Post by Ethan King on Mar 23, 2019 0:00:08 GMT
"Life is a gamble, isn't it?"
Ethan is standing in a black room, with the only visible features being a prominent roulette table and Ethan King himself, slowly pacing around the table as the camera follows his movements. Almost tenderly he traces his fingers along the edge of the table, looking at it with a distant look in his eyes.
"For as long as I can remember, every step has been a calculated risk. The heir to one of the most powerful financial powers in the world, I couldn't open my mouth in middle school without being intimately aware of the fact that my words would be recorded and weighed, used against me later if I wasn't careful. As a child, it would be that a teacher might report any wrong answer or poorly chosen word to my father, who would unleash singular retribution. As I grew older, fear of paternal wrath subsided in favor of fear of potential rivals. Rivals in business, in influence... Any number of faces who might try to contend to my throne."
He looks at his hand, his fingers flexed as though holding something that only he can see. "I was raised to obsess over choices, and strive for absolute control." He winces. "God, I sound like Christian fucking Grey..."
He smirks and shakes his head, unable to maintain the detached and serious facade. He clears his throat and forces himself to regain composure... but there's a mischievous gleam in his eye now that will not vanish.
"The point I'm trying to make," he continues as he pulls a small white sphere from his pocket, rolling it about in his fingers as he speaks, "Is that I am used to a life full to bursting with excruciatingly precise calculated risks. While it might be a slight exaggeration to say that the economic stability of multiple countries hangs upon my whim, it's not nearly as severe of one as most would be at all comfortable with. Every risk, every gamble I make pays off eventually. It's only a matter of time. Even when things don't go my way... I pride myself on my ability to spin even crushing defeats into wins later down the road."
He tilts his head to the side. "But through all of that history, all of that philosophy... there is one gamble I've made that is constantly questioned. The gamble that nobody has been able to understand, and that my entire board of directors is not-so patiently waiting to see the payoff of. In the end, the best gambles can be boiled down to a question. Why did you invest in that industry? Why did you open a factory in that country? Why did you place such a large bet on that horse..."
He levels his eyes at the camera. "Why did you, Ethan King, choose to become a professional wrestler?"
He chuckles a bit. "There are... so many answers I could give you. Some of them serious - 'well, I became a professional wrestler because I wanted to take up a regular sport and activity to ensure that I spent as many years of my life as possible in peak physical condition, and as a professional wrestler so long as I avoid serious injury I'll be able to stay healthy for a long time.' Some of them might be more glib - 'if I suplexed my regional directors through my office desk the board of directors would start to rapidly tire of the legal fees coupled with the cost of having to buy a dozen mahogany desks a day.' Some of them are tear-jerkers - 'professional wrestling was the only thing my father and I both enjoyed, so I took it up as a hobby after he died to honor his memory and I discovered I was good at it'. Perhaps they're all true. Perhaps they're all lies. In the end - does it really matter?"
He winks at the camera. "Because in the end, the only thing you'll know for sure is that I have my reasons - and that I'm very, very good at it. That skill, that training, has led me to a place where I'm going to make the largest calculated risk of my in-ring career - two compete in two matches in a single night, against a total of 29 other men, one of whom I'll be fighting twice. Earlier in the evening I'm going to be risking baseball bats and exposed skulls to rip the coveted Strong Style Championship from Dean Harper's trembling fingers... but this? This video is all about gambles after all...."
Ethan tosses the ball onto the table, giving the wheel a spin. "And what greater gamble in the world than the Roulette?"
Ethan winces. "Fuck, now I sound like Ace Conway. Downgrade. Ew."
"You know, you're starting to sound like Ace Conway."
Ethan stifled a snicker as he lined up his shot, but the slight trembling in his fingers from the effort threw off his aim by bare centimeters. It was enough, however, to ensure that the ball rolled off center and knocked his target far away from the pocket he'd cited, bouncing uselessly to the opposite side of the table.
"That was a low blow," Ethan sighed, leaning back against the wall as Andrew moved to examine his own options. He took a long swig of Kirin as he watched his friend moving around the table. He remembered when he was able to easily outmatch Andrew in this game - but the Minnesotan was a devilishly fast learner, and Ethan now found himself regularly fighting an uphill battle to even make a decent showing, much less pull out a win.
