Post by Odin Balfore on Oct 22, 2022 23:13:26 GMT -5
PAINKILLER PT. 1
US TITLE CONTENDERSHIP
VS TONY SAVAGE VS ALISTER MCKISISK
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CHAPTER I: PAINKILLER
We open to a wide shot of Odins field between the main house and the barn. We can gear the heavy thuds of fists against a heavy bag. We view shifts and turns across the field to see Odin in the barn working the heavy bag with lightly taped fists. Tape too loose to do its job as it should; breaking its agreement with those violent hands. The strikes were successful and landed hard. Odin was putting together some good combinations until one impact was too much. Then the other. Each hand, one after the after folded and popped against the bag. We can see Odin tense up, lurching forward instinctively tries to shake the pain from his hands. He attempts to use one to readjust and reset the other but the pain shoots through his body.
We watch as Odin slowly walks out of the barn, guarding both hands against his stomach. We watch as he crosses the field with a scowl on his face. He marches back inside the main house all the way back to the kitchen counter where he last put those pills. He reaches outa bloody, swollen, and shaking hand. He manages to grip the bottle with an eagle claw and uses his teeth to pop the lid off the bottle but before he can swallow a mouthful, his chest begins to pound.
His ears begin to swell. The pounding gets louder and louder. It becomes more audible as it is no longer within Odin's chest.
No.
Not his chest but under the floorboards of the living room.
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CHAPTER II: F A T E_B R E A K E R
In the pit of some dark and frozen Hell, only lit by the wandering souls that scatter the landscape. They each take a few steps before shrinking down into a luminous ball with rays of light shooting out in all directions. The Hellscape comes into full view. Still dark and still frozen. We finally see Odin standing in front of a stone and iron gate. Beyond it a staircase extends up to the heavens.
Tony, this place looks familiar to you, fam. Yah, this is that Gate that everyone seems to think that I keep. Every midcard talent that steps between those ropes with me all have the same notion that I’m just here golding a fucking door open like a fucking bagman, yet you and Alister couldn't carry my bags, man. But hey, man I heard that there ain't no bags on the other side of the gate, man. No luggage fees on that stairway to heaven. Just crystal clear views to the top, man. Now, that's the fucking bag, man. What I find humorous is that everyone who told me, insinuated to me, suggested, and prodded that I’m the keeper of the gate to bigger and better things, all seem to be doing the same old mid-carder things. I’m sure that's derogatory nowadays but you scrubs are all just good enough’ seem to have a lot of opinions about the guy that's built that stairway to heaven just to have each and every one of you spit in my face and then refuse to ride. You all look at me, look at that, and then decide that it's not worth the ride. I’ve raised and razed countless companies all over this world and yet to see another man like me. Nah, boys, I don’t fucking gatekeep. Ya’ll are free to walk through this shit at any time you wish. The reason why you don't is that you know A steel-eyed devil awaits you on the other side.
I'm a legbreaker. Heart breaker. Fate breaker.
Both my hands are broken and I’m still in here pullin’ down fuckin’ checks and murkin fuccbois left and right and I aint forgotten our last meeting in April. Gods, Monsters, Villains. Savage, Alister, you two fight to better yourselves in the eyes of the contemporary, temporaries. I’m out here outlasting eight hundred people. I’ll outlast eight hundred more and neither of you will register a blip on any radars. This is the peak of your fame and I suggest that you revel in it. King Shit. I was handmade for this shit. Crafted and stitched together by ancient Elder Gods while you both were pulled from the Earth. Pig Shit.
You want a US title, it’s right up there. All you gotta do is walk through that door. Just like every other mid-talent bum that walk this hellscape looking for that chance to shine. Even Lissie Hope is down here and she's got two world titles to her name and some cis genger, trans-exclusionary ‘HER-STORY’ bullshit going on. You boys and countless others, down here, continuously slurping up Old Dirty Balfore sloppy seconds. They, just like you - can never escape it.
I get it. I get it a lot in my career. Some dork with a spray tan and a dollar store Boo-Ghatti spoutin off their cock sucker on a house show pre-tape telling the free world how they’re sick and tired of how nothing in wrestling can exist without these broken, violent hands touching it. That's I always gonna be in control. Well, you know something, you collective Einsteins; they're right.
