The camera sweeps across golden sands. A desert, vast and empty, stretches on forever. Above, a cloudless sky, a piercing blue. The only things interrupting the expanse of burning desert are the distant shape of a pyramid... and a woman, substantially nearer to the viewer. She sits perched atop a rock, tan skin and golden eyes framed by raven black hair. Her attire is outdated, to put it mildly, the figure barely garbed in what one might imagine an Egyptian priestess to wear. Her outfit covers little, the woman sporting more in elaborate jewelry than she does in actual clothing.
"When I was a child," she begins in solemn tone, "I took a great deal of comfort from the... the world of professional wrestling. It seems silly, I know. It was a distraction, though--a perfect distraction from the weight, the overbearing dark that encroached upon my life. There, on my flickering screen, stood these... heroes. Villains. Gods, and monsters, and the brave warriors that fought them week in and week out. Men that stood as avatars for rebellion, patriotism, wickedness and greed. Icons, ideas made flesh, beings larger than life... giants that towered over the earth and all of its ridiculous little problems. All of my... ridiculous little problems."
There's an air about her--something enigmatic, something noble, something cold as the desert night and as distant as that pyramid.
"Time wore on, as it tends to do... and I watched as embodiments of countries and concepts, as witchdoctors and vampires and all manner of ridiculous existence... they faded. They withered and vanished into the aether. All the titans and creatures of the 80s, the 90s, they disappeared and what took their place...
what took their place failed to compare. Bland, mass produced, sexually ambiguous boys doing backflips like a showdog at Westminster. Skeletal Instagram models hunting desperately for the cheapest spotlight. Thrillseekers and junkies bashing each other over the head with household items and proclaiming, boldly, that this was wrestling. Brutish thugs. Insipid whores. On and on, forever, an endless parade of caricatures. Herculean heroes and sinister villains, replaced by the festering mold that grows at the basest depths of the human condition. Where are the gods? Where are the monsters? Where has all the magic drifted off to?"
Clutched between her hands, highlighted by long and black fingernails... is a book. A thick, black book, with engravings of hieroglyphs and scarab shapes decorating its pristine surface. An ancient tome, locked behind gold mechanisms. The Book of the Dead. The woman gazes into its face, her eyes drawn to it, absorbed in it. She can scarcely look away for even a moment, even to hazard a glance toward the camera.
"I've gone... I've gone to great lengths to find that magic, that sense of wonder, and to bring it back. I want to restore the spirit, the mysticism, the sense of awe that once permeated this great sport. Sometimes I wonder if, perhaps... if perhaps I've even gone too far in that pursuit."
She lifts her attention from the book.
She pierces the viewer with a narrowed gaze.
"But then... I see someone like you, William Neilson, and I know--in my heart of hearts, I know--that what I'm doing is right. What I'm doing... it needs to be done. It HAS to be done.
William Neilson, the Great British Meme. One half of Cake With Memes. What a ludicrous farce."
The woman rises from her stone, switching the ornate book to rest beneath one arm. She takes a step, and raises her newly freed hand; with but a single snap of her fingers, the desert landscape--all of it, the entire wasteland... disappears. Gone, in an instant. Or, to be accurate: it never truly existed, merely an animated image across a massive green screen. The vast horizon where sand meets sun is instead replaced with... an image macro.
"Internet memes. Named after the concept of memetics, information that ostensibly spreads and evolves itself. Memes, by their nature, are short lived; each one is a candle flickering in the wind, replaced in months if not days by a different but equally banal photoshop template. With a handful of upvotes on your social media of choice, Nyan Cat gives way to Tide Pods gives way to an unusually large bovine. In. Out. Shuffled aside, gone in a heartbeat, forgotten forever. Insignificant little pustules on the face of society, popped with barely a second thought. Subcultural mutations, at best. That you, William, profess to be one, a single passing instance of a short lived phenomenon, concedes your insignificance."
She begins to pace. She squints, her tongue pressing at the inner layer of her cheek. She twists her gaze toward the camera, the bearest hint of a smirk teasing at the woman's lips.
"But you know this, don't you? You acknowledge it, take pride in it, if pride isn't too strong a word. It's your claim to absent fame, that you are but a fleeting glimpse at a passing photograph, that your legacy is the life of a mayfly. You revel in this, bask in it, as though it's not also the greatest weakness restraining you."
The faint beginnings of a smirk fade just as quickly as they arose.
"You hold no illusions of being something greater. You don't even pretend, for an instant, that you'll ever be anything but a... a Beanie Baby, or a Furbie or a, a Pet Rock. Out of the fear of failing to meet even the lowest standard, out of the fear of disappointing even yourself, you cannot believe for any width of a second that you'll remain past the moment you step from view. You're afraid. You're afraid to aspire to anything worthwhile. You're afraid to succeed, to even tempt it.
Fear, little William Neilson...
Fear is the worst trait you can possibly possess
in a ring
with Inaros."
