Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Jun 12, 2017 3:36:09 GMT
We open on Andrew Jacobsen sitting on a workout bench in a gym, forehead slick with sweat. The Imperial Championship is nowhere to be seen, nor is the excited, accomplished demeanor we saw from Andrew last week on Sacrifice. Instead, all we get is a look of existential weariness on his face as he speaks, sighing and wincing as his sore muscles protest each movement.
"You want some words on my match this week? Alright. You want 'em...you get 'em. Cyrus Daniels. The monster among men. Why am I not surprised you're doing Roberto Verona's dirty work for him? Is it because you've never had a set of morals to sell out? Is it because I've seen you end IWF careers for laughs? Maybe it's because I've been on the receiving end of your particular form of violence more than I'd care to recall. Or maybe it's just that I know Roberto. I don't have to know you to know him, after all, and this...this is exactly the sort of thing I expected out of him.
If he thinks he's the rightful Imperial Champion, he can come down off his Twitter throne and meet me in the ring to prove it. But that's not what he's doing, because that's not the kind of man Roberto Verona is. Instead, he's throwing me into one of the most brutal matches in IWF with one of its most certifiable killers, all before I have to defend the Imperial Championship against a man he's had a love-hate relationship with...and I certainly haven't been any better."
Andrew reaches over, snagging a bottle of water off the bench, and takes a big gulp from the bottle, wiping his mouth as he shakes his head.
"But this week isn't about Ace. This week isn't about Roberto. This is about you, Cyrus. This is about surviving you. I remember what it's like in there with you...you survive Cyrus Daniels, even if you win. I'm two weeks removed from the greatest night of my professional life, and I refuse to let the thing that derails me be yet another walking avatar of everything I fight against. I won't let you win, Cyrus, because I can't let you win. I can't let what you REPRESENT win. Not here, not now, not ever."
Andrew stands up, toweling his forehead off, and leans against the bank of lockers, bracing himself with one of his forearms. He looks down at the floor for a moment before looking over into the camera, eyes laser-focused down the lens.
"I know what I'll have to do to stop you, Cyrus. I know the kind of pain I'll need to inflict, whether it's to get you to stay down for a count of ten or to make you tap. You're a tough, vicious human being, and it's going to take all I've got, maybe more. But I haven't exactly been sitting on a beach sipping mai tais while you've been away. I've been in wars with the hardest man in IWF. I've survived, I've stayed standing...Cyrus, you're dangerous, but you don't scare me. At this point, I'm not sure what will."
He pushes off the locker, hands reaching down and spinning the combination lock off-camera with practiced ease. Andrew unlocks the locker, reaching in and drawing out a duffel bag that he sets on the bench. He cracks his neck, reaching down and unzipping the bag. Right on top sits the IWF Imperial Championship, gleaming in the overhead lights. Andrew looks back at the camera, a half-grin on his face.
"This thing's heavy, Cyrus. Not just the actual belt, but the responsibility it represents. I carry that weight with me every day. When I go into the gym, when I walk through that curtain, when I step into a new city, every time I do so that weight is on my shoulders, keeping me grounded. It reminds me of the expectations everyone has of me. I can't rest on my laurels, now moreso than ever. If that means I need to kick your teeth down your throat before you can cripple me, then I'm ready to do it. The fear you represent is weaker than the power and responsibility this represents. You're a challenge, Cyrus, the first one I've had as champion...and I don't back down from a challenge."
Andrew pulls the belt out of his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He raps the main plate with his knuckle twice, nodding to himself before looking back at the camera.
"You've always preached a gospel of cynicism and hate, Cyrus. Just because you've screwed up your life, that doesn't mean everyone's life is screwed up. And I'm sorry that you're wallowing in your own self-loathing so much that you can't see that truth before you. Because that's the reality of it all. I don't hate you. I don't fear you. I pity you, Cyrus. And maybe I'll hit you hard enough to knock some sense into you. I'm not holding my breath, though. More likely than not, I'll just hit you hard enough to turn your lights out. Either way...you're not stopping me. The North Star will always be here, Cyrus. How about you? See you soon."
