Post by Fortune on Dec 5, 2020 19:31:52 GMT -5
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was…
‘Hey, you!’
‘Come here, my young friend. You will be my helper for my next trick. If you’re lucky, you might even get some quid out of it.’’
The thing with these street magicians was that you could never determine the quality until you had been subjected to one of their tricks. And the issue with being subjected to said tricks was the fact that, if it was nothing but a waste of time, well it was just that, wasted time.
And Time was everything.
Arthur’s friends who stood by his side cheered him on, obnoxiously slapping his shoulders and back as they ushered him forth.
The magician’s outfit was mildly offensive. To call it a cheap approximation would be accurate. The top hat was old and weathered, the same could be said for both his coat and pointed shoes, which looked as though they longed for nothing more than an hour’s worth of diligent, uninterrupted polishing by a steady hand.
If only he had a mask to cover that terrible, pock ridden face. Perhaps then Arthur, or anyone else around them for that manner, could have taken this weasel seriously.
As many knew, “magic” was nothing more than misdirection and sleight of hand. Have a foundation of those two skills, a dash of charisma and charm, and learn the process behind executing the trick and you could call yourself a magician.
Real magic was something only the Lord could grant.
The trick was amateurish at best, but it would’ve been enough to fool most of the people in attendance, if not all. The pockmarked man challenged him to figure out where he had hidden the fifty-pound note he had presented to the crowd. A real one. He made a show of waving his arms around, eyes locked on Arthur’s own. All the while chatting away, lulling the audience to sleep and then, the Question.
‘My good friend! Tell me, where is the note?’
Both fists were balled up, simulating the act of holding the note which the “victim” of his trick sought. With a hole small enough to not be sniffed out as an obvious ploy, but wide enough to seem like nothing more than an honest mistake, a portion of a fake bill stuck out.
Most, assuming him to be a poor trickster, would call out his error, only to be surprised when the note had in fact been slipped up his left sleeve, the same one which had contained the fake replacement note.
Arthur’s Eyes were not mistaken. From as long as he could remember, they never were.
Embarrassed by his failure to fool the teenager, the magician begrudgingly coughed up the money.
"That was lucky.” he muttered under his breath. ‘I must have messed up.’
It never hurt to tell a lie.
The coin rolled across his leather-clad hand, catching the light from the ceiling of the Gambler’s Den he found himself in. Tonight was quieter than usual, largely in part due to the presence of the Action Wrestling camera crew who, in the eyes of many of these lesser minds who populated the room, may have potentially caught some of their nefarious actions on video.
An employee of the company had contacted Fortune earlier, sometime during the afternoon, wondering if they could organize a time and place for the recording of his World Cup introductory video.
With a chuckle made partially deeper by the mask he wore, Fortune had replied: “Of course! It would be an honor and a privilege. Be warned, though! You will have to enter my domain for this occasion. Do not fear, we are a welcoming bunch. And please, ignore the stench.”
The musk of body odor, spilled beverages and vomit greeted the men as they made their descent down a shoddy stairwell and emerged into a half filled room, different groups scattered around the joint. Toward the back of the room was an unmanned bar, the counter top home to a couple of dozing men and some shards of glass that were concerningly close to them.
It didn’t take them long to spot Fortune in the corner, by his lonesome. Before they approached him, they received a warning from a patron of the definitely legal premise that they were stood in.
“Don’t make bets with that one. He’ll hustle you for all you’re worth. They say he’s got good luck. Ha! I just think he’s a damn cheat.’
Bit on the nose, wasn’t it?
When they arrived at his table, he motioned for them to take seats around the table. They obliged, their camera propped up on the table, recording Fortune. He flicked the coin off his knuckles, catching it with the same hand and placing it in his pocket. Though they could not see his eyes, each man felt like the gaze levelled upon them was filled with a particular intent that they could not put their fingers on.
“Welcome, welcome. Would anyone like to play a round of cards?”
The men exchanged puzzled looks between one another.
“I thought we were here to interview you?” the cameraman said.
“Oh, but of course! Just an offer to pass the time. While I am a showman of the highest degree, I do believe that listening to me drone on about my work may become a little tiresome without some added stimulation.’
‘We’ll be okay. We do have a job to do.’
‘Yes, yes. You are correct. It would be rude of me to interfere with your duties. Perhaps some other time, then.’
He cleared his throat.
‘Shall we begin?’
