Fenrir's Binding
Nov 15, 2020 18:35:25 GMT -5
βThe RevolutiDaddyβ Wesley, James Nightingale, and 3 more like this
Post by ππ’π₯ππ¬ πππππ on Nov 15, 2020 18:35:25 GMT -5
A somber time in the fishing village overlooked by the castle on a cliff side. All the villagers have congregated in village square, the stage once again erected and upon it stands Corey Black. Everyone is kneeling, a photograph of Graham Baker framed and on an easel on the stage. Corey stands.
"Tonight, we should ask the Gods to make sure my brother in the great battle recovers swiftly and earnest."
A clap above the head of all the villagers echoes through the village, followed by a howling wolf. Everyone stands, looking around concerned for the livestock and people. The old man, dressed in a dark gray cloak and hood with his long gray beard hanging out of it, hushes everyone and assures them no harm shall come. He makes his way to the stage next to Corey and speaks.
"It is good luck to hear a wolf's howl, a single wolf will not bring harm to us. Not unless that wolf was great, a hulking beast known as Fenrir. Come, everyone, as our king who wields the hammer recovers from his battles and readies himself for the next, let us speak of the devourer.
The wolf Fenrir, son of Loke, presented a particular challenge for the Gods. The Midgard Serpent was easily dispatched, Hel was cast to the underworld but Fenrir - if left unchecked - would send the nine realms into dismay, decimating all in his path. So the gods decided to hold the pup, raise him as their own and hope that their teaching would revert Fenrir to a beloved state.
In order to restrain Fenrir, the gods would chain him in Asgard - yet no chain proved strong enough. The only god allowed close, Tyr, would feed Fenrir and say the chains were but a challenge of his strength. So time passed, Fenrir growing larger and larger. Soon no chain was even close to strong enough. The gods asked the dwarves to create a chain that could never be broken. They did, using the sound a cat's footsteps make, the saliva of a bird, a woman's beard, a fish's breath, a bear's sinew and the roots of a mountain. The dwarves presented their restraint, known as Gleipnir to Tyr, who mocked the thin ribbon-like strand. The dwarves stood by their creation, and Tyr obliged.
Upon return to Fenrir, Tyr suggested a new game of strength. The wolf was not interested in entertaining the game, suspecting a trick from Tyr. Fenrir demanded a hand be placed in his mighty jowl, as an offering of sacrifice and devotion that Gleipnir was no trick. No god stood up. Until Tyr offered his own hand.
Fenrir was shackled, unable to break the restraint and bit down upon Tyr's hand - only no longer was Tyr's hand in his teeth, it was a sword of unbreaking. Fenrir's mouth was left agape. Tyr had convinced Fenrir that he was of true faith, Fenrir learned the hard way that Tyr is a lie and fabricator."
The villagers all stand up, the old gray man walks off the stage and through the crowd, smiling and greeting everyone as they thank him for his wisdom. Corey also leaves the stage, going through that same crowd who offer their praise and good will upcoming. As he reaches the outskirts of the village, on the winding path toward his castle, Corey walks by a tree and stops his stride. He backpedals two steps, looking into the thick and seeing a lone wolf enjoying a meal of an animal carcass. The wolf licks its teeth and looks up, locking eyes with Corey Black.
Both frozen in time, man and beast share a moment before the wolf looks away and trots deeper into the trees. Corey looks up to the moon as it is slowly being covered by clouds, a coming storm seemingly rolling in. This causes Black to pick up the pace, jogging up the winding path to his home here. Through the front gate and the doorway, he reaches inside the castle just as the heavens open and send an ocean's worth of rain upon the landscape.
Within the castle, the lights and rooms seem all dark. As if nobody is there. Just Corey, he walks through the landing and up the large set of stairs, toward the right and into his master bedroom. A yank of a book on the bookcase reveals the spiral stairs to the dungeon, Corey navigates down and opens the door to the musky dirt floored training room. The ring is all black, but the equipment are all top of the line. A remote on the turnbuckle is manipulated, turning on a camera as Corey enters the ring. He takes a deep breath, leaning forward on the ropes toward the lens.
