Post by Mark Hunter on Aug 6, 2011 22:18:52 GMT -6
Rain pounds against the windows of the second floor apartment of the Cedar St. housing projects. It pounds and raps against the pane like a jilted lover or a maniacal burglar, both hellbent on an entrance that has been denied to them. It is just after nine in the evening, and the darkness of the overcast, cloud-covered grey sky is reaching for an even darker shade as the day fades below the horizon, yielding to the night's approach.
It's the light of a street lamp mostly now that casts any radiance into the second floor apartment. The droplets that hang on the curtain-less window cast long and menacing shadows of unintelligible shape across the plane white-washed walls. A flash of lightning brightens the bare mattresses that lies atop the hardwood floor, stripped of any pomp and circumstance like a naked Adam before an irate God.
That's the book of Genesis. And here amidst the baptism by rain, a new genesis is beginning. It is one forged of hatred and rage. Unbridled fury that can't help but escape form the mortal vessel of a man's body. It is a rage that causes blood to boil, eyes the sink back in their sockets and lots of people to get hurt. The first victim is not a person, however, but a plane, white wall.
In the second floor apartment with the leaky roof that barely slows the trickle of rain water through the cracks, there is a screaming. The screaming is followed by a crashing and a dull thud. In the second floor apartment where water collects in puddles on the floor and destroys the wooden frame of the window there are noises that are barely human.
“USELESS!” The scream shakes the room with the sickening growl of vocal chords ravaged by the scream of primal rage. The shout is followed by an unprotected fist, already coated in a crimson glove of blood meets hard, white drywall in a narrow space between two studs. The wall shatters from the force, chunks flying off like confetti or the sides of pinãta that has finally reached its breaking point.
“F##KER!” Another scream, and now another bleeding fist violently finds the unflinching white wall. This time Mark Hunter isn't as lucky. His fist finds a stud. The drywall between is almost disintegrated by the punch but the wooden stud stops the momentum of the wild punch. Mark recoils, shaking off the pain and glaring at the blood-stain left in the shape of a fist on the wood.
He appears done, pain inflicted upon himself satiating him. Then he stops, rage rising like Mercury in his face. The flush red color of bursting capillaries replaced by a dark streak of blood from a hand wiping away sweat and the hanging strands of sweat-soaked hair over his eyes. Hunter wheels around...
“Dead-weight!” Slam. Fist against wall.
“Dead-beat!” Then the other fist following close behind, the smallest finger broken at the knuckle and barely closed into the fist.
“FAILURE!” Another left handed haymaker rips a hole through the wall.
“C##T!” This time, no fist its the wall. The wall is surprised by a wild headbutt that damn near tears the wall down.
It is after this blow that Mark pulls his skull from its pocket in the wall and stumbles back onto the mattress. Chunks of white powder and drywall mix with the thin red trickle of blood through the darkened strands of his hair and the cascading cut that flows through his face like a river through the landscape. There he sits on the edge of his makeshift bed. His head falls heavily into his hands. The blood joins through the spaces between his fingers and drips solemnly to the floor. Dripping with the passing seconds like a clock.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A pool of blood on the floor between his feet joins with a puddle of rain water trickling from the ceiling.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like seconds ticking off a clock, like seconds ticking off a life. All is quiet within the shattered walls of the apartment, and outside - as if God Himself is impressed by the display – the rainstorm subsides. Slowly the trickle of water through the cracks in the ceiling slows and stops. Slowly the trickle of blood through the cuts in his hands and face slows and clots.
Silence. Silence invades every atom and molecule of being. The world holds its breath as if afraid to move. Everything is still, until a cracked and worn voice, barely audible, dulls forces it out.
“Davey Boone, if I ever have the misfortune to see your face agiain you shall not live to tell anyone about it, thats a f##king promise you arrogant, stupid, selfish, b##tard.”
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The unstoppable force meets the immovable object. The unyielding, unstoppable force of humanity's advancement and its physical manifestations meets the immovable vastness and depth of God's mighty Atlantic. Waves crash and slam into Rowe's Wharf with loud claps that echo like thunder, and strike violently against the coast.
A wobbly wooden railing is the only thing that separates him from the fury of Mother Nature's fists as they slam against the wall. He leans over it. The rain has reduced to a drizzle now, a nuisance in the howling and swirling winds of the coast. Even in the dead of summer, it is cool here. Mark wears a leather jacket, a bit long in the sleeves so that it covers the wrapped bandages across his knuckles and the knuckle of a pinky finger forcibly put back into line with its brethren. Water drips off the jacket and collects on the cuffs of his jeans and under his sneakers. The torrid wind whips Hunters's hair in a fury around his head, to the point where he pulls a beaten black cap from his pocket and pulls the brim down low over his bloodshot, blue-gray eyes.
