Where the Road Ends
Sept 24, 2013 23:15:00 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Sept 24, 2013 23:15:00 GMT -5
Chicago Ridge, Illinois.
At the end of West 103rd Street in Chicago Ridge, Illinois there are four red and white striped barricades, backed up by ten yellow and black barricade barrels and a big sign that reads “ROAD ENDS.” A lone street lamp on the left ride of the road casts an orange halo around the blockade, and shines off the reflectors atop the barricades. It allows shines off the large gold-plated belt that is draped across the lap of the man seated between the barricades, below the sign.
The light from the street lamp casts long shadows, and his long hair obscures his face. His attire blends into the shadows; black on black on black. Only his black combat boots, sitting on splayed legs, spill out into the lamp light. A low rumbling starts up in the distance, growing louder and joined by the ringing sounds of a nearby railroad crossing. A train whistles pierces the night, and in the background a freight train cruises by, it's headlight briefly illuminating the figure of Malcolm Drake, seated and staring at his Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt.
The train fades off into the night, and the trailing rumble follows it.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Drake says in a voice just above a whisper, his eyes never rising from the belt.
“After I rearranged Laurel-Anne Hardy's insides with my fists... she called me a “fucking amateur,” Drake parrots the comment in a mocking British accent. “After I stomped Johnny Blayze's face in and exposed Bloodbath and Beyond, he called me... “disappointing.”
Drake's bemused expression contorts into a twisting scowl.
“Every TIME I show these... INSECTS mercy, they openly mock me in some vain attempt to maintain what little self-respect they still have. They pretend that I haven't just reduced them from heroes to FRAUDS. They needle me and needle me and...”
Drake abruptly throws his head back, tossing the hair off his face, and then blasts himself in the jaw with his right fist.
“YOU WANT THE FLESH PICKED FROM YOUR BONES?! YOU WANT THE MONSTERS TO COME OUT?!”
Drake's scream cut through the silence of the night, before fading.
“When I say “memento mori,” it isn't some cute catchphrase. It is a reminder. A reminder that every time you step into the ring with Malcolm Drake, your life is in MY hands. It is a warning... to remember your mortality. They call me the most dangerous man in professional wrestling, but my best kept secret is that I've been holding back. I've been... protecting YOU. And for WHAT? So you people sneer at me, deride me, point your fingers at me and boo and hiss? What have I ever done to you? I've tried to open your eyes and you've said, “No! The ignorance is bliss. The truth hurts too much.” You'd rather stay in Plato's cave, watching shadows on the wall.”
Drake sneers.
“I'm the good guy here. Your precious heroes, they're the ones who FAILED you. They puff their chests out and pound them in hubris, and what did that get them? When FRONTIER marched in here and kicked their teeth in, who stood up for FGA? The Murder. And when they came for FGA's Pride, Chris Bond answered the call only to do what Mr. Bond does best... fail to live up to expectations. That's why he no longer holds the title. Your heroes have made a mockery of this company while The Murder has taken it under our wings and dragged it OUT of the cesspool, and on to television. Who of your heroes has fired a single retaliatory shot at FRONTIER? None. But I have. I took it upon myself, as I will continue to do because whether or not you like to admit it: I AM the best. I AM the leader of The Murder and therefore the leader of Frontier Grappling Arts. I am not a hero, but I'm the damn closest you've got!”
Drake's sneer fades as his eyes drop back down to the belt draped across his lap. He adjusts it, allowing the lamp light to bounce off it, shining upward and creating uneven lighting across his face.
“Or at least... that you had. You cast me aside because I didn't fit into your mold; I'm not one of these cookie-cutter wrestlers with their six pack abs and flashy high spots. You don't want me to hold back any more? You don't want me to protect you? You'd rather have some shiny, new hero, someone like Sean Sands?”
“Be careful... what you wish for.”
Drake looks back up, unblinking and straight ahead.
“Do you know why you have this match, Mr. Sands? It's a test. You won the Frontier Lion's Cup and well... BULLY for you, but now is the time for a cold, hard dose of reality. In winning the Lion's Cup all you did is prove that you're the best of the mediocre. You established yourself as the top dog among the men that JERK the curtain for my matches.”
“That's what you are, Mr. Sands. You're KING of the Curtain Jerkers. You're the Mid-Card Icon. They want to mold you into a hero, but have you stopped to look at the men who walked that path before you? That road is littered with the corpses of heroes that I've faced, with careers that I've ended. You think winning the Lion's Cup means you've made it? Well, you made it to the door, but you don't have enough in you to pay the cover charge to get into the Chris Q Party. You see, on Saturday in Chicago Ridge, I will be representing not only myself, not only The Murder, but every one of us that is BETTER than YOU... and who DESERVE that title shot MORE than YOU. You can have your little celebration party with your little family and talk about how you BUST through glass ceilings.”
Drake spits.
“Your glass ceiling is my floor, and I don't take kindly to vandals breaking into MY PLACE. I don't like it when thieves try to steal MY SPOT. So when you poke your stupid FACE up through the glass ceiling I'm going to take my boot, kick in all your fucking teeth and send you careening back down into the dark matches where you belong.”
“You think you DESERVE your title shot because you won some little tournament? Hmm. The only thing you've won is the war of attrition. You're here because I've already destroyed everyone BETTER than YOU. Do you truly believe – deep down – that you belong in this Main Event? Do you believe that you can even compare to me? To Dominic? To Robert? To Chris Q? Chris Q would rip your heart out and use it as a garnish on his next cocktail... I say “would” because unfortunately for him, you'll never make it to your title match. Your road ends...”
Drake pauses, looks up at the sign above his head, and smirks.
“...with me. On Saturday night, the monster... is let loose. You want to be the hero, Mr. Sands? Be careful what you wish for...”
