Post by zaigon on Feb 21, 2021 1:51:40 GMT -5
Wendell Gaylord had waited for this day for a long time.
Since Wendell was a boy, he had loved wrestling. He came across it looking for cartoons on television one day, when his parents were at work and his nanny asleep when she was supposed to be working. The bright lights, the loud action, the general spectacle was so appealing to him. His world was just the opposite; the large home he lived in was a modernist wet dream. Everything was white and angular, the decorations all confusing and expensive. His schools were all fancy and structured, with uniforms and rules. It all felt like a prison.
He continued his wrestling obsession, without much support from his parents. Every birthday he'd ask for wrestling things; every birthday he'd be disappointed. If he wanted to watch shows, he'd have to tap and watch them after his parents went to bed or when they were at work. He hated hearing the comments about how it was "hillbilly Shakespeare," so solitude it was for his consumption. Every edition he watched he became more consumed, so he started finding more. Old stuff, new stuff, foreign matches, the works. If he could get his hands on it, he devoured it like a gospel.
Then the ban came.
After a call from his private school's principal in the middle of the day when he was a teenager, Wendell's father picked him up and drove him home. Sullen, Wendell threw himself on the living room couch as his father scowled.
"Why am I getting calls about you disrupting class again with this wrestling thing?" His dad asked
"I was just writing some stuff while the teacher was talking," Wendell replied. "She was the one that got bent out of shape."
"You told her to 'Kiss My Ass Club,'" his father replied. "Teachers are heroes, that's no way to treat a hero Wendell. You need to have more respect."
Wendell's face contorted into a mix of disgust and rejection. "She's just a dumb bitch."
A shade of red came over his father's face. "That's it. From now on, no more wrestling in this house. I am TIRED of this. You're destined for greater things, and this NONSENSE is poisoning your mind. I'm through with it. And so are you."
Wendell sat there, trying to not to betray his emotions as his father went upstairs to his bedroom. Shortly after came the smashing of video tapes, the ripping of posters and pictures, the general sounds of destruction filled Wendell's ears as he sat frozen. Unable to do anything about it. Eventually his father came back downstairs, silent, and went about his day. Wendell went back to his room, to find what he expected: his collections in tatters. Sitting down on his bed, tears peeked at the corners of his eyes. He kicked the remnants of an action figure by his feet, resolving to never forget this day.
Now on this day, freshly 18, Wendell was exactly where he wanted to be.
He had taken all his graduation money, bought a bus ticket, and was now at the open tryout at legendary wrestling trainer Buzz Krueger's school. Well, it was more just his house. But the results didn't lie: World champions started their journey here. Wendell knew if he could make it here, his dreams would all come true.
Wendell and about twenty other people of various ages and sizes stood around outside, before the man himself emerged from the house. Already carrying a tallboy at 8AM on a Wednesday, Buzz approached the ragtag group with a belch and a scratchy voice resembling a fast food speaker.
"Alright you cumstains. I got two spots in my next class, but ya gotten earn em." Buzz said. "Luckily all yer checks cleared. So now we get down to the shit. Run five laps around the block, then give me two hundred pushups. Go."
Startled, the group takes off. Wendell trailed behind them, but did his best. He had worked out for a couple months since graduating high school, but not much progress had shown. By the start of the third lap, Wendell was breathing heavy. The humidity of the Southern summer air was strangling him, but he completed the laps albeit it in last. The push ups were another endeavor altogether. The rest of the group had finished, and was staring at Wendell as he struggled through his. After crossing the 30 mark, his trainer had seen enough.
"Oh fer fuck's sake kid that's enough," Buzz said. "Don't have all day to watch you go down worse than a senior on prom night. Stand up and get ready for rolls."
The rest of the day didn't go much better for Wendell. Every athletic challenge Buzz put in front of him, he failed. He even tripped over a jump rope, face planting on concrete. His peers weren't Olympians themselves, but they were able to complete the challenges in varying ways. They were all better athletes, more capable of the physical.
His only hope was the promo, done in Buzz's living room. As the erstwhile trainer popped another brewski in his leather chair, Wendell stood before him. His assignment was simple: Cut a minute long promo. If he did that, he could save the thing.
A deep breath.
