Post by zaigon on Jun 21, 2020 22:18:31 GMT -5
“This is a bad idea.”
The voice of Riley Denton carries over the smacking of pads happening in the sparring gym. America Jackson is rolling around with someone in a gi, as Zaigon Carter watches on with focus. Riley is next to Mr. Carter, reading over the recent comments online with a panic flush in his face.
“Why did you do this, you’re walking right into his plan?”
Again, silence from Mr. Carter as he keeps his eyes on America who has his partner tied up in knots. Soon a yelp, a submission, and they untangle.
“Why didn’t you just wait and let the people who make the matches do this? He’s gonna hurt you, then do it again, and by the time Tokyo comes you’re gonna be…”
Fed up with the noise, Mr. Carter turns on Riley.
“What? I’m going to be what Riley? Tell me what I’m going to be. Because I so much value your input on what a wrestler goes through when you’re a writer. Please, enlighten me.”
Riley takes a half step back, uncertain of his next words. The options run through his head like a stock ticker, trying to settle on the right phrasing.
“It just seems like in your haste, you got a little blind to the situation. That’s all. One man’s opinion.”
“I didn’t bring you here for your opinion Riley. I brought you here to tell my truth, to document what is happening here. If you’re so confused as to why I’ve done what I have, why don’t you do your job and ask me why. Instead of acting like you know better.”
Another deep breath from Riley. Mr. Carter was right.
“OK, why did you make this decision?”
Mr. Carter turns away from Riley before opening his mouth again.
“Because the end justifies the means. I needed a result, I got the result. Simple as that.”
“Aren’t you worried at all that what’s about to happen means the end result isn’t going to go how you think?”
This time, Mr. Carter turns back to Riley. He looks him in the face, square in the eye. Mr. Carter’s dark eyes resonate with energy, though not necessarily a positive energy. It’s forceful, it’s confident, but there’s something else behind them.
“No.”
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That’s three.
And now we’re getting somewhere.
The two champions opposite America and myself last week proved to be exactly what we said they were, just another stepping stone to our destiny. More evidence that we are what we say we are.
Inevitable.
Last week doesn’t matter though, it never did. It only served as the bridge to where I deserve to be.
The world title, and the man that holds it.
Jason Ryan, believe you me there’s a lot I have to say about you. There’s a lot I have to say about that prize you carry for me, until I take it from you in Tokyo. However, per our agreement this week you receive safe passage.
With a warning.
Break your word, and you won’t make it to Tokyo. They’ll hand me your title in a forfeit while you watch from a hospital bed.
If you don’t believe me, try me.
Before I take full control however, there’s someone else in my way that needs to be taken care of.
Spartan, the odd man out in this little struggle.
Jason Ryan doesn’t seem to like you, but he doesn’t really like anyone except the people he keeps around to fellate him while telling him how great he is. He’s just that kind of guy.
I don’t like you for much different reasons.
Partly because the dawning of a new era in Alpha Pro Wrestling will soon occur, a new morning in APW if you will. It’ll indeed be a Rising Sun at Bulletproof, as my run atop this company and industry will be cemented.
I will be the hero, I will be the leader, I will be the alpha.
I won’t need wannabes like you around.
Nowhere in this new world is there room for some second rate warrior with daddy issues who thinks giving himself a new name to disguise his inferiority will be enough to make him a champion. Sure, maybe you filled some imaginary void before I arrived. Maybe you served a purpose.
You won some titles, you had success, people thought of you as someone they should respect or maybe even fear. You got a reputation, earned or otherwise. You thought it would last forever, that the force of your extinction didn’t exist. You thought your power, your dominance, your existence would never die.
Like the Visigoths of old, here I am Spartan.
Your doom.
As they sacked the ancient city and all those in it, I will burn down what’s left of your hope to be the warrior this company needs. I will overrun you, overpower you, and leave you in a broken state. All that you’ve done will lay bare before you.
Broken.
Sure, you’ll try to recover. We’ll hear whispers every now and then about how “Spartan is looking to make one more run.” You’ll seek revenge, one more chance at retaking the top spot in this world. That maybe ONE TIME...you can reclaim the glory.
You can’t. You won’t.
You’ll instead be driven out, the subject of lore in the past tense. You’ll be a memory, a footnote in history as the rest of the world grows around what you used to be.
That is your fate this week. In your forced exile, you can watch the next stage. Where at Bulletproof, I take the throne like King Otto centuries before.
With gold around my waist and blood on my hands, APW will be re-founded and reborn under my rule. All will sit at my feet, prosper under my greatness, but most of all understand that everything good that is about to happen…
...is because of me.
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The graveyard is silent, as a light rain falls upon it. Nobody comes to visit on New Years’ Day anyway; it’s about new beginnings not old endings. The graves sit silent, save for the patter of rain upon them and the occasional rustle of wind through leafless trees.
Until the puttering of a taxi breaks through the silence, motoring down the main road before pulling up to the gate. A brief pause, before we see Zaigon Carter clumsily make his way out. He’s clearly not sober, but not drunk either. Some sublime state between impaired and in peril.
Zaigon pushes open the gates with both hands, walking amongst the markers. His steps are a little hindered, like a clumsy dancer trying to navigate a routine they’re only half familiar with. His eyes, bloodshot, scan the stones looking.
Searching.
He travels most of the grounds before it appears. A towering obelisk looking monument, about five feet tall and gleaming in marble. It has accumulated some dirt and mud over time, as Zaigon approaches it. Grabbing the sides of it with a hand each, Zaigon takes his right hand wiping away some filth. The words were already readable, but now they’re crystal clear.
THEODORE CARTER
HUSBAND, FATHER, TITAN OF INDUSTRY
1940-1998
Zaigon takes a couple steps back, before plopping down in front of the stone. Looking up at it as it looms over him.
“Hello father.”
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