"Howard Black is a liar, a fabricator and a fragile little lost boy who cried for a wolf to come eat him once too many times.
A legend.. in his own mind. Unworthy of a grand retirement - his second, no less, glad he loves to shove his finger in my face about my tour a few years ago. A 'remarkable' eight month run that included highlights such as being overshadowed by Jay Omega, Joey Flash, Dune and maybe even Occulo. A mere four years into the career of a man who once had a pseudonym. Half this man's career was spent in retirement or UCI - which could be construed as retirement, honestly, but also where the greatest achievement he's ever mustered lies. But now in 2020 he's back to celebrate what was a flop of a run in a dead company and a month long World Title reign in a company even less revered. Those rose colored glasses he's convinced everyone to look through are impressive, probably the most impressive thing he has done in his entire career. Not coming back and getting that Flash monkey off his back. Not winning the US Title. Not even getting this far in Wrestler of the Year.
The greatest thing Howard Black ever did was convince anyone he was important enough to have a last run."
Corey walks to his right, pointing back at the camera while talking toward the wall.
"But not me. I'm not convinced at all. I'm not gullible and stupid. I was Hardcore Champion for longer than Howard Black was active in any major company he has competed in. I was in Havoc ten times longer than he was, his grand return. I probably have more championship title wins than he has wins - period. Yet he's held in such high regard, why? Because he can sling shit on Twitter like it's his actual day job and mold history to be in his favor? Unbelievable."
The Champ turns back to the camera, retrieving the Action Wrestling World Championship from the far side of the ring.
"From day one, Howard Black was looked at as a small man. His time in football, marred by height. He's willing to stand toe to toe with anyone, though, even mountains of men. And he's been calling my name. As I was calling Walter's. The difference being I knew I could put that mongrel down. Howard THINKS he can usurp the King. But because when our toes meet, our eyes are on the same level doesn't mean that my skill, my passion and my will to decimate all in my path aren't twenty feet tall. I look down upon Howard Black, both from my throne as World Heavyweight Champion and the legacy I ride. A pale horse which Creeping Death once rode, now a steed that I command.
Since I obtained this World Championship, it has been Howard Black in my ear every second of every day it seems like. Softening up Walter with Nightingale, a pathetic way to interject yourself into something you no longer - and didn't ever - belong in. The anger you felt when I was named challenger at Clash 100 was worth every snide jab you've ever made. When you sat there and discredited the US Championship as a consolation prize, a division you were above but one you'd make better because somehow your name means something - all while never taking your eye off me or my title - is poetic. My full attention was always on the Hardcore Championship. I never once wondered it was a punishment, if the powers didn't see what I saw in myself. I didn't have to boast about making the title more important than every other title in the company, I just fucking did it. Even when screaming for the mongrel, I wanted his blood, not a belt.
That's your reason for fighting though. It isn't competition, it's accomplishment. Because you're the small guy, the gritty pitbull nobody thinks can do it. You fight for vanity. We fight for vastly different reasons, Howard. Like you aren't validated without this title on your shoulder - and it's true. You know you deserve nothing in this business, you have built an empire not on victories but disappointment. Those fans that cheered you and watched you retire, only to turn around and win the UCI World Championship. You vanish for years and show back up here thinking you'll be carried around in a golden throne by men twice your size and fanned by the most beautiful women. Instead your Retirement Tour run comes to a screeching halt when I force your knee bent and discharge you from this tournament you so very much believe was designed for your shoulders, just like Trios.
Now that I have the World Title, though, it is pretty fitting. All targets shift to me, storms I will weather, yours just got a little shakier. The laser sight you had on my head began swaying when the mongrel went down, Howard. You didn't think I could. And you're pissed off that I did it before you. The man who choked out the World Champion and failed to secure the belt, resting your laurels on a 'what if' as you have your entire career. Shifting the blame of your own failure to the company as a whole instead of you. Was everyone in the match totally screwed over? Without a doubt. It was a pitiful end. Locking your arm on his throat and making him collapse doesn't earn a rematch, hell you hardly earned the match to begin with.