Andrew chuckled. "Oh - oh, are we against low blows now? What happened to 'the only fair fight is the one you lose'? And hey, could be worse. Ace has been IWF World Champion ever."
Ethan narrowed his eyebrows, smirking slightly as he raised a hand to his heart and staggered back slightly to feign being struck. "Hurtful! Goodness, old friend, your barbs are cutting to the quick today. What did I do to piss you off, hm?"
Andrew raised his own eyebrow, ignoring the pool table for a moment as he fixed Ethan with a stern gaze. "I don't know, Ethan. What could you possibly be getting up to that might raise my ire?"
"Is that sarcasm, my old friend?" Ethan asked, hoping to be disarming. It did not work.
"Laura Howlett," Andrew stated plainly. Ethan sighed.
"I don't see what's so wrong about it. Or at least unexpected. It's not like you didn't know she had a hand in getting me a job here, or that she and I were working together."
Andrew shook his head. "When you first started, sure, but... I dunno."
Realization sparked in Ethan's mind. "You thought I'd broken ties with her when I started teaming with you."
Andrew sank a ball in the corner pocket with casual skill. "Hoped, more like. She's an evil woman, Ethan. I wish you wouldn't give her the time of day. The things she's done to the people who get in her way... I remember when they were damn near worse than the pack."
Ethan let out a long sigh. "I... I know. I know the history you have with them. I know that it must feel like a betrayal."
Andrew blinked. This had been unexpected. Ethan was never one to show remorse - nothing more than the cool and well-practiced confidence that he constantly strove to exude. It wasn't the words that caught him - it was the tone. The hesitation. The unspoken admittance that he was doing something that was, on some level, wrong... and that he cared about that.
With his eyes off the ball, Andrew missed his next shot. Ethan gave a small smirk as he reclaimed his position at the table.
"I know you don't now approve, and honestly never will. It's the path that is best for me to take, Andrew. You knew that you and I would find ourselves at odds eventually. Friendship can't keep us from opposite sides of the battlefield forever. Fighting the Age of Gods together was a welcome experience, but... in the end, you're a hero. And I?"
Andrew let out a rueful snort. "I see you, villain. Standing there with your villain mustache."
Ethan twirled a mustache that wasn't there. "To the core," he confirmed. Then he sobered slightly, finishing his bottle of Kirin. "We'll be fighting one another, I suspect, very soon," he admitted quietly. "I won't ask you to go easy on me. Or warn you to stay out of my way. But I won't back down either. I'm going to fight for the Roulette, Andrew... and if I have to go through you to get it?" He shakes his head. "I... at least promise to fight you clean."
Andrew's face softened. "Awww, King... you do care." He rested a hand on his friend's shoulder, massaging it slightly in a gesture he hoped was reassuring. "For now let's take out The Pack, yeah? I know you're all about Free Will."
Something lit up in Ethan's eyes. "It goes farther than that, Andrew," he said slowly, his voice taking a dangerously hard edge. "I have a lot of grudges to work out. A lot of people to hurt. A lot of things I'm going to do to people that you're not going to approve of... and you'll approve of the reason even less."
Andrew frowned. "Ethan...?"
The businessman smirked. "I'd do damn near anything for you, Andrew," he explained without explaining. "You'll see what I mean soon enough."
"Some risks are more... personal, than professional," Ethan continues as he watches the ball spin in the roulette wheel, bouncing from number to number. "And I'd like to take a moment to... address some of the more personal grudges that I have against those in this upcoming game of chance and calculated risk."
He smirks. "Caleb Lockwood. Oh... oh, dear, sweet little Caleb. My first opponent on IWF soil. You and I share a special little bond, you and I, boy. Oh, you likely deny it... but we do hold a record. A very special record that we forged together through sweat, through blood, and through agonizing tests of endurance that saw us fighting continuously around the world. The longest match in IWF history, two weeks before it finally saw its resolution... and you... you took that victory from me, Caleb. It should have been me. I tried to place nice with you, boy, I tried to show you the respectful benefit of the doubt... but no, you couldn't let yourself be beaten by a man like me. I get it though, I do, honestly. You... you really do despise me, as I do represent everything you stand so boldly against - lovely little tagline, by the way, 'Eat The Rich.'"
