Post by ππ’π₯ππ¬ πππππ on Jun 4, 2023 13:51:37 GMT -5
Corey Black sits alone in a dark room. His face is emotionless, drained of color and almost sickly. In front of him is a light source, it's sending a glow onto him and the wall behind but his eyes don't move. He blinks, he stares, and then he blinks again. Unmoving, unwavering, almost in a trance. The glow wanes, wavers and flickers as if he's watching something. But what that is, exactly, is unknown. The pure hue of the glow illuminates just enough until it begins turning crimson. As it does, from top to bottom, Corey's face contorts into that of a displeased professional wrestler. And that is exactly what he is.
Corey stands up, the red glow coming into view is from a small CRT television set. On it, the blood soaked madman he is, rolling around in barbed wire and broken light tubes. This is who he was, who he overcame and now who he has reverted to being. His eyes are glued to the screen, on it he runs a machete across the forehead of the poor bastard he's annihilating. His eyes begin to glaze, just for a moment until he snaps his head to the right quickly. In a hurry, he hits the power button on the TV and presses on the wall to his right, opening up a closet door in what appears to be his basement. It's like noon, sun shines in through the small windows at the top of the walls. There's a plate of cold breakfast sitting on the table in front of the couch with a note. Corey walks over to grab it, taking a piece of bacon along with it and munching as he reads.
He stands there, in his boxers, taking another bite out of the strip of cold bacon.
A deep sigh.
A machete is in his hand, replacing the bacon strip he was eating. His teeth his cold metal blade. His face distorts again, this time into a huge toothy grin, almost otherworldly as he runs the machete up his left arm from the wrist to the elbow, sending a cascade of blood to the floor, splattering and spraying from the open wound, literally painting the ceiling red as it squirts up and then falls back down onto him, that fucking smile never leaving his face. He stands there, bleeding profusely for what seems like ten seconds before DROPPING to the floor in a heap.
Corey gasps, opening his eyes and frantically looking at his arm and around him to find no evidence of self harm. Everything around him is white, except that piece of bacon in his right hand.
"Let's just get this right out of the way; this is the biggest match of your life, Alister, bigger than World Cup, bigger than Pure Cup, so much larger than the CBS Title, overwhelmingly gigantic compared to your World Wrestling Generation World Championship that in comparison, that would appear to be but a freckle on the elbow that's about to cave your fucking skull in. As for the formalities, hi, I'm Corey. You're one of the two unfortunate souls that beat The Reapers to 'win' the chance at Tag Team gold at Evolution. We met last week. Your buddy got your asses beat. Can I be frank with you, Alister? My plan wasn't to come down to the ring and fight you after your match. Ever since Havoc, maybe even a couple months before, I haven't exactly been.. myself. I never wanted to be in this position. The only out I had was winning Havoc and - well it just hasn't been my year, has it? Most people would come out here, tell you why you're such a dumbass and how you're second in command in the absolute lamest group of 201 and Fun dorks that have ever existed. They'd tell you why you're going to lose and get yourself beat and blah-ba blah-ba-blah. That ain't me. Not today. Not in this moment. Your downfall is because I am pissed off at myself. Pissed off at the world. Every step of my journey, I've had hurdles and setbacks but never - and I mean NEVER - have I been so goddamned overlooked. Take one step into the tag division here in Action Wrestling and suddenly it's as if I'm some fuckin' nobody. Maybe I am beginning to understand Dion and Downfall's point, this shit needs a savior. I'm not that guy. I'm helping a friend and trying not to get powerbombed through the ring after a match. Probably the most unselfish thing I have ever done in this business. May as well start calling myself 'The Avenger' again because all I be doing is saving sonsabitches. Eventually I'll learn to accept my fate rather than dwell on what should be, but until then, I'm going to beat the fuck out of you, Alister, so bad. So viciously that you'll think your last name is Morrison again and you're in Russia fighting off a pack of bears. It's an unfortunate thing, really, any other time, I'd probably be excited to have a match with someone so athletically gifted. Instead I'm just going to have to make your head disconnect from your shoulders in ten seconds and be on my merry way. Maybe if I end your existence I'll move up the fuckin' card. There's always a plan b. You've