Post by "The Devourer" Felix Fortain on Dec 12, 2019 11:50:54 GMT -5
Color me surprised, Messenger. I didn't expect our paths to cross again so soon. Or at all, even. Though I guess I shouldn't act so shocked; you have more tenacity than brains, do you not? No, the smart play would have been to take the punishment you absorbed at the Dead God's hands as an omen, a stark reminder of what waited for you if you persisted. If you didn't tuck your tail between your legs and return to the blasted tundra you call home. But like any masochist, here you are. Right back where we started. Well, not quite: there is still the matter of the plus ones to this fateful reunion.
And with that acknowledgment comes the confession: you aren't so happy to see us, are you? No, your focus, your rage, is directed at the man in our corner, one James Nightingale. The man who so heinously took advantage of you after your introduction to the Devourer. The man who began his little campaign to rid Action Wrestling of weakness in earnest by capitalizing on our handiwork. Were I capable, I might even sympathize with you. Maybe enough to step aside and let you snuff the light from that yipping little hyena's eyes.
That's what you really want, isn't it? To throttle James, to dent his skull, to make him feel the way you felt? Maybe you can dress it up as a public service, something you're doing on behalf of others, to rid this promotion of an abusive element, but you can be truthful with me, Messenger. Anything you wish to do to James isn't about retribution or comeuppance, it's for your own sake. To soothe your hurt ego. To fuel the darkest side of yourself, the one that civilized people refuse to believe exists.
But this is the wrestling business, Malachi. Are any of us civilized? Is that a word you'd use to describe yourself? Do you live with honor, with scruples? Is there a line you will not cross? Or when push comes to shove, are you as much of an undisciplined animal as the man you've found yourself entangled with? Are we going to dance around such platitudes as right and wrong, hero and villain, or are we going to embrace reality.
There's that word again. Reality. Sounds like something I waxed about last time we spoke. Of course, the context is different this go around, I'm not convincing you of a narrative that's unattainable. I'm asking you point blank 'are you the man you desperately hope to be?' and am eagerly awaiting an answer. Not spilled from your lips, lord knows how easy it is to pretend. To hold your head high and hope against hope that what you are in your head and what you are in the dark are in agreement.
I'll know everything I need to soon enough, and so will you. That question will have to be answered, if not at Thirteen, then elsewhere. With my Devourer and your newfound hangeron involved, this won't be the clear opportunity you hope it to be. You might be too preoccupied looking over your shoulder to take your revenge. After all, while it's James you despise, I'm sure you haven't forgotten the lessons you learned from your last encounter with Felix. No, I'm certain those won't fade from your mind for quite a long while. How will it feel, Malachi? To see him in the flesh once more? To know that at any point, he's within arm's reach of picking up where he left off? That maybe this time, he won't stop when the bell rings, that maybe for a second he'll join in your good friend's crusade. Nightingale may talk a big game, but you know that destruction is the only tongue the Parasite's fluent in.
Once again, the ice will melt. Which pulls my focus away from the prophet I know, towards the would be angel I don't.
Hello, Thomas. I don't believe we've been acquainted, though that soon will change. You can call me Aurora. Don't mistake my warmth for admiration, or respect. This is just the appetizer, foreplay if you will. Sharpening the cutlery while deciding which sharp instrument to plunge into your chest cavity. To puncture that heart of yours and drain that hope from your eyes.
Thomas Snow, the man who clings so tightly to his one claim to fame: holding a world championship in a wrestling promotion that doesn't exist anymore. Tell me, Thomas, truthfully, is that all you have? The ashes of your greatest achievement, the sole piece of validation you've received? Perhaps it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie than to tether yourself perpetually to the good times, before the world crashed down atop you and sent you here, where your biggest achievement is routinely mocked. You could have had a fresh start, Thomas.
So, why persist? Why insist on reaching for a status that will inevitably be just outside your grasp? Why expose that big, bleeding heart of yours to this abuse? Why delude yourself?
I do believe I answered my own question. Gave the game away. This delusion of yours, that hitching your wagon to the corpse of a bottom-feeding organization will give you legitimacy, will only get you one thing.
