Post by Downfall on Oct 30, 2022 16:30:17 GMT -5
The camera is focused in tightly on the diamond links of chain-link. In such close up, the wavering camera shot playing over them in the dim light gives the walls of what would be a cage, or a housing, a vantablack darkness that swallows the light, making them look like cutouts of night, ending at the bottom with twisted, barbed fangs. Behind the cage, as the camera focuses in, dim lighting catches movement, and finally, a low chuckle sounds from off-camera, and the shot pulls over and shows Downfall standing just behind the cage, his fingers poked through four of the holes and hanging on to the side of this one cell wall, with an easy smile, yet one that drips shallowly contained menace. His eyes pierce the camera but his grin spreads across his face, the venom dripping from his metaphorical fangs already.
Downfall: I had to admit, I missed this.
He says, voice low with amusement.
Downfall: There's something that came from back and forth engagement with one or two overly confident mouth-breathers that spend all week chucking rocks at me, and taking the time to patently and logically shut their dumbshit down. It's something I've missed. It doesn't... quite rise to the level of intellectual stimulation, any more than you'd get asking for a toddler to give you a book report about Kierkegaard, but it's so... damned funny watching a Jessie Lee or a Corey Black trip themselves and end up hanging on their own words that it gives me a feeling of invigoration I haven't had in some time. It only makes me sadder then, that they were the only two that actually tried to present a logistical challenge to me, but I guess Masuda was too busy with his restaurants, or his career-threatening concussions, or whatever idiotic excuse he had for only agreeing to be in this match if he could screw Stephen Singh, and I assume Stephen Singh was too busy putting on his Finet mask with a gimp gag in his mouth as he gets bent over a table to speak, for the third week in a row. Our champion, ladies and gentlemen. Singh Szn in full, dire effect. But of the ones that deigned to speak about it, and show, at least in a micro, that this match means a damn thing to them, there were still words passed that needed to be addressed. And since, once I do claim the Hardcore championship and walk out of it, it'll be a cold god damn day in hell before Jessie Lee. Before John Black. Before Masuda, Stephen, Robbie fucking Small Dick, Holden Ross or any of the pissants who've somehow, all received multiple shots at the Hardcore Championship in this calendar year even get a sniffing distance of it... I'll take my last shot, the only shot that I, personally, am going to count, to correct those thinking errors and let it be so that Jessie, and Corey, don't get to walk out of this with one iota of unearned satisfaction. They don't get to hold their heads up high, and fool themselves they did a good job here, or that they stuck a landing, or... even came up with an original point.
Craning his head up, he looks at an unseen source of light.
Downfall: To that end, Jessie, did you not hear a god damn word I'd said?
He snorts, derisively.
Downfall: I don't want you to answer that with one of your gibberish-mouthed Australian "brutality" promises, in point of fact I don't ever want you to open your fucking gob again. As I said: You're fucking bad at this. Don't you snarkily come down and try to sulk away from this with a "Do what you promise you're going to do" as an endline, you didn't comprehend a single word I said in the entire week, and the only nugget you picked out of it was that I called you - for what you are, a cancerous rot that wastes the potential of the Action Wrestling Hardcore Title - because the problems your mouth creates are two-fold again, all you do week to week is spill out the equivalent of verbal diarrhetic coming out of your mouth; while going into it, well... must be an exhaustive amount of cunnilingus, because that is the only method I can ever see as a reasoning for you getting no less than three shots at the Hardcore Championship this year despite earning nothing. You won nothing. You have accomplished nothing. Your only mark in this fed is being the first one to win a Women's Championship that's such an after-thought, Jill Park is using it as an accessory to carry with her clutch, and even that you fucked up and held less time than it takes to make a cup of coffee. There is no world where you ever, ever, ever have deserved MULTIPLE shots at the Hardcore Title, and that's the entire point that whiffed over your empty head in that teenagerish, embarrassing tirade that may as well have been waving a white flag of defeat. You were awarded shots I never was. I'm not "coming back to this division like an absentee father" that let it sink down into the depths of YOU being given opportunities, I actually asked multiple times, being respectful at first, giving Masuda his due all the while gently reminding him that I want a match with him any time, anywhere. But that match couldn't happen. Because, for some reason, it was so much more important that you get, and blow, your third shot in a row. Shut the fuck up, Jessie. Do not test me again, or I'll lower myself down into the multiple gutters it would take to stoop down to your level and fucking destroy you.
