Post by EmbodimentOfFear on Oct 11, 2013 18:51:01 GMT -5
October 8
I really need to get a lockbox for this thing. On the bright side, at least Roberts wrote a message specifically to me. When Hastings journal-napped it a few years back, I was finding obnoxious notes in the margins for months.
I’m also not sure why I should care about the championship-centric opinions of a man that lost a top-tier championship to Alex Kiseragi on two separate occasions.
Jason Ingalls walked into his office to discover a visitor that he did not expect.
“Wow, never had you in here before, even when you should have been . It’s a little scary, actually.”
“Cute.” Phrixus picked up a hanger on which rested a perfectly ironed shirt, complete with bloody handprint. “Did you require your own services?”
Jason took the shirt and hanger from Phrixus and replaced it on its hook.
“Did you need something, Phrix?”
“Just making sure that you are prepared.”
“For what?”
“Battleground. People will be hurt. They will bleed. Are you ready for it?”
“How long have you worked here? People get torn up every night.”
“That they do, but never on my word...and I am a man of my word.”
Phrixus begins to leave, pausing at the door.
“Perhaps you may want to tell that gentle creature that she may want to sit this one out. She has suffered enough already.”
“You mean Eden?”
Phrixus merely smiled, but it went unseen by the trainer, as Phrixus walked out without another word.
October 10
It would seem there is always a wild card as far as Battleground is concerned. This year it appears there are several, ranging from a last minute return, to one of a former winner. Yet the most unpredictable element for me is that of the man whose moniker implies singularity, yet he rushes to the side of a partner.
Alex Stein has a unique effect on people. It is impossible to discuss the man without getting an inescapable feeling of a voice in your head, as though reality itself were bending to accommodate him. As fascinating as it is, it fails to distract me from the simple truth that this man suffers doubt. He must. For all his momentum, his intimidation, he was a man unable to accomplish his goals. Time and again, he grasped at the brass rings, as they evaded his grasp.
He makes simple work of some of the best that UGWC has to offer, all in a single day, yet falls to me at WrestleStock. His loss to Hastings in the cage. His loss to Boolzian in the cell.
In a few short days time, he returns to the venue of his final disappointment to date, and I admit to being curious as to which Alex Stein will show up. Will it truly be the One Man Wrecking Crew, come to finish what he started a year ago? Or does his reach escape his grasp once more?
The static on your screen fades into a close-up image of the face of Fear.
“Vain. I think I can even include myself when I venture to say that there is no person who has ever been more aptly named. I wonder, Mr. Wallace, if you have truly thought about what lies ahead of you. I would ask if you understand the horror you are about to step into. Think about what those cold cell walls are going to do to that flawless visage you care so much about.”
For a split-second, there is an image from a Battleground Match past, a face dragged across the chain links.
“Can you truly be ready for this? Could anybody be? We all have our supporters, those that tell us things, some we want to hear, some we need to hear. You’re looked at what I suspect is your loudest supporter right now. What conversations have you had? Do you comprehend, should this go south as it well could, how quickly that support would turn on you? More likely, how quickly YOU would turn your back to IT?”
A second of jumbled flashing images from Battleground Matches.
“Vanity at it’s finest...it is sin at it’s worst. Look to your support, for it may be the last time you will.”
The image shatters, and the video fades from the broken mirror back to static.
October 14
Tonight, six will enter the cell. Five will succumb to Fear.
The Harlot. The Conceited. The Puppet. The Wrathful.
I think I may save the “Blessed One” for last.
For I am the paragon, the watcher, the conscience.
And you do not fuck with my journal.
I really need to get a lockbox for this thing. On the bright side, at least Roberts wrote a message specifically to me. When Hastings journal-napped it a few years back, I was finding obnoxious notes in the margins for months.
I’m also not sure why I should care about the championship-centric opinions of a man that lost a top-tier championship to Alex Kiseragi on two separate occasions.
* * * * *
Jason Ingalls walked into his office to discover a visitor that he did not expect.
“Wow, never had you in here before, even when you should have been . It’s a little scary, actually.”
“Cute.” Phrixus picked up a hanger on which rested a perfectly ironed shirt, complete with bloody handprint. “Did you require your own services?”
Jason took the shirt and hanger from Phrixus and replaced it on its hook.
“Did you need something, Phrix?”
“Just making sure that you are prepared.”
“For what?”
“Battleground. People will be hurt. They will bleed. Are you ready for it?”
“How long have you worked here? People get torn up every night.”
“That they do, but never on my word...and I am a man of my word.”
Phrixus begins to leave, pausing at the door.
“Perhaps you may want to tell that gentle creature that she may want to sit this one out. She has suffered enough already.”
“You mean Eden?”
Phrixus merely smiled, but it went unseen by the trainer, as Phrixus walked out without another word.
* * * * *
October 10
It would seem there is always a wild card as far as Battleground is concerned. This year it appears there are several, ranging from a last minute return, to one of a former winner. Yet the most unpredictable element for me is that of the man whose moniker implies singularity, yet he rushes to the side of a partner.
Alex Stein has a unique effect on people. It is impossible to discuss the man without getting an inescapable feeling of a voice in your head, as though reality itself were bending to accommodate him. As fascinating as it is, it fails to distract me from the simple truth that this man suffers doubt. He must. For all his momentum, his intimidation, he was a man unable to accomplish his goals. Time and again, he grasped at the brass rings, as they evaded his grasp.
He makes simple work of some of the best that UGWC has to offer, all in a single day, yet falls to me at WrestleStock. His loss to Hastings in the cage. His loss to Boolzian in the cell.
In a few short days time, he returns to the venue of his final disappointment to date, and I admit to being curious as to which Alex Stein will show up. Will it truly be the One Man Wrecking Crew, come to finish what he started a year ago? Or does his reach escape his grasp once more?
* * * * *
The static on your screen fades into a close-up image of the face of Fear.
“Vain. I think I can even include myself when I venture to say that there is no person who has ever been more aptly named. I wonder, Mr. Wallace, if you have truly thought about what lies ahead of you. I would ask if you understand the horror you are about to step into. Think about what those cold cell walls are going to do to that flawless visage you care so much about.”
For a split-second, there is an image from a Battleground Match past, a face dragged across the chain links.
“Can you truly be ready for this? Could anybody be? We all have our supporters, those that tell us things, some we want to hear, some we need to hear. You’re looked at what I suspect is your loudest supporter right now. What conversations have you had? Do you comprehend, should this go south as it well could, how quickly that support would turn on you? More likely, how quickly YOU would turn your back to IT?”
A second of jumbled flashing images from Battleground Matches.
“Vanity at it’s finest...it is sin at it’s worst. Look to your support, for it may be the last time you will.”
The image shatters, and the video fades from the broken mirror back to static.
* * * * *
October 14
Tonight, six will enter the cell. Five will succumb to Fear.
The Harlot. The Conceited. The Puppet. The Wrathful.
I think I may save the “Blessed One” for last.
For I am the paragon, the watcher, the conscience.
And you do not fuck with my journal.
