Post by Deleted on Nov 7, 2018 6:12:35 GMT -5
You see, it’s not impossible to make soil grow.
“Kevin, those words cuddled my mind again. It has been two years since our great years began in a vile pit many monsters called home. We stood for a righteous cause and failed. Although it was that failure, which by your power and heart, a new career burgeoned for you. Your brotherhood grew to where there were more names than beds to fill them. Merchandise benefited great causes, renewing civic centers across the US, Canada and even Mexico. You had it all in one hand while our movement fed off your leadership via osmosis. Time were wonderful. Then you won gold at UCI, and all that I knew of Kevin Bishop died.”
“You must be wondering about my radio silence – all sixteen months of it. The truth is, I have no idea how long I slept in that chamber nor how anyone could come back from what happened to me at the hands of that murderer. Time passed but I didn't. It seemed as if another power wished for us to meet again. I awoke only to hear your name again. Your name rang like the music Handel heard when praising the heavens. Then I was informed there would show in at the old farmhouse. And well, it just seemed so befitting that I should make an appearance. I first meant intended to be there for “old time’s sake”. We saw each other again. You were afraid. I tapped your heart, and then the world changed. You disappeared. By god, you never even returned my call last week. We had a connection unlike anything to ever cross my soul. We cannot stay separated like this, Bishop. I have to know what happened. We cannot deny there was another power at work! What did you see when you looked into my eyes? Was there anything left of your beloved enforcer? Any trace of the man Jason Slasher buried – destroyed from history just to get back at you for petty reasons? I doubt you saw a man. Trite or not: You looked as if you had seen a ghost. A specter you suspected for over a year but never turned back to look.”
Check one… It is Nov. 7th... recording now for Lazarus diary, part II…
“You see, it’s not impossible to make soil grow,” I told Jacobo and his mother. “You just have to show some patience. As well as feeding it properly.”
“Can we grow a grow a cactus?”
It gave me quite a laugh. The kid means well, even if his grasp of science is rudimentary.
“Let’s focus on your soil, first, all right.”
We must spent of hours combing soil, tiny stones and random trash from their communal plot. In places like here, any imprint you can make on a community matters. From the smallest bench dubbed in one’s honor to a spray painted mural: We all look to make a lasting mark.
“Mr. Parish,” he said behind those inquisitive eyes, “what do you do?”
“I’m a motivator. A teacher for whomever needs it.”
“So like… a substitute or something?”
“Jacobo, many will look at our mission today as one man’s glory through your eyes.”
“Like how most white guys want to be on magazines? Or do those commercials for Africa?”
That one was even better. My sides almost stripped off their bones. We spent about an hour working on what would be the first of many projects to beautify that complex’s front lawn. I needed an outlet. Somewhere I could apply my skills and knowhow for the betterment of a community. It was then that I realized my platform was still there – even if years of dusk had caked it like a NORAAD server room. All it needed was for someone to flip its switch. I needed to see the world again, but only from the eyes most overlook.
The next day began in a different place. A garage of sorts where Jacobo – “Lobo” as his friends called him – and several others made a sort of clubhouse. The fact that he trusted me with its location came as a big surprise. Each arrived later the last until their burnout chop shop had a dozen dirty yet sparkling faces. These were not criminals or extras from Stand and Deliver. They were men with a mission but no plan. No one to strategize their efforts. They needed a leader. Thus began a new chapter for me as a teacher at brand new school.
[Periscope video of Lester Parish sitting on a metal chair in a dark room goes live. One light, dangling from a pull cord, illuminates most of his face but not much else.]
“Action Wrestling, or should I say, the refugee camp left in the wake of multiple failures and mergers. Surrogate parents for many great talents whose homes went cold and dark in the harsh climate of this heartless business. It finds those whose roles no longer fit into place. Then it presses them down until each one fits again – even if it has to strip every groove to do so.”
His hands come into view for a second and then disappear into inky blackness.
“I despised that about wrestling. How it changes lives for wicked amusement. Some companies push talent to the brink of murdering each other. Gladiators sold to the highest bidder for weekly television. Programs groomed to make the violence seem like acting, and the buildup a game. Well, Mr. Washington, we both know that’s not what awaits us next week. This will not be Act V at Bosworth Hill. No, we are going to beat each other into a bloody pulp. You might be thinking I'm the one caged in with a dangerous animal. That I'm hopping a fence without read its Beware of Dog sign. Well the fact is, you have jsut as much to fear of me, Mr. Washington.”
Sounds of rustling leather come into view as black gloves. Parish steeples his fingers.
“Onyx, I like it. You consider yourself an apex predator. Someone whose disregard for human life is what makes you a dangerous competitor. I have faced similar threats over what now will be my third stint in this business. But I think that’s what draws me towards you, not as an enemy, but in respect. We have our scars. We also grew up with the burden of being the biggest men in our circles. People depended on our strength to protect them. Yet it seems along the way you’ve lost that purpose. You want to destroy – for what?”