Andrew nods to the cameraman, and he turns, scooping up his bag and closing his locker as we fade to black.
"You want some words on my match this week? Alright. You want 'em...you get 'em. Cyrus Daniels. The monster among men. Why am I not surprised you're doing Roberto Verona's dirty work for him? Is it because you've never had a set of morals to sell out? Is it because I've seen you end IWF careers for laughs? Maybe it's because I've been on the receiving end of your particular form of violence more than I'd care to recall. Or maybe it's just that I know Roberto. I don't have to know you to know him, after all, and this...this is exactly the sort of thing I expected out of him.
If he thinks he's the rightful Imperial Champion, he can come down off his Twitter throne and meet me in the ring to prove it. But that's not what he's doing, because that's not the kind of man Roberto Verona is. Instead, he's throwing me into one of the most brutal matches in IWF with one of its most certifiable killers, all before I have to defend the Imperial Championship against a man he's had a love-hate relationship with...and I certainly haven't been any better."
Andrew reaches over, snagging a bottle of water off the bench, and takes a big gulp from the bottle, wiping his mouth as he shakes his head.
"But this week isn't about Ace. This week isn't about Roberto. This is about you, Cyrus. This is about surviving you. I remember what it's like in there with you...you survive Cyrus Daniels, even if you win. I'm two weeks removed from the greatest night of my professional life, and I refuse to let the thing that derails me be yet another walking avatar of everything I fight against. I won't let you win, Cyrus, because I can't let you win. I can't let what you REPRESENT win. Not here, not now, not ever."
Andrew stands up, toweling his forehead off, and leans against the bank of lockers, bracing himself with one of his forearms. He looks down at the floor for a moment before looking over into the camera, eyes laser-focused down the lens.
"I know what I'll have to do to stop you, Cyrus. I know the kind of pain I'll need to inflict, whether it's to get you to stay down for a count of ten or to make you tap. You're a tough, vicious human being, and it's going to take all I've got, maybe more. But I haven't exactly been sitting on a beach sipping mai tais while you've been away. I've been in wars with the hardest man in IWF. I've survived, I've stayed standing...Cyrus, you're dangerous, but you don't scare me. At this point, I'm not sure what will."
He pushes off the locker, hands reaching down and spinning the combination lock off-camera with practiced ease. Andrew unlocks the locker, reaching in and drawing out a duffel bag that he sets on the bench. He cracks his neck, reaching down and unzipping the bag. Right on top sits the IWF Imperial Championship, gleaming in the overhead lights. Andrew looks back at the camera, a half-grin on his face.
"This thing's heavy, Cyrus. Not just the actual belt, but the responsibility it represents. I carry that weight with me every day. When I go into the gym, when I walk through that curtain, when I step into a new city, every time I do so that weight is on my shoulders, keeping me grounded. It reminds me of the expectations everyone has of me. I can't rest on my laurels, now moreso than ever. If that means I need to kick your teeth down your throat before you can cripple me, then I'm ready to do it. The fear you represent is weaker than the power and responsibility this represents. You're a challenge, Cyrus, the first one I've had as champion...and I don't back down from a challenge."
Andrew pulls the belt out of his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He raps the main plate with his knuckle twice, nodding to himself before looking back at the camera.
"You've always preached a gospel of cynicism and hate, Cyrus. Just because you've screwed up your life, that doesn't mean everyone's life is screwed up. And I'm sorry that you're wallowing in your own self-loathing so much that you can't see that truth before you. Because that's the reality of it all. I don't hate you. I don't fear you. I pity you, Cyrus. And maybe I'll hit you hard enough to knock some sense into you. I'm not holding my breath, though. More likely than not, I'll just hit you hard enough to turn your lights out. Either way...you're not stopping me. The North Star will always be here, Cyrus. How about you? See you soon."
Andrew nods to the cameraman, and he turns, scooping up his bag and closing his locker as we fade to black.
Well howdy there pardner.