"I know I'm not the biggest, the strongest, the fastest man in the world. But what I lack in all that I have in heart and dreams. I've been told my entire life to give up, that I should go be a doctor like my parents. That I'll never make it as a wrestler. But they're wrong. And I intend to show them how wrong they are, no matter HOW LONG it takes. I will succeed, I will be a world champion, and there's nobody that can stop me. Nobody!"
A silence as the last word rings through the room. Buzz takes a big pull off his beer can before sitting forward in his seat.
"Kid, I'm gonna give it to ya straight. You're the drizzling shits."
Wendell's heart sank.
"I've seen one legged men run better than you, ya got the cardio of an iron lung patient, and the promo you cut is straight out of 1972 wrestling. That shit don't fly anymore. You're never gonna make it, because it's not made fer you. It'd be malpractice to put you in a ring, and my con artist lawyer is already busy enough with my ex wives to worry about some grease spot breaking his neck so that he can one day MAYBE main event the VFW hall down the street. Ya ain't got it kid. I'm doing you a favor. Go be a doctor or whatever, because you'll never make it in this business."
A million responses went through Wendell's mind, but he didn't have the will to give them. Instead he trudged out of the house, limping slightly, walking past all the other candidates who were waiting for their promo time and onto the street. The bus station awaited, where it would take him back to his parents. Back to a life that he didn't want, and further away from the life he dreamed off.
It would take him to failure.
Failure he'd have to live with for a long time.
========
January 2021
It started with an email.
I've seen your recent promos, and I believe I have what you need. It's worth your time, I assure you.
Normally, such a message would be treated with suspicion. A few days of recon and research, making sure this isn't some trap where you end up in an ice bath with a kidney missing. Only then would answering be prudent.
Zaigon didn't have that sort of time.
Post Turmoil, his issues were getting worse. He was sleeping less and less, his temper was growing out of control to the point that almost everyone working for him had quit. Only a couple of people stayed on, less out of loyalty than concern. They didn't want to be the ones that weren't there if the worst happened. Not because they liked their boss, but because guilt is a hell of a motivator.
So the background was done quick. Milgram was vetted, and once determined he was a real doctor with a fake name(OK not fake, legally changed you know the difference) and he had worked in the field of mental issues before Zaigon made the call. He got on a private plane, meeting Dr. Milgram at a neutral site in New Mexico. Zaigon rented it out, stocking it how the doctor requested. By the time he landed, he hadn't slept in three days. In the SUV taking them from the airfield to the site, Zaigon's breathing was more labored than ever. Whatever was happening was getting stronger, and it was taking its toll.
Dr. Milgram was there when he got out of the car, exchanging a handshake. Once inside, a pair of local orderlies took some vitals before they sat Zaigon in a specially constructed chair. He was restrained at the wrists and ankles, loosely at first. Again, not something Zaigon normally would have agreed to but these were strange times. After awhile, Dr. Milgram came over with some papers in his hand. He pulled up a chair, sitting in front of Zaigon.
"It's a good thing that you trusted me Mr. Carter," Dr. Milgram said. "These results confirm my general suspicions. All the blows to the head and body in that cage match changed how your body produces certain hormones. As a result of all that trauma you're producing a lot more testosterone, but at the same time your serotonin levels are much lower. This is why you can't sleep, and it's also why your anger continues to grow. It seems also that the disparity is growing every single day, which is why the growth seems exponential. To put it bluntly, your endocrine system is a ticking time bomb"
"Lovely," Zaigon murmured.
"The good news is Project Lyssa is meant for people in your situation," Dr. Milgram said. "There have been a few candidates before, but they weren't quite in your condition. You though? You're perfect. If I believed as such, I would infer God himself hand picked you for this moment."
"He's always had a bit of a cruel sense of humor," Zaigon said. "So what happens now? I'm hoping you didn't drag me down here just to me that my body is all fucked up and trying to kill me."
A chuckle from Dr. Milgram. "Of course not. Mr. Carter, I've developed a cocktail that I believe when injected into you will react favorably. I've been working on it for over a decade, since I first learned about how and why the body works. But there is no 100%. There is a risk this might not work. If it doesn't, well there's the chance you could be in more trouble than you are. Before we do this, I need to have your consent. Otherwise, we can stop now and go our separate ways."
One of the orderlies appears with a pen and some paper. Zaigon looks at the doctor, before down at the floor. Part of him couldn't believe the situation he was in, that this was his life. This was insane, what was he even doing?
