Post by adm on May 7, 2008 20:15:26 GMT -6
“Lord is this a test? Was it fun creating, yeah? My god's a little sick. And he wants me crazy.”
The lyrics of "A Little Bitter" by Alice in Chains spoken from the lips of the madman of NCW. This man, who has been having quite a rough month match wise, has had a bull’s-eye on his back for weeks. Jackhammer, the man he faces to defend his Xtreme title, not the only one who has attempted to destroy Prophet mentally as well as physically as of late. And here, in his hotel room, Prophet sits. Pondering what it is that has led God to forsake him so. He, the man who has been calling himself God of Xtreme, is now wondering whether the God he grew up believing in, even exists anymore. Dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts, Prophet is crouched in the corner with his head staring at the carpet on the floor. His eyes are wide with insanity as he ponders everything around him. He’s been forsaken by an old friend, his new enemy, Jackhammer. He’s driven his wife to silence, fearing the nightmares she had when she came to visit him. His dealer, his friend, Fate, is nowhere to be found. Just Prophet, alone in this hotel room, losing his mind minute by minute and second by second.
“Little boy blue, drowned in ****. Little boy blue, in his pit. Bury me alive, in this hole. Bury me alive, heart and soul. God, you’ve left me. God, you’ve scorned me. God betrayed me. God has killed me. My mind is gone. I fear living on. I have only wrong. There is no right. There is no fight. Just the insanity. Just this obscurity. Just this intense justification. Just this intense divination. Sitting in my room, alone and unwanted. I sit, with my title a reminder of those who destroyed me. All of them, the Empire. They pour the gasoline, and set the fire. Here I burn, in this Hell. Here I burn, where I fell. Alone, unwanted, and ready to Die. Please, God, tell me why.”
Prophet’s words, mostly in rhyme, describe his entire condition right now. He is alone, and off his medication. He has driven Fate from his side and his wife from his thoughts. He’s driven his title to the bottom of his dresser. The belt that still has a faint crimson outline of where his blood was used to write “Empire” on it at Collision just days ago. And JackHammer, a former friend and teammate, now turned on him entirely. A man who believes in himself so truly, and leaves Prophet to wonder if they are right. He makes Prophet wonder, if he is no longer Hardcore. He makes Prophet wonder if he even deserves the title he normally wears around his waist. Prophet stands up, and sits on the bed. He turns on the television, then the VCR. He watches a recording of the attack on him by the Empire. He watches as his head is driven violently into the shimmering surface of the Xtreme title. He watches as they write their name in his blood, on HIS title. They humiliated him, and destroyed him unmercifully. A group of men, led by Davey Ortega, bent on his destruction. Sexy Jason, the former champion and his friend JFK. Both are men Prophet beat before, but now they come back to haunt him like skeletons given new life.
“I look at this world from the outside in. There is nothing surrounding me but sin. Please, save me from my Hell. And the pit from where I dwell. Bury me in my ****, just as well. Bury me, no more to tell. Sew my lips and eyes closed shut. Beat me like a three-legged mutt. Take me away, take me from here. Take me away, far or near. I don’t care, just let me go. Far from here, this I know. I am frail. I am male. I am weak pummeled by hail. In the storm within my mind. Here I watch what I can find. Davey and his Empire unkind. Making me turn and unwind. Nothing, nothing, rolling around. Nothing, nothing, I have found. Please, save me from my pit. Save me, I’m buried, in my ****. Man in a box, Man all alone. Man who cannot go home. Man who forever must roam. Tearing skin from bone. Smashing me with a phone. You killed me, dead and left me bleeding. Please, please, hear my pleading. Suffer me no longer, world. Suffer me, no longer world…Suffer…No…Longer…”
Prophet’s eyes glaze over, as he curls into the fetal position on his bed. Rocking back and forth, he continues to repeat the last sentence he said. “Suffer me, No longer world.” Like a man on the brink of suicide and in a nervous breakdown, he curls and cries. He’s alone. He has no friend, no help. He’s been hung out to dry, and the world is closing in upon him. Through his eyes, we watch as the room melts away. The room begins melting into a padded room with corpses lying in putrid blood. Prophet lay on the floor of this rancid room. He lies rocking back and forth, as he watches everything around him close in. He’s suffocating on the stench of blood. He’s suffocating as the walls close in more and more. In this prison of his mind, he’s fallen into disrepair. A legend, a God, turned into only a sniveling shell of a man. How could it be, that only a few weeks ago he defeated the former #1 Contender for the NCW World Title and now he’s gone beyond his limit, pushed over the edge. Fate is nowhere to be found, and Prophet, cannot escape the hell his mind created for him.
