Post by Cyrus Daniels on Jan 24, 2013 14:28:25 GMT -6
A ticking clock is heard.
A solitary dim light bulb swings on its frayed wire.
The light it emits flickers.
A simple wooden table in the centre of the room. A simple cane chair, and sat in this small windowless room furnished like a police interrogation room is former Australian ex convict, Cyrus Daniels.
The monster of a man has his elbows on the table, his arms folded across it, in clear defiance of his late mother's attempts to make him a civilised member of society. On the table in front of him was a single card. The Queen Of Diamonds.
Cyrus grins at the card, knowing he had at least one man's undivided attention now. But the entire issue was not as pressing to him as perhaps it was to Jake Conway. Cyrus would not indulge him until he was good and ready. This was his time and nobody would ever dictate how he spent it again.
Cyrus sat in his short-sleeved olive green shirt and fingerless gloves, as he looked up and addressed the watching nation, savouring their growing impatience with him.
What do ya do with your free time mate? It's an interesting question isn't it? Not one many of ya give much thought to I bet. Some men would bitch about not being booked for a match in over a month. Some men would lament the fact that their last match had been in early December last year and it is now early January of the next.
Some men would see the intervening time as of little consequence other than to invite the accumulation of ring rust, and to those men I say how little you know of the remarkable strength of the human spirit. You'd do well to remember the fact that an iron rod, even a rusty one, can still violate ya in unspeakable ways if it is shoved unceremoniously up your jacksie.
Being locked away from society like a damned animal has a strange way of teaching ya the most remarkable things, not the least of which is patience. So I ask again, how do ya spend your free time, mate? Do ya fret about not seeing your name on the card for weeks? Do ya cry about being unused by management? Do ya think your talent is being wasted? What do ya intend to do about it?
Waste more of your time complaining about everything and changing nothing? While you wish away your life, I live mine. While you waste away your years yearning for so much more than you already have, I embrace each day as it comes. In this little room, I appreciate my freedom more than all of you who do not confine yourselves. Ironic isn't it? Does it depress ya?
It should.
Ya scuttle around like cockroaches in your finite lives never quite appreciating all you have, even when the reaper reminds you of the ticking clock that is a noose around your neck, ever tightening, the light growing ever dimmer upon your meaningless existence you still never really learn to cherish the gift of life you have been afforded.
Instead you waste it, you throw it all away, trying in unbridled desperation to make whatever points ya feel should validate that little trinket everybody wants to take from around your waist, yet few men ever actually have the balls to steal away from you. Even when it is all legal and just, you will all whine about how its all been a huge crime. About how you have been the victim. How you've had it all stolen away from you, and because it is such a convincing argument, it works not only in this business but in the legal systems around the world, and when the world buys it, then men like me pay the price.
The sad truth is many of you have not the faintest idea what it is to be the victim of a real crime, to lose something really valuable in each of your unfulfilled lives. What have I done with my free time you ask? I went shopping. I furnished my surroundings with the stark reminders of all the time I have been forced to give up over the last decade and how I intend not to waste anymore.
Not a single solitary second.
As I've already made clear, being caged teaches one many things, patience is one. The other is faith. People are sat at home right now watching me, no doubt wondering why I am so calm about facing two men who the record books clearly state have me clearly trumped within a professional arena and whilst it is true that maybe they may have held belts to prove they can wrestle me, they cannot fight me - and I have every intention of having men of their calibre fight me on my terms because I will not wrestle them on theirs. I never have, no matter what the little man in the striped shirt says.
Both of my opponents this week have proven that they like to exploit the rules, to bend them to their advantage, the ends justify the means for them if they can steal away a victory. The difference is whilst they're content to play the criminals to entertain each of you on a weekly basis in the scripted theatre of New Championship Wrestling, I have lived the life of a criminal. I have been tried and sentenced and I've paid with ten years of my life - and if the Anglo-Italian alliance want to mock me for teaming up with a children's entertainer, I'm more than willing to show them that what they do for millions every week, is no different from what Captain Howdy spent much of his life doing.
