Post by Warren Kane on Mar 10, 2019 0:18:52 GMT
I’ve never been a gambling man, I’m not one to try and play the odds, and I wouldn’t know the first thing about counting cards. My step dad….John, yeah he was a regular at the horse track, or the greyhounds, whichever was open when he needed money. Naturally, he never did well, hence his mental state….
I digress.
I’m not a gambling man, as I say. However, drawing number twenty nine? Well that certainly has to make me one of the favourites to win this whole thing, right? I know there are a lot of factors that go against me, such as my recent form in IWF. I spent a good few weeks, if not months getting my ass kicked, from pillar to post. The thing is, unlike our resident jobbers like James Gilmore, Nighthawk, and Pax Stormcrow?
I get right back up and ask for more.
Now, that has nothing to do with my kinks, that’s a whole other story. The point I’m making, is that I get back up and come back, I don’t sit and struggle with the reasons why I lost. I don’t blame other people, I don’t throw a pity parade….I hit the gym, I watch tape, I do my fucking job. In case you haven’t realised, I can actually be pretty damn good at it too. You see, I’ve been thinking a lot over my time away….you know, once upon a time? I was a main event star, I was someone that the company could have got behind, pushed to the moon and ride that sweet sweet karma train….
Instead, I’ve always been the tool of someone else.
Someone wants to send a message? Use Warren Kane.
Someone wants to have a show of power? Use Warren Kane.
Someone wants to win moment of the year?
USE. WARREN. KANE.
From Judas Alliah, to Rob Diamond. From Roberto Verona, to Spike Kane. From Eternity, to Rowan MacDonnough….I am so sick and fucking tired of being used by other people for their own gains. I am Warren MOTHER-FUCKING Kane, and I am nobody's servant, I am nobody's blunt instrument, I am nobody's fall guy…
I am the Heir to the throne, the Prince of Xtreme…
ALL
FUCKING
HAIL!
---
London, still a shithole…
It was cold, despite the fact that it had been unseasonably warm of late, the cold was back and in force. Warren pulled the collars of his jacket up to keep his neck and face safe from the icy wind. What manner of beard he had was going to be staying, at least until it warmed up. The cold was at the forefront of his mind, but Warren was paying attention to the darkly lit streets and all the side streets connected to it. He might be a professional wrestler, but he isn’t stupid, and walking through the streets of London, at night time, in this weather? Well, it was almost asking for trouble.
“Trouble always has a way of finding you though, eh, kiddo?”
The voice would have normally bothered Warren, startled him, but as sick as it made him to think, he was actually getting used to it. In fact, there was an odd comfort about the voice, it made him feel a lot less alone, and somehow, more confident. Instead of worrying, Warren now smirked, almost daring the shadows to jump out at him, taunting the lowlives of this dirty, and disgusting city to come out and face him. Before he knew it, Warren was standing at the bottom of the building that John and his mother lived in. The building he’d grown up in. It wasn’t a high rise block of flats, but it also wasn’t a maisonette, it was like a house stacked on top of another house, stacked on top of another house, and a couple more times over.
With a long, glaring look, Warren looked up from the edge of the car park to the balconies stretching from one end of the building block to the other, lights illuminating most of them, but some noticeably dark, as for whatever reason the lights weren’t working. Poor maintenance or vandalism, nobody ever knew, nobody seemed to care. With a deep breath Warren stepped forwards and held up his key to the scanner next to the main entrance that had a button for each “house” number, and a speaker for the tenants to speak to whoever was calling. Slowly pulling the door open, and ensuring it closed behind him, Warren headed into the lobby. It was cold, dirty, and it smelled of piss. It always smelled of piss, something that Warren could never forget. It didn’t make much sense to him, nobody was ever caught pissing in the lobby, yet it always smelled like someone had.
“Ain’t seen you in a while”
This time the voice caught him off guard, most notably, because the voice didn’t come from inside his own head, instead it was external. Warren rounded quickly to see an elderly man sat in the corner of the lobby, with blankets all around him, and a very sick looking dog resting near his feet. Warren, for the briefest of moments, felt a glimmer of happiness.
Warren: Marley!?
The elderly man chuckled and raised a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, as he smiled it was clear that he was missing teeth, and the ones that remained looked quite rotten. Still, Warren was happy to see him, he remembered how he would always see Marley walking his dog biscuit around the neighbourhood and how he was always so nice to everybody despite, clearly, having nothing for himself and living off of handouts.
Marley: Boy! I ain’t seen you in years! You lookin’ good man, lookin’ fightin’ fit!
The words, with the accompanying Jamaican accent brought a smile to Warrens face, an honest, innocent smile, a feeling he hadn’t felt for a long time. If he was honest? It was a feeling he hadn’t felt ever since he signed for IWF.
Warren: Yeah, well, I mean that’s the goal. Fighting fit, get back in time for the Roulette and see if I can go the distance.
Marley: I always knew you was gonna make it kid. You ain’t like the rest of ‘em round here. You got intellect, and you put it to use. ‘Stead of running around selling drugs and stabbing people, you done got your head down and worked hard. It paid off, an’ it shows.
While Warren was feeling good about the way Marley was talking to him, he couldn’t help but feel an intense pang of guilt. While he’d been off touring the world, living in luxurious hotels, or in...well...two different compounds, and wherever the hell it was Eternity kept him. Poor Marley had still been here, rotting away. Warren slowly reached his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, the sight of which seemed to really piss of Marley.
Marley: Whatcha doin youngblood!?
Warren: Come on Marley, I just want to help you out. You were always so nice to me growing up, you were there for me any time I got jumped, or John got carried away. Allow me to return the favour.
