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Adrien Specter and Azrael Goeren vs. Gryphon and Brad Jackson: The Match Made In Twitter
Topic Started: Nov 18 2012, 11:21 PM (381 Views)
Bobbie Hearst
Administrator
Adrien Specter (SCW) and Azrael Goeren (APW) vs. Gryphon (FA) and Brad Jackson (FA)

2 rps per team.
Deadline: Thursday December 13th at 11:59 EST
 
Azrael Goeren
Member Avatar

Careful with that! Do you know how much Visionary Wrestling paid for this equipment? It's worth more than your life! Hey! HEY! Come on, man...don't be like that. Listen, I'm sorry. I'm just under a lot of stress to get this set up in time for the media day, you know? Nah, it’s cool. I'm sorry. You're doing good. We're all doing good.

Matt Deane lets out an exhausted sigh as several underpaid workers scurry about in front of him, each of them carrying either extremely expensive electronic equipment or brown boxes overflowing with merchandise. Deane scans his surroundings, seeing Visionary Wrestling employees setting up security gates and large banners in preparation for Showcase Zero this Saturday.

He briefly wonders how he got here. It’s amazing. It really is. A few short months ago, he was just a fresh-out-of-college journalism major from Syracuse University. Now he's head of digital media for Visionary Wrestling Incorporated, a position that he's not only eternally grateful for but is 100% dedicated to help continue Visionary Wrestling's national ascension. Now he's standing in the lobby of Madison Square Garden. Now he's responsible to promote the show.

Lucky for him, the card that was put together for Showcase Zero has made his job so much easier. These are the best of the best that the wrestling world has to offer. It’s not hard to create buzz and sell tickets when you have this much talent competing on the same card. Hell, this show sold out within the first half hour of tickets being available to the general public. Hopefully the rest of his career is this easy.

Deane smiles to himself as he straightens out a banner that is draped across one of the tables. He unloads a couple of microphones and a professional soundboard from a nearby box, along with popping open his Macbook Pro and hooking everything up. He does so methodically, making sure the microphones are at a proper sound level and doing a sample test recording.

This was his idea. This is his baby. Doing social media interviews and live chats with the wrestlers has been a huge success so far in promoting Showcase Zero. Matt will take questions from any social media outlet. Twitter. Facebook. Texts. It’s all good. Anything to drive up awareness. Anything to make Visionary Wrestling's presence grow.


Hey, can anyone tell me what time it is?

A voice answers him from across the room. Matt swears inaudibly at the response as he fidgets with the equipment one more time.

He's late.

Of course he is.

All of these live chats have gone so well, but this is the one he was dreading right from the start. Out of all the people coming in today, very few of them carry around the abhorrent reputation of his next appointment.

Azrael Goeren.

Matt has never met the man. He's only heard things. And seen things. That's enough to formulate an opinion of the man who has been affectionately called "The Cancer of Professional Wrestling". Words like "unreliable", "selfish" and "deranged" are the normal adjectives that Goeren's fellow wrestlers use to describe him. Those are the more flattering words anyways. Usually he's a man that, despite his accomplishments and athletic talent, is considered not worth the trouble.

Guess Matt Deane should consider himself lucky then that Goeren agreed to take on Gryphon and Brad Jackson with Adrien Specter as his partner. The Match Made In Twitter, as its being called...a match featuring four of the most dangerous legends the wrestling world has ever seen.

Deane lets out a sigh and checks the microphones again.

Just wish Goeren would show up so we can get this train wreck over with, Deane thinks to himself.

Suddenly, the sound of tires screeching can be heard from outside the front doors of the Garden. Accompanied by a loud "THUNK", Deane raises his head to try and see what the commotion is outside. One of the glass doors that lead into the MSG lobby is violently kicked open as standing in the doorway is Azrael Goeren himself.


WHO WANTS TO GET FUCKED UP?!

Azrael brings a handkerchief up to his face and inhales, letting out a rambling laugh soon afterwards. He stumbles forward into the lobby as Deane gets his first good look at the Manic Megastar. Goeren is dressed in a black denim jacket with no shirt on underneath, along with a pair of tight black pleather pants and bright red suede shoes. Necklaces and other assorted jewelry adorn almost every space on his body and a bright red bandana and aviator glasses complete the look.

Deane? Matt Deane? Anyone know where he is? DEANE! DEANE! I NEED YOU! NOT SEXUALLY! WELL...SEXUALLY IF YOU'RE OPEN TO A FEW THINGS AND ARE TOLERANT OF...

Matt rushes forward and steps in front of Goeren, looking to end this loud tirade and keep his coworkers from asking questions. Goeren's eyes widen as he embraces the stunned Visionary Wrestling employee with an awkward hug.

Herr Deane! Wunderbar to meet you in person mein freund! How are you doing on this fine morning?

F...Fine. Did you...find the place okay?

Oh please, Herr Deane. I've wrestled in this palace of sin and decadence many times in my life.

Did you park...outside?

Of course.

I don't think you're allowed to do that.

Nein, its fine. I do it all the time. This time I only ran over one fire hydrant and possibly a Pomeranian whilst performing my perfect parking procedure. That's called alliteration by the way, you should probably be writing all of this down.

Uhm, why don't we...

Azrael walks by Matt and takes off his aviators, his eyes looking like they need time to adjust to the light change.

Dear Lord, is this what Visionary Wrestling considers extravagant? Nein, this simply won't do at all. Let me get my people on this. I've got a handful of fashion designer contacts here in New York that will do wonders for this arena. I'm thinking giant sculpture letters right here. We can repaint these walls and put up a few oil paintings of yours truly. Tasteful nudes, you know? We'll block off the roads leading here and schedule a parade to run through the streets. We'll hit up The Village and organize all the transsexuals to march, it'll be just like last Arbor Day all over again!

Mr. Goeren?

Ja?

Please don't do any of that.

You, mein freund, are no fun. You need to lighten up. Here. Take a swig.

The demented German digs into his horribly tight pants and pulls out a flask, pushing it in Matt's direction. The Visionary Wrestling employee immediately pushes it back and recoils in horror. Goeren shrugs and takes a long swig, letting out a satisfied "Ahhhhhh" when he's done.

What was in that?

Absinthe.

Its 9:30 in the morning...

Got to be 5 o'clock somewhere.

But its 9:30 here...

Goeren shrugs him off and puts the flask back down his pants.

So, Herr Deane. What's the plan of attack here? Do I need to break anyone's arm for a photo shoot? Do I have to get naked? I'm very willing to get naked. I believe it’s in my contract that I get nude.

No! I...I don't know what type of interview you were expecting Mr. Goeren, but what we're going to do is sit at that table over there and just answer questions sent in by our fans about Showcase Zero this weekend.

Goeren's shoulders immediately drop and he lets out an exhausted sigh.

You know, I should get Specter on the phone right now and tell him this match is off. I don't think I can work under these horrendous conditions.

Making you keep your pants on is a condition?

Yes, it most certainly is! You people should let me promote this match the way I want to, not subject me to your little question and answer menagerie.

I don't think you're using that word correctly...

We'd be breaking pay-per-view records left and right if you let me do this my own way. Everyone knows that when Azrael Goeren promotes a card, its guaranteed to get over 3 billion pay-per-view buys in the United States alone!

That's a complete lie.

