Avarice (Gold Rush Rumble)

[pete]

The (new) Thrawn Household, Off-Camera

GRENDEL: You know I dislike accepting money from your father.

He, the man known to the world only as GRENDEL, places a large box in the empty room. Almost immediately, the response comes back from the corridor - she’d been expecting the comment, obviously.

Devan Thrawn: Well we haven’t, have we. As of Midnight last night… EEST, of course... this money is our money.

He grunts in response, barely audible, as she walks into the room, carrying another box herself. Compared to his old, beaten t-shirt and tattered jeans, her designer top and slacks seem the finest in haute couture. She sighs at him.

Devan Thrawn: I know how you feel about handouts…

GRENDEL: Nepotism.

Devan Thrawn: But this isn’t that. You know that. You went over the contract with me enough. Uncle Je… I mean, my father, has made me the head of his US operations. This…

She gestures around herself, presumably indicating the room they are now stood in.

Devan Thrawn: … is just an advance on my salary, that’s all.

He barely grunts in acknowledgement this time, making to leave the room, back the way they came. Her hand snakes out, softly, but firmly, locking onto his forearm. He stops dead in his tracks.

Devan Thrawn: Look at me.

For a moment, it seems like he might refuse.

Devan Thrawn: Look. At. Me.

Slowly, he directs his gaze into her eyes. Almost immediately, his whole demeanour changes. His shoulders relax, his face softens.

Devan Thrawn: You know I’m still building a relationship with him. It’s not easy, you know… to find out the man you called uncle your whole life… your godfather at that… is actually your father. He wants to help… but you’ve met him. You know him. Does he strike you as a man prone to just giving handouts.

Sighing, he shakes his head.

Devan Thrawn: Trust me… I’m going to be working my ass off to pay for this. You too.

She looks up into his eyes, and breaks into a smile, knowing that she’s won.

GRENDEL: Fine.

As he goes to leave again, she holds onto his wrist. Again, her tiny frame somehow manages to keep the man mountain in place with the minimum of effort.

Devan Thrawn: Take a rest.

He smiles briefly, before going to leave once more, and once more she restrains him.

Devan Thrawn: I insist. I’ve hired moving men for a reason. We’re not getting our moneys worth if you just move everything for them.

He looks around.

GRENDEL: It’s not as if there’s anything else to do right now, is there. I can’t even train…

She rolls her eyes. It’s a well practiced look, being developed on her, well, for lack of a better term, brothers, and honed to perfection on the man she now calls husband.

Devan Thrawn: Sweetie, all you’ve done, since your first match with FGA was announced, is train. On your own, or with Aries. I swear I love that man, but you’ve seen more of him than you have of me this past month and I’m beginning to wonder if I should feel jealous or just plain neglected.

The look of hurt on his face is very real; she instantly realises it’s a step too far.

GRENDEL: I would never mean to…

She steps up to him, the giant, imposing bear of a man, and gently takes his colossal ham hocks masquerading as hands into her own, delicate appendages.

Devan Thrawn: I know you wouldn’t. It would never even occur to you. And that’s why I love you. But right now, in the first home we actually own, together, I’d like to spend some time with the man I’m proud to call my husband, OK?

He smiles slightly, pulling one hand free of hers, and using it to gently move some of her silky brown hair out of her eyes.

GRENDEL: It still warms my heart to hear you call me that, my love.

She bites her lip, as her eyes dart to the doorway.

Devan Thrawn: Do you think we could… you know… without anyone hearing?

He smiles. It’s truly the broad smile of a content man.

GRENDEL: Not if past experience is anything to go on.

She pulls a face.

Devan Thrawn: Dang. Well, you survive for now, but as soon as I get you alone, you’re in trouble, you hear me?

He leans over, depositing a tender kiss on her forehead.

GRENDEL: As you wish, my love.

She stops him from standing back up, holding him in place and engaging him in a long, full kiss.

Devan Thrawn: That’s better.

She saunters over to one of the boxes, and perches on it, refocusing her attention on him.

Devan Thrawn: So, tell me… how does it feel, to be back in the ring? It feels like a lifetime has passed since the Young Guns Cup.

