Post by adm on Oct 21, 2011 9:26:37 GMT -6
I do not believe in immortality of the individual, and I consider ethics to be an exclusively human concern with no superhuman authority behind it.
Albert Einstein
Kristoff Liam Bates sits within the back row of a church. There is not a soul in the church besides him at this hour. He is not here to worship, nor is he here to seek advice. His demeanor is like his looks, on edge. His face is covered with a five-o-clock shadow, his sullen eyes are turned to the floor, staring at his work boots beneath ragged jeans, an Immortal band T-shirt and his trusty jean-jacket. The leather collar is upturned to show the denim beneath and he just simply sits. He sees the camera, and lifts his hand as if to say something, then stops himself. He lifts the other one, but then clamps his other hand to his mouth as to "shut himself up" but he begins to speak in muffled tones that are unclear as to what he is saying for a moment before quieting.
He stands, as the camera begins to move in closer from the front of the room. He paces, back and forth, like a cartoon character ruminating a plot to quickly dislodge the foe from their high post of victory. With his appearance, some could say he is the living incarnation of a thicker-built Bugs Bunny, were he a man. Bates raises his hand as if he has gotten it, and opens his mouth, only to have no words come out. He makes a disconcerted face and his index finger curls as he slowly drops his arm back down to his side, before sitting down, slinking into a depressive appearance.
All of a sudden, he begins to laugh hysterically. The laugh is very unsettling, especially in the large open church which echoes the laugh like the walls of an empty asylum with a single caged insane occupant. Within the head of the educated man, the wheels are turning wildly.
"Now THAT was boring, wasn't it? Imagine if I had kept up that charade the whole time. I guess you're right, Kyle, I can't shut up. It's impossible, I just have a big mouth. Perhaps the great philosopher of Phillip Anselmo had a lot to learn from that bag and bottle, and perhaps so do I. After all, it's where we all come from, around here."
Another chuckle escapes his lips as his face turns into an expression of mixed emotions. His eyes are burning with desire for victory, his head is tilted down and to the side so his eyes gaze up at the camera from beneath his furrowed brow and the sly smile of an intelligent and dangerous foe begins to slide from the right corner of his mouth, causing his cheek to dimple and eye to close slightly.
"So you fancy yourself an immortal, still, after all this time. Boy, did I ever try to keep away from saying that word about you, Mr. Braddock. It's not that I don't want to point out the obvious logical flaws of your so-called moniker or gimmick or whatever you want to call it, but it would just simply be TOO EASY. I mean, IMMORTAL? What kind of man claims to be unable to die, unable to be put down for the count, when after all, we ALL are merely mortals. Sure, there is a lot to be said about legacy, how people will talk about you after you are gone and all that jazz, but when you have left this place, you'll be just like Lance Ryan was before his mysterious re-appearance.
A name, a curse, a ghost, a figure on the wall.
Immortality is fleeting, Kyle. You aren't God, you're no Jesus Christ. I'm sorry, sir, but I don't see you as some form of savior. You are, after all, just a man. You can be hurt like a man, you can lose matches like a man, you can win and have drive and desire like a man. You can even teach me and Steve lessons that we ignore, which I find as a namesake of "Bates"."
He takes his head and raises it, cocking it to the side as the cameraman quickly repositions to catch a close-up on his face.
"By the way, Steve, I am single."
He winks and laughs, before going deadpan and returning to his cocky and eerie smile as he slowly ascends from the pews, beginning to walk back and forth in the empty cathedral of faith, his heavy footsteps echoing on the old wooden floorboards.
