Post by Cyrus Daniels on Mar 26, 2016 23:06:30 GMT
If there's anything that America loves more than an underdog story, it's the story of somebody who has earned their way. Somebody who has worked hard throughout their lives, hard enough to have finally made something of themselves. Somebody who has endured through every setback, hardship and hurdle in their lives and most of all somebody who has paid their dues.
In short, somebody who isn't anythin' like me.
That's why so many of the millions who will be tuning into High Stakes this Sunday will be rootin' so hard against a bloke like me.
In their hearts and even in the minds of every single last one of you in this match, I don't deserve to win the 2016 Roulette because I've never really been the underdog in any fight that was worth having, and I sure as hell haven't earned my way in this business or paid my dues in this company.
And I'm fine with all that, y'know, because whilst I've never been a hero around here, what I have done is made an impact.
More to the point, I've left an impact, on anybody who has watched me step in between those ropes and throw some poor bastard around, and everybody who has tried to stand up against me. Yeah, that's right, I said against me, not Bobby Verona.
I'm not his bitch or his puppet, that's the bloke entering this thing last.
This is and always has been more about what Bobby can do for me than what I can do for him.
He brought me back this past November to do the one thing he knows I have a talent for, and that is hurting people.
Now Bobby's a smart bloke, he knew that I wouldn't do it for free, and so it's come down to this.
'Cause I've thought about this and I've decided that there really is no better way he can repay me for my services than that shiny little belt he keeps around his waist.
But I know his pride won't let him just hand it over, and asking him for a shot wouldn't be much fun.
Not when I could put myself up against every single one of his biggest and best prize fighters in one night and in one match.
There is no better way for me to prove to all of you why I am the most legitimate fighter in all of IWF than by systematically taking each and every one of you pricks, you pantomime heroes and villains, and beatin' the shit outta all of you in a good old fashioned brawl.
So that's exactly what I will do.
I learned a lot about making the most of even the smallest of spaces in ten years of being locked up.
And that's all this match will really come down to in the end.
Who can hold their little confined space in that ring long enough to be the last man standing?
Prison has a damn funny way of making you appreciate little things like that, y'know?
Staying inside, staying alive and living to fight another day, I mean. So as much as if there was any justice in the world, one of you sob story wrestling hero blokes should be validated by winning a thing like this, that's just not how the real world works.
In the real world, the bastards always win.
And in this match, there isn't a bigger bastard than me.
G'day.
Most people would consider holding the Invictus Championship for just seven days a disappointment, but not Cyrus Daniels.
No. He had come to know real disappointment and failure intimately in his life, and being a Champion, however briefly it ultimately lasted was not it. Not even close. If anything it was proof that he could do anything, take anything he wanted not only from IWF but from Roberto Verona himself.
That was the position he found himself in now.
Bernie had been right, even a temporary alliance with Roberto Verona could be worth something, and judging by the opportunities that had already presented themselves in just these few months, this whole arrangement had been much more beneficial to him than he ever imagined it would be.
He had found his way in.
He had found a way to the very heart of the company, just like his old friend had promised he would.
All it had taken was one handshake with the devil himself, and Cyrus didn't even have a soul to trade.
Now he smiled as he looked over an old photograph of his mother. The only one he still had of her. It had seen him through so much of his life, including his decade behind bars. Taken years before he had even become a man in his own right.
She didn't look happy, she never did. She frowned at him, and the more he held her dead eyed gaze, the more he imagined that she'd be shaking her head if she could.
She had always been so disappointed in him, and in each and every life decision he had ever made.
And it wasn't as if the bitch had left him any other choice.
What did she think would happen by letting him live through the violence with her, letting her see every raw hand print, every dirty bruise and every broken bone that his bastard of a father had ever left on her? what exactly was he supposed to do with every tear he saw her cry, every squeal he heard and every stubborn refusal to accept that as long as she stayed here with him, things would never get any better?
For either of them.
Cyrus sighed as he clicked the little silver lighter in his other hand until it's flame sparked to life.
"Sorry, I've always been such a disappointment," he whispered before letting the hungry flame consume the edge of the photograph.
"But what else could I have been with a stubborn old boot like you for a mother?"