Ethan winks at the camera, but there is no mirth in his eyes. "Last year you started that same title reign I deserved to end here at the Roulette. You're probably walking into this fight thinking that you have every advantage in your corner. Home field, or something like that. But I'm not going to let you walk out of this match with a win two years in a row. This time, Caleb, you walk away with nothing because you. Are. Nothing. You and your little cult are going to wish you didn't set foot into Chicago. I am an unofficial member of Team Free Will, after all - and we're all about fighting back against The Pack. I'm going to be doing a LOT of fighting The Pack on Sunday night, boy - and compared to Dean Harper? You're just a rabid little attack dog straining at your leash. You won that match last year, Caleb... but you can't place a bet on lightning striking twice."
His eyes flare. "Speaking of The Pack - Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. I'm not going to waste time addressing you here, little man. I have plenty to say, but I have a whole other video coming soon that's all about you. You love that, right? Being the focus of attention? Well I'm happy to please, champ, because everything I have to say about you will be said when I address our Championship match earlier in the evening. I'm going to beat you, Dean. I'm going to take that belt you love so much off your submissive little waist, and then I'm going to vacate it the same goddamn night when I get the chance to beat the snot out of the boy who stares at you the way you WISH Warren Kane did."
He spreads his arms. "Hoooo boy that probably opened me up to a lot of hate from Warren Kane, didn't it? Lucky Number 29, second to last... of the members of The Pack, I'm told you're the one to watch. You're entering damn late so you'll be nice and fresh while the rest of us will have magically forgotten how to pace ourselves, this giving you a massive advantage and blah blah blah blah BLAH. Never tell me the odds, daddy's boy. You may be the 'one to watch', you may be the Son of the God of Extreme... but I've spent a LOT of time dedicating myself to systematically exterminating the legacy of Spike Kane."
He grins in that cocky way of his, wiggling his eyebrow in challenge. "What better Legacy to crush beneath my boot heel than his only living son? Not like it'll be hard. I mean, this trash writes itself, doesn't it? Weakest link in The Pack. Entering damn near last is almost fitting for you, really, because you've been in last place with them for quite some time, now. Everyone else in your little cult has had some title or another while bending the knee to the Irish bint in the mask, but you? You've always been three steps behind, either dragging your heels or gasping for air as you try to keep up. They're leaving you in the dust, Warren... in more ways than just professional." He winks.
His smile fades. Frustration and anger slips into his demeanor. He pulls out an e-cig and takes a long pull, mulling over his thoughts for a few seconds before saying a single word that is filled with more venom and vindictive loathing than should be possible to fit in a few simple letters.
"Uriel."
The corners of his mouth flicker up in a barest semblance of a smirk. "Oracle."
He opens his mouth a few times as though about to speak. Nothing comes. Eventually he shrugs, takes another pull from the vape, and puts it back in his pocket. "You know what? Nah. I've spent enough time in the past few weeks with your names on my lips. I'm done. Got nothing left to say. Beat you both. I'll do it again. Ya bore me. Moving on."
He leans back against the roulette table, the smirk that had been playing on his lips widening into a large smile. "And that... leaves me with two more. Two more people I'll talk about tonight. Two people who have DEFINITELY earned my... attention."
He cracks his neck. "Steve Awesome... and Rob Diamond."
The smile vanishes. "You two fucked with my boy."
He raises an eyebrow. "Oh, you might think its in the past. You might think you're fine now, that nothing's wrong... but I am Andrew Jacobsen's equal and opposite in every measure. I am him, The Unbreakable One, but through a mirror darkly. If he's Spock, I'm Spock-With-A-Wicked-Goatee. Mirror God-Damned Mirror. He can put on the facade of a man who's moved on, a man who's forgiven, a man who's forgotten, a man who's above petty fucking vengeance. Oh, he'll show you his anger alright, in all its righteous fury... but he won't show you hate. Andrew Jacobsen is incapable of true, real hatred. He thinks he is, but in all truth he's got too much hope. Hope in the better nature of others. Hope that if he shows enough compassion, he can bring the worst men back from the brink."
