Post by Princess on Aug 19, 2014 17:12:22 GMT
"You have much to learn *cough* about...life."
The wrinkled, grizzled face of the man claiming to be my father is covered in spittle as he coughs and hacks. The oxygen attached to his nose through tubes and the wheelchair are unbecoming of such a once-feared entity. If he tells me the truth, instead of lies...the lies my mother said he'd tell. "He's nothing but a liar, Kristoff. When you lie, you're like your father." or the lovely "You want to end up like your father? A criminal? That's what bad boys who don't listen become". The dichotomy of him never being around, and my mother being a control-freak determined to tarnish any image of him. And now....all I see is a faded, dying old man.
"Really, much to learn from a crippled, old, decrepit thing? You sit in that chair as if it were the grim repose keeping you from death just another day longer. When they told me who you were, what you were, I was hoping this disease would take you before you ever found me."
"You hide just as well as your mother, not at all. *Cough*"
My mother, the leverage he has on me, that and his presumed genetic relation to me by fatherhood. In my eyes, he's no more than a sperm donor, a man who simply donated to the cause of giving me life, then disappeared. I bear no resemblance to this man, not in looks, or disposition. He slowly wheels himself over to the window of the dimly-lit hotel room and glances through the pulled blinds to the dying light outside. He knows, all too well, he's got very little time left before the cancer eats through him and he joins my mother as worm food. But it's the prospect of going without having atoned that bothers him most, I presume. That he owes me something, some satisfaction of being a "son".
"You don't know how much I wanted to be there. Your mother, you know...she's crazy. Well, WAS crazy. Now she's a fucking corpse. HAHA *cough cough wheeze*. Sorry, but you know what I mean, don't you, Kristoff? You know what she did to people, using that psychobabble."
Her voice in my head, "You're a worthless pile of shit just like him. He's nothing, not even here. Don't you think you should go out and find him, if only to stick a knife in his belly? That would make your mommy proud. Wouldn't you want your mommy proud?"
"No, I'd know nothing of it."
"Ha, you can't lie to me, boy. You're not man enough to lie to an old man, let alone your father, and get away with it. Just be glad I'm in this chair..."
I resist the cliche of calling him on his words. I'm older than that, I'm not a teenager, fighting for acceptance as an adult, I AM an adult, and more of one than he's ever been to anyone.
"Now, why don't you go and call that old lady you used to be with. The one who cheated on you...the one who hurt you. The one I know you want revenge on. Go ahead, do it, boy. Prove to your old man you have guts. Tell her what you feel."
How he went from antagonizing me over lying, to this, I don't understand. His motives are hard to tell, his glassed-over blue eyes are still cold as daggers, and there's something very sinister hiding behind them. He is feeble, old, but there's something malevolent in him. Some...inhumanity.
"You would leave then? Leave to die in your state?"
"Of course not, boy. You're nothing unless you know the truth, know your full potential. *cough wheeze* You have so much to learn, yet. You've got no chance in holding anything here without me. You have no will, no strength. You are nothing alone, and you know it. You are WEAK."
I know he's bluffing, somehow. He'll just go off and wither and not tell me a thing. He might not even be my father anyway. He's a liar, a fake man hired to give me grief. A man hired....by who? Why? The questions make me wonder....NO! This isn't the horrible human being I was told about my whole life. I struggle with his dare, before slowly picking up the receiver and dialing the number. It rings. And rings....and rings. No answer. I almost hang up before the voicemail kicks in.
"Who are you? Why are you here? What's going....no...no....NOOO NOT THE CHILDREN! HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE *Click*"
I slowly put the receiver down and do my best to hide the fear in my heart. The sound of the voice...what happened. The children? The number....the voicemail...someone, turned on the recorder and did something. I turn to the old man and he is smiling a sinister grin. It goes from ear to ear, almost hiding the hose keeping oxygen in his lungs.
"We need to talk, boy. About a lot of things...*cough* MWAHA*cough*HA*Cough Hack wheeze*"
___________________________
In the dim light of a borrowed room, I sit on a chair. My title is draped over my shoulder, as if I even care about the blasted thing anymore. It's worthless, simply a word, an honorless prize. But can I give it honor? Or should I give it dishonor, give it the reputation it deserves of violence, of pain, of blood.
