| Things better left unsaid; II vs Grace Goeren, Battlelines XIII | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: May 30 2016, 08:26 PM (22 Views) | |
| NOTHING | May 30 2016, 08:26 PM Post #1 |
|
The Purveyor of HATE
|
We open to a camera which is harshly out of focus without much else on which to decipher our surroundings. The unfocused lens creates a bokeh effect on the screen and while we can not see exactly where we are, we can tell by the the smattering of colors currently visible that most of the room is dimly lit. The camera begins to adjust its focus and we begin to catch glimpses of our surroundings. Lights hang down from the ceiling, though very few of them are lit. Off to the side we can see a punching bag tattered and, shall we say, well-seasoned. Several portions of it are taped to repair rips and tears across the lumpy exterior. It hangs from a series of chains attached to the ceiling and in this moment is completely still. Further in the background we can see that the wall is lined with dumbbells stacked one after one on a long rack. Banners and posters hang on the wall, but this portion of the room is much too dark to make out what any of them say. In the foreground a wrestling ring, similarly tattered and seasoned as the punching bag, sits front and center. Black posts and ropes with a gray mat and black ring skirt. Portions of the mat are visibly taped while others are stained with sweat or blood. Sitting on the apron, his back against the ropes, is our gracious host - "The Harbinger of HATE" NOTHING. He is dressed in his ring gear and drips with sweat seemingly having just finished a training session in the ring. He sits with his hands in his lap and his gaze fixed toward the ground. His breathing is deep but steady; the cardiovascular condition of "The Purveyor" seems to be in fine form. The camera begins to move in closer and, as it does, NOTHING slowly begins to lift his head up. He pushes the strands of hair hanging over his eyes back over his head and takes one more deep breath in and holds it briefly before slowly letting it out. He wipes his face from side to side and as he flips his hand toward the ground we can hear the sweat pelt the ground like a series of rain drops. His hands rest back in his lap and peers into the camera with a charged expression on his face. He pauses a beat before beginning to speak. You still just don't seem to understand, Grace. You run your mouth and you run your mouth and you run your mouth - but nothing of value comes spilling out. You talk and you talk and you talk and yet you say absolutely nothing. So, I apologize if I mislead you at any point. Simply put, you haven't gotten under my skin. You know that feeling you have when you feel something crawling on your bare skin? Something unexpected, even, and something that feels wholly unnatural? The feeling of a bug tickling your arm as it crawls quickly from elbow to shoulder - do you know that feeling, Grace? I can ascribe that feeling to spiders or mosquitos, but I can't for the life of me ascribe that feeling to you. You are so far from getting under my skin that I haven't even felt you on it. You, on the other hand... you seem to have gotten yourself quite riled up. Now, whether that's the drugs, the realization that you're actually answering to the human scum that is Duane Gates, your tiresome familial trauma, or me actually hitting a nerve within you is a question which only you can answer. What I do know, Grace, is that you still don't seem to get it. I don't have a personal disdain for you. Far from it. In fact, if not for the fact that we were signed to face one another at Battlelines, you would barely be a blip on my radar. You want to create this false narrative that it is you against everybody else; that you have to fight and claw against every other person on the planet to get to where you need yourself to be. But it's not you against everybody, Grace. It's you against yourself. It's you against your own insecurities and self-doubt. You have your perceptions about this world and even myself and they are unwavering even in the face of facts. It's almost an admirable trait in a young Warrior such as yourself; to have that steely resolve so young in life can be something of which to be proud. Almost. Almost, Grace. Where you falter is that you talk and talk but never listen. You hear, that's for certain - you hear the words I say, the words that your other adversaries say - but you fail to listen. And when you fail to listen, Grace, you simply fail to learn. You continue with this tired diatribe stumbling forward based on loosely bound perceptions of who I am and who HATE is. No, Grace, we don't come marching with orcs or elves. We don't run through every Hot Topic in every city the EWA hits to stock up on whatever it is you think fuels this machine called HATE. And personally, Grace, I do not intend to spook you into believing that the words I am saying to you are true. I do not intend to scare you or to even attempt to scare you, young Warrior. What I intend to do, Grace, is to open my mind and to open my heart at Battlelines. I intend to teach you, Grace - to teach you what you have not yet had the chance to learn after such a short time in this business. Battlelines is going to be a lesson, Grace. I will be the teacher and you the pupil, and I am almost gleefully overjoyed that it will be our first of two meetings in the weeks to come. You need to learn, Grace, and you need to learn from someone like myself who may see what you are truly worth and have some mercy on you. Just ask Ray Willmott. We could have gone much, much further than we did with good 'ole "Red Hot", but we showed restraint. We let him crawl out of the arena that night and live to fight another day rather than ending his career in the center of the ring. This is the kindness I bring with me to Battlelines, Grace. The compassion which lives within myself, which lives within HATE and everything we set out to do. Kindly, Grace, I will beat this lesson into your skull when we are in the ring with one another. A lesson plan made of skin, bone, ligament, and muscle. When my knee connects with your face, I do sincerely hope that I am able to knock something into place within your fragile psyche. And if not, Grace... if the beating you receive at Battlelines isn't quite enough to teach you the things you need to learn... well, there's always next time. Just watch your tongue, young Warrior. Some things are better left unsaid, and you can only avoid becoming a target of HATE for so long if you continue down the path on which you currently travel. This is your first warning, Grace. There won't be another. NOTHING sits motionless against the ropes. He continues to stare pointedly into the camera. Slowly, the screen grows out of focus once more to the familiar bokeh visual we saw at the beginning of the broadcast. Shortly after, we fade to black. |
| |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · The Warrior's Den · Next Topic » |







10:51 AM Jul 11