Post by "The Devourer" Felix Fortain on Jan 12, 2020 3:19:21 GMT -5
Dearest Shadowlove:
Do forgive me that we will not be spending much time discussing your favorite topic — yourself — but truth be told, I do not find you that interesting. Note the emphasis, dear, lest you presume that by virtue of continuing this conversation further than I'm lying. Perhaps 'conversation' isn't the right word. This isn't a dialogue. I do not request nor do I value your input. This is a lecture. This is 'sit down, shut up, and maybe you'll finally accept some very hard truths'. Of course, we all know that isn't going to happen. Self-reflection, actualization, and personal growth aren't exactly words you're familiar with, are they?
No, Shadow, truth is you just don't move the needle. You and your ilk are just so typical: mediocre men compensating by cloaking themselves in an aesthetic they don't fully understand. Arrogant to the point of nausea and delusional to the point of farce. If I fancied your perspective valuable, something I could learn from, I'd ask you the one question that finds itself on the tip of my tongue despite myself. There's no insight to be gleaned from it, no more intrinsic value in your response than in any of the words that dribble from your lips like urine down a vagrant's leg. And yet, out of morbid curiosity I look at you and ask myself: 'what is your endgame'? What's the goal? What's the point? What are you looking to gain from this?
Let's not talk about that any further. As I said, this isn't a dialogue.
This is a story. One you've heard before, no doubt. One you ought to be more familiar with than it appears you are. I guess I should not be surprised by your lack of self-awareness.
Last time there were two characters in this drama. This time, it's a bit of an ensemble. On one side, you have a vain and pompous emperor. A man obsessed with appearance, with veneer, with presentation. So obsessed in fact, that he'd do anything to acquire the most beautiful possessions, to drape himself in the finest silks, to appear as royal as he possibly could. And that's where the antagonistic force came in.
On the other side, enter the tailors. These men tell the Emperor that they will create the most beautiful attire for him, something befitting his status, surely. As a matter of fact, they tell him they will create something so divinely perfect that only people deserving of their station will be able to see it. Otherwise, to the poor and downtrodded and stupid and blind, it would appear invisible. And of course, the Emperor couldn't resist.
So the tailors set out to create said garments. Or, more accurately, they don't. They return to the Emperor empty-handed, and insist that they have created these wonderful clothes. But the Emperor can't see them. Neither can his guards and advisors. But they've bought in to the tailors' lies. They couldn't dare speak out for fear of not being worthy. And so they go along with it. The Emperor dons his new apparel, and sets foot in public, completely nude. The townsfolk play along too, for fear of appearing unworthy. The Emperor receives compliment after compliment for his new clothes, each one awkwardly delivered to fit in until suddenly, a child yells over the commotion of brownnosing:
'But he isn't wearing anything!'
The Emperor had no clothes.
You get it, right? Why I'm telling you this story? You see the parallels, don't you? Of course you don't, Shadow. You're standing in front of the mirror, eyes locked on your own reflection. Admiring yourself. Pleasuring yourself to the only person who could ever get you off. But there's one small problem with your mental image, Emperor.
You still think you're clothed.
I almost don't want to do this. If I could feel sympathy for you I would, Shadow. But the truth must be spoken and truthfully, I love that I'm the one that gets to say it.
There has never been a single person in the history of professional wrestling who has been rewarded more for doing absolutely nothing than you, Shadowlove. There it is. The weight off the chest; the elephant in the room. The stark admission you don't want to make. The thing you want people to look past. But I see it, Shadow. I look at you and that's the only thing I can focus on.
You can puff out your chest all you like. Try to wear your past failures as badges of honor, spin intricate webs of separation where you can pretend that you're the gatekeeper for everyone else's success but, honey, a gate that's always open hardly needs a keeper. Maybe it's time to give that delusion a rest. Maybe it's time to look at yourself for what you are.
A loser. A man who lost. A man who loses. A man who will lose every single time that it matters because he's incapable of growth. Because he's stuck in the same rut he has been since the beginning of his career. Because when the going gets tough, he simply cannot hang.
You dress it up in sweet nothings all you want, Shadow. Your act isn't fooling anybody. And come Monday, you'll come face to face with theDead God.
You might think you have this one in the bag. After all, there isn't any title on the line so it isn't like you're going to choke, right? Of course, Felix doesn't need the excuse of a trinket to decimate you.
That's the problem. This is the most important match of your life, Shadowlove. You aren't fighting for a title, or for an opportunity, or for validation for your very hungry ego. When the bell rings and Felix Fortain is standing across from you, it'll be for your very existence. For your soul. For your tenuous grasp on this mortal plane. Because Felix isn't coming to outwrestle you. He isn't trying to prove a point or a score a fall. He isn't even coming to beat you senseless.
He's coming to live up to his name. Felix Fortain is coming down to the ring to utterly devour you.
Do you get the stakes now, Emperor? That so much more than your fragile reputation is on the line? That this is not a threat, but a warning? You could call this professional courtesy on my part, a desperate attempt to get you to realize just what fresh hell awaits you on the thirteenth. You could, but it'd be inaccurate. That would imply some level of concern for you. A desire to see you make it through as unscathed as possible.
I don't want that.
I just wanted you to know what you were facing. I wanted to see your face when you realize that this is inevitable. That it was always destined. That no matter what kind of nominal resistance you put up, there is nothing you can do.
Of course, that lesson is never going to sink in, is it? You'll stare him down with the same cool bravado you muster against all the rest, won't you? You'll smile until his hands are wrapped around your throat and then you'll force yourself to keep smiling. All to rob him of the satisfaction, right?
Unfortunately for you, Shadowlove, the only satisfaction Felix will gain is from something you can't rob him from. When he punctures a vein and drains you of your rotten vitae. No amount of defiance can stop reality.
