Post by Max f'n Daemon on Dec 10, 2022 12:50:44 GMT -5
Max Daemon clutches the first Pure Cup in his right hand and a waning cigarette in his left.
He watches as the second Pure Cup flashes on a television screen in a darkened living room.
Upon his loss, he slams the cigarette into the nearby coffee table before tossing the trophy haphazardly into the nearby chair. He turns the TV off, and with the same remote, he turns the lights above him on.
He sits on the couch with a loud sigh.
“I don’t think people…remember…what it was like.
The Pure Title wasn’t about…waxin poetic and preachin Shakespeare. It wasn’t about providin the world a lookin glass inta' one’s life. It wasn’t about…a quarterly tournament ta' arbitrarily prove one was the best.
Nah.
Every week possible it was about testin your limits against whatever opponent was thrown against ya’. Never mind the size. Never mind the skill level. Never mind how hurt ya' were or how badly the battle the week before went down. Ya' were expected…and that’s a big, relevant word…ya' were expected…ta' perform at the same level every week.
And if ya' couldn’t keep up on any given Monday…than I guess the Pure Division wasn’t for ya'.”
He glances a little bit at the trophy sitting idly in the recliner to his right.
“Every week…I faced challenger after challenger after challenger after challenger, and every week, I stood up ta' the test and exceeded expectations, surpassed limits, and very easily went above and beyond what people expected from a relative rookie just makin his debut in Action Wrestling.
That isn’t the benefit of the Pure Division anymore.
It isn’t the Hardcore division. Ya' don’t grab a weapon and bash your opponent with it until the blood is too much and the pain forces them ta' quit.
It isn’t the Television division, where each week ya' face a new opponent with the goal of walkin out and representin a concept.
It isn’t the Cruiserweights who flip and fly and perform a gymnastic Nutcracker Suite just ta' be the best of their lowly weight class.
The Pure Division was about two or more wrestlers beatin the shit outta each other with their own bodies. It was about pullin their limbs until they can do nothin but pass out or tap out.
It was a test each and every single week, not only for the champion but for the challenger too.
It wasn’t about bein the champion, because bein the champion was a mark in it of itself.
When I was champion, before Johnny-boy exceeded everyone’s hype for the belt, I was the guy who elevated that division. I pushed the levels of what that division expected, and without me, this whole tournament would’ve been a one-off.
But I didn’t just rest on my laurels and let the idea of the Pure Division die…
I took it one step further and won the inaugural tournament. I proved I still had it, and better yet, I proved that other people didn’t.
The other three people in this tournament?
They don’t get it.
They don’t…have it.”
Max lets out a sigh.
“Before every match, ya' traded barbs with your opponent. Things got vile, personal, cruel and malicious and vindictive, especially with me.
So when I say that a guy like Holden Ross, who has ta' ride the coattails of people better than him in order ta' actually have a career needs this ta' prove he’s worth anything?
I fuckin mean it.
When I say that a guy like John Black who continues ta' try and find a career in a place that has no room for him anymore needs this just ta' stay relevant?
I fuckin mean it.
When I say that a guy like Alister McKissick, a relative newcomer lookin ta' make a statement is just another Max Daemon without the hype, flair, or quite frankly, the balls to back it up…needs this ta' stand out?
I fuckin mean it.”
Despite the severity of his words, Max lets a smirk show on his face.
“Alister…you’re not the first motherfucker ta’ walk into AW and want ta' make a statement off the backs of people bigger than him in star power, let alone in the Pure Division.
It’s been done.
It’s been done better.
And unlike me, you lack fire and drive. You lack ambition, and care, and quite frankly, you lack ability.
Can you take forearms and knees and punches until my knuckles are broken and your nose is halfway across the arena?
Can you withstand the pain? The pressure? The agony? Because I’ll give ya’ a pretty picture of the Pure Division all day, but it’s all just a tarp to hide the truth: it’s fucking ugly.
It’s raw, wicked, violence.
You’re not tryin ta’ outwrestle your opponent. You’re tryin ta’ beat the shit outta ‘em until they can do nothin but fall.
I proved my first night and every single night since that I have the ability ta' not only do so, but thrive in it.
It’s not easy. It’s not somethin everyone can do.
And you, Alister? You’ve got the words, but I know you don’t have the balls ta’ stand out in a division like this.
My verdict? Down in round one when John Black does his twice a year streak of relevance and pulls out the win, but not without a fight from Alister.”
Max slams a fist on the coffee table.
“John has crossed my path in this tournament before, but history is not kind ta’ him. Ya’ might’ve made it ta’ the finals before, but when ya’ did, it was just like every other night for ya'.
Ya’ choked. Ya’ shat the bed. Ya’ failed.
Again.
Story of your career, right? You’re thrown inta’ named matches like this because A. you’re a reliable hand and B. this is truly one of the few chances ya’ have ta’ be remembered.
Not just by the fans, but by AW as a whole.
