Post by Dre Cutler on Oct 6, 2013 17:46:43 GMT
August 23rd, 1986
Samantha Williams, clad in a pair of ripped and torn jean shorts and a stained white tank top, sits in the middle of the floor in the living room of her family's one bedroom apartment. The nine-year old has her knees pulled into her chest, her face is buried in them, and she's sobbing uncontrollably. No one's home to console her; to ask if she's okay or to offer their sympathy -- no, like most of the time, she's been left by herself. In the nine years she's been on this earth, she's been alone for at least seventy-five percent of the time.
Samantha Williams: (through her sobs) No, no, no... no, no..
At that moment, the door opens and standing in the doorway is her mo ther, Janice Williams. Janice is a strong user of heroin, cocaine, and methamphetamine; if one didn't already know that, they could surely tell from looking at her. Janice is a walking miracle, she's overdosed seven times and has been pronounced dead on three occasions. She's not winning any mother of the year awards to say the least.
She stares at her daughter with twitching eyes, her facial expression is a mixture of anger and confusion as she closes the door behind her. Sam knows someone's home, but she still has her head buried in her knees. Janice throws her hands up in disgust before walking towards her daughter and sitting next to her on the floor. Janice scratches her arm profusely, slaps at her neck as if she's trying to kill a bug, before finishing off the sequence by grabbing a handful of her hair, which she rips clean out of her scalp. She tosses the pile of hair behind her and shoves her daughter in the shoulder.
Janice Williams: What the hell's your problem, Sam? Don't you have a toilet to clean or dishes to wash? Get your ass off the floor and do some work. I'm tired of ya not pulling your own weight around here.
Sam slowly raises her head from her knees; her eyes are puffy and red as she looks at her mother through teared vision. She sniffles a couple of times before gathering the strength she needs to talk to her mom.
Samantha Williams: Mo-- Mom, I'm-- I'm sorry. It's -- I know you don't like it, but -- it's -- well, before they left -- dad and my brothers -- they, well -- mom, they--
SMACK!
Janice connects squarely on Sam's right cheek with a ferocious slap. Janice knows what's going on and she's well aware of what Sam is trying to tell her, but Janice has a set of priorities that places Sam at the bottom of the list.
Janice Williams: Now you shut up right now, Sam! Right now! I don't want to hear any more. I've told you before and I will say it to you one more time -- THAT IS THE PRICE YOU PAY FOR LIVING IN THIS HOUSE! Do you understand me? Your father is a good man, he does his best to provide for us, and if he needs a little bit more than I can provide, then you're going to give it to him. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?
Sam loses herself once more and starts sobbing uncontrollably again. Janice refuses to let this carry on and slaps her daughter twice more in quick fashion. Sam gets to her feet and stumbles backwards against the wall. She's confused and hurt, and she's only nine years old -- she doesn't know what to do. Janice quickly gets up, although she nearly falls back down, before charging in Sam's direction and getting in her face.
Janice Williams: Do... you... understand... me?!?!
SMACK!
Again, she connects with Sam's face. Not knowing what else to do, Sam ducks around her mom and lunges towards the door. She opens it and ducks into the hallway, slamming the door behind her. As she's racing down the stairs to leave the building, she hears her mom from inside the apartment.
Janice Williams: Fine, Sam! Get the fuck out of here, then! JUST GET THE FUCK OUT AND DON'T COME BACK!
-----
Samantha Williams: (through her sobs) No, no, no... no, no..
At that moment, the door opens and standing in the doorway is her mo ther, Janice Williams. Janice is a strong user of heroin, cocaine, and methamphetamine; if one didn't already know that, they could surely tell from looking at her. Janice is a walking miracle, she's overdosed seven times and has been pronounced dead on three occasions. She's not winning any mother of the year awards to say the least.
She stares at her daughter with twitching eyes, her facial expression is a mixture of anger and confusion as she closes the door behind her. Sam knows someone's home, but she still has her head buried in her knees. Janice throws her hands up in disgust before walking towards her daughter and sitting next to her on the floor. Janice scratches her arm profusely, slaps at her neck as if she's trying to kill a bug, before finishing off the sequence by grabbing a handful of her hair, which she rips clean out of her scalp. She tosses the pile of hair behind her and shoves her daughter in the shoulder.
