Post by Graham Baker on Nov 7, 2020 22:19:24 GMT -5
I've always been a hunter
Nothing on my tail
But there was something in you
I knew could make that change
To capture a predator
You can't remain the prey
You have to become
An equal
In every way...
-
Graham Baker's hands run stiff with blisters as he digs the shovel into the frozen ground once again. He takes a step back and falls away, exhausted, as his tailbone hits the cold ground. His breaths, short and concise, send puffs of steam into the air. His lips blister over due to the cold, and the tip of his nose is almost as red as the blood pumping through his veins.
Time is running out.
He looks at the ground ahead of him, the hole growing deeper and deeper, but still not deep enough. He grabs the shovel once again, its gnarled wood handle carving into his hands. He plants it into the ground, and wipes a bead of rapidly-cooling sweat from his forehead.
Back to the grind.
-
"This feels familiar, to me at least."
Graham Baker sits in the middle of The Forge, leaning back against the ropes in the old wrestling ring as he thinks. He hangs his arms on the cables, wrapping his hands around them, wearing an SSW t-shirt, black jeans, and a pair of high-top blood red Vans shoes. Baker thinks of his next words carefully before he picks back up.
"Last week, I walked into a match against Kaz Mazy, Cruiserweight Champion. Kaz tried to take advantage of my hubris, my brash behavior. He dangled a hell of a carrot on a stick in front of my eyes-the Cruiserweight Championship that had evaded me for so long. Tried to bait me into being the biggest fish in an increasingly smaller and smaller pond. Kaz Mazy thought he had me scouted, thought he could get the fly into the spider's web...but he ended up wrapped up in all of it himself. All of the respect in the world to our CruiserClash Champion, but on that night, I came out on top.
Now, though? I can kind of understand his perspective, the feeling of the walls closing in around me as I find my feet heading toward the web. Hunter's become the hunted. Predator, the prey. I step headfirst, two feet at a time, into a conflict with one of the most brutal, violence, sadistic competitors in this entire company. WALTER, a man evolved, the victor of the Havoc Rumble, a two-time Action World Heavyweight Champion, the victor of the last Turmoil, the victor of the first Glory. WALTER isn't a slouch-dare I say, WALTER is the hardest competitor that I'm going to face since I locked up with Corey Black at RUSH just over eight months ago.
Do I feel worried? Do I feel concerned? Do I feel threatened?
Of course I do...but don't mistake my caution for failure."
Graham Baker leans forward in his chair, staring dead into the camera.
"I walk forward into this spider's web, I kick the fuckin' hornet's nest, and I do it with a smile on my face. If I want to face WALTER, I don't want an army at my back. I don't want an advantage, any sort of preemptive strike, nothing. You could argue a disparity between our opponents in round one, and you could also likely argue that WALTER's got the advantage as he's been here, this is familiar territory. WALTER's been at this point in this tournament, WALTER's had his hands on the World Heavyweight Championship, WALTER has reached a mountaintop that I've only seen my stablemates and friends achieve in this company.
WALTER is the odds on betting favorite. WALTER is the guy everyone expects to walk into this contest dominant, and walk out as the survivor. You can watch ‘em tick in their opinions online, whether it’ll be one Culling, a choke, however it goes down, no one’s banking on The Guillotine. No one’s betting on the Dark Horse. No one’s assuming that the worst could happen-that the uprising star crushes WALTER with a boot to the skull, a lariat from Hell, and a powerbomb to send him on down the river.
No one, of course, but me.”
Baker smiles.
“I like fighting from beneath, you know. It’s where I fight best. It’s where every fist thrown means something. It’s where even those who are the most down and out can score a win, if luck falls on their side. And right now? I’m feeling pretty damn lucky. The streak of bad luck let up a bit with Kaz, but I’m ready to forego the slots for the next seven years if I can end The Mongrel here.
After all, I wouldn’t be the first. Nightingale showed he can bleed. Corey Black showed he can be bled dry.
And if something bleeds?”
Baker smiles.
“Then it can be killed.”
-
Baker wakes in a cold sweat. He’s still in The Forge. There’s no shovel, no frozen ground, even if he can still feel the ache in his hands. Ahead of him, a TV screen remains on, the image of Corey Black downed in the ring surrounded by Philidor Holdings. Baker wipes sweat off of his forehead as he rewinds it, going back to the match with WALTER. He narrows his eyes as we see Black lock in a devestating choke on WALTER. Baker slows the clip down. Watches it through. Rewinds it. Watches it again.