Nein, these are facts! You can tell because numbers are involved. Numbers are always facts, even when they're wrong.

I...I don't know what to say to that.

It's okay. You're doing well, you're keeping up.

Can we start this interview? Please?

Fine. Lead the way.

Matt shakes his head in disbelief, making his way back towards the table with the microphone equipment set up on it. Matt sits down and puts on his headphones, keeping his eyes focused on the Macbook screen before Azrael clears his throat loudly. Matt turns back and sees Goeren with his arms crossed, standing behind the chair and looking immensely displeased. Goeren motions with his eyes towards the tucked in chair before Matt reluctantly pulls it out for his guest. Azrael finally sits down and crosses his legs with a smirk.

Okay, so here how this is going to work Azrael. First thing we're going to do is record you doing a sweep for the website. Basically it’s an audio file that welcomes everyone to...

Ja, ja. I know what a sweep is. Feel free to call me Henrik, by the way.

Really?

Might as well. If we're going to do this we might as well keep it low-key and casual.

Wow. Yeah. Thanks...okay, so here we go.

Matt Deane clears his throat and signals to Goeren when the microphones are live.

Welcome Visionary Wrestling fans, I'm sitting here with former CWC World Heavyweight Champion, Henrik Goe...

CALL ME AZRAEL, DAMN IT! YOU DISGUSTING SCHWEIN FICKER! HOW DARE YOU DISRESPECT A LEGEND SUCH AS MYSELF! I WILL FIND THE NEAREST BAMBOO POLE AND SHOV...

The recording is quickly stopped.

You told me I could call you Henrik!

I know. Made for a great sweep, ja?

God. This is so not worth it.

Don't say that. Not after everything we've been through together.

We met like...five minutes ago.

It's like I'm Aladdin and you're my belly dancing prostitute girlfriend. So what's next?

I was going to switch things over to the live chat, if you don't decide to sabotage me first. Basically we'll enter a chatroom with the fans and you can answer their questions right in the chat. We'll also have their tweets and Facebook messages streaming on the right hand side of the chat so you can answer those too if you like.

Sounds good.

Are you going to be serious about this?

Absolutely. Would I lie to you, Herr Deane?

I've got a bad feeling about this...

***************************************************************

Visionary Wrestling Chat
Current Chat Visitors - 1,531


VWChatHost has logged on.

VWChatHost: Welcome Visionary Wrestling fans to another edition of Visionary Chat! As Showcase Zero inches closer and closer, we'll be bringing you more of the great competitors who will be involved in this inaugural supershow! Joining me today is former CWC World Heavyweight Champion and current APW Mega Star...Azrael Goeren! Azrael will now be taking questions and wants to remind everyone to go to www.GoerenGear.com for all of your favorite Azrael Goeren t-shirts and officially licensed...pubic merkins. Huh. Anyway, ask away!

VWGoeren has logged on.

SCWStud: How high are you right now?

KillaInstinca: Yo Goeren, wut you on? Can I get sum?

Butterfly17: How much of your pay day is going to amphetamines?

VWGoeren: Mein freunds, the only thing I'm "high" on is good sportsmanship, athletic prowess and beating the tar out of Gryphon and Brad Jackson for all of my loyal fans at Showcase Zero. I look at this match as the true main event, four of the greatest wrestlers that history shall ever know finally meeting in one ring. I don't want to speak for my dear partner Specter, but I know that I want to beat Gryphon and Jackson so badly just to silence the critics. We've never met during our journeys and frankly I'm tired of all of the "what ifs?" and postulations about us fighting. It’s time for action! It’s time to show the world that Azrael Goeren has always been the pinnacle of professional wrestling. It’s time to put on the greatest spectacle the wrestling world has ever seen! I'm also high on salvia.

VWChatHost: This is true. He insisted I record him doing it and wants me to post the video to VisionaryWrestling.com later tonight.

DandyDarkly: What are your thoughts on Gryphon in particular?

VWGoeren: Ah yes, the proverbial Great American Nightmare. To be honest, I am most familiar with him during his travels with the Universal Wrestling Federation, a promotion I was able to compete in while I held my CWC World Title. Very impressed with his ferocity and the way he likes to weasel around inside his opponent's head. This is a man who will beat you before you even step into the ring with him. People are well aware of the violence he's capable of...Hell, if you YouTube his name you're going to get days upon days worth of hardcore highlights from this maniac. A veteran very worthy of his reputation.

Unfortunately for him, the quaint things that he considers "violent" and "extreme" are like a leisurely stroll through Central Park for me. I've seen him crack skulls with steel chairs and put people through tables, but for him they are simply actions to achieve a result. I do not look at violence that way. I look at it like an art form, something that should be cherished and constantly evolving. The sound of bones breaking and blood pooling on the canvas is as beautiful to me as a baby's smile is to its mother. That is what keeps me going, to see how far I can push the envelope each and every match. My body is covered with scars and blemishes from a thousand different wars in a thousand different matches. If Gryphon thinks he can crawl inside my head and psyche me out, he's about to endure his own personal nightmare. Gryphon can be my crowning achievement, my wonderful masterpiece of disfigurement and soul-crushing defeat. I'll be simply overjoyed to ruin what's left of his life and remind him he should have stayed retired. It'll be an honor. An absolute honor.


MKSiztar34: That’s really fucked up. What about fighting Brad Jackson?

VWGoeren: Jackson is absolutely adorable, he really is. Make no mistake, the fans should treat him with reverence. He's been a monster in this industry ever since he came off the boat. Dominated countless promotions and federations across the globe and has put more men in the hospital than New York City's EMT service.

Listen, we all know about Jackson's reputation. He is a legend. He is fierce. He's hardcore.

For the love of everything that is holy though, can he drop the charade for just one second? To say Jackson has bought into his own hype is the understatement of the year. He believes in this aura he's built up for himself and clutches to it like a shield, hoping it keeps all the true lunatics at bay by scaring them off before they step into the ring with him. He truly believes we should bow down to his greatness based on name recognition alone.

The man needs to lighten up, I've got a whole medicine bag full of goodies back in my hotel room that would definitely turn his frown upside down. I haven’t seen a more angst-filled and dreary individual since I was looking for dates at Hot Topic (Call me Larissa, I'll still totally buy you that Strawberry Shortcake shirt. Don't tell your Mom).

Jackson will no doubt be his usual brooding and creepy self going into this match. He'll likely overlook me or make fun of my accent or simply think I'm not worth his time. Beautiful. I pray that he falls into this very clichéd trap because that’s the type of ignorance I prey on. He may be a legend in this industry but I've packed retirement wards with men like him who believe they are somehow superior to me.

Disregard me at your leisure, Herr Jackson. The only thing I'm focused on going into Showcase Zero is shattering that perfect little false idol. I want to break Jackson's self-worth and ego and leave him nothing but a naked husk of an icon. I'll strip him bare of everything he believes he is and show him that nothing in his life has prepared him for a match against me.

You see, what separates me from men like Jackson and Gryphon is they believe themselves to be on the cutting edge of professional wrestling due to their violent tendencies and hardcore reputations. That’s all well and good, but just how low are they willing to stoop in order to win?

Will they devolve and degrade themselves to the level of beasts?

I will.

Will they dirty their good names?

I will.

