Post by Killian King on Sept 26, 2015 16:55:28 GMT -5
“All men dream... But dreams hold no value here. What once may have been my first bright light of hope may have become the longest night of captivity. Lost in the shadows and left to shuffle in the dark, we surrender our minds and forget who we are. But someone must be woken up, to remind us that we all have a choice. To stand, not kneel... To oppose, not obey... To truly live, and not just exist....”
In the stark, desolate, nothingness that is a bleak colorless screen, the utmost in modish words etched in white begin to make their tardy appearance before our eyes.
“The following is a Syndicate... Syn...Ssssiiiinnn...”
The words begin to warble and bleed off, melting away as if the recording is faulty.
“The follow... follow.... the following is a... is a...”
A familiar smoky voice enters abruptly echoing in a new phrase.
“The following... is a Killian King Production”
The recording returning to normal.
“...paid for by... Everyone” The latter once again in Killian's voice.
I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord
And I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord
We find Killian King standing in the doorway of an office. The contours of his body are cast in shadows from the hall lights that filter around him as he leans against the door frame. Emerald green hues wash over what we come to realize is the office of one Eden Morgan. He scans the room unaltered, in absolute silence, as if scenes from the past are playing themselves out before his eyes. He sighs and shakes his head before reaching over and flipping the switch killing the light of the room.
Well if you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand
I've seen your face before my friend, but I don't know if you know who I am
Well I was there and I saw what you did, I saw it with my own two eyes
So you can wipe off that grin, I know where you've been
It's all been a pack of lies
Empty darkened corridors of offices sit in a silent stillness, basking before a sea of barren cubicles. In the midst of them, as if set up like an altar, Alan Wallace's office sits out, a lone desk light illuminating the room. Killian King sits on the desk, looking over an entire wall turned into a massive display case filled to the brim with Vain's trophies and personal effects spanning his career. One glass door in particular hangs open. A replica of his current World Championship belt moved... not adjusted for looks, but moved to locate an item that had been placed behind it. Killian looks down at his hand at the dust-blanketed picture held within. As he rises and walks off, he leaves the picture standing up on Alan's desk, a closer look revealing the subject of said photograph to be younger versions of Vain and Killian.
And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord
Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord
I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord
Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord, oh Lord
Killian turns a corner of a hallway laden with small offices and meeting rooms about on both sides, the lights fading around him as he pauses for a moment. His attention settles on a single door to an office belonging to one now batshit insane Zane Scott. Killian shrugs and shakes his head before rolling his eyes and continuing on.
Well I remember, I remember, don't worry, how could I ever forget
It's the first time, the last time we ever met
But I know the reason why you keep your silence up, oh no you don't fool me
Well the hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows
It's no stranger to you and me
A view opens up outside the Los Angeles branch of Bryson Industries, also known as the home of The Syndicate. Hanging banners outside adorn the entrance of the building, depicting the upcoming bout between Eden Morgan and Alan Wallace at Sin City. A single black limo waits pulled up to the curb as Killian King walks down the stone-laid path leading to the car.
“Mister King...” his driver addresses him.
“Percy...” Killian responds with a half smile.
“Just you, Sir?” Percy inquires holding the door open for him.
The half smile remains in place as Killian eyes the aging gentleman.
“Just me...” Killian reacts with an assured and debonair demeanor playing across his bearded jaw.
“About fucking time, Sir.” his driver proclaims with a smile as he closes the door.
I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord
Well been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord
I can feel it in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord
Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord
I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord
And I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord
I can feel it in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord
Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord, oh Lord
The black limo makes its way through the city, finding itself parked on the tarmac of a commercial airport, hangars in the background. Killian's tie blows about as he waits outside the extended automobile. He stands before a monolithic sized onyx black colored private plane. The door opens as the stairs are pushed into place. Our scenes cut to a view inside the aircraft: Killian relaxing into a plush tan leather seat; the pop of a cork from the mouth of a now open bottle of champagne erupts as a stewardess begins pouring Killian a flute.
