Post by adm on Jul 17, 2008 18:42:11 GMT -6
“Steeped within the internal, we can easily misperceive the world around us. You, for example, see the world as things you can conquer and own. I see the world as things which either harms me, or that I can harm. The shadows around me move without provocation of light or objects, much like wraiths scattered on walls and ground alike. Things are never as they seem, constantly in the flux between the real world and the subconscious world within you. Every dream, nightmare, vision, or goal lies within that subconscious world, turning you into God or Devil, whichever you like best. Within the Asylum, the veil that keeps our worlds from seeping out into reality is thin. The veil between what we see and what we perceive is like a wedding veil, ready to be pulled up by the Husband of our will. On the other side of the veil, you will find, things are still not what they seem. Blood and rust may cover all things inside that structure, but there’s far worse things, I assure you, within. Things that can possess a man to maim and kill his fellow man. Things that have caused seven sane men to go to insane lengths just to gain a victory over another being. And time ticks away like a twisted lover, waiting for you to take her to bed. Can you embrace her supple and receptive skin, or will you see her as wrapped in barbed wire and shards of glass? Only time will decide.”
Prophet sits on the edge of a workout bench, sweat dripping off his body onto the cold cement floor. The lights in this old gym are low, but Prophet knows them well. He goes to this place whenever he’s in town, unlike Kole who goes to a more “friendly looking” gym.
“Welcome, Kole, to my training for the Asylum. I’ve been here all morning, using the treadmill, sparring with Fate in the ring, punching the bag near the wall, lifting these weights and even doing exercises that are not aided by things as fancy as this bar. I ask you, have you ever done thirty or more sit-ups holding fifty pounds of weights to your chest? I’ve done a hundred, at least, today, and I doubt you could manage to have the grasp to do even half that. You pimp your new flavor of drink like the media whore you are, and I sit here, alone for now, taking my first break since I woke up this morning. You look at my need for medication as if it is a crutch I use to keep from doing work to stay mentally well. But you haven’t a slightest clue how long I’ve been on these medications, so many years. You can’t just stop the voices in your head when they scream, Kole, sometimes you need to reach for something to shut them up. What do your voices scream? “Go buy this business. Pimp your Vitamin Water. Beat Prophet in the Asylum.” Mine are more twisted, Kole. “You are an ant on God’s Ass, Prophet. You should put the shotgun to your face, Prophet. You should kill your wife and kids, Prophet.” Those don’t sound very normal or healthy, to you, do they? Words I’ve heard in my head my whole life. As a child it lead me to trouble with kids at school, but here…with proper medication, I can turn what they say into encouragement. “Kill Spike. Kill Kaos. Make them bleed. Punish them for their sins and words against you.” You’ve said a lot of words, Kole, but have you ever said anything thought provoking? Have you ever actually thought outside the realms of the world you know? Expand your horizons, Kole, or you will never be able to defeat me.”
Prophet cracks his neck, and stretches as he stands up. He walks over to a closed cooler, opens it, and pulls out a bottle of water. He’s ripped the label off, and it looks like it probably is filled with water from the tap on his sink.
“Ah, cold refreshing water. Cavemen drank it, Slaves drank it, Spartans drank it, and maybe you should drink it. It’s not been altered outside of taking out the poisons we’ve put into the rivers and streams we drink from. Thousands of years and you can’t find a place in this world where the water isn’t even slightly tainted by pesticides or poisons we’ve created. There’s not a single drop of untainted water on this Earth, which probably is why they make the **** you pilfer to the masses. Because we’ve not only poisoned the original, but we found it not good enough so we had to “improve” upon it. Just as we’ve sought to genetically alter corn, apples, tomatoes and livestock. Were it not for men like you, Kole, there’s a good chance we’d be able to drink water from a lake or stream without guilt. But without you, there wouldn’t be Television or anything else that entails the input of money to create in mass quantities. Men like you are a double edged sword of cause and effect. Men like I, however…we are a double edged sword of pain or pleasure. For you, Kole, I will give pain. To myself, I will give pain. But in doing so, it will give me the greatest pleasure of all. It is why I do what I do, why I wanted so desperately to face off against Spike in a brutal match. Not to win, but to inflict pain on myself and others. I’m a masochist that way, wishing that I share in the pain of my enemies. But you can’t enjoy something fully until you actually step inside that thing. You have found pleasure making money and conquests, and now you try to make it in Wrestling. Maybe you will beat me, Kole; maybe you’ll put your name on the map by taking out Dark Prophet. Imagine that rub, Kole; being the man who takes me out permanently. A multi-time world champion, a man who has faced and often beaten the best men in the best places this profession has to offer. You wish so dearly for that rub, Kole, but you have to earn everything you get here. Money cannot give you wins, unless it’s by bribing stupid whores like Kelly Fox. Why does she even like you guys? You kicked out her boyfriend and sent Ace to injure him. But I digress…this water is great though, you should try some.”