He tilts his head down, growing more serious, his demeanor colder, as he leans his forehead into the steel chain links, pressing against his flesh with such force that they push into the skin.
Downfall: And then the King in Black. Deathproof. The Human Horror Show.
His eyes flash as he looks up.
Downfall: The man so full of shit that Dominion Power is experimenting on the energy output of his manure to power wind turbines. The man who'd have everyone believe simultaneously, that he came back specifically to face me, because he knows me intimately and knows every trick to get inside my head, and yet is so out of ideas that he actually thinks graphics and videos playing over a fucking Tron is punking me out... that me standing in the ring, staring at him was filling with fright... when the announcers both were losing their minds at the merest interaction and both of them noting that I didn't back down. Why the fuck would I be scared of you, Corey? Why would your coming out to me and getting in my face fill me with fear, when I had just finished putting Johnny Bacchus down so hard that he was forced to step away and become Lissie's cheerleader in the cheap seats? Why would you promising that YOU WERE MY DOWNFALL with a shitty ass photoshop job an eighth grader would be embarrassed up flashing on the tron scare me? Worry me? Corey... You, too, need a humbling lesson in being shut down, because your second jibe was just as much of a white flag as Jessie's.
He laughs, darkly.
Downfall: So which is it, Corey? You came back specifically to fight me, or I'm not worth your time? I wasn't worth AW management's time to put in Hardcore Title matches, because they don't think I'm tough enough... Ooh, wait, they've put me in multiple ladder matches, and crowbar matches, and no holds barred matches, but they never put me in this division you claim was built around you and your brand of bloodthirst. I'm worth you stepping away from whatever game of footsie you're off playing with James Raven out there outside of AW, but I'm not worth the main event spotlight because I've spent this whole year being cute with Dionysus and taking part in a loser tag team... Which is it? How can it be both? Or...
His voice is a masterclass of sardonic, venomous playacting, childlike wonder and questioning played straight even as the question he's asking of the ether and the misguided King of Bleck are so obviously stupid to him.
Downfall: Could it be that Corey Black has no idea what he's talking about? Has he even paid enough attention to anything going on in AW to know that that tag team he believes is just a waste of my skills and a step down, was actually the longest reign in AW history, and we overcame challenges that no one, not even the Man Made Gods were able to achieve? No, that couldn't be it, I mean... sure Corey Black is super busy taking on Chris Page in Cannibis Cups and everything, but he wouldn't be so out of touch that he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about and just filling the air with empty shoot... right?
Again, that withering, disdainful, why am I subjected to this absolute dreck shake of the head.
Downfall: Because if you want me to be honest, Corey, you came at it both ways. That you did come back specifically for me, your words, but also that I wasn't worth your time. That I wasn't worth this division you spent so long creating and defining. That I'd be torn to pieces if I had ever stepped foot in there with you, and that you're back to restore the Hardcore division to that level of competition; Which there, is not only the biggest slap in the face, but shows you have absolutely no fucking clue what you're talking about. You once did such a level of research on me that you gleaned that the Godkiller used to be called the Dragonslayer once, and yet you actually think that I'd fall apart the instant I danced with you? That's below even Jessie Lee levels of retarded, delusional and pathetic there. I'd expect so much better from the paramour of the legend who just dropped Midnights. You're wrong, Corey. You're wrong on every single, solitary level about me, about what I've been doing with my year and my fitness to stand in the ring with you... and this is my one shot... - My ONE shot, Jessie Lee, not my third, or fourth, or fifth - to show it and I will not blow that. Corey, all you've done is fill the air with empty, meaningless blather. Pointless promises about elbows down throats, paragraph after paragraph extolling the decades long legacy of Corey Black, Deathproof. You've basically went full Odin Balfore mode. Never go full Balfore, Corey. It's embarrassing.