He waited for an answer but she had none for him, she never did, so he watched her burn.
Just like he had always imagined she was, somewhere in Hell with his father, forever.
Trapped in the very same life that she could never escape.
In short, somebody who isn't anythin' like me.
That's why so many of the millions who will be tuning into High Stakes this Sunday will be rootin' so hard against a bloke like me.
In their hearts and even in the minds of every single last one of you in this match, I don't deserve to win the 2016 Roulette because I've never really been the underdog in any fight that was worth having, and I sure as hell haven't earned my way in this business or paid my dues in this company.
And I'm fine with all that, y'know, because whilst I've never been a hero around here, what I have done is made an impact.
More to the point, I've left an impact, on anybody who has watched me step in between those ropes and throw some poor bastard around, and everybody who has tried to stand up against me. Yeah, that's right, I said against me, not Bobby Verona.
I'm not his bitch or his puppet, that's the bloke entering this thing last.
This is and always has been more about what Bobby can do for me than what I can do for him.
He brought me back this past November to do the one thing he knows I have a talent for, and that is hurting people.
Now Bobby's a smart bloke, he knew that I wouldn't do it for free, and so it's come down to this.
'Cause I've thought about this and I've decided that there really is no better way he can repay me for my services than that shiny little belt he keeps around his waist.
But I know his pride won't let him just hand it over, and asking him for a shot wouldn't be much fun.
Not when I could put myself up against every single one of his biggest and best prize fighters in one night and in one match.
There is no better way for me to prove to all of you why I am the most legitimate fighter in all of IWF than by systematically taking each and every one of you pricks, you pantomime heroes and villains, and beatin' the shit outta all of you in a good old fashioned brawl.
So that's exactly what I will do.
I learned a lot about making the most of even the smallest of spaces in ten years of being locked up.
And that's all this match will really come down to in the end.
Who can hold their little confined space in that ring long enough to be the last man standing?
Prison has a damn funny way of making you appreciate little things like that, y'know?
Staying inside, staying alive and living to fight another day, I mean. So as much as if there was any justice in the world, one of you sob story wrestling hero blokes should be validated by winning a thing like this, that's just not how the real world works.
In the real world, the bastards always win.
And in this match, there isn't a bigger bastard than me.
G'day.
Most people would consider holding the Invictus Championship for just seven days a disappointment, but not Cyrus Daniels.
No. He had come to know real disappointment and failure intimately in his life, and being a Champion, however briefly it ultimately lasted was not it. Not even close. If anything it was proof that he could do anything, take anything he wanted not only from IWF but from Roberto Verona himself.
That was the position he found himself in now.
Bernie had been right, even a temporary alliance with Roberto Verona could be worth something, and judging by the opportunities that had already presented themselves in just these few months, this whole arrangement had been much more beneficial to him than he ever imagined it would be.
He had found his way in.
He had found a way to the very heart of the company, just like his old friend had promised he would.
All it had taken was one handshake with the devil himself, and Cyrus didn't even have a soul to trade.
Now he smiled as he looked over an old photograph of his mother. The only one he still had of her. It had seen him through so much of his life, including his decade behind bars. Taken years before he had even become a man in his own right.
She didn't look happy, she never did. She frowned at him, and the more he held her dead eyed gaze, the more he imagined that she'd be shaking her head if she could.
She had always been so disappointed in him, and in each and every life decision he had ever made.
And it wasn't as if the bitch had left him any other choice.
What did she think would happen by letting him live through the violence with her, letting her see every raw hand print, every dirty bruise and every broken bone that his bastard of a father had ever left on her? what exactly was he supposed to do with every tear he saw her cry, every squeal he heard and every stubborn refusal to accept that as long as she stayed here with him, things would never get any better?
For either of them.
Cyrus sighed as he clicked the little silver lighter in his other hand until it's flame sparked to life.
"Sorry, I've always been such a disappointment," he whispered before letting the hungry flame consume the edge of the photograph.
"But what else could I have been with a stubborn old boot like you for a mother?"
He waited for an answer but she had none for him, she never did, so he watched her burn.
Just like he had always imagined she was, somewhere in Hell with his father, forever.
Trapped in the very same life that she could never escape.
Well howdy there pardner.