He switches tapes. Nightingale vs. WALTER I, right after Evolution. Nightingale gets the choke. WALTER goes through the stage. Match ends. Baker rewinds it to the choke once again. His eyes narrow further.
A key to victory?
Or a false hope?
Baker rewinds the clip, and switches to another.
-
“What you have going, WALTER, it’s an edge on multiple fronts. It’s almost insurmountable in the wrong hands-I mean, since I’ve been here, you’ve been top dog twice, more than almost anyone else. Longer than almost everyone else. Merciless killer, you Mongrel, you’ve shown time and time again you’re willing to do whatever it takes to get to the top of this company. Between dead goats and familial threats, you wrap yourself in a chrysalis of mystique. You isolate what makes men feel weakest-their power, their friends, their family, and you come to collect.
Unfortunately for you, WALTER, my weaknesses aren’t so easily exposed. You want to take me out, you’re gonna have to cut off my ability to compete. I left my family behind, left my girlfriend behind, left anyone who could possibly fuck with my path behind in my pursuit of being top dog, so there ain’t nothing left to destroy. No paths to divert me down in a fury. No grave to show me and bring tears to my eyes. You can come for my friends, WALTER, my last remaining confidants in this world, but that’d be a bad call. After all, one of ‘em already beat you, and the other one? Well, he’s a bit too much for you to handle, right now.
So let’s go beyond the metaphysical. Let’s get to the immense, domineering presence you provide, the monolithic thing that is WALTER, The Mongrel. Crushing blows, your woman backing you up-the human behind the evolution. It’s foolish to write you off, even in a defiant nature-because I know one right-handed blow could crush me, that massive hand wrapping itself around my throat and sending me careening to my fucking death, right? That’s something that you’ve seen a thousand times-few survive a Culling on their own will, and those who do are forever changed by it. I’d be a fool if I promised that I would be different.
I know you’ve got a size advantage going into this, WALTER. I know you’ve got all the advantages in the world, even without the psychological edge-but I’ve got eons of tape to look back upon, eras of clips to watch you do what you do best-dominate. I can see every move coming, contemplate every counter, because if something’s going to save me here, WALTER, it’s strategy. It’s how hard I can hit, and where I can make it count, because I know, if I slip up, it’s over.
So here’s my water-tight strategy, WALTER. I’m going to lay it out for you, like everyone else has, and it’s going to work.”
Baker holds a finger up to his throat, taps it twice, and smiles.
“It takes a hell of a heart to keep blood pumping through that body, WALTER, hell of a pair of lungs to keep you breathing. Maybe that’s why everyone’s gotten the choke in so efficiently? Maybe that’s why the sleeper is your weakness. I won’t go just for that, nah. It’d be too hard, you’d catch me, and it’d be curtains. So I’m gonna wear you down, I’m gonna throw ‘bows, forearms, lariats, I’m going to lay into you like I’ve never laid into anyone before, because this ain’t a single sum game. I’ll throw every weapon in my fucking arsenal at you, moves I haven’t pulled out in years I’ll show you, I won’t stop dead unless I hit the fucking ground, or unless you catch me.
I’m not just going to hit you harder than you’ll hit me, I’m going to outmaneuver you. Outwrestle you. I’ll go to the top rope, I’ll ram my knee into your skull, I’ll suplex you so many times you won’t know up from down-and that’s a tall order for a motherfucker as big as you are. You’ll think that Graham Baker’s used up every trick in the book to fight you? Nah, man, Graham Baker’s got that one left. But you won’t remember me saying it now, you’ll be too focused on thinking you’ve weathered it all, thinking you’ve survived it all, and when you’re breathing heavy on your knees, when I’ve battered and bruised your chest, kicked you in the ribcage so many times I’ve left more dust than bone, I’ll play the trump card.
I’ll drill your head in with my boot, and I’ll lock in a choke. Goodnight.”
Baker lets his hand hang for a moment.
