Post by EricMX on Mar 4, 2021 0:04:33 GMT -5
ENDGAME
???: Time is a finite resource, Tommy.
From the deepest of darkness, we emerge to see the profile of a grandfather clock. With ornate dark wood stylings around a golden antique timepiece, its tall pendulum slowly swings back and forth, creating a noticeable "tick-tock" sound that resonates throughout the room. Surrounding it lies an eternal void as it stands as the only object in the scene, being lit by a singular warm spotlight from above. That is...with the exception of the man staring into the clock with an impenetrable gaze, as if its moving hands are the only objects that he is perceiving in this moment. Wearing a black button-down shirt, khaki pants, and brown loafers, the Wrestling God himself, Syndicate, reaches out with his right hand to touch the glass covering the grandfather clock's mechanisms. Feeling the surface's cold profile, he turns over his left shoulder to face the camera head-on, his shoulder-length blonde hair slightly flowing in an apparent breeze. As Syndicate flashes the smile of a complete madman, the sounds of the grandfather clock behind him are unmissably audible.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate: For the duration of my career, you and I have been locked in an arduous battle for supremacy. After everything you had done in your life, all the accolades and prestige and respect that you had acquired, you found yourself face-to-face with a man that threatened all of it. Someone that wouldn't go away, someone that wouldn't rest, someone that kept their sights squared solely on you and you alone. And throughout all of it, the titles that you've won and the power that you've gained, you STILL cannot escape the inevitability that is the Wrestling God.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate: I know what you're feeling, Tommy. I know you see me as nothing more than an annoying little gnat, a calf that's unknowingly being led to slaughter. And why wouldn't you? For a man with all the experience in the world should be able to defeat an arrogant, self-absorbed individual like myself with ease, correct? Well...let's just say I see things a bit differently from my own perspective. Because while you certainly see yourself as the "top dog," the CHAMPION that stands far above all others...I see you as a man that's running out of time. Every match that you wrestle, every fight that you survive, causes the hands of time to turn faster and faster, and unfortunately for you, Tommy...you don't have many ticks left. You see, over the past eight years, I've viewed each of our encounters not as a war in and of itself, but as a singular battle in a long line of clashes that will one day come to its fateful conclusion. Each punch has been an opportunity to weaken your jawbone, each knee strike a chance to crack your skull ever so slightly, so that at the end of it all, your body shall be the first to break down. I know that I still have enough time to see this conflict through to the bitter end, Tommy; I know that no matter what I have to endure, I'll still be the one to end your career and throw your legacy into the garbage. I believe that moment is about to come to pass, and when you finally do run out of time, Tommy...rest assured that I'll be the man observing your last moments while you stare up at the lights.
TICK....TOCK...
As the grandfather clock continues to turn, Syndicate extends his arms outward in an apparent welcoming gesture, his right shoulder noticeably missing the WWX World Heavyweight Championship belt that Tommy Lipton had finally reclaimed this past week on Ravage.
