Post by Dre Cutler on Jan 26, 2014 2:14:57 GMT
This match isn't about the Man of Steel championship. At least it isn't for me. But you want it, don't you? You can taste it, can't you? How bad do you want it, Mike? Does your body ache for it? Call for it? You want the gold, don't you?
The problem is people like you need championships to make them feel relevant. They need the "power" that comes with being a champion because they know that on their own, they don't have what it takes to stand the test of time. They need the gold for their legacy.
I'm right, aren't I?
This isn't about taking the championship from me, Mike. It's not about destroying Killian Creed. It's about the birth -- the beginning -- of Mike Laszlo. It's because you know that no one will remember who you are, what you did, who you fucked... if you haven't won a title to show your worth.
Maybe some day you'll find someone that will roll over and let you build that legacy.
But it's not going to be me.
-----
Killian Creed sits in a tarnished and decrepit wooden chair in Samantha Williams' hospital room. He's pulled the chair up to the window, cracking it just a bit to allow some of the cool breeze to wash over his face. He's leaning close to the window; holding a Camel between his index and ring finger on his right hand, and bent forward with both elbows planted firmly on his thighs. He takes a long, satisfying drag from the cigarette, holding the smoke in his chest before slowly exhaling, allowing it to disappear through the cracked window and into the evening air. He flicks the butt with his thumb, causing the ashes to drop from the tip and disappear as the air gets hold of them.
He allows himself a moment to disappear into his thoughts, taking the opportunity to examine everything one by one in his head. The last few months have been overwhelming; what should have been a celebration turned into an uncontrollable forest fire. He finally achieved his dream when he signed a contract with a reputable wrestling company. His success in the IWF was immediate, allowing him to fall further into euphoria by winning his first championship. At one point, he was so on cloud nine and nothing, no one, could bring him down.
But sometime during his run, sometime during his stay in this company, his personal life imploded. And ever since that moment, he's been on a free fall, unable to grab a hold of anything, unable to stop his descent. He lost his brother, and for a while, it looked like Samantha was a lost cause as well.
Now, he finds himself at a crossroads of sorts. His personal life has caused him to lose focus on his professional life; no longer is he considered the "next big thing," no longer is he considered a sure thing for twenty-fourteen. He's proven himself to be mortal, proven himself to be flawed, and now -- well, now everyone is well aware that he is simply a man that can, and will, be beaten.
Killian Creed: (mumbling) I call bullshit...
Removing himself from his thoughts, refusing to believe that he's done, he shakes his head in disgust before taking another drag from his cigarette. Anger boils inside him as he continues to think about everything that has happened in the past few months. He may not be able to save him from himself, but there is someone else that can be his savior.
Samantha Williams: (whispering) Killian?
He jumps a little, as he wasn't expecting to hear anyone's voice, especially hers. He drops his cigarette out the window and quickly rises to his feet, moving swiftly to Sam's bedside. He kneels down next to her bed, grabbing hold of her hand and holding it tightly as he uses his other hand to move some of her hair off her face. He can't help but tear up as he looks at Sam, who looks back at him with her sly smile, which simply crumbles and rebuilds Killian's heart over and over again.
Samantha Williams: I --
She starts to say something, but her surroundings catch her attention. She looks around, noticing the medical equipment, the plain white walls, and realizes that she's lying in a hospital bed. This is the first time she's opened her eyes in months; the treatment to bring her out of her medically induced coma was given to her last week, but the doctors said it could take up to fourteen days for the body to react to them.
Samantha Williams: (confused) Am I -- am I in a hospital?
Killian uses his free hand to wipe away the tears in his eyes before they can escape. He takes a deep breath before clearing his throat to respond to her question.
Killian Creed: Yeah, Sam. Uh, well, there was a situation a little while ago. I -- well, I don't really want to bore you with the details right now. I just want you to take it easy, relax, and just know that everything is, and will be, okay.
Samantha Williams: I, well, I think th--
A knock at the door interrupts her in mid-sentence. Dr. Flemming opens the door slowly, enters the room, and closes it quietly behind him. Dr. Flemming nods at Killian and extends his hand; Killian quickly rises up and shakes it. The doctor snatches his eye glasses from his breast pocket and puts them on, moving in close to one of the monitors to check the reading. He moves swift to the end of the bad and grabs hold of a clipboard, which contains Sam's chart.
