Post by distortia on Apr 10, 2014 0:15:53 GMT -5
=/= Deep within some bumfuck town in Idaho, a deep jade 1970 Chevy Chevelle rumbles into the gravel parking lot outside of an old gymnasium, the type that would buzz with activity as events brought together friends and families in support of a favoured entertainment.
However those times had long passed in favor of on-demand technology and the World Wide Web dictation of all things popular to the common man. Still the gymnasium stands- as a forgotten relic in a modernized world, a hit of dusty nostalgia amid constant fluctuating fads.
Faded grey weatherboards stand in defiance of the elements, discolored by age and the boredom of teenagers with no sense that their ‘so and so woz ere’ will be a source of shame rather than pride in years to come.
As the engine rumbles to a halt, a fine layer of dust kicked up by the rolling wheels settles across the paint as it glimmers in the warm sun. A few quiet moments pass before the driver’s door swings open and a pair of neon green converses touch down on the gravel, light washed loose jeans drag around the heel, tattered with wear.
Amber “Distorted Angel” Ryan emerges from the vehicle- her expression one of serenity, eyes hidden behind a pair of Oakley knock offs and her plain black shirt adorned with simple white font reading ‘Warning: Does Not Play Well With Others’.
Closing the car door with a satisfying thud, her bright converses crunch against the gravel as she strolls towards the double doors at the front of the large yet unassuming building. Fingers clasp the metal handle as Amber looks around in an almost paranoid manner before disappearing inside.
It seemed this building had been the birth and death of dreams for aspiring stars, young upstarts with dreams of fame and fortune- their hearts firmly on their sleeve as they put their bodies on the line for an ideal and the old battle worn veterans still looking for relevance as the sands of time shift beneath their feet- determined to further their legacy by one more match.
Wooden struts overhead teem with termites, their integrity compromised as they begin to warp with increased age. Bleachers line the walls, parts of the seating barely hanging on as a thick layer of grime continues to collect on its surface, painted basketball lines upon the floor left chipped and faded as the ring overhead sags off the board, rusted and forlorn.
Particles of dust hang in the air, suspended as though from a thousand tiny wires as light streams through dirty windows in the roof.
However the centrepiece of the gym is the wrestling ring, taking its rightful place front and centre however it too had seen better days. Blue ropes slump between dusty, cheap plastic turnbuckles- the canvas chewed at the edges by hungry mice, stains of discoloured blood like badges of honour spread haphazardly across its façade.
Years of blood, sweat and beer abandoned as though it was suddenly unworthy of the devotion it had previously commanded.
Amber idly runs her fingers through her crimson locks, her eyes still hidden behind semi-mirrored lens despite the dim lighting- as she takes in the dismal surroundings, her expression gives little away. An unnerving calm from a woman renowned for her explosive temper. =/=
“You know, people usually come to shitholes like this cause it has some form of sentimental value, cause they have a story they want to share that has very little to do with the challenge they’re approaching… Sentimental value attached to places better left condemned.”
=/= Casually she walks by the bleachers- a tranquil smile on her face as she runs her finger across the grimy surface, leaving a visible trail. Amber’s tranquil smile is briefly broken by disgust as she wipes her finger against her shirt. =/=
“However… I’ve never been to this place in my life. Fortunately perhaps.”
=/= With very little concern- Amber swiftly climbs up onto the unsteady bleachers, taking a seat half way up as if preparing for an invisible show. Only then does she remove the cheap sunglasses, folding them with even less care and stuffing them in her pocket as she sighs.
Bloodshot eyes glance about the gym, her skin visibly darkened beneath her eyes from a severe lack of sleep- she tries in vain to look interested but its clear everything seems to just be going a little over her head. =/=
“While OCW at large seems to be concerned with who gets a shiny trinket named after their favoured region and the Family who continue to act like obnoxious a-holes… I get lumped into a match with a ‘hardcore enigma’, an oxymoron if I ever heard one… and a moron just for calling himself that.
I call it an oxymoron because an enigma is supposed to be perplexing and mysterious and yet he gives the game away by calling himself hardcore?
