Post by Johnny Violence on Dec 29, 2020 1:15:40 GMT -5
Johnnnyyyy whispers softly through the wind, following a winding path between a forest of bare trees, skinny as their twigs they call branches, their leaves scattered at their feet. You can hear the leaves scratching against the cold, hard ground as they were dragged in the unforgiving Canadian winter breeze. Johnnnyyyy. The spine chilling voice travels in with the dead foliage, sliding slowly to the right to the feet of a grey pedestal.
Panning upwards reveals a beautifully engraved wooden throne upholstered with the finest of red and yellow threads. But it’s what’s sat upon that throne is where our interest lies. A solid black suit of armor, dirty and vine ridden sits limp with its arms on the rests and the head hanging. Johnnnyyyy whispers again as the suit starts to squeak. The helmet straightens out as two eyes peer through the visor.
"Sire!” the voice harks. “Three hundred days have passed away since your Majesty, forced to tear yourself from our dearest affections, left your capital amidst tears and public dismay. In vain they cried unanimously. They announced to the world the imminent evils with which they were menaced. But there are moments in which Heaven does not permit the voice of the reasonable to be heard. It was not in their power to prevent an error too fatal. The violent and irrational excitement, the malicious intent of disturbing the public tranquillity, the interruption of business and industry, civil war and foreign invasion, have at once afflicted your people. Heaven’s goblet, Sire! is overflown with vengeance, and restores you only to forgive us.”
Slowly the vines cracked, the dirt crumbled and fell to the ground as the rest of the suit began to squeak and stir. The voice continued, “Your Majesty’s intervention between the entire industry and your people to give them peace, and to reconcile them anew to all other companies. The excitement is now calmed in all generous hearts, reason is heard, and love of our country and our King will complete the rest. A period of 11 years, marked by so many obstacles, and, like all marks of time, by glory and reverses.
“Let us protest upon to him, according to the wish of his heart, that the fiery excitements are about to be tranquilised, that the children of the great Union are about to unite to approach him, and will henceforth only have one rallying cry."
The suit of amour stood up and it stood tall. Removing his helmet, Johnny Violence shakes the cobwebs off, his hair long and flowing majestically in the breeze. His face was sweaty; dirty and blackened from hard fought battles previous. To this the King shortly replied, “In removing from the industry, I experienced the greatest sorrow and regret. However tales of the loyalty of Union reached me. A king without a kingdom. I return with emotion. I foresaw the misfortunes with which it was threatened; it is my wish to prevent and repair them."
Galloping heard in the distance swiftly approaches. Rumbling horse feet pounded the frozen ground as Johnny reached out and grabbed hold the reins of a beautiful black stallion with whispers of fire through -out its blinding white mane passing by stage right. It whisks him away as he mounts the black beauty. Kicking up dirt and dust and sticks and stones, Johnny pulls back on the reins and the horse skids on its hind legs. It bucks up and let’s out a whinny suitable for war. Johnny unsheathes a shiny sword and raises it to the grey December sky. She slams her shoes thunderously before she circles to the front of the pedestal where she paces with Johnny back and forth on her back.
“I once stood upon great snowy peaks rubbing shoulders with God’s of this industry. I’ve waged wars against men with whole armies at their helm. Head on I charged into battles with the likes of Chris Callum and Bronx Valescence. I witnessed the torches being passed to a next generation of exceptional talent, the names Bryan Laughlin and Eli Carlson echoed down the mountainside whilst they paved a path to undenied success. The last trip around the sun sired some of the most exciting names in recent memory, Bryan Williams and Dakota Smith are undoubtedly some of the very last left of a dying breed.
Yet…” Johnny raises both hands, “I stand here, high upon my horse. My armour, once fresh and vibrant now tattered and tarnished but I stand here with my shoulders shrugged and I ask of you… where are your heroes now? Where are the legends, the myths, the men bards sing songs about?
“Faces etched into the proverbial Mount Rushmore to never be forgotten crumbles like sand into the hourglass to continuously make room for the next big thing. What once was faces of the ones you cherished are now faces of ones you can’t recognize. Legends that shared with you their wonder and magic and made you feel larger than life now sit behind desks and call the action from six feet away. These men turned into caterers, school teachers… goddamn 8-bit pixelated cartoon characters!
