| JM | Date: Wednesday, 2011/07/13, 0:58 AM | Message # 1 |
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Jobber
Group: Champion
Messages: 23
Status: Offline
| Simulacrum: A Voyage into the Artificial
Blackness.
It is indeed a foul night in upstate New York. Heavy and oppressive is the air the looms over the state – having reached a breaking point in the late afternoon. For hours now, the heavens hath fed the Earth with an endless, screaming torrent of rain. Electricity streaks across the skies – illuminating the heavens with a persistent crackling of lightning and offering a deafening roar of thunder.
Headlights do little to pierce the thick downpour of rain or the dark of night – the storm blanketing the road in a veil of darkness. Cameras open on a setting of frustrated determination as the EWA Heavyweight Champion, Justin Marsham, is shown – poised at the helm of a brown 2011 Audi Q5 – with white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. He drives cautiously with no desire to make this his last night as champion...or alive. He travels a vacant highway. Not even the headlights of passing vehicles can be seen on the horizon, granting him no direct line of sight upon the road.
Rain hits the windshield faster than his wipers can remove it, forcing him to drive slower than he normally would. It strikes so loud than it is easily audible over his radio and the provoked lyrics of Nicki Minaj's 'Roman's Revenge'. He has put off this trip for weeks now and should have for another week; however, with mere days separating Marsham from his first title defense, he cannot justify postponing this trip any longer.
The storm may be ferocious, but sanctuary would soon be at hand.
Marsham presses gently against the brake to avoid hydroplaning. He knows his destination is less than a mile away. A wall of hedges is visible only by the sudden flashes of lightning; and he uses this to guide himself towards the majestic steel gates at the foot of a massive driveway. He turns the Audi onto the driveway and proceeds past the open gates., not a bit curious as to why they would be open. Silhouetted by lightning – an immense house awaits Marsham – the very structure itself a beast. He rolls the Audi to a stop, parking beside a rain-filled stone fountain: a pair of dragons entwine around a replica of the very house it sits in front of.
Hurried feet carry Marsham over rough terrain – several puddles of water pooling into uneven mounds of gravel. He proceeds to the massive silver doors that stand between him and safety from nature's wrath. He need only knock twice before the door is opened and he is allowed to slip inside: the warmth of the house wraps around him, guiding him into the foyer. Mud trails in on the bottom of Marsham's shoes, marring the cleanliness of marble floors.
”Welcome, he has been expecting you for some time,” greets the stereotypical butler and the one who had opened the door. He is dressed down in a mono-colored uniform, slightly scuffed shoes and a white towel draped over his left arm.
”...expecting me? Well, if he's been sitting around in wait for the last two weeks just for me to show up, then that's pretty damn pathetic,” remarks Marsham as he kicks the remaining mud from his shoes off on a black rug.
”He is in the study, just in there,” the butler instructs – an obvious irritation in his voice from the mess that has been tracked in.
Rain splatters against the huge windows of the house with such ferocity that one would believe an actual waterfall is cascading down off from the roof and into the house. The wind is just as ferocious – wailing like banshees fighting to get inside. The stone exterior of the house bares scars, indicating what violence it has endured at the hands of Mother Nature. It has seen many storms in its day; but the one this evening will – in the end – be no different than those a hundred years in the past.
Marsham pauses just inside the study – analyzing the plethora of books lining the walls. Mahogany bookshelves line three of the walls – positioned between larger than life windows. Collections of novels, encyclopedias and the like fill the shelves. Everything from poetry to philosophy are available and alphabetized for quick reference. Some books are limited edition and quite expensive, bespeaking of the home-owners vast wealth.
”So...” Marsham whispers under his breath, proceeding further into the structure.
”...it would be about time you showed up,” remarks an older voice – his words soon followed by a hoarse cough.
Marsham shifts his gaze in the direction of the voice; and, further, directing the cameras attention unto a distant, seated figure. The individual pulls upon a short chain, illuminating his corner of the study with a lamp. Light rolls out from beneath an ivory shade, unveiling the individual to the Heavyweight Champion.
”Yes, not the same as the last time we met – but I have been through Hell and back,” the man jokes, stifling another cough.
