| RyanxShane | Date: Thursday, 2011/05/26, 11:38 PM | Message # 1 |
 Survivor of the Failing Breed
Group: EWA Roster
Messages: 63
Status: Offline
| Journal Entry #4
Title: “Green with Envy”
Date: 5/24/2011
It’s midnight. Once again I find myself unable to rest my weary eye, so therefore here I sit in front of this wretched desk in my hotel room, desk light on, burning its way slowly into my retina. This oak finish lets the details on the wood pop out; I’ve caught myself counting the ridges in it for the last twenty minutes or so. There’s four-hundred and three.
In these late hours it’s near impossible to see anything, let alone in detail…..but I can see so clear.
I’m seeing red.
I’ve seen it for the entirety of my life, but right now it has become more of a burning crimson, boiling over in a sheer blood lust. A victory isn’t enough……it was never enough. Everything has been leading to one goal: Sending a Message. A message of bettering oneself, to make your selves superior and I served as the catalyst.
Then I entered last week. I walked into The Colosseum with the full intention of supplying the EWA viewers with what they wanted, blood. I knew that morning I would spill Vlad Valo’s blood. Some people called it drastic, I called it a job well done, but like always I sat here at this very desk that night and just thought, and I came to realize that it just wasn’t enough. Once again I wasn’t satisfied with the on-screen execution of Transylvanian royalty. What could end this hunger? What could help calm my craving for pandemonium?
Now I know. The paradigm has shifted, the colors are see are no longer shades of red. I now see you all as the colors you truly bear. Green.
Green is the color of Chaos.
When all else fails, the color green will set the wave in motion. A stop light shifts from red to green, and all of a sudden we find ourselves in motion. Rubber burns, brakes squeal like pigs struck by the head of the spear, and metal contorts and collides until all that is left is sorrow. All is lost, but that’s not the ultimate source of chaos, is it? That’s not the one thing you’ll all crawl on your hands and knees for.
Green is the color of money.
Money makes the world go round, does it not? That’s what they always told me as a child. My dad in his infinite wisdom once said “Kid, this whole ‘do whatever your heart wants you to do’ bullshit is never going to get you anywhere. You need to find a job that’ll make you some god damn money.” He was just like you. Oh, I see it. The greed in your eyes. For the right price you’d stab the person next to you, and don’t act like you’re the exception. It’s like, in a cruel twist of fate, the very force that keeps your civilization alive is killing it, like a venom in the veins of modern culture.
You all just sit there and watch. Some people just want to watch the world burn, ain’t that right, Heath? It’s kind of like observing a flock of Turkeys in a rain storm. They all just kind of look to the sky with their jaws slacked….and they just….drown. I see green in your eyes, on your skin, in your minds.
I see green in another sense too. Green is the color that has ruled the path I walked for the past two years. Green is the color of “The Reaper”. The great Brian Kirkland who set the course of his untimely demise like Oedipus. Kirkland, the king who wore a mask of purity to hide the frightened child underneath, set forth to gain the service of the mighty black knight. For many suns and moons, the knights sword slayed champion after champion, allowing the king to use his strength as a means of spreading his propaganda. Then one fateful night, the warrior removed his king’s code of arms, plunging his faithful sword into his chest, and taking rule himself, conquering the zone of combat as his own.
Youthful Aggression, we ruled CZW but their words were false and for it, they were punished. Knox Harper, he groveled like a child as the spike found his skull. Brian Kirkland, our mighty leader, choked on his lies and deceit as I dropped him on his head with a Murder Scene.
But there’s always one cockroach that just…won’t…die.
Mike King. Mike fucking King. Mike can vouch for me, for my ideas.
Green is the color of envy, isn’t it, Mike? How long have you been in the business, Mike? A hell of a lot longer than me. I remember watching you in my training, just hoping one day I’d be in the ring across from you. That was then, this is now, and it leaves me to another question I’d love you to answer. How does it feel to always be beneath me? To be lost to obscurity as you are? Fear not, though, Mike, because you’re not lost. I have a plan for you. I have a plan for all of you.
You…..may still have potential. I offer you a place salvation. I offer you freedom, but for yourself. I offer you this place in the revolution, but you must be the one to take it by the horns. Stand up and be counted, my brothers and sisters……….
Or be left behind.
