Post by Chris Card on Sept 3, 2017 23:41:52 GMT
John F Kennedy airport, New York. The terminal is bustling with a throng of busy travellers. Baggage handlers and airport staff run hither and thither, the life blood of one of the world’s largest commercial airports. The camera, however, is more interested in the always dapper figure of The Real Man’s Wrestler, Chris Card. The besuited athlete takes a long, slow look around as he tries to locate his person of interest. And then the smile on his face broadens as he spies her.
Chris Card: Baby!
A statuesque woman, dark brown, nearly black hair flowing down and caressing her shoulders walks into view. Her dress, the height of fashion, hugs the curves of her body and shows a classy yet not overly sexual amount of skin. The tone of her voice is a mixture of excitement and relief as she spots her husband approaching.
Diana Card: Chris! Honey! Welcome back to the US!
Chris Card: Always a pleasure to see you, D. You know that. I missed you while I was out on tour.
Diana Card: How did it go?
Chris Card: Check my face.
Diana Card moves in closer to get a better look.
Chris Card: Do you see the scars there? Do you see where I got repeatedly bloodied and where I needed those stitches putting in?
There are no such signs of battle.
Diana Card: No...
Chris Card: Then I must have done well.
Diana Card: Hold on. I can see something on your lips.
Chris Card: Really?
Diana throws her arms around Chris’ shoulder and plants a long loving kiss on him. Chris raises his eyebrows in a satisfied expression.
Diana Card: Me.
Chris Card: I’ve missed you, honey. How was babysitting for little Andrew?
Diana Card: Oh, the little horror is doing well. He gave me the run around a few times but he’s surprisingly adorable.
Chris Card: And my dear sister-in-law?
Diana Card: Was mildly surprised you didn’t call her. I told her everything is fine.
Chris Card: Everything is. I'm not horrifically scarred by The Council. I’m back with the best woman in the world, I’m back on my own continent and I have training set up to get back to and a filming scheduled for this week. It really...
Placing a finger upon Card’s lips to temporarily silence him, his wife decides that she gets to complete the sentence for him.
Diana Card: It really is good to be you.
~~~~~
The Council. Or at least what’s left of it. For all your preaching of a better vision, it looks like Dean Harper made his choice. And that choice? Well it wasn’t you now boys, was it? You underestimated what Dean Harper was capable of and it cost you. You underestimated Rowan McDonnough’s capacity for disloyalty. And that cost you as well. And now you have competition for rebuilding the IWF in whatever hideous nightmare world comprises your personal visions. I’ll give you this one piece of advice for free. I don’t know Rowan McDonnough personally. But if my experience in the field, and trust me I have experience in the field, is anything to go by, her vision is a lot darker than yours is.
You see, the four of you need to do some real soul searching. You need to look at what’s happened and think, “Is it really worth it?” All stables are doomed to failure. The more bodies you add to an equation, the more egos you have to keep in check. Strength in numbers may be a fine little short term benefit for yourselves as professional wrestlers but the more people in such a cut throat industry as we make our collective livings in that have your back, the more people are in the absolute perfect position to stick a knife in there. Personally, I prefer tag teams. Always have. Then at least when one guy turns on the other one, as is also far too frequent in other teams I have observed, at least you can go mano a mano with the treacherous little turncoat and face him down in a battle to prove your superiority.
All it took was a little creative pot stirring from yours truly and suddenly the pack, no pun intended, of wolves ended up fighting amongst each other like it was feeding time at the zoo. I warned you, I warned you all and you personally Kole that I thrive in chaotic environments and though I did not win the match at Legacy, I escaped what, from a more coherent stable, should have been a hellacious beating. So though I may not have progressed from that match I came out of it looking like the smartest man in the building. And suddenly those little voices I talked about before the match shut their smart little mouths. Suddenly Chris Card is, if not the name on everyone’s lips, then according to my financial assistants back in Toronto, the shirt on everyone’s backs. $24.99, selling out fast people.
