We open to, of all places... a kitchen. A nice kitchen, it should be noted, with gorgeous marble tiles and ample walking space. It's a beautiful kitchen--an ideal dining room of unimaginable expense. Sunlight pours through gaping windows, and all throughout... men work.
Incredibly fit men, at that. They have tight, filled out physiques, and each wears very little--nothing more than snug, black briefs, a spotless apron... and a mask. A black, cloth mask that covers the entire head, with a symbol like the eye of Horus embroidered across the front surface in golden thread. Each muscular male dabbles at his own task--one washing the dishes, one wiping off the spotless countertops, and a third putting the finishing touches on an elaborate cake.
"William Neilson was quite the little appetizer, was he not?"
Umi's high heels click upon the glistening floor as she strolls into view. Unlike the scantily dressed men at her beck and call, she wears a black suit--one just a hair too small in only the most convenient places. As usual, the Book of the Dead is tucked beneath her arm.
"A delicious snack to help whet my creature's appetite, but I do fear he failed to satisfy. No, what Inaros craves is a proper meal--something more filling to satiate his immense hunger. Neilson was good, but one cannot expect the opening round to be an adequate main course. For all the good I can speak of him, William Neilson is..."
She stops. She offers a wide and eager grin.
"...No Emery Layton.
But neither are you! Are you, Mr. Morales?"
The men never cease, showing no hint of distraction from their assigned labors. They don't even look up from the duty they're shackled to.
"Emery Layton took the big plunge, risking her reputation on a venture into Four Corners Wrestling. Who should follow but her husband, adorable little Andrew? Emery Layton won the XWA Supreme Championship; one Mr. Morales began to fruitlessly give chase. Emery Layton won the Crown of the King Cobra tournament and, like clockwork: here you are, one year later. You cleared your first bit of opposition with Emery's old maneuver, and the commentary punctuated it all so succinctly--AJ Morales advances to the quarter finals... just like his wife did. Not that it was necessary, mind; you tipped your own hand well before that. Eagerly. Proudly, even, for some god awful reason."
Umi rolls her eyes, a fainter smile crossing her glossy lips.
"Credit where it's due, Mr. Morales--you are a competitor. You're an athlete of the highest caliber, with no shortage of championships, trophies, and other miscellaneous accolades to your name. You claim to be the, THE most dominant luchador walking the earth, and honestly... honestly, I don't doubt it. Not for one moment.
But one MUST wonder, mustn't one?
If the ol'... ball and chain didn't cast such a lengthy shadow, how hard would you still be fighting?
How many of those prestigious awards would you have bothered pursuing?
Would you even make the effort to be here?"
For only a second, Umi eyes the cake resting upon the nearby counter. With her free hand and very little subtlety, she reaches across, sneaking a bit of white frosting onto her index finger... and brings it to her lips. She smirks, and continues.
"It's no secret, Mr. Morales. You don't step into that ring to better yourself. You don't fight for the thrill nor the challenge, and you're not truly interested in raising the stature of whatever company you lend your name on a given day. No, you enter the arena with one goal: to rage against the single, solitary specter perpetually haunting your career.
You fight to remain Mr. Morales instead of Mr. Emery Layton.
All those sparkling prizes, Andrew--but you only collect them so you won't be seen as a trophy yourself. It would be humiliating, wouldn't it? A strapping young lad following, politely, behind your wife and wearing only the most silver of medals... you would feel weak. Inadequate. Demasculinized. And what would the neighbors think?"
That devious grin returns. Umi mockingly places a hand to her mouth--as though to stifle a small giggle.
"Physically, you're outmatched--that much is self evident. The greatest luchador in the universe could not hope to compete in a pure brawl with the seven foot Inaros. Wrestling is more than a contest of bodies, though--it is a challenge of courage and mind, a contest of opposing wills. The tenacity of one's very soul is tested on the field of battle. With determination and pure intent, a fighter can transcend the limits of his humanity and ascend to something... greater."
Carefully, Umi slips the book from beneath her arm. She grips it firmly, in both hands, where the camera can see it clearly.
"You lack that pure intent, Mr. Morales. You do not come to battle with the heart of a warrior--you come with petty spite and misogynistic misery. You are not a hero arriving to slay the monster, you're a sad little man in an eternal rat race with his own spouse. You are so desperately afraid of your woman outshining you, outperforming you, of her legacy outliving yours that you will sweat and bleed and die to keep your name even an inch more relevant than hers. Your spirit is lacking, your masculinity frail, and your agenda is quite frankly pathetic. Inaros, on the other hand..."
She brings the book a little closer to her body.
"Inaros is primal. Bestial. A force of nature, untainted by the insignificant hindrances of the typical male fragility. He fights because there is one. He holds no hesitance, only hatred. He sees not opportunities, only targets. He takes reticent, repugnant little cretins like you, Mr. Morales, and in a greater act of magic than I myself can accomplish he transmutes them into victims. Poof. A show worthy of Vegas, fun for the whole family."