I simply don't care what I have to do every week to beat my opponent, I find ways to do it. I've fought so many men and women who were bigger or stronger or faster than I am but not a tenth as resourceful as yours truly. That's how you dominate as long as I have. Fuck your legacy. Embrace filth because winning is all that matters in this sick industry of ours.

I have never met a limit I wouldn't cross or a taboo too risqué to try. I'll do whatever I can to win at Showcase Zero and show the world just why my name is the most loathed name in wrestling today. Call me immoral, call me twisted...but I do the things most men can't do in order to beat Gryphon and Jackson. I can live with anything as long as it means having my hand raised at the end of the match.

You'll see. You'll all see soon enough.


TommyWiseauLvr: How are you and Adrien Specter going to get along?

VWGoeren: That's a non-issue. Specter and I will have an understanding in this match. Both of us want to beat these two men so badly that we'll gladly work with one another to make sure that goal is accomplished. There is no animosity between us, only the desire to get the job done. Specter knows what I'm capable of and I know what type of amazing competitor he is. He won't have to worry about a knife in the back from me because I can assure him to his face that none will be coming. In fact, I've already extended the olive branch to him. I sent him an officially licensed Azrael Goeren baseball cap earlier in the week with our initials stitched into the back. BFUSZE!

VWChatHost: BFUSZE? What's that mean?

VWGoeren: Best friends until Showcase Zero ends.

VWChatHost: Huh. That’s not cryptic at all. What do you say we answer some tweets?

VWGoeren: Sounds good...how about this tweet?

Posted Image

VWGoeren: Good question Azrael! An excellent question! We're actually running a sale right now, buy five t-shirts and receive the sixth one for the same price you paid for the others! Wowee!

VWChatHost: Mr. Goeren, please log off your twitter account.

VWGoeren: Fine. Well how about this completely unaffiliated tweet from a no doubt loyal Goeren fan who is in no way a paid Korean student working a phony fan account?

Posted Image

VWGoeren: Wow, we've got some great fans here on Twitter, don't we? Well GoerenGasmicFan, you'll be happy to know that all of the merchandise listed on my website comes directly from me and is not tainted by unclean hands. Why buy your merchandise from APW.com when it likely will give you hepatitis from the migrant workers they have pulling orders? Only buy from a trusted source. Only buy from GoerenGea...

VWGoeren has logged off.

VWChatHost: That's all the time we have for this morning's session. I want to thank Azrael Goeren for coming on with us...I think. Be sure to catch Azrael Goeren and Adrien Specter take on Gryphon and Brad Jackson in the Match Made On Twitter live at Showcase Zero this weekend! Until next time Visionary Wrestling fans!

VWChatHost has logged off.

***************************************************************

That was an absolute nightmare.

On the contrary, I think you did quite well. It seems like the tingling masses can barely contain themselves for this extraordinary event.

It was an experience, Mr. Goeren.

Azrael stands up from his chair and rests his hand gently on Matt Deane's shoulder. He pops on his aviator glasses once more and gives him another gentle pat.

Don't worry, Herr Deane. You and the rest of Visionary Wrestling Incorporated will be seeing me around for a long, long time...
 
Jackson
Member Avatar
#heelmaster
Hamilton || 12-01-2012

Lyv Jackson hated funerals and had since she'd had to bury her mother at a young age. In fact, the last funeral she'd actually attended had been her mother's. She could have been very happy with never having to attend another one for as long as she lived, but her husband's ex-wife had passed away. She'd considered Kaitlynn a friend in the few months that she'd actually known her— she wasn't looking forward to it, but she knew it was something she had to do. She'd been out shopping at the Jackson Square mall, finding a little irony in the name as she looked for some appropriate clothing to wear to the services (the ones she'd brought with her no longer fit).

The second floor of the parking deck had quite a few cars in it, but she saw no one else walking through as she made her way towards her rental car. With her shopping bags in her right hand, she held her left wrist against her stomach— it was still aching after an unfortunate incident a few days ago. When she made it to the car, she stopped in front of the driver's side door and set her bags on the roof. Fishing her keys out of her purse, she unlocked the door. Pulling it open, she grabbed the bags and leaned in, setting them on the passenger's seat along with her purse. Humming to herself, she slid into her seat and pulled her door shut, already reaching for her phone before the keys were in the ignition. She needed to text her husband and let him know she was on her way back.

The car was quiet; she had no hint that she wasn't alone until a cold and clammy hand reached around from behind her, clapping over her mouth. At the same time, something cold and metal pressed against the back of her head. "Hello, Lyvvie."

She froze, chilled to the bone as her eyes squeezed shut. She knew exactly who was in the backseat. Resisting the urge to shudder or scream, she worked on keeping her breathing slow and steady— getting herself all worked up into a panic wasn't going to help anyone.

"You've been a bad girl," his tone was almost pleasant, if not for that undercurrent of hatred that coated every word. "Can you feel the gun?" He pushed it harder against the back of her skull, just to remind her it was there. "This time it's loaded," he chuckled, the sound making her skin crawl, "promise you that, Lyvvie."

Her heart began to race; she knew all too well what was pressed against her scalp. Lyv had no doubt that what her stepfather had said was true, his gun was loaded and he would make no bones about pulling the trigger. She didn't dare speak, but instead her eyes snapped open and she stared straight ahead.

The hand against her mouth relaxed, moving and caressing her cheek lovingly. "Just one bullet in there... but one's all I need to splatter your brains all over that window." She could feel his warm breath washing over her, ruffling her hair against her neck. "We're gonna play a little game, Lyvvie. You like games, dontcha?"

"Don't hurt me, Clay. I'm pregnant..." she knew telling him wouldn't hold any weight, but the words had come out unbidden. He was one of the most inhumane people she'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. Her tongue shot out, licking her bottom lip, something she did when she was really anxious.

"I don't want to hurt you," he sounded almost sincere, "and if you're a good girl like your daddy taught you to be, I won't have to. We're gonna play a game, sweetheart— Russian roulette."

"Oh God, no, please." Tears had immediately started to stream down her cheeks and she couldn't stop them. He was going to kill her; she knew it in the pit of her stomach. Everything that had been happening over the months had been leading to this exact moment. "I'll do anything, just don't kill me."

"I'm gonna ask you some questions," he continued to speak as though she hadn't said anything, his hand still stroking her face. "And you're gonna answer... if you lie to me, Lyvvie, I'll pull the trigger. Understand?"

She cringed at his touch, feeling her stomach churn with nausea. "Okay, I'll play— whatever you want." Amazingly, she was keeping her breathing steady, "let's play."

"Where's my money," the words came out harsher than anything else he'd said, "where's my money, huh?"

"You didn't get it?" She tried to sound puzzled, but she knew what had happened and why he didn't have the money. "That check should have been good," her voice faltered.

"It wasn't, you little bitch. You think you could trick me like that and get away with it?" Before she could answer he pulled the trigger and a hollow click filled the silence.

She sat there, frozen, her mouth wide open in horror. She'd heard the trigger pull, but she was still alive. "I'm sorry! Jax musta seen the transaction and stopped it!" No longer was her breathing steady and calm— it was coming out quick and panicked.

"Why're you so bad, hmmmm?" His free hand grabbed her neck, almost choking her as he pulled her back against the seat. "Can't even tell me the truth— you told him, didn't you, Lyvvie? Didn't you?"