“Memento mori.”
At the end of West 103rd Street in Chicago Ridge, Illinois there are four red and white striped barricades, backed up by ten yellow and black barricade barrels and a big sign that reads “ROAD ENDS.” A lone street lamp on the left ride of the road casts an orange halo around the blockade, and shines off the reflectors atop the barricades. It allows shines off the large gold-plated belt that is draped across the lap of the man seated between the barricades, below the sign.
The light from the street lamp casts long shadows, and his long hair obscures his face. His attire blends into the shadows; black on black on black. Only his black combat boots, sitting on splayed legs, spill out into the lamp light. A low rumbling starts up in the distance, growing louder and joined by the ringing sounds of a nearby railroad crossing. A train whistles pierces the night, and in the background a freight train cruises by, it's headlight briefly illuminating the figure of Malcolm Drake, seated and staring at his Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt.
The train fades off into the night, and the trailing rumble follows it.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Drake says in a voice just above a whisper, his eyes never rising from the belt.
“After I rearranged Laurel-Anne Hardy's insides with my fists... she called me a “fucking amateur,” Drake parrots the comment in a mocking British accent. “After I stomped Johnny Blayze's face in and exposed Bloodbath and Beyond, he called me... “disappointing.”
Drake's bemused expression contorts into a twisting scowl.
“Every TIME I show these... INSECTS mercy, they openly mock me in some vain attempt to maintain what little self-respect they still have. They pretend that I haven't just reduced them from heroes to FRAUDS. They needle me and needle me and...”
Drake abruptly throws his head back, tossing the hair off his face, and then blasts himself in the jaw with his right fist.
“YOU WANT THE FLESH PICKED FROM YOUR BONES?! YOU WANT THE MONSTERS TO COME OUT?!”
Drake's scream cut through the silence of the night, before fading.
“When I say “memento mori,” it isn't some cute catchphrase. It is a reminder. A reminder that every time you step into the ring with Malcolm Drake, your life is in MY hands. It is a warning... to remember your mortality. They call me the most dangerous man in professional wrestling, but my best kept secret is that I've been holding back. I've been... protecting YOU. And for WHAT? So you people sneer at me, deride me, point your fingers at me and boo and hiss? What have I ever done to you? I've tried to open your eyes and you've said, “No! The ignorance is bliss. The truth hurts too much.” You'd rather stay in Plato's cave, watching shadows on the wall.”
Drake sneers.
“I'm the good guy here. Your precious heroes, they're the ones who FAILED you. They puff their chests out and pound them in hubris, and what did that get them? When FRONTIER marched in here and kicked their teeth in, who stood up for FGA? The Murder. And when they came for FGA's Pride, Chris Bond answered the call only to do what Mr. Bond does best... fail to live up to expectations. That's why he no longer holds the title. Your heroes have made a mockery of this company while The Murder has taken it under our wings and dragged it OUT of the cesspool, and on to television. Who of your heroes has fired a single retaliatory shot at FRONTIER? None. But I have. I took it upon myself, as I will continue to do because whether or not you like to admit it: I AM the best. I AM the leader of The Murder and therefore the leader of Frontier Grappling Arts. I am not a hero, but I'm the damn closest you've got!”
Drake's sneer fades as his eyes drop back down to the belt draped across his lap. He adjusts it, allowing the lamp light to bounce off it, shining upward and creating uneven lighting across his face.
“Or at least... that you had. You cast me aside because I didn't fit into your mold; I'm not one of these cookie-cutter wrestlers with their six pack abs and flashy high spots. You don't want me to hold back any more? You don't want me to protect you? You'd rather have some shiny, new hero, someone like Sean Sands?”
“Be careful... what you wish for.”
Drake looks back up, unblinking and straight ahead.
“Do you know why you have this match, Mr. Sands? It's a test. You won the Frontier Lion's Cup and well... BULLY for you, but now is the time for a cold, hard dose of reality. In winning the Lion's Cup all you did is prove that you're the best of the mediocre. You established yourself as the top dog among the men that JERK the curtain for my matches.”
“That's what you are, Mr. Sands. You're KING of the Curtain Jerkers. You're the Mid-Card Icon. They want to mold you into a hero, but have you stopped to look at the men who walked that path before you? That road is littered with the corpses of heroes that I've faced, with careers that I've ended. You think winning the Lion's Cup means you've made it? Well, you made it to the door, but you don't have enough in you to pay the cover charge to get into the Chris Q Party. You see, on Saturday in Chicago Ridge, I will be representing not only myself, not only The Murder, but every one of us that is BETTER than YOU... and who DESERVE that title shot MORE than YOU. You can have your little celebration party with your little family and talk about how you BUST through glass ceilings.”
Drake spits.
“Your glass ceiling is my floor, and I don't take kindly to vandals breaking into MY PLACE. I don't like it when thieves try to steal MY SPOT. So when you poke your stupid FACE up through the glass ceiling I'm going to take my boot, kick in all your fucking teeth and send you careening back down into the dark matches where you belong.”
“You think you DESERVE your title shot because you won some little tournament? Hmm. The only thing you've won is the war of attrition. You're here because I've already destroyed everyone BETTER than YOU. Do you truly believe – deep down – that you belong in this Main Event? Do you believe that you can even compare to me? To Dominic? To Robert? To Chris Q? Chris Q would rip your heart out and use it as a garnish on his next cocktail... I say “would” because unfortunately for him, you'll never make it to your title match. Your road ends...”
Drake pauses, looks up at the sign above his head, and smirks.
“...with me. On Saturday night, the monster... is let loose. You want to be the hero, Mr. Sands? Be careful what you wish for...”
“Memento mori.”