The other part of him knew that his misery was only going to get worse.
That his only hope in the world was sitting eighteen inches from his face.
The pen scratched across the paper.
Signed.
"Then it's time to begin," Dr. Milgram said.
The restraints were tightened, locking Zaigon into place. Dr. Milgram went over to a table, opening up a case that contained syringes and a bottle of eerie red liquid. Filling the largest syringe from the bottle, Dr. Milgram strode back over to Zaigon, before placing the syringe right up against his neck.
"This is going to sting, but if I've done this right in a few moments things will be different. Are you ready?"
No words, just a nod.
As Dr. Milgram went to push the plunger, memories rushed into his own mind. All the failed trials, the loved ones he had to give the worst, his own torment as he wrestled with his failures. They all clouded him. Even the bus ride from when he was 18 appeared...
He shook his head, and just like that the ghosts of his past disappeared. His focus was on now, it had to be.
Dr. Milgram in one fell swoop plunged the needle into Zaigon's neck, depressing the plunger and injecting the concoction straight into the bloodstream. Withdrawing the needle, Dr. Milgram stood back with the orderlies nearby. They watched as the serum shot through Zaigon's body like a bullet train, moving at high speeds, finding its way into him...
Inside Zaigon's head, the pounding got louder and louder in the moments after the injection. His insides felt on fire, and without warning he felt angrier and angrier. A swelling of rage from the pit of his stomach flooded him, occupying every crevice of his existence. The anger yelled at him and in response he yelled loudly bad, emitting a scream that sounded like a wild animal. What little control he had he felt leaving his body, which made him even more enraged. He began pulling against the restraints, trying to escape while still screeching. The more he pulled, the more the anger flowed, and he pulled harder. The chair was shaking, so was Zaigon as the screaming continued until...
CRACK!
Zaigon was standing.
He looked down and saw the remnants of the restraints still on his body, but most of them were still attached to the now destroyed chair. He also noticed his muscles looked...bigger. Not huge, but bigger. He also noticed that as soon as he broke free, there was a certain...calm washing over him. He could still feel the sea of anger inside, but there felt like it was being held back by an invisible wall. He didn't understand, what had...
"Zaigon."
He turned, seeing Dr. Milgram standing there.
"What did you do to me?"
"The solution increases your testosterone production, but rewards you for using it. When you broke out of that chair, you felt better right?"
A confused nod from Zaigon.
"Then it worked. See, when you exert yourself like that your body will reward you with the serotonin you weren't getting. Since you were so deprived, the reward was much stronger to match the levels of testosterones produced. You probably notice your muscles are bigger also. Part of the solution also increases blood flow and encourages rapid muscle growth, meaning you're stronger now too. It's not Olympic power lifter, but you'll notice a big difference."
Zaigon stared at himself a moment, before looking back at the doctor.
"How long will this last?"
A pause before an answer came.
"I'm not sure... you're the only person... to survive the first injection," Dr. Milgram said.
Silence.
"But, I believe the effects will last roughly five to seven days based on my research," Dr. Milgram said. "At which point you'll start to feel more like you did before as the hormones return to their pre injection levels. As long as I can keep injecting you however, you'll be able to maintain this state."
More silence
"So...I guess we're a team now then," Zaigon said.
A smile from Dr. Milgram.
"Yes, yes we are."
========
Eight months ago, I walked into Japan with one goal. In my wake came violence, blood, and suffering but I walked out of Japan with one hand in the air and the other clutching the APW World Title. Everything I said I was going to do, I did it and then some. Our GM remembers; what happened that night put him on the course to retirement. Jason Ryan remembers; the defeat scarred him badly enough he left only to return looking like some carnival freak show reject. Wherever I walked in APW, destruction wasn't far behind.
Then I walked away from APW.
Alpha Showdown came, but by that time Action Wrestling decided to ground floor their way on the hottest thing in wrestling. It was a great story; gone six years, then return to claim one of the top prizes in the entire world within weeks. They weren't the only one throwing money at me, they just happened to have the biggest check and boldest promises. I trusted that I was doing the right thing, I trusted they were doing the right thing. It was enough to distract me from the job at hand, and cost me the chance to walk in as champion. No matter, they promised it wasn't an issue.
They lied to me.
The second I stepped through their door, I was treated like garbage. They fed me the scraps of their roster, and once I had eaten enough trash they tempted me with treasure. That didn't work either, thanks to a knife in the back and a person with eyes bigger than their stomach. Another lie, another betrayal, and there I was.
