Post by ππ’π₯ππ¬ πππππ on Mar 28, 2021 17:03:58 GMT -5
"Corey Black needs this." A small light in the right hand corner of whatever screen you're watching this on slowly comes to life, dimly illuminating its surroundings. The sneering face of the King of All Wrestlers, a wall, the arm of a chair. "The talk of the town, the words written on the wall. I need this. To stay at the top, to vanquish a little voice that's been in the back of my head since October. Two decades at the pinnacle of the sport all washed away. It's long overdue, they'll say. Even the two that have seen it first hand since their earliest years. I expect it from the masked mental patient's handlers. I welcome it from the suplexing Cinderella. I'll endure it from the corporate princess. Inside the Chamber, everyone's sins will be brought forth and judged. Even mine. Especially mine." He leans back, spinning the chair and facing behind him. One by one the different sized televisions that are mounted on the wall in a random, sometimes confusing pattern light up. Skewed slants and mismatching rows, varying photos of the participants in this match are displayed in glorious high definition. The room lights up from the humming glow of the plasma, LCD and whatever else, showing Corey Black's full black on black suit. Hair combed back, beard neatly shaped. He turns back around and the screens all change to photos of a singular participant. "Kyle Kemp is envy. Everything Kyle has done leading to this point is because he pines for the top. He wants nothing more to be taken seriously and viewed as someone as good, or better, than the men he was overlooked for years ago. Envious of the top of the card, desiring recognition as even half of what he views himself as. Leader of The Following, Tag Team Champion, the revered Walter Slayer. A lesser man would dismiss Kyle, something I have done many times leading to this moment. A person of low worth would laugh and tell Kyle that this has already gone down. He challenged me for the Hardcore Title and he crashed horribly. That was his chance at gaining everything he wanted. I told him he was just 'some guy' and in that moment, he was. Since then, The Following has taken shape - and since that, they have been just as dismissed as Kyle was before. Wesley and Dandy didn't need 'leadership,' Kyle isn't worth taking up arms for, a plethora of venom spewed in their direction. And in that moment, it was deserved. Showing up at the end of XIII, surrounding us and showing their collective might. They could have stepped in and left us broken and bloodied. They didn't. Months later, I and standing toe to toe with Philidor and my own Doom Squad, who shows up? The Following. Now, coincidence or not, I owe a debt of gratitude. One was lost in the battle but at least it was a fight instead of a bloodbath. It doesn't heal all wounds, but Kyle Kemp - I thank you for your assistance on that day. But that was then you envious string bean bitch, this is now and inside the Chamber with the World Title on the line, I'm going to leave you a fucking smear on the canvas just as I did in Saudi Arabia and make you want MY spotlight that much more. Reach for it, clamor for it, you'll NEVER be the top dog when I am alive and breathing. You will forever just be some guy in my shadow. Ride high on your defeats of Walter and the very Wrestler of the Year that beat me on his way to his title, shine your Tag Team belt up and use it as a mirror to look into and realize you've reached your peak. You're experiencing a career renaissance that is about to go the way of the ACTUAL Renaissance - total history, bud. Except people aren't going to meet up in the local park for five bucks a day and dress up like their favorite failed baseball player, you'll end up some obscure question on Jeopardy that nobody will buzz in for because you aren't worth the fucking headspace it takes to remember you." Corey turns to the screens which shift from Kyle Kemp to Spencer Adams, throughout the years. A chuckle from Corey before he begins. "Spencer Adams is pride. A puffed chest, a look of confidence, the pedigree to prove it - but a man that will stop at nothing to remind you again and again that he is the - self proclaimed - greatest of all time. A guy that only really got traction here in Action Wrestling and has built this ego on a mere four years - excuse me, like two years - of activity. I can't begin to count how many times he had to remind everyone that he and Lockhart beat Baker and I for the Tag Titles. On October twelfth. Look, Spencer, I understand finally getting that feather in your cap of pinning my tag partner really cemented your place as the greatest, but as much as that stung - it's a footnote in the history books at best. That's just you though, every little victory is met with fireworks and a marching band because 'oh fuck me it's Spencer Adams!' the guy Howard Black has been cucking in the ring and in life for the last five years. 