Because every other day in a year, you’re doin nothing.
You’re losin? Sure.
You’re wastin contract space and AW’s money? Absolutely.
But as a wrestlin career? As an AW employee?
Hell, as a fuckin opponent?
You’re a waste of goddamn time, cause as soon as that match or tournament or whatever you’re a part of is done, you’ll go right back ta’ losin and provin that it was a fluke.
Don’t get me wrong, my verdict is still ya’ winnin round one, but only cause ya’ve been here before. Ya’ can get ta’ the finals, sure, but against a newer, more determined, more vicious Max Daemon?”
Max shrugs.
“It’s like I said.
History isn’t kind ta’ ya’.
And it will not repeat itself.”
Max slams his fist on the coffee table once again.
“Then there’s Holden.
A man who can’t stand on his own.
He rode the coattails of David Hunter and dragged him down until both of them were left ta’ rot.
He rode the coattails of Gerard Angelo until even Gerry realized the dead weight he was draggin behind him, so as soon as he won the World Title, he cut Holden loose and pulled the leech of his back.
Now he’s ridin the coattails of Serenity in a spotlight position, but not for Holden, nah. He’s just the jilted lover, too old for the one he’s with but not old enough ta’ intimidate anyone, let alone a legend like Andre.
And as soon as Serenity finds her place, I can guarantee Holden will once again be left in the ditch ta’ be forgotten about until he finds the newest patsy with momentum to ride like a pony machine.
Because Holden can’t stand on his own. He’s won…one…relevant singles title, and I’m not sure if it wasn’t a favor from David when it happened.
Ever since then? Holden’s proved time and time and time and time and time again that he’s the only one I know that can never deliver.
Violence begets violence, and quite frankly, Holden might be violent in a crude way, but in a match and tournament and division like this?
He can’t use his violence and power ta' beat anybody, let alone a guy with history in these matches.
He’s the easiest verdict. A loss ta’ me.
A decisive loss to me.”
Max slams his fist on the coffee table one last time.
“Dawn of the final day, and I’m lookin forward ta’ winnin that trophy again, but unlike last time, it won’t just be for me.
When that bell rings upon my victory, it won’t just be a bell for winnin, nah…it’ll toll for every sorry son of a bitch who’s stepped in my way.
It’ll toll as an epitaph for the future of this company.
Because the future is Max Daemon.
The future is the Dirge.
So when you’re cryin at the sounds of the siren and you’re hidin away in fear cause Max Daemon’s back?
Don’t fear the reaper.
Fear the Dirge.”
He watches as the second Pure Cup flashes on a television screen in a darkened living room.
Upon his loss, he slams the cigarette into the nearby coffee table before tossing the trophy haphazardly into the nearby chair. He turns the TV off, and with the same remote, he turns the lights above him on.
He sits on the couch with a loud sigh.
“I don’t think people…remember…what it was like.
The Pure Title wasn’t about…waxin poetic and preachin Shakespeare. It wasn’t about providin the world a lookin glass inta' one’s life. It wasn’t about…a quarterly tournament ta' arbitrarily prove one was the best.
Nah.
Every week possible it was about testin your limits against whatever opponent was thrown against ya’. Never mind the size. Never mind the skill level. Never mind how hurt ya' were or how badly the battle the week before went down. Ya' were expected…and that’s a big, relevant word…ya' were expected…ta' perform at the same level every week.
And if ya' couldn’t keep up on any given Monday…than I guess the Pure Division wasn’t for ya'.”
He glances a little bit at the trophy sitting idly in the recliner to his right.
“Every week…I faced challenger after challenger after challenger after challenger, and every week, I stood up ta' the test and exceeded expectations, surpassed limits, and very easily went above and beyond what people expected from a relative rookie just makin his debut in Action Wrestling.
That isn’t the benefit of the Pure Division anymore.
It isn’t the Hardcore division. Ya' don’t grab a weapon and bash your opponent with it until the blood is too much and the pain forces them ta' quit.
It isn’t the Television division, where each week ya' face a new opponent with the goal of walkin out and representin a concept.
It isn’t the Cruiserweights who flip and fly and perform a gymnastic Nutcracker Suite just ta' be the best of their lowly weight class.
The Pure Division was about two or more wrestlers beatin the shit outta each other with their own bodies. It was about pullin their limbs until they can do nothin but pass out or tap out.
It was a test each and every single week, not only for the champion but for the challenger too.
It wasn’t about bein the champion, because bein the champion was a mark in it of itself.
When I was champion, before Johnny-boy exceeded everyone’s hype for the belt, I was the guy who elevated that division. I pushed the levels of what that division expected, and without me, this whole tournament would’ve been a one-off.
But I didn’t just rest on my laurels and let the idea of the Pure Division die…
I took it one step further and won the inaugural tournament. I proved I still had it, and better yet, I proved that other people didn’t.
The other three people in this tournament?
