Post by 𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗬 𝗕𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞 on Oct 9, 2023 21:39:14 GMT -5
The haunting sounds of the wind flowing through trees fills this night with a soundtrack that would send chills up the spines of many. The thick forest is dense enough to block any light from what may or may not be around it but not enough to deter a hooded figure from trudging through. They are cloaked in black, carring with them a handled box. Their head darts around, surely looking to be sure they aren't being followed.
Soon they come across an old wooden shed. It is delapitated on the outside and as they unlock a padlock to gain entrance, it's just as run down on the inside too. But there's something in the far corner. The hooded figure bends down and wipes off some dirt to reveal a silver handled hatch. They peel the heavy trapdoor open and drop down inside, reaching up to close the dwelling once again. As they wander down a short path, lights come on in the form of stringlights across the ceiling. At the end of the path sits a wooden table and a tool chest beside it.
The hooded figure slams their box down and opens it, then grabs a file from one of the drawers of the tool chest and begins filing down on whatever is in the box. They pull their hood down to reveal Corey Black, grinding away at one medium sided blade. It's shiny, almost pristine. Then another. And a third. His grin becomes almost sickly as he sharpens these edges. He puts his hand down and slips on what was in the box. He moves his fingers around and the blades dance with them.
Corey turns, hitting a lightswitch which reveals behind him - an assortment of tools of destruction. The glove on his hand is maybe the least impressive, as on the wall are multiple sized of handled long blades, motorized cutting tools like chainsaws and electric knives, various "trap" looking devices like a bladed entry clear glass box and a bear trap looking thing. Corey's eyes wander, to and fro, looking it all up and down.
He points to one thing, then another, not being able to make a decision at all. He hustles down the short path again, up and out of the hatch and around back to a waiting moving truck. The back door slides open, two hooded Doom Squad members poke their heads out.
"All of it," Corey says with a smile. "The horrors will be a plenty."
The Doom Squad nod, dropping down and rushing toward the front of the shed as Corey heads back the way he came.
Soon they come across an old wooden shed. It is delapitated on the outside and as they unlock a padlock to gain entrance, it's just as run down on the inside too. But there's something in the far corner. The hooded figure bends down and wipes off some dirt to reveal a silver handled hatch. They peel the heavy trapdoor open and drop down inside, reaching up to close the dwelling once again. As they wander down a short path, lights come on in the form of stringlights across the ceiling. At the end of the path sits a wooden table and a tool chest beside it.
The hooded figure slams their box down and opens it, then grabs a file from one of the drawers of the tool chest and begins filing down on whatever is in the box. They pull their hood down to reveal Corey Black, grinding away at one medium sided blade. It's shiny, almost pristine. Then another. And a third. His grin becomes almost sickly as he sharpens these edges. He puts his hand down and slips on what was in the box. He moves his fingers around and the blades dance with them.
Corey turns, hitting a lightswitch which reveals behind him - an assortment of tools of destruction. The glove on his hand is maybe the least impressive, as on the wall are multiple sized of handled long blades, motorized cutting tools like chainsaws and electric knives, various "trap" looking devices like a bladed entry clear glass box and a bear trap looking thing. Corey's eyes wander, to and fro, looking it all up and down.
He points to one thing, then another, not being able to make a decision at all. He hustles down the short path again, up and out of the hatch and around back to a waiting moving truck. The back door slides open, two hooded Doom Squad members poke their heads out.
"All of it," Corey says with a smile. "The horrors will be a plenty."
The Doom Squad nod, dropping down and rushing toward the front of the shed as Corey heads back the way he came.
