| Fallout #1; featuring Jurgen and Shaun | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 4 2016, 10:05 AM (19 Views) | |
| Kilminster | May 4 2016, 10:05 AM Post #1 |
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《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 They say there’s glory in effort, that in the very striving itself, we can achieve valour by virtue of endeavour. They tell that to losers to console them, to give them something to hold onto when their world collapses around them. Yes, there is glory in the pursuit of victory, but not nearly so much and not nearly so complete as when victory is achieved. One truism remains steadfast against the test of time, a megalith arrogantly defiant as it stands alone against the swirling sandstorm of doubt and self-recrimination, one gleaming jewel on the surface of a pile of shit. It’s only when you lose and you feel that loss and let it deep into your core that you can then ever truly appreciate and value just how good winning feels. Sometimes, The Gods just like to remind us of that. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 The telephone number you are dialling has not been recognised. Please hang up and try again. The telephone number you are dialling has not been recognised. Pleas- It’s not without anger that Osbourne Kilminster presses “end call” and slams his phone down on the bed next to him. The gloomy light cast into the room from the high-set window is almost green in hue, sunlight bounced from the leaves of trees close to the rear of the facility. Outside, it’s a beautiful day. Inside, in here, the shirtless man laid atop his bed sports a surgically-glued gash across his forehead, bruising around his right eye, scarring around his left eye and up the left side of his scalp, deep and rich hues of purple and blue bruising across his right shoulder and arm. There is no beauty here. He lays back, tucking his left hand under his head as he runs his right along the length of his beard, his eyes half-closing and his chest rising and falling much more gently as the distance between himself and the unresponsive phone calms him somewhat. Duane isn’t just not answering his calls now - his phone doesn’t exist. He lost his war, he took a beating, personally, and now he’s gone off the grid. Knowing Gates, he’s been saving every penny from his tenure as CEO of the EWA and squirrelled it away in some nice little hidey hole so he can live out his apocalypse scenario survival plan. Osbourne had just wanted to ask how he was, initially. Being punched in the face is no big deal, worst case scenario that he got a broken nose or a broken orbital socket. The Fallen Angel though… He’d thought Erik Draven would be the wiser and more responsible of the two brothers, but that move on a guy the size and shape of Duane was reckless and potentially lethal. Being denied his opportunity to check in on a man he’d grown to consider a friend was greatly irritating and aggrieving to Osbourne, moreso that it was seemingly by Duane’s choice and not by some external factor. As his eyes close, it sinks in that now, truly, he is alone. He was a self-appointed General and now remains as the leader of a broken state, standing in the ashes of what could have been and with the responsibilities of leadership levelled at him with unspoken levity by the expressions meeting him from Shaun and Jurgen. The Youth had their own agenda and were only siding with Gates as an opportunity to antagonise Draven. Grace had utilised the situation to seek yet another morsel of revenge against her father. Lunatikk Crippler had been the unpredictable and volatile un-pinned grenade everyone thought he would be and had burned everyone who stood by him. Opening his eyes, Osbourne sucks in a deep breath and winces as the right side of his rib-cage tightens like the talons of a giant eagle constricting him sharply. He’d fought as hard as he could, believed in the cause like no other and fallen in battle. In some ways, he couldn’t ask for more, but the fact that victory had eluded not him but had eluded the raw concepts they were fighting for was a loss to be lamented heavily - not that he’d lost or that Draven had won, but that the ideas of fairness and opportunity and appreciation had been lost in the shuffle and the rush to change the letterheads and the signs on the doors would see a lot of good things swept out just to make room for the Draven Dynasty to sink its claws in. They’d put Stacey in charge, for now, and she’d specifically sworn to keep Osbourne and his students very much a part of the EWA and topped it off with a few sickly sweet but false and hollow sentiments of respect. There’s no such thing as a free lunch and as he rolls onto his belly, his head turned to the side so as not to be face-down in the pillows, he ponders the true cost of his maintained employment. Erik Draven had been keen to paint himself as the pillar of ambiguity and objectiveness in business, if not in family affairs, but his actions post-match had revealed him to be just as reckless and careless as his brother. Yeah, his brother, Michael Draven, whose sole purpose of restarting the EWA was to play Gatsby and lure in his love interest/greatest rival and so cementing his legacy moving forward as the epitome of bitter and resentful and manipulative and self-interested. To have Stacey, the great Machiavellian, beneath them was unwise as everybody knows