Syndicate: Do you know why I tire myself coming after you, time and time again, Tommy? Do you understand why I'm even here in the first place, why I chose of my own volition to return to the WWX last year and waste my precious time as the Wrestling God trying to bring this company through the gates of Valhalla? Why is it, Tommy Lipton, that the Wrestling God had to step into the light and take over the feeble mind of Sydney Irvine? It's simple, really: it's all because of you. Everything that I have done over the past ten months of my life has been to take you down, to show the world who the TRUE ruler of the WWX is. But even more than that, Tommy? I just want to see your face kicked in for all the times that you've wronged me. The hostile takeovers of my own factions, the various screwjobs caused by the apparent unjustness of my own actions, the unfair treatment of the GREATEST professional wrestler alive today...it has ALL lead to this moment. And I'm sure that you'd just like to move away from the past, an excuse that you've used in our previous spats to great success, but that's not going to work anymore. You can say that the past doesn't matter, that the future is all that counts, but you don't HAVE a future anymore, Tommy. You don't HAVE the benefit of surviving to fight another day, because you don't have any days left to survive to. And if you haven't come to terms with that yet, then you most certainly will when you feel the full and unbridled wrath of the Wrestling God.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate: I want you to understand the situation you're about to step into, Tommy. I want you to know, heading into Holiday Hell, what you are going to endure. Because inside the Inferno Asylum, Tommy...humans aren't meant to survive, no. Humans are meant to die in that cell, that horrible construction of steel and chain link, set ablaze on all sides for the entertainment of the fickle congregation. I have chosen such a contest for the two of us to take part in because I know what needs to be done to defeat you, Tommy. I've known, from my first day of existence in this world, that the only way to kill the devil...is to meet him in his home. For we near the end of the road, Tommy...your time as the holder of the Holy Grail is about to meet its end, once and for all. For THAT is what I truly want, Tommy, above all else. I want you out of that top spot, the place at the table that I, the WRESTLING GOD, deserve to occupy. I want you to be made an example of, for everyone else in this company to see what happens when they go against the teachings of my holy Gospel. At Holiday Hell, you will come in as champion, but I promise you, Tommy...I promise you that when you leave, it'll be in a body bag. For the fires of Hell are coming for you, and when you are embraced by their heat in front of the entire world and you are FORCED to let go and fade into nothingness, it'll be ME, the WRESTLING GOD, that shall step over your lifeless carcass and ascend to the throne of Valhalla where I rightfully belong.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate takes a deep breath, evidently calming himself from the past few minutes of passionate speech towards his greatest enemy, turns back to the ticking grandfather clock. Once again reaching out and caressing its glass surface with his hand, the Wrestling God suddenly rears back and kicks its center with his right foot, sending the entire assembly crashing to the floor in a heap.
SMASHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The face of the antique clock is shattered and disfigured by the fall, its golden accents bent in several directions and glass cover broken into a thousand pieces. Syndicate walks over and stands over the rubble, the crunch of glass shards audible under the soles of his shoes. As a short chuckle escapes the lips of the Wrestling God, he turns back towards the camera, his shocking blue eyes piercing the lens.
Syndicate: Your time at the top is about to run out, Tommy. I'm the one in control now, and at Holiday Hell, inside that horrific structure, I shall be the man that will finally end your reign as champion and reclaim what is RIGHTFULLY MINE. Praise be to the Wrestling God...and may you accept my Gospel before time runs out.
Taking one last parting glance at the grandfather clock, Syndicate adjusts the cuffs of his shirt and calmly walks into the void, leaving only the broken remains of the grandfather clock behind.
We cut from this ominous image to what appears to be a tense moment inside the Irvine household in beautiful Los Angeles, California. The camera is focused in on the profile of the Wrestling God, Syndicate, dressed in the same black dress shirt and khakis as before and currently staring out of one of the two ten-foot windows that light up his living room. With the arms folded in front of him, Syndicate stands with his back towards his wife, the woman who has adopted the persona of "The Oracle" simply to appease her husband, Sophie Irvine. Wearing a yellow V-neck t-shirt and blue jeans, her flowing brunette hair and flawless face are lit up perfectly by the natural light coming from outside. She wears an expression of frustration as Syndicate speaks to her, demanding answers that she is simply not capable of having.
Syndicate: What do you see, Oracle? Do tell, what prophecy do you foretell for the upcoming conflict?
Syndicate rubs his stubble-filled chin with his hand as Sophie responds, obviously just trying to find the right reply that will make her husband happy.
Sophie: I see...fire...flames, twenty feet high in all directions...
This, of course, was not what The Wrestling God was looking for.
Syndicate: I mean regarding Tommy. Weaknesses, traps, anything that can help me ensure that this battle between the two of us is our last. What do you see?
A pause. Sophie doesn't know what to say, prompting Syndicate to violently turn towards his wife with an expression of pure rage on his face.
Syndicate: Damn it, Oracle, what do you see?
Sophie: PAIN.
Syndicate is taken aback by Sophie's blunt response, as now she's the one angered by the conversation.
