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A Gift; vs Deacon Summers & The Heart Attack Kid, Battlelines XIV
Topic Started: Jun 8 2016, 08:28 PM (19 Views)
NOTHING
The Purveyor of HATE
There he lay on the cold pavement outside of The Quicken Loans Arena in Cleveland, Ohio.

The cool breeze of the night air washing over his body almost awakening a better sense within him.

His hands sit still across his stomach interlocked at the fingers.

His legs stretched out with one foot crossing over the other.

Clad from head to toe in a stoic wardrobe -- black boots, black pants, a plain black t-shirt paired with a black denim jacket -- he almost blends into the dark surface beneath him. If not for the light of the moon catching the curves of his face he'd be nearly invisible.

The camera circles around him as he recycles the moment of the evening in his head.

Every near fall with Grace Goeren.

The vile feeling of Duane Gates' hands as they wrapped around his head and pulled his throat into the ropes. It'll take a while, he thought, to wash that feeling off.

The sound of the referee's hand hitting the mat for the three count as he lay gasping for breath on the canvas.

And, of course, the show of respect to the young Warrior after a hard-fought battle with the other Pillars of HATE standing by his side.

Having completed several full revolutions around his body, the camera stops above his head. His head and shoulders fill the frame upside down; suddenly, his eyes spring open and stare into the open night sky.

He adjusts his body from side to side on the pavement, a slight grunt and groan emitting from "The Harbinger of HATE" as he aligns his spine. Once comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be here, he speaks.

"Grace Goeren, you certainly know how to put your money where your mouth is. For all of your incessant blathering on and on about whatever shiny thing has caught your attention at any given moment, you are able to leave it all behind once you step into the ring.

For that, you have earned my respect. But please - don't mistake my show of respect for a show of mercy. You got the better of me this time, young Warrior, but we will meet again very, very soon. And this time, things will be a bit more interesting. We'll revisit one another at Path of the Warrior, Grace... but in the meantime, I have some chores to take care of at Battlelines."

He pauses for a moment and takes a breath in and then slowly out, letting the moments of the night escape his mind and body. He continues staring, unflinching and not blinking, into the sky above.

"Before I get to Path of the Warrior, I have a bit of a tune-up match against a couple of... interesting Warriors. And while I do appreciate the opportunity to hone my skills in a triple threat match just before I vie for the EWA Network Championship, there are truly so many better things I could be doing with that time. Just ask some of the EWA's finest officials... they know first-hand."

He waves his right hand into the air dismissing his train of thought.

"But I digress. At Battlelines, I have an opportunity to do battle with two men I've yet to encounter here in the EWA. Two men who, like myself, find themselves off of the Path of the Warrior and finding footing elsewhere. My friends, I hope you weren't expecting to find your footing when we face one another. The only solid ground that will be found once all is said and done is the soil packed on top of your bodies after HATE has found its way into your hearts and minds.

First, we have Deacon Summers. Deacon, I can appreciate a great deal about you. A sordid past you'd rather not relive. A life spent scraping for everything you've got. A family tree more convoluted and dense than my own.

But that's about where it ends, Deacon, and it's not because I have any sense of ill will towards you. It's just that, when it comes to Deacon Summers... I just have no sense whatsoever.

I've followed along with your epic journey and the only thing I've yet to figure out is who Deacon Summers truly is. It seems every week you're pulling back a new layer of yourself that even you didn't know existed.

Unstable.

That's the best word to describe your existence.

You lead an unstable live in which your entire world can be turned on its ear in no time flat. There is nothing to hold together the very fragile life you've been able to piece together, Deacon. Like Icarus, you are flying far too close to the sun and soon... much sooner than later, the glue that holds your wings together will begin to melt.

In fact, that process has already begun. It began the instant you signed your name on the dotted line to step into the ring with 'The Purveyor', Deacon.

Now, you're spiraling out of control. Swan-diving toward Boston and straight into the mouths of the hounds of HATE.

Not your ordinary house pets, no - hounds trained to rip and tear at every free limb until all that is left are chunks and stumps.