Dr. Flemming: How are you feeling, Ms. Williams? One of the nurses notified me of a change in your monitor reading, so I came as quickly as I could. Would you like something to drink? Eat? I can have someone bring you some ice chips.
Sam's visibly confused, unaware of anything and everything. She looks at Killian, who looks back at her, before changing her gaze towards the doctor. He's still waiting on her answer, but he's changed his visual attention to the clipboard. She tries to adjust herself in her bed, but her arms give out like spaghetti. Completely irritable and annoyed with the entire situation, she lets out an exaggerated sigh before responding.
Samantha Williams: No, uh, no, I'm fine. What's going on? Why am I here? It's like, I don't know, I mean -- I don't know what the deal is.
The doctor looks at her over the frames of his glasses. He slips the chart back into the holder at the end of the bed and exhales slowly.
Dr. Flemming: I know you have a lot of questions, and believe me, that's very normal. I promise you'll get the answers, but for starters, I'll just say that we had to place you into a medically induced coma because there were some concerns over functions of your organs, specifically your lungs and kidneys. We believe it was all caused because of an overdose on morphine diacetate; you most likely know that by another name, heroin.
Hearing this information for the first time, Sam's mind starts racing. She tries desperately to remember -- anything, everything -- but she can't. She can't even place her finger on the last thing she does remember. She shakes her head profusely, refusing to believe it, hoping the doctor is lying. Killian kneels back down, grabbing hold of her hand and running his other hand through her hair, trying to calm her down. The doctor removes his glasses and shoves them back into his breast pocket.
Dr. Flemming: I don't want you to worry about that right now, Ms. Williams. We have to run a few immediate tests on you, make sure everything is working properly. Which means, unfortunately Mr. Creed, we will have to ask you to leave, at least for a hour or so while we do the tests. But I will say that just from looking at her, at the monitor readings, I don't see any reason for concern.
Killian looks away from the doctor, directing his attention back to Sam. She's still trying to figure things out, but she seems to be a little more calm now as she nods her head softly.
Dr. Flemming: I have one more piece of information, Ms. Williams. This is a medical miracle in itself, considering all that you've gone through, but you are four months along in a pregnancy. We discovered this through a standard pregnancy test when you were admitted. We have been keeping tabs on the fetus and all is very well. Congratulations, Ms. Williams, and... perhaps Mr. Creed?
The doctor looks at Sam and Killian, as both of them take a moment to digest this information. Sam looks confused yet again, shocked even, as she processes it in her brain. Killian stands upright, looking at the doctor for a moment before switching his gaze to Sam.
Killian Creed: (clearing his throat) Is it -- I mean, is -- well, is it mine, Sam?
Sam hesitates for a brief moment, but she quickly smiles at him.
Samantha Williams: Why wouldn't it be?
Killian bends down and hugs Sam, although she doesn't have enough strength in her arms to hug him back. He kisses her slightly on the forehead, and for the first time in a long time, he feels happy. Very, very happy, he almost forgot what it felt like to feel this way. The doctor smiles before moving towards the door and opening it.
Dr. Flemming: Well, we have to get started on those tests, hm? So, Mr. Creed, if you want to go to the cafeteria or something I can have them buzz for you when we're finished.
Killian nods, before once more running his fingers through Sam's hair before walking around the end of the bed and exiting the room. The doctor, having to go get ready to run the tests, leaves the room as well and closes the door behind him. Sam lies in the bed, staring forward as she tries to decipher exactly what's going on.... and suddenly, out of no where, things start coming back to her. Slapping her in the face, mentally fucking her brain as these memories, these experiences, all start pouring in at once.
The fight with Killian...
The brown Camaro...
The drugs...
The forced sex...
And she loses it. Sobbing uncontrollably. She squeezes her eyes closed so hard that nearly causes them to deflate in her skull. She can't accept it, she can't fathom it. This baby... her baby... she doesn't know who the father is.