“Now why, WALTER, would I tell you that? Why would I let you in on my strategy? Is it because I respect you, and I want to give you the opportunity to prepare ahead of time? I mean, after all, we are fighting Philidor Holdings just a few days after this match, on the same side of history for once, back to back against a corporate entity coming to lock a vise in around the throat of a sport that I love and you excel in. In any other week, I’d be almost hesitant to blast the hell out of you, feeling like we were probably being set up, you know? Maybe I still want to give you that chance.
Or maybe, WALTER, I’m not telling the truth. Maybe I’m not even gonna go for the choke. Maybe I’m just gonna kick you in the balls the minute the match starts and roll you up. Maybe I’m just going to hit you with sequential lariats until I’ve removed that little connective tissue that holds your skull onto your spine. Maybe, WALTER, I’m going to play on my terms for once, instead of slinking down to everyone else’s.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that we’re palling around on Friday, WALTER, because you know what this is?
This is fucking Turmoil.
This is the most important tournament, dare I say, in all of Action Wrestling. This is a tournament that puts me one step closer to the legends bracket, another page of my book to turn. We may be fair-weather allies, but right now?”
Baker stares dead into the camera.
“All that stands between me and advancing in this tournament, facing off against the block finalist and then Corey Black...is you.”
-
Baker returns to the field. The ground is still icy, but he perseveres. He digs the head of the shovel into the frozen soil, digging out chunk by chunk, before falling back once again. His arms ail. His lungs struggle for breath. The beating of his heart echoes through his ears-thrum-thrum, thrum-thrum-and almost consumes him whole.
But he’s nearing the end. The hole is growing wider. Baker can almost feel himself sinking into the grave in front of him as his eyes look into it. A small smile crests upon his face, and he digs his shovel into the soil once again.
-
“I don’t hate you, WALTER. Honestly.”
Baker crosses his hands once again as he finds himself once again staring into the camera. He wrings them out as he continues speaking.
“If we didn’t have this match, I’m sure we could coexist, despite what you’ve done to Corey Black. Despite what you did to Kaiju Collins. Despite what you’ve done to, y’know, everyone who’s come before you. You, my friend, are a world class talent. If I didn’t make that clear by listing your accolades, what you’ve done, how your accomplishments in this sport would make others blush-well, here it is, clear-as-fucking-day. I respect you, WALTER. I’d be the first to tack your name on my list of dream opponents. I’d be the first to list you as a match-of-the-year compatriots. I’d be the first to put you ahead as a man I’d like to shake hands with and buy a beer, assuming you drink that swill.
But all of that, WALTER, comes out the window. I want you to listen to my next words and take them how I intend them, a slap across your face, spit in your fucking eyes, because I want you mad as hell for the next week, for two solid reasons.”
Baker holds two fingers up-his index and his middle.
“Reason one, and perhaps the most beneficial-and obvious-of the two, is I want you at full gear for when we come head to head with Philidor Holdings. They beat up my man Corey, ruined his moment, and ruined yours. They talk a lot of shit-and honestly? They annoy me. Like house-flies to trash cans, keeping buzzing in your fucking ear and landing around your eyes when you’re simply trying to rid the waste from, y’know, anything. Philidor want to play themselves as corporate saviors, but they’re not-we’re aligned on that belief, at least.
But the second reason? The most important reason?”
Baker drops his index finger to reveal his middle finger.
“It’s prison logic all over again, WALTER, and you’ve always been the biggest dude in the yard. You’ve always been top shit, the dude with the gold, with the accolades. You’re the guy I have to beat to be The Guy. I want you at full strength when I do that, I want you pissed off, I want you angry and I want you ready to slam me into the ring canvas until I stop fucking moving, because that’s what you’ll need to do to beat me.
I’m no pushover, WALTER, and I know you know that. I know that you are well aware of what I’m capable of, and I know that you won’t think you can simply step over me like a bloated corpse, because you know how this goes. You can slap me around, throw me to the ground, slam me into the barricades and the ring aprons and so on, but you and I are both well aware that I’m going to keep coming, until I can wrap my hands around your throat and choke the life out of you.
It’s not malicious, nah. I can’t be too angry with a guy who clearly shares the same side of this line that I do, one who’s willing to go to war for what he believes in.
But it is business. It is a desire for success in this sport, in this industry, and it’s something that I’ll go to any length I need to to achieve. The other Man Made Gods-Corey, Frank, they can rest on their laurels, their world championships, their trophy cabinets and be happy. They don’t need this tournament-especially not Corey, who’s solidified himself as the King of All Wrestlers.