Ethan chuckles. "Screw that. I make a fortune off of the evil impulses of men's hearts. I am a bad, bad man and I revel in every second of it. Always have. Always will. That makes me something of a jaded bastard... and when I look at you? I don't see anything worth salvaging. Anything worth hoping for. The same thing I see when I look in the mirror... only I don't disgust myself. And I'm not just willing to show you the loathing and vindictive ire that Andrew is too good a man to inflict upon your fucking hides... I'm relishing the chance to rip you to goddamn shreds."
He points at the screen. "Steve... How's the wife?
I've ripped into you on this before. I'm not interested in doing it again. All I'll say is that you should have stayed fired. You could have been one of those washed up has-beens who still manages to get screen time because you're cooky enough to be entertaining to the worst dregs of uneducated American society, the people who think poop jokes are the highest expression of the comedic art form. You'd have maybe made a decent paycheck as a guest commentator at one of the less exciting PPVs. You'd have something worth salvaging. Now? Now you're just going to get your fucking shit kicked in, again and again, until people realize that you're too pathetic a joke to even be worth laughing at. Even your target audience - the sort of people who see entertainment value in a walking pile of talking excrement - are going to forget why they ever gave a damn about you. I'm going to destroy you from the ground up, Steve. I'm going to make you regret messing with my boy's family."
His eyes flare with anger. "And Rob Diamond?"
"Let me tell you a story. A story of how I met a man in an alley in Osaka, behind a sleazy ass venue. He had no life in his eyes. He was dead in all ways save that his heart was still beating. Broken down and forgotten. I asked him what had led him to where he was. Who had hurt him so badly that he had fallen so far. You wanna guess whose name I said?"
Ethan leans forward. "It was yours, Rob."
He pauses for a moment, his voice lowering slightly with a cold edge to its tone. "Let me take you back. Take you back to the moment that sealed your fucking fate, you sniveling little wretch of a creature. Years ago. You were facing a relative rookie. A young man, full of hope, full of life, who loved the art and loved the game. He'd earned his first ever title shot, the first of many in what would be a long and industry-defining Hall Of Fame career. What did you say to this kid, Rob? Do you remember? Because I do."
His eyes narrow. "You told him to kill himself, Rob."
He hangs on those words a second, licking his teeth. "You told him he wasn't worthy of being loved. That he'd never accomplish anything. That nobody loved him and nobody cared... and that he should kill himself.
Take a look, Rob, in the god damned mirror.
InFamous, again. Wallowing in loneliness and self-loathing after your only real friend passed away. Neck deep in neuroses and self-destructive impulse... and nobody seeming to really care about your legacy.
Alone.
Unloved.
With all of your accomplishments meaning... nothing.
Tell me, Rob - What would the you of then say to the you of now? Oh, you'll protest. You'll say how you're not that man anymore. How you even extended a hand of friendship to Andrew, how that first encounter doesn't matter."
He leans even further in. "But the truth is, Rob, that we are who we are on our darkest day. I know that better than anyone. You'll never escape the specter of the man who told him he should kill himself because he'd never accomplish anything... just as he'll never fully escape that gutter in Osaka, where he was inches away from doing just that, because your words were ringing in his ear as he sat surrounded by monuments to his failures. Years of therapy have helped him recover, Rob, though he'd never admit it... and he's come as far as he has, in part, to spite you."
He snarls, his voice barely above a whisper. "Andrew Jacobsen is a million times the man you could ever hope to be, Rob. You know it. I know it. He's too good a man to come after you, to lay his hate on you. He's spent so long trying to forgive... but that's not what I do.
I'm going to make you suffer for what you did to that broken down kid in Osaka.
And when you're done... alone, unloved, and your accomplishments meaning nothing? I'll send you off to the only person who really gave a fuck about you myself, because you're too much of a coward to listen to your own advice."