This is a match of three entertainers, two wannabe criminal acts but only one solid team. Only one team that is founded in absolute faith and belief, not only in each other but in a grander notion. Our belief in Thor, our devotion to Curtis Kanyon, is no more absurd than your belief in any other deity ya care to nominate.
I am The Breaker of Wills simply because over the last ten years mine has proved to be so fundamentally unbreakable. My partner may not be Stephen this week and it may frustrate him to take a back seat this week, but he understands our cause and that our intent is still criminal. The men stood opposite me this week are men of weakened will, and have been for years. The only thing proven to be even more fragile are their respective egos, and history has already shown what happens when their egos come into play.
Roberto Verona, I do not know much about ya, but I do know ya like to take lessons from history, so I have to wonder if ya will take the lessons that the fifteenth of October two thousand and eleven taught you to heart this week. The last time you teamed with Jake Conway, he abandoned you, left you to the wolves. He was willing to take the loss to save himself, even if it meant sacrificing you - the only difference is this time he's not chasing you for your title, something you've made damned certain of by keeping him close to your chest and whispering in Kelly's ear about giving the bloke yet another shot at the National Championship.
I don't know if its incredibly clever or incredibly sad how you've taken advantage of the poor dumb bastard's desperate need to remain relevant in the NCW of 2013...but I guess as long as big butch Shielas built like brick ****-houses are still twitching their overdeveloped abdomens for him, he just doesn't care anymore.
Cyrus reaches down into his pant pocket and pulls out a gold lighter, and in his left hand he takes the Queen of Diamonds.
Word is there are two sides to Jake Conway. Loving husband and father on one side. Badass rake swinging wrestler on the other. The falcrum of this little see-saw, the pivot of this little mental balance is apparently one sweet. attractive, if slightly retarded Kathleen Conway. I wonder how true that really is?
I don't know too much about ya mate, but I get it. I really do. I get that you need to prove your some kind of big badass, thst you need to prove your masculinity to the world and you do it here outside in the free world, the same way it is done on the inside. By waving something long and stiff around and using it until it draws blood and satisfies you, I can believe you've spent some time behind bars mate, and I can only guess that its left you feeling inferior, inadequate and unable to compensate for your short-comings.
I'd be mad at the world too if the only Shielas willing to deal with my Spade were either nuts, entirely asexual or could otherwise bench press more than me without breaking a sweat. See Jake, while you concern yourself with damaged goods, I concern myself only with damage. I don't want to face Jake Conway. I want to face The Ace. I don't want you to ride the see-saw anymore, I want to break the pivot. I want the balance to tip only one way this Sunday. If I were a bettin' man, I would bet it wouldn't take much to break the will of Jake Conway. You pride yourself on maintaining control, keeping composure, keeping the darkness at bay, away from the innocent eyes of your little dingos. That's the difference between you and I Jake, while you struggle to remain civilised and flinch from the depravity of your own thoughts, I wallow in it, embracing the sickness...
Flying free as a bird.
Uncaged.
Unrestrained.
Let freedom ring.
Then we can really start to enjoy ourselves.
Cyrus laughs as he flicks the lighter and looks at the yellow flame, slowly burning.
No doubt you've seen this trick before. No doubt other men have used this as some cheap theatric stunt to get your attention by setting your signature card alight. Doubtless, they have all rejoiced in watching ya burn metaphorically. I am not that predictable. I will not promise to burn ya Ace. Instead I want you to think of the flame you're holding for Emma Danielson...
Cyrus moves the flame to the edge of the Queen of Diamonds playing card.
I want you to watch as by your own design, your world burns.
The flames start to lick at the card.
They say diamonds are forever.
Wanna bet?
The camera focuses on The Queen of Diamonds burning, set alight by the flame of the love that should never have been just like the love that there had been between Cyrus and Virginia.