“Lesson Learned”
The darkness of the camera is accompanied by the clangs and jingling of metal utensils, glass fixings, porcelain settings. The shadows begin to evaporate from our eyes as we are once again blinded by a golden glow. Once our eyes have settled, coping with the pain of the bright flash, we find ourselves in the lavish luxury of a fine dining establishment.
The gold was the light which emanated from the fixtures on the walls, hand-crafted and coated in a thin sheet of gold paint and decorated with carvings of beautiful flowers and plants, as if they were forever held in time from the touch of Midas. This care and craftsmanship spread from the lights to the wall, the roots of the floral décor covering the molding along the creases and transforming into elegant scenes of kings and queens to the royal lion which stood guard in statue form at the entrance of the restaurant.
The regal theme did not end at just the decorations. The diners in the room drew inspiration from the emperor penguin, black suits, some with coat tails hanging low, folded over white shirts and black ties, gowns of the finest silks in many colors, all blended into a masterpiece of lavish clothing. Among the flock sat two individuals who had not taken to this lifestyle kindly, but it served as a change of pace from their usual lives.
Ryan Shane and Cassidy Fontaine sat at a circular table set into a semi-circle booth, maroon felt lined their seats and cradled their backs as they sat back, sharing a bit of light conversation. Ms. Fontaine was dressed in a lovely black dress, twinkling like the night sky in the late hours, her eyes doing the same with the assistance of her eye liner and the deepening brown of her hair. Ryan’s appearance had not faltered much from his usual attire. Dark jeans hid under the white satin table cloth, a black peacoat cloaked the covered canvas of the upper body of Shane, locking away the dozens and dozens of tattoos that spelled out the journey he had taken in his life. His raven black hair fell down to his shoulders, held back by his ears, of course finished by the pair of aviator sunglasses over his steel gray eyes.
Ryan pulled up his glass, ice clattering in a cool glass of water. He tilted it back, letting the water rush past his lips and down his throat, a shiver through his teeth following. He removed it from his mouth, still holding the glass. His eyes shifted toward the off-screen area ahead of him.
“Glad you decided to show up.”
The camera shifts to the right to meet the other half of one of the most horrific alliances in the Empire Wrestling Association, “The Epitome of Technical Finesse”, Justin Marsham. Marsham wore a gray fleece on top of a white button-up shirt. With a sarcastic smirk he took his seat down on the opposite end of the table.
“Well it has been a while. I was scared that I wasn’t pretty enough for you.”
“Hilarious, as always.”
Ryan rolled his eyes under his shades at his friends’ attempt at humor.
“I guess introductions are in order. Justin, Cassidy Fontaine, Cassidy, Justin Marsham.”
The two shared a brief handshake.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Same.”
The two break their grip and pick up the menus in front of them. Seconds tick away, minutes pass, and still nothing is said. The pleasure of friendly conversation seemed to find place in every table except theirs. Just then, the breaking of the quiet came from Marsham.
“So what’s our plan for Retaliation?”
Marsham looked across to Shane with the full hope he would supply the answers he had been seeking. The question intrigued Ms. Fontaine as well, she too looking at him. Ryan brought the glass of water back to his lips, the light clang of his lip ring on the rim preceding a long drag on the contents. Soon, the drink was all but gone, three ice cubes within rattling at the bottom as he placed the glass upon the table. He spoke without ever leaving his menu.
“There is no plan.”
With that, Ms. Fontaine returned to deciding her meal. Justin’s eyes darted between the two of them, then looking back to Shane as if he were growing a third eye.
“What do you mean, no plan?”
“Simply as that.”
Ryan finally looked up to make eye contact.
“You’re doing fine enough on your own. Your plan is going through excellently. You don’t need me.”
The was a long pause between the two as Ryan closed his menu and placed it on the table.
“Though the kidnapping this was right out of my playbook, well done.”
A smirk crawled on Marshams face.
“Thought you’d like that one.”
The reaction was not shared by Ms. Fontaine, her face turning pale at the loss of blood, the words sticking into her moral fiber like pins.
“Kidnapping?!?”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Shane turned his attention from Cassidy to Marsham.
“How is he?”
“He’s fighting, but nothing too serious. Once this is over and I get what……we get what we want, he can go…..maybe.”
A snicker followed Marshams comment, Ryan only reacting with one short laugh.