He leans back in his seat. "Because that's... what I... do for family."
Ethan is standing in a black room, with the only visible features being a prominent roulette table and Ethan King himself, slowly pacing around the table as the camera follows his movements. Almost tenderly he traces his fingers along the edge of the table, looking at it with a distant look in his eyes.
"For as long as I can remember, every step has been a calculated risk. The heir to one of the most powerful financial powers in the world, I couldn't open my mouth in middle school without being intimately aware of the fact that my words would be recorded and weighed, used against me later if I wasn't careful. As a child, it would be that a teacher might report any wrong answer or poorly chosen word to my father, who would unleash singular retribution. As I grew older, fear of paternal wrath subsided in favor of fear of potential rivals. Rivals in business, in influence... Any number of faces who might try to contend to my throne."
He looks at his hand, his fingers flexed as though holding something that only he can see. "I was raised to obsess over choices, and strive for absolute control." He winces. "God, I sound like Christian fucking Grey..."
He smirks and shakes his head, unable to maintain the detached and serious facade. He clears his throat and forces himself to regain composure... but there's a mischievous gleam in his eye now that will not vanish.
"The point I'm trying to make," he continues as he pulls a small white sphere from his pocket, rolling it about in his fingers as he speaks, "Is that I am used to a life full to bursting with excruciatingly precise calculated risks. While it might be a slight exaggeration to say that the economic stability of multiple countries hangs upon my whim, it's not nearly as severe of one as most would be at all comfortable with. Every risk, every gamble I make pays off eventually. It's only a matter of time. Even when things don't go my way... I pride myself on my ability to spin even crushing defeats into wins later down the road."
He tilts his head to the side. "But through all of that history, all of that philosophy... there is one gamble I've made that is constantly questioned. The gamble that nobody has been able to understand, and that my entire board of directors is not-so patiently waiting to see the payoff of. In the end, the best gambles can be boiled down to a question. Why did you invest in that industry? Why did you open a factory in that country? Why did you place such a large bet on that horse..."
He levels his eyes at the camera. "Why did you, Ethan King, choose to become a professional wrestler?"
He chuckles a bit. "There are... so many answers I could give you. Some of them serious - 'well, I became a professional wrestler because I wanted to take up a regular sport and activity to ensure that I spent as many years of my life as possible in peak physical condition, and as a professional wrestler so long as I avoid serious injury I'll be able to stay healthy for a long time.' Some of them might be more glib - 'if I suplexed my regional directors through my office desk the board of directors would start to rapidly tire of the legal fees coupled with the cost of having to buy a dozen mahogany desks a day.' Some of them are tear-jerkers - 'professional wrestling was the only thing my father and I both enjoyed, so I took it up as a hobby after he died to honor his memory and I discovered I was good at it'. Perhaps they're all true. Perhaps they're all lies. In the end - does it really matter?"
He winks at the camera. "Because in the end, the only thing you'll know for sure is that I have my reasons - and that I'm very, very good at it. That skill, that training, has led me to a place where I'm going to make the largest calculated risk of my in-ring career - two compete in two matches in a single night, against a total of 29 other men, one of whom I'll be fighting twice. Earlier in the evening I'm going to be risking baseball bats and exposed skulls to rip the coveted Strong Style Championship from Dean Harper's trembling fingers... but this? This video is all about gambles after all...."
Ethan tosses the ball onto the table, giving the wheel a spin. "And what greater gamble in the world than the Roulette?"
Ethan winces. "Fuck, now I sound like Ace Conway. Downgrade. Ew."
"You know, you're starting to sound like Ace Conway."
Ethan stifled a snicker as he lined up his shot, but the slight trembling in his fingers from the effort threw off his aim by bare centimeters. It was enough, however, to ensure that the ball rolled off center and knocked his target far away from the pocket he'd cited, bouncing uselessly to the opposite side of the table.
"That was a low blow," Ethan sighed, leaning back against the wall as Andrew moved to examine his own options. He took a long swig of Kirin as he watched his friend moving around the table. He remembered when he was able to easily outmatch Andrew in this game - but the Minnesotan was a devilishly fast learner, and Ethan now found himself regularly fighting an uphill battle to even make a decent showing, much less pull out a win.
