania Commonwealth.
The sunlight searches the shadows of the entrenched darkness beneath the 10th Street Bridge that connects Bluff and Downtown Pittsburgh to the Southside Flats. Beneath the yawning expanse below the overpass bridge, the Monongahela River rushes, running perpendicular to the traffic above. It is amidst the accumulated garbage and graffiti below that the sunset's orange glow finds a unnatural match in the burning embers at the end of a cigarette.
A long, slow final drag briefly illuminates the matted locks, grizzled scruff and facial features of Malcolm Drake. Drake snaps the burning remnants from his lips and haphazardly flicks the butt into the running water a few feet below. A bulky black denim jacket – a size or two too large – hangs loosely from his frame over a black-and-white buffalo plaid shirt and dark denim that frays at the hem above a pair of black combat boots, caked in dirt.
“You're following me, aren't you?” The halfhearted accusation reverberates through the dank, dark seclusion.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.” Drake's tongue clicks against the back of his teeth causing the chastisement to echo in the darkness. “I don't LIKE to be followed,” Drake continues with a sigh, “but I suppose those of us – meant to lead – must... suffer... those who are meant to follow. You follow the battles and the wars and pick the bones of the vanquished like horrible crows...”
Drake stirs from his seat along the bank and makes his way to his feet. He brushes himself off and runs his hands through his hair, messing his unkempt locks and sending the strands of hair askew.
“I see a lot of FOLLOWERS when I look up and down the F.G.A. I see the cookie-cutter personalities of nuclear offspring and it SICKENS... me. Look at me, I'm a punk. Look at me, I'm an outcast. Look at me, I'm a drunk. Look at me, I'm pissed off. Look at me, look at me, LOOK AT ME,” Drake screams as he shoves his face ever closer to the camera before finally backing off a step; his tone lowering back down and reassuming a casual calmness.
“Well I have looked at you. I have looked at all of Frontier and I've seen... nothing. I see a vast wasteland of pretenders. But who am I? Who am I – what makes... Malcolm Drake... so different? The question BURNING in everyone's mind since December first has been, 'Who is Malcolm Drake?' Hmmm. Well on December 15th in Elizabeth, the whole WORLD is going to find out the answer. And I don't think they're going to like it very much.”
Drake begins scratching the raw flesh of his neck and then down to his chest as if trying to free something beneath his skin. He grits his teeth in the scratching before abruptly stopping.
“See what I am is the awakening. I said last week professional wrestling as you know it is dead. And a murder is coming to pick the bones. I am the lead crow; the harbinger. When Plato sought to enlighten the world to the fallacy of their existence he created the allegory of the cave. You sit in your cave and look at the shadows on the wall and think they're real. But I know better. I have suffered the PAIN. The true pain that comes from knowledge. Knowledge that pain is the ONLY truth, and it is a truth that I plan to spread through the wrestling world. Starting... with Jacob Demore.”
Malcolm Drake's lips curls into a smirking sneer as he mentions Jake Demore.
“Jacob Demore. The FUTURE of Wrestling... Hardly. If Jacob Demore is the future, then Malcolm Drake is the apocalypse. When I picture the future, I don't picture it hobbling around on a gimpy leg and suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from the total and complete MAIMING I have planned for Saturday night in Elizabeth, Pennsylvania.”
Drake begins pacing along the bank of the river, slipping in and out of the shadows that mask and unmask his features. His boots squish in the soft mud underneath him.
“You think you're a better wrestler than me, don't you? You must. Otherwise you would be foolish to step into the ring with a weak knee against any opponent. You think your Jiujitsu training and your Muay Thai training and your Greco-Roman training make you better than me, don't you? DON'T YOU? You think you're going to out-wrestle me. A little CATCHASCATCHCAN technical showcase. But here's what's going to happen, Jacob; you're going to go for a knuckle lock and I'm going to shove my knuckles down your throat. You're going to go for a collar-and-elbow tie-up and I'm going to shatter your bad knee. I am going to methodically and systematically take you apart piece... by piece.”
Drake stops pacing and turns a crooked head with a crooked smile towards the camera. His hair cascades down in shadows as he does.
“All that cute little training is fine and good when you're not in a real fight. Unfortunately for you, Jacob, that's exactly what you're in for on Saturday night. You want to apply your fancy holds. I want to rip your leg off at the knee and beat you lifeless with it. See I don't know all these cool little moves and holds... but I know how to hurt people. I didn't need a bunch of guys wearing bathrobes with pretty belts to teach me how to kick somebody's teeth down their THROAT.”
The sun has set now and Drake is barely distinguishable from the shadows.
“All the training and experience in the WORLD can't prepare you for me. Jacob Demore, if you are the 'Future of Wrestling,' then the future... is looking BLEAK.”
A soft cackle reverberates in the spreading shadows as Drake slinks back deeper and deeper into the darkness.