All alone.
Then Turmoil happened. I was never the same after that. Everything got worse, and worse, and worse. Soon I became like a rabid animal, unable to control anything about myself and on the path to destruction.
Then he found me.
He told me it was like God himself put us together, that it was destiny for his needle to find my neck. One shot, one glorious moment, and I became not just cured but I became...more. All this anger, all this fury became controllable. No longer was it a raging indiscriminate fire, but mine to command. My new means of destruction, ready to aim at anyone in my way.
You are my aim Damon.
When we face off in Hiroshima, I'm not going to be seeing the Devil Himself across the ring from me. Mainly because I don't care about you. You ran away right as I got here, and ran back as soon as I left. It sure does look like you fear me, which you should so I'm not one to judge someone for making good decisions. No, the only reason you matter is because I have to beat you to take what you have. It could have been any sack of meat in front of me, it just happens to be you. You do not matter to me. I have no objections with doing whatever it takes to separate man from title. If that means your precious little husband has to sit in a hospital for the rest of your days crying over the damage I did, that's just the cost of success. I won't lose any sleep over it.
No when I look across the ring I'm going to see something very different. I'm going to see every single person that lied to me about being a big star in AW, that then turned me into their bait bitch once the ink was dry on my contract. I can't make them pay, but I can make you scream once for every last one of them. That's a lot of screams Damon, so you better keep those vocal chords in tip top shape because I don't intend to miss a single one.
I'll also see your tag team partner, the modern day Judas to your Devil America Jackson. It's become apparent now that he's nothing but a star fucker; attaching himself to superior wrestlers so he can cling onto titles and keep himself famous. He did it to me, and he's doing it to you. I assure you Damon as soon as I dethrone you at Liberty or Die, he'll abandon you too. Those tag titles you hold? Won't matter anymore. He'll turn his back on you without so much as a warning, because you'll have overstayed your welcome in his orbit. Here's a free piece of advice: Put the knife in his back before he does the same to you.
This all means that your act of fear doesn't mean anything to me. You can't intimidate me like you can the rest of these scabs, because they see you as who you portray yourself to be. They buy into the hype, they see all the smoke and the mirrors and think you're something you aren't. That's how you've kept that title. It's not because you're some elite competitor, you're the big fish in the small pond. You're taking advantage of a situation, then playing the result to make yourself look great. But it's all an illusion, a fantasy.
And it's over.
I've come for what's mine, for what I shouldn't have lost in the first place. Thanks to Dr. Milgram I'm stronger, angrier, and even more a bastard than before. There are no strings on me, nothing holding me back. You can't say the same though. You've been able to walk right up to the line but not cross it before, thanks to the piss poor competition around you. That won't work with me. It won't be enough. You're going to have to do things you don't want to do. Things that you'll struggle to live with.
Things that if you do them, your husband won't look at you the same ever again.
Are you willing to risk that? Is that title worth so much to you that when you go home after Liberty or Death, you look in Jamie's eyes and see that disappointment on his face that you'll be able to live with that? These are the decisions you have to make, these are the things that you have to think about as I'm bludgeoning you within an inch of your pathetic life. There is NOTHING I won't do to end up at the top of that ladder at the end of the night. Nothing in this world short of having no heartbeat will keep that title out of my hands. You can't say the same, because there's a tradeoff. Wrestling can't be your everything, that title can't be your everything because you gave your everything to another. You gave away a part of yourself, so when you walk into Liberty or Death you're not a whole man.
Me? I'm somewhere between man and animal, but I am committed. Committed to your destruction.
When the night is over, I want you to go back to wherever you lay your head at night. I want you to look into that man's eyes, knowing that one of two things is going to happen. Either he's going to see a failure, or he's going to see someone he doesn't recognize. He's going to see a loser, or he's going to see what the Devil REALLY looks like. That is what you must prepare for, those are the stakes of this match. It's not just about a title, it's about who can afford to give everything and who can't.
You can't. You won't. And it will cost you.
At the end of the night I will be above you holding the world title. You will be looking up at me. Whether it be laid out on the mat.
On the stretcher carried out by medics.
In a hospital bed clinging to life.
Or the depths of Hell once I drive the final breath out of your lungs.
That is destiny. There is no other option.