-----
It's funny how it works, isn't it? Mike Laszlo, the man who has lost far more matches than he's won, the man who has been here much longer than I but has yet to win a championship, picks up a victory over me and suddenly, as if the world has shifted on its axis, declares himself someone to be taken seriously. I'm asking you, pleading with you, please -- tell me you're joking, right? That's your attempt at humor, isn't it? If so, kudos to you, Mike. If wrestling continues to fuck you in the ass, I think you might be able to have a semi-successful career in comedy. And by semi-successful, I mean you'll be injecting steroids into Carrot Top's ass cheeks.
There are many facts of life, Mike. Never run towards a charging bear, do not sit on a public toilet seat, and people, unfortunately, do not change. In your case, Mike, that means once a Mike Laszlo, always a Mike Laszlo. You're one of those wrestlers that manage to keep your job because you're able to pick up the fluke victory every once and a while. When it looks like your run is over, your career has peaked, and you're one loss away from the unemployment line, you walk into the right situation at the right time.
But you don't get it, do you? The realization never sets in. You truly think you're a main eventer, you believe that you will carry this company into twenty-fourteen and beyond. You think you're the man to derail The Empire; you think you're the man that is going to be the saving grace of this company. All of these things are true, right? You're big shit, aren't you? A top dog. A carnivore. A beast. A wild thing. An untouchable.
You're none of those things, Mike. You're simply a person in denial.
You refuse to admit that you were born to jerk the curtain. You refuse to admit that the coward Rob Diamond, missing finger and all, keeps his stamina up in hopes for an in-ring return by anally destroying Alexis and her mother every night.
I found that last one on the internet. That means it's true.
You refuse to believe that I am better than you. Every dog has its day, Mike. Everyone, at one time or another, loses a match. For you, well, the third time was the charm. You were able to beat me. You pinned my shoulders to the mat and I'll be damned, I stayed down for three seconds. You did it. Kudos to you.
A fluke victory proves nothing, Mike. It just feeds into your delusional mindset of actually mattering.
Here's a couple of issues, Mike. First of all, you kept me down for three seconds. A pinfall in our match this week means absolutely nothing. You have to make me submit, make me tap out. Or, you have to knock me out. And let me be the first to tell you, Mike, you're going to have to make me stay down for more than three seconds for a knockout. Can you do it? Do you have what it takes? Questioning yourself, aren't you?
Every time you think you have me set up for a submission in our match, Mike, just know that I am one step ahead of you. When you think you're about to end things, just know that the match is only still going on because I'm allowing it to do so. You're never ahead of me, you're never outsmarting me.
You're always one step behind me, Mike. You always bring yesterday's headlines to today's conversation.
And as much as you refuse to admit it, as much as it pains you to even consider, I AM in your head.
Denial.
There's that word again; you're denying it, aren't you?
The very fact that you have to keep saying, week in and week out, that I am not getting into your head, that I am not getting under your skin, just proves that I am. You wouldn't keep trying to force it on us if it weren't true, Mike. That's okay, there's no shame in getting mind raped by Killian Creed.
It happens.
And so does shit. And Mike Laszlo. Same thing, right?
You and I have been going back and forth on this roller coaster for weeks. I've rearranged your girlfriend's face, you've thrown me through some glass. It's been a blast, hasn't it? But I hope you don't think you've already seen the worst, Mike. Because, God as my witness...
The. Worst. Is. Yet. To. Come.
As much fun as it is to verbally insult you and humiliate you, that's not my endgame. My goal is to make you suffer, make you bleed. I want to snap your bones, one by one, and listen to your agonizing scream that follows. That's what I really want, Mike.
I'm not going to do it for Spike.
I'm not going to do it for The Empire.
I'm going to do it for myself.
This ends at Metamorphosis and once all is said and done, there will be little doubt in your mind who the better man is after our match concludes, Mike. And if you can still put together a coherent sentence afterwards, you'll be thanking me. You'll be thanking me because I'm not going to end you, Mike. I'm not going to going to physically destroy you. You'll still be able to breathe once I'm done with you. But walking? Well, that's a different story.
The suffering I bring forth will carry on for the rest of your life. Your body will ache. Your words will be slurred. You'll have a constant throb in your head that will always remind you of the time you crossed Killian Creed.