“Memento... mori.”
The sunlight searches the shadows of the entrenched darkness beneath the 10th Street Bridge that connects Bluff and Downtown Pittsburgh to the Southside Flats. Beneath the yawning expanse below the overpass bridge, the Monongahela River rushes, running perpendicular to the traffic above. It is amidst the accumulated garbage and graffiti below that the sunset's orange glow finds a unnatural match in the burning embers at the end of a cigarette.
A long, slow final drag briefly illuminates the matted locks, grizzled scruff and facial features of Malcolm Drake. Drake snaps the burning remnants from his lips and haphazardly flicks the butt into the running water a few feet below. A bulky black denim jacket – a size or two too large – hangs loosely from his frame over a black-and-white buffalo plaid shirt and dark denim that frays at the hem above a pair of black combat boots, caked in dirt.
“You're following me, aren't you?” The halfhearted accusation reverberates through the dank, dark seclusion.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.” Drake's tongue clicks against the back of his teeth causing the chastisement to echo in the darkness. “I don't LIKE to be followed,” Drake continues with a sigh, “but I suppose those of us – meant to lead – must... suffer... those who are meant to follow. You follow the battles and the wars and pick the bones of the vanquished like horrible crows...”
Drake stirs from his seat along the bank and makes his way to his feet. He brushes himself off and runs his hands through his hair, messing his unkempt locks and sending the strands of hair askew.
“I see a lot of FOLLOWERS when I look up and down the F.G.A. I see the cookie-cutter personalities of nuclear offspring and it SICKENS... me. Look at me, I'm a punk. Look at me, I'm an outcast. Look at me, I'm a drunk. Look at me, I'm pissed off. Look at me, look at me, LOOK AT ME,” Drake screams as he shoves his face ever closer to the camera before finally backing off a step; his tone lowering back down and reassuming a casual calmness.
“Well I have looked at you. I have looked at all of Frontier and I've seen... nothing. I see a vast wasteland of pretenders. But who am I? Who am I – what makes... Malcolm Drake... so different? The question BURNING in everyone's mind since December first has been, 'Who is Malcolm Drake?' Hmmm. Well on December 15th in Elizabeth, the whole WORLD is going to find out the answer. And I don't think they're going to like it very much.”
Drake begins scratching the raw flesh of his neck and then down to his chest as if trying to free something beneath his skin. He grits his teeth in the scratching before abruptly stopping.
“See what I am is the awakening. I said last week professional wrestling as you know it is dead. And a murder is coming to pick the bones. I am the lead crow; the harbinger. When Plato sought to enlighten the world to the fallacy of their existence he created the allegory of the cave. You sit in your cave and look at the shadows on the wall and think they're real. But I know better. I have suffered the PAIN. The true pain that comes from knowledge. Knowledge that pain is the ONLY truth, and it is a truth that I plan to spread through the wrestling world. Starting... with Jacob Demore.”
Malcolm Drake's lips curls into a smirking sneer as he mentions Jake Demore.
“Jacob Demore. The FUTURE of Wrestling... Hardly. If Jacob Demore is the future, then Malcolm Drake is the apocalypse. When I picture the future, I don't picture it hobbling around on a gimpy leg and suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from the total and complete MAIMING I have planned for Saturday night in Elizabeth, Pennsylvania.”
Drake begins pacing along the bank of the river, slipping in and out of the shadows that mask and unmask his features. His boots squish in the soft mud underneath him.
“You think you're a better wrestler than me, don't you? You must. Otherwise you would be foolish to step into the ring with a weak knee against any opponent. You think your Jiujitsu training and your Muay Thai training and your Greco-Roman training make you better than me, don't you? DON'T YOU? You think you're going to out-wrestle me. A little CATCHASCATCHCAN technical showcase. But here's what's going to happen, Jacob; you're going to go for a knuckle lock and I'm going to shove my knuckles down your throat. You're going to go for a collar-and-elbow tie-up and I'm going to shatter your bad knee. I am going to methodically and systematically take you apart piece... by piece.”
Drake stops pacing and turns a crooked head with a crooked smile towards the camera. His hair cascades down in shadows as he does.
“All that cute little training is fine and good when you're not in a real fight. Unfortunately for you, Jacob, that's exactly what you're in for on Saturday night. You want to apply your fancy holds. I want to rip your leg off at the knee and beat you lifeless with it. See I don't know all these cool little moves and holds... but I know how to hurt people. I didn't need a bunch of guys wearing bathrobes with pretty belts to teach me how to kick somebody's teeth down their THROAT.”
The sun has set now and Drake is barely distinguishable from the shadows.
“All the training and experience in the WORLD can't prepare you for me. Jacob Demore, if you are the 'Future of Wrestling,' then the future... is looking BLEAK.”
A soft cackle reverberates in the spreading shadows as Drake slinks back deeper and deeper into the darkness.
“Memento... mori.”