Unfortunately, I’m not them. Despite bearing the name, I’m not a Man Made God in substance quite yet. Every fight for me is a struggle to stay above, and for the duration of Turmoil, I’ve tuned those comparisons out. Let Kaz call me a Man Made God and try to bait me into a match that he had advantage in, I didn’t fuck with that, so I drilled him into the canvas with a piledriver and a lariat that turned his internals into jello. I’m curious to see if you’ll do the same-try to appeal to my ego by putting me on the same shelf as Black and Venable.
Try to make out like i’m a young legend, despite my accomplishments amounting to a handful of days and sparse title defenses.”
Baker lowers his middle finger, and places his hands on his knees.
“Nah, Walter, if I want to live as a legend, if I want to rest on my laurels, be able to take a breath every once in a while, I need to work harder. I need to hit those marks, I need to get to where Frank and Corey are, damn it, because despite what everyone says, all those voices whispering in my ears, I’m not there. I can’t just lean back and say ‘I’m a Man Made God’ and have the accolades flow in.
I need to earn that status, and with every victory, every legend I depose with a lariat ‘cross the throat, every would-be warrior who steps to me and gets shot the fuck down, I get closer and closer. But you, WALTER? You help me jump the line a few steps, help me climb that ladder a lot faster, help me grow to what they see in me that I can’t yet see myself.”
Baker draws close to the camera.
“You’re my key to the castle, Walter. And I want you to bring all of the strength and pain you can muster when you step to me. I don’t want anything less than The Mongrel at his best. I want a man I have to become a Beast to defeat.”
Baker smiles.
“Promise me that, at least.”
-
We enter on Graham Baker on the frozen ground one last time. He’s got an immense hole in the soil ahead of him, and he’s exhausted. He drops to his knees, and the shovel falls ahead of him into the grave. However, we see his face, and he’s smiling.
We pan around, and we see the immensity of the hole.
It’s far too big for Graham Baker.
Just the right size for a Mongrel.
Cut to black.
Nothing on my tail
But there was something in you
I knew could make that change
To capture a predator
You can't remain the prey
You have to become
An equal
In every way...
-
Graham Baker's hands run stiff with blisters as he digs the shovel into the frozen ground once again. He takes a step back and falls away, exhausted, as his tailbone hits the cold ground. His breaths, short and concise, send puffs of steam into the air. His lips blister over due to the cold, and the tip of his nose is almost as red as the blood pumping through his veins.
Time is running out.
He looks at the ground ahead of him, the hole growing deeper and deeper, but still not deep enough. He grabs the shovel once again, its gnarled wood handle carving into his hands. He plants it into the ground, and wipes a bead of rapidly-cooling sweat from his forehead.
Back to the grind.
-
I. A SIMILAR FEELING
"This feels familiar, to me at least."
Graham Baker sits in the middle of The Forge, leaning back against the ropes in the old wrestling ring as he thinks. He hangs his arms on the cables, wrapping his hands around them, wearing an SSW t-shirt, black jeans, and a pair of high-top blood red Vans shoes. Baker thinks of his next words carefully before he picks back up.
"Last week, I walked into a match against Kaz Mazy, Cruiserweight Champion. Kaz tried to take advantage of my hubris, my brash behavior. He dangled a hell of a carrot on a stick in front of my eyes-the Cruiserweight Championship that had evaded me for so long. Tried to bait me into being the biggest fish in an increasingly smaller and smaller pond. Kaz Mazy thought he had me scouted, thought he could get the fly into the spider's web...but he ended up wrapped up in all of it himself. All of the respect in the world to our CruiserClash Champion, but on that night, I came out on top.
Now, though? I can kind of understand his perspective, the feeling of the walls closing in around me as I find my feet heading toward the web. Hunter's become the hunted. Predator, the prey. I step headfirst, two feet at a time, into a conflict with one of the most brutal, violence, sadistic competitors in this entire company. WALTER, a man evolved, the victor of the Havoc Rumble, a two-time Action World Heavyweight Champion, the victor of the last Turmoil, the victor of the first Glory. WALTER isn't a slouch-dare I say, WALTER is the hardest competitor that I'm going to face since I locked up with Corey Black at RUSH just over eight months ago.
