The Son Rises
Jan 16, 2014 19:20:49 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jan 16, 2014 19:20:49 GMT -5
The sun rises at the horizon, casting long orange fingers over the rippling currents of the Monongahela River that runs through Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The Tenth Street bridge, an unpleasingly off-white suspension bridge, sits in dark silhouette against the rising sun. Pre-rush morning traffic putters along in both directions. A slumber city slowly awakens; but some of its denizens have been awake all night...
Walking along the west-bound side pedestrian walkway of the Tenth Street Bridge, is a man in black, stressed leather jacket. A hooded sweatshirt, worn underneath, protects his head and face from the crosswinds that cut across the bridge. His face is enveloped by the cloud of condensation that emanates with each heavy exhalation. Hit gate is purposeful, his direction is the city. He'd be an unremarkably-pedestrian pedestrian if it weren't for the two large, gold-plated championship belts layered across his waist. The belts bounce off his denim-clad thighs as he walks, but for a man who travels with little more than the clothes on his back, the belts go where belts are supposed to go.
Presently, he stops at a small outpost along the bridge meant for passersby to admire the view. Malcolm Drake turns his back to the river, and pulls the hood off his face. The wind immediately whips his hair around him, like a tangled halo. Several days worth of scruff adorn his cheeks and chin. As he leans back with his elbows on the railing, his belts – the FGA Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt (complete with carved scar) and the IGNITE 24/7 Extreme Championship belt – are on full display. He takes a moment to brush the hair our of his eyes.
“Have you ever noticed,” Drake says before taking a brief pause, “just how many of these arenas are located near bridges?”
He makes a quick sweeping motion that encompasses the city, “Makes you think someone is trying to send you a message. Here's an easy way out. Just spread your wings... and fly. Look,” Drake points off towards the city, “you can even see the arena from here. Not that one. That's the CONSOL. We won't be there. We'll be at some other small, shitty arena. In front of another melting pot of the beleaguered and the mentally deficient. You know the ones I'm talking about, don't you? They're the ones that breathe through their mouths and wear Sean Sands T-shirts.”
Drake smirks before looking back towards the city. He tucks his thumbs behind his belts, his fingers strumming along the gold plates.
“It's funny, though,” he continues, “that we're so close to the CONSOL. Home of the Pittsburgh Penguins and Sidney Crosby. I grew up a hockey fan, you know. I couldn't afford the equipment. That was pushed out of the family budget by Lotto cards and Marlboros. But back when they used to show the games on network TV, I used to watch. And it got me thinking about a few things. It got me thinking about Sean Sands...”
Drake pauses, turning his attention away from the city.
“Sean Sands, you're the Sidney Crosby of FGA. You've got all the talent in the world, but no one respects you because despite it all you still manage to be just... a whiny, little BITCH. I've blown snot into tissues that were tougher than you. You posture like you're some bad-ass, some a wannabe hero. Tell me... who is the last hero that you know that took a run at somebody from behind? That's you, Sands. People say I'm crazy, but you're the one living is a delusional dream world, some parallel universe that exists only in your mind. Some world where Sean Sands isn't a punk-ass little BITCH. Congratulations, Sands, you won a championship. Exactly how long do you plan to coast on that accolade? Yeah, you won the belt. Yeah, you've beat me in the past. But that's you to a T, isn't it? You're the guy that points at his resume. You're the guy that says “Look at my past! Look at what I've done!”
Drake spits.
“Past tense,” he grunts. “That's you wannabe heroes trade your war stories. In the past tense. I guess that makes sense. It's EASY, after all. That's what these fans pay to see, right? A nostalgia act. They certainly don't pay to see the only members of the roster that have PRIDE. The only members of the FGA roster that are still HUNGRY. I'm hungry, Sands. I'm ALWAYS hungry. I grew up STARVING and ALONE, and there's a hunger in me that doesn't go away. See I'm not like you. No one's going to put my face on a poster. No one is going to use my abdomen to sell tickets. Yeah, maybe I carry around a little extra weight around the middle than you do, Sands,” Drake pauses, looking down, “But... most of it is in titles. See that's what happens you're hungry... you gain weight. You and I, were on opposite ends of the eating disorder scale. I'm a glutton... I admit it. I see something that I want and I go and I get it. You? You're... what's that phrase they use? Manorexic. You're the living embodiment of vanity. A pretty box with nothing inside. Oh sure, they gave you the PUSH that I never got. And you got the rub for getting a fluke win over me. But if you want to point at the scoreboard and tell me it says 'Sean Sands -1, Malcolm Drake – 0” that you're not keeping score right.”
