Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Mar 18, 2018 15:29:40 GMT
I'll admit, I hadn't been planning on entering the Roulette this year. After all, why would the Imperial Champion be in the Roulette? But everything changed at Danger Zone. Plans and hopes I'd held for months got dashed in an instant. Two men did this. Two men who refuse to acknowledge their own mortality, their own humanity. One of them is standing behind twenty-nine other men. The road to Night of the Immortals ends at Angel's feet, and to take back what was stolen from me, I need to survive the Roulette one more time. But the other? The other's right in there with me.
Hello, Spike.
We seem to keep doing this, don't we? Ever since this time last year, when I was chasing the Man of Steel Championship, you and I have been locked in this vicious dance. I thought we were done, Spike. I thought you had found a new purpose in life, that you'd found out how to keep your envy and spite from eating a hole in your heart and actually decided to do something constructive for a change.
Guess that makes me the fool, right?
There's a reason the world has come down on your head the way it has, Spike: because you made them believe. And maybe that's the best validation your self-claimed godhood ever had. You inspired faith in millions, Spike. You had them believing that anyone can turn a new leaf, even the Blood God himself. You made ME believe, Spike, and I had decided to write you off months ago.
And then Danger Zone happened, and I remembered why I wrote you off.
There aren't many people in this world I hate, Spike. Hate's an awful thing. It twists you up and withers all that's good about you until all you have is your hate. It makes you a shell of a being, driven only by the desire to inflict pain. But then, I don't need to tell you that. I try not to hate, because I know it'll poison me. And yet, Spike, I can't stop myself when it comes to you.
I hate you, Spike. I hate you with every fiber of my being. You're a spineless thug with no morals to stand on, a craven bully who can't get over the idea that some day he won't be able to go anymore, a liar who'll spit any line that makes people buy in enough to give him one more dance on the big stage, a Hall of Fame talent who can't live with being one of the greatest this world has ever seen.
And that's the thing that baffles me. You're a Hall of Famer in every promotion you touch, a World Champion so many times over that the name "Spike Kane" is synonymous with "champion" in so many minds. And it's never enough for you. No matter how many accolades you earn, no matter how much praise is heaped at your feet, it's NEVER ENOUGH. The people never do enough for you, huh? They never give back what you give to them, because you're such a generous god and they're a bunch of whiny ingrates, right?
Go to hell, you egotistical son of a bitch.
I know I'm supposed to be talking about the Roulette, I know I am, but you and this match are inextricably intertwined. I don't care if you're just running interference for Angel, consigning yourself to be a second-rate lapdog, or if you're actually looking to rip that title from his hands and become World Champion again. I guess you wanted a softer target than me, huh? Doesn't matter, though. If I can still draw breath, if I can still do anything at all, you're going to choke on that pledge you made.
If I can't win the Roulette, your Invictus Title sure as hell sounds like a nice Plan B.
That's an if, though, because I'm going to do everything I can to win this match. There are men in this match that deserve nothing less than my best, that deserve the chance to prove just how good they really are despite the words of the hateful and envious. Here I stand, still unbreakable, still resolute. I will be World Champion once more, and if anyone wants to prove me wrong they'll need every single ounce of skill, strength, cunning, and resolve they can find and then some. And yeah, I know I might not win. I'm only human, I'm fallible. But Spike?
I may not win, but you're sure as hell going to lose.
Andrew steps out of the cab of a pickup truck, looking around at the half-melted woodscape of outstate Minnesota. In front of him stands a cabin, weather-worn wooden sides clashing in the mind's eye with the satellite dish perched precariously atop the roof. From the other side of the cab, his older brother Rick emerges, wearing a goofy yet welcoming grin on his face and decked out in hunter's gear, complete with a camouflage Minnesota Wild hat and a high. Andrew looks over at his brother, resplendent in neon orange and camouflage, and the North Star is unable to keep his composure, breaking into snickering laughter. "Dude, what the hell are you doing? The fish aren't going to see you coming."
"You never know." Rick shoots back, grin unwavering. "Come on, let's bring everything inside and get settled." With that, Rick walks around to the tailgate of the truck, popping it open and hauling a large cooler out with one hand. Andrew chuckles, grabbing a tackle box from the back of the cab and following Rick. The big man fumbles with his keys, still holding the cooler with one hand, and eventually fishes out a key, unlocking the door to the cabin and slipping his way in.