Reaching up, he has both hands through the cage now, gripping it tight. He looks into the camera, intently.
Downfall: Don't insult me by pretending you know this, Corey... you and I weren't peers, we travelled opposite ends of the country in our twenties and competed in other parts of the world but we are still in the same mold... I am so much more than you've ever given me credit for. You've had to jump me from behind and batter me with chairs to put me down and yet here I am, still standing. I've done more, accomplished more, fought harder and risen again time after time, and I've been battered into near submission by men who, alongside me, redefined what being Hardcore means when half of these idiots were still watching Jay Jay the Jetplane. Names like Rage. Like Boca Del Inferno. Like Bakuryu. Like Trevor Adams. Like Warpath. Like Trent Gein. Like Cyren. I've spilled so much blood, and broken so many men's bones... and it was my idea to lock two men inside of a cell with every weapon they could find, wrap the doors in barbed wire and tell them to fight until one man couldn't get up any more. My legacy, IS the Hardcore division, and I'm going to break your fucking jaw for suggesting even in passing that I wouldn't make it in your day. For you believing that I am somehow both worth, and not worth your time. For you believing that all I've done with my entire year can be written off with a single pithy line about tagging with Dionysus when I haven't even tagged in months, I've been too busy collecting blood for the Red Cross out of Johnny Bacchus' eyes. You know absolutely nothing, and you're going to be forced to eat the humblest of humble fucking pie. When that nothing you swore, unimaginatively, was his Downfall rises up and smashes you. When that tag team performer, who you couldn't even be bothered to come at with a single original line of thought, superkicks your teeth down your throat. When you're locked into what is functionally my element, and you look around at the other bodies of Singh, Masuda, Robbie, Jessie and every one who's stepped up before I save you for last... and see that it's you who isn't fit to stand in my ring. Who is going to be YOUR fucking downfall. Go ahead and get Taylor to write that one up for you on your way back to the fjords, bitch.
The camera zooms in close again, through the vantablack, rigid links of the cell, and his eyes appear in two of them, staring out.
Downfall: Because if this is the last shot I take at this, I'm going to make sure it's the only one I need to take.
Downfall: I had to admit, I missed this.
He says, voice low with amusement.
Downfall: There's something that came from back and forth engagement with one or two overly confident mouth-breathers that spend all week chucking rocks at me, and taking the time to patently and logically shut their dumbshit down. It's something I've missed. It doesn't... quite rise to the level of intellectual stimulation, any more than you'd get asking for a toddler to give you a book report about Kierkegaard, but it's so... damned funny watching a Jessie Lee or a Corey Black trip themselves and end up hanging on their own words that it gives me a feeling of invigoration I haven't had in some time. It only makes me sadder then, that they were the only two that actually tried to present a logistical challenge to me, but I guess Masuda was too busy with his restaurants, or his career-threatening concussions, or whatever idiotic excuse he had for only agreeing to be in this match if he could screw Stephen Singh, and I assume Stephen Singh was too busy putting on his Finet mask with a gimp gag in his mouth as he gets bent over a table to speak, for the third week in a row. Our champion, ladies and gentlemen. Singh Szn in full, dire effect. But of the ones that deigned to speak about it, and show, at least in a micro, that this match means a damn thing to them, there were still words passed that needed to be addressed. And since, once I do claim the Hardcore championship and walk out of it, it'll be a cold god damn day in hell before Jessie Lee. Before John Black. Before Masuda, Stephen, Robbie fucking Small Dick, Holden Ross or any of the pissants who've somehow, all received multiple shots at the Hardcore Championship in this calendar year even get a sniffing distance of it... I'll take my last shot, the only shot that I, personally, am going to count, to correct those thinking errors and let it be so that Jessie, and Corey, don't get to walk out of this with one iota of unearned satisfaction. They don't get to hold their heads up high, and fool themselves they did a good job here, or that they stuck a landing, or... even came up with an original point.