traveled this globe learning our trade, trying to perfect what you do in the ring and all you have to show for it is a World Championship in a company that faded and died with your as their flagbearer. You're in Action Wrestling chasing that glory once again, trying to achieve something in the greatest professional wrestling company of its generation. Your name graces the aforementioned accomplishments but this is when that all stops. When that dream of standing atop the mountain turns into a nightmare, falling further and further into the pit of despair. I am your reckoning, Alister McKissick, for I am the standard by which this company is. I am the jubilant murderer that stands in the doorway to salvation and laughs in the face of those who try to advance. To defeat me is to earn your way to the stratosphere - to die by my hand is just nature. You do not have what it takes to topple what is in your way because I will not see it fit. I do not give charity. I will not relinquish what is not earned. Your demise is written in the stars, as I lay my head on the cold ground at night and look up to them, wondering what it truly means to be at peace. Peace is for those who have satiated their hunger. My famine ever grows. More and more, I will not relent until this landscape is reshaped in my own vision. It isn't delusion, Alister, it's inevitable. I am the sole survivor of the early days of WCF, the only one who has made it to now with my in-ring career intact. I'm battle tested through Wars, through monsters, mountains, demons and angels; the scars on my body are a roadmap of where I have been and the men I have left in my wake. It is my right - and it'll be my will - to destroy and rebuild. The destruction begins with.. well, me. And through me it spreads to you, to Collins, to Hystaria and henceforth whomever is unfortunate enough to find themselves across the ring from me. You must think I'm crazy. Fuck, maybe I am. What do you see in me, Alister? A man that has it all. Cars, a new house, a bank account that I don't even have to brag about so you know it'll make your head spin, a career that would make all these other jokers that claim Hall of Fame status weep.. you know what I see in myself? Failure. For the first time in my life, actual, soul crushing failure because I have to fight The Ascension at Evolution. But that's what makes me different than all the rest. Everyone else that has had a match for the Tag Titles at Evolution reveled in it, they were proud to be defending or fight for a championship on the biggest stage we have. I am above that. At least, I should be. But I'm not. Not this year. Not this time. I won't sit here and try to validate what's happening. I won't pretend like everything is fine, like I am proud to fight two men so far below me. I should be challenging other giants at the apex of existence and throwing nukes around, not sitting in a kiddie pool playing with dollar store squirt guns. I don't bury my opponents, I let their families have that one last goodbye." |
Corey stands up, the red glow coming into view is from a small CRT television set. On it, the blood soaked madman he is, rolling around in barbed wire and broken light tubes. This is who he was, who he overcame and now who he has reverted to being. His eyes are glued to the screen, on it he runs a machete across the forehead of the poor bastard he's annihilating. His eyes begin to glaze, just for a moment until he snaps his head to the right quickly. In a hurry, he hits the power button on the TV and presses on the wall to his right, opening up a closet door in what appears to be his basement. It's like noon, sun shines in through the small windows at the top of the walls. There's a plate of cold breakfast sitting on the table in front of the couch with a note. Corey walks over to grab it, taking a piece of bacon along with it and munching as he reads.
Corey -
Here's come brekky, I had a meeting to go to so I won't be back for a little while. I hope you can find what you're looking for and keep what's looking for you away. See ya soon.
- T
A deep sigh.
A machete is in his hand, replacing the bacon strip he was eating. His teeth his cold metal blade. His face distorts again, this time into a huge toothy grin, almost otherworldly as he runs the machete up his left arm from the wrist to the elbow, sending a cascade of blood to the floor, splattering and spraying from the open wound, literally painting the ceiling red as it squirts up and then falls back down onto him, that fucking smile never leaving his face. He stands there, bleeding profusely for what seems like ten seconds before DROPPING to the floor in a heap.
Corey gasps, opening his eyes and frantically looking at his arm and around him to find no evidence of self harm. Everything around him is white, except that piece of bacon in his right hand.