Post by Deleted on Mar 14, 2021 5:51:44 GMT -5
Today’s bus ride has the aging Mr. Abraham on the move. Several moments from the previous week elude him up to that final moment. He, unlike those in his midst, insists on wearing a proper face covering with that royal blue and cadmium yellow AW for emphasis of his otherwise illustrious position in life. Like those old hardcore goons, it hugs his features in such a way that Abraham looks unwell.
He senses this in some ways yet allows the gulf waves by their current stop crash into white water. He lathers his senses in the moment with gluttonous appetite, allowing himself both a musical foot and waxing towards poetic.
“Pathetic. Not in the sense of lost duty. No, pathetic in that there’s a futile attempt to grasp my target and wring him from all those tepid distractions vying for his divided attention span. How I’ve try to cultivate in Bathory the same sense of importance I did years ago.
Why—why must you be this isolate to the truth? Have I not bee that beneficial a teacher? Am I not the proctor of inspiring moments? Perhaps I’m no longer a lighthouse to lost souls because I cannot reach the youth of today. One day they will see… that all I have tried to accomplish today was for his betterment. Only then will the hard days of now invert and then be lauded in retrospect.”
A dark pair of sunglasses turn that placid blue water purple, as if filtered by a wet Jolly Rancher.
”But I am have more of the Savior’s work to do this week. For it seems the past has a way of always streaking in my path. Black cats, I swear, streaking by me in ways even I find preposterous.
There’s no worse luck than having to face a demon of the old days. Someone I would never have faced 180 pounds ago. Nor could I have bought a moment of his time. No fan would have paid to see it either.
I want to be the best, but never sacrifice who or what I pledged to be years ago. And I certainly won’t relinquish my character now… even as I get a chance to face Jayson Price for the very first time. My old self—masked as and foolish as I was then—would never admit to feeling, well, giddy. Yet here my blood pumps in excitement. For now, I will have a chance to topple an old cairn from the days of WCF. But am I ready—and more importantly, is that young star Bathory bothering to watch?”
His hike of the sands leads Mr. Abraham to a gazebo. Its plaque dedicates its construction to a Maurice Van Fleet for “over 40 years of meritorious service of the Parks and Recreational Services” in a wailing shade of weathered bronze. Abe pats a fond recognition to the man, whether he be dead or not, as he looks to calm his mind with a seat in Maurice’s monument.
”The merits of a good man die in the ring. Only those valiant and daring enough to break convention win the greatest prizes.
If I were to follow an example… I suppose Price’s would be one of those classic personalities to emulate. Except that I am to the point of no return in my skillsets. While it’s neither prudent nor wise to say that old dogs cannot learn tricks. The sheer willpower to retain them at my age begs to differ.
I have the same regard to Dionysus, but simply because I want to have the majesty of questing in my blood again. One lacking energy to age is how this game never changes. It proves the point with wandering specters like Price and myself, albeit my utter insignificance by comparison to an archaic sport. Age does wonders to a secret until it is ready to reveal itself: That is certainty.
To think some people still have maturation at his age brings us to a moment mute serenity… in that people like Dionysus tempt others to clarify them in the French tradition where only the simply, saline essence remains. Scraped off the scorched surface of a saucepan: An overdone hollandaise whose roux reddened past that perfect brick hue—one minute beyond perfection—when the flavors burn out for good. You can scrounge for a perfect ruffle or peppery chanterelle, but if the process is wrong, so too is your intended dish. Perhaps… lunch is better now than bitter surmising.”
Abraham has since regrouped with his party of simple folk to relay his next big premonition. They gather around a crab bake with about two dozens all safely distanced amongst three large eating tables.
”Friends, I am no longer the prophet you wish me to be. But that does not mean our mission is over. On the contrary, it has only begun spinning its less sinister webs. I could animate my emotions to match the saccharides—I mean sweet taste of last week’s victory. Yet we are far from finished.
One disciple remains out of reach. His name is Byron Bathory. Yet the only way to reach him is by leaving our comfortable confines, thus entering a world of sin. Only then shall we ever see the end of darkness in Action Wrestling, dearest flock. Only then will the healing begin.