a girl who cheats WITH you will eventually cheat ON you. Still, she had been instated to see to it their orders were obeyed and having a schemer of her calibre to do so is a move clearly specifically designed to enable them to exact revenge without sullying their delicate hands. Ground which had been tumultuous and volatile was now seething with hostility and it was up to him to lead his students along a safe path where one does not exist. The potential solutions pound the innards of his skull, few in number but weighty 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 In the facility, little has changed since he fully kitted it out and had it modified with accommodation for the three of them. A small team of cleaners came in during the evening and made sure every bench, every dumbbell, every inch of floor and the ring itself were as clean as if they were brand new. Oftentimes, the three would be out from mid-afternoon and would return to find the place like a showroom. Jurgen’s training splits meant he often trained late at night, preferring to lift heavy and hard from around mid-day and then some pick-up work for weak bodyparts around 8pm. The huge Austrian-Danish hybrid hit cardio in the early hours of the morning, on an empty stomach, and worked the heavy bags and pads with Shaun at varying times of day. Right now, the two of them are doing exactly that, each wearing their ring gear and then the extra padding of headgear and 4oz gloves as they run and jump about the ring, throwing strikes from inconceivable angles and with immeasurable force. Watching on from the small bleacher stand set up against the far wall of the facility, wearing a loose-fitting and lightweight black dress shirt and black jeans with highly-polished dress shoes, Osbourne Kilminster’s eyes seldom blink behind the famous mirrored lenses. His hair growing slightly longer now, although maintained with shaved scalp to both sides, his long beard tied together with a gleaming silver bead, he sits back and rests his arms along the seat behind him. The ring shakes as, somehow, Jurgen catches Shaun by the throat and launches him through the air at the turnbuckle. Shaun drops to his knees but as Jurgen stoops to pick him up, he rolls away and pops up to his feet in the middle of the ring. They’re learning - Shaun how to take the bigger bumps, how to survive and not let that split second of panic upon impact take a hold, Jurgen how to time smaller and faster opponents. It brings a smile to Osbourne’s face as he watches them, a warm smile born of pride and admiration as his greatest accolades display themselves proudly in their natural habitat. You can’t teach desire. You can train someone to be more athletic, to be stronger, to be faster. You can train someone to be more technical, to know more locks and submissions, to know more strikes from more angles and with more body parts, to know how and when to use them all. You can’t make somebody want to fight, to want to step up and engage, to feel that need to prove themselves to the audience, to their opponent, to themselves. It’s either in their blood or it isn’t, that inner calling, the unending yearning. Osbourne can hear their as clear as his own heartbeat. They’re his students, his friends and they are ready… ...and not a moment too soon… 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 The wireless device you are calling cannot receive your call. Please try again later or, alternatively, leave a voicemail after the beep… BEEP Without hesitation, Osbourne hits the “end call” button and tosses his phone onto the bar in front of him, the plastic and metal contraption skidding along the polished mahogany bar-top and halting only when it hits one of the draught ale pumps. His elbows on the bar, his hands clasped together, he shakes his head. Duane Gates is off the grid and Erik Draven isn’t taking calls. Yeah, he’s probably laughing to himself and waiting for Osbourne to give up and call Stacey instead, use the “official” channel, but he’s not counting on the man who was once known as the Pastor of Patience to stick to his guns and bide his time. There is always a time and a place and delays prove a test of patience but a solidifier of resolve. Looking about, Osbourne notes the intentionally dim lighting, brass fixtures mounted inside red stained glass rose-shaped shades. Heavy red velveteen curtains pulled almost closed to block out the sunlight which casts its way into the room in a long whist shaft which lifts dust particles up from red leather upholstery set in mahogany frames, tables and chairs and chaise lounges and dark alcoves set against the panelled walling. Hotel bars offered a lot of the seclusion he sought whilst still maintaining a lot of the features of a pub back home, especially in Boston. Somehow, despite their hatred of the British, they’d kept a lot of traditional British style in their interior design. He found it to be soothing, a little piece of home and the upside being that fewer people ventured into these hotel bars - either patrons or other who, like himself, sought somewhere quiet to gather their thoughts. He had a lot to deal with in the aftermath of the great campaign’s failing, but he knew he had to keep his mind set much more directly on the problems at hand as laid before him. If he was due to keep his job, he’d just have to fight through any shit they threw at him. This business with Sahara was a last hold-over from Duane, the last match he directly booked and had been honoured by the new (or returning) management. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d serve a purpose down the line, a very specific purpose if he could achieve his goal in that very particular regard. After that, the winner of Goeren and Lou from the Vice Squad, if either of them could ever be considered a winner in any way, shape or form. As the problems at hand, he knew he had to focus on them, to devote enough time and energy to solving them and enacting the solutions like clockwork, right down to the minutia. That, in of itself, is not a problem for him. He reaches out, his hand grasping at the notepad and pen just down the bar from him and he holds them close, the blank page staring up at him and the pen poised to write. And write, it does. Almost by itself, the work begins, ink laying indelibly upon paper as the pen glides over its white surface and marks it. A list. It writes a list. He writes a list. A list of names. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 I’ve got something to show you. In his ring attire, Jurgen smiles, his sweat-laden brow and proud Germanic jaw-line seeming broken by an expression seemingly quite new to him. Osbourne had seen him smile before, but not quite like this - a smile which seemed to emanate from deeper within him as though pride in his creation and his achievement glowed and burst forth through his expression. At six feet eight inches tall and hovering around the 280lb mark, Jurgen is chiselled in granite, every muscle developed in proportion and with symmetry he’d never known in his previous life as a pure powerlifter. Short-top black boots with silver laces matched perfectly his black wrestling shorts with silver barbed wire designs on either leg. Standing in the middle of the ring, beneath the powerful overhead lights, he sucks in deep breaths as Osbourne steps up onto the ring apron and wraps his hands around the top rope. Inside the ring, at Jurgen’s feet, Shaun Sinclair pulls himself to his feet, his pastel-blue basketball shorts sporting sweat marks unlike the glaring white of his high-top trainers. As he stands, he straightens out his white vest and nods to Osbourne. Yeah, he’s onto somethin’, but I don’t want to be playing crash test dummy all fuckin’ night. I’m texting some Irish girl called Nia- Shut up and get ready, idiot Fuck you, cunt. With a smile, Shaun lifts his arms and allows Jurgen to pick him up akin to a high bear hug, throwing him up over his shoulder before tucking his head under Shaun’s leg and leaving him dangling over his back, legs either side of his head as he holds him steady with his hands on Shaun’s calves. Fuck’s sake, get on with it! Your fuckin’ arse smells like shiiIIiiiii With a quick downward whip of his arms and a tuck of his head, Jurgen applies enough leverage to Shaun’s legs to whip him right over, sailing backward through the air and crashing into the canvas, his ankles still in Jurgen’s hands as he looks down and laughs. It’s a good move, a lot of power. It works well for you, given your strengths and I like that you could catch someone in mid-air and do it or you could just pick them right up. I think we can work on it and modify it a bit to add more power, but if you pick your moment to use it, it’s a finisher. Yeah, I was thinking of using it to finish them off after like attacking the back and maybe ringing their bell a few times with shots to the face and something. The attention of both men is drawn to the canvas as Shaun pulls his feet free of Jurgen’s grasp and rolls up onto his knees, holding the back of his head. Yeah. A few shots to the head and nobody’s going to be able to tuck their chin or anything. Probably knock the fucker clean out, mate. Putting his arm around Shaun’s ribs, Jurgen yanks him right up to his feet and smiles. Is it wrong that I like the idea of knocking people out like that? You’re asking Osbourne fucking Kilminster. Try thinking first, you fucking knob. Laughing, Osbourne can’t help but feel his spirits lifted by the camaraderie between his students, their odd manner of constant insults becoming their own twisted affection between brothers who, culturally, couldn't be more different but whose passion for the business and the sport draws them together. It’s not all flashy fancy finishers, as you both well know. Never ever forget the very basics, whether you’re a power player or a speed freak - it’s the building blocks that’ll pave the path to success. Saying that, it’s always good to have a trick in the bag, but don’t over-rely on it. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. What’re you doing? I’ll be up in a bit - just got some stuff to get done first. