Post by Finn Whelan on Jun 24, 2018 22:30:57 GMT -5
SILHOUETTES “Silhouettes above the cradle hold me down; they won't let me go the wrong way.” SMILE EMPTY SOUL ••••• I’ve been remiss, you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve been quiet, on the down-low so to speak. It’s been a crazy last few weeks of my life. And it hasn’t been a ride that I will ever want to take again. The moment that you stand in front of a crowd for the very last time, the moment you realize that you’re never going to stand in front of the audience that you’ve captured the attention of for over a year, it hits you like a sack of bricks. This is it. This is the end. Fuck everything else you know, because you’re never going home. The Battleground . . . it feels like a war zone. Not just a place for fights to take place anymore. I feel like I’m walking into my final battle with the idea that I have to survive. I have to push forward. Not just for myself, but for everything that I have. Everything that I am. Everything that we were. Elena and I stood at the top of the company and we were the ticket sales, we were the people that most flocked to see. We brought asses to seats because they wanted to see if our words would hold true. They wanted to see if we would survive our outlandish phrases, push forward through the chaos flung at us. Every time, we persevered. Even in our last match on the seventeenth, we didn’t simply refuse to face one another. No. Elena and I gave it our all, refused to back down, refused to stop until we just couldn’t anymore. There was no winner. There was no loser. There was a brother and sister duo that fought relentlessly and then ended up on the floor unable to move any further. We shouldn’t have done this match. But we did. Because we don’t know when to quit. And then it was over. Nothing else but vacated bullshit. We thought we had our lives set in stone; the rush of the fans, the utter invincibility that came with being top dog in a company with multiple brands. But it came to a close. And with that close, it left me wondering. It’s a simple question. Who am I? I feel as if I have lost my identity. There are so many people in this company that have the opportunity to make something of themselves. I came in with Noah Reigner and “Rumble” Reyes, two men who have left and made something of themselves. When you see names like Kai Stevens and Alyssa Daniels . . . Joe Stanton, you realize that these aren’t just names of another group of competitors. These are not just people who appear to give you a little bit of a push and a little bit of a punch. These are people who are competitors. Fighters. Destroyers. They have stood up against the beasts known as Salvation. They’ve fought hand-in-hand and tried to bring to heel the cult that has terrorized this promotion. They have tried relentlessly to put an end to Aiden Deimos and Viddus Morta, and those who once stood against them at one point seemingly joined them. Talk about a clusterfuck. But this gives an opportunity for a new challenger. One that hasn’t stood against the monolith known as Nemesis. One who refuses to engage them because, until this point, there’s been no reason for them to have done so. At Guerrilla Warfare, the final event of the evening is not just an elimination match. It’s not just a match to push yourself to stardom at this point. For some, the concept of even having the possibility of main eventing Coup de Grace at the end of the season would be something most would kill for. But for me...it’s something different. It’s retribution, to save the world from their sins. To take away the terror that has been left upon them at the hands of a sadistic prick with no backbone and peons to do everything for him. The opportunity to face Nemesis at the end of this bout -- that’s what awaits the winner of this match. Oh, I know what you’ll say. Dick Devereaux, the original Union Battleground champion, could take the stage with this man and succeed where all the rest fail. His girly has been taken. If Aaron were taken from me, I would be up in the grill of the first person to do so. I have been in their face, and I have destroyed them from the inside out. But I don’t see this as a numbers game that will survive. Salvation, ladies and gentlemen, is here to stay, whether we want them to or not. Nemesis. ••••• An orange glow fell upon the golden plains of Colorado as the sun rises across the Eastern Plains. There’s barely a soul on the road as cars quickly move along I-70, their destinations unknown except in the east-west direction they go. It is in the early hours of the morning that a dark-colored vehicle of Japanese-make with no identifying features, no emblems, no logos. The rumbling sounds of the wheels rolling along on the fragmented and cracked pavement are drowned out enough by the soft sounds of Zack Hemsey playing on the car’s sound system, even as soft as it is. His fingers drum along with the beat of the symphonic music upon the steering wheel. It was a welcoming sound to his brain, the music. He’d left Orlando three days ago, choosing instead to drive across the country rather than take a four-hour flight. It was like coming home in a sense. There were few places in his life that mattered to him -- Seattle, for his childhood, his growth from a child to a man. Garrison, New York for his family. And finally, the state of Colorado for who he became as a man. The majestic mountains that laid in the background all the way from the one hundred mile mark coming in from the east were remarkably statuesque and familiar. After all, he was still fairly scraped up from his match with Elena at their former company. Their employer decided that it was “best for business” to place them in a match against each other. Not only as teammates but as siblings. Her villainous attempt to separate them and break them apart had not worked but instead had made the two of them realize how much time and effort they put into the company to receive nothing but bad luck, a stained reputation, and nothing but utter and complete shit covering their lives. So they left. After they’d laid in that ring, unable to compete further, unable to even think of laying waste to the other, they decided that they would no longer compete in a place that treated them as if they were less than what they were. Even as the top champions, even as the ones who were the face of the company, they chose to vacate their titles. They