Craning his head up, he looks at an unseen source of light.
Downfall: To that end, Jessie, did you not hear a god damn word I'd said?
He snorts, derisively.
Downfall: I don't want you to answer that with one of your gibberish-mouthed Australian "brutality" promises, in point of fact I don't ever want you to open your fucking gob again. As I said: You're fucking bad at this. Don't you snarkily come down and try to sulk away from this with a "Do what you promise you're going to do" as an endline, you didn't comprehend a single word I said in the entire week, and the only nugget you picked out of it was that I called you - for what you are, a cancerous rot that wastes the potential of the Action Wrestling Hardcore Title - because the problems your mouth creates are two-fold again, all you do week to week is spill out the equivalent of verbal diarrhetic coming out of your mouth; while going into it, well... must be an exhaustive amount of cunnilingus, because that is the only method I can ever see as a reasoning for you getting no less than three shots at the Hardcore Championship this year despite earning nothing. You won nothing. You have accomplished nothing. Your only mark in this fed is being the first one to win a Women's Championship that's such an after-thought, Jill Park is using it as an accessory to carry with her clutch, and even that you fucked up and held less time than it takes to make a cup of coffee. There is no world where you ever, ever, ever have deserved MULTIPLE shots at the Hardcore Title, and that's the entire point that whiffed over your empty head in that teenagerish, embarrassing tirade that may as well have been waving a white flag of defeat. You were awarded shots I never was. I'm not "coming back to this division like an absentee father" that let it sink down into the depths of YOU being given opportunities, I actually asked multiple times, being respectful at first, giving Masuda his due all the while gently reminding him that I want a match with him any time, anywhere. But that match couldn't happen. Because, for some reason, it was so much more important that you get, and blow, your third shot in a row. Shut the fuck up, Jessie. Do not test me again, or I'll lower myself down into the multiple gutters it would take to stoop down to your level and fucking destroy you.
He tilts his head down, growing more serious, his demeanor colder, as he leans his forehead into the steel chain links, pressing against his flesh with such force that they push into the skin.
Downfall: And then the King in Black. Deathproof. The Human Horror Show.
His eyes flash as he looks up.
Downfall: The man so full of shit that Dominion Power is experimenting on the energy output of his manure to power wind turbines. The man who'd have everyone believe simultaneously, that he came back specifically to face me, because he knows me intimately and knows every trick to get inside my head, and yet is so out of ideas that he actually thinks graphics and videos playing over a fucking Tron is punking me out... that me standing in the ring, staring at him was filling with fright... when the announcers both were losing their minds at the merest interaction and both of them noting that I didn't back down. Why the fuck would I be scared of you, Corey? Why would your coming out to me and getting in my face fill me with fear, when I had just finished putting Johnny Bacchus down so hard that he was forced to step away and become Lissie's cheerleader in the cheap seats? Why would you promising that YOU WERE MY DOWNFALL with a shitty ass photoshop job an eighth grader would be embarrassed up flashing on the tron scare me? Worry me? Corey... You, too, need a humbling lesson in being shut down, because your second jibe was just as much of a white flag as Jessie's.
He laughs, darkly.
Downfall: So which is it, Corey? You came back specifically to fight me, or I'm not worth your time? I wasn't worth AW management's time to put in Hardcore Title matches, because they don't think I'm tough enough... Ooh, wait, they've put me in multiple ladder matches, and crowbar matches, and no holds barred matches, but they never put me in this division you claim was built around you and your brand of bloodthirst. I'm worth you stepping away from whatever game of footsie you're off playing with James Raven out there outside of AW, but I'm not worth the main event spotlight because I've spent this whole year being cute with Dionysus and taking part in a loser tag team... Which is it? How can it be both? Or...
His voice is a masterclass of sardonic, venomous playacting, childlike wonder and questioning played straight even as the question he's asking of the ether and the misguided King of Bleck are so obviously stupid to him.