 Jay - It's been privilege being your friend these past 14 years. It's been an honor to have worked with you as both an ally and an enemy, putting together a story that lasted way too much of my time with WCF and AW thus far. You helped me grow when I knew nothing about wrestling and without your advice I'd probably never have made it this far. It sucks knowing that this is the last time we'll see Jayson Price as a competitor, but you'll be going out the way I want and that's what matters. XIII is your night, enjoy the match and whatever you decide to do next. - Corey We pull back from the handwritten letter with the words from above on it, to a sneering Corey Black holding the paper forward in both hands. Slowly he twists his wrists, causing the paper to contort and then rip right in half. Right down the middle, revealing more of Corey's face and surrounding. The sounds of amphibians croaking and birds calling fill the night sky behind Corey as the moonlight reflects off a lake he's standing on the dock of. Black hood over his head but the camera he's looking toward has a light source so his face is illuminated well. "I'm not Jay Price. Jay Price isn't me. There's no comparison. No questions will be answered at XIII, who is better, who would win, what happens when two titans collide.. no, this is merely a titan squashing a fucking leech. Fourteen years. You came into my world on September the seventh, two thousand nine. The South Street Menace. Do you remember the first thing you said on television? You threatened a backstage interviewer with a baseball bat. On day one. Cute introduction. From there you blossomed, I will never deny that you became one of the best professional wrestlers in the game. Mr. Every Title, racking up wins against the biggest and best, shit nobody can take from you. But.." Corey trails off, taking a step back and running his thumb across his bottom lip. "You THINK you deserve this Hall of Fame induction, this grand retirement match but anyone without delusion knows that I deserve two of each because I made you while I built my own legacy. I took you along wherever I went. Looking back with today's eyes, yeah, it was all a big fucking mistake and I should have known better. I should have known you'd end up the piece of shit you are now. But back then, when This is War was starting out, I knew it should be you and I standing side by side. I respect the people that can hang with me until they show me I shouldn't. We ran over that company with reckless abandon because we could. When Pantheon brought me on board, which was the greatest honor of my career and I am so fucking serious about that, I added you because together we did incredible things. The Jonny Fly, Jeff Purse, Jay Price and Corey Black Pantheon is the type of shit that struck fear in the hearts of any son of a bitch that stood in front of us because we were having fun with our friends while at the same time destroying whatever was in our path. Four men at the top of the mountain. Time and time again we raised the sails of the green and black, trying our best to make sure the legacy wouldn't become what it is. WCF should be remembered as the building blocks for Action Wrestling. Where it was dog eat dog, you had to fuckin' be someone to succeed there and every win was a battle. But no. WCF isn't that anymore. It isn't This is War or Pantheon or The Ladykillers or Mushroom Mandingo or the Man Made Gods or Corey Black at all. No, Jay, WCF is just where the guy running the show lived in a vagina. I ask you this, Jay Price, with all sincerity; what are you without me? Do you know? I can tell you. You're a drunkard. A sex pest. You're a clone that came out of a UFO. A series of stupid bullshit that just dumps on everything I built. You're a fucking joke, Jay. You're Bobby Cairo without the respect. You are shock value without the value. There's a reason why XIII continued on in WCF's absence and your little knockoff show Nightmare on South Street happened once. Rest your hat on the fact that you have beat me, Jay. I'll rest mine knowing that since then you've just become a meme. Right now you're best known for having Gravedigger's piss running through your veins and being Mr. Mason Jones-Price. You're an afterthought in the world of pro wrestling, your induction is little more than your old buddy giving you a pat on the back you don't deserve and after XIII I'm going to make sure you're unable to accept this gift that's been promised you. The horrors I am going to display will be unlike anything anyone has ever seen. I'll make Michael Myers look like Mr. fucking Magoo. I want your flesh and your blood, Jay, not just the win. That's a given. I want to take this from you just like you took from me all those years. You took and you took and not once did you repay me, even when I gave you what was to be my final match at One, you again took from me by just going through the motions. My retirement five years ago was going to be the end of my line. I'd still have gone down as the best to ever do it. People would be talking about me today, lining up and asking for matches just like they do now. I travel this planet spreading the blood of my opponents across canvas after canvas but if it wasn't for you, Jay, that may not be the case. I'd probably be sitting in Minneapolis sipping on Diet Coke, married, maybe a kid running around. You refused