Post by Teo Blaze on Jan 12, 2020 22:49:05 GMT -5
What greets the viewer this week is something that is conspicuous in its absence: a plain and dark screen, devoid of image. If not for the faint electronic hum and warmth emanating from it, one might assume their set had simply stopped working. But before such a possibility can even enter the viewer’s mind, a familiar voice, words dripping with emotion, appears on the airwaves.
“It is said that absence only makes the heart grow fonder.
That we cannot appreciate what we have until it is gone.
Meaningless.
Such words have weight only to those who do not know what they have...and perhaps more importantly, those who are afraid to fight to keep it.
Each night I lie awake, each moment that passes, each instant, she calls to me, a siren voice of violence whose vision torments me with reminders of what I love most.
That ring. That crowd. That rush of adrenaline. That peak, that high. My essence, my very being aches with the constant reminder that we are apart.
But though my desire, my drive may be inhuman, my body is not. The doctor’s order struck like a lightning bolt after my match for the hardcore title.
‘You’ve worked yourself to the limit. Your body needs time to recover or you’re going to end up breaking in half. I’ve sent words to the Action Wrestling brass that you are not to compete for at least one month.’
Heh...wishful thinking, doc. Just because a bell never rang, I still got to give that gutless snake Kevin Bishop what he had coming, and that smell of his blood as that barbed wire tore at his flesh reminded me of one of those little truths we all get throughout our lives…
Fate has a funny way of reminding us just how big we aren’t.
But for those of us who are willing to learn their lesson? To endure that reminder? There’s always a new trial ahead.”
As the syllables ring out across an empty screen, the barest light breaks through the darkness, to reveal a shape in the shadows. The smiling face of a madman behind a pair of blood-red lenses.
The scene has shifted dramatically now, the darkness taking shape and substance to create a scene for the viewer. Teo Blaze is standing in a large and empty room, industrial in nature. It would almost appear that the owner has hollowed out a warehouse meant for a factory. But rather than large, roaring machines, the room is filled end to end with worn equipment meant for exercising. Free weights, heavy ropes tied to the wall, even the occasional medicine ball. But drawing the most attention is a thick leather punching bag, hanging from the ceiling by a thick steel chain.
And it is upon this bag that Teo Blaze is currently delivering what can only be described as a violent display. No gloves are on his hands, merely a thin layer of athletic tape, through which the faintest glimpse of red can be seen upon his knuckles. Every punch lands with a cascade of sweat, a cloud of dust flying from the site of impact. Left hook, right cross, he even punctuates the combinations with a roaring kick! Each blow hits the worn bag like a baseball bat.
Teo’s face is twisted into a sharp look of focus as the blows come faster and faster, each increasing in impact and speed, pushing himself as hard as he possibly can! Until finally, mercifully, a sound rings throughout the gym. An old, analog-style alarm hits zero, sending out a signal that the exercise has come to an end.
Teo continues throwing but the punches and kicks come slower, and with each one the look on his face softens, his expression growing less focused, but more thoughtful. Yet despite the lowered level of violence, the same intensity remains. Breathing heavily, he closes his eyes and collects himself, slowly allowing his heart rate to relax, and slipping back into the reality.
“I got it in Mexico, you know.”
Teo’s voice still sounds tired, as though the last bits of adrenaline are starting to wear off, but he keeps his tone steady regardless.
“The bag I mean. I got it at an old flea market. From this little old guy, maybe 5’2, three teeth in his head. He told me that he and his friends had wanted to be like the luchadors on TV, but they couldn’t afford one off of the shelf, so they had asked one of their friends’ dads, a leatherworker, if they could do it. He told them he would only on the condition that they used it every day. A handmade punching bag, it’s not a cheap thing after all.
Now as for me? This business has been kind. I can afford a brand new punching bag off of the shelf. I could walk into any sporting goods store in the world and get the highest quality item they offer.
But this bag? This bag has known countless owners, has felt the sting of a thousand blows. It has held the hopes and dreams of a younger generation. Those dreams lived and died on dedication; so long as they were willing to put in the work, that bag would always be there for them.”