I wonder how many of these comedians actually understand the words they describe themselves with instead of opening up a dictionary and pointing at words until something sounds cool. I guess it’s like throwing shit at a wall until something sticks- either way it still ends up being shit…”
=/= Amber yawns, visibly exhausted. Silence overwhelming in the primitive space. =/=
“Funnily enough, I could sit here and tear this oxy-moron a new hole in 10 different directions but what would it achieve? Discarding my precious free time to state the obvious- not really my style…
No, I want to teach a lesson…”
=/= Amber reaches into a pocket, rummaging about in search of something that refuses to be found before changing to the other- annoyance quickly changes to disappointment as she hisses an inaudible expletive under her breath. =/=
“The word ‘hardcore’ gets tossed around a lot in this industry… Mostly by a lot of tossers but that’s beside the point…
I was once hardcore, I know it’s probably hard to believe. I was a rookie with a massive chip on her shoulder, hard done by the world and looking for people to take it out on. I thought that swinging chairs and cracking skulls would be my breakthrough, that I’d finally get what it was I thought I deserved… As though it’d make me stand out in a crowd of a thousand unknown misfits, who believed exactly what I did.
I thought I was unique, like I was putting my own stamp on things- however I was wrong. As wrong as I could be… Being hardcore doesn’t make you unique, it makes you a sheep just trying to follow a trend right off the edge of a cliff.
In my eyes- a man who proclaims himself as ‘hardcore’ isn’t proving his worth as a superior competitor worth investing attention in, they’re just another misguided, inept fool hoping to disguise his obvious weakness behind a hunk of steel.
Eventually someone comes along with just a fraction more skill and proves how worthless you truly are without something to wield.
As a rookie, I walked around with my head in the clouds cause I thought I had earned a reputation, that I had earned my name as the ‘hardcore bitch’… Where do you think it got me?
Sure I scaled the ladder thinking I had this golden ticket to success in my back pocket, like I’d discovered some secret that would get me ahead- until I hit that concrete ceiling.
Only then did I realize… No matter what I did or how well I did it, as long as I carried that moniker of hardcore I was never going to be more than a spot monkey destined to briefly satiate bloodlust while others with less talent fought above me for accolades they never should have earned.”
=/= Amber takes a deep breath, a certain raw quality burning in her voice. =/=
“Instead of a golden ticket, it was nothing more than a cold chunk of reality waiting for me to dust off the gold glitter.
Only then, before marching off the cliff like a million men before me to the undercard oblivion did I learn, evolve into something more. I became more than some cheap thrill to put butts in seats for the benefit of unworthy cunts fighting above me.
As years passed I watched men declaring themselves as a revelation in the arts of weapon wielding and blood spilling were sent tumbling back down to Earth, their fragile dreams shattered like the light tubes they’d made their name with.
To this very day, I am credited with some of the most horrific matches in wrestling- more than once have I taken my last breath, declared deceased only to return and walk among the living once more. Stories of the sacrifices I have made are torn into my skin and yet I’m not ‘hardcore’. I have no need to declare myself as a someone who requires a weapon to prove their worth, I have no need to tell the world how fucking hardcore I can be however what I have done is, I have proven without a shadow of a doubt that I am not someone to be crossed…
So do tell me Mr J, what is it about you that is so fucking hardcore.
I’m begging you to give me a reason to care- until you do? You’re just another blowhard whose concrete ceiling is about to crumble down into his head.”
=/= Her voice trails off into a venomous hiss, something deep inside her burning yet restrained. Gingerly climbing down form the bleachers, she dusts herself off before sliding under the sagging bottom rope- remaining on her knees as her fingers trace across splotches of blood, long ingrained into the material. =/=
“Who was it that shed their blood here? Was it one man or a hundred? Was it an aspiring rookie- willing to do anything for recognition, perhaps it was a legend scratching and clawing for one last accolade?
Perhaps it was a warrior just like us who never lived up to the expectation of a mentally unstable fan… Did they win or lose? Were they loved or was the ground they tread upon despised by all that knew them…
At the time, it could have been the most important thing in the world to a couple hundred people that the blood of a man or woman was being shed on this very canvas… Now? The very same people may barely remember their name.