The enslaved male that was previously wiping off the counters finishes his task. Without saying a word, he retrieves a Swiffer from off camera, and begins to clean the already glowing floors.
"You're so... so terribly frightened of your looming househusband status that you would face the Curse of the Pharaohs. You would subject yourself to the Darkness Over Egypt, and you do so without one ounce of genuine conviction. Emery Layton won this tournament previously, and no one is more familiar with her legacy than you--and of course no one is. Only you, only YOU Mr. Morales pursue her every success with such mad desperation. Do you think that's adequate? Do you really, in the shallows of your shriveling rat heart believe that's enough to stop him?"
Umi takes a deep breath... and leans her head back. She tucks the book back under her arm.
"You're an impeccable performer, no doubt one of the best present. That is not enough, Andrew. If your bride had not graced this company, you wouldn't have given it a second glance. That... is not... sufficient. The Crown of the King Cobra deserves better. Union Battleground deserves better. Your wife deserves better, the entire industry deserves better, and I am made PHYSICALLY ILL that a man like you comprised entirely of cheap bravado and so very many flaws, is in FACT one of the greatest wrestlers stepping up to this challenge.
You seek to follow in Emery's footsteps? You scarcely deserve to lace her boots.
You seek to match her glory in this tournament, Mr. Morales? Inaros will prove, undeniably in that ring, that you are not worthy of it.
Inaros will win this tournament. He will ascend to the highest heights of the wrestling world, and he will stand as a beacon--a new standard for the weak of will like yourself to look up to. You will gaze upon his glory, Mr. Morales, upon the indomitable resolve and unmatched power he possess and you will despair that, for all your envious and envy DRIVEN deeds, you are yet... so very small. The public demands someone bigger, and what once was can be again. It shall."
She steps closer to the camera, one of her servants casually maneuvering from her path as she approaches. She leans in close, dangerously close, her tone diminishing.
"And though you may hear venom in my words, Mr. Morales, I want you to know--I harbor no more enmity toward you than any other pretenders in this business. I will not make garish claims that Inaros will tear you limb from limb or that he plans to pluck the eyes from your skull. No. You've done nothing to earn that level of malice... though, as you're laying flat on your back, staring up at the lights, pondering the path you took to ruin...
I will take great pleasure, Mr. Morales, in leaning down and whispering into your ear--"
She leans just a bit closer. Her voice drops ever so slightly.
"--That perhaps it's time you returned to the kitchen."
Umi steadily straightens her stance. She tugs on her skirt, adjusting it firmly, and casts a final glare into the camera's lens. Satisfied after a moment of stern silence, she turns, and begins to make her exit; on her way out, her free hand gives an audible slap to the thinly clad ass of the man currently sweeping the floor. He doesn't respond, not even instinctively jumping, not even throwing her a glance... he just keeps working. The scene fades as the high priestess walks out.
Post by RevolutionJones on Jan 16, 2019 7:02:28 GMT -5
We open on a blurry shot of the full moon. As the camera pulls back and sharpens its focus, we find that the moon is a lone beacon in tonight’s clear starless sky, illuminating what turns out, after pulling back some more, to be a graveyard. It’s here that we find “The Revolution” A.J. Morales keeping watch over one particular headstone, wearing a red leather duster and pants that contrast sharply with his black T-shirt and boots. After a few seconds, he notices the camera, gives us a nod, and starts to speak to us.
“Hi, I’m A.J., and I believe in the supernatural.
“Now, I know whenever someone with a spooky, fantastical persona pops up in this sport, a lot of wrestlers’ first instinct is to puff up their chests and start no-selling. ‘I’m not afraid of the monster,’ they say, ‘there’s no such thing as monsters. My opponent is just a guy in a costume trying too hard to be edgy.’ And yeah, this sport is full of guys in costumes trying too hard to be edgy—”
A.J. turns his head to the side and fakes a cough.
“Salvation!”
He turns his gear back towards us, gives a cheeky grin, and resumes.
“...but every once in a while, you get the real deal. You get a genuine monster in the flesh, too powerful to deny. And that’s the situation we’re dealing with here, because I believe in Inaros.”
A.J. takes a beat, as if to let an imaginary audience member react in shock. In that moment, we hear a faint scratching sound from nearby, but it’s not clear where it’s coming from.
“Yup. You heard me. His backstory, his powers, I buy every single word. The fact that he made his professional debut against Will Neilson—three-time world champion Will Neilson, someone I’m 1-1 with myself—and won in such dominating fashion made me completely believe the hype, the mystique, the awe his manager’s built up. And that goal Umi has of restoring the mythical qualities of this sport? I respect it 100%, especially when she’s found an honest-to-God giant mummy to face me. Make no mistake, Inaros is supernatural…
“...and that’s exactly why I’m going to beat him.”
A lock of hair drops out of place, and he flips it back before he keeps talking.