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 There are not many phone numbers in the phone used by him, atleast not anymore. In times gone by, he’d been a collector of the phone numbers of his colleagues and management types and lawyers and road agents. Times have changed since then, times and his attitude toward constant contact with the people in the industry who just liked the idea of calling him at all hours of the day and night to plague him with inconsequential or minor details about travel or food or any other of a million tiny things he didn’t wish to concern himself with. Stood in the dark, the blanket of night-time open air all about him, he looks up at the moon and the stars, unhindered by cloud, and ponders who else might be looking up at exactly the same time and where from. His black dress shirt unbuttoned to nearly the waist and his feet devoid of shoes and relying on the thin cotton of his socks and the length of black jeans which curls just under his heel to protect his feet from the gravel of the car-park’s edge. The bright floodlights illuminating the tarmac main portion of the car park glare down unyieldingly and force his gaze back to the screen of his phone. British Airways. Brother. Draven. Erik Draven. Duane. Haven 1 Haven 2 Haven 3 Haven 4 Institute. Jada. Jurgen. Shaun. Not many at all, but the one stands out like a sore thumb, like the splinter from his mind’s eye had first embedded itself in this opposable digit and thus, his good eye is drawn to it. Jada. He had no idea what that crazy bitch wanted. Well, he knew she wanted a fight, but the reason behind it was beyond him. Perhaps she’d now take grievance at his pinning her in the tag match, choosing to join her precious legion of twitter followers saying he screwed her when the truth is he saw the whole thing going south fast and wanted her out of there, out of real harm’s way before one of the others got to her and REALLY hurt her. Something about this whole new attitude of willfully provoking him doesn’t make sense. She has enough going on and so does he, yet she persists time and again to push and goad him into fighting her, but for what? Maybe that bastard Goeren has got her back on the coke… His jaw clenches as his thumb hovers over her name. If he called, would she answer? If she answered, would she explain? If she did, would he understand? Too many questions, just too many. He presses the home screen button and casts his eyes back up at the moon. Somewhere, somewhere out there… 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 Crouched on the ground, Osbourne Kilminster’s black hoodie is raised to cover his head as rain falls from the sky upon him and upon the last burning embers of a fire set in a circle of bricks. Smoke rises from the barely glowing ashes as the silent storm lashes down with swathes of rain which ride in almost horizontally. Standing, he adjusts the black military coat atop his hoodie, zipping it up as he trudges away and seeks refuge in a nearby building, a huge gap in the brickwork where a roller shutter door once was, but has long since been stolen and sold for scrap. Inside is desolate, old newspapers strewn across the floor, broken windows on every wall and just open space. Shaking himself like a dog, he casts off some of the rain still sat on the surface of his clothes and crunches the heel of his boot on a slither of broken glass on the concrete floor. Marcus Mirage is a man I know of, who I’ve seen but never met - a man who floats about the rivers of relevance and rarely finds the current. When he does, he looks magnificent, like a firework high in the night sky attracting awe and marvel but, ultimately, short-lived. He’s a man who had glimmers of greatness, but not enough to sustain it, a man who shone time after time but each time just a little less so… dimmer… and dimmer… and less marvellous… and then, less frequent. Marcus Mirage is a man who was fading his way out fifteen years ago when this business was new to me. He is a man who has limped his way across decades on broken promises to himself and his fans and… more importantly, perhaps… to you. Tilting his head back, he pulls down his hood and reveals his bare face, his beard finely combed but loose, his eyes unshielded and yet only just visible in the darkness. That’s right, dear Sahara. He chose a name which implied he was just a fleeting vision and he lived up to it and you, for all your worth, not only loved him but took him to be your role model. How proud your parents must truly be. Smirking, he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, the sound reverberating around the empty space. You’ve been around the business, but never dipped more than your toe in the water. You’ve been involved, but not committed and what relationship flourishes with tenuous boundaries like that? Oh, your marriage. You might see yourselves as the textbook guide of how to be married and succeed in this business, but mark my words - when you drag him from his walking slumber and he decides he wants to mean something again, he’ll want what's at the very top, the gold on the mountaintop and so will you. That’s how this works. That’s how competition works. What’s worked for you for all these years has been a fluke, an elongated stroke of luck based on the lynchpin principle of you not having got too involved, not having trodden on his toes, not having ambitions of your own in the same context. Now you’ve taken the first steps in changing that and, soon, everything else will change. Sighing, Osbourne takes a moment to recount his own experiences, his own life lessons learned the hard way… the hardest. Maybe you think you’ll be the ones to prove me wrong, that it’ll work because he’ll happily lay on his straw bed and send you out to war like the coward he truly is and, that way, you won’t cross paths… but is that what you want? Is it? What else is there? Well, let me tell you… Pressing the tip of his tongue against the point of his canine, he enjoys the pain for a moment. Marcus, you could get your lazy old ass up and face this like the man you’re supposed to be. Years