Post by Cthulhuson on Feb 14, 2013 0:30:50 GMT -5
"Accablées de misère en décembre, les muses se baignent en flammes.
Noyées dans l'ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin pientre de l'Univers, le Soliel"
Noyées dans l'ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin pientre de l'Univers, le Soliel"
Raven sat Indian style amongst a circle of indigo pillar candles. They were solid and self standing. Their hexagonal shape masqueraded against the wall as shadows dancing with the flames off the heat resistant wooden wicks. Slowly, she picked one up, balancing it in her palm while staring intently into the wild, and primal beauty that fire had to offer. The flames illuminated the soft curves and contours of her chest while reflecting in her pupils. Titillating, she passed her right hand before the flame, letting the fire cusp the contortions of her hand before pulling it away.
She looked up slowly and said...
Fire.
The the fundamental and classic element. It is so underrated. It has the power to burn and to heal. To kill, to save. To create and destroy. It is not only our enemy in times of peril, but our friend in our darkest hour.
The fire in Cthulhuson and I will burn forever, igniting anew with every solitary step we take on this sojourn throughout life.
In a small way, and by small I mean extremely miniscule, I was once like all of you believe it or not. Not knowing how to find my inner flame...
Before I met Cthulhuson, I believed in everything, but was convinced of nothing. Fanning the flames my soul meant nothing. The world wasn't my oyster, it was a fragile bed of broken shells and mutilated coral in murky diluted waters. A complex chemistry of the most detailed macabre fashion. My disposition was that of a citizen trapped in a totalitarian regime, completely accepting of all that unfolded before me as long as I could be left to my own devices. Projecting my self loathing was what I as good at, cursing my namesake at every opportunity that arose from the ground like malnourished roses. Picking the pedals off one by one.
He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me...Valentines Day, what a joke.
I, Raven, affectionately named, was a ghost in the fog.
I existed on the fringes of society despite myself. Darkness was not my dearest friend, and even loneliness felt that I was better off left alone. I'm not depressed, or emotional if that's what you would like to call it. It's the world you see...
It's this world that does this to me. I'm screaming at the top of my lungs saying, "Are you guys seeing this?" As I point to obvious shackles around our ankles. Everyone looks, not at the shackles, but at me. I couldn't help but to lash out at it, it was in my nature to do so, because to deny our own impulses is to deny the very thing that makes us human.
I feel as if I'm the only one who realized that we are enslaved. No one bothers to look down and question the noose around their neck. No one can hear the hellish requiem that cultivates from the jingling of the rusted shackles around their feet, and clasped ever so tightly around their skin chaffed wrist. I hear it every day, seductively serenading my eardrums into audio submission.
It sung to me.
Pay your taxes. Work your 9 to 5 jobs. Sacrifice your dream by making someone else's dream come true. 5 days, 40 hours a week. 160 hours a month 2 days off. Roughly 250 days a year. Accumulate some credit. Buy a car, maybe a house with a white picket fence. Save up for retirement, spend the last 10 years of your lives living. Die.
Rinse and repeat for the next generation of
The script was in our hands and we played our part in the play like season veterans of the thespian coup. But no one in life is an extra. Everyone is their own main character, everyone has their own protagonist and antagonist. They're all the leads of their own storyline and thus, they have to be given their due for their own demise.
We are all walking Titanic's.
Sinking...
Falling...
One by one...
Valentine's Day is no different.
The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre is the name given to the 1929 murder of seven mob associates as part of a prohibition era conflict between two powerful criminal gangs in Chicago: the South Side Italian gang led by Al Capone and the North Side Irish gang led by Bugs Moran. Former members of the Egan's Rats gang were also suspected of having played a significant role in the incident, assisting Capone.
The names aren't important. A Joe Schmoe, A Rory McWhatever there. It doesn't matter. They carved up the city, fighting 'fire' with 'fire'. For what?
During the Prohibition era, gangsters ruled many of the large cities, becoming rich from owning speakeasies, breweries, brothels, and gambling joints. These gangsters would carve up a city between rival gangs, bribe local officials, and become local celebrities. Look at how famous they are now... I bet most of you don't remember the names I mentioned a mere 20 seconds ago.
I guess, the point I'm trying to make is that it doesn't have to be like this. You don't need to kill yourself over 'things', and what fitting name for a 8 person tournament, 'Valentine Day Massacre'. All we are asking is to fight for what you believe in. If casting a little spotlight upon your ignorance as wrestlers, and as a society makes us the bad guys then so be it. We'll proudly wear the shoe and stick it up right up your pampered asses.
Life isn't supposed to be this way. Perhaps we are asking the wrong questions. We were supposed to be harbingers of our own success. Pioneers of civilization! Traveling great distances across time and space and into the stars. Spreading to all, the great deeds of humanity and all that we've accomplished. When did we become this withered lot of slaves? When did a green piece of paper dictate how we would spend our lives from here on out? When did we become the only sentient beings to have to pay just to live on planet earth? When did material possessions become so coveted, and ideals not worth fighting for?