"How do you feel about representing your country in the World Cup? And from what you’ve seen, are you worried about any of your upcoming opponents?"
"I apologize, but do you mind if I take the lead here? I do not wish to offend you, but your questions feel forced. Generic, even. Our results might be more enlightening if I approach this with a free flowing consciousness, what do you think?"
"Okay?"
"Thank you."
He bowed his head, top hat hardly moving an inch.
‘Hey, you!’
‘Me?’ Arthur Medici-Ball, the youngest of his extensive Italian-English family, said.
The thing with these street magicians was that you could never determine the quality until you had been subjected to one of their tricks. And the issue with being subjected to said tricks was the fact that, if it was nothing but a waste of time, well it was just that, wasted time.
And Time was everything.
Arthur’s friends who stood by his side cheered him on, obnoxiously slapping his shoulders and back as they ushered him forth.
The magician’s outfit was mildly offensive. To call it a cheap approximation would be accurate. The top hat was old and weathered, the same could be said for both his coat and pointed shoes, which looked as though they longed for nothing more than an hour’s worth of diligent, uninterrupted polishing by a steady hand.
If only he had a mask to cover that terrible, pock ridden face. Perhaps then Arthur, or anyone else around them for that manner, could have taken this weasel seriously.
As many knew, “magic” was nothing more than misdirection and sleight of hand. Have a foundation of those two skills, a dash of charisma and charm, and learn the process behind executing the trick and you could call yourself a magician.
Real magic was something only the Lord could grant.
The trick was amateurish at best, but it would’ve been enough to fool most of the people in attendance, if not all. The pockmarked man challenged him to figure out where he had hidden the fifty-pound note he had presented to the crowd. A real one. He made a show of waving his arms around, eyes locked on Arthur’s own. All the while chatting away, lulling the audience to sleep and then, the Question.
‘My good friend! Tell me, where is the note?’
Both fists were balled up, simulating the act of holding the note which the “victim” of his trick sought. With a hole small enough to not be sniffed out as an obvious ploy, but wide enough to seem like nothing more than an honest mistake, a portion of a fake bill stuck out.
Most, assuming him to be a poor trickster, would call out his error, only to be surprised when the note had in fact been slipped up his left sleeve, the same one which had contained the fake replacement note.
Arthur’s Eyes were not mistaken. From as long as he could remember, they never were.
Embarrassed by his failure to fool the teenager, the magician begrudgingly coughed up the money.
"That was lucky.” he muttered under his breath. ‘I must have messed up.’
"I think you’re right." Arthur replied.
It never hurt to tell a lie.
<><><>
For a moment, consider the professional and the performer.
The professional is revered in amounts equal to his level of competency. For the efficiency of his movements and the effectiveness of the result of said movements. There is no other level upon which he is judged. And if there is, he cares little for it. There is no enjoyment gained out of exaggeration, out of making something more difficult than it needed to be. The only thing that mattered for a professional was the results of his or her work, and that was final.
In a similar way, the performer also desires to optimize their process. To become fluid. To be one with the Art they created. The stories they told and the blank canvases they brought to life. Everything mattered to the performer. The result, the response, the manner in which their task was completed. Was it Beautiful?
If it was not Beautiful, then it was not Worthy.
Professionals look down upon Performers because they focus too much on the details. Too many whys, too many questions. A professional only cared about two things: The what and the how. Nothing more, nothing less.
But this could not possibly stand for long, could it? This was not right. This was not what was intended when He brought us upon this planet. With all its creatures and landscapes. With the flowing of the wind and the ocean tides. With the golden sun that shone and brought light upon our days.
All this had been thrown aside. No care remained for hidden meanings or intent. Desires became simple. Close-minded. Barbaric. Their backs had been turned to what mattered most.
And he was the only one left that could show them the way.
There is an in between state that can be achieved. An ideal that few understand and even fewer can reach. It is the one who takes the best aspects of the professionals and the performers who becomes something greater. Contrary to common belief, you did not need to sacrifice one in order to be the other. The one who finds the balance becomes what both dream of becoming.
An Icon.
<><><>
The coin rolled across his leather-clad hand, catching the light from the ceiling of the Gambler’s Den he found himself in. Tonight was quieter than usual, largely in part due to the presence of the Action Wrestling camera crew who, in the eyes of many of these lesser minds who populated the room, may have potentially caught some of their nefarious actions on video.