Our match will end, Mike.
But your pain.... that will be forever.
The problem is people like you need championships to make them feel relevant. They need the "power" that comes with being a champion because they know that on their own, they don't have what it takes to stand the test of time. They need the gold for their legacy.
I'm right, aren't I?
This isn't about taking the championship from me, Mike. It's not about destroying Killian Creed. It's about the birth -- the beginning -- of Mike Laszlo. It's because you know that no one will remember who you are, what you did, who you fucked... if you haven't won a title to show your worth.
Maybe some day you'll find someone that will roll over and let you build that legacy.
But it's not going to be me.
-----
Killian Creed sits in a tarnished and decrepit wooden chair in Samantha Williams' hospital room. He's pulled the chair up to the window, cracking it just a bit to allow some of the cool breeze to wash over his face. He's leaning close to the window; holding a Camel between his index and ring finger on his right hand, and bent forward with both elbows planted firmly on his thighs. He takes a long, satisfying drag from the cigarette, holding the smoke in his chest before slowly exhaling, allowing it to disappear through the cracked window and into the evening air. He flicks the butt with his thumb, causing the ashes to drop from the tip and disappear as the air gets hold of them.
He allows himself a moment to disappear into his thoughts, taking the opportunity to examine everything one by one in his head. The last few months have been overwhelming; what should have been a celebration turned into an uncontrollable forest fire. He finally achieved his dream when he signed a contract with a reputable wrestling company. His success in the IWF was immediate, allowing him to fall further into euphoria by winning his first championship. At one point, he was so on cloud nine and nothing, no one, could bring him down.
But sometime during his run, sometime during his stay in this company, his personal life imploded. And ever since that moment, he's been on a free fall, unable to grab a hold of anything, unable to stop his descent. He lost his brother, and for a while, it looked like Samantha was a lost cause as well.
Now, he finds himself at a crossroads of sorts. His personal life has caused him to lose focus on his professional life; no longer is he considered the "next big thing," no longer is he considered a sure thing for twenty-fourteen. He's proven himself to be mortal, proven himself to be flawed, and now -- well, now everyone is well aware that he is simply a man that can, and will, be beaten.
Killian Creed: (mumbling) I call bullshit...
Removing himself from his thoughts, refusing to believe that he's done, he shakes his head in disgust before taking another drag from his cigarette. Anger boils inside him as he continues to think about everything that has happened in the past few months. He may not be able to save him from himself, but there is someone else that can be his savior.
Samantha Williams: (whispering) Killian?
He jumps a little, as he wasn't expecting to hear anyone's voice, especially hers. He drops his cigarette out the window and quickly rises to his feet, moving swiftly to Sam's bedside. He kneels down next to her bed, grabbing hold of her hand and holding it tightly as he uses his other hand to move some of her hair off her face. He can't help but tear up as he looks at Sam, who looks back at him with her sly smile, which simply crumbles and rebuilds Killian's heart over and over again.
Samantha Williams: I --
She starts to say something, but her surroundings catch her attention. She looks around, noticing the medical equipment, the plain white walls, and realizes that she's lying in a hospital bed. This is the first time she's opened her eyes in months; the treatment to bring her out of her medically induced coma was given to her last week, but the doctors said it could take up to fourteen days for the body to react to them.
Samantha Williams: (confused) Am I -- am I in a hospital?
Killian uses his free hand to wipe away the tears in his eyes before they can escape. He takes a deep breath before clearing his throat to respond to her question.
Killian Creed: Yeah, Sam. Uh, well, there was a situation a little while ago. I -- well, I don't really want to bore you with the details right now. I just want you to take it easy, relax, and just know that everything is, and will be, okay.
Samantha Williams: I, well, I think th--
A knock at the door interrupts her in mid-sentence. Dr. Flemming opens the door slowly, enters the room, and closes it quietly behind him. Dr. Flemming nods at Killian and extends his hand; Killian quickly rises up and shakes it. The doctor snatches his eye glasses from his breast pocket and puts them on, moving in close to one of the monitors to check the reading. He moves swift to the end of the bad and grabs hold of a clipboard, which contains Sam's chart.