chose to leave. They made their choice. Isn’t that what the American Dream was? Being able to be free to make choices, to discern, to grow, to become a stronger individual and make a life for yourself and your family? Choices. Perhaps that what was missing from this life. Perhaps those simple things that people took for granted like being able to decide what they were going to do with their life was something that was missing from his own. There was not a time where anyone asked him what he thought he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. Perhaps he was made this way, forced to do things in a certain manner. But he felt like he had a choice. Felt like he could push ahead no matter the circumstance. It was like God and Christianity and that muddled predestination. God supposedly knew which way you were going to go when given an option, but he wanted to make it look like you had some type of free will. Facetious. Deceitful. The truth was that Finn Whelan had never been given and would never be given a choice. ••••• My mother taught me all the fables, told me how in the end all the sinners have to pay. My mother did amazing things with her family. My sister and I are prominent figures now in the wrestling scene, though Addi is happy to stay in the small lights of the smaller companies of Seattle. But she taught me things. She taught me how to exist in this world. Every piece of kindness and candor that I carry within my bones is purely based on her upbringing. Through her hard work, she showed me how to have a work ethic. Through her love, she encouraged me to be strong not only for myself, but for my family. I have two kids to provide for. I have a wife who depends on me. I do this jetsetting thing across the country not only because I love it, but for them. Family. But that is not all that my mother taught me.You know how mothers always sit there and say if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all? She taught me instead that if someone was talking shit to me, it was better to punch them in the throat. Let’s go into it. Look at who could be in this match. There are thirty-two members of this Union Battleground. Fourteen, plus a guest, sit on the card. That leaves eighteen members of the roster that could be there. You’ve got people like Konrad Raab entering into the fray. Hi Raab. Long time, no see, eh? I hate to have to do what I did before to you. Wildcard Champion though you were, this means far too much to me to just simply fail and allow to pass me. Same goes for Danny Colt, or even Emery Layton. Respect falls upon both of you in spades -- especially you, Layton. But gimmicks and nice guy routines aren’t going to save you from my wrath tonight. Whether I’m one of the first combatants in that match, number one or two, or whether I’m number twenty, the point of the matter is that you’re being eliminated in the best way possible. Pinfall. Two of your have been lucky on this roster. Three this entire year. Submission -- only one has ever made me tap, and it was my first loss ever. Since then, you’ve been a lucky son of a bitch if you’ve made it past me. June twenty-third, I participated in the third-round of the #QuagCup against a disgusting fellow by the name of Mongoose who, in the end, found himself with his arm damn near snapped off so that I could advance to the semi-final rounds. I’ll pull your fuckin’ arm off and I won’t bat an eye. Knock-out...well, only Elena holds that privilege. Once. In the entirety of my career. I dare you to tell me I don’t want this enough. You have everything stacked up against you. You see, with the loss of the stability in my life, I’m looking to find it again. I know who I am. I know what I am. And what I am is willing to face the world as we know it. Push forward. Become what I claim to be. I know Layton already has the King Cobra Championship, and maybe that’s why I’m fighting so hard here. I still hold in my mind that I squandered that chance, and now . . . now I have to rectify it. I have to fix my mistakes. I know very well what could happen, regardless of my ascent and my rise to Coup de Grace . . . I could very well have Nemesis or Devereaux, and the added element of Layton. There are so many things that I have to prepare for. And judging by my record now, clearly, I know how to prepare. 55-12-1 ••••• “Hello sir,” the man at the gate stops, stepping out of his little booth and staring at the sedan as the window rolls down. “Got some items you need to get rid of?” He pulls his sunglasses off his face, placing his blue-eyed stare on the man. His hair falls into his eyes a little, a habit of the length of his haircut, and he reaches into his back pocket. “Yeah. A couple.” His lack of conversation isn’t surprising to the man, who nods a little before running his grime covered arm against his nose to rub it. He reaches downwards for the three twenties that Finn hands him, counts them, and then pounds the top of the sedan before disappearing into the booth. A moment later, the gate begins to slide open, allowing the black sedan to roll forward and into the heaping piles of trash. It doesn’t take long for Finn to find the spot in which he can park, close to a building located near the center of the dump. He cuts the engine slowly and then shoves his sunglasses back on his face before he steps out of the vehicle. He opens the back door of the sedan and pulls out a long, dark looking package wrapped in fabric, before moving towards the building and stepping inside. It is ridiculously warm within the facility, and Finn reaches up, grasping the a handle and pulling downwards. Instantly, gears grind, and a fire begins to burn in the pit behind a metal door. Finn stands at the end of the machine, where a rests comfortably. He reaches into the bag, and he pulls out something leather and metal. A belt. A familiar looking belt. Whether it is the real one, or a fake one, the implication is clear. This is his past, symbolized in the metal plates that read his name at the bottom of belt. He sets it upon the ramp, grabbing a pair of gloves then and looking at the heat gauge. “You have deceived me no longer.” He mutters. “When you devote yourself to a company, you spend all of your time representing it. I no longer want to represent you. I no longer need to represent you.” He stares at the belt as he speaks to it, almost as if he’s lost it. However, he shakes his head. “I had burned bridges, pushed away