"Immortality, is that your real goal, Mr. Braddock? Winning titles, winning matches, saying they mean NOTHING to you simply because it "comes with the territory" of being "Immortal". Yes, I can go up to your little school and watch from the sidelines as you teach the youngsters about the "biz". But I have a feeling you are exaggerating when you say they have no stamina, perhaps it is a clever choice of words in order to make yourself appear bigger, better and more impressive than I. I'm not going to say I've had ten years in this business, Kyle, but in my three from the ages of thirty to now, I have learned a lot from watching you, facing you, and facing the others. Sure, I have a big ****ing mouth, but who DOESN'T? If you shut up for a whole promo, would you get ANY points across? Would you be able to attempt at teaching me like your buddy Spike Kane tried? Would you get ANYTHING accomplished? No, not a thing comes of being silent. Go down the street and see people holding signs, go to a Tea Party rally, go to a political fundraiser, hell, go to CHURCH. Silence accomplishes nothing but introspection, and I don't see much besides depression coming from such things."
Bates has moved from the back up toward the front, almost taking a spot behind the podium but dodging it to the left, making a sneer at the imaginary preacher at the front before ascending the stepped platform surrounding the large crucifix at the back, the fixture and mainstay of most churches. He lays a hand on the foot of Jesus, and looks at the camera.
"The year is 2235, and nCw still exists passed down to the heirs of the heirs of the heirs of the heirs of Kelly Knite and her husband Adam from Leo Fox. Kyle Braddock, the IMMORTAL, at age two hundred and something, is still wrestling every week, amassing an amazing seven thousand wins, two hundred world title victories, the record for longest reign in every strap he has carried, and yet he still has the fire to come out every week, defying age and death, to wrestle another young buck and teach him a lesson or two. He still has the gym in Connecticut where he trains fresh faces, and after all this time, all his former foes have gone on to die and be decomposing in the ground. Only to be forgotten..."
A sinister laugh escapes his lips after the odd science fiction monologue he just spoke. He doubles over laughing, slapping the cross hard, selling his humor before once again returning deadpan to face the camera.
"Come on, Kyle, you'll be dead long before anyone comes up with a way to reverse aging. You also will not be able to survive long enough to see your brain and "soul" transferred into a robotic or cyborg shell, thus extending your feeble life indefinitely. For all we know, next year could roll around and bam, we all go belly up in the fishbowl of existence as the Mayan Apocalypse kills us all. Or Iran could nuke the **** out of this country in a few months, there are a million and one ways to end your supposed immortality before the end of the next decade. So before you go and claim something that is impossible, why don't you go talk to the real immortals.
God, Jesus, Zeus, Hermes, Aphrodite, the Pharaohs, Buddha, Moses, Mohamed, you get the drift.
Here's a quick lesson on the definition of that word, Kyle. Immortal, noun: Not mortal or liable to death, everlasting, remembered or celebrated through all time. Wow...you think you are any of those? Perhaps the one you're aiming for is to be remembered and celebrated for all time. But here's the FACTS, Kyle. After you die, there will be a big hullabaloo for about a week, there will be a memorial show, a funeral, a gathering of fans. After you die, your face and name will still adorn some wrestling magazines from the present, but as time wears on, like every major athlete or sports and celebrity figure, you will fade into obscurity. One day, should nCw survive for a hundred or two hundred years, all that will be left is the descendants of the descendants and your name on the list of champions. Nobody will remember who you were, what you did, except for old films. They'll look back and think "Wow, that's what wrestling was back then, how boring." Things change, times and people changes, hell, even tastes change. God forbid this place close, would you be remembered in a hundred or two hundred years as you imagine? Unlikely."
Bates strokes the foot of Jesus and looks up at the chiseled frame of the half-naked savior and smirks. He walks calmly away from the front of the church and slowly walks down the center aisle before stopping at the door and turning.
"Immortality is fleeting, Kyle. Whether I can or do crush you on Trauma doesn't matter. Whether I end your career, you retire of old age, or someone else does the job for me, you'll lose your immortality eventually. The minute you step away from this place the process of decay to your legacy will begin. So enjoy your moniker while you can. Enjoy your slogans, and your "preaching". Enjoy it while it lasts, because in the end, you'll just be another old man begging God for forgiveness for your sins on your deathbed, praying for someone to take you to Heaven and the unknowable everlasting...where REAL immortals dwell."
He walks out the door and slams it, ending the promo as the reverberation of the wooden door clang is heard over and over again in the empty church.
