Post by 𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗬 𝗕𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞 on Jan 2, 2022 14:50:38 GMT -5
 You have to beat the king to be the king. We open to a dark room, a shadowy figure standing in front of a wall of softly glowing television sets. They're on, their screens are just black. The figure has their head down, long hair dangling over their face. One by one, each screen begins bleeding from the top, dripping blood down until the screen is an intense red, casting a crimson hue forward. Corey Black raises his head, his face a crimson mask itself. Blood dripping from his mouth, through his beard. "Many different types of men will struggle to hold the crown of violence. A man of chaos, a bastard and someone who finally freed themselves from society's shackles. Their presence will be a mere afterthought. For they will, one by one, march down to the most marvelous arena of combat. Among them, it's a roll of the dice. Among them.. who really cares? Say the match was between them and only them. Zolton wins and is crowned King of Violence. It's forgotten about until Zolton hangs his hat on the title once a week and then it fades into the ether for six days. Maybe he'll get it tattooed on his back, that would be really chaotic. Perhaps the moniker comes from bouncing around to company after company, not gaining any footing before moving on to the next venture. Dude gets around more than his girlfriend does. Sure, okay, Zolton stuffed everyone's least favorite wrestler Robby Bigg Dick through a table and won a Christmas Deathmatch, he had a shot at the Hardcore title, but the reason I'm going to drop him on his brain is simple; he thinks he belongs where he is. I take offense to that. It's been four months. Running through the undercard and losing a tough title match - you don't tell a man that they're only relevant because they're in the main event with Zolton. That's like telling Kirk Cousins that he's relevant because he is playing Matt Stafford. There's a hierarchy here in Action Wrestling, when I walked through the doors my first act of business was slapping a cocky motherfucker back into reality and I hit him so hard his psyche broke. I'll knock his block off, take the chip from his shoulder and use it to scoop the remaining pieces of Mason Jones off the mat for some good old fashioned bitch nachos. Look, it's great that Mason could finally remove the mask and be who he really is. Years of starring in B movies and Y porns must have really messed with Big Bone over here because he hitched his wagon to the wrong horse. Jayson Price isn't the guy you idealize him to be. He's a gutter-dwelling man-child that stumbles to the ring, takes his lumps, doesn't even try and gets paid for it. That's it' That's his fucking legacy. And that's the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He'd have better chances with Kim Kardashian. At least she'd view his mental instability as a character trait instead of an overbearing flaw. He can't fix Price, as much as he wants to. He was able to heal his own wounds but the ones Jay bears run deep. He's not pretending to be someone he isn't. He's exactly who he says he is and who I say he is. We may not agree on a lot these days but at least we both think he's a pile of shit. I saw you on Twitter trying to run my name through the mud. He's not going to change any minds. He's not going to get into my head and feel bad about letting the only person Jayson has bleed out in front o me. In fact, as far as I am concerned, I'm getting the best version of Price in Mason so when I decapitate that pathetic bitch, I'll mount his head on the wall in front of Jay's. But still behind Holden Ross'. This big fucking idiot. First he's at my heel, asking if I need any backup. Asking if The King needs a court attack dog. He'll be there with his buddy in Grindhouse. Wherever I go for this deathmatch tournament I'm involved in, Holden Ross wants to be there and he wants to have my back. Fine, whatever, I don't need backup but if it makes you feel better, go ahead. But the SECOND it's announced that this four way fuckfest is for a title of King, oh lord, Holden's off the rails. Big man, big Twitter talk, soft ass bitch. Sits at a nudie bar and gets his jollies from throwing out unruly patrons for that sweet, sweet white knight karma. Do you want to know the difference between Holden Ross and Corey Black? Beyond the obvious. When I say I'm going to do something, I will goddamn sure do it. I won't flip flop back and forth whenever the narrative calls for it. I won't kneel before someone and then ready a dagger for their back. I won't have dinner with a salacious succubus either. He doesn't know who I am. Doesn't know my title, doesn't know my life, doesn't know dick all. And that's fine, he's been here for a month and a half and I'm probably just some name on the card or internet to him. But Holden Ross echoes throughout the ages to someone like me. I know his ins, his outs, his weaknesses and his strengths. Whatever he can say to get ahead - he'll say. Whatever he can do to get himself talked about more - he'll do. Whatever gets the most money in his pocket - well, do I even have to say? He's just trying to make daddy proud. Daddy that wasn't there until much later in life after the damage was done. Daddy that couldn't even lace my boots. Holden will forever be in his dad's shadow because his mouth will continually get him into positions like he's in now. When this was announced, whatever, Season Premiere needed ratings and what better way to get those than to guarantee Corey Black runs through three dudes with a fucking broadsword? Now though, I'm going to have to prove a point. I'm going to have to take these three very different but equally oblivious souls and turn them into true believers. True peasants that will kneel at my throne. A throne Holden Ross already swore himself to but rescinded in hopes of getting the clout, money and fame from me. I don't need to do any of that shit he needs. I don't need someone dangling off my nuts that does that. I put up with that shit for years and it's why Mason Jones thinks I'm the bad guy, duh. I'm not bad. I'm not good. I'm just Corey fuckin' Black and that's been good enough for two decades. That's what I'm going to tattoo on these over inked fuccbois' skull with my elbow. I'm going to teach them why I am one of the most sought-after talents in pro wrestling. Why I am ranked number eight in Action Wrestling - which is a pretty lowball number - and why I'm twenty-five in the world - which is even more of a crime. That 'King of Violence' that's about to go in front of my name when I dismantle three of the most underwhelming wrestlers I have ever laid eyes upon? I invented that shit. I THRIVE in that shit. Three hundred and forty four days as Action Wrestling Hardcore Champion. I ran the fuckin' gamut and swept the first ever WCF King of the Deathmatch tournament where I won six matches in seven days. I invented the show that contains only the most violent of affairs. And without me in this match, it's just three dudes fighting for words that will leave their lips, trailing off into nothingness. King of Vio.. len... ce... without the King of All Wrestlers is just another participation trophy given out to those that need success to survive in this business. Should one of them emerge victorious, the words shall hold weight. They can charge forward because yes, they did indeed participate in a contest with the King and were able to walk away with the victory. You can count on one hand the number of people that have done that in the years I have been here. I'll chop off all six hands coming for me before that happens at Clash. I cut my teeth in the ultraviolence. I brought it to this scene. I made the Hardcore Title one of the most prestigious championships in professional wrestling. I'm already the King of Violence. I don't need to beat three guys to win the honor. I'm defending it. And I won't lose it." The screens behind Corey change from their blood red picture to photos of Holden, Zolton and Mason. A few different of each on the mismatched screens that line the wall. Corey turns, wiping the blood from his mouth and beard, whipping his hand toward the wall sending literal sprays into the photos of his opponents. The three biggest screens are in the middle, he takes a few steps forward and places his hand on each man, leaving a bloody hand print that covers their faces. He then turns back around to face the camera, looking down slightly. We pan down to see a small table set up in front of him, a golden crown with barbed wire wrapping around the jewel encrusted tips. Corey grabs it with both hands, leaving his blood marked all over it, before placing it upon his head and smiling a scarlet toothy grin. |