He shrugs.

GRENDEL: I never missed it. Not for even a second… until I set foot back in it.

She nods, appreciating fully what he’s saying, having had a similar relationship with the sport herself.

GRENDEL: Our time in isolation was paradise. But now, I realise, more than creating a life for ourselves… we were merely delaying the rest of our lives. I belong by your side… and I belong to the ring. One and the same. I may be content with one, and not the other, but without both I could never be whole.

Devan Thrawn: You don’t need to apologise, sweetie, it’s powerful. I’d know I still dream about stepping foot between the ropes, but…

She starts to rub her neck. It’s no awkward gesture, but rather a sensitivity to the injury that cut short her career. His face suddenly turns dark.

GRENDEL: I’ll break Arino for ever laying a hand on you.

Devan Thrawn: Sweetie…

GRENDEL: No. That man threatened to take my whole world from me. There is nothing on this sphere that could ever hope to save him should he dare darken our door.

A smile plays over her face.

Devan Thrawn: I love it when you get angry.

GRENDEL: Anger? My love, anger and rage are the toys of a child who does not know the ways of world. This is something greater than anger. The most powerful motivator of all. This is pure, unadulterated, hatred. I hate that man more even than I do Erikssen or Collins.

Devan Thrawn: And what are you going to do with that hatred, my love? Hold it down, deep within you?

Her smile broadens, anticipating his response.

GRENDEL: Hold it down? Why my love, nothing could be further from the truth. Hatred is the greatest gift there is, the true primal motivator. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t share it with the world?

She leaps up from her seat, and bears down on him, pushing him to the wall.

Devan Thrawn: You really know how to get a girl’s motor going, you know?

With one hand thrust against his chest, pressing him to the wall, the other begins to snake down his abdomen, to his belt.

GRENDEL: My love… the workmen?

A devilish smile comes over her face, as she unfastens his belt, and pulls his jeans open.

Devan Thrawn: Well then… you’d better be quiet for a change, hadn’t you?

GRENDEL Promotional VT: Avarice

GRENDEL: Avarice is a powerful thing.

There’s the sharp scrape of flint, quickly followed by the sound of gas igniting. Sparks appear in the darkness, closely followed by flame. The sudden burst of violent light illuminates the painted face of the man known as GRENDEL. His hate-filled visage looks straight into the camera, eyes, lost in the shadows and greasepaint like two black holes in the empty void of space, staring straight out at the viewer.

GRENDEL: It tempts, luring all with it’s sirens song and promises of greater things. And watch...watch how they’re all drawn to it… like moths to the flame.

He lets the statement hang in the air a moment, before carrying on.

GRENDEL: Like the moth… their desire consumes them. Some may know it’s wrong. Some may think they’re powerful enough to take it. But when all is said and done…

He flicks his wrist, snapping the lighter shut, bringing the darkness rushing back.

GRENDEL: The fire consumes them all.

The blackness lingers a few moments more, before it is chased away by lights dimming up. It still clings to the corners of the small, dark room, shadows looming. Waiting. The man, GRENDEL, is stood in the centre, his arms and torso bound in chains. His wrists are drawn wide apart, the chains linking them to the walls. He strains against them, leaning to the camera, but they hold true. Sweat glistens on his naked torso. Before him stands a woman, Devan Thrawn. She plays with the zippo lighter a moment, before running her hand up over his bound chest. She smiles to the camera, and giggles, before walking away and out of shot. He strains at his chains a moment more, before a curt cough draws his focus to the camera. He snarls.

GRENDEL: The Gold Rush Rumble has brought in competitors from all around this business. In years past, as now, they have come far and wide, from other companies, nations, continents… and for why? For the faint hope of a grazing touch at glory? Do they maybe believe that their chances are as good as anybody else’s? Perhaps they are deluded enough to believe that this is some springboard to greatness, and that they actually hold some hope of winning the contest, and then the gold.

A sneer, before he spits at the floor before him, once more pulling at his bonds.

