Post by adm on Jun 9, 2008 18:18:50 GMT -6
“I’m burning the candle at all ends of my frayed sanity. The drugs, they work to hold back the nightmare within. That nightmare has consumed me before, turned me into a monster. I was a Windigo before, and could become one again. A beast feasting upon the slaughter, without emotions or motivation. But there are things that have brought me back to the real world. My family is all I have to keep me from going back. And now…they too have become a burden on my soul.”
Light shines through the curtains of the hotel room as Prophet sits alone on the edge of the bed. He has no title anymore; Spike Kane helped Reckoning take that from him. But he has a chance to gain more gold, it seems. Sunday, at Picture Perfect, he could become a tag champion with Hammer once again. Last time, was NLCW. But his thoughts are not on the match, or Picture Perfect. His thoughts are moved onto the news he got on the phone this morning.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Prophet begins, his voice full of sorrow. “My child, my seed, run down by a car while he played outside. My little Angel Jr.”
Prophet looks at the television, which is turned off for reasons unknown. He knows he has his match with Hammer, against Ricky Johnson and John Anthony. He knows he has business to attend to, but this stretching of his self is beginning to take its toll on him.
“I can’t go home to be by his side…or to comfort my wife as she worries if he’ll survive. Broken collarbone, fractured arm, broken leg, and internal bleeding; the kid is lucky to have made it to the hospital at all.”
Prophet goes over to the window, and looks outside. It is mid-day and the sun is shining. He doesn’t have the time to go home before the match on Sunday. True, Minneapolis isn’t more than a couple hours by plane from Kentucky, but there’s no guarantee he’d be able to get back on time were the weather to turn severe. He always feared something like this happening. He’s had nightmares about his wife and children dying for months, and it has taken an emotional toll. In the end, what can he do? He can’t leave Hammer hanging. He can’t leave his wife alone. So what did he do? He sent Fate to watch over them for the time being. He’ll try to be back by Sunday, but Prophet knows he couldn’t take that risk himself.
“They say if things look to be going fine, something bad is looming in the near future. They also say bad things come in threes. This is number one…”
He turns from the window and moves to the phone. He’s waiting on word from Fate or his wife on the condition of his child. He knows he couldn’t wrestle on Sunday should he die. He’d be at a funeral, and would not have the ability to make it. Who would take his place? Who would be the one to help Hammer win the Tag Titles for Lethal Intent? His job has become a burden he wishes he could bear. Prophet drops to his knees, and looks skyward.
“God, I know you don’t necessarily like me. I know you and I don’t get along. But please…protect my wife and children. Let my boy recover fully from this accident. Let my wife have the strength to carry her through this…and let me have the strength to stay behind and watch from afar.”
The phone rings and Prophet is quick to pull it to his ear.
“Is he alright?” Prophet asks anxiously, “Will he be fine?”
“So far it’s looking good.” The voice is Fate’s, “But your wife is really taking this hit pretty hard. Are you sure you can’t at least come back for a day?”
“I don’t know…We have the Pay Per View on Sunday, and it’s Monday afternoon now.”
“Listen, Prophet, she needs you more now than ever. You’ve gotta find a way to take a detour before you head to the match. There is no squaring it, man; you just have to do this.”
Prophet sighs before he speaks, “You are right, Fate. Listen, I need to get tickets on the next flight out of here, and pack all my stuff. What do you want me to do with your gun?”
“Leave it...”
“You sure?”
“Leave the gun, Prophet, I won’t need it anymore. I have a feeling Angelo Della Muerte is gone for good.”
“Ok, well…I’ve got to get going. I’ll call from the airport.”
Prophet hangs up the phone as we fade to black. We return later, as Prophet sits inside the plane, on his way home. He is trying his best to watch the in-flight movie, Shrek 3, but he can’t help but worry about his family. The stewardess comes up the aisle and she’s got a cart filled with airline alcohol bottles. Prophet knows he shouldn’t drink with his medication. He knows he should try and stay sober, but would it truly hurt to have one drink to take the edge off? Would he make it if he just took a single drink?