"He got a call from the bank and he knew something was up before I said a word." The pressure against her neck made swallowing hard, "h-he's my husband. I couldn't lie to him." Her eyes shut tightly once again as her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white.

"Worthless little bitch... can't do anything right, can you?" He pulled the trigger again, chuckling at the sound of another hollow click.

Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might leap right out of her chest. She waited for death to come to her and then when she realized it wasn't and that another empty shot had fired off, she let out an exhale of relief. "How can I make this right?" The words came out as a squeak.

"Give me the fuckin' money," he snapped, "and since you fucked up last time, we're gonna make it double."

"Jax isn't gonna okay that," she said, still whimpering.

"And you think I care what that piece of shit wants?" He pressed the gun harder against the back of her head.

"It's his money." The tension was clearly in her voice and she winced at the feeling of the gun against her.

Clay snorted with laughter, "Lyvvie the little freeloader— worthless little gold digger, just like your momma was."

"What else can I do to make this right?" She had started sobbing, unable to stop herself from doing so. "I'll do anything..."

He didn't answer her, instead pulling the trigger again. Once again there was the hollow click of an empty chamber to serve as her answer.

It was another false alarm, no bullet. In a way it was frustrating her, in a very small way. "If you're gonna do it, just do it..." she felt light-headed as the sobs kept coming out, her body shaking with them.

"Now where's the fun in that, hmmmm?" He clicked his tongue, scolding her, "maybe I should pay your piece of shit brother a visit. See if he wants to play roulette with me... maybe that pretty little wife of his instead."

"I hate you," she said through clenched teeth, "I hate you so much and I can't wait until you're fucking dead, you sadistic piece of shit." She'd never had the guts to stand up to him like that. If he'd decided to kill her, there was no stopping him. "I hope you rot in hell."

"Devil don't want me, Lyvvie... he's afraid I'll take over." He'd been making that joke since she was a kid, and she'd never found it funny. Before she could reply, he pulled the trigger again and as it clicked on an empty chamber, he screamed, "BANG," right in her ear.

A scream burst from her lips and then everything went black. The stress from the whole incident had gotten to her and she passed out. Her head went forward and her eyelids shut. She would have no idea if Clay did anything else to her while in that car and that was most likely a blessing in disguise. She never heard the next shot that went over her shoulder, shattering the windshield before Clay fled the scene.

===================================

When Lyv had come to, she was in an ambulance being taken to a nearby hospital. She hadn't said much to the people that looked in on her and tried like hell to get ahold of Jax. He was probably swamped with people at the funeral parlor and couldn't get to his phone. Because of how worked up she'd been, the doctor on call had made the decision he wasn't going to release her unless it was into the custody of a family member.

After an hour or so of failing to speak with Jax, she'd finally reached their good friend Charity who had flown in for the funeral. Charity had promised to get a message to her husband. Finally, she put down the phone, trying like hell to block out what had happened to her. If it hadn't been for the tranquilizer they'd given her, she would have been a hysterical mess. Instead she lay there, staring up at the ceiling as tears streamed down her face in silence.

When her husband arrived, he didn't announce himself or make a sound. Suddenly he was just there at her bedside, looking down at her. "Lyv? What happened?"

She didn't look at him, just kept staring at that point on the ceiling. "I was getting in the car after I got the clothes..." she sounded a little drugged, her words slurring. "I was getting ready to text you and Clay was there in the backseat. Next thing I knew, he said we were gonna play Russian roulette and he had a gun to my head." Her eyes slid to the side and she was looking at him. "I don't think the gun was loaded."

He didn't bother to tell her that the cops had already accosted him in the hallway, letting him know that the rental car was being impounded as evidence in the attempted car-jacking of his wife. He didn't tell her that the window had been shot out— the less she knew in this instance, the better. The sound of her sobbing over the death of her dog rose up from his memory, tormenting him as he looked down at her tear-streaked face. "Oh, babe..." he sighed, resting his hand on her shoulder, "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" She asked, sliding a hand over and putting it over his, "it's not your fault." She swallowed hard and let out a sigh. "You'll be proud of me though, he said he wanted more money and I told him no." She felt a little thrill at that minor triumph, "I didn't give in."

"Did he hurt you?" Concern was etched all over his features.

"Not physically." She gave his hand a squeeze, "I'm fine, babe, I promise." She sounded convincing and if it hadn't been for that naked terror in her eyes, she might have pulled it off. "I opened this can of worms and it's my fault— you were right about that—"

"Don't," he began, only for her to cut him off with another guilt-complex apology.

"I'm so sorry."

"I won't leave your side. I promise you... from here on out. He won't get to you again." His voice was a hoarse whisper, a very deep sorrow in his eyes.

"I know you won't let anything else happen to me." She took his hand and pressed it against her chest. "I think it might be better if I start staying in more. I can't get into much trouble that way."

"I'm gonna cancel some bookings," he said that quickly before she could protest. "Pull out of that MWA show on Monday. No sense dragging you all over hell's creation just because my damn ego needs a boost."

"I don't wanna keep you from doing anything," she reached up with her free hand and used the back of it to caress his cheek. "You really don't have to do this."

"Lyv, you need to understand something... okay?" He stared at her, his gaze intense, "you are my life. The rest of that shit can drop off into the goddamn abyss and I don't even care."

She continued to stare into his eyes, removing her hands from him. Pushing herself into a seated position, her hands lifted again to cup his face. "Okay," she pulled his face to hers and kissed him, "we're gonna get through this, right?" Pressing forehead against his, her hands slid so they rested on the back of his head.

"Yeah," he sighed, closing his eyes as his hands ran up and down her arms. "It's gonna be okay— I swear to God."

"I know," her eyes closed as she felt peace begin to wash over her at the conviction in her husband's voice. "I wanna go home, okay?"

"You don't wanna go see Sabra and Gryphon in Flagstaff?" He looked down at her, "we'll do whatever you want, baby."

"No, I do. Sorry, I forgot we were going to." The thought of seeing her best friend was definitely appealing, especially knowing that her brother was supposed to meet them there after he was done wrestling in California. "I think I just need some sleep," that prospect sounded really good, especially if he was there. "Just until they release me," Lyv then pulled at him, letting him know that she wanted him to lay with her. Not long after, she was fast asleep, using his chest as a pillow. His arms were wrapped securely around her as though that contact could keep her demons at bay. She actually looked somewhat peaceful for the first time in days. Jax always managed to have that effect on her— he had no qualms about sitting vigil and playing her guardian angel while she slept.

===================================

darkhorseonline.net video posting || 12-11-2012

Posted Image

The video began with an establishing shot of the massive Barnes & Noble in Union Square, revealing the spectacular architecture before it panned to the figure of a man in the loudest Hawaiian shirt known to man. It was black but covered in neon orange and yellow hues— flowers and pineapples, respectively. Paired with this, he was wearing a white bucket hat with a pair of yellow-tinted aviator sunglasses. Clenched between his teeth was a cigarette holder in which rested a cancer stick that looked like it was a victim of erectile dysfunction.

Flinching as he noticed the camera, he ducked, looking up at the rafters.

"We can't film here," the man lamented, "this is bat-shit country!"