A solitary dim light bulb swings on its frayed wire.
The light it emits flickers.
A simple wooden table in the centre of the room. A simple cane chair, and sat in this small windowless room furnished like a police interrogation room is former Australian ex convict, Cyrus Daniels.
The monster of a man has his elbows on the table, his arms folded across it, in clear defiance of his late mother's attempts to make him a civilised member of society. On the table in front of him was a single card. The Queen Of Diamonds.
Cyrus grins at the card, knowing he had at least one man's undivided attention now. But the entire issue was not as pressing to him as perhaps it was to Jake Conway. Cyrus would not indulge him until he was good and ready. This was his time and nobody would ever dictate how he spent it again.
Cyrus sat in his short-sleeved olive green shirt and fingerless gloves, as he looked up and addressed the watching nation, savouring their growing impatience with him.
What do ya do with your free time mate? It's an interesting question isn't it? Not one many of ya give much thought to I bet. Some men would bitch about not being booked for a match in over a month. Some men would lament the fact that their last match had been in early December last year and it is now early January of the next.
Some men would see the intervening time as of little consequence other than to invite the accumulation of ring rust, and to those men I say how little you know of the remarkable strength of the human spirit. You'd do well to remember the fact that an iron rod, even a rusty one, can still violate ya in unspeakable ways if it is shoved unceremoniously up your jacksie.
Being locked away from society like a damned animal has a strange way of teaching ya the most remarkable things, not the least of which is patience. So I ask again, how do ya spend your free time, mate? Do ya fret about not seeing your name on the card for weeks? Do ya cry about being unused by management? Do ya think your talent is being wasted? What do ya intend to do about it?
Waste more of your time complaining about everything and changing nothing? While you wish away your life, I live mine. While you waste away your years yearning for so much more than you already have, I embrace each day as it comes. In this little room, I appreciate my freedom more than all of you who do not confine yourselves. Ironic isn't it? Does it depress ya?
It should.
Ya scuttle around like cockroaches in your finite lives never quite appreciating all you have, even when the reaper reminds you of the ticking clock that is a noose around your neck, ever tightening, the light growing ever dimmer upon your meaningless existence you still never really learn to cherish the gift of life you have been afforded.
Instead you waste it, you throw it all away, trying in unbridled desperation to make whatever points ya feel should validate that little trinket everybody wants to take from around your waist, yet few men ever actually have the balls to steal away from you. Even when it is all legal and just, you will all whine about how its all been a huge crime. About how you have been the victim. How you've had it all stolen away from you, and because it is such a convincing argument, it works not only in this business but in the legal systems around the world, and when the world buys it, then men like me pay the price.
The sad truth is many of you have not the faintest idea what it is to be the victim of a real crime, to lose something really valuable in each of your unfulfilled lives. What have I done with my free time you ask? I went shopping. I furnished my surroundings with the stark reminders of all the time I have been forced to give up over the last decade and how I intend not to waste anymore.
Not a single solitary second.
As I've already made clear, being caged teaches one many things, patience is one. The other is faith. People are sat at home right now watching me, no doubt wondering why I am so calm about facing two men who the record books clearly state have me clearly trumped within a professional arena and whilst it is true that maybe they may have held belts to prove they can wrestle me, they cannot fight me - and I have every intention of having men of their calibre fight me on my terms because I will not wrestle them on theirs. I never have, no matter what the little man in the striped shirt says.
Both of my opponents this week have proven that they like to exploit the rules, to bend them to their advantage, the ends justify the means for them if they can steal away a victory. The difference is whilst they're content to play the criminals to entertain each of you on a weekly basis in the scripted theatre of New Championship Wrestling, I have lived the life of a criminal. I have been tried and sentenced and I've paid with ten years of my life - and if the Anglo-Italian alliance want to mock me for teaming up with a children's entertainer, I'm more than willing to show them that what they do for millions every week, is no different from what Captain Howdy spent much of his life doing.