She snaps her fingers once more. A still meme is switched for footage. Out of focus. Trembling, recorded with a cell phone. Not one scene, but multiple--wrestling matches, or pieces of them. A highlight reel, though what it depicts leans closer to something rated R. A massive figure absolutely tears through one fighter after another. Underground clubs. Basement arenas. He progresses, one body at a time, sometimes handfuls of them with equal nonchalance. Suplexes that echo like a thunderstorm. Chokeslams that test the structural integrity. The impossibility of his stature feeds into the found footage aesthetic.
"It would be ridiculous to state that he smells fear. Animals smell fear. They detect the chemical signatures. They physically inhale and process the pheromones. Inaros does not smell your fear, William-- he feels it, so tangible and real he could reach out and touch it. He takes it in with all he is. He absorbs it into himself and with it, he grows stronger. He is seven feet tall, Mr. Neilson. He is almost four hundred pounds. He does not need your assistance in dismantling you, piece by painful piece, but you will offer it to him freely. You fear yourself, you fear the risk of weight upon your feeble shoulders... and in Charleston South Carolina, in front of over 5,000 people, you will come to fear Inaros."
Those glossy lips curve in earnest. The woman grants a genuine smile, a vile grin, drawn on by the thought.
"You will break across him like a lost ship meets the rocks, and you will deserve it. You will have earned every second that you suffer. You're an adequate grappler, William--a mildly accomplished athlete who has proven their worth in budget gold. You're good at your job, but that's the highest compliment I can pay you. The people--those lowly little people filing into the TD Arena--they deserve better than you. Competitors in this sport should be offering a higher bar. A meme obsessed man-child, merely decent at his role? Any one of them could be that. Any miserable, bloated nitwit stuffing themselves on stadium popcorn could reach those lofty heights."
She shakes her head. The smile, as before, was not meant to last.
"No. Wrestlers should be greater than that. Wrestlers should be improbable things doling out impossible feats. Wrestlers should inspire, with a glow so mighty it blinds the lesser man. You are fallible, William. Weak. Insecure. Frightened of the lengths your shadow could grow should the spotlight burn too bright. This industry demands gods and monsters. Magic and wonder. It yearns for the glory of what once was... and what once was can be again. It shall.
You... you are but mortal, William Neilson.
You hunt for nothing more
and mortal men have but one inevitability.
There is no alternative.
Not for you.
You have a reputation for being a bit of a joker, William--one that takes solace in the comedy of circumstance. Perhaps you, too, will find it funny, then... that despite all your efforts to avoid being a cultural milestone, you will become one nonetheless. Not for your value in itself, not for your accomplishments... but for being the first in a glorious rampage, the bottom at the pile of broken, battered, and defeated. You will make history, William... as the first to crumple on national television at the feet of Inaros."
She slowly, deliberately raises her hand... and lowers her head. She gives the final snap. The lights in the room fade out, Umi disappearing as the dark takes over. The screen that occupies the entire back wall changes once again--it, too, to a solid and unrelenting blackness. Only a single item interrupts the otherwise perfect consistency: a jarring impact font, perfectly centered, pasted in all caps across its surface.
Post by Will Neilson on Jan 2, 2019 10:18:37 GMT -5
'Somewhere in Ancient Egypt'
We start our scene off in what appears to be a simple empty room, the walls painted a light grey-like colour and a sole window that gives way to the outside world. If you looked close enough, then it would be clear that this is taking place in somebody’s back garden. Regardless, a faint cough is heard within the room and soon, a switch is flicked and the room becomes lit up. At the back of the room sits a makeshift throne of sorts, made up of all kinds of materials as seen with a piece of cardboard being used for the seat and a few sticks holding up the arm rests. Resting on the throne itself is a man, that man being the Great British Meme himself, Will Neilson. His attire is a bit… revealing, mostly because the only thing covering his body is that of a black and gold bathrobe. Will leans back slightly to show that he’s also wearing one of those Burger King paper crowns on his head, the corners of his mouth twisting into a smile.
“What does it take to be recognised a… ‘king’ to say? An emperor. A ruler over others in a world where many say we live in a meritocratic society. It’s far too easy nowadays to just slap a crown on your head or call out to this ‘higher power’, some may say it’s to stand out from the rest and solidify yourself in the business. I say that nine times out of ten, it’s a way to place a target on your back through the bullshit you preach. Look at me now! If this was a few years back and I didn’t know any better, I’d be sitting here claiming to rule over wrestling and Union Battleground and this whole tournament they got going on. To hold the Crown of the King Cobra is an opportunity that everyone is striving for at the moment, a real sense of grand opportunity ya know? Everybody has something to prove and that includes myself. When you look at my opponent in the first round though, you’d think that it’d be game, set and match. The thing that is different from what you believe though is that I don’t fear anything like this, I don’t fear the concept of an undead monster coming back and I certainly don’t fear the one they call Inaros.”
Taking a moment to pause, Will looks to lean his right arm down on one of the poorly made arm rests, but then soon finds one of the sticks starts to give way and that part of the throne just falls off with no real noise.
“Ah, shit! I put a lot of effort into this as well!”
