Post by EricMX on Mar 8, 2021 0:56:44 GMT -5
PESTILENCE
???: "Mr. WWX," yes? We'll see about that.
We fade from darkness into a dimly-lit scene that finds its light only from a warm spot shining from above. Here, a familiar dark-stained wooden pulpit stands alone, covered in scratches and splotches of blood all over its frame - it's clearly been abused by its owner with moderate frequency. Atop the lectern sits a thick leather-bound book that has certainly seen better days; various scribbles and notes have been jotted into the margins at every turn, likely the ramblings of the madman currently staring into the camera lens with his emotionless, piercing blue eyes. With his shoulder-length blonde hair covering the right half of his face, the Wrestling God himself, Syndicate, stands with both hands clutching the edges of the lectern, clearly focused only on one thing: his opponent for Holiday Hell, Tommy Lipton.
Syndicate: Times have changed, Tommy. You may have been "Mr. WWX" once upon a time, but when you look at the past eight years of this company's life, there has been no single person as successful, as resilient, or as infamous as the WRESTLING GOD. I have defeated EVERY opponent, I have won EVERY championship and most of all, I have been THE premier performer in that ring over all others. But what have you done, Tommy? Taken opportunities away from the deserving? Plaster your face on every piece of merchandise known to man? Or maybe you've just been here to waste everyone's time? Because from my perspective, all I see you as...is a mild roadblock on my own path to wrestling immortality. For the Wrestling God is inevitable, Tommy, and every time you have tried to stand in my way, I have barreled through regardless. And even as you emerged victorious at Hall of Pain, even as you managed to briefly recapture the Holy Grail at our last encounter, none of it shall matter once the Inferno Asylum is unleashed upon our souls.
With a sick smile spread across his chiseled jaw, the Wrestling God continues his tirade against the WWX World Heavyweight Champion.
Syndicate: I chose the Asylum for our match, Tommy, because it is the only way to make sure that you cannot recover from your inevitable defeat. I mentioned the last time we spoke that I've viewed our encounters over the years as incremental progress towards the final goal of forcing you out of my world, and quite frankly...I've grown impatient. I've waited far too long for you to fall, Tommy Lipton...even after burying you alive, you still manage to somehow get back up and fight another day. It's an admirable quality, really, something that I myself am also accustomed to. But in this specific instance, Tommy, I can no longer keep eating away at your spirit piece by piece, no...more drastic measures must be taken. At Holiday Hell, Tommy Lipton, your friends and family shall watch as you burn in the embers of Hell itself, and they shall be helpless as I mangle you beyond recognition and take back the Holy Grail that rightfully belongs in my grasp. For eight long years, I have played witness to the unmitigated spread of a plague, a PESTILENCE, of disrespect across this very industry, led by none other than yourself. Undermining my accomplishments, taking away chances that I've rightfully earned, and placing yourself above me in the metaphorical pecking order. And to be quite honest with you, Tommy, I cannot allow my future children to be born into a world where this plague still lives. I cannot let people like YOU, Tommy Lipton, live another day on this earth without being taught their role in society - MY society. Because I am not simply God's gift to professional wrestling, I am GOD HIMSELF, and at Holiday Hell, you will pay for your sins against humanity, Tommy, if it's the last thing that I do.
Syndicate takes a moment to steady himself, looking down at the book in front of him. He flips through a few pages, eventually arriving at an image of a much younger Syndicate facing off against Xander Adams at World Series 2015, winning his first WWX World title.
Syndicate: Once upon a time, Tommy, I did my best to be the "good guy", to take the high road and do things the "right way". Even if my actions weren't always righteous, my end goal was always to bring prosperity to the company that took a chance on a young child from Los Angeles with nothing but a t-shirt and jeans to his name.
Syndicate flips through the book again, this time stopping at an image of himself and Tommy Lipton, face-to-face in a WWX ring with thousands in attendance.
Syndicate: And then, Tommy, I met you. You professed similar goals as my own, but yet, you and I were constantly on opposite sides of one another, never able to get on the same page.
Another trek through the pages, with the Wrestling God now taking a gander at a picture of Syndicate, with a large metal brace covering a then-injured right knee, hitting Lipton with an Original Syn just moments prior to winning yet another World title.
Syndicate: Whenever I thought I had a good thing going, you were always there, ready to knock me down from behind with another twist to our saga.
Suddenly, Syndicate grabs the large book by the side and slams it shut, shaking the podium upon which it sits.
Syndicate: Our story ends at Holiday Hell, Tommy. You and I have gone back-and-forth for eight long years, and that's all about to come to its fateful conclusion. The planets are aligned, the location is right, and when you step into that horrible Asylum, Tommy Lipton...there is simply nothing you can do to save yourself from the slaughter. That championship that you hold over your shoulder means EVERYTHING to me, and I don't care if I need to DIE in that ring to make it happen, but by the end of the night, I will personally see to it that you shall NEVER touch that Holy Grail ever again. For the fires of Hell shall consume the damned, Tommy...and I'm afraid it's simply too late to save yourself now. Praise be to the Wrestling God...and may you learn to cherish life on this earth, Tommy...before it ends.
