Post by Virgil Keenan on Feb 27, 2013 19:01:32 GMT -5
Born To Be
I glare across the ring at my sparring partner, the trainer lets out a yelp for us to begin and I sloppily blitzkrieg the beginning battle. Upon hooking his leg for a Single legged takedown I find myself being choked out and pushed downward. The skilled counter blocks off my breathing, his forearm crushing my throat, but I’ve got to think clear, fight the watery eyes and divert to brute strength. I stomp my feet solid and firm against the mat, the heels of my feet hurt, and I plow upward, toppling my training partner in a northern lights suplex. It’s not my greatest form, I hold the bridge, but my back is sore, my knee’s are weak, I roll out of it, I back up to a corner, I feign a smile, I pretend I’m okay. This is my fourth sparring partner today, the rest have worn themselves out, they’ve gone home or simply lost interest in getting smeared into the canvas over and over, but I’m slipping up. A blitzkrieg? Really? Stupid choice. 5 hours training took it’s toll 2 hours ago, now? Now I’m just being stupid, risking injury.
Back into a elbow collar tie up, my mask is basically stuck to my face, my head is throbbing in the heat and sweat building and building up, I wrench the arm and drive an elbow down, putting all my weight into pressing him into the ground. He fight’s it and even succeeds, my attempt at a fujiwara is foiled and I’m flipped onto my back, it stings. My breath is dissipating on me, but I swirl to my feet, an armdrag, I’m fighting for control against a rookie? I realize he’s either got a lot of potential or...Ugh, my head hurts. I don’t realize it at the time but I’m just standing there now, he takes time to capitalize and drops me with a DDT. I don’t feel any of it anymore, all I can do is visualize on the throbbing ceiling lights. My opponent does a smart pin, something to break me down, but I don’t kick out, I just lay there. He’s confused by it as well, I can see it in his eyes when he asks me if I’m okay. I’m not. I’m dizzy. I gurgle and I throw up. I don’t turn, I don’t move, it bubbles in my mouth with an acidic taste that doesn’t spring me to life. I close my eyes and I fade.
“Do you want to win?” The voice echoes out of the blackness and I cry back, soggy tears of teenaged youth ring out instead of my own adult voice. “Yes.”
“Then stand back up and try again.” The rough tone of an elderly man shoots back at me and the familiarity shoots me in the heart. “Okay dad.” The glowing black aura of my memory focuses as I will myself back to my feet. My heel’s hurt, my back is sore, my head is throbbing, and I swing a fist at the padded glove in his hand. He disapproves “How weak, it feels foreign and sloppy, your form is off, no torque, no force behind it, it’s a punch thrown in desperation.”
I know. You taught me this already.
“Okay.” Is the only reply I can muster, almost as if scripted to say it, his constant criticism brings up a fire and a rage, I throw the next punch how I know I should, with a purpose, with a goal, solid, firm. He smiles and it bounces off my already broken mentality. I fire another, same response, I’ve lost my mind and found my instinct.
“That’s it, let go, find the inner animal and control it, find your focus, your drive.” The only bit of praise I’ve heard in years and I fucking ignore it. I’m lost in my memory.
I remember how I felt that day and it shoots through me like a searing arrow, bringing back the emotions in such clarity that if I had time to really understand my situation, I’d be scared. I see him whipping me with a belt when I was younger, It was my first taste of his assertive and stubborn nature, he didn’t hit me because he was drunk, or anything cliché, it was because I deserved it. I didn’t try hard enough, I didn’t put my best foot forward, I didn’t do my best and as a result I was conditioned back in line. I come back into focus, firing the punches in rapid succession with him telling me to stop and that I’ve done good. I gawk blankly at his face and he smirks, I see him pushing my mother down in the kitchen when I was 7, it’s the same smile. He places his hands on my shoulders, and I remember when he shoved me into the closet wall, breaking the door; I had cheated on my math test. He hated cheaters.
I hate cheaters.
He’s giving me praise and saying he loves me, he does. He did his best to mould me into the man I became, but all I hear, all I can remember is his constant lectures after each of my failures. I remember not understanding, I remember a fiery rage and hatred. I remember staring at him that day and attacking.