to give me what I wanted. You rolled over. The great Jay Price, in a humbling moment, did the Jay Price thing and gave little to no effort in what was supposed to be my shining moment riding off into the sunset. The irony, Jay, is that I get to show you what it's like to be a real fucking man and not put someone over on their way out. No, on the contrary, if you leave XIII on your own two feet I'll have failed. If Mason isn't holding your skull together and crying out for EMTs then frankly, I may as well pack my bags too. You gave up years ago, though. This isn't a grand ceremony of a great warrior. This is a flaccid middle finger to a stupid piece of shit that should have been taken out back and had a bullet through the brain half a decade ago. I remember the things you used to say to me, Jay. How you're the future and you're going to be champion far longer than I even lace my boots. Look at us now, bitch. Nobody alive today can make me stop this no matter how hard they try and you're a fucking bottom. And yet, this was what you wanted. You got Zach Davis out here to ruin what was a special moment with Razzles Mars, something I've been dying to do for years only for you to show up and try to rub this in my face. Finally, something you have over me that I haven't done before. You got slapped in the WCF Hall of Fame on a whim and now you're getting put into the Action Wrestling one with even less of a merit. Congratulations, Jay Price. Who could forget such great things you've done in Action Wrestling like lose a deathmatch tournament to Beau del Sol on my very own show. Or when you lost to FPV at the Final One. Or when you beat some scrub and you were allowed to walk about Marvel movies, all fantastic efforts and man you deserve it. It being the fucking artistic massacre I am about to create from what you once were." Corey walks toward the camera, past it and as he does the background changes as the camera turns to follow, Corey is walking in the parking lot of the 2300 Arena. A garage door is open, allowing Corey access directly to the arena portion of the building. He takes a couple of steps in and stops, looking around. People are setting up the ring, the lighting, the staging. It's well into the night but this place is going to look incredible packed to the gills. Corey Black walks to the iconic bleacher section where a black curtain is draped over a hidden tall metal cabinet. Corey opens the door and light shines from the inside, as the camera pans around we see it's reflecting off all the blades and objects inside the cabinet. It looks like Jigsaw himself has been working on some contraptions. With a quick smile, Corey closes the cabinet and places a padlock on it, taking the key with him as he pulls the black curtain down over the concealed weapons. Corey strolls toward the ring and checks the bottom rope, then slaps the apron a couple of times before getting into the black ring and again looking out into what will be a sold out 2300 Arena. "Jayson, enjoy your unjustified moment in the Hall of Fame spotlight. Bask in the adulation of the crowd. But when that bell rings and the dust settles, you'll remember one thing - I'm the man who's always been a step ahead, the man who'll make sure your big retirement match is remembered for all the wrong reasons. Welcome to my world, Jayson, where there are no Hall of Fame plaques, just the cold, hard truth that Corey Black is and always will be the better man. Where bodily harm is the least of your worries. You have to survive. You think you know what's coming to you because you've been here before. In this arena, on this show, in the ring with me - all of it has changed. This used to be the land of the extreme, your backyard and now it is the birthplace, the coronation grounds of the Deathmatch Icon. We're set to see some catastrophic things on Friday the 13th and Jayson, believe me when I say it will all pail in comparison to the visions I have of your broken, beaten and dying vessel laying in this ring looking out into what very well could be your hometown advantage. For the first time I can remember I may be coming into XIII as the man the fans may not want to see win but that, my old friend, doesn't mean shit to me. I've made it my personal journey to walk against the wind. To set sail and challenge myself. I thought holding XIII in Philly was going to be enough to get the real hardcore Jayson Price fans to destroy whatever advantage I'd have but now, fighting you, in the main event nearly confirms it. I'm willingly coming to your front porch you motherfucker and I'm going to make goddamn sure I burn your whole house down. When it's all said and done they'll rename the 2300 Arena in my honor. It may be the home of extreme but when I baptize it in your own blood, Jay Price, they're going to call it the Deathproofdrome. I'll write it on the wall using your spinal fluid. Ah, but you know me so well. We've shared the ring on so many occasions that you can probably wrestle me with your eyes closed. No, Jay, you knew the King. He's fuckin' dead. What stands across the ring from you is no longer a man that can hold his head high with a good effort. I am no longer satisfied with trying my best. It's your head laying on the mat next to your body or I am going to die trying. My soul will have to be taken to Hell before you beat me, Jay Price. I'll meet you there later." |