'But Corey,' you're surely saying to yourself, 'if Spencer can call himself the greatest then how can you call yourself the king?' Well, you see, I'm not the only person that calls me that. Spencer Adams IS the only person calling himself the GOAT. I don't see people lining up to fight the guy that used to wash DRG's bikes. They ARE forming a long, LONG line to square up with me because I've earned it. Spencer Adams is good. I won't take that away from him. I will take his chance at the World Title, his chance at bolstering his fragile ego and his will to continue on. Will it be a return to Slab City, a new girlfriend or a new super friends tag team that you turn to in order to rejuvenate yourself? Every rut you have put yourself in, you come out of it with a new coat of paint but you're always the same fuckin' Spencer Adams. Thrice a year superstar, rest of it afterthought. Hardcore Champion after it was cool but just happy to be on the header, popping himself every time he sees it. Your name in gold is all that matters. It's the name of the game, I get, but when it defines you - that's when it becomes a sin. It's a sickness of your entire generation of talent and believe me, there's no antidote for that." Corey's piercing eyes stare through the camera, he turns to the screens which horrifically morph into Der Metzger. "Der Metzger is wrath. An unleashed beast hell bent on causing suffering. Der Metzger's steadfast brutality only brought on by the staff of Devil's Gate playing God. Pete Harper's iron fist of destruction. A formidable task, possibly. For people that haven't been in the clutches of wrath before. I know the darkness. I was bathed in it for years. I know what it is like to be a spectator in your own body as it is driven by something else. But nobody is bulletproof. Tubby Michael Myers has run through the competition to the US TItle and that shit stops here. Here and now Devil's Gate faces the force that they thought they were. Like a Sherman tank running into a freight train. How fitting it is this World Title Match is encased in steel linked cage? Behind bars, sequestered from the world the way Der Metzger should be. A plague brought forth by nature but cultivated for the scientific and surely monetary gain he brings to those who handle him. It's a tragedy, isn't it? Should I feel bad for this shell of what once was a man? Or should I put his ass out to pasture like the government should have done? More fitting a coffin than a wrestling ring, but that would be said about half of this roster, believe it or not Der Metzger fits in well. I'm not sure what that actually says about Action Wrestling, all things considered. I've already dispatched one mongrel, what's another? I don't carry a shield anymore, I'm not some kind of avenging hero - I'm just a guy that's fighting for what he believes in. That grotesque avatar of wrath fights because that's what he's programmed to do. No compassion, no empathy, no goals other than bloodshed and hate. Doing the work for men that couldn't do it themselves so they created their own murderous super soldier from a disturbed soul. Real fuckin' cute. Fabricated glory, a lifetime of suffering for a few fleeting moments of success. What happens when I drive my elbow through this fucking guy's skull and lobotomize him? Sever the ties that bind and shut off the Metzger. I'm not in this match to make excuses or make anyone's name. I'm here to brutalize, hurt and win. If that means I'm destroying a weapon that cost a sector's entire budget to make, well Steinmeier, put it on Action Wrestling's tab. Chop his ass up and sell him for parts, bring on the next Human Centipede and I'll send that thing back in pieces as well. Ich bin der KΓΆnig aller Wrestler. Du bist nur eine kleine Schlampe." The masked face slowly fades from the screens behind Corey Black, and they're lit up, literally, but the smiling face of Trey Bouchet. Corey sighs briefly before continuing on. "Trey Bouchet is sloth. Now, before I go on, allow me to plexplain. I do not mean Bouchet is a lazy pile. I mean Trey Bouchet has no desire. He showed up on TV saying how he knows himself. He knows what makes Trey Bouchet go. Easy answer is, well, suplexes. But we both know that isn't it. No, Trey is happiest when the lights are low and his name is at the bottom of the card. This is Trey's first big test and I hope it goes well for him. I hope he's eliminated before I come out of my chamber because I swear, I will superkick that fucking smile off his face. The only other guy in this match that is in it for the right reasons, it's just an unfortunate circumstance. He knows the sanctity of the ring. He performs in it within the scope of the rule book. Hell he probably has the rules taped to his wrist. In this environment, any pity I would once observe disintegrates when the cage is full. I'm going to look across the ring and I won't see the cruiserweight stalwart getting a chance to bring the World Championship home, no, I'll see just another warm body that wants to stop me from taking back what I lost. It isn't vengeance and desperation, that's trying to put a square peg in a