Andrew follows Rick in, looking around with a raised eyebrow as they step into the dim lighting of the cabin's interior. From the inside, it looks like a modestly-furnished home, of the kind that wouldn't be out of place far closer to civilization. Visible from the entryway is a kitchen stocked with appliances and fixtures to make a real estate agent blush. "Cassandra didn't want to give up too much in the way of creature comforts, did she?"
"Look, man, that was my sacrifice to get this place in the first place. I would've been content with a cot, a radio, and an outhouse. Not my fault my girls have discerning tastes." Rick sets the cooler down, stretching with a mighty groan. "Oh God, I needed that. What the hell is it with you and insisting on driving straight through everything?"
"I don't like taking breaks." Andrew shrugs. "Ingrained road behavior. Besides, you'll be fine." He sets the tackle box on the counter, glancing over at the stairwell leading downward. "I'm guessing that's a finished basement too?"
"How'd you guess?" Rick replies dryly. "I was the one that wanted this place, but sometimes it feels like I had the third-loudest voice in building it." The elder Jacobsen brother walks into the living room, flicking on the lights as he goes. "So, why'd you agree to come with me? I figured you'd be in full-on crazy-ass preparation mode."
"Eh." Andrew shrugs. "Something about my agent saying that I needed to take a little time where I wasn't obsessing about work or I'd blow a fuse. Also, my fiancée threatened to call off the marriage if I didn't." He walks into the living room after Rick, chuckling as he sees the mammoth television that dominates one corner of the room. "The girls got all the concessions, huh?"
"I didn't say all of them." Rick grins back. "So this is all Danielle's fault. Good to know. I'll be sure to thank her." He pauses, looking over to Andrew. "We get worried about you, man. You push yourself like a lunatic. One of these days, your body's not gonna be able to keep up with your heart...I'm just hoping it isn't sooner than you think."
Andrew pauses in his tracks, looking back at Rick. His voice is quiet when he speaks, carrying none of its earlier playfulness. "Job's never done, Rick. Someone's gotta fight the good fight, and those who've been willing to step up are few and far between. I have to keep going until there's someone I can trust to take the reins." Andrew pauses for a second, forcing a smile onto his face as he raises his voice again. "And hey, someone's got to keep you from going full Grizzly Adams up here, right?"
"Screw you, man." Rick lightly slugs Andrew in the shoulder, laughing. "Alright, I had a coffee too many. How about we take five and we'll regroup from there?" Andrew nods, and Rick turns on his heel, walking briskly towards the bathroom. Andrew slumps down in a recliner, looking out the window as his hand unconsciously goes to his neck, and his smile slowly fades, replaced by a pensive expression as we, too, fade out.
Hello, Spike.
We seem to keep doing this, don't we? Ever since this time last year, when I was chasing the Man of Steel Championship, you and I have been locked in this vicious dance. I thought we were done, Spike. I thought you had found a new purpose in life, that you'd found out how to keep your envy and spite from eating a hole in your heart and actually decided to do something constructive for a change.
Guess that makes me the fool, right?
There's a reason the world has come down on your head the way it has, Spike: because you made them believe. And maybe that's the best validation your self-claimed godhood ever had. You inspired faith in millions, Spike. You had them believing that anyone can turn a new leaf, even the Blood God himself. You made ME believe, Spike, and I had decided to write you off months ago.
And then Danger Zone happened, and I remembered why I wrote you off.
There aren't many people in this world I hate, Spike. Hate's an awful thing. It twists you up and withers all that's good about you until all you have is your hate. It makes you a shell of a being, driven only by the desire to inflict pain. But then, I don't need to tell you that. I try not to hate, because I know it'll poison me. And yet, Spike, I can't stop myself when it comes to you.
I hate you, Spike. I hate you with every fiber of my being. You're a spineless thug with no morals to stand on, a craven bully who can't get over the idea that some day he won't be able to go anymore, a liar who'll spit any line that makes people buy in enough to give him one more dance on the big stage, a Hall of Fame talent who can't live with being one of the greatest this world has ever seen.
And that's the thing that baffles me. You're a Hall of Famer in every promotion you touch, a World Champion so many times over that the name "Spike Kane" is synonymous with "champion" in so many minds. And it's never enough for you. No matter how many accolades you earn, no matter how much praise is heaped at your feet, it's NEVER ENOUGH. The people never do enough for you, huh? They never give back what you give to them, because you're such a generous god and they're a bunch of whiny ingrates, right?
Go to hell, you egotistical son of a bitch.