An employee of the company had contacted Fortune earlier, sometime during the afternoon, wondering if they could organize a time and place for the recording of his World Cup introductory video.
With a chuckle made partially deeper by the mask he wore, Fortune had replied: “Of course! It would be an honor and a privilege. Be warned, though! You will have to enter my domain for this occasion. Do not fear, we are a welcoming bunch. And please, ignore the stench.”
The musk of body odor, spilled beverages and vomit greeted the men as they made their descent down a shoddy stairwell and emerged into a half filled room, different groups scattered around the joint. Toward the back of the room was an unmanned bar, the counter top home to a couple of dozing men and some shards of glass that were concerningly close to them.
It didn’t take them long to spot Fortune in the corner, by his lonesome. Before they approached him, they received a warning from a patron of the definitely legal premise that they were stood in.
“Don’t make bets with that one. He’ll hustle you for all you’re worth. They say he’s got good luck. Ha! I just think he’s a damn cheat.’
Bit on the nose, wasn’t it?
When they arrived at his table, he motioned for them to take seats around the table. They obliged, their camera propped up on the table, recording Fortune. He flicked the coin off his knuckles, catching it with the same hand and placing it in his pocket. Though they could not see his eyes, each man felt like the gaze levelled upon them was filled with a particular intent that they could not put their fingers on.
“Welcome, welcome. Would anyone like to play a round of cards?”
The men exchanged puzzled looks between one another.
“I thought we were here to interview you?” the cameraman said.
“Oh, but of course! Just an offer to pass the time. While I am a showman of the highest degree, I do believe that listening to me drone on about my work may become a little tiresome without some added stimulation.’
‘We’ll be okay. We do have a job to do.’
‘Yes, yes. You are correct. It would be rude of me to interfere with your duties. Perhaps some other time, then.’
He cleared his throat.
‘Shall we begin?’
<><><>
The concept of Gods is an interesting one. Carvings were worshipped, then rocks, and then statues, until they became conceivable. The Mind’s Eye is a powerful thing and cannot be underestimated.
Humans needed Gods out of convenience. Without them, the dark times would prove too much for them to bear. In prayer they found solace.
Gods needed Humans out of necessity. A God without believers was not much of anything at all. But equally important to believers were those Chosen by the Gods themselves to represent them. To spread their Word.
Only the most fortunate, the most blessed, would be granted this privilege.
And they would take it with open arms.
<><><>
"How do you feel about representing your country in the World Cup? And from what you’ve seen, are you worried about any of your upcoming opponents?"
"I apologize, but do you mind if I take the lead here? I do not wish to offend you, but your questions feel forced. Generic, even. Our results might be more enlightening if I approach this with a free flowing consciousness, what do you think?"
"Okay?"
"Thank you."
He bowed his head, top hat hardly moving an inch.
“Greetings, friends. I am Fortune, but you may call me whatever you like. Some would say I am a man of many talents, others would believe me a fraud. My favorite pastime is predicting things. I am not always correct, but as I grow in age, I discover that my abilities are becoming more accurate by the day.
Soon I will enter combat with some fine specimens from across the globe. A momentous occasion for all to bear witness to. Some would liken this to gladiators representing different Houses, keen to show their Masters that they are worthy of being set free.
I feel the opposite. While many of these athletes will feel the pressure to succeed, to prove themselves worthy, I have no such fears. I arrive at Action Wrestling with a different goal altogether: I wish nothing more than to set you all free.
Free from these chains that constrict you! Yes, even the supposed free spirits of this wonderful organization are caught deep in despair. Only something Magnificent could make these binds disappear.
Too many petty squabbles plague this world, and Action Wrestling is no exception. Allow this World Cup to provide a breath of fresh air in a land that has otherwise been thrust into darkness.
The battle for supremacy continues, but they pay no attention to the victims that suffer for it. Legendary combatants cut each other down for the chance at gold, for nothing but their own legacies and sense of grandeur.
It is sad that so few of you see the artistry behind this sport. The Art of breaking someone down, of building them back up. The ability to create something greater than your own independent, separated list of achievements. Sadly, I feel as though this is what many of those who I will be sharing the ring with at this event are hoping for.
And it is up to me to show them why they are in the wrong.
There are no greater goals that these men possess. They are capable, they are physically imposing, and I am quite sure many of them have an interesting tale or two to tell themselves! But what you find below the surface, I assure you will be disappointing. Shallow.
