Post by Cyrus Daniels on Apr 23, 2013 13:25:05 GMT -6
Cyrus Daniels is sat in the middle of his small windowless room, with its single bulb suspended from the ceiling. He has his arms folded across the top of a wooden table in an act that would clearly have upset his mother if she was still alive. We notice the big man is sat without a top on, and for the first time without his black leather fingerless gloves. as he has his hands steepled under his chin giving the rugged giant a sombre reflective demeanor that seemed somehow unsettling as we focused in on his cold distant eyes.
In the silence we hear the ticking of a clock in the background. In a corner of the room propped up against the wall was a dingy mattress that looked considerably more worn than the first and last time we had seen it, a few weeks ago when Nicole Kingsley had been staying here. For the moment we are left to assume that Nicole had returned to the civilised world with her brother Stephen, but with Cyrus nothing was ever certain.
Three hundred and twenty two days.
Ten months and eighteen days.
That is how long Spike Kane will have eluded me before I see him within the confines of a twenty by twenty ring again, and perhaps it is the height of irony that I have not forgotten June 10th, 2012 as the day you struck me with all your thunder. I felt the wrath of the God of Xtreme as he delivered me straight into the waiting wings of a Falcon. On that day, the seed was planted in my mind as surely as my very own face was spiked into the canvas, and almost a year now its had time to germinate, to grow, to sprout leaves and provide me the oxygen that keeps me breathing.
Ya know mate, it really is remarkable the kinds of things one can learn about himself durin' a decade locked away like an animal away from so called civilised society. Do ya wanna know what I learned about myself? I learned that I'm nothin' if not a patient man. I can bide my time. I can stretch ten months into ten years, because time is not nearly as rigid as you think it is. Much like the human mind, time is not a piece of string. It is a bungee chord, it is malleable, it can be expanded or contracted by virtue of human experience alone, but it is not the flexibility of the melting clock you hang by that should concern you Michael, it is what happens when the bungee chord snaps. What happens when a fostered criminal mind snaps?
On Sunday, you and Rob Diamond will ask so many questions of my partner Stephen and I, and whilst I can not promise to give you all the answers you seek, I can promise that you will ask why it hurts so much? Ten months of pent up aggression really shouldn't feel like ten years, and yet somehow your body tells you it does for that is the gift and the curse of perception. Whether Stephen or I win this Sunday really is of no consequence to me, either way I want to give you a reason to return to the narcotics that you hope will numb your pain long enough for you to put on quite possibly the last show stealing performance of your career against another relic of a bygone era back for one last NCW paycheck. You want to spotlight one more Dragon's Den and relegate guys like Stephen and I to catering backstage during A Night To Remember all because your ego couldn't step aside, that's fine. Actually, ya know I'll rather enjoy having my birthday off and watching you hobble your arse out from behind the curtain for one more match in a business and company to which you owe nothing more.
Unlike you Michael, I don't need to wait until May 19th to give you a night to remember, I have not forgotten the night you hit me with your best shot, and whilst I cannot promise victory, I will promise that neither will you when the favour is returned. You struck me with thunder, I will answer with lightning. Stephen and I may not be able to stop this company from parading out the old names for its swan song, but I assure you that the Crocodile Hunter and I are more than willing and able to cause a little storm and bring a little rain.
Cyrus then gets up from the table and walks over to the dingy mattress. He leans in and takes a lungful of her lingering scent, before turning to the camera.
Oh I'm sorry, I haven't formally introduced myself to one Rob Diamond it seems, or is it Lord Dominicus? I don't know and I don't particularly care. Now ya may be asking yourself where are my manners? My mother used to ask the same thing and she never got an answer she liked either, in a lot of ways you remind me of my mother Rob, just like you she was an insufferable bitch who was always disappointed in me and never cared enough who I was because she was too busy suckin' it from any guy who offered, and when there were no offers on the table for that week, she made do with the business end of a bottle. It was then that I realised that it really didn't matter who I was. Nobody cared until my mugshot was plastered all across the local news, for the job I had pulled.
You see Rob, you don't need to know or care who I am to know what I am capable of. I can hurt you, and I can do it not to make a name for myself or to leave a lasting impression on you, I can do it simply because I enjoy it. I don't care if you remember my name, all I care about is that you never forget the pain. I want to give you a reason to retreat into your little masked persona even moreso than ya do right now. Hell I wouldn't care if both you and Spike took to wearin' masks again, whether it be to hide the bruises of a well overdue beating from two thugs you never knew the name of or whether it is simply to hide the shame you both feel about having been beaten by a couple of nobodies, I don't care.
I've obscured my face, protected my identity and for a while nobody knew who I was either, and I prefered it that way because life was so much simpler then, there's a lot to be said for anonymity actually, it is so much more comfortable than the popular perception of this business where we're all here to make our name or make money or achieve fame. I am here for none of those things because I am not Spike Kane or Rob Diamond, I am here to do legally what on the streets would put me straight back in the big house.
This isn't so much about beating two established names as much as it is about beating two guys bolstered by reputation but hampered by ego. This match is all about the limits of human perception and how wrong it often is. Is this the same mattress that Nicole and I did the wild mamba on a dozen times a couple of weeks ago. You would assume it to be, wouldn't you? Even if you don't necessarily want to believe that all these stains are byproducts of our passion, even as you wrinkle your nose up at the very idea, part of you still perceives it to be the very same mattress...
Cyrus then produces a large hunting knife that was dangling from his belt, across his left hip and slashes the blade down the centre of the mattress, as bills burst forth and spill from it, and once again our perception is changed. It now appears that this mattress is about ten years old and stuffed with some ill gotten gain, probably from that bank heist, but again nothing is ever certain with Cyrus.