You lost to Spencer Adams and you both were added to the ladder match by Pasternak. Let that fucking soak in you cart before the horse bitch. The same way I was awarded a match.. only I got it fucking done. I pinned that man in the middle of the ring. All you had to do was climb a ladder and grab the belt. You see how we're similar, yet very VERY different, Howard? I didn't complain and moan every time anyone else was given the match I was owed. I had three chances to get a World Title Match and I couldn't win any of them. Two years, three chances, zero World Title Matches. One could argue my shot was earned because while seemingly random, my name carries the weight yours never will. Clash 100, the brightest the lights have ever been on CBS, who else was there to challenge Walter? Nobody. You, though, squandered your chance no matter how fucky, and took that big L right in the nose.
The same nose you hold high walking into this retirement gimmick and you're just handed one before me, less than ten matches in. Nobody looked over you, past you or treated you with less gravity than you believe you have - everyone bought into your charade. I am the one who looks over you, Howard. I treat you with less gravity because I know who you are. Your costume of 'one of the best' is see through. All the way to your bones, I see a puppy unworthy of his spot but one with the loudest bark. Now here we are, your chance to finally stand up and show the world that the name Howard Black carries weight. That old 'WCF dream match' that never was because you never were.
Your recent 'revelation' that you don't respect the Man Made Gods, but you fully support Carter Shaw and his 'opportunity' says all anyone ever needs to know about you. Shaw is swimming in money and power because he has the people backing him. Man Made Gods are swimming in money and power because we fucking earned it, Howard, something you know nothing about. Frank, Graham and I have battled the best and brightest for longer than you could fathom and here's Shaw, a man that signs his soul away to be a drone in a factory and you're the first to line up and drop to you knees.
That's not the Howard Black I know, he'd be whining about being overlooked by Philidor and not offered a bank to put their name on his tights. Something you'd do without hesitation. It's acknowledgement, it's a feather in the cap you desperately desire since your win/loss record is speaking louder than even your Tweets are. These are the people that put Baker in the hospital for standing up to them. That forced me to align myself with Walter for one night to show them that their actions will not be taken lightly. And you are pissed off that you're, once again, missing out. You want those leeches to latch on to your carefully crafted paper legacy to maybe bolster it up to cardboard. You're a pathetic man, Howard, a walking contradiction. It's a shock you didn't stab your brothers Crow and Kaz in the back to take the Philidor money and move out to California, you know Lincoln is a stain on the Midwest. Set yourself up on the beach, never have to worry about anything except showing up for work - but your work is almost done. Is that it, is that why you and Philidor didn't hook up? This grand illusion of a career coming to a close, your inability to sneak attack people after the biggest match of their life, preventing you from something so bank account inflating so instead you champion the people that did it instead of the people that oppose it?
You're a fucking piece of work, Howard, time and time again you show your hand and you expect people to just ignore it and play on as if I don't know you're holding a four and a six. The numbers you wore the last time you overcame the odds and achieved something you worked for. Your jersey now is stained by all the lies you've led. I'm going to hit you so hard that you fumble your ball and head right to the locker room of retirement without even consideration of the US Title you hold. Not that you consider it anyway, that's the Howard Black Championship for all you fuckin' care, the lineage begins and ends with your name because you're a narcissistic failure, a combination so dangerous even this country have turned their backs on one of your kin. That's not even your biggest problem, Howard.
Your biggest problem is you're looking across the ring at the personification of Fenrir, the great wolf. A devourer. A straight up killer. I will run through you with my mouth wide, consuming everything you have, Howard. Your sun, your moon, your life. Five times the in-ring career, one hundred times the impact. In fifty years when people are talking about 'that one wrestler guy, something Black' people will go 'who, Corey? Seifer? John? Jack? Jack Black was in the Havoc Rumble once.' Your name won't even be a whisper on the lips of the most hardcore of fans. Because while the belt reads Black, it will forever read Corey and never Howard.
