Post by Declan Prescott on Jun 29, 2010 8:32:06 GMT -5
The UGWC logo flashes for several moments, before the screen transitions into complete blackness, minus the unmistakable image of Declan Prescott’s face staring deep into the camera lens. The lower sections show traces of unkempt stubble, while his hair, though still short, is noticeably scruffier than it once was. His steel ice blue eyes are as unflinching as ever. Though something subtle seems different in his gaze. Is it softness? Or worse, self-consciousness?
“Hello. I’m sure some of you recognise me. Some of you don’t. Either way it doesn’t really matter, because I’m about to introduce myself. My name is Declan Prescott.”
The screen flashes to a shot of Declan big booting a nameless wrestler who is wearing a t-shirt bearing a picture of his own face.
“I am the creator of Global Impact Wrestling.”
A shot of Declan in a suit, raising arms with Travis Roberts and Will Smith.
“I am a former Global Champion.”
Declan bashing a sledgehammer into former GIW star Brandon Brown.
“I am The Darkest Light in these most revolutionary of times.”
Travis Pierce tapping to Savana’s Chamber of Pain in a Youtube styled video.
“What do I mean when I say that? It’s simple, really. For all my accomplishments, I sit here today with nothing but the man you see before you. I was arrogant. I was selfish. I was angry. I was spiteful. For all my accomplishments I was the biggest obstacle for myself and for my company. It was my self-absorbed behaviour that sent my creation tumbling into oblivion. That ruined my legacy and turned my name into a joke.
“And now I return, expecting nothing and asking less. I don’t want any second chances. My behaviour was truly disgusting. I intend to prove that I’ve changed. To convince people that I’m sincere when I address every person that I’ve ever hurt and say that I, Declan Prescott, am sorry. I ask you not to forgive me, but to witness my redemption.
“It starts this week on UGWC.com.”
The screen flashes again to the UGWC logo.
“Hello. I’m sure some of you recognise me. Some of you don’t. Either way it doesn’t really matter, because I’m about to introduce myself. My name is Declan Prescott.”
The screen flashes to a shot of Declan big booting a nameless wrestler who is wearing a t-shirt bearing a picture of his own face.
“I am the creator of Global Impact Wrestling.”
A shot of Declan in a suit, raising arms with Travis Roberts and Will Smith.
“I am a former Global Champion.”
Declan bashing a sledgehammer into former GIW star Brandon Brown.
“I am The Darkest Light in these most revolutionary of times.”
Travis Pierce tapping to Savana’s Chamber of Pain in a Youtube styled video.
“What do I mean when I say that? It’s simple, really. For all my accomplishments, I sit here today with nothing but the man you see before you. I was arrogant. I was selfish. I was angry. I was spiteful. For all my accomplishments I was the biggest obstacle for myself and for my company. It was my self-absorbed behaviour that sent my creation tumbling into oblivion. That ruined my legacy and turned my name into a joke.
“And now I return, expecting nothing and asking less. I don’t want any second chances. My behaviour was truly disgusting. I intend to prove that I’ve changed. To convince people that I’m sincere when I address every person that I’ve ever hurt and say that I, Declan Prescott, am sorry. I ask you not to forgive me, but to witness my redemption.
“It starts this week on UGWC.com.”
The screen flashes again to the UGWC logo.
“So, what do you think?”
The pair continued staring at the screen that was now airing a Nike commercial for several thoughtful moments. Declan Prescott’s mouth edged with uncertainty as he considered his answer. The second man, a mean looking tank, brandishing slicked brown hair and impenetrable black shades lazily turned the majority of his attention to Declan.
“I asked you a fucking question,” the shaded man spoke matter-of-factly, his thick Australian accent carving his words.
“I think it’s really bland,” Declan casually replied. “The Darkest Light? Really? And why the black background? Is originality some kind of faux pas in the wrestling world?”