“Do you want anything to drink, sir?” The stewardess says to Prophet.
“I…” Prophet trails off, still debating if he should or not. “I am fine, thank you.”
“Enjoy your flight, sir.” She says before moving on to the next row of seats.
He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. He almost went down the path again. He almost stumbled back down the path of alcohol and medication cocktails that the last six years has been full of. He’s tried so hard up till now to deny the problem, but after his doctor has warned him that it could have serious effects on him, almost as bad as his drug abuse before wrestling, he hasn’t mixed the two. If only they allowed smoking on airplanes…then he’d be fine. But without his cigarettes his mind goes wild. He doesn’t have any clue if he’ll be going home to a family without a son…or if his child will pull through.
“God…please let everything be alright. Let me get home and back in time for Picture Perfect. Let my child recover…please…”
Prophet lays his head back on the headrest before closing his eyes. He focuses on thoughts to distract him. Thoughts of his match, thoughts about anything. We fade out, before returning with Prophet sitting on a chair inside a darkly lit hospital room. His face is stern, and his glare is softened by the worry about his child who lay in bed nearby.
“So here I sit, waiting on my son to improve and wake up from the drug-induced coma. They say he’ll be fine, but I want to see for myself. I want to see before I go back to Kentucky for Picture Perfect. And…I have a theory about why this has happened now. Someone is behind this. Trying to place a curse upon my family, trying to decimate me using black magick. But I have faith in God, even despite my strained relationship with the most-high. I haven’t gone to confession in months, but does he really care that much about a confession of sins? He knows what I’ve done, and what I have to do. He’s always known, and if he wants to check up, he don’t need a priest to go through.”
Prophet stops, and listens to the EKG machine beeping slowly nearby. His young son, not even four years old. A child that should be up and about, active and smiling, constrained to a hospital bed because of a hit and run.
“I don’t know what connections were used, or if you used sorcery, but it won’t work on me. I could only guess who you are, but I know that side of things too well to let someone get by with it. And if my child is to die, John and Ricky, I will take out all my pain and frustrations on you. Sure, I might be a bit paranoid right now, but I’ve been on the road since August…and I’ve known somewhere down the line people were going to go after my family. It might not have been you two, it could have been Spike Kane, or Tyler Jacobs, or even someone from my past out for revenge like Seth Draken or YCPM. I don’t know who, but I know what happened. Nobody saw the car that hit my son…as if it were a ghost car. There were witnesses, tons of them, but none reported seeing the car. All they said, was my son flew up into the air and fell to the ground in a heap. So either the driver was going ungodly fast, or this was some occult activity. But I am in no mood to dig into who did what or why. Until I can calm enough to consult the voices on the wind, I am doing nothing to help by trying to say who did it. I don’t know, and maybe I will never know. But the point is, someone will be held responsible and when I find out who did it, they will suffer.”
Prophet takes another long sigh, before his wife enters the room. Tears have streaked down her face and smeared her makeup. She walks over to her husband and hugs him.
“I’m so happy you were able to come, Angel.”
“I…” Prophet can’t speak, as he begins to choke on the tears he’s tried so hard to hold back.
“It’s ok, honey, he’ll get better. Just like his father, he’ll pull through no matter what.”
“Just like…” Prophet can’t finish his sentence, as if he knows what he wants to say but is afraid to say it. Could his son…be just like him? It scares him to think that, given Prophet’s history of drug use and mental illness. “What if he is like me, Julietta?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he is too much like me? What if he becomes what I have become? What if?”
“Don’t worry too much. I’m just so happy you were able to come home. I wish we could have been able to do this under better circumstances, but we really didn’t foresee this.”
Prophet kisses his wife, before beginning to smile a little. He looks back at the bed where his son rests. He’s happy to see his family, but not happy that his son is hurt, and his wife has been left alone to deal with all this. We hear the sound of feet running down the hall, one of a child and one of a grown man.
“Wait! Slow down Elaine!” We hear Fate screaming down the hall.