Drake unstraps both belts and holds them up.
“It's Malcolm Drake – 2, Sean Sands – 0,” Drake places a belt on each shoulder before continuing, “The smartest thing for you to do is to avoid getting involved in this match altogether. It doesn't suit you. You're not a team player. Hell, you're barely still even in the game. In fact, why don't you do what you do best instead: feather your Bon Jovi hair and snarl at the mirror. Really play it up for your reflection. After all, he's your biggest fan.”
“You like to strut around and smile and run your mouth. That's FINE. That's not my game, but that's fine. You know what is my game, Sands? You know what it is I like to do? I like to break people legs, so they can't strut. I like to kick people's teeth in, so they can't smile. And I like to rip our their tongues, so they have nothing left to fucking say. And that is what I'm going to do to Sean fucking Sands if he gets in that ring with me. As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Sands... you're already dead.”
Drake turns on his heel and keeps walking towards the city. A van drives by, slowing to take a gander at the odd pedestrian before continuing along. Drake keeps walking.
“And speaking of people who have over-stayed their welcome... The Shoot Kings,” Drake scowls, “Haven't we embarrassed you enough? What impossibly small, infinitesimal level of hope could you possibly still be harboring? People like to talk about how GREAT the FGA Tag Team division is. You know what I say? I say it's top heavy. There's The Murder on top, and all the carrion below us. Run through the list with me. Usual Suspects: beat 'em. Bloodbath & Beyond or whatever they're calling themselves these days: beat 'em. The UK Dragons: beat 'em so bad they never came back. The Shoot Kings: we've beat 'em so many times I'm losing count. The only team left for us to beat is the cartoon characters, the toughest guys on Twitter, the Super Mario Wrestling Brothers. You know what's an accomplishment? That I was able to say that without laughing. As far as FGA goes, there's The Murder and there's the victims.”
Drake continues walking towards Pittsburgh, the city slowly rising to meet him.
“Why am I even wasting my breath on the Shoot Kings? In fact, why are they even in this match? Why is The Murder being forced to share the ring with a trio of has-beens? Last I checked it was still illegal to show an execution on television, even if it is cable. Well that's what people are going to see when if they tune in to Battleground: an execution. A ritual killing. And... a statement. A statement that will be made loud and clear to all of professional wrestling from the new pulpit that FGA has arranged for us. A simple message... you don't cross The Murder.”
The suspension cords of the bridge become further and further spaced apart as Drake approaches the end of the bridge where the walkway melts into the sidewalk. The sun has risen, but the long shadows keep Drake in the darkness.
“On Saturday night, we stake our claim. We plant our flag at the top of the FGA mountain. Cross the barren sands, and step over the bodies of broken kings if you want war... but it is a war you will not win. War feeds the crows, and the crows live on.”
“Memento mori.”
Drake turns his back and begins walking off into the city. At the edge of the bridge, pulled over to the side is the van that had driven past. Standing outside of it, in a light gray hoodie is an older man. His hair is that once-blond shade of gray. The man's eyes are fixated on the approaching figure of Malcolm Drake. Drake continues on obliviously. He walks right by the man.
It takes him a moment, but the man turns and, in an unsteady voice...
“Malcolm!”
Drake stops.
“Malcolm,” the man repeats before hesitantly moving closer. Drake is still in his place, the only sign of life is the occasional puff of warm air from his breath. Drake turns. Slowly. His shoulders first, his head following. His face no longer carries its default scowl, its sneering scorn or its self-righteous smirk. Drake's face is soft. Boyish. Apologetic.