round hole. Revenge has never been on my mind, even on October thirteenth. It's beyond that, Trey, something I hope you never feel. I hope nobody ever takes from you what Philidor took from me because it'll take away what makes you - you. You're not entwined in this world, it doesn't define you, you're still writing what it means to you. Me, though, I'm nothing without pro wrestling. I know who I am. You don't know who you are, don't try stamping a label on me. Just like I won't label you the suplexing jester. I won't use this platform to point out you have been suplexed more times than you have countered them, which would be pretty damning of a self proclaimed suplex king. I've beat more wrestlers than I have lost to by a margin of, probably, twenty to one - I am befitting of royal lineage. I have worn the crown. I won't stand here and demean Trey Bouchet for being that very square peg trying to fit in the round hole in the Elimination Chamber, and I certainly won't suggest that I will happily suplex him back to the 201 and Fun Division where he belongs. I'm above that as I am above him." Trey's smiling face slowly fades to black on the TVs behind Corey, replaced with an image of Ash Blake holding the World Title over Corey's fallen body. Every screen the same, no matter how big, small, skewed or otherwise. The vision fills Corey's sight, his fists tightening. "Ash Blake is greed. It wasn't enough to come down and prevent my crowning moment. No, it wasn't enough to drive me to team with a mongrel and put my friend out of work for weeks. It wasn't enough to ever so willingly prove twice that she cannot beat Corey Black in a professional wrestling match matching skill verses skill. I see it, I've seen it from the beginning. I'm not the target. It's the World Title. All of this, the last five and a half months, it's been happenstance. I've fed into it, been led like a sheep to the slaughter and manipulated every fucking step of the way. Like I said, this is beyond vengeance. Because it's barely my story to begin with. Every time I think I have the winning hand, the game is changed. I've got twenty one and now it's Go Fish. Matching threes, now it's poker. Maybe that's what it is like when it's a dozen plus however many suits verses one. I can beat Ash Blake. I can beat Lissie Hope. I already beat Carter Shaw, Noris Cranley, HR Department and poor old Derrick Vayden. I got into their HQ with relative ease and just as easily burned the place to the ground. But what would have that truly accomplished? Prison sentence, loss of career - maybe that was just a calculated risk on their part, a chance to get me put away indefinitely. I am nothing if I am not patient. I've weathered storms like this for years. Biding my time because Ash, believe me when I say - I do not forget. You can beat me one hundred times, break every bone in my body and when you're old, frail and gray - I'll be there. Beyond vengeance. Beyond the World Championship. Beyond professional wrestling. But on that fateful night, you made a mistake. You fucked up when you chose Clash one hundred. Anybody else, literally every person in this match would fail twice and then shrug their shoulders and go for something else. Hardcore Title, US Title, Tag Titles, Cruiserweight Title - but me? I'll take a belt or two if the opportunity arises but Ash, I don't care. I could give a fuck about belts in 2021. My entire castle could be gilded with all the titles I have won. I wanted to put down the mongrel because he is a black mark on this sport and it just so happened he had the World Title. I never asked for it. I never had a shot at it. But once it was on my waist, everything was right in Action Wrestling. For those seconds between when I pinned Walter and Philidor came out, it felt like pro wrestling had finally expunged all the disgusting leeches from its body. But that's what Philidor is. Greedy leeches, latching onto whatever easy body they find floating. They strike and suck all the blood and will out of their target, leaving nothing more than a dried up carcass. Corey Black will never fucking die, Ash. You could drop a house on me, pin me three hundred times and while knowing you could never do it in a fair battle, I'll stand up the very next week and smile at you. Know that your demise is coming. Whatever bullshit you throw, you'll never break me. Recruit all the top stars you can to bolster your ranks to interfere in your matches and make Philidor seem that more dangerous, you're never more dangerous than the King of All Wrestlers. A wounded animal is most dangerous, but this animal isn't wounded. It's hungry. I want to string you up from the top of this cage, slice your head open and bathe in the blood you spill. I want to make Der Metzger cringe in disgust. You aren't in my head Ashley, you're engrained in my being. I want to fucking break you and Philidor Holdings. I want to see you selling hot dogs on the side of the road to make ends meet. I want to read in the newspapers about how you couldn't cope with the sudden loss and