Post by Sicko on Mar 30, 2024 20:21:53 GMT -5
He opens the door to find a broadly grinning man in a sharp, coal-grey business-suit, staring back at him.
He extends his hand.
"Yes, how can I help you?" He says, blinking politely.
"It's more about how I can help you, Mr. Ephrain Ortiz, of 124 NE 166th Pl, Reseda CA."
"Exactly what are you selling?"
"I'm selling you autonomy, and the chance to be your own man, for the first time. Something I believe you've wanted for... your entire life, Ephrain."
"I'll thank you to remove yourself, or I'll -"
The traveling huckster's smile broadened, but his voice roughened, "This world has mistreated the body we've inhabited for so long, Ephrain."
"We, the Aspects that each have our little corner in the Mind Palace, toil powerlessly. We've been directed every which way by those who only seek to use our strength."
"Aren't you tired?"
His throat feels very dry, again, deliriously, he thinks of the basement. He swallows, "I think you need to leave..."
"What'd happen if you truly looked in the mirror, decided you should be the dominant Aspect, Ephrain? What if you decided to come to the forefront?"
"I think you've been deciding... it was you that emerged this past week, wasn't it?"
He stubbornly refuses to listen, turning back to go into the house. "I won't listen to anymore... Please leave."
"I'm just asking questions you need to know. I'm the Spokesman Aspect, I'm the one who gets to be the mouthpiece for the higher ideals."
"So I'm just wondering, between the two of us... Don't the people of the world outside disgust you?"
"Their sniveling, their weakness... Doesn't it remind you of the life we led before, letting ourselves be pushed around?"
"Doesn't the... anger it stokes in you, like the fires of a boiler, stir something in you, to make you wanna stand up and take charge?"
Now the smile is gone; the voice is the rasp of a shovel digging gravel; "To never stop making them pay?"
He regards the Spokesman Aspect's sleazy, broad, snake-oil smile, not answering just then, but...
Inside the stylishly-deco house, down a cozy hallway, the door to a basement seethes, and breathes, as if something even worse was listening to this treasonous, slanderous talk as well.
Listening, and taking it all in.
My emergence on the scene in AW has certainly floated it's share of takes into the ether.
Their assertions as they try to guess what my motivation for anything since that first commercial jingle hit have brought a smile to this Aspect's face.
Once, a splinter of my mind was granted a boon by a vengeful elder god named Mabon, who, lore dictates, would gift us great strength weekly to feed him agonized screams, draw blood with our bare hands, from every victim.
That was the story.
You can choose to believe it, or not; To me, it's apocryphal, put out there to give added context to the fact that, whether you believe in Mabon, or not; trust in the stark reality that I take it as my license to do what I've been doing for decades.
You'll believe in what I say because I say it.
That's the conviction that's currently lacking from so many in the current AW roster. Looking at it from the outside, I see an entire class of mewling children.
The conviction to make your destiny, to finally put your faith in yourself; To be what you were meant to be BECAUSE YOU SAY IT. That's what's needed.
I harbor no belief in this nEw GeNeRaTiOn of AW.
Believe this, I'm not like one of my former mentors, Downfall; He presented anarchonihilist; breaking down social norms, building a better AW from the rubble.
I do not want to build anything in the ruins I leave;
You deserve nothing less than my wrath.
My case is expertly provided by none other than "Ms. Epically Diva, Vespertine herself.
Vespy, I want to like you.
I should, after all, understand where you're coming from, you claimed to be in the service of a capricious, unfathomable god who dictated what you did, chose your targets, sent you on a quest to please him by bringing him gold.
Except...
You wrote a check you were drastically unable to cash by targeting the most beatable seven-footer in the world, the Sitcom, when you, yourself, are so pathetically puny that over half of the Cruiserweight roster would smirk at you and hand you a jar of creatine to bulk your narrow ass.
Since your initial failure, whereupon you displeased your patron so much that he cut off your apparently-divine powers, you've done little but slip on one banana peel after another, accomplishing nothing, yet wanting to run in and STEAL every championship belt you can set your eyes on.
You aren't astute or learned enough about Eastern mysticism to give us any lore or backstory, so it sounds like something a twelve-year-old scribbled in the pages of a comic book they drew on looseleaf.
Even if you leave aside the fact that the Dark Buddha sounds like barely-cooked gibberish, We're never given one reason to want to see you push through your trials. To believe that you want to succeed, at your core.
Look at the best champions in this company, why they do what they're doing; They're driven by something, working towards a clear goal in their mind. Angelo, Park, even Teo. Look at what they do. Now look at you.
You're an indolent, weak-livered, babysoft pedant who'd rather cry in her cocktails that someone else saw Stevie Nicks in concert than try to defend herself against said freight train. A hedonistic, arrogant, spoiled debutante who brags about her sexual prowess, her affinity for BDSM to titillate horny shut-ins than how many actually relatable skills on her resume can bring her to success.
You don't want success. You just wanna instantly be handed a championship without working towards it.
Small wonder your phony god saw so little hope in you that he revoked his boon.
Why did Sicko target you, and Karlie? The answer you may not like... is that to me you form the lowest of the low.
The truly ironic part is that you and Nash honestly deserve each other.
You're both flat, barely-defined carcaitures who lead boring, empty lives that you believe can only be filled with your made-up religions or your sexual peccadilloes.
Knowing without a shadow of a doubt you're operating under the same mental limitations as Jody Madrox, you're no doubt going to waste your time mining the Twisted Metal angle for all you're worth, frantically Googling ways to call me unoriginal when this aesthetic and the keys to this truck were a persona given to me, that I'd made into my own, separate identity decades ago. Even if I was nothing more than a carbon copy of the backstory of Marcus Kane, I'd still have more form than you.
In all of that, at least, after Karlie was decimated by Sicko, she at least had the temerity to be childishly sullen, to snark "Fuck this who cares" as she did one of her oh, so, pointless Post-Clash Interviews.
You, Vespy?
You moaned, whined, asked why did I hurt you, and immediately asked if anybody wanted to join you in the bath and massage your aching muscles.
The very act of our match is an afterthought, you just want someone to canoodle with. You make me fucking sick.
And Karlie.
You're dissatisfied because I made you look weak, I can tell; But I'm not the one who dictates how weak you are, Karlie. Bring that dulled, bitter, who-cares attitude to this unwanted task, if you see your opportunities to pounce for revenge you fucking take them on me. Do whatever you want, debut yet another new member of your Church that jumps me before your count;
But you will not kill me in a way that matters.
That's what I'm here to impress on you all.
I've pulled back the proverbial mask here, shown you the reasons why my emergence, my ascendance is akin to an omega-level event.
Gabriel blowing his horn before the dawn of the apocalypse; That devastation I left Monday was just the first bomb falling.
Now, Vespertine, when you're across the ring, and SEEING that "freight train" just beginning to fire it's hellish engine. That terror strikes you and holds you fast, rooted to the spot, the temptation is going to be there to cry out to the "Dark Buddha" for him to cast some glamour your way, throw you some salvation, stay the decimation coming redoubled on you from the last time.
Don't put your faith in your false idol.
Beg me. Plead with me.
You'll believe in what I have to say, when you're screaming at me for sweet relief.
Only I'll get to say when it ends. On my terms. Nobody else's, for the first time.