I blitzkrieg him, I shoot the leg. He grabs me around the throat and pushes me down, my eyes tear up, I cry, but I summon my strength, digging my heels in, tossing him in a northern lights suplex, no pin. I spin on my heels and when he gets back up I punch him solid in the face, with a goal, with a purpose, and it floors him. He grasps his face and I mount him, punch after punch and punch again. Every bit of it is therapeutic, the vengeful, spiteful, angry wrestler I became was born that day.
“Stop it, get off him!”
“Get off him!”
I stop, my eyes are agape, the rookie is beneath me, my mask has been removed, I threw it off and I’m covered in blood and vomit. My vomit, his blood. I’m pulled off the kid, I give no resistance as the realities and blurred focus start hitting me all at once. I remember what brought me here, I remember my principles, my lessons, my rage, my life and my father. I smile.
I stare at the rookie as he holds his likely broken nose. I smile.
Some people, some culture I don’t know the name of, would like to call this type of moment spiritual. It would be obtained and observed after long trips through the woods or taking some sort of drug, I got here with some sort of heat stroke or something, imagine that.
No one wants to be a competitor, no one wants to be a wrestler.
But that’s the only thing I was ever supposed to be. The only thing I ever wanted.
I glare across the ring at my sparring partner, the trainer lets out a yelp for us to begin and I sloppily blitzkrieg the beginning battle. Upon hooking his leg for a Single legged takedown I find myself being choked out and pushed downward. The skilled counter blocks off my breathing, his forearm crushing my throat, but I’ve got to think clear, fight the watery eyes and divert to brute strength. I stomp my feet solid and firm against the mat, the heels of my feet hurt, and I plow upward, toppling my training partner in a northern lights suplex. It’s not my greatest form, I hold the bridge, but my back is sore, my knee’s are weak, I roll out of it, I back up to a corner, I feign a smile, I pretend I’m okay. This is my fourth sparring partner today, the rest have worn themselves out, they’ve gone home or simply lost interest in getting smeared into the canvas over and over, but I’m slipping up. A blitzkrieg? Really? Stupid choice. 5 hours training took it’s toll 2 hours ago, now? Now I’m just being stupid, risking injury.
Back into a elbow collar tie up, my mask is basically stuck to my face, my head is throbbing in the heat and sweat building and building up, I wrench the arm and drive an elbow down, putting all my weight into pressing him into the ground. He fight’s it and even succeeds, my attempt at a fujiwara is foiled and I’m flipped onto my back, it stings. My breath is dissipating on me, but I swirl to my feet, an armdrag, I’m fighting for control against a rookie? I realize he’s either got a lot of potential or...Ugh, my head hurts. I don’t realize it at the time but I’m just standing there now, he takes time to capitalize and drops me with a DDT. I don’t feel any of it anymore, all I can do is visualize on the throbbing ceiling lights. My opponent does a smart pin, something to break me down, but I don’t kick out, I just lay there. He’s confused by it as well, I can see it in his eyes when he asks me if I’m okay. I’m not. I’m dizzy. I gurgle and I throw up. I don’t turn, I don’t move, it bubbles in my mouth with an acidic taste that doesn’t spring me to life. I close my eyes and I fade.
“Do you want to win?” The voice echoes out of the blackness and I cry back, soggy tears of teenaged youth ring out instead of my own adult voice. “Yes.”
“Then stand back up and try again.” The rough tone of an elderly man shoots back at me and the familiarity shoots me in the heart. “Okay dad.” The glowing black aura of my memory focuses as I will myself back to my feet. My heel’s hurt, my back is sore, my head is throbbing, and I swing a fist at the padded glove in his hand. He disapproves “How weak, it feels foreign and sloppy, your form is off, no torque, no force behind it, it’s a punch thrown in desperation.”
I know. You taught me this already.
“Okay.” Is the only reply I can muster, almost as if scripted to say it, his constant criticism brings up a fire and a rage, I throw the next punch how I know I should, with a purpose, with a goal, solid, firm. He smiles and it bounces off my already broken mentality. I fire another, same response, I’ve lost my mind and found my instinct.
“That’s it, let go, find the inner animal and control it, find your focus, your drive.” The only bit of praise I’ve heard in years and I fucking ignore it. I’m lost in my memory.