The man to within five feet of Drake, who has only turned half-way, looking over his shoulder. The man repeats his name, “Malcolm.” A slow smile moves across his face. His blue eyes light up, and sparkle as if ready to release long-held tears.
Drake blinks. He stares at the man's face, and blinks again.
“Daddy...”
Walking along the west-bound side pedestrian walkway of the Tenth Street Bridge, is a man in black, stressed leather jacket. A hooded sweatshirt, worn underneath, protects his head and face from the crosswinds that cut across the bridge. His face is enveloped by the cloud of condensation that emanates with each heavy exhalation. Hit gate is purposeful, his direction is the city. He'd be an unremarkably-pedestrian pedestrian if it weren't for the two large, gold-plated championship belts layered across his waist. The belts bounce off his denim-clad thighs as he walks, but for a man who travels with little more than the clothes on his back, the belts go where belts are supposed to go.
Presently, he stops at a small outpost along the bridge meant for passersby to admire the view. Malcolm Drake turns his back to the river, and pulls the hood off his face. The wind immediately whips his hair around him, like a tangled halo. Several days worth of scruff adorn his cheeks and chin. As he leans back with his elbows on the railing, his belts – the FGA Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt (complete with carved scar) and the IGNITE 24/7 Extreme Championship belt – are on full display. He takes a moment to brush the hair our of his eyes.
“Have you ever noticed,” Drake says before taking a brief pause, “just how many of these arenas are located near bridges?”
He makes a quick sweeping motion that encompasses the city, “Makes you think someone is trying to send you a message. Here's an easy way out. Just spread your wings... and fly. Look,” Drake points off towards the city, “you can even see the arena from here. Not that one. That's the CONSOL. We won't be there. We'll be at some other small, shitty arena. In front of another melting pot of the beleaguered and the mentally deficient. You know the ones I'm talking about, don't you? They're the ones that breathe through their mouths and wear Sean Sands T-shirts.”
Drake smirks before looking back towards the city. He tucks his thumbs behind his belts, his fingers strumming along the gold plates.
“It's funny, though,” he continues, “that we're so close to the CONSOL. Home of the Pittsburgh Penguins and Sidney Crosby. I grew up a hockey fan, you know. I couldn't afford the equipment. That was pushed out of the family budget by Lotto cards and Marlboros. But back when they used to show the games on network TV, I used to watch. And it got me thinking about a few things. It got me thinking about Sean Sands...”
Drake pauses, turning his attention away from the city.
“Sean Sands, you're the Sidney Crosby of FGA. You've got all the talent in the world, but no one respects you because despite it all you still manage to be just... a whiny, little BITCH. I've blown snot into tissues that were tougher than you. You posture like you're some bad-ass, some a wannabe hero. Tell me... who is the last hero that you know that took a run at somebody from behind? That's you, Sands. People say I'm crazy, but you're the one living is a delusional dream world, some parallel universe that exists only in your mind. Some world where Sean Sands isn't a punk-ass little BITCH. Congratulations, Sands, you won a championship. Exactly how long do you plan to coast on that accolade? Yeah, you won the belt. Yeah, you've beat me in the past. But that's you to a T, isn't it? You're the guy that points at his resume. You're the guy that says “Look at my past! Look at what I've done!”
Drake spits.
“Past tense,” he grunts. “That's you wannabe heroes trade your war stories. In the past tense. I guess that makes sense. It's EASY, after all. That's what these fans pay to see, right? A nostalgia act. They certainly don't pay to see the only members of the roster that have PRIDE. The only members of the FGA roster that are still HUNGRY. I'm hungry, Sands. I'm ALWAYS hungry. I grew up STARVING and ALONE, and there's a hunger in me that doesn't go away. See I'm not like you. No one's going to put my face on a poster. No one is going to use my abdomen to sell tickets. Yeah, maybe I carry around a little extra weight around the middle than you do, Sands,” Drake pauses, looking down, “But... most of it is in titles. See that's what happens you're hungry... you gain weight. You and I, were on opposite ends of the eating disorder scale. I'm a glutton... I admit it. I see something that I want and I go and I get it. You? You're... what's that phrase they use? Manorexic. You're the living embodiment of vanity. A pretty box with nothing inside. Oh sure, they gave you the PUSH that I never got. And you got the rub for getting a fluke win over me. But if you want to point at the scoreboard and tell me it says 'Sean Sands -1, Malcolm Drake – 0” that you're not keeping score right.”