Teo’s eyes close as though he is lost in thought, pausing to consider his next words. After a moment of silence he takes two fingers and places them on his temple, tapping it playfully.
“Now I know it would be a slap in the face of a lot of people for me to call myself an old man at 28, but in the five years I’ve been in this business there is one thing that remains true, something that this old bag reminds me of every time I step into this building.
Dreams survive only as long as you’re willing to take the punishment that comes with them.
I could dwell on my frustrations, on my failings, I could tell myself that I am a failure, that things could be different, sure.
But every moment spent regretting is a moment that I could spend getting better. The past is dead. Gone. All that there is is what is in front of me.
And in front of me at this moment is a man named Alex Scott.”
Teo’s expression cracks into a wicked grin, his nostrils flaring as the name escapes from his lips. His hands come together as he pops the knuckles on his left, and his eyes seem to sharpen, like a wild animal stalking its prey.
“Alex..if you are listening. I want you to know...that you don’t deserve what happens this week.
You’re not a villain, you’re not an evil king, hell, you’re not even a bad man. You are nothing but a simple victim of circumstance.”
A flash of light passes over Teo’s eyes as the dim lighting of the empty gym reflects off of his chipped teeth.
“But you’re still a victim.
A hapless innocent placed in the crosshairs of a madman, a child wandering into the yard warning ‘beware of dog’. You don’t have any idea what’s coming.
Every word out of your mouth, every syllable has been vain and empty praise of your own accomplishments, whether touting your time as champion or proclaiming how easily you will upend whatever division you are placed in. You have carried yourself as nothing more than a petulant, arrogant child who declares himself the king of the schoolyard.
You speak like you honestly believe that you are entitled to victories, that you are to be ‘given’ belts, that you are more talented than anyone on the roster.
But if you’re half as good at research as you claim to be? If you have even the slightest ounce of self-preservation in your body? Then what I am about to say should come as no surprise to you.
Because Alex...Teo Blaze?
He’s not talented.
He’s not a former champion.
He’s not even a hall-of-famer.
Teo Blaze...is dangerous.
Teo Blaze is a fallen angel, a man fueled by flames whose appetite is only whetted by the sound of each blow, each cry of pain. A man who relishes in punishing those who look past him, a man who long ago realized that some things have to be broken! Before they can be rebuilt.
Alex, you should be scared of what you have to face this week.
It might just save your life.
Because once that bell rings, once that match begins...the only thing keeping you safe is the knowledge that you are standing in an inferno. One wrong move, one slip-up, and you’re nothing more than kindling, bitch."
Teo’s eyes drift upwards to the ceiling, the smile seeming even larger because of the angle, and a deep, echoing cackle of a laugh echoes from his mouth.
“But I know that you’re looking past me, Alex Scott. I know that your mind is already on your next title shot. You’re thinking of telling the world that as the man to beat Teo Blaze, you’ve finally proven that you belong in Action Wrestling.
So I will do you a kindness, Alex, and I will let you know a secret. The people who last in this business? It’s not those with the most talent, hell, it’s not even the champions. I’ve seen countless people with all the potential in the world fall off the face of the earth.
The people who make it...are the survivors. The people who endure, who take all that is thrown at them and stay standing.
The men and women who suffer, who sacrifice their blood, their bones, and their tears...but stay in the game. Keep getting better, keep getting stronger.
Alex Scott, this week, you are a victim of circumstance. You’ve been put right in front of me as a sacrificial lamb.
But you don’t have to be that forever. I give you the chance, Alex Scott. I give you the chance to stand in the wildfire and be burnt away by it.
I give you a chance to endure. To learn. To rebuild.
But Alex...in order to be rebuilt?”
Suddenly, almost too fast for the camera to keep up with, Teo spins, his left hand roaring into a hook that slams into the punching bag, eliciting a sound that cracks like a lightning bolt throughout the concrete walls of the empty gymnasium.
“You have to be broken.”