This… This right here? This is my point. This is your legacy- another name destined to be lost in the confines of unrecorded history. No one ever remembers these people, the ones who destroy themselves for something that could never love them in the same way that they loved it.
Warriors who believed that this was the way they could be noticed- as though their blood loss would mean anything more than just an inconvenient stain on the canvas. Pride and reputation in exchange for a scar they’d have to lie about when their dreams eventually fell through.
These marks, something so important to people at one time… As they sit now are entirely worthless, this building could burn to the ground tomorrow and no one would give a fuck.”
=/= Amber draws her fingers across the stains, her expression contemplative yet a glint of malevolence shines in her eyes. =/=
“I want you to really think about this- who in this world is really going to remember you, beyond the stain you leave on the canvas.”
=/= Amber crawls on her knees slowly across the canvas, thuds echoing in the desolate gym as she reaches the far corner turnbuckle, her hands grasping the tacky plastic turnbuckle cover. With a groan, she turns herself around and drops to a seated position on the discoloured canvas with her forearms resting on her knees. =/=
“What is an enigma… More importantly- what make you an enigma Mr J? Why is it you classify yourself as such a puzzle, a walking paradox perhaps?
Perhaps I’m simply ignorant to the mysteries of the world, however I think it’s more the case that I actually just don’t care- nothing personal of course but you’ve barely proven to be worth the paper your name was printed on.
The only mystery I see is how you managed to stumble into the OCW at all.
I knew a man who was an enigma, a man who didn’t need to tell the world that he was paradox. Actions always speak louder than words.
I guess that’s why it makes me so fucking sick to the deepest pits of my stomach that a man who can barely rub to brain cells together to create an original thought thinks of himself as some form of walking perplexity.
You think no one knows about you? Okay that something I can agree with… An unknown quantity in an industry of definite- however there is a difference between not knowing cause you’re some mysterious stranger and not knowing cause you haven’t given people a reason to notice.
You haven’t done a thing to distinguish yourself from every other rookie who thought it was such a fantastic idea to walk in this company- you didn’t kick the door down to make an impact, you knocked meekly and asked politely if you were allowed to come and play…
So do tell me Mr J- will you be such a mystery when I curb stomp the mask off your face?”
=/= Amber turns, spitting violently onto the ground outside the ring. Not her most lady like gesture however it felt as though her tongue had turned to sand as filthy air filled her lungs.
Movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention, a tingle races up her spine as her solitude is broken. Dark hair frames a pale, delicate face, a slight frame mirroring Amber as she sits- forearms resting across knees, hands dangling lifeless. =/=
“I wasn’t expecting you”
=/= Becky cocks her head to the side attentively, her piercing eyes following every motion Amber makes. Silence engulfs them, deafening with tension. =/=
“Since when do you expect me…”
=/= Becky’s words ring out mockingly, like knives of ice cutting through Amber’s composure. =/=
“So you can leave then…”
“Are you going to make me?”
=/= Another few moments of silence, Becky smiles contemptuously. =/=
“I didn’t think so”
=/= Amber cursed herself internally, her grasp on reality starting to slip between her fingers as her mind runs riot. Despite knowing within herself that Becky couldn’t possibly be there, she couldn’t bring herself to simply force Becky from her mind.
Amber struggles to keep her temper, frustration building from control slipping through her fingers. =/=
“You can’t let your past dictate your reality anymore.”
“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do”
“Are you listening to yourself? For the love of god Amber- you need to let go… It’s that simple.”
=/= Amber says nothing, her heart thudding in her ears as the rage builds. Becky shakes her head, sensing Amber’s rage building however she doesn’t back down. =/=
“You think you can get through life continually dredging up the past?”
=/= Amber rolls onto her knees- her head bowed as she tries valiantly to hold back, blood scalding through her veins. =/=
“FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE!”
=/= Her rage takes the form of a voice, roaring forth from the depths. Face flushed, hands clenched white and shaking- lifting her head, Amber finds herself suddenly alone as the echo of her fury still rings in her ears.
Ragged breathing replaces the echo, her rage slowly subsiding as a wave of shame floods over her- cursing herself for allowing her emotions to manipulate her into expressing things buried deep inside.