Since Wendell was a boy, he had loved wrestling. He came across it looking for cartoons on television one day, when his parents were at work and his nanny asleep when she was supposed to be working. The bright lights, the loud action, the general spectacle was so appealing to him. His world was just the opposite; the large home he lived in was a modernist wet dream. Everything was white and angular, the decorations all confusing and expensive. His schools were all fancy and structured, with uniforms and rules. It all felt like a prison.
He continued his wrestling obsession, without much support from his parents. Every birthday he'd ask for wrestling things; every birthday he'd be disappointed. If he wanted to watch shows, he'd have to tap and watch them after his parents went to bed or when they were at work. He hated hearing the comments about how it was "hillbilly Shakespeare," so solitude it was for his consumption. Every edition he watched he became more consumed, so he started finding more. Old stuff, new stuff, foreign matches, the works. If he could get his hands on it, he devoured it like a gospel.
Then the ban came.
After a call from his private school's principal in the middle of the day when he was a teenager, Wendell's father picked him up and drove him home. Sullen, Wendell threw himself on the living room couch as his father scowled.
"Why am I getting calls about you disrupting class again with this wrestling thing?" His dad asked
"I was just writing some stuff while the teacher was talking," Wendell replied. "She was the one that got bent out of shape."
"You told her to 'Kiss My Ass Club,'" his father replied. "Teachers are heroes, that's no way to treat a hero Wendell. You need to have more respect."
Wendell's face contorted into a mix of disgust and rejection. "She's just a dumb bitch."
A shade of red came over his father's face. "That's it. From now on, no more wrestling in this house. I am TIRED of this. You're destined for greater things, and this NONSENSE is poisoning your mind. I'm through with it. And so are you."
Wendell sat there, trying to not to betray his emotions as his father went upstairs to his bedroom. Shortly after came the smashing of video tapes, the ripping of posters and pictures, the general sounds of destruction filled Wendell's ears as he sat frozen. Unable to do anything about it. Eventually his father came back downstairs, silent, and went about his day. Wendell went back to his room, to find what he expected: his collections in tatters. Sitting down on his bed, tears peeked at the corners of his eyes. He kicked the remnants of an action figure by his feet, resolving to never forget this day.
Now on this day, freshly 18, Wendell was exactly where he wanted to be.
He had taken all his graduation money, bought a bus ticket, and was now at the open tryout at legendary wrestling trainer Buzz Krueger's school. Well, it was more just his house. But the results didn't lie: World champions started their journey here. Wendell knew if he could make it here, his dreams would all come true.
Wendell and about twenty other people of various ages and sizes stood around outside, before the man himself emerged from the house. Already carrying a tallboy at 8AM on a Wednesday, Buzz approached the ragtag group with a belch and a scratchy voice resembling a fast food speaker.
"Alright you cumstains. I got two spots in my next class, but ya gotten earn em." Buzz said. "Luckily all yer checks cleared. So now we get down to the shit. Run five laps around the block, then give me two hundred pushups. Go."
Startled, the group takes off. Wendell trailed behind them, but did his best. He had worked out for a couple months since graduating high school, but not much progress had shown. By the start of the third lap, Wendell was breathing heavy. The humidity of the Southern summer air was strangling him, but he completed the laps albeit it in last. The push ups were another endeavor altogether. The rest of the group had finished, and was staring at Wendell as he struggled through his. After crossing the 30 mark, his trainer had seen enough.
"Oh fer fuck's sake kid that's enough," Buzz said. "Don't have all day to watch you go down worse than a senior on prom night. Stand up and get ready for rolls."
The rest of the day didn't go much better for Wendell. Every athletic challenge Buzz put in front of him, he failed. He even tripped over a jump rope, face planting on concrete. His peers weren't Olympians themselves, but they were able to complete the challenges in varying ways. They were all better athletes, more capable of the physical.
His only hope was the promo, done in Buzz's living room. As the erstwhile trainer popped another brewski in his leather chair, Wendell stood before him. His assignment was simple: Cut a minute long promo. If he did that, he could save the thing.
A deep breath.
"I know I'm not the biggest, the strongest, the fastest man in the world. But what I lack in all that I have in heart and dreams. I've been told my entire life to give up, that I should go be a doctor like my parents. That I'll never make it as a wrestler. But they're wrong. And I intend to show them how wrong they are, no matter HOW LONG it takes. I will succeed, I will be a world champion, and there's nobody that can stop me. Nobody!"