He pulls out the Xtreme Championship, and begins to slam it against his head over and over. He breaks open the wound from Collision, turning his face into a crimson mask. His eyes are wide and have a look of pure insanity. He watches as the blood falls onto the belt, pooling on the golden surface. Through his eyes he watches his blood melt through the belt, and melt through the floor. Blood-like acid burns away the floor, revealing a bottomless black hole. Prophet gazes into this hole, wondering if he should jump in and end everything. He’s pushed to the edge, and he is suicidal. Suicidal, holding his melting Xtreme Championship, Prophet looks into the hole intently. Falling forward, he goes into the hole. He falls, for what seems like eternity, before he lands in the hotel’s bathroom, vomiting into the toilet.
“Withdrawals…so…bad…” Prophet gets out three words between turns throwing up bile into the pristine white bowl.
Prophet curls up onto the floor, looking around the room as it shifts and waves like he’s had too much to drink. He’s sober, and hasn’t had his medicine in days. He’s suffering withdrawals and not seeing things clearly. The Xtreme title is lying at the open door to the bathroom, how Prophet got here is beyond us, as he didn’t walk anywhere in his hallucination. Prophet pulls his heavy body up using the sink as leverage. And here, he gets a good look into the mirror. He sees what he’s become. He’s a junky without his drugs and he’s dying because of it.
“What are you becoming?” Prophet says, to his reflection. “What are you? Who are you? You are not Dark Prophet, you are a ****ing hack. You are a has-been. You are a shell and you are better off in the grave. Nobody needs you. Nobody wants you. Nobody cares if you die anymore. Your wife is afraid of you. Your children fear what you are becoming. Your friend stopped giving you your medication. Your co-workers and boss think you are losing it. You are nothing. You are no God of anything. You WISH you were God of Xtreme. You WISH you were God. And here you are, crumbling in the bathroom, watching this hallucination you call the world crumble around you. You are no God, or Hero, you are an angel falling from grace. You are falling from your throne to the bowels of Hell beneath you.”
Prophet begins to cry, as he listens to him put himself down aloud. His tears run red as they mix with the blood that has dried upon his face. He looks like Hell, and is breaking apart before our very eyes.
“You are nothing, Dark Prophet. You are a sham, a False Prophet.” Prophet begins again.
“I didn’t do it, I swear!” Prophet replies, finally beginning to defend himself, or attempt anyway.
“You are to blame for EVERYTHING Darky. You pushed your wife away. You pushed your friends away. You brought this all upon yourself. You are nothing, and you are better dead. It will save JackHammer the trouble of decimating you at Reborn. You are going to be unmade at Reborn. If you are to be Reborn, it will be as a corpse.”
“But…I am trying to do well. I beat Dave Holland.”
“You did NOTHING, Dark Prophet. You got lucky. Every match you’ve had this month, you’ve lost besides that one. You’ve been a wreck, a recluse, and you’ve been tearing yourself apart like this for so long. You are nothing, you deserve worse than Death!”
“NO I DON’T!” Prophet screams at his reflection. “I don’t deserve worse than death! You deserve to DIE!”