Will then realises that the footage is still rolling and he awkwardly looks back up and simply leans back in the throne again, trying to make his face as clear as possible to those watching.
“You are quite the intimidating… uh… thing? I don’t want to go assuming stuff here so we’re going with what I know, but I’ll be honest. When the match was first announced it was an unknown feeling for myself, facing somebody who was resurrected through a book and controlled by somebody who does all the talking for him. Fair play, you see a few of those people around in the wrestling business, the talking part not the resurrecting part... but this one is new. Inaros brings something new to the table and that’s what excited me at first, until I realised what was at stake. It wasn’t just about going through to the next round of this tournament, it was showing that all monsters can fall down as quick as they are hyped up to be said monster. That’s all you are at the moment, Inaros. The thing that Umi has said so much about, yet something that only has a few words to their name, show and tell without the show. It’s easy to scare somebody through being this massive beast capable of the greatest feats but then again, you don’t send shivers down my spine and instead motivate me to beat you back down into the ground. You’re a fuckin’ idiot under all these bandages. There’s nothing else that could describe you better!”
A second later and Will is confidently leaning on the opposite arm rest that has more support underneath, looking like he’s bored out of his mind when in fact it seems quite the opposite, a rush of adrenaline going through his veins and pumping him up some more.
“You two are clear examples of people trapped within their own illusion of how they see the world, because whilst you want a sense of witchcraft and magic back in the business, does anybody else seem to care? Inaros, mate, pal, whatever, you’ve got all these promises to live up to that your manager has preached and yet what you don’t know is that I’m much different than just the first person to fall down to you. I won’t bow down and I certainly won’t kneel to this power that Umi thinks you hold over me and the rest of the participants in this tournament. For everyone else? It doesn’t really matter if they see you as a threat or not, because they won’t have a chance to face you. Inaros will be out in the first round, place your fuckin’ bets right here, right now. Umi, you’re scared of the prospect of your boy actually LOSING. We all know that one loss for Inaros will put a nice dent in all of this bullshit that you’ve built up about him, the insecurities are coming in thick and thin and it’s a frightening prospect to face I know.”
“Just what will the reaction be, eh?”
He sits up and leans forward now, arms held down and resting over his knees as he takes a moment before looking to the side and then back at the recording device.
“They’ll love it. We could put on a classic, but then at the same time that doesn’t look to be your concern by the looks of things. It’s clear that you’re much bigger than me and will throw me around the ring like no tomorrow, but whatever it takes, my ass will be back up and ready to give it to ya. Holding the power advantage over me is nothing when I fuckin’ kill you in every other category. That big frame and little mind isn’t going to hold up when I’m running circles around you like it’s nothing. Umi has you on strings like a puppet and you can’t do anything about it, which makes my job a lil’ bit easier. Whilst exposing weak points when it comes to certain people really isn’t my thing anymore, I feel this is a different story because it’s too god damn obvious what and who is controlling you. Umi is your weakness. That book is the reason you exist. One step in the wrong direction for her…” Will raises his right index finger up. “... and it all goes downhill. You’ll have nobody to speak for you and nobody to give you a purpose in life. I’ve done my research, I know what’s up.”
Will stands up for a second and shakes the paper crown off of his head, letting the hair flow loose and holding the device up so it’s more centered on his face. He still flashes a smile, making sure the bathrobe isn’t falling at all before continuing.
“Umi is none of my concern though, even with her assistance I won’t even allooooooow you to advance in this tournament. This is between me and the 7’0” giant who can barely think for himself. This business gives me a platform to speak my mind and fuck with people’s heads like there’s no tomorrow. I am the Great British Meme after all, because at the end of the day, I’m here to make you laugh and potentially offend you. It doesn’t apply to you in this situation, because your mind is so fickle that this battle between us won’t just be of the minds but of brawn. Despite my size, despite whatever the hell you say, this won’t be a mauling or ‘insert synonym for destroy here’. This will be a wake up call to whatever bullshit you want to throw at other people in the future. I'll take the deadly weapon of my mind and convert it into my limbs to punch, kick and ultimately take you down. Count on it."
Holding his left arm out, Will appears to fumble around slightly only to retract the limb and come back holding what appears to be a scroll in his hands. It’s pretty dusty looking and crumpled, Neilson holding it out towards the camera.
“Now, I’m not sure if you have to translate stuff for him but I actually prepared a message for Inaros! You remember those old hieroglyphics you learned in school? Maybe that’s just a British thing, but I really don’t know. Anyway, if we look closely here…”
Unravelling the scroll slowly and carefully, WIll holds it up to the camera where a simple inscription is seen of four coloured symbols. These were the hieroglyphic symbols.
“I thought it was the perfect word to sum up my thoughts about you, do you want to know what that word is?”
With a cheeky little smile, Will reaches forward to place his index finger underneath the symbols and seemingly rubs off the scroll paper like it was a scratch card. As the four letters matching the symbols slowly appear, the word is said aloud by Will as it slowly appears. It was one word and one word only…
“CUNT.”
With a quick wink from the right eye, Will drops the scroll and presumably reaches over to turn the camera off.
