Prologue: ...and Salt the Earth Behind You
Jan 10, 2021 19:09:10 GMT -5
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Post by Julian Park on Jan 10, 2021 19:09:10 GMT -5
Thud.
Clack.
The dart cut through the air, beginning to wobble just before sinking into the board. The board smacked back into the air upon impact. And the smiling waif in the picture taped to the dartboard just lost her eye.
Julian Park stood silent, watching his host — a thin young man in a suit cheaper than hispublic defender's — as he steadied his arm and threw a second dart, this one sinking into the woman's cheek.
"How's it feel, Jules?" the man asked, his eyes not moving from the board. "The fresh air doin' anything for ya?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it fresh, all things considered."
The man pondered Julian's response for a moment, then shrugged.
"Well, when you're right you're right, I guess. Still, though, you gotta admit it beats the holy hell out of—"
"I never said it didn't."
"Easy there, tiger," the man said with a sneer. "You might wanna find a more appropriate target for that latent aggression, lest our agreement falls apart before it even has a chance to start."
Julian raised his hands and backed away, taking a seat atop the back of a cheap leather couch.
"Right, the agreement." Julian's eyes darted up and fixated on the picture on the dartboard.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, yet. You gotta walk first before you run."
Make no mistake about it, Chief, Jayson Price is a degenerate. But more importantly, Jayson Price is a washed up literal 'who?' whose sole tangential claim to fame is being the biggest stat accumulator this side of Vinny fucking Testaverde. If you really want to dig deep into his past accomplishments in this business, you'll invariably find his greatest hits are the result of being too stubborn and too useless at anything else in life to stay away from the wrestling business for longer than eighteen months.
But don't get it twisted and think that makes him a walk in the park either, Jules. Regardless of how he got them, he still had to accumulate those stats, know what I mean?
That's good for you, though, actually. He's inflating himself on that shit like he always has and always will. To him, you're the nobody. To him, you're just a tune up match thrown to him so he can get in shape, maybe break a little sweat, and more importantly an excuse for him to 'justify' getting hot shotted into the world title picture in a week.
Why else would he be thrown against you? AW allegedly spent a shitton of money signing him up, there's no way they're gonna spend that kinda money on glorified mid-card filler, right?
So you get to go out and do what no one expects to happen: you get to put Jayson Price on his prissy little ass and blow up his grand return before it even gets off the ground. You get to make that hilariously awful contract this company inked to fucking Shadowlove of all people look like a sound investment when you dismantle the legend in your debut and make it clear that the only one of you with any sort of claim to being a future world champion is you.
And the best part is, he won't even see it coming. Of course he won't, he's him and you're you. I doubt he's even hit the gym once since this match was booked. No, he's too busy running around cosplaying Dan Blizerian while he treats the sixth renaissance of his career like Johnny Manziel. He can keep the Brink's trucks and the self hype and he can turn around and fucking choke on them when the music stops and the bell rings.
Because he doesn't have what you have at stake, does he Julian? No, I don't even know if he's fighting for legacy. I don't think that means much to him, given how willing he seems to piss it away in an industry that has evolved far past the need for his brand of sophomoric bullshit. I don't think thirteen year old boys idolize people like him anymore; I think they're too busy playing Fortnite and looking up Juice WRLD to give a general fuck about some 13-going on-40 wash up too enamored with the smell of his own shit to realize his market share's dwindling by the second.
He fights because this is his comfort blanket. He already got the big contract, after all. He's all fat and happy.
This doesn't have the same stakes to him as it does to you, does it Jules? He ain't willing to do what you're willing to do to keep yourself from sinking under the waves. If he fails, it means jack shit. If you fail, well, you know how that one ends.
So I ain't hoping for shit from you. I'm not even expecting anything. I fucking know you're going to come out and knock this hasbeen's head clean off his shoulders for even having the gall to try and stand toe to toe with you. You're gonna show the "South Street Nightmare" that the Wolf ain't some cutesy nickname some marketic exec coined and that unlike him, everything you drape yourself in is nothing less than the pure, uncut truth.
And he's not going to have an answer for it, because this was supposed to be his tune up fight. This was supposed to be about him.
You're going to break it to him as harshly as you possibly can: this was never about him. And it never will be about him. So long as you're on the other side of the equation, Jayson Price will always be relegated to the supporting role.