"So here we are, a mere few days before "Legacy" the next in a full line of L-Titled Pay Per Views that have as crappy of cards and booking as the last. I mean, really? Giving me THIS booking? These opponents? Should I even bother to show, I mean, it's not like I could out wrestle paper sack iscariot and black dot on a plank of wood, I mean....Judas Alliah and Frank Black. Seriously, you two have the personalities and violence of a daycare center that plays nothing but Barney and Teletubbies. But then again, with a little LSD those can become scary, so maybe you just need to juice up and roid rage your way into a violent fervor...which is, of course, the exact opposite of what I'm capable of."
My briefcase is nearby and I open it, filled within are photographs of the blood I've spilled over my career, of broken bodies and my own wounds to achieve these things. I grab a handful and smirk as I flip through the memories.
"I built a cathedral of pain in my career, to free the spirit of violence and darkness within not only myself, but others. Look at these memories, not only here, but elsewhere. I stabbed a man with a letter opener, that man, Gib...look at him, groaning and growling in pain. Blood freely leaving his shoulder. He's a man people feared, and I put him down like a rabid dog. Look at these photos, simple paperclips turned into claws. My hands, filled with salt, rubbing into wounds with a crossface. I've done so much damage over the years, created such a monument to pain. And you two, "fresh slabs" are nothing more than another tick in my ever-increasing win column. I mean, look at you, Judas. You failed all month to attract my attention except long enough to cost us the match we were "teamed" together. You're not WORTHY of even LOOKING at this worthless piece of metal they call a title, let alone stepping in the ring with me. You couldn't hold your stomach when exposed to the level of blood, of violence, of pain that will be subjected to you this week. Be a good boy, and just STAY HOME. You'll live longer. I swear. Because..."
Under the photographs is a blood-stained letter opener, a little rusty from lack of care recently, but still sharp enough to cut flesh. I drop the pictures I had been showing in favor for this...weapon. It is light, fluid in my hand. I cut the air with it a little. The smile on my face and glint in my eyes nothing more than a sinister glimpse into a ravaged disturbed mind. I picture the flesh of Frank and Judas cut with this instrument. I stab the title belt with it, hard. The surface breaks and the metal is scratched. I continue to deface my title, giving it the look of something that is deserving of "Anything goes". I can't stop, I cut my hand and sigh as the blood flows freely. I paint my face with my blood, and my title. A sinister laugh escapes me as I scrawl "VIOLENCE" on the surface of the title, overwriting the "Invictus".
"Pain is a barrier, it's an inhibition to your performance. Once you accept it, become molded by it, and freely let your own blood flow, mingle, and blend with that of your opponents on the once-white surface of the mat, that's when you truly are free. Free to do anything. Free to break skulls with briefcases, or stab people, or moonsault onto another bloody body through a table, or barbed wire, or anything. You free yourself of limitations when you free your mind of the barrier that is pain. And you two....you know pain. You fear it. I am molded, I am enhanced, and I...I don't fear it, or death. I know there is nothing on the other side. Nothing but blackness. So live now, live the best you can and do whatever you feel, because in the end, all we leave is what we have done, whether the world loves it or not. Frank, you're a false champion as well, you wish to come after something "single" instead of relying on your brother. But without him, you are lost, a single, solitary soul with no direction. You have no real experience in violence of my level. Sure, you've spilled blood and cracked skulls, but you still feel pain, you still fear it. And that's a weakness you can't have."
"Fear death, and you lose."
The interruption is angering and I point the knife at the crippled man claiming to be my father. When I see him, I see a child, one I used to call "son" near his chair. He is beaten black and blue. My "father" has a similar knife hanging from his fist on the lefthand side of his chair. The child is scared, and visibly urinating themselves.
"Like father...like son..."
Before I can speak more, the knife leaves his hand and hits the glass perfectly in the lens of the camera, everything becomes darkness then. Dark, and silent save a sinister laugh.