Bolting for the staircase that led up to the second level, he continued to duck and run side to side as though he was avoiding something. The camera followed, jostling in a way that was sure to induce nausea in at least 75% of the video's later viewers. Upon reaching the second level, the man in the Hawaiian shirt stopped, turning around to glare at the camera. "What sort of trickery is this, hmmm? We're already going sideways off the rails and we haven't even introduced ourselves yet!"

He lifted his hand to gesticulate wildly. "Not that we need to— reputation precedes us, right? Of course it does… everyone knows Brad Jackson in the wrestling business. Everyone knows that man's crazier than a man high on that devil ether, running loose in Las Vegas like the village drunkard in some early Irish novel— everyone knows he's held more belts than Azrael Goeren has BONES in his puny little body! Everyone knows that so why waste the words, hmmmm? Oh but there's something you should know… something important that I was supposed to reveal if I could just remember…"

He looked around wildly, the cigarette bobbing between his lips with each syllable. "AH-HA!" He crowed the word triumphantly, grabbing up a copy of 50 Shades Of Grey from the table beside him. "The conspiracy deepens… the plot thickens and now you know that plagiarism is the best way to get ahead in this business— imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, you know— even when you're trotting out my own tried and true gimmicks from FIVE years ago! Oh yes, my friends, conspiracies abound here in Visionary Wrestling! Did you know? Did they tell you?" He paused, staring at the camera, "well answer me, man! Have they got your tongue too?!"

"They didn't tell me anything, Mr. Jackson, sir," the voice came from off camera, quite unsteadily.

"Of course they didn't! What kind of rat bastard psychotic would reveal the most important part of the diabolical plan to an underling like you?!" He lobbed the book at the camera, laughing hysterically when the image tilted as the cameraman obviously ducked. "Think faster, my good fellow— you need to think on your feet to survive out there. It's dog-eat-dog and they're starving— so hungry for wisdom that they crawl inside my head and steal it while I sleep—"

"What?" The words come from off camera again, as though the man responsible for recording this travesty can't comprehend what he's hearing.

"We've got it all now, my friend! Ghosts! Losers! Has-Beens! Delusional stoners! We have it all, and it's all been done before. So, wait... let me get this straight, thousands of words out there in the English language, and you, in your infinite ability to assemble them, just happened to compose them in precisely the same way someone else did? Holy dark rituals, Batman! Uncanny. INCONCEIVABLE!" Smirking, he held up another copy of the same book in his hand, shaking it for emphasis. "Call it a survival guide... a manual on the delusional and deranged. According to some, I need to be schooled on the finer points of the business since I'm clearly choking to death on some made up image and some gloomy, broody hype! Clearly I need to learn how to conduct myself in a fitting and professional manner!"

He grinned like a lunatic, holding his hands out to the sides. "Surprise, motherfucker! I take myself far less seriously than you think— you need to learn how to respect the men who paved the way for pretty boys like you. If your poor partner doesn't knock your damn head off your shoulders for the insolence first, I will. Promise you that— damn. These vibrations are getting nasty… I fear we're already devolving into those beasts you were babbling about, mein freund."

He chuckled, "he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man— I bet you heard that one before, didn't you? Sure you did— probably even tried to pretend like that was an original thought, too. I don't subscribe to that particular theory although it sounds really cool when you mutter it in the dark while brooding— not that I've ever done that. I don't want to rid myself of the pain. I like pain."

He flipped open the book, leafing madly through the pages before looking up with a sadistic grin. "This, mein freund," he flashed that predatory grin again, "is my rattlesnake smile. I'm not a drop from the trees and kill you when you're not looking kind of beast. I'm the kind that goes for the jugular when provoked. I'm vicious like that, you see— but it doesn't matter who drew first blood, does it? Not here in bat-shit country! HELL NO! Not when the Fear's already on us and we're huffing the ether fumes of imagined victory! This became a pissing contest in your mind right about the time you realized you couldn't compete with the likes of us!" He tossed the book haphazardly over his shoulder. "PURE CRAP! Who reads this shit?! Probably the same morons who buy your merchandise, right?"

He reached down and picked up another book from the table. This one was quite well-worn, spine creased in half a dozen places, the last and first few pages coming unglued and leaning haphazardly against his palm. His voice was booming, carefully enunciating each and every syllable as he quoted aloud. "The quality of mercy is not strain'd, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes… dreech." The last was a sound of disgust as he closed the book. Shakespeare, most likely. Boring stuff, really. "Fuck mercy, right— damn skippy! Mercy's for the weak! It's for the pampered little shitheads who believe themselves to be 'cutting edge' hardcore wrestlers! I've held more non-hardcore titles than you'll ever see in your pathetic little career— legitimate wrestling, you fucking tool! You think you can hold a candle to Gryphon and I? Honestly?"

He rolled his eyes towards the vaulted ceiling, wayyyyyyy up there. "Color me Metallica, and I'm going to play the Napster card on this one, my friends. Thousands of pages in here, millions of words, and you're stealing them all for your own personal gain? Why not? It's a public service, because the universe needs more sleep!"

He tossed the book over his shoulder, and plucked another from the shelf, showing off the back cover to the camera. Massive closeup of one Michael Crichton, crazy hair and all. "God, I'm not just old school anymore. I'm a fuckin' dinosaur..." he winked, flipping over the book to reveal the front cover. Timeline was the title. Not as far-fetched as Jurassic Park, ironically. "A group of users, sharing copyrighted materials with no direct costs to them? I mean, think about it, how did anyone ever come up with such a scheme? INSANITY! Wait, this isn't the local lending library, when did it become kosher to swipe ideas and pass them off as your own? WHEN?! Listen, I know a guy... who knows a guy— no names... and he tells me you're totally off your rocker!"

He tapped the side of his head, grinning like an idiot before tossing that book in the same pile. "Hunter S. Thompson! Charles Dickens! Indiana Jones! When will it end? Stephen King called, and he wants you to stay the hell out of his garbage! Look at what they did to the music industry. Thousands of college kids with no money ripping off mighty Metallica! I saw Some Kind of Monster, you heartless bastards made Lars cry! They sold a gajillion albums, and still went broke! And you-" he broke off, tearing the glasses from his face, "have the balls to sit there and steal my BIRTH-RIGHT from right under my nose?! RED HERRING! RED FLAG! RED ROVER... I'm calling you over, Herr Fucktard!"

"Music pirates, literary pirates. When does it end, when... oh God, when?! Are you going to creep into my hotel room, and steal from my diary? Are you going to find a transmitter that will steal my dreams? When do we draw the line?" He rolled his eyes, beginning to walk between the rows of books. "Napster went down, but it came back... back with a vengeance. They tell me it's okay because it all goes in cycles, right? Everything. They made peace, the pirates fought it out, and someone walked the plank for that one. It wasn't me. Sure wasn't you. We were both busy doing our own things then. I was becoming something awesome... and you were panhandling on the off-ramp of the pretentiousness turnpike, looking for another handout!"

He stopped, turning around, "bicycles... tricycles... RE-CYCLES! When does it end? Take Dickens, change around the names and the setting to NYC, and call it the latest Internet masterpiece. They'll eat it up. Call you a genius, for regurgitation. CARNIVAL GEEK! FREAK! Eat the words, and vomit them up, with no sincerity. It's not what you're doing NOW that scares me; it's what you'll do when this gets old. It's your next step! What next? Will you paint your face?! IS NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE?!" He stopped at the end of the row, picking up a magazine and fanning himself with it. Agitation colored his features, pinching his lips into thin lines, making his heavy brows draw down towards his eyes. "Don't tell me you're DYING! You're already DEAD! You're dead because the nihilists killed you for shitting all over their shtick! You're going to be broken so badly even APW won't take your mangled carcass back— do you know why? Do you know what you've done, son?!"