Heartbreak. Disappointment. That crushing, empty feeling. And come Thirteen, all the gold in the world won't be enough to stop Felix Fortain from crushing your skull like a grape. From bruising and battering you from head to toe. To tear you down brick by boring brick.
This was a losing game from the start, you two. Not because of the man who inspired this pairing, but because of theDead God in his corner. When that bell rings, your lives will be in his hands.
Pray for, but don't expect, mercy.
And with that acknowledgment comes the confession: you aren't so happy to see us, are you? No, your focus, your rage, is directed at the man in our corner, one James Nightingale. The man who so heinously took advantage of you after your introduction to the Devourer. The man who began his little campaign to rid Action Wrestling of weakness in earnest by capitalizing on our handiwork. Were I capable, I might even sympathize with you. Maybe enough to step aside and let you snuff the light from that yipping little hyena's eyes.
That's what you really want, isn't it? To throttle James, to dent his skull, to make him feel the way you felt? Maybe you can dress it up as a public service, something you're doing on behalf of others, to rid this promotion of an abusive element, but you can be truthful with me, Messenger. Anything you wish to do to James isn't about retribution or comeuppance, it's for your own sake. To soothe your hurt ego. To fuel the darkest side of yourself, the one that civilized people refuse to believe exists.
But this is the wrestling business, Malachi. Are any of us civilized? Is that a word you'd use to describe yourself? Do you live with honor, with scruples? Is there a line you will not cross? Or when push comes to shove, are you as much of an undisciplined animal as the man you've found yourself entangled with? Are we going to dance around such platitudes as right and wrong, hero and villain, or are we going to embrace reality.
There's that word again. Reality. Sounds like something I waxed about last time we spoke. Of course, the context is different this go around, I'm not convincing you of a narrative that's unattainable. I'm asking you point blank 'are you the man you desperately hope to be?' and am eagerly awaiting an answer. Not spilled from your lips, lord knows how easy it is to pretend. To hold your head high and hope against hope that what you are in your head and what you are in the dark are in agreement.
I'll know everything I need to soon enough, and so will you. That question will have to be answered, if not at Thirteen, then elsewhere. With my Devourer and your newfound hangeron involved, this won't be the clear opportunity you hope it to be. You might be too preoccupied looking over your shoulder to take your revenge. After all, while it's James you despise, I'm sure you haven't forgotten the lessons you learned from your last encounter with Felix. No, I'm certain those won't fade from your mind for quite a long while. How will it feel, Malachi? To see him in the flesh once more? To know that at any point, he's within arm's reach of picking up where he left off? That maybe this time, he won't stop when the bell rings, that maybe for a second he'll join in your good friend's crusade. Nightingale may talk a big game, but you know that destruction is the only tongue the Parasite's fluent in.
Once again, the ice will melt. Which pulls my focus away from the prophet I know, towards the would be angel I don't.
Hello, Thomas. I don't believe we've been acquainted, though that soon will change. You can call me Aurora. Don't mistake my warmth for admiration, or respect. This is just the appetizer, foreplay if you will. Sharpening the cutlery while deciding which sharp instrument to plunge into your chest cavity. To puncture that heart of yours and drain that hope from your eyes.
Thomas Snow, the man who clings so tightly to his one claim to fame: holding a world championship in a wrestling promotion that doesn't exist anymore. Tell me, Thomas, truthfully, is that all you have? The ashes of your greatest achievement, the sole piece of validation you've received? Perhaps it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie than to tether yourself perpetually to the good times, before the world crashed down atop you and sent you here, where your biggest achievement is routinely mocked. You could have had a fresh start, Thomas.
So, why persist? Why insist on reaching for a status that will inevitably be just outside your grasp? Why expose that big, bleeding heart of yours to this abuse? Why delude yourself?
I do believe I answered my own question. Gave the game away. This delusion of yours, that hitching your wagon to the corpse of a bottom-feeding organization will give you legitimacy, will only get you one thing.
Heartbreak. Disappointment. That crushing, empty feeling. And come Thirteen, all the gold in the world won't be enough to stop Felix Fortain from crushing your skull like a grape. From bruising and battering you from head to toe. To tear you down brick by boring brick.
This was a losing game from the start, you two. Not because of the man who inspired this pairing, but because of the
Pray for, but don't expect, mercy.