The time for you name in lights has passed, you're in the twilight of your young career and you're giving up. You're simply done with something you have utterly failed at. Like a little lost boy that can't find his way home, instead of manning up, you curl into a ball to give up and die. Your legacy, what crumbs there are of it, are swept away here. I will not stand for such a mockery. You call your career a success, you're happy with what you've done enough to parade through 2020 in a tour spitting in the face of legend after legend as you go?
I was happy with mine. I had got my name above all in no time and kept it there for an entire generation. Era after era passed with no soul even coming close. My loyalty lied in the green and black, something you'd never understand. Then Action Wresting arose, a new challenge was put forth. A test of my strength without the threat of trickery. Purity, even. A clean slate to ply my craft. You use it as a decoration for your lineage. A stage to stand upon as you roll over into obscurity once again. Your name never to be spoke of, until another four years from now when you once again realize the end is never the end. Until you're in the ground, Howard, you will be unfulfilled. As I take this from you without mercy, on your supposed final night in Action Wrestling.. thank me for showing you the facade of YOUR retirement. I don't want any of this to change your mind, I just want you to open your eyes to things you already should have known. You're clearly no idiot, you've constructed a world where your name means something and strategically pulled the wool over the eyes of too many.
I will never even entertain such a thing as retirement for myself again. I know now that retirement is nothing more than a word people use to suggest they know not of how professional wrestling works. The intricacies in the gears. The oil that pumps through the hoses. I will see you again, and when I do, I will tell you that I told you so. From one man that has done it all and continues to be at the top of his game to another who never even had a career long enough to have a top - I told you so. Be it here, be it in the next company that forms in the ashes of Action Wrestling, whatever the future holds. One thing is for sure, I will rule with a clenched fist for however long I damn well please, for I am the King of All Wrestlers. And you, Howard Black, are but a lost boy in a King's land.
With a tear in your eye, I want you to show up after I defeat you and offer your hand to me. After I break all the chains you want to place on me to suit your own selfish means, the World Title match, my allegiances, my age and my standing, all the different chains I'll break and when your head lays on the floor after I take it off your shoulders, look up to your King and offer your hand to me, Howard. No sword you have will stop me from eliminating you from Wrestler of the Year. No weapon you have will cause me to fail. Four remain, three belong and one was put into the tournament as an afterthought. A gift for a leaving wrestler. Yet here you remain, a hallmark of your short time in this sport. Perhaps your only pillar beyond theft and treachery.
It's a long ... long way down, Howard. Down from the top of a tournament. To a division you so believe you have no business being in, yet have shown time and time again you're not fit for the main event scene. Squander what could be your break into the top of the card you believe you deserve as your time in the ring comes to a close. One last hurrah to twist and embellish. A happy ending you don't deserve. A happy sendoff you'll relive over and over instead of what you're going to get, a beat down and defeat you'll taste the sourness of until your dying day. When your family hopefully surrounds you, asking your memories of the short jaunt you had in wrestling, I want you to speak my name to them with the venom and salt you do so steadfast without warrant, simply because I am, will be and always have been better than you. A fact of your life you'll never be able to accept even in defeat. An admission not even I can beat out of you.
I'll surely fucking try, though. Elbow after elbow cascading upon your head like links of a broken chain."
Corey smiles wide, holding the World Title toward the roof and pressing the button on the remote, stopping the recording. He breathes in deep once again, before dropping out of the ring and heading back up the steps to find lights on and sounds coming from the entryway. Corey rushes to the balcony overlooking the front door, finding a villager and Graham Baker. Graham is in a wheelchair, bandaged but looking okay. They're also drenched.
"God DAMNIT Norway sucks. Corey how the fuck do you manage here?!"
A laugh from Black, he goes toward the steps and heads down.
"I'm used to it by now, Graham. I trust you're doing well?"
