Post by "The Devourer" Felix Fortain on Dec 1, 2019 19:18:12 GMT -5
Who do you think you are, Alex?
This question isn't rhetorical, though the answer is meaningless regardless. See, this isn't a platform for you to promote yourself. To inflate your importance, to overestimate your ability. This is a curiosity. This is a formality. This is a confession.
In truth, I don't understand you, Alex. The others, I could read like open books. From Malachi White to Voss Holt to all the other nonfactors between him and my Devourer. But you, I look at and draw a blank. This isn't a credit to you, Alex. This isn't an admission of confusion. I'm not so in awe of you, so befuddled by the enigmatic inner workings of your mind that I just can't formulate a conclusion.
This is a flat statement: Alex Scott is nothing. Alex Scott is everything. Alex Scott is so utterly devoid of form or shape that his very presence is a pradoxical illusion, an exercise in paper-thin veneers and even-numbered dimensionality. A black hole of intrigue, two hundred pounds of absolutely nothing stuffed into a six foot, one inch frame. And that's the part that is absolutely fascinating.
So I ask, again: who do you think you are, Alex? Not because the answer matters, or that I'm even interested in hearing it. I just want to know if you have an answer at all. Because as I look you over, I actively wonder if you truly exist.
What are you?
What is your drive, your flame, your spark? What pushes you into this world, what gives you the right to step into the ring with my Parasite and even pretend like you're legitimate competition. Note what I said: I didn't call you a challenger. I didn't imply you were on his level. I'm not even convinced you'll put up a fight. What do you hope to gain from narrowly escaping Felix's clutches with your health largely intact? Is it really just the fame and fortune? Are you really one to chase the glittering lights and flashing cameras, because it's apparent they don't chase you?
You, with your inability to win a room, with your bland, forgettable presence and inflated sense of self-importance? What's your plan? Cling onto one of the little trinkets and ride it into a post-wrestling gig of appearing in commercials for insurance companies? To go as far as your talent drags you until your knee gives out from all the stress your high-flying style puts on it? To go out not with a bang, but with a low, barely audible whimper?
What's your endgame?
Is it to collect as many of those shiny hunks of metal and leather as you can, to let that external validation prove your worth as you fail to gain recognition at any level, no doubt confused amongst the sea of carbon copies that surround you? To carve out a niche among the bland and boring everymen who value pure workrate over all else?
How disappointing. For you and I.
See, Alex. I'm afraid to tell you it isn't going to work out like that. Your uninspired fantasies and unpenetrable blandness won't stop the inevitable. Do you want me to tell you your future?
You're going to stand face to face with theDead God Felix Fortain on Monday night. You are going to puff out your chest and preen like the paper tiger you want so desperately to be. And then the Devourer will tear you asunder. No preamble. No narrative arc. No climax or anti-climax, just a thousand clubbing blows raining down from the sky, dark enough to blot out the sun. And when it's all over, the Devourer will stand over you and live up to his namesake. He will you strip you clean to the bone and absorb every drop of sustenance that your cursed vitae holds.
Because here's the tragedy, Alex.
This isn't a condemnation of your abilities. If there was nothing to be gained from you, Felix would not even bother. No, this is simply reality crashing down upon you. And in reality, all those questions I asked do not matter in the slightest.
Those were for me. So I could poke and prod around in your skull, find out what makes you tick. For myself. In reality, everyone else around you sees you the way you present yourself. And they respond in kind: cold indifference. Faint acknowledgement of your abilities, but that's all.
In reality, you'll put up a fight. I know you will. You and your ilk are too stubborn not to. There's something about moral victories that cause people like you to pour out of the woodwork, like moths to a flame. And then, you get swatted.
Hit him with your best shot, Alex. Just don't be surprised when he takes it, full force, and doesn't even flinch. That's just what happens.
And when he does what he's going to do to you, you'll be changed irrevocably as well. Not just physically, this goes far beyond broken bones and torn ligaments. Your perception will change as well. Well, the perception of others, I guess. Those people whose admiration, whose desire, whose attention you crave, will rally around you. They'll see you try your hardest in a doomed fight and they will respect you. They will praise you. They will admire you. And even when it's over and you're a cadaver in the middle of the ring, applause greet you if you are capable of walking up the ramp. You will be a symbol for honorable struggle. For raging against the dying of the light.
They will love you, Alex. For once in your rotten life, they will love you.