Maybe you’re too smart as a unit to underestimate me again, Council. Certainly with the addition of Xavier Cross and Ulf Hednir in the match you officially outgun me four to one. In fact, if it was just me against the four of you I would hazard a guess that I might not come out unscathed again. But I am not alone. I have a group of talent around me that should make you very, very scared. You’d have to be complete idiots not to be worried. And I don’t peg you for, shall we say, complete idiots.
My team? We’re know entirely what we’re doing.
~~~~~
Fade in on a dark, windswept hillside, shot in moody black and white where four men stand, in formation together as a pack of wolves, glaring out into the distance with threatening gazes and gnarled expressions. Clad in all black, there is an underlying air of menace about the group that their body language conveys.
On a fairly unconvincing sound stage, four professional wrestlers are hamming it up like Jeremy Irons does with a bad script. Jayson Matthews is chomping down on a banana in a sinister fashion. Some would say that is impossible. But God damn it, Jayson is doing it. Next to him is Chris Card, practically foaming at the mouth while attempting to chew the scenery without even speaking. The third man is the more controlled Devlin Raine, getting the mannerisms of the persona he is about to take on perfectly down. And the fourth man, Mason St. Croix… looks entirely unimpressed by the proceedings to be quite frank. Devil Raine begins to speak in an unnaturally portentous voice.
Devier Cross: I am “The Unseater” Devier Cross. And we…
Dramatic pause.
Devier Cross: ...are The Council. And at the very mention of our name you should be quaking in fear. There has never been a group of wrestlers as dangerous as ourselves. No one as close to our inner darkness, able to summon the torment of our souls and channel that energy into an orgy of violence onto our victims. Is that not right, Khris Kaos?
Devlin Raine nods sagely towards Chris Card, who begins to spit his words out with a barely contained fury.
Khris Kaos: We…
Dramatic pause
Khris Kaos: ...are the Council. We use the hate that flows inside our bodies to strike out at the system that has let society down and the society that has let that system down. Thus destroying both the system and society at once, saving time. We see what is wrong in the world and we strike at it, hacking away at the rotten roots until the tree falls. And then we burn the tree. And then we bury the ashes of the tree. And then we jump up and down on the burial site until our boots fall apart. And then we burn the boots. Do you not agree, Jayson Sandcrab?
Card looks over to Jayson Matthews who is clutching his banana like it was a cheap cigar. He takes a solid bite out of it, spits it out (as one would do to a cigar tip), turns the banana round, takes a pantomime drag off of it and mimes blowing a fat smoke ring into the air.
Jayson Sandcrab: We…
Dramatic pause
Jayson Sandcrab: ...are the Council. The violence that we bring to the professional wrestling arena has never been matched. We strike at our targets with impunity leaving nothing but bloody messes of corpses in our wake. Those who fear us do so because they have full knowledge of what we are capable of. Those who do not are fools. There is no problem in the industry that cannot be solved with the violence we bring. Our enemies? Violence. Those who would turn upon us from within? Violence. Coffee delivered late? Violence. Can’t open our check to collect our pay slip? Violence. The Council brings more violence to the table than an entire army can muster. And part of that violence is our Norwegian Warlord, Ulf St. Kryss.
Jayson Matthews turns expectantly towards Mason St. Croix. Mason lets out a sigh and shrugs his shoulders.
Ulf St. Kryss: We…
Dramatic pause
Ulf St. Kryss: ...are the Council.
Mason’s vocal tone is one of dull acceptance, combining with the slight woodenness of a man who is reading from an autocue.
Jayson Matthews: C’mon, Mase. Do the accent!
Mason St. Croix: I told you. I’m not doing the accent.
Devlin Raine: Awww. It’ll be fun.
The answer is a very flat…
Mason St. Croix: No.
Back, nominally in character.
Ulf St. Kryss: I have travelled many miles to reach this point in my career. Lifted by the wings of Valkyries and blessed with the very strength of Thor himself I carve a path through all those who oppose The Council’s will. With the blessings of Tyr and the ever watchful eyes of Odin himself looking down upon me…
Mason breaks character again.
Mason St Croix: Seriously, who wrote this shit?
Chris Card grins in a very, “Yeah, this shit was me,” fashion. Mason returns to character again.