Janice Williams: What the hell's your problem, Sam? Don't you have a toilet to clean or dishes to wash? Get your ass off the floor and do some work. I'm tired of ya not pulling your own weight around here.
Sam slowly raises her head from her knees; her eyes are puffy and red as she looks at her mother through teared vision. She sniffles a couple of times before gathering the strength she needs to talk to her mom.
Samantha Williams: Mo-- Mom, I'm-- I'm sorry. It's -- I know you don't like it, but -- it's -- well, before they left -- dad and my brothers -- they, well -- mom, they--
SMACK!
Janice connects squarely on Sam's right cheek with a ferocious slap. Janice knows what's going on and she's well aware of what Sam is trying to tell her, but Janice has a set of priorities that places Sam at the bottom of the list.
Janice Williams: Now you shut up right now, Sam! Right now! I don't want to hear any more. I've told you before and I will say it to you one more time -- THAT IS THE PRICE YOU PAY FOR LIVING IN THIS HOUSE! Do you understand me? Your father is a good man, he does his best to provide for us, and if he needs a little bit more than I can provide, then you're going to give it to him. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?
Sam loses herself once more and starts sobbing uncontrollably again. Janice refuses to let this carry on and slaps her daughter twice more in quick fashion. Sam gets to her feet and stumbles backwards against the wall. She's confused and hurt, and she's only nine years old -- she doesn't know what to do. Janice quickly gets up, although she nearly falls back down, before charging in Sam's direction and getting in her face.
Janice Williams: Do... you... understand... me?!?!
SMACK!
Again, she connects with Sam's face. Not knowing what else to do, Sam ducks around her mom and lunges towards the door. She opens it and ducks into the hallway, slamming the door behind her. As she's racing down the stairs to leave the building, she hears her mom from inside the apartment.
Janice Williams: Fine, Sam! Get the fuck out of here, then! JUST GET THE FUCK OUT AND DON'T COME BACK!
-----
Present
Killian Creed: (yelling) Don't go!
Killian's eyes rip open as wide as they can go, pulling him from the sleep world into the present. He's breathing heavy and sweating profusely as he quickly looks around, trying to figure out where he is. He's sitting in the front seat of his car; an open bottle of beer in his right hand and a Camel in his left hand, although the cigarette has burnt out. He's sitting in front of a local bar; must have passed out after leaving last night and slept in his car. Coming to that conclusion, he calms down a bit and tries to gather himself. He sets the beer down in his cup holder and uses his free hand to rub his eyes.
Killian Creed: (whispering) Don't go, Sam... please, don't go..
He's been struggling since last week; the day where he and Sam had a one-sided argument that ended with him kicking Sam out of his apartment. He hasn't seen her since, but he's been averaging about ten calls to her cell phone a day and he's must have left about fifty messages. Speaking of which, it's time for another attempt as he frantically looks for his phone. It's not in his pocket; ah, there it, he grabs it off the passenger seat and checks for missed calls or messages.
Killian Creed: (mumbling) Nothing...
The disappointment hits him like a sack of bricks, but he pushes on and chooses her name out of his contact list. It goes directly to voice mail; he opens his mouth as if he's going to leave her a message, but something causes him to decide against it. He ends the call and drops the phone back into the passenger seat.
Killian Creed: (mumbling) God damnit!
He grabs the beer from the cup holder and takes a big swig. There's very little in the world that's worse than a warm beer, but now's not the time for complaints on that front. He goes to take a puff off his cigarette, but of course it's not lit. He angrily tosses it out the window and starts his car. He puts it into gear and takes off, disappearing around a corner...
-----
When I came back to professional wrestling after fifteen years, I didn't know what to expect. I knew I could still go in the ring; I knew I'd be able to keep up with all of the younger guys taking over the business, but I didn't truly know what was in store for me. But here I am, a month into my return, and I've yet to be defeated. I've beaten some guys that have already moved on from the company, but I've also beaten some mainstays. And when I wasn't beating guys in a sanctioned wrestling match, I was making my mark in other ways, just ask Ryan Shane how his head's feeling.
My point is this: many people still may not know my name. They may not know who I am, where I came from, or what I've done -- but it's important for everyone to understand that I am here to stay. I won't quit until I've achieved my goal, which is to be the very best. And as many have said over the years, to be the best, you have to beat the best. Last week, I won a match that featured a member of the NCW Hall of Fame in Davey Ortega. This week, I find myself in a one-on-one match with another member of the NCW Hall of Fame in Roberto Verona.