Warren reached his hand out, with a fist full of paper bills, as Marley shook his head, but Warren persisted. He figured a decent meal, and somewhere warm to sleep was the least he owed the old man. Regretfully Marley eventually reached out to take the money from Warrens hand, but as the two hands touched the air in the lobby seemed to go icy cold, and Marley was now staring at Warren with his eyes as wide as possible, and Marley’s dog (Rufus) was no on his feet and growling at Warren.
Marley: The hell you bringin’ in here withcha youngblood!? You got the devil in you! The devil!
Instinctively Warren pulled his arm back and away from Marley. Even though he should know that what the man was saying was true, it still hurt him. Warren had been a willing vessel for some time now, but it seemed like ever since Leviathan had left (and since returned elsewhere) something inside of him was itching and clawing to get out.
Marley: You bring a curse on this place! Why’d you come back!? Why’d you put us through this!? You gonna bring hellfire down on us all! ALL OF US!
As Marley began to stand and shout aggressively at Warren, he started to back away. He’d gone from being filled with nostalgia and remembering the conversations and time spent with old Marley, but now…..now he wanted to leave before Marley brought unwanted attention. Not because he was scared of anyone attacking him, no, but because he was scared of what he might do to them. Warren looked at the man he once called friend, who was now shouting and sputtering in gibberish, all the while Rufus was barking. With a determined look, Warren absentmindedly pressed the button for the Lift as he stared down Rufus. Without an obvious explanation, Rufus suddenly began to whimper as Warren smirked.
Warren: Sit.
Just like that Rufus sat down, this seemed to spark Marley off as he pulled his boot off of his poorly dressed self and hefted it in Warrens direction, just then the lift doors opened and Warren stepped inside, chuckling to himself as he did. Marley’s rambling faded away as the door closed and Warren found himself still chuckling as he pressed the number “5” on the wall. As he looked at himself in the graffiti covered mirror, he could hear his laughter echoing inside his mind, just long enough for him to question….
Who was laughing?
---
Twenty Nine.
That’s not just the number I’ve drawn for the Roulette, but it’s also the number of people I’ll have to go through to come out victorious. It’s not an easy task, never was, and never will be. There’s a reason that people hold those Roulette victorious over everyone’s heads. Hell, this time last year? I swear I saw my old man work harder than he had ever worked in his life, I guess it was true that he was buried in grief and trying to find his way through it all…..huh….I guess I’m more like him than I ever realized.
See I’m doing something similar.
In the space of, what, just over six months or so? I’ve lost both my parents. Now, here’s where people either get me, or lose all interest. I’m not playing the soppy card, because me? I hated them. BOTH of them. Yeah, I mean, I’m always gonna be a momma’s boy, but the day she chose that absolute prick John over me? Pfft. I was done. As much as I was done with Spike the moment he used me as a way to send a message to the roster by beating me down in arguably one of the most important matches of my career.
Where were my so-called friends then?
Where was Jayson Matthews?
Where was Andrew Jacobsen?
Oh, the guys who’ll say things like they have my best interests at heart, yet not a single motherfucker came to find me when Eternity had me. Not a single motherfucker even realised I’d up and disappeared and was living with the Pack…..no…
You’re all a bunch of fake bitches.
You know the lines you’re supposed to say, so the sheep in the stands will cheer for you and buy all of your t-shirts. Meanwhile, real people are struggling and you don’t do a goddamned thing to help. All this talk of “Team Free Will” all this talk about how the core of IWF was solid and good, or at least neutral…..yet…
What have any of you actually done?
How have you made even the slightest of difference?
It’s been over a year since the Age of Gods formed, over a year since The Pack formed, and have any of you done anything even close to eliminating either groups? NO! The worst that has happened is the Impe-....I’m sorry, World Championship has changed hands a few times. God was struck down, but not by one of you…..not by any of you, but by Rowan….and what happened?
The same thing that happened when they exorcised Rowan.
Shit backfired.
Funny that, because that is one of the very few times you….”free will” idiots actually did something. You tried to rid the girl of the demon, and it backfired in such a horrible way you forced the demon back in. How fucking hilarious is that?
You can’t even do an exorcism right.
Each of you, every single one of you sits on the sidelines waiting it out. Content to just show up, get your paycheck, and get the hell out of dodge. I mean, Bob Pooler had a record breaking title reign, does anyone even remember him being champion!? NO! Exactly, he just showed up whenever he was booked, kept himself to himself, kept his head down, and snuck under everyone's radar to a record breaking title reign….
What the actual fuck.
Now I have to stand here and listen to James Gilmore try and pedal “Being InFamous” merchandise and I’m sorry, but fuck that. There’s only so much patheticness I can take IWF. Only so much lunacy that can be allowed to fester. From now on there will be no sitting on the sidelines, there will be no more sitting on the fence. Pick a side, pick a fucking side, and deal with the consequences! I’m tempted to make it a personal mission. You don’t pick a side? I’m gonna come fuck with you, just because I can. Luckily for me? Here comes a match where the entire male roster is lumped together….besides our world champion of course.
I’ll get to that prick another time.
…...ugh.
Night of the Immortals is a night where legends and legacies are made. While I’m not obsessed with titles and reigns like my old man was, I’m also not an idiot, I want to be THE champion, anyone who says otherwise either has an agenda, or they are flat out lying. The Roulette might be the hardest way to get there, but it’s also the most direct. The one straight path to the Night of the Immortals main event, and an instant arrival on the main event scene, a guaranteed world championship match. Now…
I’m not arrogant enough to say I’m going to win that.
But I’m arrogant enough to say I’m going to win the Roulette.
You can throw your James Gilmore's at me, throw in Leviathan himself, send aging has-beens like Steve Awesome and Bob Pooler, even put members of my own Pack in my way, I’ll brush them all aside…
Because I seethe with purpose.
….and that purpose is slowly becoming clear.
Well howdy there pardner.