EWA audiences – not well versed in the history of Justin Marsham – are oblivious to who the man is. One immediate mistake would to assume it to be Marsham's father, although his age and attitude would make that a good assumption. However, it would not be the case. He does not even attempt to give the audience any indication as to who he is. He remains seated. Though further inspection reveals that he has no choice. His frail legs are positioned purposefully and the man is revealed to be bound to the very chair he is seated within. His sickly, pale countenance and frequent coughing further reveals the man's frailty – a victim of lung cancer and, perhaps, more.
For those who still sit in wonder, the man seated before the EWA Heavyweight Champion is none other than Alexander von Sydow; and, while he may not be the father of Marsham, he is the one brought Marsham into the world...of wrestling. He and Marsham have not seen each other since the days of XWF and Alexander's request for Marsham's visit is peculiar to him.
When the thunder abates, Marsham states, ”I wasn't sure what to make of your message. It has been damn near ten years and I didn't think you liked the visit of your students.”
Alexander laughs. ”I don't, but in great times there comes a need to...discuss things.”
Alexander wheels himself up beside what appears to be an 18th century antique desk, more evidence of his appeal for expensive antiques. He has been bound to his wheelchair for nearly nine years. One untrained wrestler plus a pile-driver equals Alexander von Sydow. The equation is mathematical and far from theory. He had suffered a serious neck injury that paralyzed him below the waist. Unable to walk and do many of the things he had taken for granted, he took up another hobby – smoking. He knew better, but lacked the care for what he already considered a broken shell of a body. Doctors would later diagnose him with lung cancer and – out of bizarre coincidence – would inform him that it would NOT be a result of smoking, a habit he had picked up only a short time before being diagnosed.
”What things are there for us to discuss? The last time I saw you, you were a bit frustrated about your current condition. I didn't think there was much else to say,” Marsham mentions, taking a seat upon a old green Davenport.
”I saw your performance at the Pay-Per-View and was impressed, especially for someone who was completely out of their element.”
”...I was not out of my element. I just prefer to show some actual–”
”--stop making excuses. You never were good at them,”Alexander interrupts – offering the fans insight as to where Marsham may have got his manners from. ”Don't forget who showed you the ropes and who led you to this...innovative style you wrestle. Yea, an old man in a fuckin' wheelchair.”
”Did you ask me to come here just so you can tell me I'm a piece of shit?
Alexander laughs. ”No. I could've done that over the phone.”
Marsham shakes his head and stretches his legs, extending his feet out and over an ancient-looking Persian rug.
”Feet off the rug,” Alexander demands and waits for Marsham to comply before continuing, ”No. I'm here to congratulate you. It's been a long time since you held a Heavyweight Championship and you definitely deserve it. I don't take anything you said about me personally. You and I never really saw eye-to-eye and that was fine. You were still a good student...even if you don't claim me as your trainer.”
”Could it be because you never trained me? You just scrutinized everything I did.”
”--and you learned from that.”
”John Mac actually took the time to compliment my style.”
”...and has John Mac called you up and congratulated you for such a fine achievement you have accomplished?” questions Alexander.
Marsham shakes his head, his face partially illuminated by the flashing lightning through a nearby window.
”I didn't ask you here to fight. I just wanted to congratulate you and make mention of something. I watched the whole war between you and Buzzsaw. You took him to his physical limits and still had enough to come out as the champ. That's something that no one can take away from you. But, what really attracted my attention is when I saw you at Shatter Point last week. You...did not seem yourself. Believe me, we haven't spoken in some time, but I have watched you over the years. I've watched all of my disciples and this is the first time I have seen you...ever...do something that you didn't benefit from.”
”What is your point? questions Marsham.
”What are you doing? You have the belt. You're a force to be reckoned with in that ring and that entire roster knows it. I just don't get why you'd put that belt on the line so quickly or – for that matter – act all 'fair' and 'holy'. I've never even seen you pretend such things, so...” Alexander inquires, pausing for a moment in between each sentence to cough.