Do I feel worried? Do I feel concerned? Do I feel threatened?
Of course I do...but don't mistake my caution for failure."
Graham Baker leans forward in his chair, staring dead into the camera.
"I walk forward into this spider's web, I kick the fuckin' hornet's nest, and I do it with a smile on my face. If I want to face WALTER, I don't want an army at my back. I don't want an advantage, any sort of preemptive strike, nothing. You could argue a disparity between our opponents in round one, and you could also likely argue that WALTER's got the advantage as he's been here, this is familiar territory. WALTER's been at this point in this tournament, WALTER's had his hands on the World Heavyweight Championship, WALTER has reached a mountaintop that I've only seen my stablemates and friends achieve in this company.
WALTER is the odds on betting favorite. WALTER is the guy everyone expects to walk into this contest dominant, and walk out as the survivor. You can watch ‘em tick in their opinions online, whether it’ll be one Culling, a choke, however it goes down, no one’s banking on The Guillotine. No one’s betting on the Dark Horse. No one’s assuming that the worst could happen-that the uprising star crushes WALTER with a boot to the skull, a lariat from Hell, and a powerbomb to send him on down the river.
No one, of course, but me.”
Baker smiles.
“I like fighting from beneath, you know. It’s where I fight best. It’s where every fist thrown means something. It’s where even those who are the most down and out can score a win, if luck falls on their side. And right now? I’m feeling pretty damn lucky. The streak of bad luck let up a bit with Kaz, but I’m ready to forego the slots for the next seven years if I can end The Mongrel here.
After all, I wouldn’t be the first. Nightingale showed he can bleed. Corey Black showed he can be bled dry.
And if something bleeds?”
Baker smiles.
“Then it can be killed.”
-
Baker wakes in a cold sweat. He’s still in The Forge. There’s no shovel, no frozen ground, even if he can still feel the ache in his hands. Ahead of him, a TV screen remains on, the image of Corey Black downed in the ring surrounded by Philidor Holdings. Baker wipes sweat off of his forehead as he rewinds it, going back to the match with WALTER. He narrows his eyes as we see Black lock in a devestating choke on WALTER. Baker slows the clip down. Watches it through. Rewinds it. Watches it again.
He switches tapes. Nightingale vs. WALTER I, right after Evolution. Nightingale gets the choke. WALTER goes through the stage. Match ends. Baker rewinds it to the choke once again. His eyes narrow further.
A key to victory?
Or a false hope?
Baker rewinds the clip, and switches to another.
-
II. IMAGE OF THE MONGREL
“What you have going, WALTER, it’s an edge on multiple fronts. It’s almost insurmountable in the wrong hands-I mean, since I’ve been here, you’ve been top dog twice, more than almost anyone else. Longer than almost everyone else. Merciless killer, you Mongrel, you’ve shown time and time again you’re willing to do whatever it takes to get to the top of this company. Between dead goats and familial threats, you wrap yourself in a chrysalis of mystique. You isolate what makes men feel weakest-their power, their friends, their family, and you come to collect.
Unfortunately for you, WALTER, my weaknesses aren’t so easily exposed. You want to take me out, you’re gonna have to cut off my ability to compete. I left my family behind, left my girlfriend behind, left anyone who could possibly fuck with my path behind in my pursuit of being top dog, so there ain’t nothing left to destroy. No paths to divert me down in a fury. No grave to show me and bring tears to my eyes. You can come for my friends, WALTER, my last remaining confidants in this world, but that’d be a bad call. After all, one of ‘em already beat you, and the other one? Well, he’s a bit too much for you to handle, right now.
So let’s go beyond the metaphysical. Let’s get to the immense, domineering presence you provide, the monolithic thing that is WALTER, The Mongrel. Crushing blows, your woman backing you up-the human behind the evolution. It’s foolish to write you off, even in a defiant nature-because I know one right-handed blow could crush me, that massive hand wrapping itself around my throat and sending me careening to my fucking death, right? That’s something that you’ve seen a thousand times-few survive a Culling on their own will, and those who do are forever changed by it. I’d be a fool if I promised that I would be different.