They don’t get it.
They don’t…have it.”
Max lets out a sigh.
“Before every match, ya' traded barbs with your opponent. Things got vile, personal, cruel and malicious and vindictive, especially with me.
So when I say that a guy like Holden Ross, who has ta' ride the coattails of people better than him in order ta' actually have a career needs this ta' prove he’s worth anything?
I fuckin mean it.
When I say that a guy like John Black who continues ta' try and find a career in a place that has no room for him anymore needs this just ta' stay relevant?
I fuckin mean it.
When I say that a guy like Alister McKissick, a relative newcomer lookin ta' make a statement is just another Max Daemon without the hype, flair, or quite frankly, the balls to back it up…needs this ta' stand out?
I fuckin mean it.”
Despite the severity of his words, Max lets a smirk show on his face.
“Alister…you’re not the first motherfucker ta’ walk into AW and want ta' make a statement off the backs of people bigger than him in star power, let alone in the Pure Division.
It’s been done.
It’s been done better.
And unlike me, you lack fire and drive. You lack ambition, and care, and quite frankly, you lack ability.
Can you take forearms and knees and punches until my knuckles are broken and your nose is halfway across the arena?
Can you withstand the pain? The pressure? The agony? Because I’ll give ya’ a pretty picture of the Pure Division all day, but it’s all just a tarp to hide the truth: it’s fucking ugly.
It’s raw, wicked, violence.
You’re not tryin ta’ outwrestle your opponent. You’re tryin ta’ beat the shit outta ‘em until they can do nothin but fall.
I proved my first night and every single night since that I have the ability ta' not only do so, but thrive in it.
It’s not easy. It’s not somethin everyone can do.
And you, Alister? You’ve got the words, but I know you don’t have the balls ta’ stand out in a division like this.
My verdict? Down in round one when John Black does his twice a year streak of relevance and pulls out the win, but not without a fight from Alister.”
Max slams a fist on the coffee table.
“John has crossed my path in this tournament before, but history is not kind ta’ him. Ya’ might’ve made it ta’ the finals before, but when ya’ did, it was just like every other night for ya'.
Ya’ choked. Ya’ shat the bed. Ya’ failed.
Again.
Story of your career, right? You’re thrown inta’ named matches like this because A. you’re a reliable hand and B. this is truly one of the few chances ya’ have ta’ be remembered.
Not just by the fans, but by AW as a whole.
Because every other day in a year, you’re doin nothing.
You’re losin? Sure.
You’re wastin contract space and AW’s money? Absolutely.
But as a wrestlin career? As an AW employee?
Hell, as a fuckin opponent?
You’re a waste of goddamn time, cause as soon as that match or tournament or whatever you’re a part of is done, you’ll go right back ta’ losin and provin that it was a fluke.
Don’t get me wrong, my verdict is still ya’ winnin round one, but only cause ya’ve been here before. Ya’ can get ta’ the finals, sure, but against a newer, more determined, more vicious Max Daemon?”
Max shrugs.
“It’s like I said.
History isn’t kind ta’ ya’.
And it will not repeat itself.”
Max slams his fist on the coffee table once again.
“Then there’s Holden.
A man who can’t stand on his own.
He rode the coattails of David Hunter and dragged him down until both of them were left ta’ rot.
He rode the coattails of Gerard Angelo until even Gerry realized the dead weight he was draggin behind him, so as soon as he won the World Title, he cut Holden loose and pulled the leech of his back.
Now he’s ridin the coattails of Serenity in a spotlight position, but not for Holden, nah. He’s just the jilted lover, too old for the one he’s with but not old enough ta’ intimidate anyone, let alone a legend like Andre.
And as soon as Serenity finds her place, I can guarantee Holden will once again be left in the ditch ta’ be forgotten about until he finds the newest patsy with momentum to ride like a pony machine.
Because Holden can’t stand on his own. He’s won…one…relevant singles title, and I’m not sure if it wasn’t a favor from David when it happened.
Ever since then? Holden’s proved time and time and time and time and time again that he’s the only one I know that can never deliver.
Violence begets violence, and quite frankly, Holden might be violent in a crude way, but in a match and tournament and division like this?
He can’t use his violence and power ta' beat anybody, let alone a guy with history in these matches.
He’s the easiest verdict. A loss ta’ me.
A decisive loss to me.”
Max slams his fist on the coffee table one last time.
“Dawn of the final day, and I’m lookin forward ta’ winnin that trophy again, but unlike last time, it won’t just be for me.
When that bell rings upon my victory, it won’t just be a bell for winnin, nah…it’ll toll for every sorry son of a bitch who’s stepped in my way.
It’ll toll as an epitaph for the future of this company.
Because the future is Max Daemon.
The future is the Dirge.
So when you’re cryin at the sounds of the siren and you’re hidin away in fear cause Max Daemon’s back?
Don’t fear the reaper.
Fear the Dirge.”
