Post by EmbodimentOfFear on Apr 26, 2018 17:29:55 GMT -5
April 24
I find myself in darkness.
There was a glimpse of the light at Infinity, once again having my arm raised in victory on a grand stage, but it was short lived. My journey has taken a different path in the days since, with the results of Lord of Trios and No Holds Barred leaving something to be desired. I remain steadfast in my belief that Zane Scott will see me as his better, that he cannot defeat me, and that I shall prove his undoing, but until then I shall remain in the dark, yearning and searching for the light.
It was then that I found myself at the Antique Road Show, and there it was. A production of the Boheim, it beheld nothing less than a simply spectacular light refraction, a result of the facet and bevels of its crystal prisms. The soda glass used is remarkably unique, famed for extraordinary clarity, a complete contrast to other inferior glasses that one might find in a similar product. It is clear that an incredible amount of skill and time was needed to precisely twist and shape this masterpiece. It is a relic of a past era, lost and forgotten.
I realized that it was in fact Holden Orson that stood in front of me. Once a brilliant star, faded and lost, twisted and shaped into something different than it began, and finally, broken, rusted, and brimming with lost potential, broken brilliance, and ultimately inefficient and worthless.
This new clarity disgusted me. This antique belonged back in the trash pile from which someone had likely found it, there was no hope for it. It would only bring disappointment. That was all it could ever do, simply let us down, and leave us wanting in the dark.
I will just get what I need at Lowes.
Static fades into the image of a poorly lit room, flickering candles strewn about. The Embodiment sits backwards on a chair, facing the camera, his head down.
“Hello, Holden.”
Phrixus looks up at the camera.
“Is it Holden still? Or is it Martin again? It matters not. Whomever you are this week, I know this is a moment you have waited a long time for, ever since those days, since the In Your Hands House. It has been three years, a long time to wait, I imagine. For much of it have you wondered if I harbored the same grudge, if I was waiting for this moment, as you have? Allow me to illuminate you.”
Phrixus snaps his fingers, and a chandelier behind him lights up.
“You are forgotten by many, Holden, and who can blame them? Your career is an endless parade of failure after failure, regardless of your identity. Martin Graber puts on a mask and becomes Holden Orson, but which was truly the mask? The better question is if it even matters. For the sake of completion, let us begin with the sad tale of ‘The Mainstreamer’ Martin Graber, who worked his way up the ladder until those fateful days in the IYH House, in which he earned the match of his dreams, a match for the World Heavyweight Title at In Your Hands against ‘Vain’ Alan Wallace, everything he always wanted. He lost. Fret not, because the Mainstreamer left such an impact that he received a rematch at WrestleStock. He lost. Yet the third time is the charm, is it not? Graber cashed in for a third climactic match against Wallace in an empty arena, free of distractions, to settle score once and for all. And lost.”
Phrixus shakes his head.
“Enter the persona of Holden Orson, the hipster who is meant to be everything that Martin Graber is not, aside from being a winner. Orson went to In Your Hands, a year removed from the disappointing failure of Martin Graber, and fell himself to Travis Roberts with the World Heavyweight Title on the line. The hipster joined the Engine, a round peg hammered into a square hole, and proved himself the weak link of the chain, letting the group down time and again until they had no choice but to cut him loose. Such. A. Shame. You could hardly fault a person who thrust this blight from their memory, allowed it to fade away to nothing. People have forgotten you, Holden.”
A smile slowly creeps onto his face.
“I have not. In fact, I have something special for you, after all this is a special occasion.”
Phrixus reaches down and lifts his hands back into view, revealing a plate.
“This is what it was all about for you, was it not? Anger that I ate your precious sandwich? A petty problem from a petty person. This is that same sandwich, Holden. I have saved it for you, preserved it and savored every moment of the tortured existence it continues to endure. Much like you, it has decayed over the years, infested with mold, a disgusting image to those that behold it. Much like it, a brutal fate awaits you at Chill. I am going to chew you up and spit you out, Holden, just as I did your sandwich years ago. This match has been your dream for yours. It is time you found out the truth of your nightmare.”
Phrixus snaps his fingers again, as the room returns to darkness.