Andrew chuckled. "Oh - oh, are we against low blows now? What happened to 'the only fair fight is the one you lose'? And hey, could be worse. Ace has been IWF World Champion ever."
Ethan narrowed his eyebrows, smirking slightly as he raised a hand to his heart and staggered back slightly to feign being struck. "Hurtful! Goodness, old friend, your barbs are cutting to the quick today. What did I do to piss you off, hm?"
Andrew raised his own eyebrow, ignoring the pool table for a moment as he fixed Ethan with a stern gaze. "I don't know, Ethan. What could you possibly be getting up to that might raise my ire?"
"Is that sarcasm, my old friend?" Ethan asked, hoping to be disarming. It did not work.
"Laura Howlett," Andrew stated plainly. Ethan sighed.
"I don't see what's so wrong about it. Or at least unexpected. It's not like you didn't know she had a hand in getting me a job here, or that she and I were working together."
Andrew shook his head. "When you first started, sure, but... I dunno."
Realization sparked in Ethan's mind. "You thought I'd broken ties with her when I started teaming with you."
Andrew sank a ball in the corner pocket with casual skill. "Hoped, more like. She's an evil woman, Ethan. I wish you wouldn't give her the time of day. The things she's done to the people who get in her way... I remember when they were damn near worse than the pack."
Ethan let out a long sigh. "I... I know. I know the history you have with them. I know that it must feel like a betrayal."
Andrew blinked. This had been unexpected. Ethan was never one to show remorse - nothing more than the cool and well-practiced confidence that he constantly strove to exude. It wasn't the words that caught him - it was the tone. The hesitation. The unspoken admittance that he was doing something that was, on some level, wrong... and that he cared about that.
With his eyes off the ball, Andrew missed his next shot. Ethan gave a small smirk as he reclaimed his position at the table.
"I know you don't now approve, and honestly never will. It's the path that is best for me to take, Andrew. You knew that you and I would find ourselves at odds eventually. Friendship can't keep us from opposite sides of the battlefield forever. Fighting the Age of Gods together was a welcome experience, but... in the end, you're a hero. And I?"
Andrew let out a rueful snort. "I see you, villain. Standing there with your villain mustache."
Ethan twirled a mustache that wasn't there. "To the core," he confirmed. Then he sobered slightly, finishing his bottle of Kirin. "We'll be fighting one another, I suspect, very soon," he admitted quietly. "I won't ask you to go easy on me. Or warn you to stay out of my way. But I won't back down either. I'm going to fight for the Roulette, Andrew... and if I have to go through you to get it?" He shakes his head. "I... at least promise to fight you clean."
Andrew's face softened. "Awww, King... you do care." He rested a hand on his friend's shoulder, massaging it slightly in a gesture he hoped was reassuring. "For now let's take out The Pack, yeah? I know you're all about Free Will."
Something lit up in Ethan's eyes. "It goes farther than that, Andrew," he said slowly, his voice taking a dangerously hard edge. "I have a lot of grudges to work out. A lot of people to hurt. A lot of things I'm going to do to people that you're not going to approve of... and you'll approve of the reason even less."
Andrew frowned. "Ethan...?"
The businessman smirked. "I'd do damn near anything for you, Andrew," he explained without explaining. "You'll see what I mean soon enough."
"Some risks are more... personal, than professional," Ethan continues as he watches the ball spin in the roulette wheel, bouncing from number to number. "And I'd like to take a moment to... address some of the more personal grudges that I have against those in this upcoming game of chance and calculated risk."
He smirks. "Caleb Lockwood. Oh... oh, dear, sweet little Caleb. My first opponent on IWF soil. You and I share a special little bond, you and I, boy. Oh, you likely deny it... but we do hold a record. A very special record that we forged together through sweat, through blood, and through agonizing tests of endurance that saw us fighting continuously around the world. The longest match in IWF history, two weeks before it finally saw its resolution... and you... you took that victory from me, Caleb. It should have been me. I tried to place nice with you, boy, I tried to show you the respectful benefit of the doubt... but no, you couldn't let yourself be beaten by a man like me. I get it though, I do, honestly. You... you really do despise me, as I do represent everything you stand so boldly against - lovely little tagline, by the way, 'Eat The Rich.'"