"Well enough, whatever this one gave me took most of the edge off."
Graham motions toward the villager, she smiles and nods.
"Well whatever you need, the village has. Just shout and it'll get done."
The village woman begins wheeling Graham toward the right side of the castle, a room with a bed that overlooks the village off the cliff.
"Tonight, we should ask the Gods to make sure my brother in the great battle recovers swiftly and earnest."
A clap above the head of all the villagers echoes through the village, followed by a howling wolf. Everyone stands, looking around concerned for the livestock and people. The old man, dressed in a dark gray cloak and hood with his long gray beard hanging out of it, hushes everyone and assures them no harm shall come. He makes his way to the stage next to Corey and speaks.
"It is good luck to hear a wolf's howl, a single wolf will not bring harm to us. Not unless that wolf was great, a hulking beast known as Fenrir. Come, everyone, as our king who wields the hammer recovers from his battles and readies himself for the next, let us speak of the devourer.
The wolf Fenrir, son of Loke, presented a particular challenge for the Gods. The Midgard Serpent was easily dispatched, Hel was cast to the underworld but Fenrir - if left unchecked - would send the nine realms into dismay, decimating all in his path. So the gods decided to hold the pup, raise him as their own and hope that their teaching would revert Fenrir to a beloved state.
In order to restrain Fenrir, the gods would chain him in Asgard - yet no chain proved strong enough. The only god allowed close, Tyr, would feed Fenrir and say the chains were but a challenge of his strength. So time passed, Fenrir growing larger and larger. Soon no chain was even close to strong enough. The gods asked the dwarves to create a chain that could never be broken. They did, using the sound a cat's footsteps make, the saliva of a bird, a woman's beard, a fish's breath, a bear's sinew and the roots of a mountain. The dwarves presented their restraint, known as Gleipnir to Tyr, who mocked the thin ribbon-like strand. The dwarves stood by their creation, and Tyr obliged.
Upon return to Fenrir, Tyr suggested a new game of strength. The wolf was not interested in entertaining the game, suspecting a trick from Tyr. Fenrir demanded a hand be placed in his mighty jowl, as an offering of sacrifice and devotion that Gleipnir was no trick. No god stood up. Until Tyr offered his own hand.
Fenrir was shackled, unable to break the restraint and bit down upon Tyr's hand - only no longer was Tyr's hand in his teeth, it was a sword of unbreaking. Fenrir's mouth was left agape. Tyr had convinced Fenrir that he was of true faith, Fenrir learned the hard way that Tyr is a lie and fabricator."
The villagers all stand up, the old gray man walks off the stage and through the crowd, smiling and greeting everyone as they thank him for his wisdom. Corey also leaves the stage, going through that same crowd who offer their praise and good will upcoming. As he reaches the outskirts of the village, on the winding path toward his castle, Corey walks by a tree and stops his stride. He backpedals two steps, looking into the thick and seeing a lone wolf enjoying a meal of an animal carcass. The wolf licks its teeth and looks up, locking eyes with Corey Black.
Both frozen in time, man and beast share a moment before the wolf looks away and trots deeper into the trees. Corey looks up to the moon as it is slowly being covered by clouds, a coming storm seemingly rolling in. This causes Black to pick up the pace, jogging up the winding path to his home here. Through the front gate and the doorway, he reaches inside the castle just as the heavens open and send an ocean's worth of rain upon the landscape.
Within the castle, the lights and rooms seem all dark. As if nobody is there. Just Corey, he walks through the landing and up the large set of stairs, toward the right and into his master bedroom. A yank of a book on the bookcase reveals the spiral stairs to the dungeon, Corey navigates down and opens the door to the musky dirt floored training room. The ring is all black, but the equipment are all top of the line. A remote on the turnbuckle is manipulated, turning on a camera as Corey enters the ring. He takes a deep breath, leaning forward on the ropes toward the lens.
"Howard Black is a liar, a fabricator and a fragile little lost boy who cried for a wolf to come eat him once too many times.