Syndicate: ...pain?
Sophie: Yes, Sydney. Pain and suffering for you and you alone if you don't take a step back and realize what you're doing.
The Wrestling God stands silently as Sophie Irvine continues to passionately plead to her husband.
Sophie: Ever since getting back into wrestling, you've thrown everything at Tommy Lipton, and in each instance, you've come up short. It happened at Armada, it happened at Hall of Pain, and now, you're CHOOSING to step into a steel death trap where you're going to fail again unless you step away from it all and realize what's really been going on. You are not a god, Sydney, you are a man, and you're going to be burnt alive in there if you don't stop right now. No man deserves that fate, not even Tommy Lipton, and I know - deep down inside of you - that you understand that as well as I do.
With Sophie breathing heavily and staring straight into the eyes of Syndicate, the couple falls silent. After a few tense moments of this, the Wrestling God cracks a slight smile and turns back around to face the gigantic window, looking out at the neighborhood that surrounds their home.
Syndicate: You're wrong, Oracle. Your visions have simply misled you.
Sophie: Screw the visions, Sydney; this is me, your WIFE, talking to -
Syndicate: ENOUGH.
The Wrestling God raises his right palm in the air, refusing to turn and face an enraged Sophie.
Syndicate: This is the endgame of years of work, Oracle...work that shall soon benefit the entire world and all of its inhabitants. The Wrestling God has sentenced Tommy Lipton to the final circle of Hell for eternity, and I will stop at nothing - NOTHING - to make sure that my order is enacted. Neither your prophecies, nor your own feeble personal feelings, shall change that inevitability. Now please, excuse me...I must prepare.
Syndicate turns and walks out of the living room and up the nearby stairs to his personal office, refusing to make eye contact with his wife as he does so. This leaves an embittered Sophie Irvine in his place, now contemplating what she could possibly do to break the Sydney Irvine she once loved out of his mentally deranged state. As we watch Sophie calm herself down and glance out of the ten-foot windows herself, the scene is eaten up by the void from all sides.
???: Time is a finite resource, Tommy.
From the deepest of darkness, we emerge to see the profile of a grandfather clock. With ornate dark wood stylings around a golden antique timepiece, its tall pendulum slowly swings back and forth, creating a noticeable "tick-tock" sound that resonates throughout the room. Surrounding it lies an eternal void as it stands as the only object in the scene, being lit by a singular warm spotlight from above. That is...with the exception of the man staring into the clock with an impenetrable gaze, as if its moving hands are the only objects that he is perceiving in this moment. Wearing a black button-down shirt, khaki pants, and brown loafers, the Wrestling God himself, Syndicate, reaches out with his right hand to touch the glass covering the grandfather clock's mechanisms. Feeling the surface's cold profile, he turns over his left shoulder to face the camera head-on, his shoulder-length blonde hair slightly flowing in an apparent breeze. As Syndicate flashes the smile of a complete madman, the sounds of the grandfather clock behind him are unmissably audible.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate: For the duration of my career, you and I have been locked in an arduous battle for supremacy. After everything you had done in your life, all the accolades and prestige and respect that you had acquired, you found yourself face-to-face with a man that threatened all of it. Someone that wouldn't go away, someone that wouldn't rest, someone that kept their sights squared solely on you and you alone. And throughout all of it, the titles that you've won and the power that you've gained, you STILL cannot escape the inevitability that is the Wrestling God.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate: I know what you're feeling, Tommy. I know you see me as nothing more than an annoying little gnat, a calf that's unknowingly being led to slaughter. And why wouldn't you? For a man with all the experience in the world should be able to defeat an arrogant, self-absorbed individual like myself with ease, correct? Well...let's just say I see things a bit differently from my own perspective. Because while you certainly see yourself as the "top dog," the CHAMPION that stands far above all others...I see you as a man that's running out of time. Every match that you wrestle, every fight that you survive, causes the hands of time to turn faster and faster, and unfortunately for you, Tommy...you don't have many ticks left. You see, over the past eight years, I've viewed each of our encounters not as a war in and of itself, but as a singular battle in a long line of clashes that will one day come to its fateful conclusion. Each punch has been an opportunity to weaken your jawbone, each knee strike a chance to crack your skull ever so slightly, so that at the end of it all, your body shall be the first to break down. I know that I still have enough time to see this conflict through to the bitter end, Tommy; I know that no matter what I have to endure, I'll still be the one to end your career and throw your legacy into the garbage. I believe that moment is about to come to pass, and when you finally do run out of time, Tommy...rest assured that I'll be the man observing your last moments while you stare up at the lights.