“By yourself, Mr. King?” she asks, innocently enough.
“From here on out it...” he replies, the smile from earlier taking over his face again.
“Never, cocksucker...” A gruffly hostile but softly spoken voice interludes.
Before him steps Richard Nottingham, reaching out and taking hold of Killian's glass of freshly poured champagne only to break all etiquette and down it in one solid gulp.
I can feel it in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord
Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord
The door to the plane closes as a team of individuals pull away from the area to leave room, the loud screams of the engines coming to life filling the air.
“Rossebuurt... Sir,” the driver says. Killian's looks up long enough to acknowledge his stateuemtn before looking out the window and glancing around. Currency is exchanged as Killian hands the aging extremity held out to him the money, the driver's eyes growing wider. An aging gentleman on the down slope of his golden years, his salt and pepper hair framed face comes to life as he counts his fee.
“Let me get your door Sir...” he hurries to offer, Killian kindly refusing him.
“No I'm good, thank you.”
The rear door to the black unmarked Tesla Model S taxi opens, Killian King stepping out. He fixes his tie and presses down any wrinkles there might be in his suit as he looks around at his surroundings.
Brothels, sex shops, and museums, the Amsterdam Red Light District left nothing to the imagination. A single neighborhood unlike any other place on Earth. The sounds of a band finishing up a set in the distance, women of all nationalities parading their commodities in window parlours, many ready to offer more than a schoolboy peep-show in a private cabin. Packs of men, young and old, couples holding hands and pointing in a daze of it all, giggling groups of women celebrating a hen party, and busloads of Japanese tourists toting cameras like paparazzi, all bathed in a blanket of crimson red illuminating from the glow of neon sex-laced windows.
If one would simply peel back the fabric of sexual imagination made real that engulfs these streets, you'd be surprised to, in fact, find one of the oldest and most beautiful parts of the city with its long winding narrow, cobbled streets and 14th century architecture, such as the Gothic “Oude Kerk”, an aged, withered church still found offering grace amid the sin. Old buildings lean at odd-angles, the canals tree-enshrouded. “Café Pacifico”, one of Europe's first Mexican restaurants, lies not far away, the location where he last left Richard to wander like a child in a sweet shop. When last he saw him, the old boy was making out a shopping list as if cooking for a holiday. Recently resurfaced streets, restored façades. Private security members and police alike walk by on patrol, all the while women like centerfolds come to life move about behind glass windows.
Killian inhales deeply, holding it in for a moment as if a toke from a fine cigar. The overwhelming ambiance of a world that prides itself, and rightly so, on its wholly liberal and tolerant attitude, embracing the fact that people may be into prostitution, soft drugs and pornography... and this is only human. So instead of criminalizing everything, this very city chooses to wear its heart on its sleeve. What you see is what you get.
“What is a man but the sum of his memories?”
Killians’ hand comes up and slowly moves through his raven black locks as he begins to walk down the street.
“'In the end, what life will you have had? What memories will you have made for yourself to reflect upon as you lie on your death bed? Will you live your life as a pariah that changes the world... or suffer the existence of the man standing behind those who achieve greatness?' These were my fathers words... his last.”
Killian takes a breath, strolling down the walkways.
“I only thought I took them to heart... For years I've been rushing about, taking whatever I fancied, not giving a shit of those I left. Yet here I am... with wealth and notoriety, feeling no wiser than when I left the streets of Harrogate. And when I turn around, and look at the course I've run... there's not a man or woman that I have ever loved left standing beside me.”
Killian King pauses before one double set of windows, two women inside separated by a small wall. Both women take notice of his attention as he watches them shift on their chairs, tempting him. Auditioning, as it were.