With a heavy exhalation, Teo turns and walks away from the bag. As he leaves the frame, the camera slowly pans towards the site of impact, where the blow has torn a sizable gash in the side of the old leather punching bag.
“It is said that absence only makes the heart grow fonder.
That we cannot appreciate what we have until it is gone.
Meaningless.
Such words have weight only to those who do not know what they have...and perhaps more importantly, those who are afraid to fight to keep it.
Each night I lie awake, each moment that passes, each instant, she calls to me, a siren voice of violence whose vision torments me with reminders of what I love most.
That ring. That crowd. That rush of adrenaline. That peak, that high. My essence, my very being aches with the constant reminder that we are apart.
But though my desire, my drive may be inhuman, my body is not. The doctor’s order struck like a lightning bolt after my match for the hardcore title.
‘You’ve worked yourself to the limit. Your body needs time to recover or you’re going to end up breaking in half. I’ve sent words to the Action Wrestling brass that you are not to compete for at least one month.’
Heh...wishful thinking, doc. Just because a bell never rang, I still got to give that gutless snake Kevin Bishop what he had coming, and that smell of his blood as that barbed wire tore at his flesh reminded me of one of those little truths we all get throughout our lives…
Fate has a funny way of reminding us just how big we aren’t.
But for those of us who are willing to learn their lesson? To endure that reminder? There’s always a new trial ahead.”
As the syllables ring out across an empty screen, the barest light breaks through the darkness, to reveal a shape in the shadows. The smiling face of a madman behind a pair of blood-red lenses.
Part 1- A Victim of Circumstance
The scene has shifted dramatically now, the darkness taking shape and substance to create a scene for the viewer. Teo Blaze is standing in a large and empty room, industrial in nature. It would almost appear that the owner has hollowed out a warehouse meant for a factory. But rather than large, roaring machines, the room is filled end to end with worn equipment meant for exercising. Free weights, heavy ropes tied to the wall, even the occasional medicine ball. But drawing the most attention is a thick leather punching bag, hanging from the ceiling by a thick steel chain.
And it is upon this bag that Teo Blaze is currently delivering what can only be described as a violent display. No gloves are on his hands, merely a thin layer of athletic tape, through which the faintest glimpse of red can be seen upon his knuckles. Every punch lands with a cascade of sweat, a cloud of dust flying from the site of impact. Left hook, right cross, he even punctuates the combinations with a roaring kick! Each blow hits the worn bag like a baseball bat.
Teo’s face is twisted into a sharp look of focus as the blows come faster and faster, each increasing in impact and speed, pushing himself as hard as he possibly can! Until finally, mercifully, a sound rings throughout the gym. An old, analog-style alarm hits zero, sending out a signal that the exercise has come to an end.
Teo continues throwing but the punches and kicks come slower, and with each one the look on his face softens, his expression growing less focused, but more thoughtful. Yet despite the lowered level of violence, the same intensity remains. Breathing heavily, he closes his eyes and collects himself, slowly allowing his heart rate to relax, and slipping back into the reality.
“I got it in Mexico, you know.”
Teo’s voice still sounds tired, as though the last bits of adrenaline are starting to wear off, but he keeps his tone steady regardless.
“The bag I mean. I got it at an old flea market. From this little old guy, maybe 5’2, three teeth in his head. He told me that he and his friends had wanted to be like the luchadors on TV, but they couldn’t afford one off of the shelf, so they had asked one of their friends’ dads, a leatherworker, if they could do it. He told them he would only on the condition that they used it every day. A handmade punching bag, it’s not a cheap thing after all.
Now as for me? This business has been kind. I can afford a brand new punching bag off of the shelf. I could walk into any sporting goods store in the world and get the highest quality item they offer.
But this bag? This bag has known countless owners, has felt the sting of a thousand blows. It has held the hopes and dreams of a younger generation. Those dreams lived and died on dedication; so long as they were willing to put in the work, that bag would always be there for them.”
Teo’s eyes close as though he is lost in thought, pausing to consider his next words. After a moment of silence he takes two fingers and places them on his temple, tapping it playfully.