Prophet thrusts his fist through the mirror, shattering glass everywhere. Prophet begins stomping on every large piece of glass as he watches his reflection laugh at him. His hands and feet begin to bleed from the broken mirror. He stumbles out of the bathroom and trips over the Xtreme title into the main room. He lies, on the floor, bleeding and crying. Suddenly, we hear the sound of keys at the door. As Prophet looks up, toward the door in the spinning distorted vision he has, he sees Fate walk into the room. He takes one look at Prophet and pulls out his cell phone. He immediately dials for help, knowing Prophet needs medical attention, as well as a nice padded room to keep him safe until his match with JackHammer. Just like before the Asylum over a year ago, Prophet is destroying himself before he even faces Hammer. Just like he did before the first Asylum, and before his fights with Joanie Lee, he crumbles under the weight of his own self-doubt.
“Hello, this is 911, what is your emergency?” A voice speaks from the other line.
“Yes, I’m the former MECCA World Champion, Fate, and I am here in my hotel room with Dark Prophet. He’s done something to himself since I left an hour ago. He’s bleeding everywhere, and there are broken shards of the bathroom mirror all over.” Fate’s voice is full of fright, seeing in Prophet what he saw in himself only six months ago.
“What is your location?”
“The Marriott Hotel in downtown Chicago.”
“We’re on our way. Someone will be there in roughly five minutes.”
“Thank you very much.” Fate says as he puts the phone down. We hear as the voice begins speaking instructions on how to temporarily treat Prophet’s wounds, but Fate already knows the drill from his own problems.
Prophet writhes on the floor, crying and bleeding, as Fate carefully gets into the bathroom for towels to wrap around Prophet’s bleeding extremities. Prophet begins to climb his way to his feet, using the dresser for leverage. He grabs the handle to the top drawer, and falls to the floor as he pulls it out. Next to him, falls the revolver Fate owns and a box of bullets. Prophet’s eyes widen as he begins to talk to himself again.
“See, Darky? They want me to kill you. God wants to kill you. This isn’t a test, this is for real. You have the gun…you have the ammo…just do it. Take yourself out. Be a man and scatter your brains across the walls.”
Prophet begins to fumble with the gun, putting bullet after bullet into the six chamber cylinder. Fate is already back in the main room with towels to wrap Prophet’s wounds when he sees Prophet loading the gun. He dives at Prophet, just as he closes the cylinder and pulls back the hammer. They fight over the gun, screaming.
“Damnit Prophet! Give me the gun before you hurt someone!”
“He has to die, Fate. Prophet has to die…can’t you see he’s in pain?”
“This is not the way to do this, Prophet. I’ve been here, and you talked me down enough times to know this isn’t what is right. Put the gun down!”
The voice on the cell phone begins to hear these words, and immediately begins calling for backup, “Attention, we need backup units for the emergency at the Chicago Marriott. We have a man who has a gun, take extra caution.”
“Let me end him, Fate. Let me kill him for the both of us. You know you want him dead.”
“Angelo?” Fate asks.
Prophet laughs, as he fires the gun, putting a hole in the ceiling. He pulls back the hammer again as he wrestles with Fate. “You know me too well, Fate. But can’t you see, he’s ready. Unlike you, he’s not worth anything to us. He’s better dead, don’t you see? Nobody will care.” He fires the gun again, this time putting a hole through the television screen.
“Don’t do it, Angelo! It is ME you want! Leave Prophet out of this!”
“Come on; let’s scrape him from the walls of this hotel room, Fate. Let’s go crazy, like he has made you. Let him taste the cold bitter steel. Let him taste the gun in his mouth, he feels so alive.”
“*** damnIT! PUT THE GUN DOWN!” Fate screams as the gun fires again, and again, and again. Prophet shoots the gun until it’s empty, hitting the walls and the ceiling multiple times.
“DAMN YOU FATE!” Prophet screams, as he lunges for the box of bullets.
As the two of them fight over the gun and the bullets, the door flies open. Two EMT’s rush in, one with a shot of sedative at the ready after hearing the orders from the operator. He doesn’t know who to give the shot to, until Fate gestures to Prophet. The two of them help Fate pin him down, and get the gun away from him. They give him a shot, and he immediately begins to pass out. They put him on the stretcher, before hauling him away. We close as the door slams behind the three of them.