A silence as the last word rings through the room. Buzz takes a big pull off his beer can before sitting forward in his seat.
"Kid, I'm gonna give it to ya straight. You're the drizzling shits."
Wendell's heart sank.
"I've seen one legged men run better than you, ya got the cardio of an iron lung patient, and the promo you cut is straight out of 1972 wrestling. That shit don't fly anymore. You're never gonna make it, because it's not made fer you. It'd be malpractice to put you in a ring, and my con artist lawyer is already busy enough with my ex wives to worry about some grease spot breaking his neck so that he can one day MAYBE main event the VFW hall down the street. Ya ain't got it kid. I'm doing you a favor. Go be a doctor or whatever, because you'll never make it in this business."
A million responses went through Wendell's mind, but he didn't have the will to give them. Instead he trudged out of the house, limping slightly, walking past all the other candidates who were waiting for their promo time and onto the street. The bus station awaited, where it would take him back to his parents. Back to a life that he didn't want, and further away from the life he dreamed off.
It would take him to failure.
Failure he'd have to live with for a long time.
========
January 2021
It started with an email.
Dear Mr. Carter,
I've seen your recent promos, and I believe I have what you need. It's worth your time, I assure you.
Dr. Marcel Milgram, M.D.
Normally, such a message would be treated with suspicion. A few days of recon and research, making sure this isn't some trap where you end up in an ice bath with a kidney missing. Only then would answering be prudent.
Zaigon didn't have that sort of time.
Post Turmoil, his issues were getting worse. He was sleeping less and less, his temper was growing out of control to the point that almost everyone working for him had quit. Only a couple of people stayed on, less out of loyalty than concern. They didn't want to be the ones that weren't there if the worst happened. Not because they liked their boss, but because guilt is a hell of a motivator.
So the background was done quick. Milgram was vetted, and once determined he was a real doctor with a fake name(OK not fake, legally changed you know the difference) and he had worked in the field of mental issues before Zaigon made the call. He got on a private plane, meeting Dr. Milgram at a neutral site in New Mexico. Zaigon rented it out, stocking it how the doctor requested. By the time he landed, he hadn't slept in three days. In the SUV taking them from the airfield to the site, Zaigon's breathing was more labored than ever. Whatever was happening was getting stronger, and it was taking its toll.
Dr. Milgram was there when he got out of the car, exchanging a handshake. Once inside, a pair of local orderlies took some vitals before they sat Zaigon in a specially constructed chair. He was restrained at the wrists and ankles, loosely at first. Again, not something Zaigon normally would have agreed to but these were strange times. After awhile, Dr. Milgram came over with some papers in his hand. He pulled up a chair, sitting in front of Zaigon.
"It's a good thing that you trusted me Mr. Carter," Dr. Milgram said. "These results confirm my general suspicions. All the blows to the head and body in that cage match changed how your body produces certain hormones. As a result of all that trauma you're producing a lot more testosterone, but at the same time your serotonin levels are much lower. This is why you can't sleep, and it's also why your anger continues to grow. It seems also that the disparity is growing every single day, which is why the growth seems exponential. To put it bluntly, your endocrine system is a ticking time bomb"
"Lovely," Zaigon murmured.
"The good news is Project Lyssa is meant for people in your situation," Dr. Milgram said. "There have been a few candidates before, but they weren't quite in your condition. You though? You're perfect. If I believed as such, I would infer God himself hand picked you for this moment."
"He's always had a bit of a cruel sense of humor," Zaigon said. "So what happens now? I'm hoping you didn't drag me down here just to me that my body is all fucked up and trying to kill me."
A chuckle from Dr. Milgram. "Of course not. Mr. Carter, I've developed a cocktail that I believe when injected into you will react favorably. I've been working on it for over a decade, since I first learned about how and why the body works. But there is no 100%. There is a risk this might not work. If it doesn't, well there's the chance you could be in more trouble than you are. Before we do this, I need to have your consent. Otherwise, we can stop now and go our separate ways."
One of the orderlies appears with a pen and some paper. Zaigon looks at the doctor, before down at the floor. Part of him couldn't believe the situation he was in, that this was his life. This was insane, what was he even doing?
The other part of him knew that his misery was only going to get worse.