Ulf St. Kryss: …I bring the souls of an entire people to bear upon my enemies within the ring. The last true Viking. Those who oppose me will fall prey to the machinations of Loki’s minions. And those who ride my chariot with me will be lifted to Valhalla to fight glorious battles for eternity.
Devier Cross: You see, The Council know darkness. We know the depths that humanity can reach. And we will reach them. We will reach them and we will defeat our enemies time and time again. Because nobody in professional wrestling is as dark, edgy,
Khris Kaos: Chaotic, edgy,
Jayson Sandcrab: Violent, edgy,
Ulf St. Kryss: Warlike, edgy,
Devier Cross: Or as edgy as us. At Sacrifice the Council is coming and we are coming as a unit. Teenage boys? Paint your bedroom walls black, wear your edgiest black metal t-shirt, read up on some philosophy to quote and sound smarter and prepare to worship us.
Jayson Sandcrab: And never forget. Jayson Sandcrab is you Grandpa.
~~~~~~
We know what we’re doing, Council. But we’re not afraid to have a little fun. But you know what else that little skit, that parody showed. That we have been working together to prepare for this match. It’s just that it’s just so much more fun for the viewers to watch us lampoon your incredibly po-faced earnestness than to just show the incredibly hard work what we have put in. There’s only so many times you can watch Mason St. Croix bench press an eye watering weight, only so many times you can watch Devlin Raine spring from the ropes with the grace of a Russian gymnast only to land with an impact that would have made a more poorly funded facility than the one we used have had to replace their ring as a result. There’s only so many times that you can watch Jayson Matthews consume the recommended daily potassium intake for a high performance athlete… no scratch that last one. You could fill out Madison Square Gardens seven times over if the main event was advertised as “Jayson Matthews vs a banana.” The dude is that damn entertaining with his Musa acuminata related shenanigans. Go buy his shirt if you already own mine.
Xavier Cross was uncharacteristically complimentary about me recently. I mean he was merely using admiration of me as a counterpoint to his feelings towards other members of my teams. But it shows I must be doing something right. Right? Or maybe you’re trying to play mind games, Xavier. Trying to drive a rift between myself and my team mates, make me want to leave them high and dry in the clutch. Bravo, Sir. It shows that you’re capable of learning. It’s not going to WORK. But it’s an admirable attempt. To make my believe my own hype and throw me from my game plan. Or to make me think that I’m above my team mates so your little group can swipe at them while I remain unwilling to come to their aid.
Maybe you do genuinely appreciate what I bring to the professional wrestling arena. Maybe I am your favourite wrestler, “like, ever.” I’m not a bad choice. But if you are trying to play mind games with me you’re welcome to try. You’re not going to win. Not now. Not ever. People have tried psychological warfare with me. But psychological warfare isn’t just a speciality of mine. It’s a lifestyle. It’s not my calling card… but one of your team might be seeing that, just before the end of the match. Still, when all this is said and done, when The Council as a concept has had its dying embers finally extinguished if I’m still your favourite wrestler, hit me up about forming a tag team. After all, those who know my history know that I have this weird tendency to tag with people called Cross.
Dear old Ulf Hednir. When those embers finally die out, where will you be standing? Because there’s a lot and I mean a real tangible amount of the IWF’s fanbase who would like to see your big old boots being the one doing the stamping. You’re such a good guy. Unlike Cross who is so full of what I presume is faux bonhomie when the need suits him, you’re a guy who people actually connect with. After all, every foreigner in professional wrestling has lived to a certain national stereotype and you live up to that of the Viking. Everyone loves Vikings. Despite the many non consensual sexual encounters and wanton destruction of crops and homes that they left in their wake around coastal Europe. Still, we’ll gloss over that. Vikings are fun.
Of course the portrayal of your nation’s heritage owes more to the Wagnerian ideal of a Viking than any actual living, breathing, early Middle Ages Heathen. Expect without the horns because, historical accuracy and German operatic composers be damned, right? Because, Viking! There’s just one small thing that still bothers me. One tiny detail that niggles away at the back of my mind. How, if I may be so bold, in the frozen depths of Helheim, does all of this help you win a wrestling match?