Amber runs her hands over her face in annoyance at herself, allowing the thunderous silence to soothe the beast as the scene finally fades to black. =/=
However those times had long passed in favor of on-demand technology and the World Wide Web dictation of all things popular to the common man. Still the gymnasium stands- as a forgotten relic in a modernized world, a hit of dusty nostalgia amid constant fluctuating fads.
Faded grey weatherboards stand in defiance of the elements, discolored by age and the boredom of teenagers with no sense that their ‘so and so woz ere’ will be a source of shame rather than pride in years to come.
As the engine rumbles to a halt, a fine layer of dust kicked up by the rolling wheels settles across the paint as it glimmers in the warm sun. A few quiet moments pass before the driver’s door swings open and a pair of neon green converses touch down on the gravel, light washed loose jeans drag around the heel, tattered with wear.
Amber “Distorted Angel” Ryan emerges from the vehicle- her expression one of serenity, eyes hidden behind a pair of Oakley knock offs and her plain black shirt adorned with simple white font reading ‘Warning: Does Not Play Well With Others’.
Closing the car door with a satisfying thud, her bright converses crunch against the gravel as she strolls towards the double doors at the front of the large yet unassuming building. Fingers clasp the metal handle as Amber looks around in an almost paranoid manner before disappearing inside.
It seemed this building had been the birth and death of dreams for aspiring stars, young upstarts with dreams of fame and fortune- their hearts firmly on their sleeve as they put their bodies on the line for an ideal and the old battle worn veterans still looking for relevance as the sands of time shift beneath their feet- determined to further their legacy by one more match.
Wooden struts overhead teem with termites, their integrity compromised as they begin to warp with increased age. Bleachers line the walls, parts of the seating barely hanging on as a thick layer of grime continues to collect on its surface, painted basketball lines upon the floor left chipped and faded as the ring overhead sags off the board, rusted and forlorn.
Particles of dust hang in the air, suspended as though from a thousand tiny wires as light streams through dirty windows in the roof.
However the centrepiece of the gym is the wrestling ring, taking its rightful place front and centre however it too had seen better days. Blue ropes slump between dusty, cheap plastic turnbuckles- the canvas chewed at the edges by hungry mice, stains of discoloured blood like badges of honour spread haphazardly across its façade.
Years of blood, sweat and beer abandoned as though it was suddenly unworthy of the devotion it had previously commanded.
Amber idly runs her fingers through her crimson locks, her eyes still hidden behind semi-mirrored lens despite the dim lighting- as she takes in the dismal surroundings, her expression gives little away. An unnerving calm from a woman renowned for her explosive temper. =/=
“You know, people usually come to shitholes like this cause it has some form of sentimental value, cause they have a story they want to share that has very little to do with the challenge they’re approaching… Sentimental value attached to places better left condemned.”
=/= Casually she walks by the bleachers- a tranquil smile on her face as she runs her finger across the grimy surface, leaving a visible trail. Amber’s tranquil smile is briefly broken by disgust as she wipes her finger against her shirt. =/=
“However… I’ve never been to this place in my life. Fortunately perhaps.”
=/= With very little concern- Amber swiftly climbs up onto the unsteady bleachers, taking a seat half way up as if preparing for an invisible show. Only then does she remove the cheap sunglasses, folding them with even less care and stuffing them in her pocket as she sighs.
Bloodshot eyes glance about the gym, her skin visibly darkened beneath her eyes from a severe lack of sleep- she tries in vain to look interested but its clear everything seems to just be going a little over her head. =/=
“While OCW at large seems to be concerned with who gets a shiny trinket named after their favoured region and the Family who continue to act like obnoxious a-holes… I get lumped into a match with a ‘hardcore enigma’, an oxymoron if I ever heard one… and a moron just for calling himself that.
I call it an oxymoron because an enigma is supposed to be perplexing and mysterious and yet he gives the game away by calling himself hardcore?