Dr. Flemming: How are you feeling, Ms. Williams? One of the nurses notified me of a change in your monitor reading, so I came as quickly as I could. Would you like something to drink? Eat? I can have someone bring you some ice chips.
Sam's visibly confused, unaware of anything and everything. She looks at Killian, who looks back at her, before changing her gaze towards the doctor. He's still waiting on her answer, but he's changed his visual attention to the clipboard. She tries to adjust herself in her bed, but her arms give out like spaghetti. Completely irritable and annoyed with the entire situation, she lets out an exaggerated sigh before responding.
Samantha Williams: No, uh, no, I'm fine. What's going on? Why am I here? It's like, I don't know, I mean -- I don't know what the deal is.
The doctor looks at her over the frames of his glasses. He slips the chart back into the holder at the end of the bed and exhales slowly.
Dr. Flemming: I know you have a lot of questions, and believe me, that's very normal. I promise you'll get the answers, but for starters, I'll just say that we had to place you into a medically induced coma because there were some concerns over functions of your organs, specifically your lungs and kidneys. We believe it was all caused because of an overdose on morphine diacetate; you most likely know that by another name, heroin.
Hearing this information for the first time, Sam's mind starts racing. She tries desperately to remember -- anything, everything -- but she can't. She can't even place her finger on the last thing she does remember. She shakes her head profusely, refusing to believe it, hoping the doctor is lying. Killian kneels back down, grabbing hold of her hand and running his other hand through her hair, trying to calm her down. The doctor removes his glasses and shoves them back into his breast pocket.
Dr. Flemming: I don't want you to worry about that right now, Ms. Williams. We have to run a few immediate tests on you, make sure everything is working properly. Which means, unfortunately Mr. Creed, we will have to ask you to leave, at least for a hour or so while we do the tests. But I will say that just from looking at her, at the monitor readings, I don't see any reason for concern.
Killian looks away from the doctor, directing his attention back to Sam. She's still trying to figure things out, but she seems to be a little more calm now as she nods her head softly.
Dr. Flemming: I have one more piece of information, Ms. Williams. This is a medical miracle in itself, considering all that you've gone through, but you are four months along in a pregnancy. We discovered this through a standard pregnancy test when you were admitted. We have been keeping tabs on the fetus and all is very well. Congratulations, Ms. Williams, and... perhaps Mr. Creed?
The doctor looks at Sam and Killian, as both of them take a moment to digest this information. Sam looks confused yet again, shocked even, as she processes it in her brain. Killian stands upright, looking at the doctor for a moment before switching his gaze to Sam.
Killian Creed: (clearing his throat) Is it -- I mean, is -- well, is it mine, Sam?
Sam hesitates for a brief moment, but she quickly smiles at him.
Samantha Williams: Why wouldn't it be?
Killian bends down and hugs Sam, although she doesn't have enough strength in her arms to hug him back. He kisses her slightly on the forehead, and for the first time in a long time, he feels happy. Very, very happy, he almost forgot what it felt like to feel this way. The doctor smiles before moving towards the door and opening it.
Dr. Flemming: Well, we have to get started on those tests, hm? So, Mr. Creed, if you want to go to the cafeteria or something I can have them buzz for you when we're finished.
Killian nods, before once more running his fingers through Sam's hair before walking around the end of the bed and exiting the room. The doctor, having to go get ready to run the tests, leaves the room as well and closes the door behind him. Sam lies in the bed, staring forward as she tries to decipher exactly what's going on.... and suddenly, out of no where, things start coming back to her. Slapping her in the face, mentally fucking her brain as these memories, these experiences, all start pouring in at once.
The fight with Killian...
The brown Camaro...
The drugs...
The forced sex...
And she loses it. Sobbing uncontrollably. She squeezes her eyes closed so hard that nearly causes them to deflate in her skull. She can't accept it, she can't fathom it. This baby... her baby... she doesn't know who the father is.
