Everything In Its Time and Place
Feb 8, 2013 18:39:02 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Feb 8, 2013 18:39:02 GMT -5
OOC: Huge thanks to Terr and to Ryan Kidd for letting me have an extended deadline. I was in Colorado with my dad and brother for vacation and all of sudden Boston is about to get hit with a huge storm, so I'm stranded in Denver for the foreseeable future. I'm only able to type this because my dad and bro went for a walk and I have my brother's computer for a moment. Thanks again to everyone for being so understanding. Peace - Vinny
A light snow begins to fall over 62 Pier St. in New York City, New York as the first vestiges of Winter Storm Nemo make themselves known. At 62 Pier St., surrounded and sequesterd by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence, is the 62 Pier Skateboard Park. The park is empty save for the unoccupied quarter-pipes, ramps and rails, all slowly donning a thin layer of bright white snow.
From along Pier St. a man in a black trenchcoat, that ends just past his knees, approaches the skatepark. A dark grey hood from a concealed sweatshirt covers his head and hangs down over his brow. His heavy black combat boots scrape and scuttle along the snowy pavement, kicking flecks of new-fallen snow onto the lower hem of his jeans. As the man approaches the fence around the park, he removes his hands from his pockets and intertwines his fingers through the cold metal of the chain-link fence. As the wind picks up, strands of dirty blond hair wisp around the hooded man's cloaked face. A thin smile draws across the man's lips as he watches the snow trickle down, slowly burying the skatepark in pristine white.
"Everything," his voice croaks in a slightly-above-hushed tone, "... has its time and its place."
Malcolm Drake pushes the hood back off his face and runs a hand through his matted hair before returning it to the fence.
"In warmer, happier days this... skatepark would be full of youthful EXURBERANCE and care-free 'adrenaline junkies' looking... for their next high. I'm no stranger to junkies... But the winter storms have come, and the time for skater punks has ended. YOUR time has ended, Ryan Kidd. Your little reign as the golden boy of FGA is approaching its twilight. Your winter... is coming. And with it comes DESTITUTION and DECAY and DEATH. The storms will steal the life from you and leave only bones to be PICKED by those horrible crows you have grown to fear."
Drake shakes his head violently, like a dog, ridding his hair of its thin coating of snow.
"For it is in the time of winter that the creatures of darkness reign supreme, and COWARDS... like you... flee back to their sunny So-Cal sanctuaries. You cower and run like the fakes and frauds that you are and all that remains of you..."
Drake removes a hand from the fence and indicates the empty skatepark with a wide sweeping gesticulation.
"...are testaments to your cowardice and fleeting grandeur. You, Ryan Kidd, are EVERYTHING that I despise. You are a mirror of all that is wrong with professional wrestling and all that is wrong with society. You are everything the Murder seeks to - and will soon - eradicate. You court danger and never expect the CONSEQUENCES to catch up with you. Oh... but they have."
"You are a sun-kissed maggot who FEASTS on the impressionable minds of idiotic youth. You spawn legions of lemmings looking to be the next Tony Hawk or Ryan Kidd. You infect the world with your ilk. You are shamelessly fake. You treat men... or rather BOYS... like AJ Fairchild as your friend until they no longer serve your purpose. Then you cower and hide your failures behind your paper-thin excuses and your plastic-filled slut. You are a fake idol. A golden idolatry. Your the kind of counter-culture rebellion they sell at Hot Topic and Walmart under flashing banners. Ryan Kidd: HERO, ICON, FRAUD."
Drake slams his open palm against the chain-link fence causing it to rattle and shake off the accumulated snow.
"Can't you feel the end approaching, Ryan? You've already lost your previous UWL International title. You'll soon lose any shot you ever had at the FGA Heavyweight championship. And when that happens what will you have left? What is left of the false god when all his followers have deserted him? NOTHING. You are NOTHING more than another VICTIM, another sacrificial lamb, another phony god left as an offering before the Godkiller."
Drake pulls his hands from the fence, now red and raw from the cold metal and begins tugging at his hair with seemingly gleeful disregard.
"You know the Truth. You know that I bring the Truth. That creeping feeling in the pit of your stomach; that nagging thought in the back of your mind; the voice that says you can't do it, that you suck, that you're washed up... That's not self-doubt, Ryan. No. It's the Truth. You know it and you cannot bring yourself to ACCEPT IT!"
His shoulders start shuttering and Drake breaks into a fit of hysterical laughter, falling to his knees in the snow. He clutches at his ribs before eventually stopping. Drake slowly crawls forward leaving a trail of black pavement in the pure white snow.
"The Truth is inescapable, Ryan. You can run to Orlando, you can run to Long Beach, you can run anywhere... but the Truth will hunt you down. Hide all you want behind your SLUT and hide all you want behind your FALSE bravado. It makes no difference to me. It makes no difference to me that I am being USED as Fairchild's golem, because when the history is written no one will say that it was AJ Fairchuld that ended Ryan Kidd's career. No one will say it was Gunner Hughes that broke Ryan Kidd's spirit. No... To use the Latin phrase you mocking co-opted they will say of Ryan Kidd: 'venit,' he came; 'vidit,' he saw; 'victus,' he WAS conquered. All that is left now... is to make it so..."