How does it feel, Alex? To be a dead man walking. To not even know what you are. That as the hour draws nearer and nearer, only one horrible truth becomes increasingly clear.
That if you really think about it, the bloodbath you're walking into with your head held high and your ego bigger than the elephant in the room, is the best thing that could have ever happened to you.
That's what you are, Alex.
Lucky.
This question isn't rhetorical, though the answer is meaningless regardless. See, this isn't a platform for you to promote yourself. To inflate your importance, to overestimate your ability. This is a curiosity. This is a formality. This is a confession.
In truth, I don't understand you, Alex. The others, I could read like open books. From Malachi White to Voss Holt to all the other nonfactors between him and my Devourer. But you, I look at and draw a blank. This isn't a credit to you, Alex. This isn't an admission of confusion. I'm not so in awe of you, so befuddled by the enigmatic inner workings of your mind that I just can't formulate a conclusion.
This is a flat statement: Alex Scott is nothing. Alex Scott is everything. Alex Scott is so utterly devoid of form or shape that his very presence is a pradoxical illusion, an exercise in paper-thin veneers and even-numbered dimensionality. A black hole of intrigue, two hundred pounds of absolutely nothing stuffed into a six foot, one inch frame. And that's the part that is absolutely fascinating.
So I ask, again: who do you think you are, Alex? Not because the answer matters, or that I'm even interested in hearing it. I just want to know if you have an answer at all. Because as I look you over, I actively wonder if you truly exist.
What are you?
What is your drive, your flame, your spark? What pushes you into this world, what gives you the right to step into the ring with my Parasite and even pretend like you're legitimate competition. Note what I said: I didn't call you a challenger. I didn't imply you were on his level. I'm not even convinced you'll put up a fight. What do you hope to gain from narrowly escaping Felix's clutches with your health largely intact? Is it really just the fame and fortune? Are you really one to chase the glittering lights and flashing cameras, because it's apparent they don't chase you?
You, with your inability to win a room, with your bland, forgettable presence and inflated sense of self-importance? What's your plan? Cling onto one of the little trinkets and ride it into a post-wrestling gig of appearing in commercials for insurance companies? To go as far as your talent drags you until your knee gives out from all the stress your high-flying style puts on it? To go out not with a bang, but with a low, barely audible whimper?
What's your endgame?
Is it to collect as many of those shiny hunks of metal and leather as you can, to let that external validation prove your worth as you fail to gain recognition at any level, no doubt confused amongst the sea of carbon copies that surround you? To carve out a niche among the bland and boring everymen who value pure workrate over all else?
How disappointing. For you and I.
See, Alex. I'm afraid to tell you it isn't going to work out like that. Your uninspired fantasies and unpenetrable blandness won't stop the inevitable. Do you want me to tell you your future?
You're going to stand face to face with the
Because here's the tragedy, Alex.
This isn't a condemnation of your abilities. If there was nothing to be gained from you, Felix would not even bother. No, this is simply reality crashing down upon you. And in reality, all those questions I asked do not matter in the slightest.
Those were for me. So I could poke and prod around in your skull, find out what makes you tick. For myself. In reality, everyone else around you sees you the way you present yourself. And they respond in kind: cold indifference. Faint acknowledgement of your abilities, but that's all.
In reality, you'll put up a fight. I know you will. You and your ilk are too stubborn not to. There's something about moral victories that cause people like you to pour out of the woodwork, like moths to a flame. And then, you get swatted.
Hit him with your best shot, Alex. Just don't be surprised when he takes it, full force, and doesn't even flinch. That's just what happens.
And when he does what he's going to do to you, you'll be changed irrevocably as well. Not just physically, this goes far beyond broken bones and torn ligaments. Your perception will change as well. Well, the perception of others, I guess. Those people whose admiration, whose desire, whose attention you crave, will rally around you. They'll see you try your hardest in a doomed fight and they will respect you. They will praise you. They will admire you. And even when it's over and you're a cadaver in the middle of the ring, applause greet you if you are capable of walking up the ramp. You will be a symbol for honorable struggle. For raging against the dying of the light.
They will love you, Alex. For once in your rotten life, they will love you.
How does it feel, Alex? To be a dead man walking. To not even know what you are. That as the hour draws nearer and nearer, only one horrible truth becomes increasingly clear.
That if you really think about it, the bloodbath you're walking into with your head held high and your ego bigger than the elephant in the room, is the best thing that could have ever happened to you.
That's what you are, Alex.
Lucky.