A gloved hand swipes down Lester’s face.
“I used these hands on more than one occasion for an unspeakable amount of violence. I used to have a dirty reputation because I fell behind the curve. I let my mind do all the work, and because of that choice, my body atrophied. It went fat, old and useless before I could pull that runaway train back on track. So I coped, Onyx, and rebranded myself as a dirty fighter.”
Sounds of leather squeak again until two ungloved hands show a gruesome set of scars. Each one, like a saint’s stigmata, shows holes of varying size going straight through each palm.
“Mr. Washington, I’ve faced the hatred of men. These scars are a brutal reminder of what I left behind. I am not the old, fat log of a fighter I was two years ago. Nor the victim used to get back at my dearest friend. This revival marks my return to life. A rebirth unlike those movies popular today where geriatrics do something beyond the limitations of age. When you see death, it changes your outlook. You grow and get stronger.”
Parish puts his gloves back on before adjusting for a close-up.
“Onyx, if you want to be the apex of these people, then you will have to go through me. I am not afraid of you. There are people out there who will be watching to see what I have in me. To see my leadership return to the dais it deserves. Action Wrestling wants to see bloodsport. Fine, but it won’t be to your advantage. For am I not the one to take lives, I simply the break hearts of those wishing to hurt others. Teachers not only show students the world - they protect them from every evil looking to poison their minds. People have tried to silence us before - but to do so only makes a dozen more appear. Let them downplay what Kevin Bishop and I created. Let people like Casey Holiday make their own narratives of what we stood for because she has a title to prove it. I’m here to remake the Brotherhood. And you are just another of the countless bullies to will get in our way. You bring great credentials to our fight. You were at the pinnacle of college football. Sadly, you're still missing a place within your own path. You have the heart of a fighter but nowhere to apply it. Lost souls never triumph until they have a people to fight for, my friend. Whatever dreams you bring haphazardly to this fight my heart punch will put stop to before they even begin to see light. See you at Clash, Mr. Washington. I’m looking forward to meeting you in person. And don't take my violent side personally. It's only business.
[Cut video to an old test pattern screen.]
“Kevin, when you receive this message, I know you’ll have no doubt heard of my new contract. This one will be shorter than the last. Understand that my place in all these murmurs of revival is no myth. I am back, and soon, I anticipate your brotherhood will be too. Watch this week. I have something in store that you cannot refuse. And tell Karma that I forgive her.”
“Kevin, those words cuddled my mind again. It has been two years since our great years began in a vile pit many monsters called home. We stood for a righteous cause and failed. Although it was that failure, which by your power and heart, a new career burgeoned for you. Your brotherhood grew to where there were more names than beds to fill them. Merchandise benefited great causes, renewing civic centers across the US, Canada and even Mexico. You had it all in one hand while our movement fed off your leadership via osmosis. Time were wonderful. Then you won gold at UCI, and all that I knew of Kevin Bishop died.”
“You must be wondering about my radio silence – all sixteen months of it. The truth is, I have no idea how long I slept in that chamber nor how anyone could come back from what happened to me at the hands of that murderer. Time passed but I didn't. It seemed as if another power wished for us to meet again. I awoke only to hear your name again. Your name rang like the music Handel heard when praising the heavens. Then I was informed there would show in at the old farmhouse. And well, it just seemed so befitting that I should make an appearance. I first meant intended to be there for “old time’s sake”. We saw each other again. You were afraid. I tapped your heart, and then the world changed. You disappeared. By god, you never even returned my call last week. We had a connection unlike anything to ever cross my soul. We cannot stay separated like this, Bishop. I have to know what happened. We cannot deny there was another power at work! What did you see when you looked into my eyes? Was there anything left of your beloved enforcer? Any trace of the man Jason Slasher buried – destroyed from history just to get back at you for petty reasons? I doubt you saw a man. Trite or not: You looked as if you had seen a ghost. A specter you suspected for over a year but never turned back to look.”
Check one… It is Nov. 7th... recording now for Lazarus diary, part II…
“You see, it’s not impossible to make soil grow,” I told Jacobo and his mother. “You just have to show some patience. As well as feeding it properly.”
“Can we grow a grow a cactus?”
It gave me quite a laugh. The kid means well, even if his grasp of science is rudimentary.
“Let’s focus on your soil, first, all right.”
We must spent of hours combing soil, tiny stones and random trash from their communal plot. In places like here, any imprint you can make on a community matters. From the smallest bench dubbed in one’s honor to a spray painted mural: We all look to make a lasting mark.
“Mr. Parish,” he said behind those inquisitive eyes, “what do you do?”
“I’m a motivator. A teacher for whomever needs it.”
“So like… a substitute or something?”
“Jacobo, many will look at our mission today as one man’s glory through your eyes.”