I wonder how many of these comedians actually understand the words they describe themselves with instead of opening up a dictionary and pointing at words until something sounds cool. I guess it’s like throwing shit at a wall until something sticks- either way it still ends up being shit…”
=/= Amber yawns, visibly exhausted. Silence overwhelming in the primitive space. =/=
“Funnily enough, I could sit here and tear this oxy-moron a new hole in 10 different directions but what would it achieve? Discarding my precious free time to state the obvious- not really my style…
No, I want to teach a lesson…”
=/= Amber reaches into a pocket, rummaging about in search of something that refuses to be found before changing to the other- annoyance quickly changes to disappointment as she hisses an inaudible expletive under her breath. =/=
“The word ‘hardcore’ gets tossed around a lot in this industry… Mostly by a lot of tossers but that’s beside the point…
I was once hardcore, I know it’s probably hard to believe. I was a rookie with a massive chip on her shoulder, hard done by the world and looking for people to take it out on. I thought that swinging chairs and cracking skulls would be my breakthrough, that I’d finally get what it was I thought I deserved… As though it’d make me stand out in a crowd of a thousand unknown misfits, who believed exactly what I did.
I thought I was unique, like I was putting my own stamp on things- however I was wrong. As wrong as I could be… Being hardcore doesn’t make you unique, it makes you a sheep just trying to follow a trend right off the edge of a cliff.
In my eyes- a man who proclaims himself as ‘hardcore’ isn’t proving his worth as a superior competitor worth investing attention in, they’re just another misguided, inept fool hoping to disguise his obvious weakness behind a hunk of steel.
Eventually someone comes along with just a fraction more skill and proves how worthless you truly are without something to wield.
As a rookie, I walked around with my head in the clouds cause I thought I had earned a reputation, that I had earned my name as the ‘hardcore bitch’… Where do you think it got me?
Sure I scaled the ladder thinking I had this golden ticket to success in my back pocket, like I’d discovered some secret that would get me ahead- until I hit that concrete ceiling.
Only then did I realize… No matter what I did or how well I did it, as long as I carried that moniker of hardcore I was never going to be more than a spot monkey destined to briefly satiate bloodlust while others with less talent fought above me for accolades they never should have earned.”
=/= Amber takes a deep breath, a certain raw quality burning in her voice. =/=
“Instead of a golden ticket, it was nothing more than a cold chunk of reality waiting for me to dust off the gold glitter.
Only then, before marching off the cliff like a million men before me to the undercard oblivion did I learn, evolve into something more. I became more than some cheap thrill to put butts in seats for the benefit of unworthy cunts fighting above me.
As years passed I watched men declaring themselves as a revelation in the arts of weapon wielding and blood spilling were sent tumbling back down to Earth, their fragile dreams shattered like the light tubes they’d made their name with.
To this very day, I am credited with some of the most horrific matches in wrestling- more than once have I taken my last breath, declared deceased only to return and walk among the living once more. Stories of the sacrifices I have made are torn into my skin and yet I’m not ‘hardcore’. I have no need to declare myself as a someone who requires a weapon to prove their worth, I have no need to tell the world how fucking hardcore I can be however what I have done is, I have proven without a shadow of a doubt that I am not someone to be crossed…
So do tell me Mr J, what is it about you that is so fucking hardcore.
I’m begging you to give me a reason to care- until you do? You’re just another blowhard whose concrete ceiling is about to crumble down into his head.”
=/= Her voice trails off into a venomous hiss, something deep inside her burning yet restrained. Gingerly climbing down form the bleachers, she dusts herself off before sliding under the sagging bottom rope- remaining on her knees as her fingers trace across splotches of blood, long ingrained into the material. =/=
“Who was it that shed their blood here? Was it one man or a hundred? Was it an aspiring rookie- willing to do anything for recognition, perhaps it was a legend scratching and clawing for one last accolade?
Perhaps it was a warrior just like us who never lived up to the expectation of a mentally unstable fan… Did they win or lose? Were they loved or was the ground they tread upon despised by all that knew them…
At the time, it could have been the most important thing in the world to a couple hundred people that the blood of a man or woman was being shed on this very canvas… Now? The very same people may barely remember their name.
This… This right here? This is my point. This is your legacy- another name destined to be lost in the confines of unrecorded history. No one ever remembers these people, the ones who destroy themselves for something that could never love them in the same way that they loved it.