Nothing exists in this industry as a whole, world-wide entire collective without me. My hands have touched every facet of this business. From the Lexicon, to the way people shoot - to the mindless dork-snot drivvel that walk through the doors ready to beat the world yet can't walk through a fuckin’ gate because no matter what you tell yourselves or on a fucking pre-tape, ya’ll don't want to put in the fucking work because you know after a quarter-fucking-century, Old Dirty Balfore still be putting in the fucking work.
And that ain’t a fuckin work.
I’ve ended more careers than insider trading, because I’m still inside fucking training. You wish in twenty-five years you had a third of my heart, soul, and ol’ dirty charisma but instead, you’ll each be on the indies, flippin pizza dough and getting pinned by German fuckin’ Shepards. Yet still you’ll be pro-spire-in and sufferin from famine. You boys still got ya fuckin teeth and neither one of you can fuckin bite no matter how much of that dog you think you got in you.
So let's go. Step through the fuckin gate that I aint guardin and go get yourself a US title. Instead of going up the stairs, you’ll just slip through the cracks and go out the back just like everyone else. Gerad Angelo is the “Worlds Champion” and I fucking Gah-rhan-damn-tee that he’ll be back right, right where you’re standing in three months, tellin the world the same god damned thing that you’re telling me now. Talkin bout how you used to be a champion. How you used to be important - a single somebody with something to say.
Look me in the fucking eyes, boys, when you lie to me. Be fuckin men about it. Then die fucking mad about it. I’m collecting jobber souls who aint got the stones like Thanos up in this bitch.
I’m the very thing this business is and everything you want to avoid. I’m the fucking Fate Breaker. The Villain of the Story.
The TRUTH in the LIE.
Trust me boys, it’s worse to have to go home, lookin into your own souls, knowing that the best you got still cant top the worse days that I’ve seen. I’ve got a Heaven-to-go claim. Belts to collect and souls to capture. This week, I get to Break the Fate of two Jobbers who think all around the around in 2022 means a Gawd Damned Thing. Here's your chance boys. You’re only chance while I know, I’ll have a thousand more. Theres a reason I’m in a title match every other week. It's because everyone who claims to be somebody, reps a falsehood. Nobody in this industry is anybody until I MAKE THEM.
This Week. The FATE BREAKER will MAKE YOU FAMOUS.
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CHAPTER III: PROUD FATHER
We come to in a haze of our design. Our ears ring accompanied by blurry vision. The body aches with stiff joints. Odin wakes up on a dusty forgotten couch in the living room. Looking around, he can see the door is wide open with a steady breeze blowing through the curtains and open window that tracked layers of dust onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye sits on a folding chair next to him with a bowed head and clasped hands is a shadow. A shape. THE SHAPE.
Vincent. Buddy. Roman (Proud Father)
The Shape looks up at Odin, eyes red, stinging with salty tears that streak, drying down his face. With a quiver and a gulp he retrieves the words from his stomach.
“Oh, my son. You’re back.” Says The Shape, wrapping his arms around Odin's neck and leaning in for the tightest and proudest of fatherly hugs. The words
[ Y O U’ R E_ B ACK ] hung with rosy optimism. Elevated on elated alleviation.
“I thought I lost you.” Whispered the Shape. [ l o s t_ y o u ] Those words vanished like smoke in the sky.
Odin's head wasn't right. It wasn't clear. He was nauseous and tense. All he could get out was a confused and feebled “wha?” that was quickly washed over the gentle shooshing of a proud father who guided Odins head back down to the arm of the back.
“You, you were sick, my son. You, you are sick; my son. You need your rest. Brave sons need their rest." [ b r a v e ]
“Did I O.D?” Asks Odin in a weak voice.
“Overdose; not quite.” The Shape reassures. “ Bad drugs, possibly. However, drugs are like kids. There are no bad kids. At least, not children of mine- no.”
“My Hands,” Odin questions, flexing the instrumentation of violence.
The Shape looks down at Odin's hands, which look better than they did. His eyes widen and water again.
“Better.” Replies the Shape. “They look better. Don’t worry about them. They can take care of themselves. It’s you, my son, that I worry for.”