A legend.. in his own mind. Unworthy of a grand retirement - his second, no less, glad he loves to shove his finger in my face about my tour a few years ago. A 'remarkable' eight month run that included highlights such as being overshadowed by Jay Omega, Joey Flash, Dune and maybe even Occulo. A mere four years into the career of a man who once had a pseudonym. Half this man's career was spent in retirement or UCI - which could be construed as retirement, honestly, but also where the greatest achievement he's ever mustered lies. But now in 2020 he's back to celebrate what was a flop of a run in a dead company and a month long World Title reign in a company even less revered. Those rose colored glasses he's convinced everyone to look through are impressive, probably the most impressive thing he has done in his entire career. Not coming back and getting that Flash monkey off his back. Not winning the US Title. Not even getting this far in Wrestler of the Year.
The greatest thing Howard Black ever did was convince anyone he was important enough to have a last run."
Corey walks to his right, pointing back at the camera while talking toward the wall.
"But not me. I'm not convinced at all. I'm not gullible and stupid. I was Hardcore Champion for longer than Howard Black was active in any major company he has competed in. I was in Havoc ten times longer than he was, his grand return. I probably have more championship title wins than he has wins - period. Yet he's held in such high regard, why? Because he can sling shit on Twitter like it's his actual day job and mold history to be in his favor? Unbelievable."
The Champ turns back to the camera, retrieving the Action Wrestling World Championship from the far side of the ring.
"From day one, Howard Black was looked at as a small man. His time in football, marred by height. He's willing to stand toe to toe with anyone, though, even mountains of men. And he's been calling my name. As I was calling Walter's. The difference being I knew I could put that mongrel down. Howard THINKS he can usurp the King. But because when our toes meet, our eyes are on the same level doesn't mean that my skill, my passion and my will to decimate all in my path aren't twenty feet tall. I look down upon Howard Black, both from my throne as World Heavyweight Champion and the legacy I ride. A pale horse which Creeping Death once rode, now a steed that I command.
Since I obtained this World Championship, it has been Howard Black in my ear every second of every day it seems like. Softening up Walter with Nightingale, a pathetic way to interject yourself into something you no longer - and didn't ever - belong in. The anger you felt when I was named challenger at Clash 100 was worth every snide jab you've ever made. When you sat there and discredited the US Championship as a consolation prize, a division you were above but one you'd make better because somehow your name means something - all while never taking your eye off me or my title - is poetic. My full attention was always on the Hardcore Championship. I never once wondered it was a punishment, if the powers didn't see what I saw in myself. I didn't have to boast about making the title more important than every other title in the company, I just fucking did it. Even when screaming for the mongrel, I wanted his blood, not a belt.
That's your reason for fighting though. It isn't competition, it's accomplishment. Because you're the small guy, the gritty pitbull nobody thinks can do it. You fight for vanity. We fight for vastly different reasons, Howard. Like you aren't validated without this title on your shoulder - and it's true. You know you deserve nothing in this business, you have built an empire not on victories but disappointment. Those fans that cheered you and watched you retire, only to turn around and win the UCI World Championship. You vanish for years and show back up here thinking you'll be carried around in a golden throne by men twice your size and fanned by the most beautiful women. Instead your Retirement Tour run comes to a screeching halt when I force your knee bent and discharge you from this tournament you so very much believe was designed for your shoulders, just like Trios.
Now that I have the World Title, though, it is pretty fitting. All targets shift to me, storms I will weather, yours just got a little shakier. The laser sight you had on my head began swaying when the mongrel went down, Howard. You didn't think I could. And you're pissed off that I did it before you. The man who choked out the World Champion and failed to secure the belt, resting your laurels on a 'what if' as you have your entire career. Shifting the blame of your own failure to the company as a whole instead of you. Was everyone in the match totally screwed over? Without a doubt. It was a pitiful end. Locking your arm on his throat and making him collapse doesn't earn a rematch, hell you hardly earned the match to begin with.