And not only is Roberto a Hall of Fame caliber performer in the ring, but he happens to also be the Chief Operating Officer of the Imperial Wrestling Federation. Well, punch me in the face and finger my asshole, it looks like this is a pretty big match for me this week, isn't it?
Depends on who you ask.
To me, Roberto Verona is no different than Bryce Daniels. Being a member of the NCW Hall of Fame is an honor; I'm not going to knock it. But that doesn't make me look at Roberto Verona any differently. Sure, he had a lot of success in NCW, but I have two reasons why that means absolutely nothing to me.
The first reason is the fact that NCW isn't IWF. The success you had yesterday means absolutely nothing today.
The second reason is that I wasn't in the NCW. I'm not the best wrestler in the world, at least not yet, but until someone has knocked me on my ass and pinned my shoulders for the three count, their titles, victories, accomplishments, and etc. are all meaningless to me. For all I know, he could have made it to the Hall of Fame by beating Joe Everyman every night.
But you know what, Verona? It's funny that I find myself in this match. I've watched you throw your authority around since I've been here. I just hope you're a better wrestler than you are decision maker because you're the king of "what the fuck are you doing?" decisions. For example, you LOVE to hand out unearned title shots. A couple of weeks ago you gave Mike Laszlo a chance to win the Man of Steel championship. Laszlo is a man who forgets how to tie his shoes and sits down when he pees, but you felt he deserved a title shot? That's silly. Then, just last week, after tormenting Joe Everyman for weeks, you gave him a shot at the top title in the company? Are you kidding me? What has he done to deserve a rematch for the title? Are things backwards around here? Instead of winning a bunch of matches, you get title shots for racking up losses? God damn, I'm going in the wrong direction if that's the case!
But you see, these guys are getting title shots. But me? For my recent success, I'm not getting any title shots handed to me. No, I'm getting a match with Roberto Verona.
But I guess that's not the end of the world, right? I mean, who doesn't cherish the opportunity to beat the piss out of their boss? Maybe I have two jobs to do this week. My first job is to pick up the victory, Verona, but the second job is to beat the living daylights out of you. That way, I'll feel good about dropping you on your ass, but then also maybe you'll start making better decisions after I scramble your brain.
And don't you worry, Roberto. If you find yourself unable to, you know, perform after the ass kicking you get from me this week, just send Hannah over to me and I'll make sure to take real good care of her.
Am I pissing you off, Roberto? Are you going to teach me some respect? Are you going to give me the Joe Everyman treatment? Go ahead. Do what you will, Verona. But I promise you that you do not want me as an enemy. The damage you think you can do to me is only a fraction of the pain and hell I can and will bring to your doorstep if I have to. I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared of anyone. If anybody in this company or in the business as a whole has something to say to me, they know where I am.
With that being said, I hope you're prepared for a good match, boss. It's not every day that you step into the wrestling ring anymore, so I guess it's important that we make those select appearances matter, right?
You may not know who I am right now. I'm probably just some random guy that's looked decent in the ring, but you probably don't even know what my name is. But I promise you this: you will know who I am after Sacrifice. You'll know what I can do and you'll have a true understanding for what pain truly is.
After this week, you'll never forget the name... Killian Creed.
-----
Killian pulls to a stop in front of a small apartment building. It's not the best looking building in the world, but it's definitely not the worst. Could use some fixing up. He takes a deep breath before turning off the car and stepping out onto the pavement. He enters the building and walks up three flights up stares until he reaches apartment number fifteen, which is Sam's apartment.
Killian Creed: (whispering) Come, Killian, pull yourself together. You gotta fix this -- and you have to fix it now.
Following his little pep talk, he knocks on the door. The door isn't all the way closed, however, and his knocking causes it to open a little bit. He peaks his head inside before slowly pushing the door open.
Killian Creed: Sam?
He opens the door wide enough to look inside.... and there's nothing. No furniture, no mess, and no Sam... He walks into the living room before moving into the kitchen. Nothing. He walks down the hall to Sam's bedroom. Nothing. There's absolutely nothing -- this is just an empty apartment. He stops in he bedroom, looking where her bed used to sit, and he just stands there. His mind is racing a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what's going on. Then, out of no where, he turns as quickly as he can and slams his fist through the bedroom wall.