“Like how most white guys want to be on magazines? Or do those commercials for Africa?”
That one was even better. My sides almost stripped off their bones. We spent about an hour working on what would be the first of many projects to beautify that complex’s front lawn. I needed an outlet. Somewhere I could apply my skills and knowhow for the betterment of a community. It was then that I realized my platform was still there – even if years of dusk had caked it like a NORAAD server room. All it needed was for someone to flip its switch. I needed to see the world again, but only from the eyes most overlook.
The next day began in a different place. A garage of sorts where Jacobo – “Lobo” as his friends called him – and several others made a sort of clubhouse. The fact that he trusted me with its location came as a big surprise. Each arrived later the last until their burnout chop shop had a dozen dirty yet sparkling faces. These were not criminals or extras from Stand and Deliver. They were men with a mission but no plan. No one to strategize their efforts. They needed a leader. Thus began a new chapter for me as a teacher at brand new school.
[Periscope video of Lester Parish sitting on a metal chair in a dark room goes live. One light, dangling from a pull cord, illuminates most of his face but not much else.]
“Action Wrestling, or should I say, the refugee camp left in the wake of multiple failures and mergers. Surrogate parents for many great talents whose homes went cold and dark in the harsh climate of this heartless business. It finds those whose roles no longer fit into place. Then it presses them down until each one fits again – even if it has to strip every groove to do so.”
His hands come into view for a second and then disappear into inky blackness.
“I despised that about wrestling. How it changes lives for wicked amusement. Some companies push talent to the brink of murdering each other. Gladiators sold to the highest bidder for weekly television. Programs groomed to make the violence seem like acting, and the buildup a game. Well, Mr. Washington, we both know that’s not what awaits us next week. This will not be Act V at Bosworth Hill. No, we are going to beat each other into a bloody pulp. You might be thinking I'm the one caged in with a dangerous animal. That I'm hopping a fence without read its Beware of Dog sign. Well the fact is, you have jsut as much to fear of me, Mr. Washington.”
Sounds of rustling leather come into view as black gloves. Parish steeples his fingers.
“Onyx, I like it. You consider yourself an apex predator. Someone whose disregard for human life is what makes you a dangerous competitor. I have faced similar threats over what now will be my third stint in this business. But I think that’s what draws me towards you, not as an enemy, but in respect. We have our scars. We also grew up with the burden of being the biggest men in our circles. People depended on our strength to protect them. Yet it seems along the way you’ve lost that purpose. You want to destroy – for what?”
A gloved hand swipes down Lester’s face.
“I used these hands on more than one occasion for an unspeakable amount of violence. I used to have a dirty reputation because I fell behind the curve. I let my mind do all the work, and because of that choice, my body atrophied. It went fat, old and useless before I could pull that runaway train back on track. So I coped, Onyx, and rebranded myself as a dirty fighter.”
Sounds of leather squeak again until two ungloved hands show a gruesome set of scars. Each one, like a saint’s stigmata, shows holes of varying size going straight through each palm.
“Mr. Washington, I’ve faced the hatred of men. These scars are a brutal reminder of what I left behind. I am not the old, fat log of a fighter I was two years ago. Nor the victim used to get back at my dearest friend. This revival marks my return to life. A rebirth unlike those movies popular today where geriatrics do something beyond the limitations of age. When you see death, it changes your outlook. You grow and get stronger.”
Parish puts his gloves back on before adjusting for a close-up.
“Onyx, if you want to be the apex of these people, then you will have to go through me. I am not afraid of you. There are people out there who will be watching to see what I have in me. To see my leadership return to the dais it deserves. Action Wrestling wants to see bloodsport. Fine, but it won’t be to your advantage. For am I not the one to take lives, I simply the break hearts of those wishing to hurt others. Teachers not only show students the world - they protect them from every evil looking to poison their minds. People have tried to silence us before - but to do so only makes a dozen more appear. Let them downplay what Kevin Bishop and I created. Let people like Casey Holiday make their own narratives of what we stood for because she has a title to prove it. I’m here to remake the Brotherhood. And you are just another of the countless bullies to will get in our way. You bring great credentials to our fight. You were at the pinnacle of college football. Sadly, you're still missing a place within your own path. You have the heart of a fighter but nowhere to apply it. Lost souls never triumph until they have a people to fight for, my friend. Whatever dreams you bring haphazardly to this fight my heart punch will put stop to before they even begin to see light. See you at Clash, Mr. Washington. I’m looking forward to meeting you in person. And don't take my violent side personally. It's only business.
[Cut video to an old test pattern screen.]
“Kevin, when you receive this message, I know you’ll have no doubt heard of my new contract. This one will be shorter than the last. Understand that my place in all these murmurs of revival is no myth. I am back, and soon, I anticipate your brotherhood will be too. Watch this week. I have something in store that you cannot refuse. And tell Karma that I forgive her.”