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[The Collector]; POTW vs. X-Calibur
Topic Started: May 31 2016, 09:42 PM (36 Views)
Indrid Calder
EWA World Heavyweight Champion



The boy sits with his companions in lush green grass, late evening sunlight dappling down through the leaves of the elm overhead. He wears a “Bite of the Dragon” t-shirt, newly purchased, with the classic X insignia across the back. He’s licking at a strawberry ice cream cone, relishing the taste, letting a few dollops of it drip down his chin only to swipe the sweetness away with one pudgy hand.

The boy has on brand new sneakers, a shiny golden chain around his neck, and one of those new trendy haircuts that leaves the sides shaven and the top slicked back.

The boy is round, well-fed, a product of comfortable suburbia. His friends are less than that. Skinnier. Frailer. One with wild blonde hair and pockmarked skin, the other with a thin, narrow face and a cheap crew cut. Their clothes look older, more worn, tattered by time, items either handed down through the family or purchased at stores like Goodwill. Boy #1 licks at his ice cream cone, his eyes dull and vaguely sullen. Boy #2 picks at the grass. Boy #3 studies Boy #1’s new t-shirt and his new sneakers and his new chain and his new everything.

Boy #1: So you guys get the EWA Network yet?

Boy #2: I wish. Mom says we can’t afford it right now.

Boy #1 laughs. It’s a sour little laugh, like curdled milk exiting his throat.

Boy #1: Bruh, stop being so fucking poor. You guys are missing out. Sinn lost that huge main event. But her tits, man…out of this world. They almost popped out when she fought her ex-hubbie.

Boy #3: New t-shirt, Chad?

Boy #1: Yeah. I earned it. I did a bunch of chores, mowed the lawn, cleaned the pool, and washed my dad’s Lexus. Been snapchatting this bitch with selfies all day long before I came to chill with you two. She digs the shirt.

Boy #2: So what happened with X-Calibur during this past Battlelines?

Boy #1 slurps at his ice cream, his lips pinkish, almost wormy. His friends do not have ice cream cones. His friends have nothing but their own hands with dirty fingernails and their own eyes with dark circles beneath them.

Boy #1: Stupid ass question, bruh. X did what he always does. X fucking won. X-Calibur always wins because he’s the best in the business, simple as that. Dude has all the titles and trophies, greatest legacy around…you two would know that if you’d stop being so cheap and get that EWA Network.

Boy #2 does not say anything about the fact that his mother works two jobs and can barely cover rent at the studio apartment he shares with his two baby sisters. Boy #3 does not mention that his family can’t even afford Internet access at home. They have known Boy #1 for a long time, and they know it is pointless to mention these things to a boy like him.

Boy #3: I dunno, man…I really like Maggie McIntyre. She’s getting better and better each week, and I heard that match she had with Calder was amazing.

Boy #1 titters. A few speckles of strawberry splatter out from his mouth as he laughs.

Boy #1: She’s garbage, bruh. She’s a rookie and she lost. Nobody cares about you unless you win. Has she even won any titles? She doesn’t even have much pyro during her entrance. X-Calibur has a SHITLOAD of pyro during his entrance, bruh. He’s a top talent. Don’t you turds even read the dirt sheets?

Boy #2 looks over at Boy #1’s brand new ten speed bicycle leaning against the elm, all gleaming blue chrome, a showy bike for a showy boy.

Boy #2: Did you get a new bike?

Boy #1: Yeah. I earned it. I’m thinking if I keep working hard, I could be looking at a football scholarship someday. My dad gave me that bike because of my accomplishments lately on the field. It’s awesome being a linebacker, and bruh, we beat those Dorchester fucks so hard. There’s nothing like winning. My dad is building this trophy case in his man cave just to feature a few framed photographs of me on the field and for future awards, shit like that. He’s putting it up right next to the Smart TV and the Xbox One.