”If you're asking those questions, then you do not really know who I am. You can sit there and watch me on television, but when you broke those ties to me a decade ago, you also lost any rights at knowing who exactly I am. So, don't fuckin' think you know because you don't.” proclaims Marsham. He allows a moment of silence to fall between the two before he explains, giving further insight into his decision at Shatter Point. ”Buzzsaw ruined the value of the EWA Heavyweight Championship and I'm vowing to restore it. But, how do you do that? You defend it. You show the roster that holding that belt means that you are the BEST; and, since people instinctively want to be the best, having that belt gain some reputation is key. Plus, as a champion, you become the figure-head for the organization. How well will an organization be with the title-holder a frequent loser?”
Alexander coughs. ”You are still skirting around the real question. Fine. You are restoring the championship. But, why? Personally...why?”
Exhaling deeply, Marsham retorts, ”...because I'm tired of all of this nonsensical BS where people want to paint me like the bad guy. Hell, I hear even Crimson Blaze has made mention of it. He wants to think that I believe I will walk all over him when – in fact – it is quite the opposite reason. I gave him a title shot because I think he could beat me. Building a reputation doesn't come from steam rolling people weaker than you. It comes from annihilating those better than you. When it comes down to it, what have I always been focused around?”
”Money,” answers Alexander.
”Damn straight. I am not doing anything different now than I did on my way to this championship. I'm making money. Championship status pulls in bigger challengers. More prominent cards bring in bigger draws. Bigger draws equal bigger paychecks. Everyone seems to think about the next day. I don't. I think about the next week...the next month...the next year. I knew weeks before that if I were to win the championship, I'd offer a shot to Crimson Blaze. Likewise, I knew he'd accept. He's a damn good competitor. He's fast and that's his clear advantage over me. But, I'm a tactical mat technician. If I can't keep him grounded, I'll be in trouble. But, if I keep him down. It's game over. Matches like this are what I train for. Matches like this are what become contenders for Match of the Year.”
”I just find it strange even my you that you'd be so willing to risk losing that championship after you worked so hard to get it,” remarks Alexander while rolling over towards a fireplace.
Flames from the fireplace lash out, casting red and orange hues over the feeble countenance of Alexander. The fireplace dominates almost the entire wall. Dark red brick compliments the mahogany bookshelves – stretched out nearly six feet in height and five feet in width. Various pictures reside on the mantle, contained in rustic old frames. The pictures are of Alexander during his years as a wrestler: many of a youngster named von Sydow and, later years, when he performed in Mexico as the masked wrestler, Golem.
Alexander stokes the fire with a poker and recollects, ”I remember when I won the MPW Heavyweight Championship back in 1974. I beat a man who held the belt for about two years. It's not really that impressive when you think about it because we had shows only once a month. But, I can still remember the satisfaction I got from winning that belt. I worked hard. I deserved it. But, I let all of that go to my head. I lost it at the next show to some Canadian and I was basically pushed into the Tag Team Division after that. I lost my shot. I just wouldn't want that to happen to you too.”
”It has been my dream for some time to wear the Heavyweight Championship around my waist. I -have- worked my ass off to get where I am and I'll be DAMNED if I just roll over and let Crimson Blaze or, Hell, anyone take it from me. So, don't think for a damn minute that I'm acting like some suicidal champion Hell bent on losing his newly won championship. I'm going to give Crimson Blaze the fight of his life. Then, onto the next challenger, where I'll successfully defend against Mr. Black Jesus himself,” Marsham proclaims, ”I never earned a shot at the CZW Heavyweight Championship when I was there. But, I'll tell you what. If I had, you could list CZW Heavyweight Champion under my list of credentials. So, my hunger for gold still isn't satisfied. I still haven't had enough time to savor the taste. But, that's living in the past and EWA is the only federation worth mentioning now.”
Alexander snickers. ”...about that. When did you become a company man?”
Though Alexander jokes, Marsham takes his inquiry seriously. ”I've never spoken a bad word about EWA and have no reason to – but how the Hell does that make me a company man? What? Getting those fans all riled up and chanting EWA? The decision I made about the belt wasn't about trying to appeal to the fans. I could give a rat's ass if they like me. It's about generating hype. Take Black Jesus for instance. He beat El Pablo. That's pretty damn impressive. He fought his way to a number one contendership and that's a tough job. Last week, he teamed with Chris Johnson and basically handed him the match. I'm not doubting he is skilled – but does anyone really give a shit about him? I can't say that I do. Do you? I worked a match with him against Buzzsaw and Jakob Mayhem, I believe. We teamed together, but I use the word team very loosely. I carried him the match. He had no sense of balance. Well, I won that match for us and I personally gave Black Jesus a win to his record. That match will be the last time Marcellus Payne receives a win on my behalf.”