You lost to Spencer Adams and you both were added to the ladder match by Pasternak. Let that fucking soak in you cart before the horse bitch. The same way I was awarded a match.. only I got it fucking done. I pinned that man in the middle of the ring. All you had to do was climb a ladder and grab the belt. You see how we're similar, yet very VERY different, Howard? I didn't complain and moan every time anyone else was given the match I was owed. I had three chances to get a World Title Match and I couldn't win any of them. Two years, three chances, zero World Title Matches. One could argue my shot was earned because while seemingly random, my name carries the weight yours never will. Clash 100, the brightest the lights have ever been on CBS, who else was there to challenge Walter? Nobody. You, though, squandered your chance no matter how fucky, and took that big L right in the nose.
The same nose you hold high walking into this retirement gimmick and you're just handed one before me, less than ten matches in. Nobody looked over you, past you or treated you with less gravity than you believe you have - everyone bought into your charade. I am the one who looks over you, Howard. I treat you with less gravity because I know who you are. Your costume of 'one of the best' is see through. All the way to your bones, I see a puppy unworthy of his spot but one with the loudest bark. Now here we are, your chance to finally stand up and show the world that the name Howard Black carries weight. That old 'WCF dream match' that never was because you never were.
Your recent 'revelation' that you don't respect the Man Made Gods, but you fully support Carter Shaw and his 'opportunity' says all anyone ever needs to know about you. Shaw is swimming in money and power because he has the people backing him. Man Made Gods are swimming in money and power because we fucking earned it, Howard, something you know nothing about. Frank, Graham and I have battled the best and brightest for longer than you could fathom and here's Shaw, a man that signs his soul away to be a drone in a factory and you're the first to line up and drop to you knees.
That's not the Howard Black I know, he'd be whining about being overlooked by Philidor and not offered a bank to put their name on his tights. Something you'd do without hesitation. It's acknowledgement, it's a feather in the cap you desperately desire since your win/loss record is speaking louder than even your Tweets are. These are the people that put Baker in the hospital for standing up to them. That forced me to align myself with Walter for one night to show them that their actions will not be taken lightly. And you are pissed off that you're, once again, missing out. You want those leeches to latch on to your carefully crafted paper legacy to maybe bolster it up to cardboard. You're a pathetic man, Howard, a walking contradiction. It's a shock you didn't stab your brothers Crow and Kaz in the back to take the Philidor money and move out to California, you know Lincoln is a stain on the Midwest. Set yourself up on the beach, never have to worry about anything except showing up for work - but your work is almost done. Is that it, is that why you and Philidor didn't hook up? This grand illusion of a career coming to a close, your inability to sneak attack people after the biggest match of their life, preventing you from something so bank account inflating so instead you champion the people that did it instead of the people that oppose it?
You're a fucking piece of work, Howard, time and time again you show your hand and you expect people to just ignore it and play on as if I don't know you're holding a four and a six. The numbers you wore the last time you overcame the odds and achieved something you worked for. Your jersey now is stained by all the lies you've led. I'm going to hit you so hard that you fumble your ball and head right to the locker room of retirement without even consideration of the US Title you hold. Not that you consider it anyway, that's the Howard Black Championship for all you fuckin' care, the lineage begins and ends with your name because you're a narcissistic failure, a combination so dangerous even this country have turned their backs on one of your kin. That's not even your biggest problem, Howard.
Your biggest problem is you're looking across the ring at the personification of Fenrir, the great wolf. A devourer. A straight up killer. I will run through you with my mouth wide, consuming everything you have, Howard. Your sun, your moon, your life. Five times the in-ring career, one hundred times the impact. In fifty years when people are talking about 'that one wrestler guy, something Black' people will go 'who, Corey? Seifer? John? Jack? Jack Black was in the Havoc Rumble once.' Your name won't even be a whisper on the lips of the most hardcore of fans. Because while the belt reads Black, it will forever read Corey and never Howard.