I remember how I felt that day and it shoots through me like a searing arrow, bringing back the emotions in such clarity that if I had time to really understand my situation, I’d be scared. I see him whipping me with a belt when I was younger, It was my first taste of his assertive and stubborn nature, he didn’t hit me because he was drunk, or anything cliché, it was because I deserved it. I didn’t try hard enough, I didn’t put my best foot forward, I didn’t do my best and as a result I was conditioned back in line. I come back into focus, firing the punches in rapid succession with him telling me to stop and that I’ve done good. I gawk blankly at his face and he smirks, I see him pushing my mother down in the kitchen when I was 7, it’s the same smile. He places his hands on my shoulders, and I remember when he shoved me into the closet wall, breaking the door; I had cheated on my math test. He hated cheaters.
I hate cheaters.
He’s giving me praise and saying he loves me, he does. He did his best to mould me into the man I became, but all I hear, all I can remember is his constant lectures after each of my failures. I remember not understanding, I remember a fiery rage and hatred. I remember staring at him that day and attacking.
I blitzkrieg him, I shoot the leg. He grabs me around the throat and pushes me down, my eyes tear up, I cry, but I summon my strength, digging my heels in, tossing him in a northern lights suplex, no pin. I spin on my heels and when he gets back up I punch him solid in the face, with a goal, with a purpose, and it floors him. He grasps his face and I mount him, punch after punch and punch again. Every bit of it is therapeutic, the vengeful, spiteful, angry wrestler I became was born that day.
“Stop it, get off him!”
“Get off him!”
I stop, my eyes are agape, the rookie is beneath me, my mask has been removed, I threw it off and I’m covered in blood and vomit. My vomit, his blood. I’m pulled off the kid, I give no resistance as the realities and blurred focus start hitting me all at once. I remember what brought me here, I remember my principles, my lessons, my rage, my life and my father. I smile.
I stare at the rookie as he holds his likely broken nose. I smile.
Some people, some culture I don’t know the name of, would like to call this type of moment spiritual. It would be obtained and observed after long trips through the woods or taking some sort of drug, I got here with some sort of heat stroke or something, imagine that.
No one wants to be a competitor, no one wants to be a wrestler.
But that’s the only thing I was ever supposed to be. The only thing I ever wanted.
Dear Drake.
Old fashion, perhaps, but I've decided to write you a letter this week Mr. Knight. This letter is a symbol, this letter is a hand written representation of how personalized I'm making this match. I know I'm taking a gamble assuming you can read, but that's a risk one has to take when facing someone of your caliber, but we'll get to that. I want you to understand that I'm taking time out of my day, my week, to address you personally because you have earned that. At our last PPV event you earned my attention, you garnered my ire, and you succeeded in wounding me. Congratulations Mr.Knight. I want you to imagine the most sincere golf clap imaginable.
I don't want you to be mistaken though, that's far from a good thing. My direct attention, my personalized focus, my ire and wrath are not things you want. Sure someone your size and stature can just shrug off that comment, you're bigger than I am, you're stronger than I am, what do you have to fear? Well, sure, go ahead, think that. I dare you. But Drake, I'm a fair man, I'm a selectively kind man, I would feel utterly dastardly if I didn't warn you in the interest of a fair fight. There is a reason you sucker punched me, there is a reason Kandi set you out there after me, there is a reason Hulu had to cheat to win. You'd be ignorant to ignore that this coming week Drake. See, I'm better than you are, and I don't mean that on a professional level, because it's not hard to be better than a pussy whipped chump marching to the tune of 'yes Ma'am', I mean it on a physically talented level, mentally developed level.
I was told I might be out for a month, and I came down to that ring the same night and choked you out, remember that.
Any bravado you want to show case over our brawl last week should be minimal if for no other reason than the fact anyone can get an advantage with a sucker punch. I find winning a match to be harder task though, but surely with all your experience in the ring so far, you'd know that, right? I fear that my sarcasm wont translate well over my writing, so let me be a little blunt. Imagine this juxtaposition if you will Drake, I'm a fucking wrestler, one that has struck fear into his opponents, no exception, straight up to current date. Even your boss fears me. Now yes, I know your boss fears every man placed in front of her but there is a little something different here isn't there? This isn't a simple case of your boss fearing competition, a thing I embrace on a nearly religious level, no, it can't be. This is more a petrified tremor, a nervous palpitation, she knows what I'd do to her in the ring. Before you even start, fuck off with your sexual assault bullshit, I mean something so purely decimating and most importantly, humbling. That is something unfettered from any sort of excuse. I stand day in and day out training and learning, a conquest for improvement.
