Post by Deleted on Jul 16, 2017 18:52:31 GMT
Inception -
It was a cold, wet, unusually dark night in New York City in the mid 70s. A young girl, barely even of legal age, Eleanor Saffron, wandered the streets feeling broken and alone.
She knew things weren't supposed to be like this. She never intended it. When she left her home in small town USA and came to New York, it was to get away from her strict religious upbringing, her overbearing parents, and to make something of herself. She had dreams. When she closed her eyes at night, she could envision her name on the marquee. She knew she was destined to play Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady or Sandy Dumbrowski in Grease.
Things hadn't panned out as she came to realize that dreams and reality were two different things. This was a lesson Eleanor had learned the hard way. Aspiring actresses were a dime a dozen in New York. She was lost in a sea of people with classical training, voice coaches, and connections. In her eighteen months in New York, she had one role, as an extra, in an off Broadway adaption of Cinderella, a role that would be on parallel with community theater.
She had tried waiting tables, but wasn't very efficient at it. A job that thrived of off tips, and she couldn't tell the difference in regular or decaf when it came to coffee.
This is how she wound up where she was this night. Cold, wet, broken, wandering the streets just as she had for the past three weeks, trying to find a warm place to lay her head to sleep. She hugged her arms around her torso and shivered, her teeth chattering in the bitter cold as she finally settled in.
This was her home tonight. A dank, dark alley, watering glimmering off the pavement. Her biggest concern was trying to stay warm beneath the urine soaked blanket she'd found and was now holding snugly around her, like a cocoon.
Leaning against the hard, cold concrete, she tried to close her eyes, to get some kind of sleep so she could start it all over tomorrow, praying beneath her breath that tomorrow brought her better fortunes, that perhaps she could get on her feet.
All she wanted was one thing to break her way.
The simple solution, she knew, would be to go home, but she couldn't go home to that. She couldn't go home a failure. Then they would win.
It wasn't that she hated her father, the minister, but she couldn't take the life they wanted for her, and if she fled back home that's what it would be, she knew. The life they wanted for her, not the life she wanted for herself. If it meant sleeping on the cold streets of New York for a chance to be happy one day, she'd endure it. After all, she'd always been a fighter and someone of strong will. If anyone could persevere, she knew it was her.
"Do you want a warm meal?" Eleanor Saffron looked up to see some man she'd never seen before, standing over her, looking down with some kind of look of concern in his eyes. But beneath it, she could see something else, she just couldn't place it. That whatever else it was she saw, however, did send chills tingling down her spine. The back of her mind gnawed at her, told her to tread very careful, but she was starving and she had no clue when she'd have a chance for another warm meal. She rolled it around in her mind, and the longer she did, the more ill at ease she was.
"No thanks," she answered, hoping that her paranoia wasn't causing her to make the mistake of eating a real meal, something she hadn't had in three days.
Then she saw a shimmer of something in his hand and before she could react, he pounced on her, placing the sharp edge of the blade against her throat and drops of blood trickled down her throat. She gasped, about to scream, when he took his free hand and clamped it over her mouth.
"You move or scream," the man began, the warmth of breath pushing against her ear, "then I'll cut you and let you bleed out, you little cunt."
He reached underneath the covers, his hands fumbling for her crotch. He smoothly slid his hands down her pants, his fingers rubbing all over her sex, pressing just inside of her as he let out a soft moan. Then he yanked his hand free of her pants, and unzipped his.
Eleanor just lay there, beneath him, afraid for her life. She let her body go dead, she let her mind wander somewhere else; somewhere, anywhere better than where she was at. As he began thrusting against her, his pelvis pounding against hers, she couldn't help but to cry. As the tears rolled down her face, she let herself go numb inside and knew that never again would things be the same.
Testament -
Wrestling is filled with many variations of people. They come in different sizes, shapes, sexes, races, backgrounds. It's like a giant melting pot, with the powers that be stirring the cauldron, trying to come up with something unique. The dilemma lies in the certitude that there is nothing unique. It's a hard truth, but most truths are both harsh and absolute.
It's become the same mundane story, with the same humdrum goal; everyone want's to be champion and everyone wants to be the best. It's predictability at it's apex. So when everyone has the same motivation and the same aspirations, it makes things far too simple and uninteresting.