You want your fresh start, Julian?
Then start with this relic of a past that's better off forgotten. Burn him to the fucking ground and salt the earth behind you.
Clack.
The dart cut through the air, beginning to wobble just before sinking into the board. The board smacked back into the air upon impact. And the smiling waif in the picture taped to the dartboard just lost her eye.
Julian Park stood silent, watching his host — a thin young man in a suit cheaper than his
"How's it feel, Jules?" the man asked, his eyes not moving from the board. "The fresh air doin' anything for ya?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it fresh, all things considered."
The man pondered Julian's response for a moment, then shrugged.
"Well, when you're right you're right, I guess. Still, though, you gotta admit it beats the holy hell out of—"
"I never said it didn't."
"Easy there, tiger," the man said with a sneer. "You might wanna find a more appropriate target for that latent aggression, lest our agreement falls apart before it even has a chance to start."
Julian raised his hands and backed away, taking a seat atop the back of a cheap leather couch.
"Right, the agreement." Julian's eyes darted up and fixated on the picture on the dartboard.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, yet. You gotta walk first before you run."
Make no mistake about it, Chief, Jayson Price is a degenerate. But more importantly, Jayson Price is a washed up literal 'who?' whose sole tangential claim to fame is being the biggest stat accumulator this side of Vinny fucking Testaverde. If you really want to dig deep into his past accomplishments in this business, you'll invariably find his greatest hits are the result of being too stubborn and too useless at anything else in life to stay away from the wrestling business for longer than eighteen months.
But don't get it twisted and think that makes him a walk in the park either, Jules. Regardless of how he got them, he still had to accumulate those stats, know what I mean?
That's good for you, though, actually. He's inflating himself on that shit like he always has and always will. To him, you're the nobody. To him, you're just a tune up match thrown to him so he can get in shape, maybe break a little sweat, and more importantly an excuse for him to 'justify' getting hot shotted into the world title picture in a week.
Why else would he be thrown against you? AW allegedly spent a shitton of money signing him up, there's no way they're gonna spend that kinda money on glorified mid-card filler, right?
So you get to go out and do what no one expects to happen: you get to put Jayson Price on his prissy little ass and blow up his grand return before it even gets off the ground. You get to make that hilariously awful contract this company inked to fucking Shadowlove of all people look like a sound investment when you dismantle the legend in your debut and make it clear that the only one of you with any sort of claim to being a future world champion is you.
And the best part is, he won't even see it coming. Of course he won't, he's him and you're you. I doubt he's even hit the gym once since this match was booked. No, he's too busy running around cosplaying Dan Blizerian while he treats the sixth renaissance of his career like Johnny Manziel. He can keep the Brink's trucks and the self hype and he can turn around and fucking choke on them when the music stops and the bell rings.
Because he doesn't have what you have at stake, does he Julian? No, I don't even know if he's fighting for legacy. I don't think that means much to him, given how willing he seems to piss it away in an industry that has evolved far past the need for his brand of sophomoric bullshit. I don't think thirteen year old boys idolize people like him anymore; I think they're too busy playing Fortnite and looking up Juice WRLD to give a general fuck about some 13-going on-40 wash up too enamored with the smell of his own shit to realize his market share's dwindling by the second.
He fights because this is his comfort blanket. He already got the big contract, after all. He's all fat and happy.
This doesn't have the same stakes to him as it does to you, does it Jules? He ain't willing to do what you're willing to do to keep yourself from sinking under the waves. If he fails, it means jack shit. If you fail, well, you know how that one ends.
So I ain't hoping for shit from you. I'm not even expecting anything. I fucking know you're going to come out and knock this hasbeen's head clean off his shoulders for even having the gall to try and stand toe to toe with you. You're gonna show the "South Street Nightmare" that the Wolf ain't some cutesy nickname some marketic exec coined and that unlike him, everything you drape yourself in is nothing less than the pure, uncut truth.
And he's not going to have an answer for it, because this was supposed to be his tune up fight. This was supposed to be about him.
You're going to break it to him as harshly as you possibly can: this was never about him. And it never will be about him. So long as you're on the other side of the equation, Jayson Price will always be relegated to the supporting role.
You want your fresh start, Julian?
Then start with this relic of a past that's better off forgotten. Burn him to the fucking ground and salt the earth behind you.