“In my pride, in my arrogance, I came to love a woman incapable of ever feeling the same emotion. Not because I was, as I believed, not worthy of such, but because she's a whore for her one true love, a slave who knows only one master... herself. Eden Morgan will only know the grasping of fleeting warmth made by moments in the spot light, and when then fades... so shall she wither. I came to love a woman's concept of herself, too blind to see past the electric lights of glamour. Maybe she even believes it herself. It may even come to comfort her for a time as her looks begin to fail her, and with it what's left of her career.”
Killian shakes his head.
“I can't help but wonder what she'll tell herself in those mornings when all she has left are scattered Independent feds run out of gymnasiums, bingo halls and the occasional Dragon Con appearance that barely support an out of control drinking habit, and the oncoming DUI's from drowning out the memories of what once was...”
Killian licks his lips as he contemplates her future, his fingers slowly parting the hairs of his beard.
“Perhaps she'll sit back and wonder what could have been, amidst the flashes of cameras as she's reduced to selling scandalous nip slips and sex tapes like a fucking Kardasian to stay relevant for as long as she can? Grasping at fleeting straws... hoping to stay in the big glass window for a little bit longer before being forced out into the streets. We could have been something great... perhaps the only thing real you would have ever known, but Eden Morgan would never let herself be with anyone who would possibly take the attention from her... and at Sin City, I will.”
Killian's voice trails off for a second as he walks off from the window.
“Once I traveled this world with a man I considered my only equal. We were the epitome of all that was debauchery and scandal... we were sex and violence, answering only to our own call, our own creed that a short life and a merry one was best suited. That is all. The world owed us nothing more than what we could carry, so take what you will, and then burn out before you live to see yourself made to fade away. We lived without caution, but if a man plays the fool, then it's only fools he'll persuade. We've run out of people to believe in leaving us the fools.”
Killian begins to grow more and more visibly amused as he walks past countless windows, and sex shops.
“Once I lifted my head, I realized I was but a dust covered photo on the wall that I helped build. I was left holding your gear while you conquered the world. I raised you from the depth of perdition Alan, and dusted you off when you were nothing more than that guy who was fucking vonKnorre's sloppy seconds and stealing Travis Robert's shtick. You've had a hell of a run my friend... but the winds of change have decided to blow in another fucking direction...”
Killian sighs softly as he reaches a large crowd of onlookers standing outside, waiting in line before a staircase that descends down into the street. Large neon posters offer “Live Sex, Moulin, Erotic” and the infamous title of “Moulin Rouge” written across the brick canvas. As that smirk appears once again, he pauses.
“We had here a rare opportunity, a chance to take hold of the world and shape it into something greater, made and maintained by men of means and a woman of vision; but in a year's time we pissed it away. I won't make that mistake again. We failed, and I'm the only one not so drunk on my own lies that I can't see the world in front of me.”
Killian draws a step back to allow some tourists to pass by.
“While you and Eden face off in the main event, both blinded by your own tawdriness and the flashiness of your own bullshit... the world will watch with bated breath, wondering when the winner of The High Rollers will cash in. A world that is slowly waking up and realizing they have a choice... not having to bear witness to the same tired and played out scenarios.”
Killian's face drops and he slowly looks back into the camera. It returns with a smug looking curl of his lips and raises brow.
“You two are lost in your delusions, and you've each simply taken half the world with you. But I can no longer abide by this life that Eden Morgan and Vain are all that we should revolve around. We've lost so much already watching you both clamor aimlessly for the top of the mountain. Grasping at pebbles to hold onto because it's all falling apart around you... and you've left no room for anyone else to lend you a hand.”
A smile turns up the corners of Killian’s mouth. Killian inhales deeply as he looks around, noticing a shop that offers hand painted condoms, and while he wonders about the details of such an advertisement, he goes on.
“Kind of all fits in doesn't it? The eventually fading looks, the reality settling in that life will go on without you... that someone new will rise to the occasion, possibly snuffing out one or both of your careers at Sin City while you both scavenge through your broken egos, looking for a shred of dignity to call your own. How long before you're out on the street offering discount prices because you're used goods... and you never took the time to set up something real.”