ago, you should have faced me instead of hiding on the upper levels with that protective glass ceiling between us. You should have faced the man who you KNEW could end you, but you didn’t. Just like you hid from me, you hid from my student because you know when you’re beaten and you’ve been around long enough to see it ahead of time. Shaun would have ended you and he’d have made short work of you, shorter than I would have done all those years ago. Shaking his head, Osbourne seethes with rage, disgusted. Sahara, you can’t prepare yourself for what’s going to happen because if you’re not ready right now, you won’t ever be. I saw what Shaun did and, trust me, he was taking it very, very easy on you. The thing with Shaun is he’s a sensitive soul, sympathetic and caring. I, however, believe you get everything you deserve in this life - the rough and the smooth. You stepped in because your bitch husband has his tail between his legs and, for what it’s worth, I can respect that. What you need to understand though is that there’s a certain level of responsibility to be undertaken to yourself when you step into a ring. If you go there… if you step between those ropes… you’re saying you think you’re better than the other person and that you’re so sure of it that you’ll put your body on the line to prove it. Do you think you’re better than me? Ask yourself that question every time you look in the mirror. Ask your husband every time you wake up next to his yellow belly. Ask yourself that when your music plays out and you step out from behind that curtain because not everybody is as nice as Shaun Sinclair. Not everybody is going to beg for your safety. I won’t. Shaking his head, he looks to the floor for a moment, picking out cracks in the set concrete floor before returning his gaze to us. Everything I do to you will be because you have allowed me to, just by virtue of you choosing to be there. Everything I do to you will be done to you because you have chosen to take your husband’s place and he has allowed you to. Everything I do to you is a message for him, a message to remind him that a warrior doesn’t just slip into the shadows and call it at that - no, he’s done that for years. Marcus, if ever you considered yourself a warrior, you know that a legacy must be forever etched in stone. You know that you can’t run from your greatest challenges, even when they know that they may end you. You can die your coward’s death, hidden beneath blankets or watching from behind a cushion while I slaughter your wife. You can even come to the ring and watch from the apron as your wife becomes your whipping boy and endures the pain that is meant for you. Watch. Weep. Mourn. Get angry. Do something. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for years. Taking a deep breath, he kicks a shard of glass across the floor and listens as the tinkling echoes, clashing against the torrential downpour outside. I guess Fight Night really sets the scene because I’ll be there to see who comes out victorious between Goeren and Loose Lou from the Vice Squad. If nothing else, I’m surprised to see the two of you stood against eachother given how the venn diagram of your interests has such an astonishingly large overlap. In another world, or maybe just a twisted, darker version of this one, it strikes me that Lou and her sapphic companion would be perfect front-page material for your Schadenfreude business. Lou is guilty by association to that prick Jared who I’d happily punch in the face again and again and so on until the end of time. Maybe, in a brighter version of this world, she’d have really been someone and meant something and really succeeded, but she’s stuck in that trap with him and Nelson and Jane. You, however, Herr Goeren… His teeth grind, his jaw clenched so tight and his eyes narrowed as he struggles to contain his revulsion and rage. You’re repulsive. You revel in the sleaze and the seedy side of everything and anything you can wrap your greasy fingers around and corrupt. The worst thing is that you bring out the worst side of my ex-wife. The sex, the drugs, the drinking… She worked so hard to reign in her need to release and use those evils to do it. I helped her a little, mostly by enthusiastically indulging her carnal desires, but she fought her own fight against the vodka and the coke and managed to “normalise” herself, to some degree.. But you… I can see it in her. You’re the devil who was always on her shoulder, manifested and malicious, peddling filth and corruption and portraying it as love. You are her weakness and her choice to keep you at her side is the biggest mistake of her life. Osbourne’s knuckles crack as his hands slowly curl into fists and the cold no longers matters to them. Oh, I know her choices are no longer my business. We decided that quite mutually and, I had thought, quite amicably… but you’ve got to know just how much that's going to factor into the enjoyment I get out of making you bleed and making you squeal the next time I have a chance. Do it, Goeren - beat Lou and advance in the Path of the Warrior tournament, advance and meet ME at Battlelines. I dare you. I double fucking dare you. Suddenly, he pulls up his hood, turns and leaves, his dark silhouette vanishing out of the hole in the wall and venturing out into the cold and the dark and the rain. 《《( ( O ) )》》 《《( ( O ) )》》 |
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10:52 AM Jul 11