Ethan winks at the camera, but there is no mirth in his eyes. "Last year you started that same title reign I deserved to end here at the Roulette. You're probably walking into this fight thinking that you have every advantage in your corner. Home field, or something like that. But I'm not going to let you walk out of this match with a win two years in a row. This time, Caleb, you walk away with nothing because you. Are. Nothing. You and your little cult are going to wish you didn't set foot into Chicago. I am an unofficial member of Team Free Will, after all - and we're all about fighting back against The Pack. I'm going to be doing a LOT of fighting The Pack on Sunday night, boy - and compared to Dean Harper? You're just a rabid little attack dog straining at your leash. You won that match last year, Caleb... but you can't place a bet on lightning striking twice."
His eyes flare. "Speaking of The Pack - Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. I'm not going to waste time addressing you here, little man. I have plenty to say, but I have a whole other video coming soon that's all about you. You love that, right? Being the focus of attention? Well I'm happy to please, champ, because everything I have to say about you will be said when I address our Championship match earlier in the evening. I'm going to beat you, Dean. I'm going to take that belt you love so much off your submissive little waist, and then I'm going to vacate it the same goddamn night when I get the chance to beat the snot out of the boy who stares at you the way you WISH Warren Kane did."
He spreads his arms. "Hoooo boy that probably opened me up to a lot of hate from Warren Kane, didn't it? Lucky Number 29, second to last... of the members of The Pack, I'm told you're the one to watch. You're entering damn late so you'll be nice and fresh while the rest of us will have magically forgotten how to pace ourselves, this giving you a massive advantage and blah blah blah blah BLAH. Never tell me the odds, daddy's boy. You may be the 'one to watch', you may be the Son of the God of Extreme... but I've spent a LOT of time dedicating myself to systematically exterminating the legacy of Spike Kane."
He grins in that cocky way of his, wiggling his eyebrow in challenge. "What better Legacy to crush beneath my boot heel than his only living son? Not like it'll be hard. I mean, this trash writes itself, doesn't it? Weakest link in The Pack. Entering damn near last is almost fitting for you, really, because you've been in last place with them for quite some time, now. Everyone else in your little cult has had some title or another while bending the knee to the Irish bint in the mask, but you? You've always been three steps behind, either dragging your heels or gasping for air as you try to keep up. They're leaving you in the dust, Warren... in more ways than just professional." He winks.
His smile fades. Frustration and anger slips into his demeanor. He pulls out an e-cig and takes a long pull, mulling over his thoughts for a few seconds before saying a single word that is filled with more venom and vindictive loathing than should be possible to fit in a few simple letters.
"Uriel."
The corners of his mouth flicker up in a barest semblance of a smirk. "Oracle."
He opens his mouth a few times as though about to speak. Nothing comes. Eventually he shrugs, takes another pull from the vape, and puts it back in his pocket. "You know what? Nah. I've spent enough time in the past few weeks with your names on my lips. I'm done. Got nothing left to say. Beat you both. I'll do it again. Ya bore me. Moving on."
He leans back against the roulette table, the smirk that had been playing on his lips widening into a large smile. "And that... leaves me with two more. Two more people I'll talk about tonight. Two people who have DEFINITELY earned my... attention."
He cracks his neck. "Steve Awesome... and Rob Diamond."
The smile vanishes. "You two fucked with my boy."
He raises an eyebrow. "Oh, you might think its in the past. You might think you're fine now, that nothing's wrong... but I am Andrew Jacobsen's equal and opposite in every measure. I am him, The Unbreakable One, but through a mirror darkly. If he's Spock, I'm Spock-With-A-Wicked-Goatee. Mirror God-Damned Mirror. He can put on the facade of a man who's moved on, a man who's forgiven, a man who's forgotten, a man who's above petty fucking vengeance. Oh, he'll show you his anger alright, in all its righteous fury... but he won't show you hate. Andrew Jacobsen is incapable of true, real hatred. He thinks he is, but in all truth he's got too much hope. Hope in the better nature of others. Hope that if he shows enough compassion, he can bring the worst men back from the brink."