“Men placed on pedestals polished and gleaned now blanketed in an inch of dust and covered in cobwebs.” Johnny turns his attention back towards the vine tied throne for a blink of an eye. “They sat on thrones once finished and varnished now rotting and rooted.
“But your heroes give you the world and they rip the rug out from under your tables. They let your plates fall to the ground with egg still on your face and they leave you hungry for more and while you nip at the scraps trudging through the broken glass your new indie darlings scoop them up in one fell swoop. They make you grovel and beg for their affection for what feels like eternity before they destroy the legacies of those who bear the torch and build one anew and each and every time they do it in half the time it took to build the last one.
“Alex Castellanos? Alexis Terry… Jesus fucking Christ “Mr. Telenovela” himself Alioth Starre?
“I can hear the world groan when I speak of those names. I can hear the crickets fiddle and the feathers drop. Even these woods echoed without a pause. Not a single crow cawed in cocurance because these names mean the world to Johnny Violence but these are faded footprints under the boots of Ana Hayden and Miles Lucky. Like owls they only question everybody. Who? Who? Who?
“Well… I think it’s about time Union just exactly found out who.” Johnny couldn’t hold back the smile bursting at the seams, his trusty steed starts down a bumpy dirt road.
“For eleven years I have been a constant. For every legend living in your hearts, at one point or another they have crossed my path. Every book you open, there is more than one chapter that bears my name. I’ve been a villain to your heroes. I’ve been a saviour to those facing annihilation. I’ve laced my boots and I have seen a world far different than the one many of you know now but year after year I still find and I still stand with the very best, side by side but more often toe to toe.
“I have stormed my way into history and I have created my own legacy and at Coup de Grace, I will continue to move forward and I will defend that legacy.” With a yaw Johnny lashes at the reins and the stallion gallops faster and harder. Johnny leans forward with his sword firmly in his grip as the horse bursts forward with a mighty leap, it’s tree trunk hooves kick open the rot iron gates guarding the end of the path storming into the field beyond it. Above the gates, chewed by rust reads the name “SHARPE”.
Galloping over the hill reveals a big beautiful ranch style manor. Acres of land fenced off with old cadillacs and chevrolets littering the yard, most of them gutted and shells of their former glory. Trees and grass grow right up the middle of more than a handful. Johnny pulls back a bit, slowing the stallion to a jaunt before it comes to a halt. Johnny hops off the saddle at the porch of the house
He stares up at the manor in admiration. “But I’m not the only one who carries the burden of defending their own honour this time am I Sebastian? No, far from it… But I’m a humble King. I chase glory but I treat every and all challenges as the same. I treat the janitor the same way I treat the C.E.O of a company. Every nut, bolt and screw helps make the machine go ‘round, just like every wrestler, big or small, is a stepping stone in my career in the right direction. Sebastian Sharpe might not carry the same weight as Indi Rhyder, but a loss to Johnny Violence means the same thing to both of them.
“It means their inevitable downfall. Being below me when people put them so high above the world breaks people… it breaks their spirit, it makes them question reality.
“They become your caterers… they’re teaching your children… they sit six feet from all the action. They pass their torch and they hope… they pray that the next younger, hungerier wrestler can share a piece of their burden and put an end to my tyranny.”
Johnny clings and clangs his way up the small set of stairs, sheathing his sword. He pulls a dagger from the boot of the suit, a blade polished so well it reflects Johnny’s face like a mirror.
“But they made a mistake.” Johnny says with a side eye to the camera. Quickly Johnny wraps the handle in his fist and slams the point of the dagger deep into the wood of the front door. He steps off the porch and saddles up back on to the horse again. He gives the house one last look and before he rides off into the distance Johnny finishes his thought,
“Instead of making sure I was finished before I could even get started… they brought a Switchblxde to a sword fight.”
A smirk and a whinny leaves us with the visions of Johnny pulling his sword once more and holding it high above his head, galloping off into the distance, fading to black.