The time for you name in lights has passed, you're in the twilight of your young career and you're giving up. You're simply done with something you have utterly failed at. Like a little lost boy that can't find his way home, instead of manning up, you curl into a ball to give up and die. Your legacy, what crumbs there are of it, are swept away here. I will not stand for such a mockery. You call your career a success, you're happy with what you've done enough to parade through 2020 in a tour spitting in the face of legend after legend as you go?
I was happy with mine. I had got my name above all in no time and kept it there for an entire generation. Era after era passed with no soul even coming close. My loyalty lied in the green and black, something you'd never understand. Then Action Wresting arose, a new challenge was put forth. A test of my strength without the threat of trickery. Purity, even. A clean slate to ply my craft. You use it as a decoration for your lineage. A stage to stand upon as you roll over into obscurity once again. Your name never to be spoke of, until another four years from now when you once again realize the end is never the end. Until you're in the ground, Howard, you will be unfulfilled. As I take this from you without mercy, on your supposed final night in Action Wrestling.. thank me for showing you the facade of YOUR retirement. I don't want any of this to change your mind, I just want you to open your eyes to things you already should have known. You're clearly no idiot, you've constructed a world where your name means something and strategically pulled the wool over the eyes of too many.
I will never even entertain such a thing as retirement for myself again. I know now that retirement is nothing more than a word people use to suggest they know not of how professional wrestling works. The intricacies in the gears. The oil that pumps through the hoses. I will see you again, and when I do, I will tell you that I told you so. From one man that has done it all and continues to be at the top of his game to another who never even had a career long enough to have a top - I told you so. Be it here, be it in the next company that forms in the ashes of Action Wrestling, whatever the future holds. One thing is for sure, I will rule with a clenched fist for however long I damn well please, for I am the King of All Wrestlers. And you, Howard Black, are but a lost boy in a King's land.
With a tear in your eye, I want you to show up after I defeat you and offer your hand to me. After I break all the chains you want to place on me to suit your own selfish means, the World Title match, my allegiances, my age and my standing, all the different chains I'll break and when your head lays on the floor after I take it off your shoulders, look up to your King and offer your hand to me, Howard. No sword you have will stop me from eliminating you from Wrestler of the Year. No weapon you have will cause me to fail. Four remain, three belong and one was put into the tournament as an afterthought. A gift for a leaving wrestler. Yet here you remain, a hallmark of your short time in this sport. Perhaps your only pillar beyond theft and treachery.
It's a long ... long way down, Howard. Down from the top of a tournament. To a division you so believe you have no business being in, yet have shown time and time again you're not fit for the main event scene. Squander what could be your break into the top of the card you believe you deserve as your time in the ring comes to a close. One last hurrah to twist and embellish. A happy ending you don't deserve. A happy sendoff you'll relive over and over instead of what you're going to get, a beat down and defeat you'll taste the sourness of until your dying day. When your family hopefully surrounds you, asking your memories of the short jaunt you had in wrestling, I want you to speak my name to them with the venom and salt you do so steadfast without warrant, simply because I am, will be and always have been better than you. A fact of your life you'll never be able to accept even in defeat. An admission not even I can beat out of you.
I'll surely fucking try, though. Elbow after elbow cascading upon your head like links of a broken chain."
Corey smiles wide, holding the World Title toward the roof and pressing the button on the remote, stopping the recording. He breathes in deep once again, before dropping out of the ring and heading back up the steps to find lights on and sounds coming from the entryway. Corey rushes to the balcony overlooking the front door, finding a villager and Graham Baker. Graham is in a wheelchair, bandaged but looking okay. They're also drenched.
"God DAMNIT Norway sucks. Corey how the fuck do you manage here?!"
A laugh from Black, he goes toward the steps and heads down.
"I'm used to it by now, Graham. I trust you're doing well?"
"Well enough, whatever this one gave me took most of the edge off."
Graham motions toward the villager, she smiles and nods.
"Well whatever you need, the village has. Just shout and it'll get done."
The village woman begins wheeling Graham toward the right side of the castle, a room with a bed that overlooks the village off the cliff.