“Let’s be honest here. Making pretentious tweets? Calling me ‘Andrew’? That’s not scary, Umi. You know it’s not scary. But you know what is scary? The Lynx. Imagine the spirit of underworldly evil itself given flesh in the form of a masked giant about the size of Inaros—an inch taller, a few pounds lighter, but basically the same size and physique. The Lynx was supernatural too. And almost a year ago now, I had to make a title defense against him in Chile.”
A.J. leans in closer, like he’s telling a ghost story at a campfire.
“You wanna know what happened?
“I went into that match with a plan. I outsmarted him. I controlled the spacing, I controlled the pace of the match, and I forced him to make mistakes, mistakes I then punished by going for the throat over and over again. And I didn’t just win that match and stay the champion. I left the Lynx unconscious, choking on his own blood, and he had to be stretchered out by a team of paramedics and loaded up into an ambulance.”
As A.J. pauses for emphasis, we start to hear the scratching sounds again, this time a little louder, and therefore easier to identify as coming from underground.
“Now imagine a different monster—same size as the Lynx, same supernatural qualities—only this monster is slower than the Lynx. Less agile than the Lynx. Dumber than the Lynx, to the point that he can’t talk or think on his own, let alone come up with a plan to ambush me at the start of the match like the Lynx did, and needs constant prompting to get through a match. In other words...imagine Inaros.
“If I already demolished the Lynx that thoroughly, and I’ve only gotten better at what I do since then, what do you think’s gonna happen to Inaros when I get in that ring with him?”
The scratching gets a little faster, a little louder, but not so much so as to throw A.J. off his game.
“Oh, sure, it won’t be easy to destroy Inaros. I’ll have to hit him with everything I’ve got. I’ll have to stay on constant guard. I’ll have to take my best shots multiple times and nail them all picture-perfectly to get him to stay down for 3 or submit to a hold. But the thing about going for the overkill is that once you cross that threshold with an opponent, no matter how powerful they are, they will feel the effects. They will stay down, even if they’re supernatural, because it takes someone just as powerful to hit them with that overkill in the first place.”
Once again, A.J. pauses for emphasis, and slowly, the corners of his mouth turn into a wry smile. And all the while, the scratching sounds from underground continue to intensify...
“Is it sinking in yet, Umi? Are you starting to understand who your monster’s up against? I’m not one of the assembly-line pretty-boys you despise so much. I’ve taken hits that have ended other people’s careers and gotten back up to win the match. I’ve taken moves that are hard enough to do by just jumping once off the top rope and figured out how to do them from a triple-jump—including my wife’s signature technique, the Prikasa. And when I hit that particular variation on Minka Carter, I rocked her so hard that it destroyed the demonic alter-ego that had taken over her mind for the past year and a half. Can you scientifically explain what I must have done to Minka’s brain to unscramble it like that? Because I sure as hell can’t.”
By this point, the earth is starting to shift ever so slightly in front of that grave A.J.’s watching, and the scratching only gets more furious. But if A.J. notices any of it, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps on talking to the camera.
“And the more game tape you watch, the better-prepared you try to be for me, the more you’ll realize that the things I can do to someone in that ring are not natural. They’re supernatural. And the reason that I can do them in the first place is because I’m not human. I’m superhuman. You wanna put the mystique, the mythology, the fantasy back in professional wrestling? Let’s do it. Matter of fact...it's already here.”
KRRRUNCH! Finally, the thing underground claws its way out through the dirt, first a hand, then an arm, and before long, a newly-turned vampire’s revealed himself and started clawing towards what it thinks is its first meal. A.J. looks down when it first breaks through, but turns back to us almost immediately with nothing but confidence on his face, talking to us as the vampire gets closer and closer.
“Welcome to Sunnydale, motherfucker! I’m A.J. the Vampire Slayer. The last luchador to tear through monsters the way I do was El Santo, and he only fought monsters like this in the movies. I carry the Best of the Battleground’s legacy on my back with every step I take towards the Crown of the King Cobra—not because I have to, but because I chose to. And yeah, it’s a heavy burden to bear, it raises the expectations and the pressure on me exponentially, but when fight night comes in Philly and it’s time for me to put that burden down and step in the ring, I’m gonna be that much faster and stronger for it.”
A.J. glances down just long enough to check where the vampire’s at before he continues.
“So Umi, as appealing as some of your rhetoric might be, as noble as your quest might seem through a certain lens, as admirable as your ambitions to be this season’s Big Bad are…”
Suddenly, in one quick motion, A.J. takes a wooden stake out of his coat and stabs the vampire right in the chest, dropping to one knee so as to more easily force it back down to the ground. He looks to the camera one last time, conviction in his eyes...
“...the truth is...you and Inaros? You're just episode 3’s villains of the week.”
A.J. pulls the stake away and walks off as the vampire crumbles to dust. Slowly, we pan back up to the night sky, back to the full moon above…and we zoom in, going more and more out of focus, until all that’s left is a haze of white moonlight.