Drake unstraps both belts and holds them up.
“It's Malcolm Drake – 2, Sean Sands – 0,” Drake places a belt on each shoulder before continuing, “The smartest thing for you to do is to avoid getting involved in this match altogether. It doesn't suit you. You're not a team player. Hell, you're barely still even in the game. In fact, why don't you do what you do best instead: feather your Bon Jovi hair and snarl at the mirror. Really play it up for your reflection. After all, he's your biggest fan.”
“You like to strut around and smile and run your mouth. That's FINE. That's not my game, but that's fine. You know what is my game, Sands? You know what it is I like to do? I like to break people legs, so they can't strut. I like to kick people's teeth in, so they can't smile. And I like to rip our their tongues, so they have nothing left to fucking say. And that is what I'm going to do to Sean fucking Sands if he gets in that ring with me. As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Sands... you're already dead.”
Drake turns on his heel and keeps walking towards the city. A van drives by, slowing to take a gander at the odd pedestrian before continuing along. Drake keeps walking.
“And speaking of people who have over-stayed their welcome... The Shoot Kings,” Drake scowls, “Haven't we embarrassed you enough? What impossibly small, infinitesimal level of hope could you possibly still be harboring? People like to talk about how GREAT the FGA Tag Team division is. You know what I say? I say it's top heavy. There's The Murder on top, and all the carrion below us. Run through the list with me. Usual Suspects: beat 'em. Bloodbath & Beyond or whatever they're calling themselves these days: beat 'em. The UK Dragons: beat 'em so bad they never came back. The Shoot Kings: we've beat 'em so many times I'm losing count. The only team left for us to beat is the cartoon characters, the toughest guys on Twitter, the Super Mario Wrestling Brothers. You know what's an accomplishment? That I was able to say that without laughing. As far as FGA goes, there's The Murder and there's the victims.”
Drake continues walking towards Pittsburgh, the city slowly rising to meet him.
“Why am I even wasting my breath on the Shoot Kings? In fact, why are they even in this match? Why is The Murder being forced to share the ring with a trio of has-beens? Last I checked it was still illegal to show an execution on television, even if it is cable. Well that's what people are going to see when if they tune in to Battleground: an execution. A ritual killing. And... a statement. A statement that will be made loud and clear to all of professional wrestling from the new pulpit that FGA has arranged for us. A simple message... you don't cross The Murder.”
The suspension cords of the bridge become further and further spaced apart as Drake approaches the end of the bridge where the walkway melts into the sidewalk. The sun has risen, but the long shadows keep Drake in the darkness.
“On Saturday night, we stake our claim. We plant our flag at the top of the FGA mountain. Cross the barren sands, and step over the bodies of broken kings if you want war... but it is a war you will not win. War feeds the crows, and the crows live on.”
“Memento mori.”
Drake turns his back and begins walking off into the city. At the edge of the bridge, pulled over to the side is the van that had driven past. Standing outside of it, in a light gray hoodie is an older man. His hair is that once-blond shade of gray. The man's eyes are fixated on the approaching figure of Malcolm Drake. Drake continues on obliviously. He walks right by the man.
It takes him a moment, but the man turns and, in an unsteady voice...
“Malcolm!”
Drake stops.
“Malcolm,” the man repeats before hesitantly moving closer. Drake is still in his place, the only sign of life is the occasional puff of warm air from his breath. Drake turns. Slowly. His shoulders first, his head following. His face no longer carries its default scowl, its sneering scorn or its self-righteous smirk. Drake's face is soft. Boyish. Apologetic.
The man to within five feet of Drake, who has only turned half-way, looking over his shoulder. The man repeats his name, “Malcolm.” A slow smile moves across his face. His blue eyes light up, and sparkle as if ready to release long-held tears.
Drake blinks. He stares at the man's face, and blinks again.
“Daddy...”