GRENDEL: Because truly, that’s what they desire. They don’t seek to prove themselves the superior in this field of competition. This… “event”... is not the reason they come here… no. They are all here for one reason only. To try and obtain a shot at that championship. The ultimate symbol of narcissistic glory in an industry full of megalomaniacs, nepotists and egocentrics. They believe it to be evidence of their ability, or a gateway to wealth and fame. Well, let me take a moment to correct you all.

He pulls sharply at the chain holding his right first. There’s a slight crumbling of brick dust from the blackened, the wall as he pulls the chain taut. He growls, before settling, calming. As he breathes, heavily, his whole body seems to expand and contract.

GRENDEL: I have tasted what you all crave. My brother and I cllimbed the Olympus of this sport, and sampled the Ambrosia on offer at it’s peak. There was no blessed relief, no divine accolade. Instead, nothing but a bitter taste, and empty promises. I found it wanting.

A snort of derision, as he stands upright. The chains still tear at his wrists, pulling his arms wide, a parody of a beckoning pose.

GRENDEL: Since Aries and I did it, people have wished to know why we destroyed the EXODUS Tag Team Championships. It seems the whispers have extended here, to FGA. It’s simple. The belts were a symbol, nothing more, of the carrot they dangle before us, of the millstone they hang around our necks, to force us to dance to their tune. They seek to favour the few, those whose names they can exploit, whose image they can market, at the expense of the many. There are no opportunities for success here, only failure, and that is how it will always be, as long those in positions of power seek to employ that power to further their own aims and ambitions, the good of the one, over the good of the whole.

The hatred on his face, as he talks of power, is palpable.

GRENDEL: No longer will I dance to the tune of another. My supposed mentor wished me to be nothing more than a weapon in a war I had never known… I revolted. The self-proclaimed leader of our glorious REVOLUTION fell to that same trap; the insanity of revenge and greed claimed his mind, and once I lay my hands upon him, his body too. Now I say no more.

He draws very, very still.

GRENDEL: No more.

Slowly, an unsettling smile plays over his lips.

GRENDEL: At Vertigo, Stone was the first. This Saturday, more will follow. You see, I am not seeking to win this contest. The prize is of no consequence to me, and mere victory is a absurdist reality of which I need to part. No, I will be out there with one purpose, and one purpose alone…

His lips recede, exposing his teeth.

GRENDEL: To test the competition. To subject each and every one of them to the question. To see who amongst them is fit to remain in this industry as it moves on to it’s next stage, and who, like Stone, is ready to be put out to pasture. I am not here to win championships…

A deep chuckle, almost inhuman, escapes from his throat.

GRENDEL: I’m here to destroy them.

Without warning, he suddenly moves, straining once more against the bonds that tie him to the wall. Faint trickles of brick dust start to cascade down the walls.

GRENDEL: The field stands before me, and I am the reaper.

He tugs, hard. There’s a creak, more dust.

GRENDEL: Scythe in hand, I walk amongst the stalks, separating the wheat from the chaff.

Another hard tug, the sound of stone grinding on stone.

GRENDEL: As I swing the blade, the chaff falls, crushed under foot. Inconsequential: the reaper cares not for the chaff.

He stops. He stands tall, stretching out his shoulders, cracking his neck. The look of hatred descends over his face once more.

GRENDEL: I am the harvester, and it is my mission to ensure the bounty is fruitful, the best it can be. Herbert Spencer probably put it best when he described it as “the survival of the fittest”. But he was a learned man, a scientist. Eloquence was his thing. I am but a simple man, but I know one thing: we espouse the same ideologies, the same belief. But what he termed, so elegantly, as the survival of the fittest, I choose to term, much more simply…

One final, hard, yank at his chains. An explosion of brick dust erupts from the wall either side of him, as the metal work restraining him escapes it’s masonry bond. The cloud of dust paints him white, adhering to his sweat stained skin as it passes over him. Throught the wreckage and destruction, he smiles, shedding the chains from around his torso.

GRENDEL: Evolve or Die.

He allows the chains to drop about his feet, heavily, the exclamation point to his final statement before the screen suddenly snaps to black.