It seems so clear now what I must do
You're no immortal
I won't let them
Deify you
Albert Einstein
Kristoff Liam Bates sits within the back row of a church. There is not a soul in the church besides him at this hour. He is not here to worship, nor is he here to seek advice. His demeanor is like his looks, on edge. His face is covered with a five-o-clock shadow, his sullen eyes are turned to the floor, staring at his work boots beneath ragged jeans, an Immortal band T-shirt and his trusty jean-jacket. The leather collar is upturned to show the denim beneath and he just simply sits. He sees the camera, and lifts his hand as if to say something, then stops himself. He lifts the other one, but then clamps his other hand to his mouth as to "shut himself up" but he begins to speak in muffled tones that are unclear as to what he is saying for a moment before quieting.
He stands, as the camera begins to move in closer from the front of the room. He paces, back and forth, like a cartoon character ruminating a plot to quickly dislodge the foe from their high post of victory. With his appearance, some could say he is the living incarnation of a thicker-built Bugs Bunny, were he a man. Bates raises his hand as if he has gotten it, and opens his mouth, only to have no words come out. He makes a disconcerted face and his index finger curls as he slowly drops his arm back down to his side, before sitting down, slinking into a depressive appearance.
All of a sudden, he begins to laugh hysterically. The laugh is very unsettling, especially in the large open church which echoes the laugh like the walls of an empty asylum with a single caged insane occupant. Within the head of the educated man, the wheels are turning wildly.
"Now THAT was boring, wasn't it? Imagine if I had kept up that charade the whole time. I guess you're right, Kyle, I can't shut up. It's impossible, I just have a big mouth. Perhaps the great philosopher of Phillip Anselmo had a lot to learn from that bag and bottle, and perhaps so do I. After all, it's where we all come from, around here."
Another chuckle escapes his lips as his face turns into an expression of mixed emotions. His eyes are burning with desire for victory, his head is tilted down and to the side so his eyes gaze up at the camera from beneath his furrowed brow and the sly smile of an intelligent and dangerous foe begins to slide from the right corner of his mouth, causing his cheek to dimple and eye to close slightly.
"So you fancy yourself an immortal, still, after all this time. Boy, did I ever try to keep away from saying that word about you, Mr. Braddock. It's not that I don't want to point out the obvious logical flaws of your so-called moniker or gimmick or whatever you want to call it, but it would just simply be TOO EASY. I mean, IMMORTAL? What kind of man claims to be unable to die, unable to be put down for the count, when after all, we ALL are merely mortals. Sure, there is a lot to be said about legacy, how people will talk about you after you are gone and all that jazz, but when you have left this place, you'll be just like Lance Ryan was before his mysterious re-appearance.
A name, a curse, a ghost, a figure on the wall.
Immortality is fleeting, Kyle. You aren't God, you're no Jesus Christ. I'm sorry, sir, but I don't see you as some form of savior. You are, after all, just a man. You can be hurt like a man, you can lose matches like a man, you can win and have drive and desire like a man. You can even teach me and Steve lessons that we ignore, which I find as a namesake of "Bates"."
He takes his head and raises it, cocking it to the side as the cameraman quickly repositions to catch a close-up on his face.
"By the way, Steve, I am single."
He winks and laughs, before going deadpan and returning to his cocky and eerie smile as he slowly ascends from the pews, beginning to walk back and forth in the empty cathedral of faith, his heavy footsteps echoing on the old wooden floorboards.
"Immortality, is that your real goal, Mr. Braddock? Winning titles, winning matches, saying they mean NOTHING to you simply because it "comes with the territory" of being "Immortal". Yes, I can go up to your little school and watch from the sidelines as you teach the youngsters about the "biz". But I have a feeling you are exaggerating when you say they have no stamina, perhaps it is a clever choice of words in order to make yourself appear bigger, better and more impressive than I. I'm not going to say I've had ten years in this business, Kyle, but in my three from the ages of thirty to now, I have learned a lot from watching you, facing you, and facing the others. Sure, I have a big ****ing mouth, but who DOESN'T? If you shut up for a whole promo, would you get ANY points across? Would you be able to attempt at teaching me like your buddy Spike Kane tried? Would you get ANYTHING accomplished? No, not a thing comes of being silent. Go down the street and see people holding signs, go to a Tea Party rally, go to a political fundraiser, hell, go to CHURCH. Silence accomplishes nothing but introspection, and I don't see much besides depression coming from such things."