Drake pulls himself to his feet, dripping and covered in snow, with a slithering path left behind him through the blank, pure white canvas of snow.
"Memento MORI."
A light snow begins to fall over 62 Pier St. in New York City, New York as the first vestiges of Winter Storm Nemo make themselves known. At 62 Pier St., surrounded and sequesterd by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence, is the 62 Pier Skateboard Park. The park is empty save for the unoccupied quarter-pipes, ramps and rails, all slowly donning a thin layer of bright white snow.
From along Pier St. a man in a black trenchcoat, that ends just past his knees, approaches the skatepark. A dark grey hood from a concealed sweatshirt covers his head and hangs down over his brow. His heavy black combat boots scrape and scuttle along the snowy pavement, kicking flecks of new-fallen snow onto the lower hem of his jeans. As the man approaches the fence around the park, he removes his hands from his pockets and intertwines his fingers through the cold metal of the chain-link fence. As the wind picks up, strands of dirty blond hair wisp around the hooded man's cloaked face. A thin smile draws across the man's lips as he watches the snow trickle down, slowly burying the skatepark in pristine white.
"Everything," his voice croaks in a slightly-above-hushed tone, "... has its time and its place."
Malcolm Drake pushes the hood back off his face and runs a hand through his matted hair before returning it to the fence.
"In warmer, happier days this... skatepark would be full of youthful EXURBERANCE and care-free 'adrenaline junkies' looking... for their next high. I'm no stranger to junkies... But the winter storms have come, and the time for skater punks has ended. YOUR time has ended, Ryan Kidd. Your little reign as the golden boy of FGA is approaching its twilight. Your winter... is coming. And with it comes DESTITUTION and DECAY and DEATH. The storms will steal the life from you and leave only bones to be PICKED by those horrible crows you have grown to fear."
Drake shakes his head violently, like a dog, ridding his hair of its thin coating of snow.
"For it is in the time of winter that the creatures of darkness reign supreme, and COWARDS... like you... flee back to their sunny So-Cal sanctuaries. You cower and run like the fakes and frauds that you are and all that remains of you..."
Drake removes a hand from the fence and indicates the empty skatepark with a wide sweeping gesticulation.
"...are testaments to your cowardice and fleeting grandeur. You, Ryan Kidd, are EVERYTHING that I despise. You are a mirror of all that is wrong with professional wrestling and all that is wrong with society. You are everything the Murder seeks to - and will soon - eradicate. You court danger and never expect the CONSEQUENCES to catch up with you. Oh... but they have."
"You are a sun-kissed maggot who FEASTS on the impressionable minds of idiotic youth. You spawn legions of lemmings looking to be the next Tony Hawk or Ryan Kidd. You infect the world with your ilk. You are shamelessly fake. You treat men... or rather BOYS... like AJ Fairchild as your friend until they no longer serve your purpose. Then you cower and hide your failures behind your paper-thin excuses and your plastic-filled slut. You are a fake idol. A golden idolatry. Your the kind of counter-culture rebellion they sell at Hot Topic and Walmart under flashing banners. Ryan Kidd: HERO, ICON, FRAUD."
Drake slams his open palm against the chain-link fence causing it to rattle and shake off the accumulated snow.
"Can't you feel the end approaching, Ryan? You've already lost your previous UWL International title. You'll soon lose any shot you ever had at the FGA Heavyweight championship. And when that happens what will you have left? What is left of the false god when all his followers have deserted him? NOTHING. You are NOTHING more than another VICTIM, another sacrificial lamb, another phony god left as an offering before the Godkiller."
Drake pulls his hands from the fence, now red and raw from the cold metal and begins tugging at his hair with seemingly gleeful disregard.
"You know the Truth. You know that I bring the Truth. That creeping feeling in the pit of your stomach; that nagging thought in the back of your mind; the voice that says you can't do it, that you suck, that you're washed up... That's not self-doubt, Ryan. No. It's the Truth. You know it and you cannot bring yourself to ACCEPT IT!"
His shoulders start shuttering and Drake breaks into a fit of hysterical laughter, falling to his knees in the snow. He clutches at his ribs before eventually stopping. Drake slowly crawls forward leaving a trail of black pavement in the pure white snow.
"The Truth is inescapable, Ryan. You can run to Orlando, you can run to Long Beach, you can run anywhere... but the Truth will hunt you down. Hide all you want behind your SLUT and hide all you want behind your FALSE bravado. It makes no difference to me. It makes no difference to me that I am being USED as Fairchild's golem, because when the history is written no one will say that it was AJ Fairchuld that ended Ryan Kidd's career. No one will say it was Gunner Hughes that broke Ryan Kidd's spirit. No... To use the Latin phrase you mocking co-opted they will say of Ryan Kidd: 'venit,' he came; 'vidit,' he saw; 'victus,' he WAS conquered. All that is left now... is to make it so..."
Drake pulls himself to his feet, dripping and covered in snow, with a slithering path left behind him through the blank, pure white canvas of snow.
"Memento MORI."