He shook his head, ripping off his hat and throwing it angrily to the floor to reveal his close-cropped and silver-shot hair. "You've done the worst possible thing! All that's left are the waves of fear and loathing— intolerable vibrations in this place! Get out, man! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR BULLSHIT!"

Sighing, Jackson took off the sunglasses too, pausing to actually light the bent cigarette. "You've done it, Goeren— I have no hate for your partner. In fact, I actually consider him both a friend and equal. You on the other hand, you can go fuck yourself in the ear with an ice-pick. You think because you have scars you can compare yourself to us? You think you can call us nothing more than posers who care about our 'good names'? Try to actually do a little research next time— I'm one of the most hated assholes in professional wrestling— have been for about ten years running. You've got scars to prove you're willing to push the envelope— so fucking edgy— I know teenage girls that have more scars than you from cutting themselves. What you do is about as elegant as a wet fart in comparison to the precision of violence that Gryphon is capable of. Your little word vomit on the Internet is nothing compared to the insurmountable rage I let consume me every time my music hits those speakers— do you understand? I'm talking about schadenfreude, mein freund. Do you know this concept? Are you familiar with the act of taking pleasure in the misfortune of others?"

He grinned, flashing his teeth before letting his features settle into a casually neutral expression. "I don't really know you that well, so I was forced to take you at face value there. I mean, sure, I'm a sick fiend, but that doesn't mean I'm brainless, does it? Oh shit— it does!" He blew a plume of smoke in the air; his eyes narrowed as the anger came boiling up to the surface. "It's retards like you that make my job so much harder. People don't take our business seriously anymore, and it's because we have fools like YOU running around, hulking up with undeserved hype. Listen to the bullshit... this is like the boy crying wolf, and I can see through this from a mile away. This isn't a cry for help; this is you trying to latch onto something to boost you to another CHEAP success. Oh, feel bad for him; he's in bat-shit country now! Poor guy, done before his time, all because he couldn't do ten seconds of RESEARCH on the Internet— there he goes!" He clasped his hands to his chest, ashes falling off the cigarette as he spoke. "Azrael Goeren— one of God's own prototypes— too unskilled to live, and too ordinary to die."

He broke off into manic laughter only to be interrupted. "Excuse me, sir?" The voice came from behind him, a little to his left. The store manager stood there, looking a little harried. "I know I agreed to let you shoot your promo here, but… could you please not smoke? You're tainting the new releases."

Jackson blew smoke in the man's face, and then crushed out the cigarette in his palm, his gaze steady as he stared at the man for a few seconds. "Why the hell are you still here?!"

The man scuttled away and Jackson threw his head back, laughing breathlessly. "FUCKING MORONS! SUBSERVIENT PIECES OF SHIT! You think the world owes you this win on a silver platter? Meet me in that ring, motherfucker— then we'll see who's REAL and who's just a pathetic little shit weasel running his mouth. We don't want the win, Goeren. We don't give a shit about that— we just want to welcome you in style, man— you can't stop here: it's BAT-SHIT COUNTRY!"

Heads turned at the ridiculously loud bellow and then eyes averted as Jackson stormed down the stairs, tearing off the Hawaiian shirt as he went to reveal a black Harley Davidson shirt underneath. He stomped through the racks, tossing the shirt aside before he emerged on the street in silence. It was then, and only then that he broke character, chuckling softly to himself. "Fuckin' amateur."
Edited by Jackson, Dec 12 2012, 06:35 AM.
 
Specter

An open letter to Gryphon, Jackson, and Azrael Goeren.

Gentlemen…I must first begin this with an apology.

For you see, unlike you all…I am a failure. For the last I have in matches, I have let the side down. I have worked long and hard in an attempt to try and capture the essence of what it is to be like you all. To be a name recognized throughout the world. A name past on in foke tails of the future, be it as hero or monster. The one of whom the wrestlers of tomorrow attempt to emulate.

Names of true renown.

Icons.

…Legends.

On the surface these are just words of which have been use to describe us all, but deep down I fear that only the three men of whom I face off against at Showcase Zero deserve such a name. What have I added to the table in the long run?

Nothing more than failure and a murder attempt.

You see I truly don’t belong with the likes of people like you in the ring. Honestly, what am I against two men who have proven beyone a shadow of a doubt what it is that they can bring to the ring. Uncountable numbers of titles on their own, let alone when they join forces.

Gryphon. A man of whom I respect and admire. Truth be told our relationship has been one based purely on one element. Sabra, your student and love. A woman of whom I respect for her pedigree beyond a shadow of a doubt. Because deep down inside I envy her. The last time we faced, I told her this. I told her that I would have given anything to have a teacher like you. A man of whom could show me how to control the carnage that lives within this frail old body of mine. I would still want that now if I deemed it possible. Except now I get to face you in the ring.

Truly sir, it shall be an honor to shed blood against you and your tag partner, Jackson.

Now…what words could I use to describe Jackson.

An asshole?

An egomaniac?

Those and about a hundred other names too. But one that truly stands out to me, one thing that could never be taken away from him is the fact he’s a man of his word. The man of whom honors me by calling me his friend and equal is one of the very few I’ve met whom I’ve never seen lie, or cheat to obtain his goals. He’s never hid behind politics or managers, or GMs to obtain his goals. What has he done? He’s told it like it is. He’s explained to people what their malfunction is and he’s earned a reputation of, quite frankly, a cunt because of it. Because he’s told people exactly how he feels about them rather than putting up a mask that people would be more comfortable with. Truth be told that he says he respects me, but I would have expected him to come out ripping me to pieces about the things I’ve done to both myself and to others. And the truth is I would have fucking taken it to. Because unless the four of us in that ring, the rest of the world seems to have lost its backbone.

You see the four people in that ring can come out an exchange insults all day and night if he wanted to, but the truth of the matter is we don’t because we know when we get shit flung our way it rolls off our fucking backs like water off a duck. Instead we do our talking in the ring. Where it fucking counts. Something that very few of the wrestling world nowadays has acknowledged, who would rather make snide comments but keep the safe distance instead of stepping the fuck up.

Jackson isn’t like that.

Gryphon isn’t like that.

Goeren…well…Goeren confuses me in so many way I have serious trouble telling what’s an insult and what isn’t.

Namely, sending me one of his hats in the post = Not an insult.

Sending me the invoice for it…Well you catch my drift.

The problem with Azrael and me isn’t that we don’t dislike each other, it’s more to do with the fact that we’ve never tagged together. Unlike Jackson and Gryphon we’re going into this blind of each other’s talents. Now that’s not to say I’ve not done my research. I’ve watched a number of his matches over in APW, however…Only one thing is stopping me from thinking this is a bomb just waiting to go off.

And that, ironically, is our opponents.

Gryphon, you see, vouched for you. To me. And if I’ve not already made that clear enough as it is my respect for Gryphon is almost unparallel. The only reason that I accepted this match as a tag rather than a 4-way between us all is because Gryphon told me that you would be an excellent tag partner.