Does it depress you to know how wrong you really were? Does it frustrate you to be left with more questions than answers? Good, because now the whole world can empathise with the fates of the heroes they so desperately cheer as the reality sets in that what will happen this Sunday will be nothing short of criminal...
Just as always has been our intent.
In the silence we hear the ticking of a clock in the background. In a corner of the room propped up against the wall was a dingy mattress that looked considerably more worn than the first and last time we had seen it, a few weeks ago when Nicole Kingsley had been staying here. For the moment we are left to assume that Nicole had returned to the civilised world with her brother Stephen, but with Cyrus nothing was ever certain.
Three hundred and twenty two days.
Ten months and eighteen days.
That is how long Spike Kane will have eluded me before I see him within the confines of a twenty by twenty ring again, and perhaps it is the height of irony that I have not forgotten June 10th, 2012 as the day you struck me with all your thunder. I felt the wrath of the God of Xtreme as he delivered me straight into the waiting wings of a Falcon. On that day, the seed was planted in my mind as surely as my very own face was spiked into the canvas, and almost a year now its had time to germinate, to grow, to sprout leaves and provide me the oxygen that keeps me breathing.
Ya know mate, it really is remarkable the kinds of things one can learn about himself durin' a decade locked away like an animal away from so called civilised society. Do ya wanna know what I learned about myself? I learned that I'm nothin' if not a patient man. I can bide my time. I can stretch ten months into ten years, because time is not nearly as rigid as you think it is. Much like the human mind, time is not a piece of string. It is a bungee chord, it is malleable, it can be expanded or contracted by virtue of human experience alone, but it is not the flexibility of the melting clock you hang by that should concern you Michael, it is what happens when the bungee chord snaps. What happens when a fostered criminal mind snaps?
On Sunday, you and Rob Diamond will ask so many questions of my partner Stephen and I, and whilst I can not promise to give you all the answers you seek, I can promise that you will ask why it hurts so much? Ten months of pent up aggression really shouldn't feel like ten years, and yet somehow your body tells you it does for that is the gift and the curse of perception. Whether Stephen or I win this Sunday really is of no consequence to me, either way I want to give you a reason to return to the narcotics that you hope will numb your pain long enough for you to put on quite possibly the last show stealing performance of your career against another relic of a bygone era back for one last NCW paycheck. You want to spotlight one more Dragon's Den and relegate guys like Stephen and I to catering backstage during A Night To Remember all because your ego couldn't step aside, that's fine. Actually, ya know I'll rather enjoy having my birthday off and watching you hobble your arse out from behind the curtain for one more match in a business and company to which you owe nothing more.
Unlike you Michael, I don't need to wait until May 19th to give you a night to remember, I have not forgotten the night you hit me with your best shot, and whilst I cannot promise victory, I will promise that neither will you when the favour is returned. You struck me with thunder, I will answer with lightning. Stephen and I may not be able to stop this company from parading out the old names for its swan song, but I assure you that the Crocodile Hunter and I are more than willing and able to cause a little storm and bring a little rain.
Cyrus then gets up from the table and walks over to the dingy mattress. He leans in and takes a lungful of her lingering scent, before turning to the camera.
Oh I'm sorry, I haven't formally introduced myself to one Rob Diamond it seems, or is it Lord Dominicus? I don't know and I don't particularly care. Now ya may be asking yourself where are my manners? My mother used to ask the same thing and she never got an answer she liked either, in a lot of ways you remind me of my mother Rob, just like you she was an insufferable bitch who was always disappointed in me and never cared enough who I was because she was too busy suckin' it from any guy who offered, and when there were no offers on the table for that week, she made do with the business end of a bottle. It was then that I realised that it really didn't matter who I was. Nobody cared until my mugshot was plastered all across the local news, for the job I had pulled.
You see Rob, you don't need to know or care who I am to know what I am capable of. I can hurt you, and I can do it not to make a name for myself or to leave a lasting impression on you, I can do it simply because I enjoy it. I don't care if you remember my name, all I care about is that you never forget the pain. I want to give you a reason to retreat into your little masked persona even moreso than ya do right now. Hell I wouldn't care if both you and Spike took to wearin' masks again, whether it be to hide the bruises of a well overdue beating from two thugs you never knew the name of or whether it is simply to hide the shame you both feel about having been beaten by a couple of nobodies, I don't care.
I've obscured my face, protected my identity and for a while nobody knew who I was either, and I prefered it that way because life was so much simpler then, there's a lot to be said for anonymity actually, it is so much more comfortable than the popular perception of this business where we're all here to make our name or make money or achieve fame. I am here for none of those things because I am not Spike Kane or Rob Diamond, I am here to do legally what on the streets would put me straight back in the big house.
This isn't so much about beating two established names as much as it is about beating two guys bolstered by reputation but hampered by ego. This match is all about the limits of human perception and how wrong it often is. Is this the same mattress that Nicole and I did the wild mamba on a dozen times a couple of weeks ago. You would assume it to be, wouldn't you? Even if you don't necessarily want to believe that all these stains are byproducts of our passion, even as you wrinkle your nose up at the very idea, part of you still perceives it to be the very same mattress...
Cyrus then produces a large hunting knife that was dangling from his belt, across his left hip and slashes the blade down the centre of the mattress, as bills burst forth and spill from it, and once again our perception is changed. It now appears that this mattress is about ten years old and stuffed with some ill gotten gain, probably from that bank heist, but again nothing is ever certain with Cyrus.
Does it depress you to know how wrong you really were? Does it frustrate you to be left with more questions than answers? Good, because now the whole world can empathise with the fates of the heroes they so desperately cheer as the reality sets in that what will happen this Sunday will be nothing short of criminal...
Just as always has been our intent.