He quickly leaves the apartment and exits the building. As he's walking towards his car, he sees a familiar brown, beaten, and battered vehicle parked across the street. He squints to see the driver; it's the same guy who picked Sam up at Burger King a couple of weeks ago. The same guy who made out with Sam right in front of Killian. The man smirks at Killian before hitting the gas and taking off down the street.
Killian Creed: (yelling) YOU SON OF A BITCH!
Killian takes a couple of steps in the direction of the speeding car, but he knows it's not going to do him any good. He walks back to his car and gets into the driver's seat. He sits there for a moment, thinking about what he's going to do next -- and then he just loses it. He starts hitting the driving wheel, breaks the rear view mirror; he's just going crazy.. He finishes off the attack by burying his head in the steering wheel.
Killian Creed: I'm sorry, Sam.. I need you, please..
No one can hear him, but that doesn't matter. He just sits there... crying into the steering wheel because he has no body else...
-----
Killian's eyes rip open as wide as they can go, pulling him from the sleep world into the present. He's breathing heavy and sweating profusely as he quickly looks around, trying to figure out where he is. He's sitting in the front seat of his car; an open bottle of beer in his right hand and a Camel in his left hand, although the cigarette has burnt out. He's sitting in front of a local bar; must have passed out after leaving last night and slept in his car. Coming to that conclusion, he calms down a bit and tries to gather himself. He sets the beer down in his cup holder and uses his free hand to rub his eyes.
Killian Creed: (whispering) Don't go, Sam... please, don't go..
He's been struggling since last week; the day where he and Sam had a one-sided argument that ended with him kicking Sam out of his apartment. He hasn't seen her since, but he's been averaging about ten calls to her cell phone a day and he's must have left about fifty messages. Speaking of which, it's time for another attempt as he frantically looks for his phone. It's not in his pocket; ah, there it, he grabs it off the passenger seat and checks for missed calls or messages.
Killian Creed: (mumbling) Nothing...
The disappointment hits him like a sack of bricks, but he pushes on and chooses her name out of his contact list. It goes directly to voice mail; he opens his mouth as if he's going to leave her a message, but something causes him to decide against it. He ends the call and drops the phone back into the passenger seat.
Killian Creed: (mumbling) God damnit!
He grabs the beer from the cup holder and takes a big swig. There's very little in the world that's worse than a warm beer, but now's not the time for complaints on that front. He goes to take a puff off his cigarette, but of course it's not lit. He angrily tosses it out the window and starts his car. He puts it into gear and takes off, disappearing around a corner...
-----
When I came back to professional wrestling after fifteen years, I didn't know what to expect. I knew I could still go in the ring; I knew I'd be able to keep up with all of the younger guys taking over the business, but I didn't truly know what was in store for me. But here I am, a month into my return, and I've yet to be defeated. I've beaten some guys that have already moved on from the company, but I've also beaten some mainstays. And when I wasn't beating guys in a sanctioned wrestling match, I was making my mark in other ways, just ask Ryan Shane how his head's feeling.
My point is this: many people still may not know my name. They may not know who I am, where I came from, or what I've done -- but it's important for everyone to understand that I am here to stay. I won't quit until I've achieved my goal, which is to be the very best. And as many have said over the years, to be the best, you have to beat the best. Last week, I won a match that featured a member of the NCW Hall of Fame in Davey Ortega. This week, I find myself in a one-on-one match with another member of the NCW Hall of Fame in Roberto Verona.
And not only is Roberto a Hall of Fame caliber performer in the ring, but he happens to also be the Chief Operating Officer of the Imperial Wrestling Federation. Well, punch me in the face and finger my asshole, it looks like this is a pretty big match for me this week, isn't it?
Depends on who you ask.
To me, Roberto Verona is no different than Bryce Daniels. Being a member of the NCW Hall of Fame is an honor; I'm not going to knock it. But that doesn't make me look at Roberto Verona any differently. Sure, he had a lot of success in NCW, but I have two reasons why that means absolutely nothing to me.
The first reason is the fact that NCW isn't IWF. The success you had yesterday means absolutely nothing today.
The second reason is that I wasn't in the NCW. I'm not the best wrestler in the world, at least not yet, but until someone has knocked me on my ass and pinned my shoulders for the three count, their titles, victories, accomplishments, and etc. are all meaningless to me. For all I know, he could have made it to the Hall of Fame by beating Joe Everyman every night.