“Oh now you decide to get judgemental? You're the one who protested over 'The Significant Player' name, remember? Besides, what would you rather have Moss do? Bombard the viewer with clips of you and Savana puking on each other? Because that’s exactly what you were doing the last time anyone heard the name ‘Declan Prescott’. Now if you’re going to be big – and you fucking well are – we need to bury that past. This promo has been all over the website since the latest results went up and we’ve paid to have it air over a bunch of TV stations all week too. People see this and they’re going to be reminded of a lot of things they never wanted to be reminded of. We start small, get the grissly bit out of the way and this week you can prove you’re man enough to back up your claims inside the ring. You need to be patient.”
“Patience is one thing I definitely have,” Declan returned.
“Have you ever arse fucked Cara?” the shaded man inquired.
Declan’s full focus now instantly barrelled down upon the man. “Please don’t talk about my wife like that.”
“My curiosity kills cats on occasion,” the man said casually. “I’m wondering how tight that hole is – from what I’ve seen it's had its fair share of nuclear levels of annihilation. See, that ‘patience’ remark of yours almost sounded like a threat. I just want you to be aware that if you ever threaten me, my curiosity will be satisfied first hand, before that blonde, bubbly little baby of yours meets a most tragic end.”
“I understand,” was all Declan said.
The man raised an unnoticeable eyebrow. “What the fuck did they do to you?”
“They showed me kindness.”
“So kindness is the slayer of your balls? Fuck Prescott, maybe you’re taking this re-imaging thing a little too seriously?”
“I’m most definitely not,” Declan smiled.
“Not to sound like a menstruating teenager or anything,” the man began. “But that’s not very comforting either. I need to be convinced that you’re dedicated to seeing this bad boy through. You know what happens if you fail to impress.”
Declan breathed in slowly and deeply. “Yes.”
“That’s excellent,” the man grinned. “Now lets get out of here and work out our game plan for Johnny ‘Don’t’ Call Me’ Blake.”
* * * * *
The parking lot of a fast food outlet under the Los Angeles sun. The man, still in his slick black shades, lay on the front hood of a nameless, 30 year old, beaten up black car. His back rested against the windshield, his head resting lazily on the roof of the vehicle. Declan Prescott sat close by on the roof, his legs hanging over the side.
“Fuck,” the man spoke, raising his head and taking a bite from his still half wrapped burger. “I love this shit.” He stared across the busy road at the glass panes between the pair of warriors and a high-end restaurant. Beyond the glass the room was crowded with young, designer dressed couples, flirting and laughing between sips of wine and miniature fork fulls of pale skinned lobster.
“Fast food, man,” he continued. “Tracking you down was a bitch, Prescott. But I could take the bugs crawling up my arse, the frost bite on my ear lobes, the fart brown water and even the puss riddled hookers. But American fucking food. That’s the one thing I truly missed. Pretentious fuck wits over there have no idea what they’re missing. Good to have some real grub back in you?”
Declan made a ‘hmming’ noise as he chomped on a piece of chicken. He soon gulped and spoke. “You know how I’ve always been able to tell if food is fresh? Even when it’s hot, after you swallow the food, it leaves your mouth feeling as though the food was cold. Before you took me from my home my mouth was always cold. Now it feels steamy and clogged.”
“Fuck you, then,” the man responded bluntly. “I take you to my favourite place in this whole stinking city and you act like a brat. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as you seem to think, Prescott?”
“I certainly hope not,” Declan returned, before taking a delicate sip from the straw of his soda cup.
“Forget it,” the man sarcastically huffed. “I’m not taking you to Fan Garden’s after this.”
“Would you like me to act disappointed?” Declan inquired, pushing his hand into the brown paper bag and removing several grease dripping fries.
“You really are a cunt, you know that?” the man retorted, before sinking his teeth into a huge mouthful of burger once more. “Nww,” he tried to say, his voice muffled by chomps. “Hww mch mm noo bbtt Blk?”
“You’re asking me about Johnny Blake?” Declan checked, receiving a confirmation nod from the man. “Not much. Nothing, actually. But you could have asked me anything about this place and my answer would have been the same. I've been gone a long ti – ”
Declan was cut off as his partner spat a large glob of chewed meat, bread and vegetable to the tar. “Think a kid spunked in that part…” the man spoke, seemingly to himself. He then turned his head to Declan and continued as normal. “Things will be a bit rocky in the beginning, but – assuming those mud monkeys didn’t take your dick too when they emptied your scrot – I know your up to the challenge. Good news for us, the Consortium has thrown you a bit of a 'welcome home' bone. Blake is a good bloke to start out on. He’s old, beaten down, has no real talent to speak of and will be mega depressed from failing at every single thing he’s attempted over the last month and probably beyond. What’s more the audience fucking despises him. He’s the perfect opportunity for you to find your footing and gain some crowd support.” The man then took another huge bite of the burger.