That his only hope in the world was sitting eighteen inches from his face.
The pen scratched across the paper.
Signed.
"Then it's time to begin," Dr. Milgram said.
The restraints were tightened, locking Zaigon into place. Dr. Milgram went over to a table, opening up a case that contained syringes and a bottle of eerie red liquid. Filling the largest syringe from the bottle, Dr. Milgram strode back over to Zaigon, before placing the syringe right up against his neck.
"This is going to sting, but if I've done this right in a few moments things will be different. Are you ready?"
No words, just a nod.
As Dr. Milgram went to push the plunger, memories rushed into his own mind. All the failed trials, the loved ones he had to give the worst, his own torment as he wrestled with his failures. They all clouded him. Even the bus ride from when he was 18 appeared...
He shook his head, and just like that the ghosts of his past disappeared. His focus was on now, it had to be.
"3"
"2"
"1"
Dr. Milgram in one fell swoop plunged the needle into Zaigon's neck, depressing the plunger and injecting the concoction straight into the bloodstream. Withdrawing the needle, Dr. Milgram stood back with the orderlies nearby. They watched as the serum shot through Zaigon's body like a bullet train, moving at high speeds, finding its way into him...
Inside Zaigon's head, the pounding got louder and louder in the moments after the injection. His insides felt on fire, and without warning he felt angrier and angrier. A swelling of rage from the pit of his stomach flooded him, occupying every crevice of his existence. The anger yelled at him and in response he yelled loudly bad, emitting a scream that sounded like a wild animal. What little control he had he felt leaving his body, which made him even more enraged. He began pulling against the restraints, trying to escape while still screeching. The more he pulled, the more the anger flowed, and he pulled harder. The chair was shaking, so was Zaigon as the screaming continued until...
CRACK!
Zaigon was standing.
He looked down and saw the remnants of the restraints still on his body, but most of them were still attached to the now destroyed chair. He also noticed his muscles looked...bigger. Not huge, but bigger. He also noticed that as soon as he broke free, there was a certain...calm washing over him. He could still feel the sea of anger inside, but there felt like it was being held back by an invisible wall. He didn't understand, what had...
"Zaigon."
He turned, seeing Dr. Milgram standing there.
"What did you do to me?"
"The solution increases your testosterone production, but rewards you for using it. When you broke out of that chair, you felt better right?"
A confused nod from Zaigon.
"Then it worked. See, when you exert yourself like that your body will reward you with the serotonin you weren't getting. Since you were so deprived, the reward was much stronger to match the levels of testosterones produced. You probably notice your muscles are bigger also. Part of the solution also increases blood flow and encourages rapid muscle growth, meaning you're stronger now too. It's not Olympic power lifter, but you'll notice a big difference."
Zaigon stared at himself a moment, before looking back at the doctor.
"How long will this last?"
A pause before an answer came.
"I'm not sure... you're the only person... to survive the first injection," Dr. Milgram said.
Silence.
"But, I believe the effects will last roughly five to seven days based on my research," Dr. Milgram said. "At which point you'll start to feel more like you did before as the hormones return to their pre injection levels. As long as I can keep injecting you however, you'll be able to maintain this state."
More silence
"So...I guess we're a team now then," Zaigon said.
A smile from Dr. Milgram.
"Yes, yes we are."
========
Eight months ago, I walked into Japan with one goal. In my wake came violence, blood, and suffering but I walked out of Japan with one hand in the air and the other clutching the APW World Title. Everything I said I was going to do, I did it and then some. Our GM remembers; what happened that night put him on the course to retirement. Jason Ryan remembers; the defeat scarred him badly enough he left only to return looking like some carnival freak show reject. Wherever I walked in APW, destruction wasn't far behind.
Then I walked away from APW.
Alpha Showdown came, but by that time Action Wrestling decided to ground floor their way on the hottest thing in wrestling. It was a great story; gone six years, then return to claim one of the top prizes in the entire world within weeks. They weren't the only one throwing money at me, they just happened to have the biggest check and boldest promises. I trusted that I was doing the right thing, I trusted they were doing the right thing. It was enough to distract me from the job at hand, and cost me the chance to walk in as champion. No matter, they promised it wasn't an issue.
They lied to me.
The second I stepped through their door, I was treated like garbage. They fed me the scraps of their roster, and once I had eaten enough trash they tempted me with treasure. That didn't work either, thanks to a knife in the back and a person with eyes bigger than their stomach. Another lie, another betrayal, and there I was.