I know you’ve got a size advantage going into this, WALTER. I know you’ve got all the advantages in the world, even without the psychological edge-but I’ve got eons of tape to look back upon, eras of clips to watch you do what you do best-dominate. I can see every move coming, contemplate every counter, because if something’s going to save me here, WALTER, it’s strategy. It’s how hard I can hit, and where I can make it count, because I know, if I slip up, it’s over.
So here’s my water-tight strategy, WALTER. I’m going to lay it out for you, like everyone else has, and it’s going to work.”
Baker holds a finger up to his throat, taps it twice, and smiles.
“It takes a hell of a heart to keep blood pumping through that body, WALTER, hell of a pair of lungs to keep you breathing. Maybe that’s why everyone’s gotten the choke in so efficiently? Maybe that’s why the sleeper is your weakness. I won’t go just for that, nah. It’d be too hard, you’d catch me, and it’d be curtains. So I’m gonna wear you down, I’m gonna throw ‘bows, forearms, lariats, I’m going to lay into you like I’ve never laid into anyone before, because this ain’t a single sum game. I’ll throw every weapon in my fucking arsenal at you, moves I haven’t pulled out in years I’ll show you, I won’t stop dead unless I hit the fucking ground, or unless you catch me.
I’m not just going to hit you harder than you’ll hit me, I’m going to outmaneuver you. Outwrestle you. I’ll go to the top rope, I’ll ram my knee into your skull, I’ll suplex you so many times you won’t know up from down-and that’s a tall order for a motherfucker as big as you are. You’ll think that Graham Baker’s used up every trick in the book to fight you? Nah, man, Graham Baker’s got that one left. But you won’t remember me saying it now, you’ll be too focused on thinking you’ve weathered it all, thinking you’ve survived it all, and when you’re breathing heavy on your knees, when I’ve battered and bruised your chest, kicked you in the ribcage so many times I’ve left more dust than bone, I’ll play the trump card.
I’ll drill your head in with my boot, and I’ll lock in a choke. Goodnight.”
Baker lets his hand hang for a moment.
“Now why, WALTER, would I tell you that? Why would I let you in on my strategy? Is it because I respect you, and I want to give you the opportunity to prepare ahead of time? I mean, after all, we are fighting Philidor Holdings just a few days after this match, on the same side of history for once, back to back against a corporate entity coming to lock a vise in around the throat of a sport that I love and you excel in. In any other week, I’d be almost hesitant to blast the hell out of you, feeling like we were probably being set up, you know? Maybe I still want to give you that chance.
Or maybe, WALTER, I’m not telling the truth. Maybe I’m not even gonna go for the choke. Maybe I’m just gonna kick you in the balls the minute the match starts and roll you up. Maybe I’m just going to hit you with sequential lariats until I’ve removed that little connective tissue that holds your skull onto your spine. Maybe, WALTER, I’m going to play on my terms for once, instead of slinking down to everyone else’s.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that we’re palling around on Friday, WALTER, because you know what this is?
This is fucking Turmoil.
This is the most important tournament, dare I say, in all of Action Wrestling. This is a tournament that puts me one step closer to the legends bracket, another page of my book to turn. We may be fair-weather allies, but right now?”
Baker stares dead into the camera.
“All that stands between me and advancing in this tournament, facing off against the block finalist and then Corey Black...is you.”
-
Baker returns to the field. The ground is still icy, but he perseveres. He digs the head of the shovel into the frozen soil, digging out chunk by chunk, before falling back once again. His arms ail. His lungs struggle for breath. The beating of his heart echoes through his ears-thrum-thrum, thrum-thrum-and almost consumes him whole.
But he’s nearing the end. The hole is growing wider. Baker can almost feel himself sinking into the grave in front of him as his eyes look into it. A small smile crests upon his face, and he digs his shovel into the soil once again.
-
III. KEY TO THE CASTLE.
“I don’t hate you, WALTER. Honestly.”
Baker crosses his hands once again as he finds himself once again staring into the camera. He wrings them out as he continues speaking.
“If we didn’t have this match, I’m sure we could coexist, despite what you’ve done to Corey Black. Despite what you did to Kaiju Collins. Despite what you’ve done to, y’know, everyone who’s come before you. You, my friend, are a world class talent. If I didn’t make that clear by listing your accolades, what you’ve done, how your accomplishments in this sport would make others blush-well, here it is, clear-as-fucking-day. I respect you, WALTER. I’d be the first to tack your name on my list of dream opponents. I’d be the first to list you as a match-of-the-year compatriots. I’d be the first to put you ahead as a man I’d like to shake hands with and buy a beer, assuming you drink that swill.