The wrinkled, grizzled face of the man claiming to be my father is covered in spittle as he coughs and hacks. The oxygen attached to his nose through tubes and the wheelchair are unbecoming of such a once-feared entity. If he tells me the truth, instead of lies...the lies my mother said he'd tell. "He's nothing but a liar, Kristoff. When you lie, you're like your father." or the lovely "You want to end up like your father? A criminal? That's what bad boys who don't listen become". The dichotomy of him never being around, and my mother being a control-freak determined to tarnish any image of him. And now....all I see is a faded, dying old man.
"Really, much to learn from a crippled, old, decrepit thing? You sit in that chair as if it were the grim repose keeping you from death just another day longer. When they told me who you were, what you were, I was hoping this disease would take you before you ever found me."
"You hide just as well as your mother, not at all. *Cough*"
My mother, the leverage he has on me, that and his presumed genetic relation to me by fatherhood. In my eyes, he's no more than a sperm donor, a man who simply donated to the cause of giving me life, then disappeared. I bear no resemblance to this man, not in looks, or disposition. He slowly wheels himself over to the window of the dimly-lit hotel room and glances through the pulled blinds to the dying light outside. He knows, all too well, he's got very little time left before the cancer eats through him and he joins my mother as worm food. But it's the prospect of going without having atoned that bothers him most, I presume. That he owes me something, some satisfaction of being a "son".
"You don't know how much I wanted to be there. Your mother, you know...she's crazy. Well, WAS crazy. Now she's a fucking corpse. HAHA *cough cough wheeze*. Sorry, but you know what I mean, don't you, Kristoff? You know what she did to people, using that psychobabble."
Her voice in my head, "You're a worthless pile of shit just like him. He's nothing, not even here. Don't you think you should go out and find him, if only to stick a knife in his belly? That would make your mommy proud. Wouldn't you want your mommy proud?"
"No, I'd know nothing of it."
"Ha, you can't lie to me, boy. You're not man enough to lie to an old man, let alone your father, and get away with it. Just be glad I'm in this chair..."
I resist the cliche of calling him on his words. I'm older than that, I'm not a teenager, fighting for acceptance as an adult, I AM an adult, and more of one than he's ever been to anyone.
"Now, why don't you go and call that old lady you used to be with. The one who cheated on you...the one who hurt you. The one I know you want revenge on. Go ahead, do it, boy. Prove to your old man you have guts. Tell her what you feel."
How he went from antagonizing me over lying, to this, I don't understand. His motives are hard to tell, his glassed-over blue eyes are still cold as daggers, and there's something very sinister hiding behind them. He is feeble, old, but there's something malevolent in him. Some...inhumanity.
"You would leave then? Leave to die in your state?"
"Of course not, boy. You're nothing unless you know the truth, know your full potential. *cough wheeze* You have so much to learn, yet. You've got no chance in holding anything here without me. You have no will, no strength. You are nothing alone, and you know it. You are WEAK."
I know he's bluffing, somehow. He'll just go off and wither and not tell me a thing. He might not even be my father anyway. He's a liar, a fake man hired to give me grief. A man hired....by who? Why? The questions make me wonder....NO! This isn't the horrible human being I was told about my whole life. I struggle with his dare, before slowly picking up the receiver and dialing the number. It rings. And rings....and rings. No answer. I almost hang up before the voicemail kicks in.
"Who are you? Why are you here? What's going....no...no....NOOO NOT THE CHILDREN! HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE *Click*"
I slowly put the receiver down and do my best to hide the fear in my heart. The sound of the voice...what happened. The children? The number....the voicemail...someone, turned on the recorder and did something. I turn to the old man and he is smiling a sinister grin. It goes from ear to ear, almost hiding the hose keeping oxygen in his lungs.
"We need to talk, boy. About a lot of things...*cough* MWAHA*cough*HA*Cough Hack wheeze*"
___________________________
In the dim light of a borrowed room, I sit on a chair. My title is draped over my shoulder, as if I even care about the blasted thing anymore. It's worthless, simply a word, an honorless prize. But can I give it honor? Or should I give it dishonor, give it the reputation it deserves of violence, of pain, of blood.