It'd be a shame, really, if it didn't bring me so much joy to be personally responsible for a man's demise."

He pauses and takes in another deep breath, his steely blue eyes still unblinking and looking toward the stars. He brings his right hand up and runs it through his hair, pushing back the few stray strands that dangled in front of his face. He returns his hand to his stomach and locks his fingers together again.

"On the other side of the ring, we have The Heart Attack Kid. A 32-year old kid. To save both yourself and myself the embarrassment of referring to you by a name you should have left behind more than half of your life ago, I'll lovingly refer to you by your acronym, HAK.

Is that not all you are, after all? Just a good old fashioned, nothing-between-the-ears, the-sun-will-come-out-tomorrow hack?

You parade around in your mask with your frequently-masked buddies and shoot the breeze from time to time. You're another one who loves to talk a good game in between handfuls of tacos, but unlike someone like Grace Goeren, you lack that necessary killer instinct. Instead you just fill me with despair, HAK. You're just so... good. So virtuous. So annoyingly positive and it makes me sick to my stomach.

You study tapes, you make up your little game plans, and you charge into battle hoping to vanquish your enemies and prevail over the enemy. Always looking for a good fight. Always excited about 'the spirit of competition' when you step into the ring.

I don't anticipate the spirit of competition, HAK.

I don't froth at the bit thinking about the thrill of the hunt.

What I love, HAK... what I panic and uncertainty I can feel emanating from an opponent's body once they realize they've stepped out of their comfort zone and straight into Hell.

I love the feeling of somebody crumbling beneath my will, much like the glorious EWA officials did so recently.

I love the sight of another human being coming to the realization that they made a fatal mistake when they decided to step into the ring with the man who has brought a new sense of fear and injustice to the EWA.

I love breaking people down, HAK, until they are people no longer. Instead, they become shells of the people they used to be. Empty, broken shells to be discarded with the previous day's newspaper.

At Battlelines, HAK, I work to discard a vestige of a bygone era. An era that allowed a man such as yourself to be so happy-go-lucky when marching head-on into danger.

Those days are gone, HAK... and it's a cold, cold trail leading back to where you came from."

He adjusts his legs as he continues to stare, unflinching, into the night. He switches the position of his feet criss-crossing over one another and lets out a belabored sigh.

"For all that you two men do wrong, one of you has at least said one true thing.

Deacon, you spoke your mind and you told the entire world that the Three Pillars of HATE are not monsters; rather, we are men. Mere mortals walking the Earth with everybody else.

And you're right.

You are absolutely right.

But this, gentlemen, is what you need to be most afraid of. Monsters destroy without a conscience. They are often created by some unfortunate series of events or a tremendous disaster. Their brains, you see, don't quite work the same way that the human brain works. They don't feel compassion or sorrow, they don't understand the true gravity of what they are doing.

And so you are absolutely correct, Deacon, in saying that we are not monsters.

The Three Pillars of HATE, we surely have consciences. And our brains work in just the same way that yours works and that HAK's works.

We have the ability to feel compassion, sorrow, joy - all of them. Every last emotion, every last doubt that could run through a man's mind... we feel all of those things.

And it's just that, gentlemen, which makes us all the more dangerous. We do not do the things that we do because we are monsters who act without thinking our actions through. No... we are men who think about every minute detail of what we are doing, when we are doing it, and to whom we will do it.

We are just... like... you. You're all a step away from holding this same sickness within your hearts, but trust me when I tell you that it is not a disease. It's not a curse.

It is a gift. A treasure to hold close to your heart at all times.

At Battlelines, gentlemen, I intend to share just a little bit of that treasure with the both of you."

Looking toward the sky, NOTHING readjusts himself slightly along the cold, hard ground. The stars are nearly reflecting in his eyes, still unmoving and staring into the void. With a sudden snap his eyes close and, as they do, the wind begins to pick up. He is at ease once more as the wind comes in like waves crashing into and over his body. The camera begins to slowly track backward while keeping "The Harbinger of HATE" in the center of the frame.

Fade to black.
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