Killian looks around, a mildly disbelieving yet amused look on his face as he continues on. People move up and down the quaint streets.
“This Monday... at Sin City, nothing will ever be the same again. Machiavelli once stated that if everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience who you really are... I've gone so long even I almost forgot. But it still lingers in me... it seeps through, like Eden still tasting me on her lips when she looks to her fucking wannabe. I'm a fucking rogue... a wretch, a miscreant now tasked to be something more and show the people that there is a difference.”
Killian presses his lips together, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side. He takes a deep breath.
“Can you feel it? That spark of uncertainty that loiters in the air. Who's cashing in?”
Killian pauses for a moment, opening his eyes again.
“Ichabod? He's been reduced to what, these days? Once a master of secrets... a name that whispered in the shadows like a spider skittering along the walls. What once was a name that made your skin crawl in the worst way has been reduced to this fed's gossip queen. There are no more secrets to hold anymore, Ichy... blackmail died out with the birth of the internet, and Google renders you as useless as nothing more then wrestling's balding Perez Hilton. What was once the ire of fallen gods has been reduced to a nagging ex girlfriend on the rag. You have no power here and serve no purpose other than being kept by Eden as what should be a warning of the path of piss poor choices she's made.”
Killian smiles as he pushes his long, dark locks of hair back from his face, a few strands catching in his beard.
“Barnes? That decrepit, burned-out scab that we adopted from a fed whose merchandise could still be found in the discount bin at a thrift store? He's a tax write off, not a fucking competitor. A face like Harvey Dent's burnt ballsack and a few matches of relevance back when Buffy The Vampire Slayer was the new hotness does not make for a contender. And yet again... Eden Morgan keeps him around if for no other reason than to accentuate just how fucking hot she is, for now anyway. I suppose all evil bitch characters must have their sidekicks, but bloody fucking Nick Cage from the ending of The Wicker Man shan't do it. Do better, Eden.”
Killian shakes his head, grin firmly in place. “England's Greatest Export” moves nonchalantly down the street.
“What then, Larry? He's barely conquered puberty and pimples, much less planets. Sure, he's got a build like he's been doing the Chadwick T. Chaos Yoga DVD religiously, yet the poor bastard's been passed around more times than a fucking internet meme. Mainstreamer brought him to the dance, Ichabod suckled him for some time, Klaus adopted the little shit for a spell and now Hastings? By this time next week, he'll be Rydell's new tag team partner or in the back of the arena in the loo changing out the toilet mints with his bare hands... which is oddly similar to being Rydell's partner, actually. But you're in luck chum... If I can make the likes of PKA applicable again, then come this High Roller's match... you'll be on your way.”
A mocking smile creases over Killian's lips as he pauses before the “Hash, Marijuana and Hemp Museum.”
“When it's all said and done, you'll all realize, perhaps too late for yourselves, that you were drowning in a pool filled with your own doing. And I'll watch you sink... my moment has come. My time is here... and nothing will ever be the same. So hold on. The fans are tired of the same old thing. Something new has risen, the silence broken; I've come to collect what's mine. No longer am I the 'what could have been'; now I'm the unrelenting force that's about to reduce your pedestal to splinters while you still stand on it. No longer am I the tether that keeps you grounded while you fuck about and revel in your own shit, drunk on your own esteem. At the end of the night... I'll be the one standing over you, the herald of a change in the guard while you lie flat on your back, only looking up at the spotlights that once cascaded down over top of you. I'm the lasting dose of reality and this has been your Crucible. You've all failed.”
Killian keeps his pace as he walks to the end of street toward a tall, broad figure. Standing at the foot of a withered cathedral is Bryan Bryn Bryson, a genuine smile spreading across his face as he greets Killian.
“Are you ready for what comes next?”
Killian looks about before returning his attention to the man before him, his answering tone smoky and deep, belying the amused grin that lingers on his face.
“Are they?” he asks, the two of them chuckling.
Black.
But not the end... nay. This is only the beginning.