”You are a calculated son-of-a-bitch, aren't you?
With a smirk, Marsham replies, ”Look, if you called me here to tell me not to get full of myself and let this championship go to my head, you could've done it over the phone. I've put a lot on my plate this week as we've well discussed and this is cutting into my work-out time.”
Alexander shakes his head. ”It's...not. You were one of my best students. You've opted to perform in Hardcore-based federations and still work a technical style. It's respectable and pretty rare. We had are ups and downs...mainly downs...but I've never lost appreciation for you.”
”Yeah.”
”Well – my cancer is terminal. I've included you in my Final Will and Testament. They give me a few months, but you know doctors. I could go on living the next forty years!”
A bit crestfallen, Marsham's demeanor changes. ”You're leaving me...in your will?”
”Yes.”
”I'm...not...not sure what to say, really.”
Alexander snickers once again. ”Don't say anything...to Steven, at least. He might be a bit jealous.”
”I think he'd be more confused. Kind of like how I feel right now.”
”You were one of my best students; and don't think you're the only one receiving something. There are others. You know I had no children of my own and you kids were as close to that as I had. I just thought you should know,” explains Alexander before asking, ”Though, I will ask, how is Steven. I saw what Total Mayhem did to him at Retaliation.”
”He is still banged up and out of action. He told me he'd meet up with Shane and I a few months down the road. He's booked for a tour through Japan, but he'll be back in the States sometime in September. He served his purpose for my all out assault on Buzzsaw and company, so he can have this time to himself,” Marsham states whilst rising from the Davenport.
The rain starts to subside and Marsham's departure draws nearer. Alexander offers no other response as he wheels himself back to the antique desk. He searches through a drawer, rummaging past familiar office tools: envelopes, a stapler, and paper-clips.
”Ah yes, Ryan Shane. I see the two of you BOTH have championships now. You the Heavyweight Champion and he the Innovation Champion. Whatever this alliance or pact you two have forged is...it's a juggernaut. You two are standing at the forefront of EWA and that image alone is awe-inspiring...though...not so much for the rest of the EWA roster. So, it doesn't surprise me that Crimson Blaze is going to have El Pablo and Cristal in his corner this week. Does Ryan Shane have your back? Your alliance is nothing if he doesn't,” Alexander comments while still searching through the drawer.
Marsham nears the desk and retorts, ”Ryan Shane has my back just as I have his. THAT there is no question on. But, yes, I have been made aware that Crimson Blaze is not going to be taking any chances. Let him. If it makes him feel better, he can invite the whole damn locker room down to the ring. It doesn't matter to me. I gave him the shot and – just as quick as I gave it to him – I will be taking it away. It's not about being a cruel joke. It's about being the BEST. This week, I'm going to prove just that. I. Am. The Best.”
”Here,” says Alexander as he holds up a set of keys. ”These are to a safety deposit box. Keep a hold on these. You'll receive further instructions from my lawyer once I have passed.”
”You have a morbid way of reminiscing,” Marsham states while taking the keys. ”I'll be sure to keep them safe. Well, very safe because I'm not even sure where I'm headed after this. I received a call from Ryan Shane on the way here. He didn't give me many details. He just told me to pack my luggage and come check out some place. I saved the address in my phone.”
Coughing, Alexander responds, ”Well, be safe and good luck. I hope your experience as champion is better than mine was.”
Marsham smiles. ”The Kode of Silence may have chosen me, but Technical Finesse has just beaten you.”
Cameras focus on Marsham during his final dialogue. Determination burns in his eyes no different than his quest for winning the Heavyweight Championship. This week, Crimson Blaze will receive the opportunity of a lifetime and will face off against Marsham. Both men are prepped and ready for the match – but what will the outcome be? ...and how will what has been seen tonight affect Marsham? An old ghost from his past has levied some heavy information upon him. Will this affect his in-ring performance or will Technical Finesse reign supreme? All must tune into Shatter Point to find out the answers to these very important questions!
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