Boy #3: My cousin told me Dredd has been really interesting lately. His son is getting into the business and he’s still got that bad blood going with Calder, I can’t wait to see what happ—

Boy #1 immediately interrupts while licking some strawberry ice cream from his fingers

Boy #1: Bruh, you shitting me? Dredd is like a senior citizen. He should be in a nursing home. When does Dredd ever win? How many titles has Dredd even won in his career? If I looked on Wikipedia right now, it wouldn’t even compare to X-Calibur’s track record. Professional wrestling is about winning and getting titles and earning respect, you guys are getting to be a drag to hang with because you just don’t fucking get that…like at all.

Boy #3: Could I get some ice cream? It takes forever to get dinner because dad doesn’t wake up for grave shift at the steel mill until pretty late.

Boy #1 immediately chomps down on the remnants of the cone, his slimy, strawberry-covered lips smacking together as he grins at Boy #3.

Boy #1: Sorry, bruh. All gone. So what are you guys doing for the summer?

Boy #2: Probably sticking around here. I got a part-time job down at the mall on the North End.

Boy #3: I’ll be staying with my grandma in Hyde Park for a few months.

Boy #1: So freakin’ exciting. (Boy #1 yawns loudly, clapping his hand over his mouth) Well anyways, I’m going to the Caribbean for the whole summer. I won it from my dad in a poker game, so basically we’re both winners since he’s going too, haha. I ordered this replica version of X’s Tapout Championship off Amazon and I REALLY fucking hope it gets here before I leave for my flight, because if it’s not here by then, I’m jumping right on the phone to chew out some Amazon customer service ragheads.

Boy #1 rises to his feet, brushing some grass off his new sneakers and his new t-shirt and his Dragon-decorated board shorts.

Boy #1: I’ll catch you losers later. Not trying to stay in this sketchy ass ghetto after it gets dark. I’ll show you the replica title if it gets here before next week. Total collector’s item, you’ll be jealous as fuck, haha.

Boy #1 hops atop his bike and scoots it along the street a few yards, pausing for a moment to lean back and mean-mug the front facing camera on his iPhone 6, snapping a selfie and sending it off to Twitter with the hashtags #winningatlife and #hierarchyswag accompanying the photo.

He does not say goodbye to his friends as they sit in the yard in front of the grungy apartment complex.

He pedals on, brand new sneakers squeaking.

The two friends watch him ride off with the sun dying on the horizon.

Their eyes are embers in the fading sun.

Eyes full of hunger.

Eyes full of nothing.

Just embers…that glow with HATRED.




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Tell me about your trophies, Mister Van Warren.

Tell me about your titles.

Tell me about your wins.

Tell me about your legacy.

Tell me the same recycled, monotonous verbal equivalent of dried out nostril snot that you tell all the others week after week after week. Give me that redundant proclamation.

Let’s get it out of the way early.

I’ll tell you what I know about you.

You’re probably one of the best professional wrestlers to ever grace this industry. A man that has climbed to incredible heights and reached the pinnacle of this business a countless number of times.

I’m aware of that.

Everyone is aware of that.

Your greatest shortcoming, your most essential FLAW…is this banal, insecure need to constantly REMIND people about just how unfathomably great you are. It’s moldy, Mister Van Warren. The words have gone rotten…and there’s no taste left in them. That’s what happens when you leave something out for too long and continually spin the same contrived horseshit that you’ve been spinning since the invention of the wheel.

I am Eryk Van Warren, and I have accolades.

I am Eryk Van Warren, and I have shiny trophies.

I am Eryk Van Warren, and I have won every championship in the history of championships and I also invented the idea of championships and patented the word championships.

I am Eryk Van Warren, and I have EVERYTHING.

I’m a big, bad winner, and I always eat the very best chicken dinners.

We know, Mister Van Warren.