I mean you’re a not TOO shabby technical wrestler, certainly not in the same class as either myself, The D-3-R or the Military Mat Master. But you’re not attending a Thing. You’re not at some meeting in a longhouse with fellow warriors. You’re trying to present yourself as a superior professional wrestler. Because, Viking? You’re a good kid, Ulf. I like Vikings. I’m sure if you left the depths of council drudgery behind you could leverage that pre-Christianised popularity into a swathe of popularity. Maybe even get a top selling shirt? With a nice Runic font on that totally doesn’t correspond to how the letters are actually supposed to be pronounced? It will sell like hot cakes. Because, Viking!
What of the two people I faced at Heir To The Throne? Let’s start with, oh I don’t know, Jason Sandman. You let me down, Jason. You let yourself down, sure that’s important, but you let me down. I talked you up as a potential threat, as this dangerous monster who could snap at any moment and break everyone else in the ring. Hell, everyone in the damn arena. But what did I witness? You took the fall. I overestimated you, Jason Sandman. And I have to apologise to all my fans across the world for getting my prediction of your possible dominance so hopelessly wrong. Combined with my underestimation of Dean Harper and that cost my fans a second, and indeed third, chance to see me wrestle in the course of one night. I was looking forward to tussling with Ryan Shane and Ulf Hednir that night. But you took the fall.
When I felt Kole Kaos’s leg kick, I looked across and completely expected you to have kicked out of Harper’s manoeuvrer at the same time. And I then I heard the three count. And you hadn’t. Damn it, Jason. You’re better than this, I thought. And looking back, maybe you aren’t. Maybe the sort of Jason Sandman who is happy to be a water carrier for someone else’s ideals isn’t the sort of Jason Sandman who can beat a man like Dean Harper. Maybe you should have taken my advice and done that soul searching that I implored you to do. I am not annoyed with you, Jason. Dissapointed, yed. But not annoyed. Some matches you are destined not to progress from. There will be other chances, other opportunities for Chris Card down the line. But that Jason Sandman from the past, the one who I said needs to come and insert his boot firmly into your posterior? That Jason Sandman was watching that Heir To The Throne Match. And He. Is. Pissed.
Speaking of pissed. I bet Kole Kaos is fuming right now. I bet he is seething with anger. The betrayal by Rowan. The formation of a new, younger, hungrier, more angst ridden stable in opposition to The Council. I bet that Kole Kaos is spitting his coffee out all over his lounge carpet every time thoughts of Heir To The Throne enter his tiny little mind. Good. I like an angry opponent. Anger makes you unfocused. Control makes you stronger. And I, Chris Card, was in total control of the situation at Heir To The Throne. I was a fraction of a second away from picking up what would have been the most unlikely of victories. It was only the failure of your stablemate and the quite unexpected arrival of your new fun little rival Dean Harper that kept me from victory. None of the result of that match was down to the positive efforts of The Council.
Maybe The Council will recover from this, Kole. Maybe, if you can win the eight man tag this week you can climb back off the bottom rung of the IWF’s Supergroup standings. The problem for you is you’re going to have to rely on your own skill. Imagine that! You’ve lost the numbers advantage. She’s busy doing her own thing. Well, not quite. She’s busy doing YOUR thing. Only better. So now you have to rely on the collective group’s abilities to defeat your opponents. Your dull witted power game, throwing people around for fun. And profit. (Dirty word where your stand, right?). Ulf’s naive technique, yet unmatched spirit. Jason Sandman’s spent force, brawling away toward obscurity. Xavier Cross’ technical eloquence and, well, quite frankly, pedestrian cheating.
Meanwhile we have a man who brings military training and military grade precision with his technical wrestling, the unstoppable force that is Mason St. Croix. A man who is more than capable on the mat himself, the risk taker, the show off, the irresistible Devlin Raine. A man whose unquenchable thirst for victory and ability to bounce back from such unspeakable punishment makes me wonder if he isn’t some sort of scientific experiment to cross breed a man with a superball, Jayson Matthews. And finally you have me. Technical Perfection. The Muhammad Ali of the cheap shot. The Michael Phelps of the master plan. The New England Patriots of the dirty trick. No wait, that IS just the New England Patriots. The Real Man’s Wrestler (Buy the shirt.).