Granted, various sorts disguise it as something else, making them a sheep in wolves clothing. They claim to be on the comeback road, or to want to bask in the suffering of their opponent, while others give the assertion that they thrive off the competition, but the end game never changes; championships. To hold something that is nothing more than a piece of leather, with a few gold plates and screws becomes the center of their singular universe. It's this simplicity that makes me an aberration.
I truly don't encumber myself with such trivialities as championships. I am not concerned with being the best because it's completely subjective and arbitrary. In the grand scheme of things, such material aspirations are forgettable in the long term.
We are but a blink of existence, so why should I concern myself?
This is what sets me aside from the rest, and this is what has made me what I am today. IWF does not know of me or what I can do. I'm an unknown commodity that will soon become a force to be feared and spoken about in reverence.
My first opponent, Mr. Happy, is nothing more than a sacrificial lamb, who is being lead to the slaughter. He's the beast upon the alter, making an offering.
The goal isn't to win. The goal is to send a message. To spread the word, my own personal Gospel. The Testament of Dante is and always has been the end game. The Testament of Dante is about vindication of all that is erroneous. It's the belief that in order to obtain a greater good that sacrifices must be made. It's about spreading a philosophy that renounces what man has come to find valuable as they disregard what makes man unique. It's about denouncing an absentee God and a religion that places him on a pedestal.
Like I said, I'm an entirely different kind of monster. I know what makes men tick and it disgusts me. It doesn't matter if it's wrapped up in a different package, because there are a million Mr. Happys out there, they are one in the same of the faceless and nameless. There's nothing unique about it.
I'll take the sacrifice, however. Every cause needs a martyr to swear by, to put the thought in people's mind. Mr. Happy will serve just as well as any other faceless nameless person.
This will be the genesis of my Testament in IWF, and let it serve as both a message and a reminder to Angel Blake. He knows what awaits him, and he fears it. It's why I'm being given the sacrificial lamb.
Eventually, every God has to either show his power or be declared a fraud.
This is the will and Testament of the Avenging Angel.
It was a cold, wet, unusually dark night in New York City in the mid 70s. A young girl, barely even of legal age, Eleanor Saffron, wandered the streets feeling broken and alone.
She knew things weren't supposed to be like this. She never intended it. When she left her home in small town USA and came to New York, it was to get away from her strict religious upbringing, her overbearing parents, and to make something of herself. She had dreams. When she closed her eyes at night, she could envision her name on the marquee. She knew she was destined to play Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady or Sandy Dumbrowski in Grease.
Things hadn't panned out as she came to realize that dreams and reality were two different things. This was a lesson Eleanor had learned the hard way. Aspiring actresses were a dime a dozen in New York. She was lost in a sea of people with classical training, voice coaches, and connections. In her eighteen months in New York, she had one role, as an extra, in an off Broadway adaption of Cinderella, a role that would be on parallel with community theater.
She had tried waiting tables, but wasn't very efficient at it. A job that thrived of off tips, and she couldn't tell the difference in regular or decaf when it came to coffee.
This is how she wound up where she was this night. Cold, wet, broken, wandering the streets just as she had for the past three weeks, trying to find a warm place to lay her head to sleep. She hugged her arms around her torso and shivered, her teeth chattering in the bitter cold as she finally settled in.
This was her home tonight. A dank, dark alley, watering glimmering off the pavement. Her biggest concern was trying to stay warm beneath the urine soaked blanket she'd found and was now holding snugly around her, like a cocoon.
Leaning against the hard, cold concrete, she tried to close her eyes, to get some kind of sleep so she could start it all over tomorrow, praying beneath her breath that tomorrow brought her better fortunes, that perhaps she could get on her feet.
All she wanted was one thing to break her way.
The simple solution, she knew, would be to go home, but she couldn't go home to that. She couldn't go home a failure. Then they would win.
It wasn't that she hated her father, the minister, but she couldn't take the life they wanted for her, and if she fled back home that's what it would be, she knew. The life they wanted for her, not the life she wanted for herself. If it meant sleeping on the cold streets of New York for a chance to be happy one day, she'd endure it. After all, she'd always been a fighter and someone of strong will. If anyone could persevere, she knew it was her.