The Dead God rises, and there isn't anything a smug little pretty boy like you can do to stop it.
Do forgive me that we will not be spending much time discussing your favorite topic — yourself — but truth be told, I do not find you that interesting. Note the emphasis, dear, lest you presume that by virtue of continuing this conversation further than I'm lying. Perhaps 'conversation' isn't the right word. This isn't a dialogue. I do not request nor do I value your input. This is a lecture. This is 'sit down, shut up, and maybe you'll finally accept some very hard truths'. Of course, we all know that isn't going to happen. Self-reflection, actualization, and personal growth aren't exactly words you're familiar with, are they?
No, Shadow, truth is you just don't move the needle. You and your ilk are just so typical: mediocre men compensating by cloaking themselves in an aesthetic they don't fully understand. Arrogant to the point of nausea and delusional to the point of farce. If I fancied your perspective valuable, something I could learn from, I'd ask you the one question that finds itself on the tip of my tongue despite myself. There's no insight to be gleaned from it, no more intrinsic value in your response than in any of the words that dribble from your lips like urine down a vagrant's leg. And yet, out of morbid curiosity I look at you and ask myself: 'what is your endgame'? What's the goal? What's the point? What are you looking to gain from this?
Let's not talk about that any further. As I said, this isn't a dialogue.
This is a story. One you've heard before, no doubt. One you ought to be more familiar with than it appears you are. I guess I should not be surprised by your lack of self-awareness.
Last time there were two characters in this drama. This time, it's a bit of an ensemble. On one side, you have a vain and pompous emperor. A man obsessed with appearance, with veneer, with presentation. So obsessed in fact, that he'd do anything to acquire the most beautiful possessions, to drape himself in the finest silks, to appear as royal as he possibly could. And that's where the antagonistic force came in.
On the other side, enter the tailors. These men tell the Emperor that they will create the most beautiful attire for him, something befitting his status, surely. As a matter of fact, they tell him they will create something so divinely perfect that only people deserving of their station will be able to see it. Otherwise, to the poor and downtrodded and stupid and blind, it would appear invisible. And of course, the Emperor couldn't resist.
So the tailors set out to create said garments. Or, more accurately, they don't. They return to the Emperor empty-handed, and insist that they have created these wonderful clothes. But the Emperor can't see them. Neither can his guards and advisors. But they've bought in to the tailors' lies. They couldn't dare speak out for fear of not being worthy. And so they go along with it. The Emperor dons his new apparel, and sets foot in public, completely nude. The townsfolk play along too, for fear of appearing unworthy. The Emperor receives compliment after compliment for his new clothes, each one awkwardly delivered to fit in until suddenly, a child yells over the commotion of brownnosing:
'But he isn't wearing anything!'
The Emperor had no clothes.
You get it, right? Why I'm telling you this story? You see the parallels, don't you? Of course you don't, Shadow. You're standing in front of the mirror, eyes locked on your own reflection. Admiring yourself. Pleasuring yourself to the only person who could ever get you off. But there's one small problem with your mental image, Emperor.
You still think you're clothed.
I almost don't want to do this. If I could feel sympathy for you I would, Shadow. But the truth must be spoken and truthfully, I love that I'm the one that gets to say it.
There has never been a single person in the history of professional wrestling who has been rewarded more for doing absolutely nothing than you, Shadowlove. There it is. The weight off the chest; the elephant in the room. The stark admission you don't want to make. The thing you want people to look past. But I see it, Shadow. I look at you and that's the only thing I can focus on.
You can puff out your chest all you like. Try to wear your past failures as badges of honor, spin intricate webs of separation where you can pretend that you're the gatekeeper for everyone else's success but, honey, a gate that's always open hardly needs a keeper. Maybe it's time to give that delusion a rest. Maybe it's time to look at yourself for what you are.
A loser. A man who lost. A man who loses. A man who will lose every single time that it matters because he's incapable of growth. Because he's stuck in the same rut he has been since the beginning of his career. Because when the going gets tough, he simply cannot hang.
You dress it up in sweet nothings all you want, Shadow. Your act isn't fooling anybody. And come Monday, you'll come face to face with the
You might think you have this one in the bag. After all, there isn't any title on the line so it isn't like you're going to choke, right? Of course, Felix doesn't need the excuse of a trinket to decimate you.
That's the problem. This is the most important match of your life, Shadowlove. You aren't fighting for a title, or for an opportunity, or for validation for your very hungry ego. When the bell rings and Felix Fortain is standing across from you, it'll be for your very existence. For your soul. For your tenuous grasp on this mortal plane. Because Felix isn't coming to outwrestle you. He isn't trying to prove a point or a score a fall. He isn't even coming to beat you senseless.
He's coming to live up to his name. Felix Fortain is coming down to the ring to utterly devour you.
Do you get the stakes now, Emperor? That so much more than your fragile reputation is on the line? That this is not a threat, but a warning? You could call this professional courtesy on my part, a desperate attempt to get you to realize just what fresh hell awaits you on the thirteenth. You could, but it'd be inaccurate. That would imply some level of concern for you. A desire to see you make it through as unscathed as possible.
I don't want that.
I just wanted you to know what you were facing. I wanted to see your face when you realize that this is inevitable. That it was always destined. That no matter what kind of nominal resistance you put up, there is nothing you can do.
Of course, that lesson is never going to sink in, is it? You'll stare him down with the same cool bravado you muster against all the rest, won't you? You'll smile until his hands are wrapped around your throat and then you'll force yourself to keep smiling. All to rob him of the satisfaction, right?
Unfortunately for you, Shadowlove, the only satisfaction Felix will gain is from something you can't rob him from. When he punctures a vein and drains you of your rotten vitae. No amount of defiance can stop reality.