“Fear me.”
I find myself in darkness.
There was a glimpse of the light at Infinity, once again having my arm raised in victory on a grand stage, but it was short lived. My journey has taken a different path in the days since, with the results of Lord of Trios and No Holds Barred leaving something to be desired. I remain steadfast in my belief that Zane Scott will see me as his better, that he cannot defeat me, and that I shall prove his undoing, but until then I shall remain in the dark, yearning and searching for the light.
It was then that I found myself at the Antique Road Show, and there it was. A production of the Boheim, it beheld nothing less than a simply spectacular light refraction, a result of the facet and bevels of its crystal prisms. The soda glass used is remarkably unique, famed for extraordinary clarity, a complete contrast to other inferior glasses that one might find in a similar product. It is clear that an incredible amount of skill and time was needed to precisely twist and shape this masterpiece. It is a relic of a past era, lost and forgotten.
I realized that it was in fact Holden Orson that stood in front of me. Once a brilliant star, faded and lost, twisted and shaped into something different than it began, and finally, broken, rusted, and brimming with lost potential, broken brilliance, and ultimately inefficient and worthless.
This new clarity disgusted me. This antique belonged back in the trash pile from which someone had likely found it, there was no hope for it. It would only bring disappointment. That was all it could ever do, simply let us down, and leave us wanting in the dark.
I will just get what I need at Lowes.
* * * * *
Static fades into the image of a poorly lit room, flickering candles strewn about. The Embodiment sits backwards on a chair, facing the camera, his head down.
“Hello, Holden.”
Phrixus looks up at the camera.
“Is it Holden still? Or is it Martin again? It matters not. Whomever you are this week, I know this is a moment you have waited a long time for, ever since those days, since the In Your Hands House. It has been three years, a long time to wait, I imagine. For much of it have you wondered if I harbored the same grudge, if I was waiting for this moment, as you have? Allow me to illuminate you.”
Phrixus snaps his fingers, and a chandelier behind him lights up.
“You are forgotten by many, Holden, and who can blame them? Your career is an endless parade of failure after failure, regardless of your identity. Martin Graber puts on a mask and becomes Holden Orson, but which was truly the mask? The better question is if it even matters. For the sake of completion, let us begin with the sad tale of ‘The Mainstreamer’ Martin Graber, who worked his way up the ladder until those fateful days in the IYH House, in which he earned the match of his dreams, a match for the World Heavyweight Title at In Your Hands against ‘Vain’ Alan Wallace, everything he always wanted. He lost. Fret not, because the Mainstreamer left such an impact that he received a rematch at WrestleStock. He lost. Yet the third time is the charm, is it not? Graber cashed in for a third climactic match against Wallace in an empty arena, free of distractions, to settle score once and for all. And lost.”
Phrixus shakes his head.
“Enter the persona of Holden Orson, the hipster who is meant to be everything that Martin Graber is not, aside from being a winner. Orson went to In Your Hands, a year removed from the disappointing failure of Martin Graber, and fell himself to Travis Roberts with the World Heavyweight Title on the line. The hipster joined the Engine, a round peg hammered into a square hole, and proved himself the weak link of the chain, letting the group down time and again until they had no choice but to cut him loose. Such. A. Shame. You could hardly fault a person who thrust this blight from their memory, allowed it to fade away to nothing. People have forgotten you, Holden.”
A smile slowly creeps onto his face.
“I have not. In fact, I have something special for you, after all this is a special occasion.”
Phrixus reaches down and lifts his hands back into view, revealing a plate.
“This is what it was all about for you, was it not? Anger that I ate your precious sandwich? A petty problem from a petty person. This is that same sandwich, Holden. I have saved it for you, preserved it and savored every moment of the tortured existence it continues to endure. Much like you, it has decayed over the years, infested with mold, a disgusting image to those that behold it. Much like it, a brutal fate awaits you at Chill. I am going to chew you up and spit you out, Holden, just as I did your sandwich years ago. This match has been your dream for yours. It is time you found out the truth of your nightmare.”
Phrixus snaps his fingers again, as the room returns to darkness.
“Fear me.”