This is a match of three entertainers, two wannabe criminal acts but only one solid team. Only one team that is founded in absolute faith and belief, not only in each other but in a grander notion. Our belief in Thor, our devotion to Curtis Kanyon, is no more absurd than your belief in any other deity ya care to nominate.
I am The Breaker of Wills simply because over the last ten years mine has proved to be so fundamentally unbreakable. My partner may not be Stephen this week and it may frustrate him to take a back seat this week, but he understands our cause and that our intent is still criminal. The men stood opposite me this week are men of weakened will, and have been for years. The only thing proven to be even more fragile are their respective egos, and history has already shown what happens when their egos come into play.
Roberto Verona, I do not know much about ya, but I do know ya like to take lessons from history, so I have to wonder if ya will take the lessons that the fifteenth of October two thousand and eleven taught you to heart this week. The last time you teamed with Jake Conway, he abandoned you, left you to the wolves. He was willing to take the loss to save himself, even if it meant sacrificing you - the only difference is this time he's not chasing you for your title, something you've made damned certain of by keeping him close to your chest and whispering in Kelly's ear about giving the bloke yet another shot at the National Championship.
I don't know if its incredibly clever or incredibly sad how you've taken advantage of the poor dumb bastard's desperate need to remain relevant in the NCW of 2013...but I guess as long as big butch Shielas built like brick ****-houses are still twitching their overdeveloped abdomens for him, he just doesn't care anymore.
Cyrus reaches down into his pant pocket and pulls out a gold lighter, and in his left hand he takes the Queen of Diamonds.
Word is there are two sides to Jake Conway. Loving husband and father on one side. Badass rake swinging wrestler on the other. The falcrum of this little see-saw, the pivot of this little mental balance is apparently one sweet. attractive, if slightly retarded Kathleen Conway. I wonder how true that really is?
I don't know too much about ya mate, but I get it. I really do. I get that you need to prove your some kind of big badass, thst you need to prove your masculinity to the world and you do it here outside in the free world, the same way it is done on the inside. By waving something long and stiff around and using it until it draws blood and satisfies you, I can believe you've spent some time behind bars mate, and I can only guess that its left you feeling inferior, inadequate and unable to compensate for your short-comings.
I'd be mad at the world too if the only Shielas willing to deal with my Spade were either nuts, entirely asexual or could otherwise bench press more than me without breaking a sweat. See Jake, while you concern yourself with damaged goods, I concern myself only with damage. I don't want to face Jake Conway. I want to face The Ace. I don't want you to ride the see-saw anymore, I want to break the pivot. I want the balance to tip only one way this Sunday. If I were a bettin' man, I would bet it wouldn't take much to break the will of Jake Conway. You pride yourself on maintaining control, keeping composure, keeping the darkness at bay, away from the innocent eyes of your little dingos. That's the difference between you and I Jake, while you struggle to remain civilised and flinch from the depravity of your own thoughts, I wallow in it, embracing the sickness...
Flying free as a bird.
Uncaged.
Unrestrained.
Let freedom ring.
Then we can really start to enjoy ourselves.
Cyrus laughs as he flicks the lighter and looks at the yellow flame, slowly burning.
No doubt you've seen this trick before. No doubt other men have used this as some cheap theatric stunt to get your attention by setting your signature card alight. Doubtless, they have all rejoiced in watching ya burn metaphorically. I am not that predictable. I will not promise to burn ya Ace. Instead I want you to think of the flame you're holding for Emma Danielson...
Cyrus moves the flame to the edge of the Queen of Diamonds playing card.
I want you to watch as by your own design, your world burns.
The flames start to lick at the card.
They say diamonds are forever.
Wanna bet?
The camera focuses on The Queen of Diamonds burning, set alight by the flame of the love that should never have been just like the love that there had been between Cyrus and Virginia.