TICK....TOCK...
As the grandfather clock continues to turn, Syndicate extends his arms outward in an apparent welcoming gesture, his right shoulder noticeably missing the WWX World Heavyweight Championship belt that Tommy Lipton had finally reclaimed this past week on Ravage.
Syndicate: Do you know why I tire myself coming after you, time and time again, Tommy? Do you understand why I'm even here in the first place, why I chose of my own volition to return to the WWX last year and waste my precious time as the Wrestling God trying to bring this company through the gates of Valhalla? Why is it, Tommy Lipton, that the Wrestling God had to step into the light and take over the feeble mind of Sydney Irvine? It's simple, really: it's all because of you. Everything that I have done over the past ten months of my life has been to take you down, to show the world who the TRUE ruler of the WWX is. But even more than that, Tommy? I just want to see your face kicked in for all the times that you've wronged me. The hostile takeovers of my own factions, the various screwjobs caused by the apparent unjustness of my own actions, the unfair treatment of the GREATEST professional wrestler alive today...it has ALL lead to this moment. And I'm sure that you'd just like to move away from the past, an excuse that you've used in our previous spats to great success, but that's not going to work anymore. You can say that the past doesn't matter, that the future is all that counts, but you don't HAVE a future anymore, Tommy. You don't HAVE the benefit of surviving to fight another day, because you don't have any days left to survive to. And if you haven't come to terms with that yet, then you most certainly will when you feel the full and unbridled wrath of the Wrestling God.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate: I want you to understand the situation you're about to step into, Tommy. I want you to know, heading into Holiday Hell, what you are going to endure. Because inside the Inferno Asylum, Tommy...humans aren't meant to survive, no. Humans are meant to die in that cell, that horrible construction of steel and chain link, set ablaze on all sides for the entertainment of the fickle congregation. I have chosen such a contest for the two of us to take part in because I know what needs to be done to defeat you, Tommy. I've known, from my first day of existence in this world, that the only way to kill the devil...is to meet him in his home. For we near the end of the road, Tommy...your time as the holder of the Holy Grail is about to meet its end, once and for all. For THAT is what I truly want, Tommy, above all else. I want you out of that top spot, the place at the table that I, the WRESTLING GOD, deserve to occupy. I want you to be made an example of, for everyone else in this company to see what happens when they go against the teachings of my holy Gospel. At Holiday Hell, you will come in as champion, but I promise you, Tommy...I promise you that when you leave, it'll be in a body bag. For the fires of Hell are coming for you, and when you are embraced by their heat in front of the entire world and you are FORCED to let go and fade into nothingness, it'll be ME, the WRESTLING GOD, that shall step over your lifeless carcass and ascend to the throne of Valhalla where I rightfully belong.
TICK....TOCK...
Syndicate takes a deep breath, evidently calming himself from the past few minutes of passionate speech towards his greatest enemy, turns back to the ticking grandfather clock. Once again reaching out and caressing its glass surface with his hand, the Wrestling God suddenly rears back and kicks its center with his right foot, sending the entire assembly crashing to the floor in a heap.
SMASHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The face of the antique clock is shattered and disfigured by the fall, its golden accents bent in several directions and glass cover broken into a thousand pieces. Syndicate walks over and stands over the rubble, the crunch of glass shards audible under the soles of his shoes. As a short chuckle escapes the lips of the Wrestling God, he turns back towards the camera, his shocking blue eyes piercing the lens.