These things don't concern any of you in NAW.
You all are too worried about your paycheck and how many 0's are behind the digits.
You all are too worried about owning the latest and greatest of whatever you can get your grimy little hands on.
You all, in your infinite glory, are worried about cementing your legacy with a title around your waist, instead of letting your wrestling and your ideals do the talking for you.
Just like your money and your possessions, your legacies are a fallacy.
Good taste? This buffet of food looks the same day in and day out, no one brings nothing new to the table. Water'd down threats. Over done insults It's all the same empty calories, but yet the crowd simply eats it up as if it were chop liver or Salisbury Steak right off the grill. But whatever, you don't have to believe me or Cthulhuson. Take everything with a grain of salt if you wish.
I've been bathing in this cesspool of humanity and I swear to you when I say that society has me fucking crawling out my skin. The putrid odor of our homo sapient smugness, the musk of our sense of entitlement.
Down. Right. Repulsive.
And don't mistake me NAW, it's even more prevalent in this organization.
When Alex signed Cthulhuson up for the Television Title Tournament, my initial thought was, eh. So what? Big Deal? But it has occurred to me that we will never get through to the likes of any of you without stooping down to your level for you only see a tenth of what is true. So we accept this little tourney you have going on to be the champion of your television sets.
You never know, maybe some good will come out of this. Maybe we'll get the chance to de-mask Zero. He's hardly deserving of it, and trust me, I know a thing or two about masks. His name is naturally fitting for the occasion, for there is zero chance that he gets by the likes of us. The possibility of him scrapping by with some miraculous underdog victory like you see in the cinema, yeah you guessed it... zero. Crushing his hopes is no skin off my back. Zero remorse, zero sympathy. Sugar coat it anyway you see fit, Zero is the perfect moniker for someone zeroing in on an early exit come St. Valentine's Day massacre.
This isn't a Waffle House, Zero. This is a court of law, we are your judge and executioner. Everything you say or do will be held against in the finest bit of "ultraviolence." You need not to take what I say as opinion, for come this weekend you shall know it as truth. As gospel for amongst everything you hold dear in this industry. I can't say that I'll pity you, I hardly know you. But what I can say is that I know many like you, and you're all the same. Their are hundreds just like you Zero, and at the end of the day, you'll just be another number.
Scotty Blazer, you sit and soak in your beliefs as if they would shield you from all that is to come. Are you familiar with the tale of Achilles, Scotty? Achilles was the son of the mortal Peleus and the Nereid Thetis. He was the mightiest of the Greeks who fought in the Trojan War, and was the hero of Homer's Iliad. His mother held the young Achilles by the heel and dipped him in the river Styx; everything the sacred waters touched became invulnerable, but the heel remained dry and therefore unprotected.
Surely you have a weakness Scotty. Some where in that self righteous facade there lies a weak chain in your defenses. A kink in the armor just waiting to be exploited. Perhaps it's your skill? Your determination? Or perhaps it's your failures? Your failure to protect the ones you love.
Your failure as a son.
Your failure as a husband.
Your failure as a father.
Your story is riddled with your own shortcomings. What makes you think that you won't fail as a wrestler? Stepping in the ring doesn't make up for you inadequacies as a man, Scotty boy. In fact, it seems like a last desperate attempt to make something of yourself before it's too late. What you really need is help, a support group, not a kick to the head. Besides, who knows what's going on in that brain of yours? Who knows how much more failure you could take. A loss here, a loss there... you could be inches away from snapping. I must admit, that would be worth popping popcorn for. It would be entertaining at the very least. But I digress..
While I'm on the topics of failures, I would like to bring Virgil Keenan into the relativity 'not so complicated' equation. The math isn't there. You beating Cthulhuson simply doesn't add up. Don't get me wrong, I know you aren't 'impressed' with Cthulhuson's resume, but now I hope you are, because buddy... you're on it. It was a good effort, and you should be lauded for your performance, but at the end of the day I hope you realize that it was -you- who was unimpressive.
As far as this nonsense goes about me cheating, I have no idea what any of you are talking about. Erik threw himself at me like a man possessed. Luckily for me, I was wearing my special lipstick at the time. The whole jumping up on the apron scene? I was merely pointing out to the ref that your shoe was untied. I was looking out for YOUR safety. If for whatever reason you felt as if you had the match won, it's your own doing for taking your eye off the ball. Other than your politics, I don't know much about you, but perhaps this is a reoccurring problem with you? Virgil Keenan, not quite stepping up his game when the time comes. Not quite getting the job done when all the chips are on the table?
Never the less, until next time, IF there is a next time. For your sake, you better hope there isn't. Now if you'll excuse me, Cthulhuson and I have a Massacre to attend.