Just don’t forget what happened at Legacy, Kole.
Spray.
Chris Card: Baby!
A statuesque woman, dark brown, nearly black hair flowing down and caressing her shoulders walks into view. Her dress, the height of fashion, hugs the curves of her body and shows a classy yet not overly sexual amount of skin. The tone of her voice is a mixture of excitement and relief as she spots her husband approaching.
Diana Card: Chris! Honey! Welcome back to the US!
Chris Card: Always a pleasure to see you, D. You know that. I missed you while I was out on tour.
Diana Card: How did it go?
Chris Card: Check my face.
Diana Card moves in closer to get a better look.
Chris Card: Do you see the scars there? Do you see where I got repeatedly bloodied and where I needed those stitches putting in?
There are no such signs of battle.
Diana Card: No...
Chris Card: Then I must have done well.
Diana Card: Hold on. I can see something on your lips.
Chris Card: Really?
Diana throws her arms around Chris’ shoulder and plants a long loving kiss on him. Chris raises his eyebrows in a satisfied expression.
Diana Card: Me.
Chris Card: I’ve missed you, honey. How was babysitting for little Andrew?
Diana Card: Oh, the little horror is doing well. He gave me the run around a few times but he’s surprisingly adorable.
Chris Card: And my dear sister-in-law?
Diana Card: Was mildly surprised you didn’t call her. I told her everything is fine.
Chris Card: Everything is. I'm not horrifically scarred by The Council. I’m back with the best woman in the world, I’m back on my own continent and I have training set up to get back to and a filming scheduled for this week. It really...
Placing a finger upon Card’s lips to temporarily silence him, his wife decides that she gets to complete the sentence for him.
Diana Card: It really is good to be you.
~~~~~
The Council. Or at least what’s left of it. For all your preaching of a better vision, it looks like Dean Harper made his choice. And that choice? Well it wasn’t you now boys, was it? You underestimated what Dean Harper was capable of and it cost you. You underestimated Rowan McDonnough’s capacity for disloyalty. And that cost you as well. And now you have competition for rebuilding the IWF in whatever hideous nightmare world comprises your personal visions. I’ll give you this one piece of advice for free. I don’t know Rowan McDonnough personally. But if my experience in the field, and trust me I have experience in the field, is anything to go by, her vision is a lot darker than yours is.
You see, the four of you need to do some real soul searching. You need to look at what’s happened and think, “Is it really worth it?” All stables are doomed to failure. The more bodies you add to an equation, the more egos you have to keep in check. Strength in numbers may be a fine little short term benefit for yourselves as professional wrestlers but the more people in such a cut throat industry as we make our collective livings in that have your back, the more people are in the absolute perfect position to stick a knife in there. Personally, I prefer tag teams. Always have. Then at least when one guy turns on the other one, as is also far too frequent in other teams I have observed, at least you can go mano a mano with the treacherous little turncoat and face him down in a battle to prove your superiority.
All it took was a little creative pot stirring from yours truly and suddenly the pack, no pun intended, of wolves ended up fighting amongst each other like it was feeding time at the zoo. I warned you, I warned you all and you personally Kole that I thrive in chaotic environments and though I did not win the match at Legacy, I escaped what, from a more coherent stable, should have been a hellacious beating. So though I may not have progressed from that match I came out of it looking like the smartest man in the building. And suddenly those little voices I talked about before the match shut their smart little mouths. Suddenly Chris Card is, if not the name on everyone’s lips, then according to my financial assistants back in Toronto, the shirt on everyone’s backs. $24.99, selling out fast people.
Maybe you’re too smart as a unit to underestimate me again, Council. Certainly with the addition of Xavier Cross and Ulf Hednir in the match you officially outgun me four to one. In fact, if it was just me against the four of you I would hazard a guess that I might not come out unscathed again. But I am not alone. I have a group of talent around me that should make you very, very scared. You’d have to be complete idiots not to be worried. And I don’t peg you for, shall we say, complete idiots.