people who told me I could be better, that I was better. It wasn’t until I started believing in myself that I saw a distinct change in the way I was viewed. The confidence I gained forced me to grow stronger in myself. I knew I could handle this one. I walked back into that company, and it was blissful. But I realized that I was used to remove a problem. But it wasn’t the problem needed, now was it?” He sets his gloved hands on the rim of the ramp, shaking his head. “Do I want this mantle? Did I want the association? No. But I fought it. I pushed past it. I did everything in my power to make it look different than those that held it before me. But some wounds . . . they are harder to heal. The emotions are harder to euthanize. I stood in front of the masses, and though they loved me, new toys came to play and no matter what I did, I was not useful to anyone. That was what I learned. And thus I became bitter. I pushed that away from me.” He closes his eyes and then opens them. His lip curls slightly, and he sighs outwardly. “Your destruction is the end to my chains. The last tie that I own. When I became valued by other companies, sought after, when I became popular, I lost the respect of my bosses. And that’s fine. But after all the effort I put in, and the disrespect that I went through, I decided that nothing they could do to me was worth staying there. And I am better for it. I know it. It is hard, however, to let go of accomplishments. To let go of things that you wish you could have kept.” He presses his fingers to the logos on the belt, unneeded to name. His fingers run over the top of it. “I am better without you. And what you represent, you lying, cheating pieces of shit.” He shakes his head, opens the door to the incinerator then, and literally shoves the belt down the ramp into it. It lands in the pile as he slams the door shut, and instantly, the chimney above begins to blaze with dark smoke. Eventually, it would fade to light, but Finn would be long gone by then. He dropped into his vehicle, watching the smoke rise into the air. With the incineration of his title, he felt renewed. Invigorated. Like there was nothing that could stop him from clutching the reins of the company and holding fast, higher than anyone would have ever assumed. He was ready to become a leader within the Battleground. His time . . . it was now. ••••• Colorado is an apt choice for Guerrilla Warfare. There’s something about how the plains meet the foothills in a non-gentle caress that reminds me a war constantly about to be loosed. Towering over Red Rocks are mountains, higher than you can see, that block out the sun. Eclipsing, making the ground around it cold. The higher you climb into the fourteeners, the colder it gets. But it is always cold on top, is it not? I have lived in Colorado for some of my years now, and let me tell you, it is a more unforgiving place than you think. At least three hundred days of the year, the sun is shining and world is bathed in its presence with blue skies and fresh mountain air. But the rest of the days? We are bathed in fierce thunderstorms that leaves hail upon the ground like it snowed in July. We have tornados that ravage the eastern plains. We have blizzards made of pure ice that cut into you. Our weather is frigid and cold. We have no gradual seasons. It is very much like the personalities of this match. Hot and cold. Brutal, gentle. You see everything, but when you realize that you have to create yourself to be something to combat all of them, you begin to lose a piece of yourself. Compassion falls away. Pride, longing, and desire come to play. But the truth is still a man who has lost himself. But, a man who has lost himself is a man who forces his way to grow into his own destiny. I now stand in front of you, not a World Champion, not a leader of a company, but a face that people recognize. A face that people follow. A face that can hold much more on the shoulders that accompany it. A face that can hold the burdens of this business. The entirety of season two of Union Battleground, I have made it my plan to push myself further than I ever have in the past. To crush the competition. To destroy my opposition from the inside, to turn them into the dust that has settled at the feet of my opponents who have lacked confidence in my abilities, who have said that I have an untamed ego, who have said that I cannot do this. I can. I will. The whole first and second seasons, you saw the continued rivalry between Salvation and Devereaux, and then when Devereaux abandoned ship, we were left with the crazies in the asylum. We have been under the foot of Salvation for so long that I’m not sure we even know how to separate from it. It is the face that looms over our thoughts, over our minds, and none have been able to place restraint upon them. But I can. Those who rise against Nemesis on social media platforms, that have tried in the past, have not figured him out. They have seen him for what he is -- an enigmatic leader with followers beyond the grave it seems...and yet, their first plan is to emasculate. To call him worthless. To set him on the floor when we all know who the hell he is and what he has done. That’s not the method you go about doing things with a man like Nemesis. You meet him on his level. You show him who he is, and who you are, and then you destroy him. You meet and exceed expectations. That is the only way you can do it. Not by words. Not by bravado. But by open respect, and only then become the threat that they think you are. I’m not sure any of the combatants really understand that. But I do. I have watched men and women build mountains of who they are. Of who they could be. I have watched coworkers say they can rise to the occasion, but they fall. I am a figure that can stand tall. A figure who is willing to push themselves to the nth degree to become what is required. A savior to combat your Salvation. I just need the chance. There is far more riding on this for me than there is for anyone. I crave this opportunity. I need this chance. This is my future. My rise. My goal. Mark my words, come the end of Season Two, you will not see Nemesis or Devereaux, or even Layton or Zombie as the face that gets the most notirety for this company. It will be Finn Whelan, the Seattle Saint, as the man who stands on the top. I will be the face of Union Battleground. I will be the champion. Try and stop me. [FIN] WORD COUNT: 3679 |