But you know what, Verona? It's funny that I find myself in this match. I've watched you throw your authority around since I've been here. I just hope you're a better wrestler than you are decision maker because you're the king of "what the fuck are you doing?" decisions. For example, you LOVE to hand out unearned title shots. A couple of weeks ago you gave Mike Laszlo a chance to win the Man of Steel championship. Laszlo is a man who forgets how to tie his shoes and sits down when he pees, but you felt he deserved a title shot? That's silly. Then, just last week, after tormenting Joe Everyman for weeks, you gave him a shot at the top title in the company? Are you kidding me? What has he done to deserve a rematch for the title? Are things backwards around here? Instead of winning a bunch of matches, you get title shots for racking up losses? God damn, I'm going in the wrong direction if that's the case!
But you see, these guys are getting title shots. But me? For my recent success, I'm not getting any title shots handed to me. No, I'm getting a match with Roberto Verona.
But I guess that's not the end of the world, right? I mean, who doesn't cherish the opportunity to beat the piss out of their boss? Maybe I have two jobs to do this week. My first job is to pick up the victory, Verona, but the second job is to beat the living daylights out of you. That way, I'll feel good about dropping you on your ass, but then also maybe you'll start making better decisions after I scramble your brain.
And don't you worry, Roberto. If you find yourself unable to, you know, perform after the ass kicking you get from me this week, just send Hannah over to me and I'll make sure to take real good care of her.
Am I pissing you off, Roberto? Are you going to teach me some respect? Are you going to give me the Joe Everyman treatment? Go ahead. Do what you will, Verona. But I promise you that you do not want me as an enemy. The damage you think you can do to me is only a fraction of the pain and hell I can and will bring to your doorstep if I have to. I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared of anyone. If anybody in this company or in the business as a whole has something to say to me, they know where I am.
With that being said, I hope you're prepared for a good match, boss. It's not every day that you step into the wrestling ring anymore, so I guess it's important that we make those select appearances matter, right?
You may not know who I am right now. I'm probably just some random guy that's looked decent in the ring, but you probably don't even know what my name is. But I promise you this: you will know who I am after Sacrifice. You'll know what I can do and you'll have a true understanding for what pain truly is.
After this week, you'll never forget the name... Killian Creed.
-----
Killian pulls to a stop in front of a small apartment building. It's not the best looking building in the world, but it's definitely not the worst. Could use some fixing up. He takes a deep breath before turning off the car and stepping out onto the pavement. He enters the building and walks up three flights up stares until he reaches apartment number fifteen, which is Sam's apartment.
Killian Creed: (whispering) Come, Killian, pull yourself together. You gotta fix this -- and you have to fix it now.
Following his little pep talk, he knocks on the door. The door isn't all the way closed, however, and his knocking causes it to open a little bit. He peaks his head inside before slowly pushing the door open.
Killian Creed: Sam?
He opens the door wide enough to look inside.... and there's nothing. No furniture, no mess, and no Sam... He walks into the living room before moving into the kitchen. Nothing. He walks down the hall to Sam's bedroom. Nothing. There's absolutely nothing -- this is just an empty apartment. He stops in he bedroom, looking where her bed used to sit, and he just stands there. His mind is racing a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what's going on. Then, out of no where, he turns as quickly as he can and slams his fist through the bedroom wall.
He quickly leaves the apartment and exits the building. As he's walking towards his car, he sees a familiar brown, beaten, and battered vehicle parked across the street. He squints to see the driver; it's the same guy who picked Sam up at Burger King a couple of weeks ago. The same guy who made out with Sam right in front of Killian. The man smirks at Killian before hitting the gas and taking off down the street.
Killian Creed: (yelling) YOU SON OF A BITCH!
Killian takes a couple of steps in the direction of the speeding car, but he knows it's not going to do him any good. He walks back to his car and gets into the driver's seat. He sits there for a moment, thinking about what he's going to do next -- and then he just loses it. He starts hitting the driving wheel, breaks the rear view mirror; he's just going crazy.. He finishes off the attack by burying his head in the steering wheel.
Killian Creed: I'm sorry, Sam.. I need you, please..
No one can hear him, but that doesn't matter. He just sits there... crying into the steering wheel because he has no body else...
-----
Well howdy there pardner.