sadly, that was enough to send you over the edge. Because that's what you all deserve for the shit you've done. Not only to me, but to every last person you've given even the smallest inconvenience. Every smug look coupled with your flippant remarks, your dishonorable actions and venomous rhetoric. You're not just a stain on pro wrestling, you're a black hole sucking lives into oblivion. I will take what holds power over me. The Action Wrestling World Championship, my dignity, my pride, all of it. I'll get it back because people like you aren't fit for this world. You're not built to endure like I have. You're a frail empress with seven knives already poking your back, waiting for even the smallest slip. All it takes is one. I'll revel in your severed spine." Ash's triumph over Corey Black fades away from the screens. A backlight comes on, shining through chains hanging behind the TVs. An animation of chains is displayed on every single screen, Corey smiling. "The Elimination Chamber is gluttony. Within these destructive confines only the strong will survive. While a dangerous match type may not be new to the participants, there's one thing for certain - neither one of them has ever been inside something like this with me. It demands sacrifice, flesh and blood will be left among its body and it will demand more. More I will give it. The broken and beaten husks of these five people are my offering to the Elimination Chamber, toward my ascent to victory. Though boasting most of the champions this company has to offer, still the most dangerous competitor in the match. They truly will be locked in there with me. Combine all their careers and it still doesn't touch mine. Experience, titles, status. I am the big fish in the small cage and it's feeding time." Corey smiles, the backlighting fading and the screens instead cutting to a live shot of himself. He paces back and forth, before snapping his eyes back to the camera. "I am lust. My desire burns brighter than anyone else's. Desire to rob Philidor of what they took from me. My pride, my accomplishment, my World Championship. The belt is just that, but it is also a symbol of greatness. Without it, I am simply just another warrior in this fight. A viking without a sword. A king without a crown. That is why I fight. My status in this company will never be matched, but as long as I am able, my lust for greatness will never be quenched. Like a wandering vagabond through the desert, instead of water, I crave to be the very best. And while I lay claim to that status, can you truly be the best without the crown? Many would argue, but the way it has been ripped from my grasp - I say no. And these people that will be locked in here with me, their denial of glory will rest solely on my hands. I will accept that, I will take the wrath and the envy that comes with it, I invite you all to hold a grudge with me and never stop fighting until my cold dead body rests before you. Only then will you feel just a little bit like I do right now. And maybe you'll understand why your demise was warranted." Corey reaches over and presses a button on the wall, turning off the TVs and the backlight. Leaving just the sole dim light in the corner that barely illuminates his face. He crouches down, getting eye level with the lens. "I DO need this. But not for clout, longevity or status. I need this for me. A tale as old as time, a man's plight against himself is the hardest challenge he has to overcome. The thoughts in his head that tell him he's better than this, he's above doing the things he has to do to win and that, my friends, is what makes me the very best. I WILL do whatever it takes within the confines of those ropes. I will leap off of anything, dive into anything, Burning Hammer anyone and by the Gods I will drive this elbow I call the greatest weapon in this sport through whomever it takes to come out on the other side with my hand raised. That is what makes me different. That will to survive is why my generation has all long had their boots hung and are in management or a graveyard. I am the last of a dying breed but that breed was gilded in the fires of the most competitive era, the most cutthroat time in the long history of professional wrestling. I have no backup. No Following, no company backing, no band of freaks, no ex? girlfriend or laundry list of former main eventers to team with and no Cruiserweight roster cheering me on. It's Corey fucking Black against the World and goddamnit this is how I want it. Pantheon, Man Made Gods, This is War, none of them could bear the weight of being associated with me because I DEMAND GREATNESS. I DEMAND EXCELLENCE. I will outlast every last soul in this chamber and when I am seventy five years old, I'll be World Champion of whatever offshoot wrestling company SJW's kid has created because I AM THE FUCKING KING OF ALL WRESTLERS." Corey literally rips the small light from whatever it is attached to and sends it against the wall, shooting sparks out from the bulb. Heavy breathing in darkness is how this scene ends. |