I know I'm supposed to be talking about the Roulette, I know I am, but you and this match are inextricably intertwined. I don't care if you're just running interference for Angel, consigning yourself to be a second-rate lapdog, or if you're actually looking to rip that title from his hands and become World Champion again. I guess you wanted a softer target than me, huh? Doesn't matter, though. If I can still draw breath, if I can still do anything at all, you're going to choke on that pledge you made.
If I can't win the Roulette, your Invictus Title sure as hell sounds like a nice Plan B.
That's an if, though, because I'm going to do everything I can to win this match. There are men in this match that deserve nothing less than my best, that deserve the chance to prove just how good they really are despite the words of the hateful and envious. Here I stand, still unbreakable, still resolute. I will be World Champion once more, and if anyone wants to prove me wrong they'll need every single ounce of skill, strength, cunning, and resolve they can find and then some. And yeah, I know I might not win. I'm only human, I'm fallible. But Spike?
I may not win, but you're sure as hell going to lose.
Andrew steps out of the cab of a pickup truck, looking around at the half-melted woodscape of outstate Minnesota. In front of him stands a cabin, weather-worn wooden sides clashing in the mind's eye with the satellite dish perched precariously atop the roof. From the other side of the cab, his older brother Rick emerges, wearing a goofy yet welcoming grin on his face and decked out in hunter's gear, complete with a camouflage Minnesota Wild hat and a high. Andrew looks over at his brother, resplendent in neon orange and camouflage, and the North Star is unable to keep his composure, breaking into snickering laughter. "Dude, what the hell are you doing? The fish aren't going to see you coming."
"You never know." Rick shoots back, grin unwavering. "Come on, let's bring everything inside and get settled." With that, Rick walks around to the tailgate of the truck, popping it open and hauling a large cooler out with one hand. Andrew chuckles, grabbing a tackle box from the back of the cab and following Rick. The big man fumbles with his keys, still holding the cooler with one hand, and eventually fishes out a key, unlocking the door to the cabin and slipping his way in.
Andrew follows Rick in, looking around with a raised eyebrow as they step into the dim lighting of the cabin's interior. From the inside, it looks like a modestly-furnished home, of the kind that wouldn't be out of place far closer to civilization. Visible from the entryway is a kitchen stocked with appliances and fixtures to make a real estate agent blush. "Cassandra didn't want to give up too much in the way of creature comforts, did she?"
"Look, man, that was my sacrifice to get this place in the first place. I would've been content with a cot, a radio, and an outhouse. Not my fault my girls have discerning tastes." Rick sets the cooler down, stretching with a mighty groan. "Oh God, I needed that. What the hell is it with you and insisting on driving straight through everything?"
"I don't like taking breaks." Andrew shrugs. "Ingrained road behavior. Besides, you'll be fine." He sets the tackle box on the counter, glancing over at the stairwell leading downward. "I'm guessing that's a finished basement too?"
"How'd you guess?" Rick replies dryly. "I was the one that wanted this place, but sometimes it feels like I had the third-loudest voice in building it." The elder Jacobsen brother walks into the living room, flicking on the lights as he goes. "So, why'd you agree to come with me? I figured you'd be in full-on crazy-ass preparation mode."
"Eh." Andrew shrugs. "Something about my agent saying that I needed to take a little time where I wasn't obsessing about work or I'd blow a fuse. Also, my fiancée threatened to call off the marriage if I didn't." He walks into the living room after Rick, chuckling as he sees the mammoth television that dominates one corner of the room. "The girls got all the concessions, huh?"
"I didn't say all of them." Rick grins back. "So this is all Danielle's fault. Good to know. I'll be sure to thank her." He pauses, looking over to Andrew. "We get worried about you, man. You push yourself like a lunatic. One of these days, your body's not gonna be able to keep up with your heart...I'm just hoping it isn't sooner than you think."
Andrew pauses in his tracks, looking back at Rick. His voice is quiet when he speaks, carrying none of its earlier playfulness. "Job's never done, Rick. Someone's gotta fight the good fight, and those who've been willing to step up are few and far between. I have to keep going until there's someone I can trust to take the reins." Andrew pauses for a second, forcing a smile onto his face as he raises his voice again. "And hey, someone's got to keep you from going full Grizzly Adams up here, right?"
"Screw you, man." Rick lightly slugs Andrew in the shoulder, laughing. "Alright, I had a coffee too many. How about we take five and we'll regroup from there?" Andrew nods, and Rick turns on his heel, walking briskly towards the bathroom. Andrew slumps down in a recliner, looking out the window as his hand unconsciously goes to his neck, and his smile slowly fades, replaced by a pensive expression as we, too, fade out.
Well howdy there pardner.