For all intensive purposes, I would strongly suggest you live up to his recommendation. Because what Jackson wants to do to you is going to be nothing when you’ve got Jackson, Gryphon, AND myself kicking the living shit out of you for fucking this up for everyone.

That’s your official warning.

Gentlemen…you’re legends in this industry (yes, even you Azrael), whereas I…I’m just a man looking for a challenge.

And when I step into Madison Square Garden this week…I truly believe I may have found it.

Yours, in steep anticipation,

“The Ghost” Adrien Specter

 
Josh



It is dark. You cannot see. Only the hint of stars out the broken window. And a voice as old as the Snake from the Garden whispers, 'I will hold your hand'.

John Wick


Portland Oregon
Warehouse District
April, 2012


________________



There was a soft sound, like water from a leaky pipe hitting bare concrete below it.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

It was very dark, quiet. It could have been almost peaceful except for the other sound that overrode the gentle dripping of the water in the background. A woman’s whimpering, muffled by the gag in her mouth. Echoing now came the hard thumps of boot heels on that concrete and the form was held by the darkness of the warehouse just outside of a stark circle of light. A solid male image barely captured by the seeking and frantic gaze of the woman making those desperate and fearful sounds. Another step brought him into that glaring light and there was the shine of it reflecting off the aviator sunglasses he wore. He was dressed precisely, dark new blue jeans with an almost military pressed crease to them, a dark button-down shirt, and boots that shone as if freshly polished; they were made of exotic leather; eelskin to be precise.

His voice echoed as starkly as his footfalls had mere moments ago. A baritone voice that had always been a little rough, but now was wrecked and rusted, the source of that gravel the jagged scar that circled his throat. He crouched down so he could make eye contact with the woman whom he’d hung upside down over the oil-stained and grimy concrete floor and the twist of his lips was almost sadistic, the cadence of his voice dark and methodical.

Gryphon: "Beauty fades. As the skin sags and as the wrinkles set, Mother Dearest, it fades. Time takes a toll on us all, it wears us down and toward the end, all you know is fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of what's next, fear of Judgment and, in the end, where we go. Up, or down, or nowhere at all. There are a great many things to be afraid of in this world, Isabella; so much more to respect and fear than being poor, than losing your designer labels.”

His hands flexed and relaxed, opening and clenching. Clenching and opening. Slow, methodical, precise. He walked around her slowly, stepping closer and closer. She could smell him. The musk fragrance of his cologne; spicy, peppery, with hints of clove and sandalwood, and light, fleeting accents of whiskey, probably from a bottle or flask he kept touched her nostrils. She trembled, and he smiled. The chain rattled and clinked as she flailed, like a worm on a hook, and he continued to circle her, his prey, sizing her up. A touch here, a tap there, and then he grabbed the chain, just past her feet. He lowered himself down into a squat, beside her and inhaled slowly. She quivered, and he smiled wider.

Gryphon: “Me. People like me are the reason that you were afraid of the dark when you were a child. People like me are why you should still fear the darkness. I'm tired, Isabella. I'm tired of sending messages, to your friends, to your husband, and to his people. I'm getting tired of my words falling on deaf ears. What do I have to do for you idiots to get it? What do I have to do, carve you up, cut pieces off of you and send them to Valentin and Yuri to get you fucking idiots to understand? You leave what belongs to me. Alone. Sabra has never belonged to you, any of you. Sabra is mine; she always has been. She is mine to protect. She is mine to shape, to mold, and to make more successful than you and your impotent husband and his 'associates' could ever comprehend."

He inhaled slowly, exhaling from his nose before he spoke again, one finger extended forward to press into the bare and chilled skin over her breastbone.

Gryphon: "Do you know what hell is? Hell is living every day with regrets. Hell is living every day hating...everything. Everything. Hell is waking up every morning and despising the world that you see. Hell is praying for death, praying to a deaf or disinterested God to grant mercy. I know what hell is. I know what hell feels like. Leave, and take your husband with you. Tell him that his daughter is dead. Tell him that the Devil is waiting if he doesn't listen."

He stood up then, reaching into the pocket of those jeans and withdrawing a Gerber knife, a knowing smirk on his lips as he saw the gleam of terror in those wild dark eyes watching him. It was clear to him she was related to his Sabra, he’d have known that even if he didn’t know everything about her already. Isabella Nikolayev had been a great beauty when she was younger, she was attractive still; even faded with age and hard use of that beauty to gain what she wanted out of life. He moved and pushed a large metal industrial barrel into the circle of light and picked up a book of matches from a nearby table that was scattered with a variety of objects. Everything that she had had on her when he took her was on that table. Every scrap of far too expensive clothing, her purse, everything that showed her status was there.

There was a faint scrape and his deft fingers having palmed the knife to draw a match across the book’s cover and he dropped that lit match into the barrel. A fire roared up out of it as he pushed his aviator glasses down his nose, a gleam in his eye that spoke of darkest intentions.

Gryphon: “Everything that defines you, dearest Isabella. It’s nothing but shit, garbage just like you are. You think no one knows what you did, but you’re wrong. I know. I know it all and be glad that I didn’t know her then, that she wasn’t mine then. Because had she been mine, you wouldn’t be staring at me right now, with pleading eyes, with unspoken prayers on your lips. Prayers to end the suffering, your pleading, your begging God, begging me, begging anyone and anything that would listen to grant you mercy. No, you wouldn’t be able to, because I would have already gutted you like a fucking fish on a hook. I would have carved strips off of you and sent them to your husband, to your friends, to the gutter-trash and the fake aristocracy you surround yourself with. The fake tits and the botox and the designer labels and all that blood, and sorrow, and anguish that you wrap yourselves up with wouldn't be able to save you, to keep you safe from me. In the end, it didn't, anyway.”

First, it was the fur coat that went into the barrel; her jewelry was next, and then her shoes, and finally that dress that he ripped, and tore, and cut with that Gerber knife, dropping shreds into the hungry, leaping flames, watching her eyes widen and the tears well in her eyes yet again. Her mascara ran long ago, her makeup smeared, and her bottom lip trembled. Finally he closed his knife and dropped it into his pocket en route to her. He tugged on the chain a little and smirked before giving it a tug and lowering her to the cold floor of that industrial environment. He bent down and removed the cuffs from her wrists, tossing them into the darkness and turned to walk away. She trembled, kneeling on the ground as she watched her belongings, all that she held dear in her life, going up in smoke, turning from precious and priceless to worthless, useless ash. He rifled through her clutch, pulled her license and personal identification out and tossed it onto that table and with a grunt, dangled it in front of her.

Gryphon: “Almost forgot this.”

And, without hesitation, tossed it into the flames. She shrieked. He smiled, and moved over to a sheet on the far corner of the table. Taking the edge, he tore it away and exposed the contents underneath. Old, flat sneakers, curled up on the end, dirty, and missing the laces on the left shoe. A pair of dingy, dirty khaki pants, an old blue waffle patterned sweatshirt and a green flannel work shirt, stained as well. All of those belongings looked like they'd seen a hard life on the street, or had been thrown away at some point. Second hand goods, from a bargain big box store, most likely. One by one, the items were tossed her way, onto the floor and Isabella Nikolayev looked at them with equal parts disgust and indignation.

Isabella: “What do you expect me to do with these?”

Gryphon: “Wear them. Or, walk home in your bra and panties. I don't care, either way.”