"So here we are, a mere few days before "Legacy" the next in a full line of L-Titled Pay Per Views that have as crappy of cards and booking as the last. I mean, really? Giving me THIS booking? These opponents? Should I even bother to show, I mean, it's not like I could out wrestle paper sack iscariot and black dot on a plank of wood, I mean....Judas Alliah and Frank Black. Seriously, you two have the personalities and violence of a daycare center that plays nothing but Barney and Teletubbies. But then again, with a little LSD those can become scary, so maybe you just need to juice up and roid rage your way into a violent fervor...which is, of course, the exact opposite of what I'm capable of."
My briefcase is nearby and I open it, filled within are photographs of the blood I've spilled over my career, of broken bodies and my own wounds to achieve these things. I grab a handful and smirk as I flip through the memories.
"I built a cathedral of pain in my career, to free the spirit of violence and darkness within not only myself, but others. Look at these memories, not only here, but elsewhere. I stabbed a man with a letter opener, that man, Gib...look at him, groaning and growling in pain. Blood freely leaving his shoulder. He's a man people feared, and I put him down like a rabid dog. Look at these photos, simple paperclips turned into claws. My hands, filled with salt, rubbing into wounds with a crossface. I've done so much damage over the years, created such a monument to pain. And you two, "fresh slabs" are nothing more than another tick in my ever-increasing win column. I mean, look at you, Judas. You failed all month to attract my attention except long enough to cost us the match we were "teamed" together. You're not WORTHY of even LOOKING at this worthless piece of metal they call a title, let alone stepping in the ring with me. You couldn't hold your stomach when exposed to the level of blood, of violence, of pain that will be subjected to you this week. Be a good boy, and just STAY HOME. You'll live longer. I swear. Because..."
Under the photographs is a blood-stained letter opener, a little rusty from lack of care recently, but still sharp enough to cut flesh. I drop the pictures I had been showing in favor for this...weapon. It is light, fluid in my hand. I cut the air with it a little. The smile on my face and glint in my eyes nothing more than a sinister glimpse into a ravaged disturbed mind. I picture the flesh of Frank and Judas cut with this instrument. I stab the title belt with it, hard. The surface breaks and the metal is scratched. I continue to deface my title, giving it the look of something that is deserving of "Anything goes". I can't stop, I cut my hand and sigh as the blood flows freely. I paint my face with my blood, and my title. A sinister laugh escapes me as I scrawl "VIOLENCE" on the surface of the title, overwriting the "Invictus".
"Pain is a barrier, it's an inhibition to your performance. Once you accept it, become molded by it, and freely let your own blood flow, mingle, and blend with that of your opponents on the once-white surface of the mat, that's when you truly are free. Free to do anything. Free to break skulls with briefcases, or stab people, or moonsault onto another bloody body through a table, or barbed wire, or anything. You free yourself of limitations when you free your mind of the barrier that is pain. And you two....you know pain. You fear it. I am molded, I am enhanced, and I...I don't fear it, or death. I know there is nothing on the other side. Nothing but blackness. So live now, live the best you can and do whatever you feel, because in the end, all we leave is what we have done, whether the world loves it or not. Frank, you're a false champion as well, you wish to come after something "single" instead of relying on your brother. But without him, you are lost, a single, solitary soul with no direction. You have no real experience in violence of my level. Sure, you've spilled blood and cracked skulls, but you still feel pain, you still fear it. And that's a weakness you can't have."
"Fear death, and you lose."
The interruption is angering and I point the knife at the crippled man claiming to be my father. When I see him, I see a child, one I used to call "son" near his chair. He is beaten black and blue. My "father" has a similar knife hanging from his fist on the lefthand side of his chair. The child is scared, and visibly urinating themselves.
"Like father...like son..."
Before I can speak more, the knife leaves his hand and hits the glass perfectly in the lens of the camera, everything becomes darkness then. Dark, and silent save a sinister laugh.
Well howdy there pardner.