Warriors who believed that this was the way they could be noticed- as though their blood loss would mean anything more than just an inconvenient stain on the canvas. Pride and reputation in exchange for a scar they’d have to lie about when their dreams eventually fell through.
These marks, something so important to people at one time… As they sit now are entirely worthless, this building could burn to the ground tomorrow and no one would give a fuck.”
=/= Amber draws her fingers across the stains, her expression contemplative yet a glint of malevolence shines in her eyes. =/=
“I want you to really think about this- who in this world is really going to remember you, beyond the stain you leave on the canvas.”
=/= Amber crawls on her knees slowly across the canvas, thuds echoing in the desolate gym as she reaches the far corner turnbuckle, her hands grasping the tacky plastic turnbuckle cover. With a groan, she turns herself around and drops to a seated position on the discoloured canvas with her forearms resting on her knees. =/=
“What is an enigma… More importantly- what make you an enigma Mr J? Why is it you classify yourself as such a puzzle, a walking paradox perhaps?
Perhaps I’m simply ignorant to the mysteries of the world, however I think it’s more the case that I actually just don’t care- nothing personal of course but you’ve barely proven to be worth the paper your name was printed on.
The only mystery I see is how you managed to stumble into the OCW at all.
I knew a man who was an enigma, a man who didn’t need to tell the world that he was paradox. Actions always speak louder than words.
I guess that’s why it makes me so fucking sick to the deepest pits of my stomach that a man who can barely rub to brain cells together to create an original thought thinks of himself as some form of walking perplexity.
You think no one knows about you? Okay that something I can agree with… An unknown quantity in an industry of definite- however there is a difference between not knowing cause you’re some mysterious stranger and not knowing cause you haven’t given people a reason to notice.
You haven’t done a thing to distinguish yourself from every other rookie who thought it was such a fantastic idea to walk in this company- you didn’t kick the door down to make an impact, you knocked meekly and asked politely if you were allowed to come and play…
So do tell me Mr J- will you be such a mystery when I curb stomp the mask off your face?”
=/= Amber turns, spitting violently onto the ground outside the ring. Not her most lady like gesture however it felt as though her tongue had turned to sand as filthy air filled her lungs.
Movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention, a tingle races up her spine as her solitude is broken. Dark hair frames a pale, delicate face, a slight frame mirroring Amber as she sits- forearms resting across knees, hands dangling lifeless. =/=
“I wasn’t expecting you”
=/= Becky cocks her head to the side attentively, her piercing eyes following every motion Amber makes. Silence engulfs them, deafening with tension. =/=
“Since when do you expect me…”
=/= Becky’s words ring out mockingly, like knives of ice cutting through Amber’s composure. =/=
“So you can leave then…”
“Are you going to make me?”
=/= Another few moments of silence, Becky smiles contemptuously. =/=
“I didn’t think so”
=/= Amber cursed herself internally, her grasp on reality starting to slip between her fingers as her mind runs riot. Despite knowing within herself that Becky couldn’t possibly be there, she couldn’t bring herself to simply force Becky from her mind.
Amber struggles to keep her temper, frustration building from control slipping through her fingers. =/=
“You can’t let your past dictate your reality anymore.”
“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do”
“Are you listening to yourself? For the love of god Amber- you need to let go… It’s that simple.”
=/= Amber says nothing, her heart thudding in her ears as the rage builds. Becky shakes her head, sensing Amber’s rage building however she doesn’t back down. =/=
“You think you can get through life continually dredging up the past?”
=/= Amber rolls onto her knees- her head bowed as she tries valiantly to hold back, blood scalding through her veins. =/=
“FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE!”
=/= Her rage takes the form of a voice, roaring forth from the depths. Face flushed, hands clenched white and shaking- lifting her head, Amber finds herself suddenly alone as the echo of her fury still rings in her ears.
Ragged breathing replaces the echo, her rage slowly subsiding as a wave of shame floods over her- cursing herself for allowing her emotions to manipulate her into expressing things buried deep inside.
Amber runs her hands over her face in annoyance at herself, allowing the thunderous silence to soothe the beast as the scene finally fades to black. =/=