“Now I know it would be a slap in the face of a lot of people for me to call myself an old man at 28, but in the five years I’ve been in this business there is one thing that remains true, something that this old bag reminds me of every time I step into this building.
Dreams survive only as long as you’re willing to take the punishment that comes with them.
I could dwell on my frustrations, on my failings, I could tell myself that I am a failure, that things could be different, sure.
But every moment spent regretting is a moment that I could spend getting better. The past is dead. Gone. All that there is is what is in front of me.
And in front of me at this moment is a man named Alex Scott.”
Teo’s expression cracks into a wicked grin, his nostrils flaring as the name escapes from his lips. His hands come together as he pops the knuckles on his left, and his eyes seem to sharpen, like a wild animal stalking its prey.
“Alex..if you are listening. I want you to know...that you don’t deserve what happens this week.
You’re not a villain, you’re not an evil king, hell, you’re not even a bad man. You are nothing but a simple victim of circumstance.”
A flash of light passes over Teo’s eyes as the dim lighting of the empty gym reflects off of his chipped teeth.
“But you’re still a victim.
A hapless innocent placed in the crosshairs of a madman, a child wandering into the yard warning ‘beware of dog’. You don’t have any idea what’s coming.
Every word out of your mouth, every syllable has been vain and empty praise of your own accomplishments, whether touting your time as champion or proclaiming how easily you will upend whatever division you are placed in. You have carried yourself as nothing more than a petulant, arrogant child who declares himself the king of the schoolyard.
You speak like you honestly believe that you are entitled to victories, that you are to be ‘given’ belts, that you are more talented than anyone on the roster.
But if you’re half as good at research as you claim to be? If you have even the slightest ounce of self-preservation in your body? Then what I am about to say should come as no surprise to you.
Because Alex...Teo Blaze?
He’s not talented.
He’s not a former champion.
He’s not even a hall-of-famer.
Teo Blaze...is dangerous.
Teo Blaze is a fallen angel, a man fueled by flames whose appetite is only whetted by the sound of each blow, each cry of pain. A man who relishes in punishing those who look past him, a man who long ago realized that some things have to be broken! Before they can be rebuilt.
Alex, you should be scared of what you have to face this week.
It might just save your life.
Because once that bell rings, once that match begins...the only thing keeping you safe is the knowledge that you are standing in an inferno. One wrong move, one slip-up, and you’re nothing more than kindling, bitch."
Teo’s eyes drift upwards to the ceiling, the smile seeming even larger because of the angle, and a deep, echoing cackle of a laugh echoes from his mouth.
“But I know that you’re looking past me, Alex Scott. I know that your mind is already on your next title shot. You’re thinking of telling the world that as the man to beat Teo Blaze, you’ve finally proven that you belong in Action Wrestling.
So I will do you a kindness, Alex, and I will let you know a secret. The people who last in this business? It’s not those with the most talent, hell, it’s not even the champions. I’ve seen countless people with all the potential in the world fall off the face of the earth.
The people who make it...are the survivors. The people who endure, who take all that is thrown at them and stay standing.
The men and women who suffer, who sacrifice their blood, their bones, and their tears...but stay in the game. Keep getting better, keep getting stronger.
Alex Scott, this week, you are a victim of circumstance. You’ve been put right in front of me as a sacrificial lamb.
But you don’t have to be that forever. I give you the chance, Alex Scott. I give you the chance to stand in the wildfire and be burnt away by it.
I give you a chance to endure. To learn. To rebuild.
But Alex...in order to be rebuilt?”
Suddenly, almost too fast for the camera to keep up with, Teo spins, his left hand roaring into a hook that slams into the punching bag, eliciting a sound that cracks like a lightning bolt throughout the concrete walls of the empty gymnasium.
“You have to be broken.”
With a heavy exhalation, Teo turns and walks away from the bag. As he leaves the frame, the camera slowly pans towards the site of impact, where the blow has torn a sizable gash in the side of the old leather punching bag.