"Do you want a warm meal?" Eleanor Saffron looked up to see some man she'd never seen before, standing over her, looking down with some kind of look of concern in his eyes. But beneath it, she could see something else, she just couldn't place it. That whatever else it was she saw, however, did send chills tingling down her spine. The back of her mind gnawed at her, told her to tread very careful, but she was starving and she had no clue when she'd have a chance for another warm meal. She rolled it around in her mind, and the longer she did, the more ill at ease she was.
"No thanks," she answered, hoping that her paranoia wasn't causing her to make the mistake of eating a real meal, something she hadn't had in three days.
Then she saw a shimmer of something in his hand and before she could react, he pounced on her, placing the sharp edge of the blade against her throat and drops of blood trickled down her throat. She gasped, about to scream, when he took his free hand and clamped it over her mouth.
"You move or scream," the man began, the warmth of breath pushing against her ear, "then I'll cut you and let you bleed out, you little cunt."
He reached underneath the covers, his hands fumbling for her crotch. He smoothly slid his hands down her pants, his fingers rubbing all over her sex, pressing just inside of her as he let out a soft moan. Then he yanked his hand free of her pants, and unzipped his.
Eleanor just lay there, beneath him, afraid for her life. She let her body go dead, she let her mind wander somewhere else; somewhere, anywhere better than where she was at. As he began thrusting against her, his pelvis pounding against hers, she couldn't help but to cry. As the tears rolled down her face, she let herself go numb inside and knew that never again would things be the same.
Testament -
Wrestling is filled with many variations of people. They come in different sizes, shapes, sexes, races, backgrounds. It's like a giant melting pot, with the powers that be stirring the cauldron, trying to come up with something unique. The dilemma lies in the certitude that there is nothing unique. It's a hard truth, but most truths are both harsh and absolute.
It's become the same mundane story, with the same humdrum goal; everyone want's to be champion and everyone wants to be the best. It's predictability at it's apex. So when everyone has the same motivation and the same aspirations, it makes things far too simple and uninteresting.
Granted, various sorts disguise it as something else, making them a sheep in wolves clothing. They claim to be on the comeback road, or to want to bask in the suffering of their opponent, while others give the assertion that they thrive off the competition, but the end game never changes; championships. To hold something that is nothing more than a piece of leather, with a few gold plates and screws becomes the center of their singular universe. It's this simplicity that makes me an aberration.
I truly don't encumber myself with such trivialities as championships. I am not concerned with being the best because it's completely subjective and arbitrary. In the grand scheme of things, such material aspirations are forgettable in the long term.
We are but a blink of existence, so why should I concern myself?
This is what sets me aside from the rest, and this is what has made me what I am today. IWF does not know of me or what I can do. I'm an unknown commodity that will soon become a force to be feared and spoken about in reverence.
My first opponent, Mr. Happy, is nothing more than a sacrificial lamb, who is being lead to the slaughter. He's the beast upon the alter, making an offering.
The goal isn't to win. The goal is to send a message. To spread the word, my own personal Gospel. The Testament of Dante is and always has been the end game. The Testament of Dante is about vindication of all that is erroneous. It's the belief that in order to obtain a greater good that sacrifices must be made. It's about spreading a philosophy that renounces what man has come to find valuable as they disregard what makes man unique. It's about denouncing an absentee God and a religion that places him on a pedestal.
Like I said, I'm an entirely different kind of monster. I know what makes men tick and it disgusts me. It doesn't matter if it's wrapped up in a different package, because there are a million Mr. Happys out there, they are one in the same of the faceless and nameless. There's nothing unique about it.
I'll take the sacrifice, however. Every cause needs a martyr to swear by, to put the thought in people's mind. Mr. Happy will serve just as well as any other faceless nameless person.
This will be the genesis of my Testament in IWF, and let it serve as both a message and a reminder to Angel Blake. He knows what awaits him, and he fears it. It's why I'm being given the sacrificial lamb.
Eventually, every God has to either show his power or be declared a fraud.
This is the will and Testament of the Avenging Angel.
Well howdy there pardner.