Bates has moved from the back up toward the front, almost taking a spot behind the podium but dodging it to the left, making a sneer at the imaginary preacher at the front before ascending the stepped platform surrounding the large crucifix at the back, the fixture and mainstay of most churches. He lays a hand on the foot of Jesus, and looks at the camera.
"The year is 2235, and nCw still exists passed down to the heirs of the heirs of the heirs of the heirs of Kelly Knite and her husband Adam from Leo Fox. Kyle Braddock, the IMMORTAL, at age two hundred and something, is still wrestling every week, amassing an amazing seven thousand wins, two hundred world title victories, the record for longest reign in every strap he has carried, and yet he still has the fire to come out every week, defying age and death, to wrestle another young buck and teach him a lesson or two. He still has the gym in Connecticut where he trains fresh faces, and after all this time, all his former foes have gone on to die and be decomposing in the ground. Only to be forgotten..."
A sinister laugh escapes his lips after the odd science fiction monologue he just spoke. He doubles over laughing, slapping the cross hard, selling his humor before once again returning deadpan to face the camera.
"Come on, Kyle, you'll be dead long before anyone comes up with a way to reverse aging. You also will not be able to survive long enough to see your brain and "soul" transferred into a robotic or cyborg shell, thus extending your feeble life indefinitely. For all we know, next year could roll around and bam, we all go belly up in the fishbowl of existence as the Mayan Apocalypse kills us all. Or Iran could nuke the **** out of this country in a few months, there are a million and one ways to end your supposed immortality before the end of the next decade. So before you go and claim something that is impossible, why don't you go talk to the real immortals.
God, Jesus, Zeus, Hermes, Aphrodite, the Pharaohs, Buddha, Moses, Mohamed, you get the drift.
Here's a quick lesson on the definition of that word, Kyle. Immortal, noun: Not mortal or liable to death, everlasting, remembered or celebrated through all time. Wow...you think you are any of those? Perhaps the one you're aiming for is to be remembered and celebrated for all time. But here's the FACTS, Kyle. After you die, there will be a big hullabaloo for about a week, there will be a memorial show, a funeral, a gathering of fans. After you die, your face and name will still adorn some wrestling magazines from the present, but as time wears on, like every major athlete or sports and celebrity figure, you will fade into obscurity. One day, should nCw survive for a hundred or two hundred years, all that will be left is the descendants of the descendants and your name on the list of champions. Nobody will remember who you were, what you did, except for old films. They'll look back and think "Wow, that's what wrestling was back then, how boring." Things change, times and people changes, hell, even tastes change. God forbid this place close, would you be remembered in a hundred or two hundred years as you imagine? Unlikely."
Bates strokes the foot of Jesus and looks up at the chiseled frame of the half-naked savior and smirks. He walks calmly away from the front of the church and slowly walks down the center aisle before stopping at the door and turning.
"Immortality is fleeting, Kyle. Whether I can or do crush you on Trauma doesn't matter. Whether I end your career, you retire of old age, or someone else does the job for me, you'll lose your immortality eventually. The minute you step away from this place the process of decay to your legacy will begin. So enjoy your moniker while you can. Enjoy your slogans, and your "preaching". Enjoy it while it lasts, because in the end, you'll just be another old man begging God for forgiveness for your sins on your deathbed, praying for someone to take you to Heaven and the unknowable everlasting...where REAL immortals dwell."
He walks out the door and slams it, ending the promo as the reverberation of the wooden door clang is heard over and over again in the empty church.
It seems so clear now what I must do
You're no immortal
I won't let them
Deify you