The lyrics of "A Little Bitter" by Alice in Chains spoken from the lips of the madman of NCW. This man, who has been having quite a rough month match wise, has had a bull’s-eye on his back for weeks. Jackhammer, the man he faces to defend his Xtreme title, not the only one who has attempted to destroy Prophet mentally as well as physically as of late. And here, in his hotel room, Prophet sits. Pondering what it is that has led God to forsake him so. He, the man who has been calling himself God of Xtreme, is now wondering whether the God he grew up believing in, even exists anymore. Dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts, Prophet is crouched in the corner with his head staring at the carpet on the floor. His eyes are wide with insanity as he ponders everything around him. He’s been forsaken by an old friend, his new enemy, Jackhammer. He’s driven his wife to silence, fearing the nightmares she had when she came to visit him. His dealer, his friend, Fate, is nowhere to be found. Just Prophet, alone in this hotel room, losing his mind minute by minute and second by second.
“Little boy blue, drowned in ****. Little boy blue, in his pit. Bury me alive, in this hole. Bury me alive, heart and soul. God, you’ve left me. God, you’ve scorned me. God betrayed me. God has killed me. My mind is gone. I fear living on. I have only wrong. There is no right. There is no fight. Just the insanity. Just this obscurity. Just this intense justification. Just this intense divination. Sitting in my room, alone and unwanted. I sit, with my title a reminder of those who destroyed me. All of them, the Empire. They pour the gasoline, and set the fire. Here I burn, in this Hell. Here I burn, where I fell. Alone, unwanted, and ready to Die. Please, God, tell me why.”
Prophet’s words, mostly in rhyme, describe his entire condition right now. He is alone, and off his medication. He has driven Fate from his side and his wife from his thoughts. He’s driven his title to the bottom of his dresser. The belt that still has a faint crimson outline of where his blood was used to write “Empire” on it at Collision just days ago. And JackHammer, a former friend and teammate, now turned on him entirely. A man who believes in himself so truly, and leaves Prophet to wonder if they are right. He makes Prophet wonder, if he is no longer Hardcore. He makes Prophet wonder if he even deserves the title he normally wears around his waist. Prophet stands up, and sits on the bed. He turns on the television, then the VCR. He watches a recording of the attack on him by the Empire. He watches as his head is driven violently into the shimmering surface of the Xtreme title. He watches as they write their name in his blood, on HIS title. They humiliated him, and destroyed him unmercifully. A group of men, led by Davey Ortega, bent on his destruction. Sexy Jason, the former champion and his friend JFK. Both are men Prophet beat before, but now they come back to haunt him like skeletons given new life.
“I look at this world from the outside in. There is nothing surrounding me but sin. Please, save me from my Hell. And the pit from where I dwell. Bury me in my ****, just as well. Bury me, no more to tell. Sew my lips and eyes closed shut. Beat me like a three-legged mutt. Take me away, take me from here. Take me away, far or near. I don’t care, just let me go. Far from here, this I know. I am frail. I am male. I am weak pummeled by hail. In the storm within my mind. Here I watch what I can find. Davey and his Empire unkind. Making me turn and unwind. Nothing, nothing, rolling around. Nothing, nothing, I have found. Please, save me from my pit. Save me, I’m buried, in my ****. Man in a box, Man all alone. Man who cannot go home. Man who forever must roam. Tearing skin from bone. Smashing me with a phone. You killed me, dead and left me bleeding. Please, please, hear my pleading. Suffer me no longer, world. Suffer me, no longer world…Suffer…No…Longer…”
Prophet’s eyes glaze over, as he curls into the fetal position on his bed. Rocking back and forth, he continues to repeat the last sentence he said. “Suffer me, No longer world.” Like a man on the brink of suicide and in a nervous breakdown, he curls and cries. He’s alone. He has no friend, no help. He’s been hung out to dry, and the world is closing in upon him. Through his eyes, we watch as the room melts away. The room begins melting into a padded room with corpses lying in putrid blood. Prophet lay on the floor of this rancid room. He lies rocking back and forth, as he watches everything around him close in. He’s suffocating on the stench of blood. He’s suffocating as the walls close in more and more. In this prison of his mind, he’s fallen into disrepair. A legend, a God, turned into only a sniveling shell of a man. How could it be, that only a few weeks ago he defeated the former #1 Contender for the NCW World Title and now he’s gone beyond his limit, pushed over the edge. Fate is nowhere to be found, and Prophet, cannot escape the hell his mind created for him.