My team? We’re know entirely what we’re doing.
~~~~~
Fade in on a dark, windswept hillside, shot in moody black and white where four men stand, in formation together as a pack of wolves, glaring out into the distance with threatening gazes and gnarled expressions. Clad in all black, there is an underlying air of menace about the group that their body language conveys.
On a fairly unconvincing sound stage, four professional wrestlers are hamming it up like Jeremy Irons does with a bad script. Jayson Matthews is chomping down on a banana in a sinister fashion. Some would say that is impossible. But God damn it, Jayson is doing it. Next to him is Chris Card, practically foaming at the mouth while attempting to chew the scenery without even speaking. The third man is the more controlled Devlin Raine, getting the mannerisms of the persona he is about to take on perfectly down. And the fourth man, Mason St. Croix… looks entirely unimpressed by the proceedings to be quite frank. Devil Raine begins to speak in an unnaturally portentous voice.
Devier Cross: I am “The Unseater” Devier Cross. And we…
Dramatic pause.
Devier Cross: ...are The Council. And at the very mention of our name you should be quaking in fear. There has never been a group of wrestlers as dangerous as ourselves. No one as close to our inner darkness, able to summon the torment of our souls and channel that energy into an orgy of violence onto our victims. Is that not right, Khris Kaos?
Devlin Raine nods sagely towards Chris Card, who begins to spit his words out with a barely contained fury.
Khris Kaos: We…
Dramatic pause
Khris Kaos: ...are the Council. We use the hate that flows inside our bodies to strike out at the system that has let society down and the society that has let that system down. Thus destroying both the system and society at once, saving time. We see what is wrong in the world and we strike at it, hacking away at the rotten roots until the tree falls. And then we burn the tree. And then we bury the ashes of the tree. And then we jump up and down on the burial site until our boots fall apart. And then we burn the boots. Do you not agree, Jayson Sandcrab?
Card looks over to Jayson Matthews who is clutching his banana like it was a cheap cigar. He takes a solid bite out of it, spits it out (as one would do to a cigar tip), turns the banana round, takes a pantomime drag off of it and mimes blowing a fat smoke ring into the air.
Jayson Sandcrab: We…
Dramatic pause
Jayson Sandcrab: ...are the Council. The violence that we bring to the professional wrestling arena has never been matched. We strike at our targets with impunity leaving nothing but bloody messes of corpses in our wake. Those who fear us do so because they have full knowledge of what we are capable of. Those who do not are fools. There is no problem in the industry that cannot be solved with the violence we bring. Our enemies? Violence. Those who would turn upon us from within? Violence. Coffee delivered late? Violence. Can’t open our check to collect our pay slip? Violence. The Council brings more violence to the table than an entire army can muster. And part of that violence is our Norwegian Warlord, Ulf St. Kryss.
Jayson Matthews turns expectantly towards Mason St. Croix. Mason lets out a sigh and shrugs his shoulders.
Ulf St. Kryss: We…
Dramatic pause
Ulf St. Kryss: ...are the Council.
Mason’s vocal tone is one of dull acceptance, combining with the slight woodenness of a man who is reading from an autocue.
Jayson Matthews: C’mon, Mase. Do the accent!
Mason St. Croix: I told you. I’m not doing the accent.
Devlin Raine: Awww. It’ll be fun.
The answer is a very flat…
Mason St. Croix: No.
Back, nominally in character.
Ulf St. Kryss: I have travelled many miles to reach this point in my career. Lifted by the wings of Valkyries and blessed with the very strength of Thor himself I carve a path through all those who oppose The Council’s will. With the blessings of Tyr and the ever watchful eyes of Odin himself looking down upon me…
Mason breaks character again.
Mason St Croix: Seriously, who wrote this shit?
Chris Card grins in a very, “Yeah, this shit was me,” fashion. Mason returns to character again.
Ulf St. Kryss: …I bring the souls of an entire people to bear upon my enemies within the ring. The last true Viking. Those who oppose me will fall prey to the machinations of Loki’s minions. And those who ride my chariot with me will be lifted to Valhalla to fight glorious battles for eternity.