So call him out on every device. Urge him to return from his private shadows and rejoin the light of day. Otherwise, every petulant bramble along my journal will have been for nothing. I beg you now, bring him in love towards our glorious faith.
Amen.”
Everyone bows their heads before chowing down on the crab bake.
He senses this in some ways yet allows the gulf waves by their current stop crash into white water. He lathers his senses in the moment with gluttonous appetite, allowing himself both a musical foot and waxing towards poetic.
“Pathetic. Not in the sense of lost duty. No, pathetic in that there’s a futile attempt to grasp my target and wring him from all those tepid distractions vying for his divided attention span. How I’ve try to cultivate in Bathory the same sense of importance I did years ago.
Why—why must you be this isolate to the truth? Have I not bee that beneficial a teacher? Am I not the proctor of inspiring moments? Perhaps I’m no longer a lighthouse to lost souls because I cannot reach the youth of today. One day they will see… that all I have tried to accomplish today was for his betterment. Only then will the hard days of now invert and then be lauded in retrospect.”
A dark pair of sunglasses turn that placid blue water purple, as if filtered by a wet Jolly Rancher.
”But I am have more of the Savior’s work to do this week. For it seems the past has a way of always streaking in my path. Black cats, I swear, streaking by me in ways even I find preposterous.
There’s no worse luck than having to face a demon of the old days. Someone I would never have faced 180 pounds ago. Nor could I have bought a moment of his time. No fan would have paid to see it either.
I want to be the best, but never sacrifice who or what I pledged to be years ago. And I certainly won’t relinquish my character now… even as I get a chance to face Jayson Price for the very first time. My old self—masked as and foolish as I was then—would never admit to feeling, well, giddy. Yet here my blood pumps in excitement. For now, I will have a chance to topple an old cairn from the days of WCF. But am I ready—and more importantly, is that young star Bathory bothering to watch?”
His hike of the sands leads Mr. Abraham to a gazebo. Its plaque dedicates its construction to a Maurice Van Fleet for “over 40 years of meritorious service of the Parks and Recreational Services” in a wailing shade of weathered bronze. Abe pats a fond recognition to the man, whether he be dead or not, as he looks to calm his mind with a seat in Maurice’s monument.
”The merits of a good man die in the ring. Only those valiant and daring enough to break convention win the greatest prizes.
If I were to follow an example… I suppose Price’s would be one of those classic personalities to emulate. Except that I am to the point of no return in my skillsets. While it’s neither prudent nor wise to say that old dogs cannot learn tricks. The sheer willpower to retain them at my age begs to differ.
I have the same regard to Dionysus, but simply because I want to have the majesty of questing in my blood again. One lacking energy to age is how this game never changes. It proves the point with wandering specters like Price and myself, albeit my utter insignificance by comparison to an archaic sport. Age does wonders to a secret until it is ready to reveal itself: That is certainty.
To think some people still have maturation at his age brings us to a moment mute serenity… in that people like Dionysus tempt others to clarify them in the French tradition where only the simply, saline essence remains. Scraped off the scorched surface of a saucepan: An overdone hollandaise whose roux reddened past that perfect brick hue—one minute beyond perfection—when the flavors burn out for good. You can scrounge for a perfect ruffle or peppery chanterelle, but if the process is wrong, so too is your intended dish. Perhaps… lunch is better now than bitter surmising.”
Abraham has since regrouped with his party of simple folk to relay his next big premonition. They gather around a crab bake with about two dozens all safely distanced amongst three large eating tables.
”Friends, I am no longer the prophet you wish me to be. But that does not mean our mission is over. On the contrary, it has only begun spinning its less sinister webs. I could animate my emotions to match the saccharides—I mean sweet taste of last week’s victory. Yet we are far from finished.
One disciple remains out of reach. His name is Byron Bathory. Yet the only way to reach him is by leaving our comfortable confines, thus entering a world of sin. Only then shall we ever see the end of darkness in Action Wrestling, dearest flock. Only then will the healing begin.
So call him out on every device. Urge him to return from his private shadows and rejoin the light of day. Otherwise, every petulant bramble along my journal will have been for nothing. I beg you now, bring him in love towards our glorious faith.
Amen.”
Everyone bows their heads before chowing down on the crab bake.