Syndicate: Your time at the top is about to run out, Tommy. I'm the one in control now, and at Holiday Hell, inside that horrific structure, I shall be the man that will finally end your reign as champion and reclaim what is RIGHTFULLY MINE. Praise be to the Wrestling God...and may you accept my Gospel before time runs out.
Taking one last parting glance at the grandfather clock, Syndicate adjusts the cuffs of his shirt and calmly walks into the void, leaving only the broken remains of the grandfather clock behind.
We cut from this ominous image to what appears to be a tense moment inside the Irvine household in beautiful Los Angeles, California. The camera is focused in on the profile of the Wrestling God, Syndicate, dressed in the same black dress shirt and khakis as before and currently staring out of one of the two ten-foot windows that light up his living room. With the arms folded in front of him, Syndicate stands with his back towards his wife, the woman who has adopted the persona of "The Oracle" simply to appease her husband, Sophie Irvine. Wearing a yellow V-neck t-shirt and blue jeans, her flowing brunette hair and flawless face are lit up perfectly by the natural light coming from outside. She wears an expression of frustration as Syndicate speaks to her, demanding answers that she is simply not capable of having.
Syndicate: What do you see, Oracle? Do tell, what prophecy do you foretell for the upcoming conflict?
Syndicate rubs his stubble-filled chin with his hand as Sophie responds, obviously just trying to find the right reply that will make her husband happy.
Sophie: I see...fire...flames, twenty feet high in all directions...
This, of course, was not what The Wrestling God was looking for.
Syndicate: I mean regarding Tommy. Weaknesses, traps, anything that can help me ensure that this battle between the two of us is our last. What do you see?
A pause. Sophie doesn't know what to say, prompting Syndicate to violently turn towards his wife with an expression of pure rage on his face.
Syndicate: Damn it, Oracle, what do you see?
Sophie: PAIN.
Syndicate is taken aback by Sophie's blunt response, as now she's the one angered by the conversation.
Syndicate: ...pain?
Sophie: Yes, Sydney. Pain and suffering for you and you alone if you don't take a step back and realize what you're doing.
The Wrestling God stands silently as Sophie Irvine continues to passionately plead to her husband.
Sophie: Ever since getting back into wrestling, you've thrown everything at Tommy Lipton, and in each instance, you've come up short. It happened at Armada, it happened at Hall of Pain, and now, you're CHOOSING to step into a steel death trap where you're going to fail again unless you step away from it all and realize what's really been going on. You are not a god, Sydney, you are a man, and you're going to be burnt alive in there if you don't stop right now. No man deserves that fate, not even Tommy Lipton, and I know - deep down inside of you - that you understand that as well as I do.
With Sophie breathing heavily and staring straight into the eyes of Syndicate, the couple falls silent. After a few tense moments of this, the Wrestling God cracks a slight smile and turns back around to face the gigantic window, looking out at the neighborhood that surrounds their home.
Syndicate: You're wrong, Oracle. Your visions have simply misled you.
Sophie: Screw the visions, Sydney; this is me, your WIFE, talking to -
Syndicate: ENOUGH.
The Wrestling God raises his right palm in the air, refusing to turn and face an enraged Sophie.
Syndicate: This is the endgame of years of work, Oracle...work that shall soon benefit the entire world and all of its inhabitants. The Wrestling God has sentenced Tommy Lipton to the final circle of Hell for eternity, and I will stop at nothing - NOTHING - to make sure that my order is enacted. Neither your prophecies, nor your own feeble personal feelings, shall change that inevitability. Now please, excuse me...I must prepare.
Syndicate turns and walks out of the living room and up the nearby stairs to his personal office, refusing to make eye contact with his wife as he does so. This leaves an embittered Sophie Irvine in his place, now contemplating what she could possibly do to break the Sydney Irvine she once loved out of his mentally deranged state. As we watch Sophie calm herself down and glance out of the ten-foot windows herself, the scene is eaten up by the void from all sides.