Devier Cross: You see, The Council know darkness. We know the depths that humanity can reach. And we will reach them. We will reach them and we will defeat our enemies time and time again. Because nobody in professional wrestling is as dark, edgy,
Khris Kaos: Chaotic, edgy,
Jayson Sandcrab: Violent, edgy,
Ulf St. Kryss: Warlike, edgy,
Devier Cross: Or as edgy as us. At Sacrifice the Council is coming and we are coming as a unit. Teenage boys? Paint your bedroom walls black, wear your edgiest black metal t-shirt, read up on some philosophy to quote and sound smarter and prepare to worship us.
Jayson Sandcrab: And never forget. Jayson Sandcrab is you Grandpa.
~~~~~~
We know what we’re doing, Council. But we’re not afraid to have a little fun. But you know what else that little skit, that parody showed. That we have been working together to prepare for this match. It’s just that it’s just so much more fun for the viewers to watch us lampoon your incredibly po-faced earnestness than to just show the incredibly hard work what we have put in. There’s only so many times you can watch Mason St. Croix bench press an eye watering weight, only so many times you can watch Devlin Raine spring from the ropes with the grace of a Russian gymnast only to land with an impact that would have made a more poorly funded facility than the one we used have had to replace their ring as a result. There’s only so many times that you can watch Jayson Matthews consume the recommended daily potassium intake for a high performance athlete… no scratch that last one. You could fill out Madison Square Gardens seven times over if the main event was advertised as “Jayson Matthews vs a banana.” The dude is that damn entertaining with his Musa acuminata related shenanigans. Go buy his shirt if you already own mine.
Xavier Cross was uncharacteristically complimentary about me recently. I mean he was merely using admiration of me as a counterpoint to his feelings towards other members of my teams. But it shows I must be doing something right. Right? Or maybe you’re trying to play mind games, Xavier. Trying to drive a rift between myself and my team mates, make me want to leave them high and dry in the clutch. Bravo, Sir. It shows that you’re capable of learning. It’s not going to WORK. But it’s an admirable attempt. To make my believe my own hype and throw me from my game plan. Or to make me think that I’m above my team mates so your little group can swipe at them while I remain unwilling to come to their aid.
Maybe you do genuinely appreciate what I bring to the professional wrestling arena. Maybe I am your favourite wrestler, “like, ever.” I’m not a bad choice. But if you are trying to play mind games with me you’re welcome to try. You’re not going to win. Not now. Not ever. People have tried psychological warfare with me. But psychological warfare isn’t just a speciality of mine. It’s a lifestyle. It’s not my calling card… but one of your team might be seeing that, just before the end of the match. Still, when all this is said and done, when The Council as a concept has had its dying embers finally extinguished if I’m still your favourite wrestler, hit me up about forming a tag team. After all, those who know my history know that I have this weird tendency to tag with people called Cross.
Dear old Ulf Hednir. When those embers finally die out, where will you be standing? Because there’s a lot and I mean a real tangible amount of the IWF’s fanbase who would like to see your big old boots being the one doing the stamping. You’re such a good guy. Unlike Cross who is so full of what I presume is faux bonhomie when the need suits him, you’re a guy who people actually connect with. After all, every foreigner in professional wrestling has lived to a certain national stereotype and you live up to that of the Viking. Everyone loves Vikings. Despite the many non consensual sexual encounters and wanton destruction of crops and homes that they left in their wake around coastal Europe. Still, we’ll gloss over that. Vikings are fun.
Of course the portrayal of your nation’s heritage owes more to the Wagnerian ideal of a Viking than any actual living, breathing, early Middle Ages Heathen. Expect without the horns because, historical accuracy and German operatic composers be damned, right? Because, Viking! There’s just one small thing that still bothers me. One tiny detail that niggles away at the back of my mind. How, if I may be so bold, in the frozen depths of Helheim, does all of this help you win a wrestling match?