You though, while by all technicality by your contract can declare yourself a wrestler, you are merely a body guard. That's where I spring ahead and you slack back into the crowd. Without any doubt in my mind if you were to vanish from this company, if I were to break your arm and send you on a several month recovery, you'd simply be replaced. Anybody can walk into a gym, flash around a few bills and walk away with one rather large man. Drake you're simply a body, an idea, a man working a job, you have no identity, no ownership to even an established personality. You're not on the same level as me, I've been wrestling non-stop for about 2 years now. You on the hand have been sneak attacking people for 2 months. You, my friend, are an ameba of undefined and un-crafted flesh. You're so unimportant and forgettable in the grand scheme of things that it's cringe worthy. You've crafted a skill around cheating for success, and not even YOUR success, someone else's. Feel free to man up any moment now jackass, you've got the perfect chance, you got a match.
It just sucks it had to be against me. Better luck next time.
Before I forget though, I do have a question to ask you. I am curious sir, while smashing my back into a table and removing me from the tournament like you did, hurt me physically, I'm so very lost at what it must have felt like to have that explode in your face so fucking badly. Let me rephrase that, what did it feel like to be choked out like a hopeless rookie while watching Kandi meet her defeat? More importantly, I'm curious how it felt knowing it was absolutely your fault. You're not talented enough Drake, you're not efficient enough, you were and are simply not good enough. It's easy knocking out Matt Bridges, it's simple to throw around talentless hacks and walk away, it's easy to cheat, it's easy to feel safe when you sweep the lower card sir, however, I implore you to maintain that idealism when you have someone like me breathing down your neck.
No one to date that you've assaulting has had the opportunity to come back at you with vengeance in their eyes, for that I feel privileged. You took the TV title from me, I took it from Kandi, I made you fail. You took from my rematch with Hulu, I'll take away from you your legs. Oh yes, that's IS a threat, and it IS written in pen.
Drake, I double dare you, sue me, send them to my door.
It won't stop me from Skullfucking you pillar to post.
Maybe then you can charge me with sexual assault too.
I won't even get started on the retarded mentality behind that accusation, not yet. Not yet because I do have to apologize, this match is more than a personal vendetta coming to fruition. Drake, I'm not so naive to believe that beating you and introducing you to the canvas on what might seem like a perpetual occasion, will bring me the satisfaction I crave. For that, I need to do something that Hulu only accomplished with my assistance, I require to barbarically crush that woman you suck the cock of. I feel so cliche' making claims and talking tall using kandi as a punch line considering half the roster is trying to make a name for themselves by doing the same, but I don't do it without reason. They say behind every great man is a woman, so I imagine behind a terrible pathetic man like yourself has one fucking pathetic woman.
But really, what is it that makes you pathetic?'
Throughout this company I've come across men and women who live by a mentality; Win at all costs. That is their only rule and the only thing they strive for. That's what makes me better than every single one of you. Even our holy almighty World Champion who recently told us all he's not above cheating, he just hasn't, yet. Me? I strive to be better, you see the difference? You will. The crusade I walked in here to accomplish seems to have hit a hiccup, a bump, a detour, because I've finally figured out what it is that keeps you so low on the totem poll, miles underneath me. You guys don't care about being better do you, you only care about the wins. How am I suppose to force you all to elevate and become better when you don't want to be? You're lazy, you'll do anything besides work for what it is you should be.
Sloth.
That fits you rather aptly. Me on the other hand, do not attribute wins to being better or worse than another person because as you've seen, people will do anything to win, they'll send large brooding men to beat up their opposition for example. You think that makes them good? It makes you pathetic, just like I've stated. I don't necessarily expect someone as lowly as you to play by the rules this week, what I do expect is you to find out it doesn't matter when you're facing someone leagues ahead of you. Keep that in mind if you feel the urge to find me back stage next week, If you feel like sucker punching me again.
I'll be waiting.
See you both very, very soon.
Sincerely
Virgil Keenan
Ps. Rejoice