Post by Malachi White on Jan 5, 2020 21:12:05 GMT -5
“I have only ever witnessed a match quite like this one once in my career. Sure, I’ve watched others on old tapes, or been regaled by the stories from veterans in locker rooms about the countless contests they themselves had seen over the years. But witness? Only once. Up to that point, I thought I understood the stories men and women could tell inside the ring. Good versus evil. Upstanding tradition versus underhanded tricks. Cowards and cheats took control until that white meat, baby-faced wrestler made his inevitable comeback. Rightness would be restored, and the transgressor would steal away, defeated.
Except those two. They didn’t run.
They couldn’t run
Moreover, they didn’t want to run. No, their conflict had drawn themselves together so closely, so intertwined, they voluntarily enacted a stipulation that prevented such an action. No cheating, because all was made legal. No inevitability, because there was no prediction that could be made beyond brutality. And no running, because where could one escape to when their greatest adversary was chained to them?
This match brought out the most primal emotions out of both men, fueled by their sheer hatred for one another and their instinctual survival mechanics. They knew the only way to walk away from this match whole was by breaking their opponent first. Physically, mentally, even spiritually. Shattered to the point that the only part of them moving after that bell wrung was the wrist, marionetted by the winner’s arm lifted in victory. That was what I experienced then, years ago.
Come January 6th, it is what I expect.
Malachi White. James Nightingale. Two men, two careers, that have been bound by steel since their births. An umbilical cord that does not exchange sustenance, only savagery. Well consider this our last moments before our connection is severed. How do I feel about that? How do I feel about you? I’ve been trying to define these strong emotions of mine for weeks now and it is only just now, on the eve of our clash, that I have finally been able to decide.
Do I hate you, James?
No.
I pity you.”
Still shots appear on the screen, fading in and out every few seconds. Malachi White on the airport runway in Juneau surrounded by dozens of friends, family, and fans welcoming him back during the holidays. Malachi White sitting with his back to a Christmas tree, watching his nieces and nephews open their gifts. White staring across the Gastineau Channel at night, fireworks exploding over the water way on New Years Eve. And in them all, his distraction captured. Smiles that never reach his eyes. Stares that never seem to focus on the scene at hand.
“I pity you because you were robbed of a chance to be a competitor that I could respect in this business. I wish that you had had the chance to compete in your home country, living up to your potential as top prospect of the United Kingdom, instead of getting blackballed. I wish your international excursions had been done out of a desire to expand upon your talent in this business, not because it was the only avenue available to you. I wish you were driven by betterment, James, not bitterness.
I’m sorry that I cannot make any of them a reality; I cannot change your past and only you can change your present. Thus, I am left with only your future to affect this week. We stand on the same rung, James, and we’re both looking to continue the climb higher. No belayer above pick up our slack, no spotter below to catch us should we freefall. Thomas Snow won’t help me this week and Felix Fortain won’t eat the pinfall for you either. Just us, alone, looking to continue the climb.
I can’t allow that. I won’t. Not after your violent displays week in and week out, James. Action Wrestling does not deserve such behavior in their upper echelons and, at the end of the day, neither do you. If I fail, I give life to the lie that you’ve accepted for so long, that such actions are the path to success. That the only way to redeem yourself after so many people put you down over the years is by blood. I hope that by showing you what real heart is, James, that maybe you’ll start showing the same moving forward.
No more blindsides.
No more beatdowns.
No more chains.
Because, James, I will emancipate you come the end of Clash. See you then.”
Except those two. They didn’t run.
They couldn’t run
Moreover, they didn’t want to run. No, their conflict had drawn themselves together so closely, so intertwined, they voluntarily enacted a stipulation that prevented such an action. No cheating, because all was made legal. No inevitability, because there was no prediction that could be made beyond brutality. And no running, because where could one escape to when their greatest adversary was chained to them?
This match brought out the most primal emotions out of both men, fueled by their sheer hatred for one another and their instinctual survival mechanics. They knew the only way to walk away from this match whole was by breaking their opponent first. Physically, mentally, even spiritually. Shattered to the point that the only part of them moving after that bell wrung was the wrist, marionetted by the winner’s arm lifted in victory. That was what I experienced then, years ago.
Come January 6th, it is what I expect.
Malachi White. James Nightingale. Two men, two careers, that have been bound by steel since their births. An umbilical cord that does not exchange sustenance, only savagery. Well consider this our last moments before our connection is severed. How do I feel about that? How do I feel about you? I’ve been trying to define these strong emotions of mine for weeks now and it is only just now, on the eve of our clash, that I have finally been able to decide.
Do I hate you, James?
No.
I pity you.”
Still shots appear on the screen, fading in and out every few seconds. Malachi White on the airport runway in Juneau surrounded by dozens of friends, family, and fans welcoming him back during the holidays. Malachi White sitting with his back to a Christmas tree, watching his nieces and nephews open their gifts. White staring across the Gastineau Channel at night, fireworks exploding over the water way on New Years Eve. And in them all, his distraction captured. Smiles that never reach his eyes. Stares that never seem to focus on the scene at hand.
“I pity you because you were robbed of a chance to be a competitor that I could respect in this business. I wish that you had had the chance to compete in your home country, living up to your potential as top prospect of the United Kingdom, instead of getting blackballed. I wish your international excursions had been done out of a desire to expand upon your talent in this business, not because it was the only avenue available to you. I wish you were driven by betterment, James, not bitterness.
I’m sorry that I cannot make any of them a reality; I cannot change your past and only you can change your present. Thus, I am left with only your future to affect this week. We stand on the same rung, James, and we’re both looking to continue the climb higher. No belayer above pick up our slack, no spotter below to catch us should we freefall. Thomas Snow won’t help me this week and Felix Fortain won’t eat the pinfall for you either. Just us, alone, looking to continue the climb.
I can’t allow that. I won’t. Not after your violent displays week in and week out, James. Action Wrestling does not deserve such behavior in their upper echelons and, at the end of the day, neither do you. If I fail, I give life to the lie that you’ve accepted for so long, that such actions are the path to success. That the only way to redeem yourself after so many people put you down over the years is by blood. I hope that by showing you what real heart is, James, that maybe you’ll start showing the same moving forward.
No more blindsides.
No more beatdowns.
No more chains.
Because, James, I will emancipate you come the end of Clash. See you then.”