Isabella: “I will not!”

She stood up slowly and scowled at him, shaking her head. She crossed her arms and looked down, at her feet and drew in a shuddering breath.

Isabella: “This is not acceptable. If I go home in this, Valentin will not accept me. If the others find out, I will be shamed, I will be ignored, I will no longer be respected! You may as well kill me!”

Gryphon: “I already did.”

He dug into his right pocket and pulled a few bills, tossing them at her carelessly, followed by one, and then a second quarter. He jerked his thumb to the right.

Gryphon: “Two blocks down you'll find a payphone and a grocery store. You can get something to drink there and get out of the cold while you wait for a cab. There's your fare. Now, I've killed you, Isabella. I've killed your reputation, I've ruined your image by pulling back the curtain and exposing you for the fake, the fraud, that you really and truly are because underneath the fur, the labels, and the expensive vices you are a completely dead human being. Soulless, without ethics, without concern, without all things that separate you from the rest of the animals, that makes you human. A mother's love is supposed to be unconditional, but what you planned to do, with your daughter, to make her like you, to introduce her to this hell that you sustain yourself with is beyond my ability to articulate. You want me to kill you? No. I refuse to do you a fucking favor of that magnitude. You want to die, you want to avoid the ridicule, you want to make the suffering stop? Then take your own God damn life, you fucking parasite. No, letting you live, making you live, and making you suffer is so much more rewarding.”

Heavy boots thumped on the concrete floor as he pivoted and walked away, leaving Isabella Nikolayev in that abandoned warehouse, half-naked, cold, sobbing, and paid back, in full.


________________


November 14th, 2012
Phoenix, Arizona
Dr. Maryellen Conrad's office

Gryphon: “How much time, Doc?”

There were very few things in the world that would make The Great American Nightmare apprehensive, but that was exactly what he was. Seated on the edge of the table, in the medical gown, a situation he'd been in numerous times in his career. This time, though, things were different. Brooding, Shawn Kellar thought and listened to all that the professional was telling him. The outcomes, the likelihood of those outcomes. The risks weighed against the reward of the procedure. He ran his hand across his jaw, contemplating.

Dr. Conrad: “...six to eight months, maybe.”

That was the only important part of the exchange from Dr. Conrad that he'd needed to hear. Six to eight months. A long time to wait for some, and for others it'd pass almost in the blink of an eye.

Gryphon: “Worst case scenario, Doctor. What if the surgery isn't successful?”

Dr. Conrad: “Worst case scenario? Then we're out of luck, completely, Mr. Kellar. There would be no recovery, no chance of recovery. We'd have passed the point of no return. In actuality, committing to the procedure is the point of no return. Once we commit and get you onto the table, it's in God's hands.”

Gryphon: “Yeah...”

He laughed ruefully, rolling his eyes.

Gryphon: “Just the guy I want to handle this. Look, Doctor Conrad, if you're sure you can do this and do it right, let's schedule it for the first of January. Well, assuming that the Mayans are wrong and we're not all fucked, let's schedule it for January. First week, second week. How about the seventh?”

Dr. Conrad: “The seventh is good. I'll have my secretary set it up.”

Gryphon: “Thanks.”


________________


Blog Post
December 12th, 2012


Ladies and gentlemen, I have a shocking announcement. Monsters do exist.

Not only do they exist, but they will be put on display for you, in New York City, at the Garden, in a tag team match being hailed as “The Match Made In Twitter”.

And while it may not be listed as the main event, I'll challenge each and every one of you to find a more main-event caliber match than this. Brad Jackson and Gryphon on one side of the ring; Azrael Goeren and Adrien Specter on the other. Who better to hold this, to promote this spectacle, this once-in-a-lifetime internet dream bout? Why, Visionary Wrestling, of course.

What can I say? It took a silver-tongued devil to talk me into coming back. I was happy, all too happy to sit back, relax, and take it easy for awhile and to take care of some personal matters that needed to be addressed. I feel that that's something I've deserved, after the last six years of competition—about four of those years straight, for those of you keeping score at home--and while financially feasible, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that in that time away I felt a little emptiness, a little piece of myself missing.

Cliché, I know, but it's the truth.

It was Sam Strachon that called me and told me about what was being put together. He asked me if I would be able to throw my hat into the ring and help out a little and after some back and forth, we have what's in front of us. Awesome. Lightning in a bottle. A license to print money.

The Match Made In Twitter.

Four guys in the ring, people who have fans around the world, and have had them for a long time, asking the question: “What if?” What would happen? December 15th, we find out. My best friend in the business and I taking on two world-caliber competitors? I couldn't ask for a better Christmas present, or a better way to end the year. I live for competition like this, and so rarely do I get it.

Some men might buckle underneath pressure like this, but me? I thrive under it. I rise to the occasion; I triumph where others would fail. It's been the hallmark of my career.

Azrael Goeren I've wanted to face since the CWC tournament I was in almost two years ago. I wanted my shot at his CWC Championship, but for whatever reason the Council wouldn't sign off on it. That's okay: I finally get to see what he's got up close and personal. Maybe I'll get the pin on him; maybe I'll just twist and tear the ligaments in his shoulder and arm. Maybe I'll choke him into unconsciousness, or maybe put him away with an Ultimate Sin, and while Mr. Goeren is a dangerous man, we'll see how dangerous he looks staring up at the lights. Or maybe he'll knock my God damn head off instead?

Anything's possible.

Adrien Specter? A great, great friend of mine, and while not often given the chance to let it shine I can't wait until he and I get to put on a technical clinic. Quick-paced, high-flying, scientific. Just the kind of opponent I like to test myself against. Against a man like Specter, it's mental chess. It's bluff, it's smoke and mirrors, and it's being three steps ahead. I saw what Adrien was capable of when I brought him into my seminar. I put him in front of the kids there not as an example of what not to do—although, truth be told, if I had to explain to them why cutting out your own tongue is a bad idea, then the seminar would've been a waste of their money and time. No, Adrien, you were brought there because of your wealth of knowledge, and because of your talent, and because of the potential for greatness that for some reason you never get to show the world. I wanted those kids to see that Adrien Specter was not the man in the chicken suit in those youtube videos, not the hardcore maniac that certain companies want him to be, but that he is, underneath those two marketing campaigns and those two shitty business decisions, a technical, scientific wrestler, and a God damn good one, too, and that? That's the Adrien Specter I expect to see in the Garden, helping me get every ass out of every seat. I expect that Specter, and that Goeren, to help Jackson and myself make everyone get to their feet and scream until their voices give out. I want the matches after ours to be silent; not because the people aren't interested, but because they just can't scream any more.

I don't want chairs. I don't want tables. I don't want weapons. I want four world-class athletes tearing down the God damn house. I want this to go into the record books. I want to give the finger to the poor bastards who go on after us, and burden them with outshining us, and that? That's the plan.

Win or lose, we tear the house down. Win or lose, the four of us will have an understanding of how we operate. Win or lose, you two will have insight into why The Mechanical Animal and The Great American Nightmare have the reputations that we do, and why exactly they are as well deserved as they are.

After the Match Made In Twitter, Adrien, Azrael—you will Believe The Hype.

Also? The world isn't ending in 2012 because the rematch is coming in 2013. Suck on that, Mayans.

- Gryphon

 
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