“You’ll win. Buzzsaw’s weak. We’ve both delivered fatal blows to his psyche, all you need to do is put him down. Bring the title home.”
No sooner than Ryan finished his sentence, the waiter had arrived in typical fancy waiter clothing. The table sent their orders in, and soon, they were left at peace.
“What about Valo?”
“What about him?”
“You kind of, you know, almost killed him and stuff.”
The memories were still fresh in Cassidy’s mind. She hadn’t signed up for any of this. Last time she had watched the sport of Professional Wrestling, two balding men in speedos exchanged wristlocks. Now she finds herself involved in the game personally and witnessed the brutal dismantling of Vlad Valo. Ryan had just….just snapped. She looked to him for a response, expecting sorrow in his words.
“So?”
“So aren’t you worried about the reaction? He’s got followers, doesn’t he?”
Ryan gave no answer, no indication that he had even heard Marshams words. Their food had soon arrived, a mixture of meats and herbs arranged in a decorative assembly. They became trapped in their meals, their sounds only chews. Ryan had just about began to enjoy himself, when of course…..
“He has Mike King to worry about, anyway.”
A fork dropped from the inked hands of Shane clanging on his plate. He did not move, locked in place. A ‘hmph’ followed from Marsham.
“You shouldn’t have brought that up.”
Marsham continued eating.
“Well he told me he has a history with the guy, what’s ignoring him going to do?”
“I’M NOT IGNORING HIM!”
The joyful conversation of the restaurant goers stopped dead, heads pivoting to meet the shaking face of Ryan Shane. Chaos bubbled under his skin, his hands gripped at the edge of the table turning red and giving the words “Stay Down” on his knuckles a red outline.
“You think I don’t hear him?!?! That I’m not aware!”
Ryan pushed closer to Cassidy’s face like a carnivore cat closing in on its kill.
“I can’t NOT stop thinking about Mike King! He’s in my blood, in my mind! WE’RE FOREVER INTERTWINED IN THIS!”
Ryan pulled back, his hands gripped tight to his skull. For some reason, his cool demeanor melted, the fire within coming out.
“No matter how much I hit him, he won’t stay down! His face haunts my memories! His voice clouds my thoughts! I can hear the beating of the Tell Tale Heart and I want it to stop!”
Before he can be confronted by the owners of the establishment, Ryan left the table, taking two quick seconds that dragged like hours to stare into Fontaine’s eyes, them storming off. Cassidy dwelled in shook, not expecting something like that from a man she had been admiring for calmness. Marsham had just finished his meal, unshaken by the event.
“It’s personal, you know. Nothing you need to be concerned about. He’ll be fine. He’s just a little…..dramatic.”
Cassidy said nothing, only processing the past seven minutes. With this, the camera begins to zoom out, once again fading to black in an attempt to relocate and contact Ryan once more before his match.
“The Rapture: Are you not Entertained?!?!”
Rain beat the city streets of New York like an undisciplined child, bending it to the will of Mother Nature. Strolls through the concrete jungle turned to desperate fleeing. Men and Women ducked under canopies and into the subway tunnels to escape the storm, one of many that had hit the New York area recently. Steam rises up from the manhole covers, giving a hazy introduction to the star of this performance. Under scaffolding set over the sidewalk, we find Ryan Shane. Dressed in simply deep blue jeans, a black hoody with the call name of “Distinction Records” on the chest, hood up over his head. His eyes, set on nothing but the next kill, were deepened by the black of his mascara.
“Harold Camping predicted the end of the world and nothing happened. Harold Camping predicted the rapture and not one damn soul was carried to the great beyond. Harold Camping predicted hellfire and destruction and yet the world still remains. That doesn’t quite mean the Rapture hasn’t begun, though.”
Wanderers ducked under the passing, newspapers, brief cases, and hats serving as makeshift umbrellas keeping their heads relatively dry. As they pass, the camera pulls in. Ryan’s eyes do not leave the sidewalk.
“On my professional wrestling debut I made an oath. I swore that I wouldn’t be swayed by greed, Championships, or women. I would live for one reason and one reason only: To save this world from itself. I made this pact with another believer many years ago. We would always be true, to ourselves and the cause. You know…….she always had pity on you. She said you had rough lives, but with help you could be saved. She was so…..compassionate.”