Ethan chuckles. "Screw that. I make a fortune off of the evil impulses of men's hearts. I am a bad, bad man and I revel in every second of it. Always have. Always will. That makes me something of a jaded bastard... and when I look at you? I don't see anything worth salvaging. Anything worth hoping for. The same thing I see when I look in the mirror... only I don't disgust myself. And I'm not just willing to show you the loathing and vindictive ire that Andrew is too good a man to inflict upon your fucking hides... I'm relishing the chance to rip you to goddamn shreds."
He points at the screen. "Steve... How's the wife?
I've ripped into you on this before. I'm not interested in doing it again. All I'll say is that you should have stayed fired. You could have been one of those washed up has-beens who still manages to get screen time because you're cooky enough to be entertaining to the worst dregs of uneducated American society, the people who think poop jokes are the highest expression of the comedic art form. You'd have maybe made a decent paycheck as a guest commentator at one of the less exciting PPVs. You'd have something worth salvaging. Now? Now you're just going to get your fucking shit kicked in, again and again, until people realize that you're too pathetic a joke to even be worth laughing at. Even your target audience - the sort of people who see entertainment value in a walking pile of talking excrement - are going to forget why they ever gave a damn about you. I'm going to destroy you from the ground up, Steve. I'm going to make you regret messing with my boy's family."
His eyes flare with anger. "And Rob Diamond?"
"Let me tell you a story. A story of how I met a man in an alley in Osaka, behind a sleazy ass venue. He had no life in his eyes. He was dead in all ways save that his heart was still beating. Broken down and forgotten. I asked him what had led him to where he was. Who had hurt him so badly that he had fallen so far. You wanna guess whose name I said?"
Ethan leans forward. "It was yours, Rob."
He pauses for a moment, his voice lowering slightly with a cold edge to its tone. "Let me take you back. Take you back to the moment that sealed your fucking fate, you sniveling little wretch of a creature. Years ago. You were facing a relative rookie. A young man, full of hope, full of life, who loved the art and loved the game. He'd earned his first ever title shot, the first of many in what would be a long and industry-defining Hall Of Fame career. What did you say to this kid, Rob? Do you remember? Because I do."
His eyes narrow. "You told him to kill himself, Rob."
He hangs on those words a second, licking his teeth. "You told him he wasn't worthy of being loved. That he'd never accomplish anything. That nobody loved him and nobody cared... and that he should kill himself.
Take a look, Rob, in the god damned mirror.
InFamous, again. Wallowing in loneliness and self-loathing after your only real friend passed away. Neck deep in neuroses and self-destructive impulse... and nobody seeming to really care about your legacy.
Alone.
Unloved.
With all of your accomplishments meaning... nothing.
Tell me, Rob - What would the you of then say to the you of now? Oh, you'll protest. You'll say how you're not that man anymore. How you even extended a hand of friendship to Andrew, how that first encounter doesn't matter."
He leans even further in. "But the truth is, Rob, that we are who we are on our darkest day. I know that better than anyone. You'll never escape the specter of the man who told him he should kill himself because he'd never accomplish anything... just as he'll never fully escape that gutter in Osaka, where he was inches away from doing just that, because your words were ringing in his ear as he sat surrounded by monuments to his failures. Years of therapy have helped him recover, Rob, though he'd never admit it... and he's come as far as he has, in part, to spite you."
He snarls, his voice barely above a whisper. "Andrew Jacobsen is a million times the man you could ever hope to be, Rob. You know it. I know it. He's too good a man to come after you, to lay his hate on you. He's spent so long trying to forgive... but that's not what I do.
I'm going to make you suffer for what you did to that broken down kid in Osaka.
And when you're done... alone, unloved, and your accomplishments meaning nothing? I'll send you off to the only person who really gave a fuck about you myself, because you're too much of a coward to listen to your own advice."
He leans back in his seat. "Because that's... what I... do for family."
Well howdy there pardner.