I mean you’re a not TOO shabby technical wrestler, certainly not in the same class as either myself, The D-3-R or the Military Mat Master. But you’re not attending a Thing. You’re not at some meeting in a longhouse with fellow warriors. You’re trying to present yourself as a superior professional wrestler. Because, Viking? You’re a good kid, Ulf. I like Vikings. I’m sure if you left the depths of council drudgery behind you could leverage that pre-Christianised popularity into a swathe of popularity. Maybe even get a top selling shirt? With a nice Runic font on that totally doesn’t correspond to how the letters are actually supposed to be pronounced? It will sell like hot cakes. Because, Viking!
What of the two people I faced at Heir To The Throne? Let’s start with, oh I don’t know, Jason Sandman. You let me down, Jason. You let yourself down, sure that’s important, but you let me down. I talked you up as a potential threat, as this dangerous monster who could snap at any moment and break everyone else in the ring. Hell, everyone in the damn arena. But what did I witness? You took the fall. I overestimated you, Jason Sandman. And I have to apologise to all my fans across the world for getting my prediction of your possible dominance so hopelessly wrong. Combined with my underestimation of Dean Harper and that cost my fans a second, and indeed third, chance to see me wrestle in the course of one night. I was looking forward to tussling with Ryan Shane and Ulf Hednir that night. But you took the fall.
When I felt Kole Kaos’s leg kick, I looked across and completely expected you to have kicked out of Harper’s manoeuvrer at the same time. And I then I heard the three count. And you hadn’t. Damn it, Jason. You’re better than this, I thought. And looking back, maybe you aren’t. Maybe the sort of Jason Sandman who is happy to be a water carrier for someone else’s ideals isn’t the sort of Jason Sandman who can beat a man like Dean Harper. Maybe you should have taken my advice and done that soul searching that I implored you to do. I am not annoyed with you, Jason. Dissapointed, yed. But not annoyed. Some matches you are destined not to progress from. There will be other chances, other opportunities for Chris Card down the line. But that Jason Sandman from the past, the one who I said needs to come and insert his boot firmly into your posterior? That Jason Sandman was watching that Heir To The Throne Match. And He. Is. Pissed.
Speaking of pissed. I bet Kole Kaos is fuming right now. I bet he is seething with anger. The betrayal by Rowan. The formation of a new, younger, hungrier, more angst ridden stable in opposition to The Council. I bet that Kole Kaos is spitting his coffee out all over his lounge carpet every time thoughts of Heir To The Throne enter his tiny little mind. Good. I like an angry opponent. Anger makes you unfocused. Control makes you stronger. And I, Chris Card, was in total control of the situation at Heir To The Throne. I was a fraction of a second away from picking up what would have been the most unlikely of victories. It was only the failure of your stablemate and the quite unexpected arrival of your new fun little rival Dean Harper that kept me from victory. None of the result of that match was down to the positive efforts of The Council.
Maybe The Council will recover from this, Kole. Maybe, if you can win the eight man tag this week you can climb back off the bottom rung of the IWF’s Supergroup standings. The problem for you is you’re going to have to rely on your own skill. Imagine that! You’ve lost the numbers advantage. She’s busy doing her own thing. Well, not quite. She’s busy doing YOUR thing. Only better. So now you have to rely on the collective group’s abilities to defeat your opponents. Your dull witted power game, throwing people around for fun. And profit. (Dirty word where your stand, right?). Ulf’s naive technique, yet unmatched spirit. Jason Sandman’s spent force, brawling away toward obscurity. Xavier Cross’ technical eloquence and, well, quite frankly, pedestrian cheating.
Meanwhile we have a man who brings military training and military grade precision with his technical wrestling, the unstoppable force that is Mason St. Croix. A man who is more than capable on the mat himself, the risk taker, the show off, the irresistible Devlin Raine. A man whose unquenchable thirst for victory and ability to bounce back from such unspeakable punishment makes me wonder if he isn’t some sort of scientific experiment to cross breed a man with a superball, Jayson Matthews. And finally you have me. Technical Perfection. The Muhammad Ali of the cheap shot. The Michael Phelps of the master plan. The New England Patriots of the dirty trick. No wait, that IS just the New England Patriots. The Real Man’s Wrestler (Buy the shirt.).
Just don’t forget what happened at Legacy, Kole.
Spray.
Well howdy there pardner.