-----
It's funny how it works, isn't it? Mike Laszlo, the man who has lost far more matches than he's won, the man who has been here much longer than I but has yet to win a championship, picks up a victory over me and suddenly, as if the world has shifted on its axis, declares himself someone to be taken seriously. I'm asking you, pleading with you, please -- tell me you're joking, right? That's your attempt at humor, isn't it? If so, kudos to you, Mike. If wrestling continues to fuck you in the ass, I think you might be able to have a semi-successful career in comedy. And by semi-successful, I mean you'll be injecting steroids into Carrot Top's ass cheeks.
There are many facts of life, Mike. Never run towards a charging bear, do not sit on a public toilet seat, and people, unfortunately, do not change. In your case, Mike, that means once a Mike Laszlo, always a Mike Laszlo. You're one of those wrestlers that manage to keep your job because you're able to pick up the fluke victory every once and a while. When it looks like your run is over, your career has peaked, and you're one loss away from the unemployment line, you walk into the right situation at the right time.
But you don't get it, do you? The realization never sets in. You truly think you're a main eventer, you believe that you will carry this company into twenty-fourteen and beyond. You think you're the man to derail The Empire; you think you're the man that is going to be the saving grace of this company. All of these things are true, right? You're big shit, aren't you? A top dog. A carnivore. A beast. A wild thing. An untouchable.
You're none of those things, Mike. You're simply a person in denial.
You refuse to admit that you were born to jerk the curtain. You refuse to admit that the coward Rob Diamond, missing finger and all, keeps his stamina up in hopes for an in-ring return by anally destroying Alexis and her mother every night.
I found that last one on the internet. That means it's true.
You refuse to believe that I am better than you. Every dog has its day, Mike. Everyone, at one time or another, loses a match. For you, well, the third time was the charm. You were able to beat me. You pinned my shoulders to the mat and I'll be damned, I stayed down for three seconds. You did it. Kudos to you.
A fluke victory proves nothing, Mike. It just feeds into your delusional mindset of actually mattering.
Here's a couple of issues, Mike. First of all, you kept me down for three seconds. A pinfall in our match this week means absolutely nothing. You have to make me submit, make me tap out. Or, you have to knock me out. And let me be the first to tell you, Mike, you're going to have to make me stay down for more than three seconds for a knockout. Can you do it? Do you have what it takes? Questioning yourself, aren't you?
Every time you think you have me set up for a submission in our match, Mike, just know that I am one step ahead of you. When you think you're about to end things, just know that the match is only still going on because I'm allowing it to do so. You're never ahead of me, you're never outsmarting me.
You're always one step behind me, Mike. You always bring yesterday's headlines to today's conversation.
And as much as you refuse to admit it, as much as it pains you to even consider, I AM in your head.
Denial.
There's that word again; you're denying it, aren't you?
The very fact that you have to keep saying, week in and week out, that I am not getting into your head, that I am not getting under your skin, just proves that I am. You wouldn't keep trying to force it on us if it weren't true, Mike. That's okay, there's no shame in getting mind raped by Killian Creed.
It happens.
And so does shit. And Mike Laszlo. Same thing, right?
You and I have been going back and forth on this roller coaster for weeks. I've rearranged your girlfriend's face, you've thrown me through some glass. It's been a blast, hasn't it? But I hope you don't think you've already seen the worst, Mike. Because, God as my witness...
The. Worst. Is. Yet. To. Come.
As much fun as it is to verbally insult you and humiliate you, that's not my endgame. My goal is to make you suffer, make you bleed. I want to snap your bones, one by one, and listen to your agonizing scream that follows. That's what I really want, Mike.
I'm not going to do it for Spike.
I'm not going to do it for The Empire.
I'm going to do it for myself.
This ends at Metamorphosis and once all is said and done, there will be little doubt in your mind who the better man is after our match concludes, Mike. And if you can still put together a coherent sentence afterwards, you'll be thanking me. You'll be thanking me because I'm not going to end you, Mike. I'm not going to going to physically destroy you. You'll still be able to breathe once I'm done with you. But walking? Well, that's a different story.
The suffering I bring forth will carry on for the rest of your life. Your body will ache. Your words will be slurred. You'll have a constant throb in your head that will always remind you of the time you crossed Killian Creed.
Our match will end, Mike.
But your pain.... that will be forever.
Well howdy there pardner.