The feet skid on the tile floor of the sterile hospital as the two and a half year old daughter of Prophet and Julietta rushes into the room.
“Daddy’s home!” She screams as she runs to join her parents.
“Just look at that,” Fate says standing in the doorway, “One big happy family.”
We fade to black.
Light shines through the curtains of the hotel room as Prophet sits alone on the edge of the bed. He has no title anymore; Spike Kane helped Reckoning take that from him. But he has a chance to gain more gold, it seems. Sunday, at Picture Perfect, he could become a tag champion with Hammer once again. Last time, was NLCW. But his thoughts are not on the match, or Picture Perfect. His thoughts are moved onto the news he got on the phone this morning.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Prophet begins, his voice full of sorrow. “My child, my seed, run down by a car while he played outside. My little Angel Jr.”
Prophet looks at the television, which is turned off for reasons unknown. He knows he has his match with Hammer, against Ricky Johnson and John Anthony. He knows he has business to attend to, but this stretching of his self is beginning to take its toll on him.
“I can’t go home to be by his side…or to comfort my wife as she worries if he’ll survive. Broken collarbone, fractured arm, broken leg, and internal bleeding; the kid is lucky to have made it to the hospital at all.”
Prophet goes over to the window, and looks outside. It is mid-day and the sun is shining. He doesn’t have the time to go home before the match on Sunday. True, Minneapolis isn’t more than a couple hours by plane from Kentucky, but there’s no guarantee he’d be able to get back on time were the weather to turn severe. He always feared something like this happening. He’s had nightmares about his wife and children dying for months, and it has taken an emotional toll. In the end, what can he do? He can’t leave Hammer hanging. He can’t leave his wife alone. So what did he do? He sent Fate to watch over them for the time being. He’ll try to be back by Sunday, but Prophet knows he couldn’t take that risk himself.
“They say if things look to be going fine, something bad is looming in the near future. They also say bad things come in threes. This is number one…”
He turns from the window and moves to the phone. He’s waiting on word from Fate or his wife on the condition of his child. He knows he couldn’t wrestle on Sunday should he die. He’d be at a funeral, and would not have the ability to make it. Who would take his place? Who would be the one to help Hammer win the Tag Titles for Lethal Intent? His job has become a burden he wishes he could bear. Prophet drops to his knees, and looks skyward.
“God, I know you don’t necessarily like me. I know you and I don’t get along. But please…protect my wife and children. Let my boy recover fully from this accident. Let my wife have the strength to carry her through this…and let me have the strength to stay behind and watch from afar.”
The phone rings and Prophet is quick to pull it to his ear.
“Is he alright?” Prophet asks anxiously, “Will he be fine?”
“So far it’s looking good.” The voice is Fate’s, “But your wife is really taking this hit pretty hard. Are you sure you can’t at least come back for a day?”
“I don’t know…We have the Pay Per View on Sunday, and it’s Monday afternoon now.”
“Listen, Prophet, she needs you more now than ever. You’ve gotta find a way to take a detour before you head to the match. There is no squaring it, man; you just have to do this.”
Prophet sighs before he speaks, “You are right, Fate. Listen, I need to get tickets on the next flight out of here, and pack all my stuff. What do you want me to do with your gun?”
“Leave it...”
“You sure?”
“Leave the gun, Prophet, I won’t need it anymore. I have a feeling Angelo Della Muerte is gone for good.”
“Ok, well…I’ve got to get going. I’ll call from the airport.”
Prophet hangs up the phone as we fade to black. We return later, as Prophet sits inside the plane, on his way home. He is trying his best to watch the in-flight movie, Shrek 3, but he can’t help but worry about his family. The stewardess comes up the aisle and she’s got a cart filled with airline alcohol bottles. Prophet knows he shouldn’t drink with his medication. He knows he should try and stay sober, but would it truly hurt to have one drink to take the edge off? Would he make it if he just took a single drink?
“Do you want anything to drink, sir?” The stewardess says to Prophet.
“I…” Prophet trails off, still debating if he should or not. “I am fine, thank you.”
“Enjoy your flight, sir.” She says before moving on to the next row of seats.