“Why?” Asks Odin, barely getting the three-letter word out that has so much more meaning and power than three simple letters.
“Because,” starts the Shape matter-of-factly. “I have a fondness for cripples, bastards and broken things.”
“Did - did you get that from Gayme - “
“No son.” interrupts the Shape with a soft reassuring voice. “They got it from me. Do not worry about the why. [ w h y ]. You just worry about getting better [ b e t t e r ]. It will be alright. Just … trust me.”
[ T R U S T_M E ]
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CHAPTER IV: THE UNINVITED GUEST
The wind swung the door open. An alarm too silent to hear. The floor mat said “welcome” and that's all the invitation needed. The Shape slithers inside with pudgy strides of creeping tip toes. The dapping of fingers totgether as they strum a melody of mischievous intent. He spies the floorboard askew, lifted, and pried from its place. A large plastic ziplock bag the size of a softball is bent over like a dying man - a mimic of the dying man on the couch just a few feet away. The shape is cautious and silent as a shadow with the fluidity to match. He reaches down and tests a sampling. Samples a testing. The tiniest of touches on the powder and gentle prodding of the tongue. A sniff, a wah-awff-ting whiff of that full-bodied, full-bosomed air. His neck cracks as it jerks left and sees an unconscious All-Father. The son that the Shape never had. The All-Father, with a shallow heaving chest and hands all purple and bloody, bent inward and at weird angles against his chest. The Shape looked on with sickening thoughts. Then pulled up a chair and continued to think..
Those sickening thoughts melted into pity. A pitiful thought, that sickened the brain that had thunk it. A pitiful thought that caused the Shape to weep the salt-watery wept that swept across his proud fatherly face. The Shape k-k-k-lasped his hands together. Hung his bobbling head and did as any and all proud fathers would for their brave, brave sons.
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CHAPTER V: I’M SORRY, MY SONS [ S O N S ]
“I’m sorry, my sons. [ m y_s o n s ] I fear that your brother is on a clear and undeterrable track. Young Tony. Young Alister. So handsome. So brave. I do not envy you. I do not envy the tiring task before you nor the heavy burden that you must endure. Trust you, you will endure it. You may even survive it but you will forever be changed. For you think in your foolish naive ways that this is something to overcome as you’ve done in the past yet here I, a proud father - your proud father- to tell you that the past is the past and as much as you wish it if wishes were fishes, this would not be your last proverbial supper.
You both will starve this week on Clash. Starve in opportunity. No matter how much you sup and lick your gross, disgusting little fingers, it’ll never be enough for you two to have no idea how much is truly on your plate this week.
Boys, I would beg of you if I could but a proud father can not do such things. I cannot force either one of you. A proud father can only guide my children, my sweet, innocent children, I am most certainly guiding you away.
Away from a man who wants nothing more than to obtain ancestral freedom and adoration. A man who wants nothing more than to claim championship after championship. Those violent hands are coming for you. Those fleshly tendrils will find their way around your respective throats and they will punish you.
A United States Championship is not worth it. Not for you, my special little boys. My brave boys who look so much like their mother that it brings a tear to my eye when I see her reflected in your glowing faces. For I fear something greater, something darker, something DANKER lurks beneath. Believe me, boys, when I tell you, word on your beautiful mother's angelic soul, I wished those violent hands were still broken. I wish you could be spared from them.
I’m sorry, my sons [ s o n s ]
A proud father has failed you just as you have failed yourselves. Welcome to the NEW AMERICA, boys. Land of opportunity. An opportunity that you pissed away with the foolish notions that you could defeat this Ol’ Dirty Balfore.
Fueled by pills, drugs, lust, pride, ego, and ecstasy for gold.
A real Americans, American Dream. Ol’ Dirtys America. And you boys are just another statistic. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure to make a GoFundMe and print up some “in loving memory” T-shirts made by a nine-year-old in Taiwan..
Then in a week, the world will forget about the both of you as Action Wrestling moves on to its next tragedy. My beautiful daughter, Jillian Elizabeth Park.
Now my sons. I want you to place your hands over your hearts and with a loud, clear voice so that Ol Dirty himself can hear you all the way down there in Hel..
CONQUER.THE.HATE