“The number of times in my life when I've been truly angry in my life... I can probably count them on one hand. My job, sometimes it calls for me to exaggerate my feelings or to 'play up' my emotions. So I turn frustration into anger. I turn disenfranchisement into ire. I turn dissatisfaction into rage. Then I turn anger, ire and rage into victory.”
Marks fingers graze over the slick plastic covering of a cigarette pack inside the pocket of his jacket. They feel like a crutch to his calloused hands, still sporting crusted blood stains. He leaves the cigarettes there.
“But I can't really remember the last time the victories meant something. For most people that becomes a problem. They either drive themselves to insanity trying to figure out where their winning touch has gone, because there's no love left for the business. No love left for the sport. The others, they wall into fits of self-loathing and disenfranchisement. How's the saying go? 'Pin me. Pay me.'”
Mark blinks against the splash of a large wave that sends a small blast of salt-water up into his face. He makes no attempt to brush it aside, instead letting it run down his chin and drip off the expanding patch of stubble along his jaw.
“It's not ego to say that I'm different. I've made no bones about telling everyone that my motivation is Championships. I spent six months as part of UCWA. In that time I lost just once in singles competition, the big stage was a dream, as was a federation to call home."
His eyes falls to dark gray waves that crash against the rocks far below his feet.
“Those victories meant something. UCWA had the potential to be special, all the talent needed was freedom. Problem was however, the true talent like myself was simply being told to tow the company line, we were told we were too different, the man saying those things was Davey Boone. He wouldn't allow talent to work with who they wanted because it didn't fit the "bigger picture", remind me again fella, what was that bigger picture? Closing doors and running for the hills when the going got tough, was that your bigger picture? The talent could without a doubt have controlled that company to greater heights than he did. I busted my ass for him and his damn company, yet all he did in return was rip the f##king heart out of me, towards the end I hated the idea of doing it all for another show and another week. The place was ready to break boundaries and create history."
"But he didn't get the memo, he merely thought who can I screw over this week, who can I fire for only cutting one promo instead of three? who can I bury for having a different opinion? Who shall I mock for daring to be different? Not a week ever went by where he didn't run his mouth off about something or someone. Now if I was half the ego-maniac he was, I would have pushed back much harder. But me, I was always a company guy. I'm a guy who looks out for the talent, who looks out for the company. When his staff would let him down he always came running to me for help, and as a sucker, I helped. Over and over again I helped, never once did I get a thank you for that. Then when the going gets tough he bails out on us like the heartless coward he is. I can name many names that deserved better, he s##t on all of us. Call it wrestling, call it a bit of fun, hey call it a game if you wish. What he did to me meant quite frankly I didn't wanna play anymore.”
Marks's left hand reaches into his other pocket, where he doesn't find a pack of cigarettes. Instead his fingers fall upon a pair of rosary beads. Much like the cigarettes, the rosary beads feel like a crutch as he rolls them between his fingers.
“But that's not what bothers me. You see, I didn't like Davey Boone from square one but that was no big deal. I didn't like it when he tried to build himself off others hard work, but hell, I even played along. I didn't like how he screwed an ACE champion – love him or hate him – out of a match and title. I didn't like how he cheated, swindled, kissed ass, and acted so two faced instead of actually... you know... WORKING HARD to get results. I told you that I can count on one hand the number of times in my life I've been truly angry. So, congratulations go to Davey Boone, you officially hold one of those spots. The way it all ended made me angry.
“You see, I don't like you because I've always been an honest man. I've always been a straight-shooter. I've never been flash or trickery. I've gotten by on my intelligence and on my talent. But you... you're a born liar. You're a sickening sycophant straight down to your very core. In one breath you pretend that you care about wrestling, yet in the next you poke fun at all those trying to succeed."
"You talked about my apparent 'ego' many times, you hypocrite, while you played with your expensive cellphone, holding your press conferences, driving your fancy cars, flying first class and staying in Five-Star suites."
The intact of breath and pause from Mark seem to indicate a moment of moving on.
"My name is Mark Hunter, it has taken me almost a year to repair the damage inside me caused by Davey Boone. This is my return. I am not a nice guy and I can assure you all, I will never be the companies favorite superstar, i'll no longer tow a company line. What you see is what you get, what you hear is who I am. My voice can cut deeper than many blades and like me or not my voice will always be heard."