Prophet smirks and lets out half a laugh, enough to let Kole know he meant that as an insult instead of an invitation. Prophet puts down the water, and extends his arms. Slowly, he turns around, sweat glistening off his ripped flesh. But it also shows off the many scars Prophet has from six years of being a man who lives to inflict pain.
“I bring the violence to insignificant pricks like you, Kole. I have not left behind the carnage my career entails without suffering battle scars, but I wear them proudly on my skin like medals of Honor. You, I haven’t seen any scars on your body…but that can easily be fixed in the Asylum. You will be scarred; your flesh will bleed and be tattered by lacerations deeper than you have ever had before. You will walk out of the Asylum, win or lose, changed. For the better, probably not, you’ll still be the same dickhead you are now, but you’ll have a bit more respect for me like myself and Spike Kane. Men who have built careers upon matches like this and the carnage it entails. I pride myself more on the careers I’ve ended than the titles I have held, Kole. What do you pride yourself on? Your financial progress? Your company? Your puny little faction of pompous douche bags? True, Lethal Intent is not the same as it was a few weeks ago, but we cut the fat and now we have four of the toughest and most driven men in this federation. Men driven to take care of your Corporate Empire and Social Distortion. Men driven to take you off your high horse and drag you into the pits of Hell itself.”
Prophet walks over to a bench near the wall. On it is a folder filled with papers, photos, and schematics. The photos are of the Asylum and the damage it caused. Prophet spreads the photographs and blueprints to his masterpiece on the floor, and smiles as he looks down.
“I created this monster of a cell we will be cast into at Last Stand. I created it and have since wished I didn’t. I’ve fractured my skull in this thing. I’ve lacerated my biceps and almost broken my back…twice. I’ve also broken people’s arms, fingers, toes, and ribs. I’ve crippled a 7’4” mammoth of a man named Seth Drakin. A month after we fought in the Asylum, we won the tag titles…and a month later I turned on his lazy ass and put him out of his misery, using the same broken neck he kept trying to wrestle on. I drove Scott Rix to insanity by letting Matthew Draven use his dead mother’s severed arm as a weapon. I’ve done a lot of things directly and indirectly in this structure we will confront each other in on Sunday. Who will be the winner, I cannot say. I could lose; I know that, I always have known that. Nobody goes in with an advantage. Two prior times in this structure has taught me that no size advantage can help you. No training. Not a single ****ing thing can help you except a will to inflict pain. If you will yourself to electrocute people, to set them on fire, to hit them with a weed whacker; only then you can get an advantage. You must not fear pain, Kole. You must not fear risking your life or health to do damage to me inside the Asylum. You may ask yourself why I am giving you hints, but it is merely so I can have as much fun with just you as I did with five other people last time I fought in the Asylum. You have big shoes to fill, Kole, the shoes of five men, one of whom is the ACTUAL and OFFICIAL NCW National Champion, JackHammer. And then there is me. I still can’t decide what weapons I want chained to the cage. I can’t decide whether I want to give you three tables or four. Whether I want to give you one can of gasoline or four bags of thumbtacks, or both. And when we do face off in that sick structure, one man will stand…or lay…victorious. And the other just gets a fun ride in the back of an ambulance as their consolation prize. I’m not saying you won’t get one either, but…the loser has the guaranteed ride in an ambulance.”