But all of that, WALTER, comes out the window. I want you to listen to my next words and take them how I intend them, a slap across your face, spit in your fucking eyes, because I want you mad as hell for the next week, for two solid reasons.”
Baker holds two fingers up-his index and his middle.
“Reason one, and perhaps the most beneficial-and obvious-of the two, is I want you at full gear for when we come head to head with Philidor Holdings. They beat up my man Corey, ruined his moment, and ruined yours. They talk a lot of shit-and honestly? They annoy me. Like house-flies to trash cans, keeping buzzing in your fucking ear and landing around your eyes when you’re simply trying to rid the waste from, y’know, anything. Philidor want to play themselves as corporate saviors, but they’re not-we’re aligned on that belief, at least.
But the second reason? The most important reason?”
Baker drops his index finger to reveal his middle finger.
“It’s prison logic all over again, WALTER, and you’ve always been the biggest dude in the yard. You’ve always been top shit, the dude with the gold, with the accolades. You’re the guy I have to beat to be The Guy. I want you at full strength when I do that, I want you pissed off, I want you angry and I want you ready to slam me into the ring canvas until I stop fucking moving, because that’s what you’ll need to do to beat me.
I’m no pushover, WALTER, and I know you know that. I know that you are well aware of what I’m capable of, and I know that you won’t think you can simply step over me like a bloated corpse, because you know how this goes. You can slap me around, throw me to the ground, slam me into the barricades and the ring aprons and so on, but you and I are both well aware that I’m going to keep coming, until I can wrap my hands around your throat and choke the life out of you.
It’s not malicious, nah. I can’t be too angry with a guy who clearly shares the same side of this line that I do, one who’s willing to go to war for what he believes in.
But it is business. It is a desire for success in this sport, in this industry, and it’s something that I’ll go to any length I need to to achieve. The other Man Made Gods-Corey, Frank, they can rest on their laurels, their world championships, their trophy cabinets and be happy. They don’t need this tournament-especially not Corey, who’s solidified himself as the King of All Wrestlers.
Unfortunately, I’m not them. Despite bearing the name, I’m not a Man Made God in substance quite yet. Every fight for me is a struggle to stay above, and for the duration of Turmoil, I’ve tuned those comparisons out. Let Kaz call me a Man Made God and try to bait me into a match that he had advantage in, I didn’t fuck with that, so I drilled him into the canvas with a piledriver and a lariat that turned his internals into jello. I’m curious to see if you’ll do the same-try to appeal to my ego by putting me on the same shelf as Black and Venable.
Try to make out like i’m a young legend, despite my accomplishments amounting to a handful of days and sparse title defenses.”
Baker lowers his middle finger, and places his hands on his knees.
“Nah, Walter, if I want to live as a legend, if I want to rest on my laurels, be able to take a breath every once in a while, I need to work harder. I need to hit those marks, I need to get to where Frank and Corey are, damn it, because despite what everyone says, all those voices whispering in my ears, I’m not there. I can’t just lean back and say ‘I’m a Man Made God’ and have the accolades flow in.
I need to earn that status, and with every victory, every legend I depose with a lariat ‘cross the throat, every would-be warrior who steps to me and gets shot the fuck down, I get closer and closer. But you, WALTER? You help me jump the line a few steps, help me climb that ladder a lot faster, help me grow to what they see in me that I can’t yet see myself.”
Baker draws close to the camera.
“You’re my key to the castle, Walter. And I want you to bring all of the strength and pain you can muster when you step to me. I don’t want anything less than The Mongrel at his best. I want a man I have to become a Beast to defeat.”
Baker smiles.
“Promise me that, at least.”
-
We enter on Graham Baker on the frozen ground one last time. He’s got an immense hole in the soil ahead of him, and he’s exhausted. He drops to his knees, and the shovel falls ahead of him into the grave. However, we see his face, and he’s smiling.
We pan around, and we see the immensity of the hole.
It’s far too big for Graham Baker.
Just the right size for a Mongrel.
Cut to black.