Ryan’s words fade away as the drumming of the rain continues, a puddle forming above him on the scaffold begins to leak over, spilling off the edge and splattering on the tar beneath.
“Then the flaw in her beliefs came back to haunt her. Leaving you to your drinks and debauchery cost her…….her life.”
Ryan holds his words, placing his hand over his mouth, forcing back the reel of memories that began playing in his brain.
“With this shining light gone I began to remove the veil from my sight. I started to see you all for what you really are. Groveling, pathetic, undisciplined, uneducated worms. You pick your vices, you pick your poison, and even when warned in black and white print of the hazards. The human race, you’re a masochistic lot.”
A passing of his hand over his face, Ryan cleared his lips of excess saliva, rubbing it on the back of his jeans. He then pushed the sleeves of his hoody up his arms unveiling the skin-wide art gallery underneath. We look into the eyes of a crimson oni, white hair trailing down, a tongue portrayed to promote dominance. Shiva, the Hindu goddess of destruction looked on from his forearm, and a bride to be wept in her torn gown.
“With myself being the only one left to see this plan comes to pass, I must take drastic measures. Selena’s candy-coated view of the unclean is a joke I can’t find the punch line to. Not only can the weak not be saved……..they don’t deserve to be saved. I’ve pondered on how to go about this, saving those who cannot and will not be saved, and as always, I’ve come to a solution. The Purge. Yes, my basic test has become my greatest tool. There is no need to save the damned, if the damned are not left to be saved.”
Ryan relished in his moment of genius, though showed no signs of satisfaction outside of a steady nod.
“It’s perfect. I can find no other way of coming to terms with this promise. I’ve already called the worthy to stand and join the revolution. The unclean will resist, but your resistance will be nothing short of amusement for me. Those who think my words are empty…..look in these eyes. These are the eyes of a man who has lost everything, including his ability to care. I will eliminate you from the equation, one by one, until my perfect world is attained, even if the population is one.”
Leaning back against the cold concrete of the building behind him, Ryan closed his eyes, letting the rain drops bring him to a suspended sleep-like state of peace.
“Now, what does this have to do with Mike King? Everything. Mike……you’re the worst offender to my cause. You dared to wear the title of Straight Edge without once dedicating your life to the cause. In doing so, not only did you insult me, you insulted every. last. one. of my brothers and sisters within the movement. I use you at Shatter Point as I did in CZW, as I did when I killed Youthful Aggression with my own two hands, and as I did when I stepped over both you and Brian Kirkland, my two “brothers”, and ascended to the top of the mountain. I use you to send my point across. At Shatter Point, we shall enter as Gladiators, warriors who are ready to draw the life force from each other. For the glory, for the entertainment of the crowd, and most importantly for the will to survive. Sadly, Mike, in order to survive one must have the will to destroy. The Killer Instinct.”
Shane scoffed at the idea of someone as pathetic as Mike King even being considered worthy enough to face a warrior like he was. He raged at the concept of a “Wacky Rudo” having any form of respect in the sport he called his own.
“You don’t have it……..but it’s all I have. It’s all I’ve had since my childhood. When my sister was ejected from our home for saving my worthless Father’s life, it was born. When death finally grabbed my Father and he took my Mother with him, it grew. When I moved to the streets at the age of fifteen, travelling from home to home, when the other kids at my school called me the “Emo Kid” and desecrated my name, when I had my face kicked in, trained, and had it happen again, it fed. I was destined to have nothing, but to take everything from you! Every kick you throw, I’ll throw one harder. Every punch you throw, I’ll throw one harder. Every ounce of blood you spill, I will spill three times the amount.”
Ryan reached up with both hands, pulling back his hood to display the black, white, and crimson red bandana he wore on his head, the black hair pulled out of the back of it.
“Mike, I’ll give you the same option I gave you in the Combat Zone. Kill me, please kill me….if you can, because if you don’t, heh, I’ll have no problem making you the second victim of my purge. So….for those about to die, I salute you.”
Ryan left the wall, hands in pockets as he made his way closer and closer to the camera. As he did, he bent down to the lens, simply whispering “Let the end of Days begin” before disappearing off-screen into the gray that was the storm. We zoom into the very spot where he had been standing just moments ago, closing in on every detail on the wall until leading to a blur of gray. With that, the view begins to distort, fully giving in to the force of static and white noise, then fading to black.
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