“Anything more specific?” Declan asked genuinely.
“Mmah,” the man spoke before swallowing his food. “Old British bloke. He’s the slightly less clichéd half of the Royal 1st Battalion. He’s been pretty much a nothing his entire life. Only reason he even made it across the water to America is to train Duncan Ryder. Polish him up and make him good enough for 'Queen’s Head'.”
“Excuse me?” Declan interrupted.
“Look, I don’t fucking know, alright? And, truth be told, I don't want to know,” the shaded man returned, before stuffing a handful of fries into his mouth. He savoured them for several long, loud, squelching moments, before devouring them. “All you have to know is that Blake is the old dog, Ryder’s the new pup. Johnny has experience at getting his arse bruised, but that’s about it. Calls himself ‘The Brigadier General’ and is supposedly an alcoholic are some fun facts for you.”
“Seems like you’re not too worried about this guy,” Declan said, pushing a small piece of chicken between his teeth.
“I didn’t say that,” the man corrected, throwing the plastic lid of his cup away and pouring the soda into his mouth. It splashed around his face and fell to the car and ground, before he placed the cup down on the hood once more. “If you’re not prepared he may well get one over on you. Especially since you basically took a shit on his attempt to insert him and his boy into anything meaningful on Synergy. He's probably still double-checking that his skull is attached to his body after that kick you planted on him. Guy must be pissed.
“What I’m saying is he’s a good place to start. You actually have a chance of winning. Meanwhile I’ll be making sure the Ryder puppy doesn’t cause any inconveniences for you during the match. That would be unacceptable.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Declan assured his partner.
“I know you will,” the man returned. “We’ve had the discussion regarding what happens if you don’t. But win or lose, you have to make this General work for it. Show everyone that Declan Prescott is back and he’s not fucking around… because he’s not fucking around, right?”
“This seems to be a recurring topic in our conversations,” Declan mused.
“Regardless of how you feel about me, Prescott,” the man said, wedging a toothpick into the back of his mouth. “We want the same thing here. Our motivations are different, but our goals are the same – you sitting atop the UGWC mountain, claiming whatever the fuck you want as your own. The reason I keep asking if you’re cool is because you keep failing to answer. Just what’s going on in that fucked up head of yours? Are you nervous about filling big boots? And yeah, that was a pun. A good one.”
“Watching the Synergy footage back,” Declan started, raising his vision to the sky above. “Nicholas called me the ‘Heart and Soul of GIW’. I had forgotten people used to call me that. The truth is I’m not nervous at all, because I barely remember the expectations people had of me. It seems like a life time ago.”
“Yeah, they did used to call you that,” the man replied. “Then after you fucked off they gave that title to Dirge. You know what happened to him, after being boasted as one of the most unstoppable, relentless, irreplaceable and ruthless forces the wrestling world has ever seen? He caught cooties from a fat woman and died. Pretty appropriate if you ask me. There’s something different about you, Prescott. Something special. It’s the reason you’re here. It’s the reason you’re the only one that can fill those boots I left at the front door. It doesn’t mean shit if you think it’s a gift or a curse. It’s who you are.”
“Well,” Declan smirked, turning his attention back to the man. “You were right about one thing. Our motivations are very different.”
"Seems I was right about you being a cunt, too," the man now sat upright and swung his body around so his legs were hanging off the hood, in similar fashion to Declan's. “And speaking of motivations, I was the one that told you to help Savana out, I know. But you were buddying with him before I said a damn thing. And the first place you went after the show was making sure he wasn't too banged up. Why so eager to make the save?”
Declan smiled serenely. “It’s simple. I was just returning a long overdue debt.”
“Huh?”
“You see,” Declan began. “Andy Savana saved my life.”