You are as transparent as glass, and you are defined solely by selfishness and ego, you big ol’ winner you. Your Hierarchy crumbles because you care solely about yourself and your own personal awards and honors. You don’t understand unification. You can’t hold your own brotherhood together because you’re too busy holding up the lofty flag of X-Calibur, emblazoned with big, flashy “W” marks in a column that you wave around like a lost soldier begging for attention.

We wrecked your battle-brother Willmott, and you did nothing.

You allowed this fissure to grow between Summers and Mirage, and you made only the most paltry effort to fix it, because it wasn’t a priority, the elevation of your battle-brothers is not your concern…it is the elevation of the MIGHTY X-Calibur that is always at the forefront of your mind.

You constantly refer to your “best friend” Azzy Goeren as a sidekick, a supporting cast member, a lovable, hilarious, but ultimately non-threatening playboy to make you seem all the more steadfast and glorious when compared to the Megastar.

Let’s call The Hierarchy what it really is, Mister Van Warren.

It’s a team you assembled to stroke that ego-erection that always juts out of your cute little Dragon-plastered tights, and if the team isn’t massaging on that X-Calibur cockmeat and helping him to cum out those big wins and gain those pretty titles, the team ceases to matter to X-Calibur.

Do you know what I see when I look at you, Mister Van Warren?

I see a little boy who fancies himself a collector.

He collects championships.

He collects awards.

He collects those precious, precious wins.

And since you’re such a dutiful little collector, I want you to work extra hard to collect your teeth after I mash your egotistical frat boy features into the canvas with a curb stomp at Battlelines.

That stomp is my step forward in the Path of the Warrior Tournament. I step on your head, and I take the one thing that matters MOST to you…that thing that defines your life, your thoughts, and X-Calibur as a human being.

I take the win.

I take it…because I know how badly you yearn for it.

I take it not because my ego is a Tibet-sized genital wart on the tip of Azzy Goeren’s phallus (like yours is)…that’s not the reason.

I take it, Mister Van Warren, because to take that win is to pop your oversized ego like a cystic pimple and watch the pus drip out across the mat.

I take it only because you want it.

We have one similarity, Mister Van Warren.

I’m a collector too.

Where you see worth in titles, accolades, wins, I see worth…in PEOPLE. I collect kinsmen and kinswomen. I collect likeminded souls and wayward individuals that many have forgotten.

I see worth in those that you’d call worthless.

I see potential in those that you’d say are past their prime.

I see dark, beautiful souls…and I do my part to bring them together.

Unification, Mister Van Warren.

There’s that word again…the one you know nothing about.

I am equal to all of my HATEful brethren, I am no better than them, and they are no better than me. If West falls, I will reach down and pick him back up and THAT will be my priority. If The Purveyor stumbles, I will be there to steady his stride and help him to continue his HATEful crusade.

I am the antithesis of you in that way, Mister Van Warren.

I am selfless in my HATE.

I am just a humble carrier, and I will infect, I will seduce, I will tempt…and I will draw the HATE from many, and in doing so, I will draw the many to HATE.

You face the last Pillar of Hate left on the Path, Mister Van Warren.

You face the man that it took two X-Terminators to finally subdue the last time we met in combat. The man you were forced to don the war paint for, a statement you make only when you know in your heart of hearts that you’re clashing against a grave threat.

HATE is growing, Mister Van Warren.

HATE is spreading.

The Pillars are smashing up through the foundations of the EWA like the tangled roots of a weeping willow, and we intend to leave our mark here.

You stand in the Path of progress, collector.

You know success.

You know triumph.

You know how delicious it is…to get that fix that drives you, that lovely, lasting win.

You look at me and you see a Stranger with nothing.

No identity.

No title.

No shiny, pretty trophies to fill my collector’s case up with.

But sometimes, Mister Van Warren…to have nothing…is to have everything.

I’ll teach you that when I take your everything in the Path of the Warrior Tournament.

Your everything, collector.

Your win.
Edited by Indrid Calder, May 31 2016, 09:46 PM.
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