He pulls out the Xtreme Championship, and begins to slam it against his head over and over. He breaks open the wound from Collision, turning his face into a crimson mask. His eyes are wide and have a look of pure insanity. He watches as the blood falls onto the belt, pooling on the golden surface. Through his eyes he watches his blood melt through the belt, and melt through the floor. Blood-like acid burns away the floor, revealing a bottomless black hole. Prophet gazes into this hole, wondering if he should jump in and end everything. He’s pushed to the edge, and he is suicidal. Suicidal, holding his melting Xtreme Championship, Prophet looks into the hole intently. Falling forward, he goes into the hole. He falls, for what seems like eternity, before he lands in the hotel’s bathroom, vomiting into the toilet.
“Withdrawals…so…bad…” Prophet gets out three words between turns throwing up bile into the pristine white bowl.
Prophet curls up onto the floor, looking around the room as it shifts and waves like he’s had too much to drink. He’s sober, and hasn’t had his medicine in days. He’s suffering withdrawals and not seeing things clearly. The Xtreme title is lying at the open door to the bathroom, how Prophet got here is beyond us, as he didn’t walk anywhere in his hallucination. Prophet pulls his heavy body up using the sink as leverage. And here, he gets a good look into the mirror. He sees what he’s become. He’s a junky without his drugs and he’s dying because of it.
“What are you becoming?” Prophet says, to his reflection. “What are you? Who are you? You are not Dark Prophet, you are a ****ing hack. You are a has-been. You are a shell and you are better off in the grave. Nobody needs you. Nobody wants you. Nobody cares if you die anymore. Your wife is afraid of you. Your children fear what you are becoming. Your friend stopped giving you your medication. Your co-workers and boss think you are losing it. You are nothing. You are no God of anything. You WISH you were God of Xtreme. You WISH you were God. And here you are, crumbling in the bathroom, watching this hallucination you call the world crumble around you. You are no God, or Hero, you are an angel falling from grace. You are falling from your throne to the bowels of Hell beneath you.”
Prophet begins to cry, as he listens to him put himself down aloud. His tears run red as they mix with the blood that has dried upon his face. He looks like Hell, and is breaking apart before our very eyes.
“You are nothing, Dark Prophet. You are a sham, a False Prophet.” Prophet begins again.
“I didn’t do it, I swear!” Prophet replies, finally beginning to defend himself, or attempt anyway.
“You are to blame for EVERYTHING Darky. You pushed your wife away. You pushed your friends away. You brought this all upon yourself. You are nothing, and you are better dead. It will save JackHammer the trouble of decimating you at Reborn. You are going to be unmade at Reborn. If you are to be Reborn, it will be as a corpse.”
“But…I am trying to do well. I beat Dave Holland.”
“You did NOTHING, Dark Prophet. You got lucky. Every match you’ve had this month, you’ve lost besides that one. You’ve been a wreck, a recluse, and you’ve been tearing yourself apart like this for so long. You are nothing, you deserve worse than Death!”
“NO I DON’T!” Prophet screams at his reflection. “I don’t deserve worse than death! You deserve to DIE!”