All alone.
Then Turmoil happened. I was never the same after that. Everything got worse, and worse, and worse. Soon I became like a rabid animal, unable to control anything about myself and on the path to destruction.
Then he found me.
He told me it was like God himself put us together, that it was destiny for his needle to find my neck. One shot, one glorious moment, and I became not just cured but I became...more. All this anger, all this fury became controllable. No longer was it a raging indiscriminate fire, but mine to command. My new means of destruction, ready to aim at anyone in my way.
You are my aim Damon.
When we face off in Hiroshima, I'm not going to be seeing the Devil Himself across the ring from me. Mainly because I don't care about you. You ran away right as I got here, and ran back as soon as I left. It sure does look like you fear me, which you should so I'm not one to judge someone for making good decisions. No, the only reason you matter is because I have to beat you to take what you have. It could have been any sack of meat in front of me, it just happens to be you. You do not matter to me. I have no objections with doing whatever it takes to separate man from title. If that means your precious little husband has to sit in a hospital for the rest of your days crying over the damage I did, that's just the cost of success. I won't lose any sleep over it.
No when I look across the ring I'm going to see something very different. I'm going to see every single person that lied to me about being a big star in AW, that then turned me into their bait bitch once the ink was dry on my contract. I can't make them pay, but I can make you scream once for every last one of them. That's a lot of screams Damon, so you better keep those vocal chords in tip top shape because I don't intend to miss a single one.
I'll also see your tag team partner, the modern day Judas to your Devil America Jackson. It's become apparent now that he's nothing but a star fucker; attaching himself to superior wrestlers so he can cling onto titles and keep himself famous. He did it to me, and he's doing it to you. I assure you Damon as soon as I dethrone you at Liberty or Die, he'll abandon you too. Those tag titles you hold? Won't matter anymore. He'll turn his back on you without so much as a warning, because you'll have overstayed your welcome in his orbit. Here's a free piece of advice: Put the knife in his back before he does the same to you.
This all means that your act of fear doesn't mean anything to me. You can't intimidate me like you can the rest of these scabs, because they see you as who you portray yourself to be. They buy into the hype, they see all the smoke and the mirrors and think you're something you aren't. That's how you've kept that title. It's not because you're some elite competitor, you're the big fish in the small pond. You're taking advantage of a situation, then playing the result to make yourself look great. But it's all an illusion, a fantasy.
And it's over.
I've come for what's mine, for what I shouldn't have lost in the first place. Thanks to Dr. Milgram I'm stronger, angrier, and even more a bastard than before. There are no strings on me, nothing holding me back. You can't say the same though. You've been able to walk right up to the line but not cross it before, thanks to the piss poor competition around you. That won't work with me. It won't be enough. You're going to have to do things you don't want to do. Things that you'll struggle to live with.
Things that if you do them, your husband won't look at you the same ever again.
Are you willing to risk that? Is that title worth so much to you that when you go home after Liberty or Death, you look in Jamie's eyes and see that disappointment on his face that you'll be able to live with that? These are the decisions you have to make, these are the things that you have to think about as I'm bludgeoning you within an inch of your pathetic life. There is NOTHING I won't do to end up at the top of that ladder at the end of the night. Nothing in this world short of having no heartbeat will keep that title out of my hands. You can't say the same, because there's a tradeoff. Wrestling can't be your everything, that title can't be your everything because you gave your everything to another. You gave away a part of yourself, so when you walk into Liberty or Death you're not a whole man.
Me? I'm somewhere between man and animal, but I am committed. Committed to your destruction.
When the night is over, I want you to go back to wherever you lay your head at night. I want you to look into that man's eyes, knowing that one of two things is going to happen. Either he's going to see a failure, or he's going to see someone he doesn't recognize. He's going to see a loser, or he's going to see what the Devil REALLY looks like. That is what you must prepare for, those are the stakes of this match. It's not just about a title, it's about who can afford to give everything and who can't.
You can't. You won't. And it will cost you.
At the end of the night I will be above you holding the world title. You will be looking up at me. Whether it be laid out on the mat.
On the stretcher carried out by medics.
In a hospital bed clinging to life.
Or the depths of Hell once I drive the final breath out of your lungs.
That is destiny. There is no other option.