Downfall: Could it be that Corey Black has no idea what he's talking about? Has he even paid enough attention to anything going on in AW to know that that tag team he believes is just a waste of my skills and a step down, was actually the longest reign in AW history, and we overcame challenges that no one, not even the Man Made Gods were able to achieve? No, that couldn't be it, I mean... sure Corey Black is super busy taking on Chris Page in Cannibis Cups and everything, but he wouldn't be so out of touch that he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about and just filling the air with empty shoot... right?
Again, that withering, disdainful, why am I subjected to this absolute dreck shake of the head.
Downfall: Because if you want me to be honest, Corey, you came at it both ways. That you did come back specifically for me, your words, but also that I wasn't worth your time. That I wasn't worth this division you spent so long creating and defining. That I'd be torn to pieces if I had ever stepped foot in there with you, and that you're back to restore the Hardcore division to that level of competition; Which there, is not only the biggest slap in the face, but shows you have absolutely no fucking clue what you're talking about. You once did such a level of research on me that you gleaned that the Godkiller used to be called the Dragonslayer once, and yet you actually think that I'd fall apart the instant I danced with you? That's below even Jessie Lee levels of retarded, delusional and pathetic there. I'd expect so much better from the paramour of the legend who just dropped Midnights. You're wrong, Corey. You're wrong on every single, solitary level about me, about what I've been doing with my year and my fitness to stand in the ring with you... and this is my one shot... - My ONE shot, Jessie Lee, not my third, or fourth, or fifth - to show it and I will not blow that. Corey, all you've done is fill the air with empty, meaningless blather. Pointless promises about elbows down throats, paragraph after paragraph extolling the decades long legacy of Corey Black, Deathproof. You've basically went full Odin Balfore mode. Never go full Balfore, Corey. It's embarrassing.
Reaching up, he has both hands through the cage now, gripping it tight. He looks into the camera, intently.
Downfall: Don't insult me by pretending you know this, Corey... you and I weren't peers, we travelled opposite ends of the country in our twenties and competed in other parts of the world but we are still in the same mold... I am so much more than you've ever given me credit for. You've had to jump me from behind and batter me with chairs to put me down and yet here I am, still standing. I've done more, accomplished more, fought harder and risen again time after time, and I've been battered into near submission by men who, alongside me, redefined what being Hardcore means when half of these idiots were still watching Jay Jay the Jetplane. Names like Rage. Like Boca Del Inferno. Like Bakuryu. Like Trevor Adams. Like Warpath. Like Trent Gein. Like Cyren. I've spilled so much blood, and broken so many men's bones... and it was my idea to lock two men inside of a cell with every weapon they could find, wrap the doors in barbed wire and tell them to fight until one man couldn't get up any more. My legacy, IS the Hardcore division, and I'm going to break your fucking jaw for suggesting even in passing that I wouldn't make it in your day. For you believing that I am somehow both worth, and not worth your time. For you believing that all I've done with my entire year can be written off with a single pithy line about tagging with Dionysus when I haven't even tagged in months, I've been too busy collecting blood for the Red Cross out of Johnny Bacchus' eyes. You know absolutely nothing, and you're going to be forced to eat the humblest of humble fucking pie. When that nothing you swore, unimaginatively, was his Downfall rises up and smashes you. When that tag team performer, who you couldn't even be bothered to come at with a single original line of thought, superkicks your teeth down your throat. When you're locked into what is functionally my element, and you look around at the other bodies of Singh, Masuda, Robbie, Jessie and every one who's stepped up before I save you for last... and see that it's you who isn't fit to stand in my ring. Who is going to be YOUR fucking downfall. Go ahead and get Taylor to write that one up for you on your way back to the fjords, bitch.
The camera zooms in close again, through the vantablack, rigid links of the cell, and his eyes appear in two of them, staring out.
Downfall: Because if this is the last shot I take at this, I'm going to make sure it's the only one I need to take.