Prophet looks at the folder one more time before kicking it out of his way. He pulls the camera in close to his face and whispers to Kole.
“I can see that you don’t want to fear me. I accept that. But after our collision at Last Stand, you will fear me, Kole. You and the rest of the world will again fear me for what I am. What I have become to stay alive in this industry. And I am a monster. I am a psychopath. And at Last Stand, there will be nowhere to hide. The Monster lives and he’s coming…Sunday.”
Fade to black.
Prophet sits on the edge of a workout bench, sweat dripping off his body onto the cold cement floor. The lights in this old gym are low, but Prophet knows them well. He goes to this place whenever he’s in town, unlike Kole who goes to a more “friendly looking” gym.
“Welcome, Kole, to my training for the Asylum. I’ve been here all morning, using the treadmill, sparring with Fate in the ring, punching the bag near the wall, lifting these weights and even doing exercises that are not aided by things as fancy as this bar. I ask you, have you ever done thirty or more sit-ups holding fifty pounds of weights to your chest? I’ve done a hundred, at least, today, and I doubt you could manage to have the grasp to do even half that. You pimp your new flavor of drink like the media whore you are, and I sit here, alone for now, taking my first break since I woke up this morning. You look at my need for medication as if it is a crutch I use to keep from doing work to stay mentally well. But you haven’t a slightest clue how long I’ve been on these medications, so many years. You can’t just stop the voices in your head when they scream, Kole, sometimes you need to reach for something to shut them up. What do your voices scream? “Go buy this business. Pimp your Vitamin Water. Beat Prophet in the Asylum.” Mine are more twisted, Kole. “You are an ant on God’s Ass, Prophet. You should put the shotgun to your face, Prophet. You should kill your wife and kids, Prophet.” Those don’t sound very normal or healthy, to you, do they? Words I’ve heard in my head my whole life. As a child it lead me to trouble with kids at school, but here…with proper medication, I can turn what they say into encouragement. “Kill Spike. Kill Kaos. Make them bleed. Punish them for their sins and words against you.” You’ve said a lot of words, Kole, but have you ever said anything thought provoking? Have you ever actually thought outside the realms of the world you know? Expand your horizons, Kole, or you will never be able to defeat me.”
Prophet cracks his neck, and stretches as he stands up. He walks over to a closed cooler, opens it, and pulls out a bottle of water. He’s ripped the label off, and it looks like it probably is filled with water from the tap on his sink.
“Ah, cold refreshing water. Cavemen drank it, Slaves drank it, Spartans drank it, and maybe you should drink it. It’s not been altered outside of taking out the poisons we’ve put into the rivers and streams we drink from. Thousands of years and you can’t find a place in this world where the water isn’t even slightly tainted by pesticides or poisons we’ve created. There’s not a single drop of untainted water on this Earth, which probably is why they make the **** you pilfer to the masses. Because we’ve not only poisoned the original, but we found it not good enough so we had to “improve” upon it. Just as we’ve sought to genetically alter corn, apples, tomatoes and livestock. Were it not for men like you, Kole, there’s a good chance we’d be able to drink water from a lake or stream without guilt. But without you, there wouldn’t be Television or anything else that entails the input of money to create in mass quantities. Men like you are a double edged sword of cause and effect. Men like I, however…we are a double edged sword of pain or pleasure. For you, Kole, I will give pain. To myself, I will give pain. But in doing so, it will give me the greatest pleasure of all. It is why I do what I do, why I wanted so desperately to face off against Spike in a brutal match. Not to win, but to inflict pain on myself and others. I’m a masochist that way, wishing that I share in the pain of my enemies. But you can’t enjoy something fully until you actually step inside that thing. You have found pleasure making money and conquests, and now you try to make it in Wrestling. Maybe you will beat me, Kole; maybe you’ll put your name on the map by taking out Dark Prophet. Imagine that rub, Kole; being the man who takes me out permanently. A multi-time world champion, a man who has faced and often beaten the best men in the best places this profession has to offer. You wish so dearly for that rub, Kole, but you have to earn everything you get here. Money cannot give you wins, unless it’s by bribing stupid whores like Kelly Fox. Why does she even like you guys? You kicked out her boyfriend and sent Ace to injure him. But I digress…this water is great though, you should try some.”