Prophet thrusts his fist through the mirror, shattering glass everywhere. Prophet begins stomping on every large piece of glass as he watches his reflection laugh at him. His hands and feet begin to bleed from the broken mirror. He stumbles out of the bathroom and trips over the Xtreme title into the main room. He lies, on the floor, bleeding and crying. Suddenly, we hear the sound of keys at the door. As Prophet looks up, toward the door in the spinning distorted vision he has, he sees Fate walk into the room. He takes one look at Prophet and pulls out his cell phone. He immediately dials for help, knowing Prophet needs medical attention, as well as a nice padded room to keep him safe until his match with JackHammer. Just like before the Asylum over a year ago, Prophet is destroying himself before he even faces Hammer. Just like he did before the first Asylum, and before his fights with Joanie Lee, he crumbles under the weight of his own self-doubt.
“Hello, this is 911, what is your emergency?” A voice speaks from the other line.
“Yes, I’m the former MECCA World Champion, Fate, and I am here in my hotel room with Dark Prophet. He’s done something to himself since I left an hour ago. He’s bleeding everywhere, and there are broken shards of the bathroom mirror all over.” Fate’s voice is full of fright, seeing in Prophet what he saw in himself only six months ago.
“What is your location?”
“The Marriott Hotel in downtown Chicago.”
“We’re on our way. Someone will be there in roughly five minutes.”
“Thank you very much.” Fate says as he puts the phone down. We hear as the voice begins speaking instructions on how to temporarily treat Prophet’s wounds, but Fate already knows the drill from his own problems.
Prophet writhes on the floor, crying and bleeding, as Fate carefully gets into the bathroom for towels to wrap around Prophet’s bleeding extremities. Prophet begins to climb his way to his feet, using the dresser for leverage. He grabs the handle to the top drawer, and falls to the floor as he pulls it out. Next to him, falls the revolver Fate owns and a box of bullets. Prophet’s eyes widen as he begins to talk to himself again.
“See, Darky? They want me to kill you. God wants to kill you. This isn’t a test, this is for real. You have the gun…you have the ammo…just do it. Take yourself out. Be a man and scatter your brains across the walls.”
Prophet begins to fumble with the gun, putting bullet after bullet into the six chamber cylinder. Fate is already back in the main room with towels to wrap Prophet’s wounds when he sees Prophet loading the gun. He dives at Prophet, just as he closes the cylinder and pulls back the hammer. They fight over the gun, screaming.
“Damnit Prophet! Give me the gun before you hurt someone!”
“He has to die, Fate. Prophet has to die…can’t you see he’s in pain?”
“This is not the way to do this, Prophet. I’ve been here, and you talked me down enough times to know this isn’t what is right. Put the gun down!”
The voice on the cell phone begins to hear these words, and immediately begins calling for backup, “Attention, we need backup units for the emergency at the Chicago Marriott. We have a man who has a gun, take extra caution.”
“Let me end him, Fate. Let me kill him for the both of us. You know you want him dead.”
“Angelo?” Fate asks.
Prophet laughs, as he fires the gun, putting a hole in the ceiling. He pulls back the hammer again as he wrestles with Fate. “You know me too well, Fate. But can’t you see, he’s ready. Unlike you, he’s not worth anything to us. He’s better dead, don’t you see? Nobody will care.” He fires the gun again, this time putting a hole through the television screen.
“Don’t do it, Angelo! It is ME you want! Leave Prophet out of this!”
“Come on; let’s scrape him from the walls of this hotel room, Fate. Let’s go crazy, like he has made you. Let him taste the cold bitter steel. Let him taste the gun in his mouth, he feels so alive.”
“*** damnIT! PUT THE GUN DOWN!” Fate screams as the gun fires again, and again, and again. Prophet shoots the gun until it’s empty, hitting the walls and the ceiling multiple times.
“DAMN YOU FATE!” Prophet screams, as he lunges for the box of bullets.
As the two of them fight over the gun and the bullets, the door flies open. Two EMT’s rush in, one with a shot of sedative at the ready after hearing the orders from the operator. He doesn’t know who to give the shot to, until Fate gestures to Prophet. The two of them help Fate pin him down, and get the gun away from him. They give him a shot, and he immediately begins to pass out. They put him on the stretcher, before hauling him away. We close as the door slams behind the three of them.