I do not wish to offend. Not all need to strive for something beyond what they already know. Some do not feel the need to delve into the meaning of things. The way the Mind and the World work or the way we can change things.
But some were destined to, and I cannot help but feel that I was blessed with the ability to do so. Thus, it is my responsibility to guide you.
I do not deserve this anymore than you do. I do not expect any of you to make way for me to take the cup. I expect mental and physical challenges. Puzzles to be solved. Learning experiences to take with me as I begin this journey.
And oh, what a journey it will be.
I once spent a week out on the street. Not by circumstance, but by choice. I was ungrateful for the life I had been given, and thought myself worthy of more. Of course, I was wrong. But I was young. These things happen.
The week was a battle of attrition. Character building, some would call it. I think back on this now and smile, realizing that this will be much the same. The competitors I stand across from will have physical advantages over me, experience advantages, and more things that I cannot account for. These are not things I was blessed with. These are not things I have worked to have or maintain.
But my Mind and these Eyes may make up for all, if given the chance.
Some call me crazy. “He sees things that are not there.” I never understood what they meant by that. I see the world just as the rest of you do. Or so I thought.
I am not special, but I do believe myself blessed in other ways.
There is illusion, and there is being elusive. You will find I am a master of both. When you try to find me, whether it be with a strike, or just trying to find where I am attacking from, you may be surprised to find that I am not there at all. Do not be alarmed. You are not fighting a ghost. I am very much real.
The thing about my skill-set is that it is not something you can prepare or gameplan for. I understand that is a big part of this business. Studying film. Watching for tells. Figuring out how someone operates. I much enjoy the psychology behind the process of it all.
But when you are misdirected, you are not aware of it until it has already happened. When I appear behind you, or by your side, or with my elbow piercing through your defense and connecting with your jaw or temple, it will already be too late.
The Shadows have always been my friend.
I sometimes wonder what will happen if they turn their back on me. If my games become too tiresome for them. I’ve thought of that possibility happening during this event, and realized that if that were to happen, I may be caught with no escape. If I do not execute to perfection, I will be broken. That much I understand. There are men heads taller than me who could destroy me with one hand if they caught me.
That is why I must have Faith.
For a prophet with no belief in his own teachings is nothing at all, is he?
And a magician without confidence in his tricks will always be at risk of showing what is behind the curtain.
I wonder what secrets I will discover when I enter the ring. Will I find that Denir Acar is more than an esteemed grappler from Turkey with a reputation that precedes him?
There is talk of a Forgotten Beast who will be hunting during this Cup. Perhaps it will be his fangs that are the deadliest, even in his advanced age.
Word has travelled quickly about the seven foot, four hundred and fifty pound behemoth from Wales, and I wait with anticipation to see what man of his sheer scale can accomplish.
The same sentiment I can give to The Samoan Striker. An accomplished athlete, but a man who I believe is without the purpose I mentioned before. A journeyman of multiple companies. Someone who has not found themselves yet. I hope to show you what has yet to be harnessed from within you.
I could pose these questions and hypotheticals for each of you, but it would be meaningless. The Word is important, but without Art and without intent, it is nothing. My words require me to perform, or they will be lost.
And while victory is not my priority, it may have to be for this one night, to help open eyes that have long been shut.
A marvelous show is about to commence. It will be unlike any other you have seen before. As a professional, I take my work seriously. As a performer, I wish nothing more than to entertain all of you. Let me create a film for you, a story about a faceless man with a dream. A tale not about a hero, or a villain. Just a symbol of something worth fighting for. A shepherd of sorts, who strives to bring you from an old age, into a new, more prosperous one.
I said earlier you may call me what you want. This is in no way a lie. I have been called many things during my time roaming this world. Delusional. Heretic. Thief. Scoundrel. Cheat. False Prophet. Devil. Reaper.
Some are more accurate than others.
But there is one that represents me best.
Search your heart. Reach for my soul and be touched by it, and you will know me for what I am.
The Truth.
<><><>
People will fall into line when they are guided.
They do not want to bear the weight of responsibility.
Take too much of it, and it will break you.
People would rather be told what they need to do.
That’s where We come in.
We are those who are not seen.
We are those who fight for the greater good.
We are those that are judged, mocked and criticized for our belief.
But when the light of our New World shines upon them, they will follow,
And Good Fortune awaits those who follow.