Prophet smirks and lets out half a laugh, enough to let Kole know he meant that as an insult instead of an invitation. Prophet puts down the water, and extends his arms. Slowly, he turns around, sweat glistening off his ripped flesh. But it also shows off the many scars Prophet has from six years of being a man who lives to inflict pain.
“I bring the violence to insignificant pricks like you, Kole. I have not left behind the carnage my career entails without suffering battle scars, but I wear them proudly on my skin like medals of Honor. You, I haven’t seen any scars on your body…but that can easily be fixed in the Asylum. You will be scarred; your flesh will bleed and be tattered by lacerations deeper than you have ever had before. You will walk out of the Asylum, win or lose, changed. For the better, probably not, you’ll still be the same dickhead you are now, but you’ll have a bit more respect for me like myself and Spike Kane. Men who have built careers upon matches like this and the carnage it entails. I pride myself more on the careers I’ve ended than the titles I have held, Kole. What do you pride yourself on? Your financial progress? Your company? Your puny little faction of pompous douche bags? True, Lethal Intent is not the same as it was a few weeks ago, but we cut the fat and now we have four of the toughest and most driven men in this federation. Men driven to take care of your Corporate Empire and Social Distortion. Men driven to take you off your high horse and drag you into the pits of Hell itself.”
Prophet walks over to a bench near the wall. On it is a folder filled with papers, photos, and schematics. The photos are of the Asylum and the damage it caused. Prophet spreads the photographs and blueprints to his masterpiece on the floor, and smiles as he looks down.
“I created this monster of a cell we will be cast into at Last Stand. I created it and have since wished I didn’t. I’ve fractured my skull in this thing. I’ve lacerated my biceps and almost broken my back…twice. I’ve also broken people’s arms, fingers, toes, and ribs. I’ve crippled a 7’4” mammoth of a man named Seth Drakin. A month after we fought in the Asylum, we won the tag titles…and a month later I turned on his lazy ass and put him out of his misery, using the same broken neck he kept trying to wrestle on. I drove Scott Rix to insanity by letting Matthew Draven use his dead mother’s severed arm as a weapon. I’ve done a lot of things directly and indirectly in this structure we will confront each other in on Sunday. Who will be the winner, I cannot say. I could lose; I know that, I always have known that. Nobody goes in with an advantage. Two prior times in this structure has taught me that no size advantage can help you. No training. Not a single ****ing thing can help you except a will to inflict pain. If you will yourself to electrocute people, to set them on fire, to hit them with a weed whacker; only then you can get an advantage. You must not fear pain, Kole. You must not fear risking your life or health to do damage to me inside the Asylum. You may ask yourself why I am giving you hints, but it is merely so I can have as much fun with just you as I did with five other people last time I fought in the Asylum. You have big shoes to fill, Kole, the shoes of five men, one of whom is the ACTUAL and OFFICIAL NCW National Champion, JackHammer. And then there is me. I still can’t decide what weapons I want chained to the cage. I can’t decide whether I want to give you three tables or four. Whether I want to give you one can of gasoline or four bags of thumbtacks, or both. And when we do face off in that sick structure, one man will stand…or lay…victorious. And the other just gets a fun ride in the back of an ambulance as their consolation prize. I’m not saying you won’t get one either, but…the loser has the guaranteed ride in an ambulance.”
Prophet looks at the folder one more time before kicking it out of his way. He pulls the camera in close to his face and whispers to Kole.
“I can see that you don’t want to fear me. I accept that. But after our collision at Last Stand, you will fear me, Kole. You and the rest of the world will again fear me for what I am. What I have become to stay alive in this industry. And I am a monster. I am a psychopath. And at Last Stand, there will be nowhere to hide. The Monster lives and he’s coming…Sunday.”
Fade to black.