He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. He almost went down the path again. He almost stumbled back down the path of alcohol and medication cocktails that the last six years has been full of. He’s tried so hard up till now to deny the problem, but after his doctor has warned him that it could have serious effects on him, almost as bad as his drug abuse before wrestling, he hasn’t mixed the two. If only they allowed smoking on airplanes…then he’d be fine. But without his cigarettes his mind goes wild. He doesn’t have any clue if he’ll be going home to a family without a son…or if his child will pull through.
“God…please let everything be alright. Let me get home and back in time for Picture Perfect. Let my child recover…please…”
Prophet lays his head back on the headrest before closing his eyes. He focuses on thoughts to distract him. Thoughts of his match, thoughts about anything. We fade out, before returning with Prophet sitting on a chair inside a darkly lit hospital room. His face is stern, and his glare is softened by the worry about his child who lay in bed nearby.
“So here I sit, waiting on my son to improve and wake up from the drug-induced coma. They say he’ll be fine, but I want to see for myself. I want to see before I go back to Kentucky for Picture Perfect. And…I have a theory about why this has happened now. Someone is behind this. Trying to place a curse upon my family, trying to decimate me using black magick. But I have faith in God, even despite my strained relationship with the most-high. I haven’t gone to confession in months, but does he really care that much about a confession of sins? He knows what I’ve done, and what I have to do. He’s always known, and if he wants to check up, he don’t need a priest to go through.”
Prophet stops, and listens to the EKG machine beeping slowly nearby. His young son, not even four years old. A child that should be up and about, active and smiling, constrained to a hospital bed because of a hit and run.
“I don’t know what connections were used, or if you used sorcery, but it won’t work on me. I could only guess who you are, but I know that side of things too well to let someone get by with it. And if my child is to die, John and Ricky, I will take out all my pain and frustrations on you. Sure, I might be a bit paranoid right now, but I’ve been on the road since August…and I’ve known somewhere down the line people were going to go after my family. It might not have been you two, it could have been Spike Kane, or Tyler Jacobs, or even someone from my past out for revenge like Seth Draken or YCPM. I don’t know who, but I know what happened. Nobody saw the car that hit my son…as if it were a ghost car. There were witnesses, tons of them, but none reported seeing the car. All they said, was my son flew up into the air and fell to the ground in a heap. So either the driver was going ungodly fast, or this was some occult activity. But I am in no mood to dig into who did what or why. Until I can calm enough to consult the voices on the wind, I am doing nothing to help by trying to say who did it. I don’t know, and maybe I will never know. But the point is, someone will be held responsible and when I find out who did it, they will suffer.”
Prophet takes another long sigh, before his wife enters the room. Tears have streaked down her face and smeared her makeup. She walks over to her husband and hugs him.
“I’m so happy you were able to come, Angel.”
“I…” Prophet can’t speak, as he begins to choke on the tears he’s tried so hard to hold back.
“It’s ok, honey, he’ll get better. Just like his father, he’ll pull through no matter what.”
“Just like…” Prophet can’t finish his sentence, as if he knows what he wants to say but is afraid to say it. Could his son…be just like him? It scares him to think that, given Prophet’s history of drug use and mental illness. “What if he is like me, Julietta?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he is too much like me? What if he becomes what I have become? What if?”
“Don’t worry too much. I’m just so happy you were able to come home. I wish we could have been able to do this under better circumstances, but we really didn’t foresee this.”
Prophet kisses his wife, before beginning to smile a little. He looks back at the bed where his son rests. He’s happy to see his family, but not happy that his son is hurt, and his wife has been left alone to deal with all this. We hear the sound of feet running down the hall, one of a child and one of a grown man.
“Wait! Slow down Elaine!” We hear Fate screaming down the hall.
The feet skid on the tile floor of the sterile hospital as the two and a half year old daughter of Prophet and Julietta rushes into the room.
“Daddy’s home!” She screams as she runs to join her parents.
“Just look at that,” Fate says standing in the doorway, “One big happy family.”
We fade to black.