Taking one last glance at his book of memories, the Wrestling God smiles into the camera and steps off into the darkness, leaving only the empty podium behind.
We transition from the familiar pulpit of the Wrestling God to a scene much less recognizable, that being the exterior of a modern Los Angeles home. The house, its walls painted a perfect white and its supports made of dark stained wood, is placed directly in front of a beautiful beachfront scene, with the sun setting perfectly in the background as if this were the finale to an 80's teen beach movie. Unfortunately, however, the pleasant vibes of the area undercut a much more tense sequence of events, as we are currently playing witness to the Wrestling God, Syndicate - dressed in a white button-down shirt and khaki pants - placing a suitcase into a black Tesla Model 3 as his wife, the beautiful "Oracle," Sophie Irvine, stands and watches from the porch. Her arms folded in front of her, Sophie looks disapprovingly at her husband - he obviously has not backed down from the malicious thoughts that Sophie has tried so very hard to discourage.
Sophie: I can't let you go through with this.
Syndicate tiredly smirks at this - he's obviously been having this argument with Sophie for quite some time.
Syndicate: I'm only trying to secure a better world for our family, Oracle. I do not wish to see my future children grow up in a world where people like Tommy Lipton are still around to disrespect them. He deserves to perish, my love...they all do.
The Wrestling God slams the trunk of the Tesla shut and turns towards his wife, who's clearly ready with a retort.
Sophie: You're walking into a death trap. There's a solid chance you won't even be able to HAVE kids after this.
Syndicate: And would that be such a bad thing? At least they wouldn't end up being corrupted by the vile congregation, the people that SAY they have our backs but are just waiting for the right moment to stab us instead. Do you really want our offspring to live in THAT kind of world, Oracle? I certainly do not.
Sophie: And what if you're wrong? What if this imaginary "plague" that you've been so worried about doesn't exist? What if you're putting yourself in harms way for no reason whatsoever?
The couple is now face-to-face on their porch, inches away from each other as they continue to argue.
Syndicate: You don't know what it's like to walk in my shoes, Oracle. You don't know how it felt to migrate across this country in search of a home, only to have that eventual home try to throw you out the door at every opportunity. I am SICK of being disrespected, I am SICK of being shoved aside, and I shall see to it that after this match, the WWX is finally rebuilt in the image of the WRESTLING GOD.
Sophie: Oh, come on, Sydney -
Syndicate: DON'T CALL ME SYDNEY.
Sophie is quite literally taken aback by this outburst, shocked into silence by her husband rejecting his real name, a tactic that he last employed when he was but 24 years old, wrestling his first matches as "Syndicate" in the WWX. Back then, he strayed away from the name Sydney Irvine because it reminded him of his true home of Apter, Tennessee, but now...it shows just how demented and broken Syndicate's mind has truly become.
Syndicate: I am the Wrestling God...you, of all people, should recognize that.
After staring angrily into Sophie's shocked eyes for a moment, Syndicate turns and walks back over to the car. Opening the drivers door, he looks back over at his wife, still standing on the porch.
Syndicate: After this match, Oracle, the gates of Valhalla shall finally open for us both. The Holy Grail will be back within our grasp, and I shall personally see to it that the need for myself to enter these dangerous situations shall be permanently extinguished. But for now, I suggest that we head out...we must prepare for the upcoming war. Praise be.
Stepping into the Tesla, Syndicate disappears from the view of the camera. Meanwhile, Sophie seems to be running scenarios through her head - she's obviously stumbled upon a soft spot for her husband...one that could possibly be used to fix the shattered persona of Sydney Irvine and bring back the husband she once loved. Until that point, however, Sophie merely takes a deep breath, locks the front door to the house behind her, and walks towards the car, readying herself to travel with Syndicate to Holiday Hell. As the couple leaves the driveway, globs of darkness eat away at the shot until there is simply nothing left.
???: "Mr. WWX," yes? We'll see about that.
We fade from darkness into a dimly-lit scene that finds its light only from a warm spot shining from above. Here, a familiar dark-stained wooden pulpit stands alone, covered in scratches and splotches of blood all over its frame - it's clearly been abused by its owner with moderate frequency. Atop the lectern sits a thick leather-bound book that has certainly seen better days; various scribbles and notes have been jotted into the margins at every turn, likely the ramblings of the madman currently staring into the camera lens with his emotionless, piercing blue eyes. With his shoulder-length blonde hair covering the right half of his face, the Wrestling God himself, Syndicate, stands with both hands clutching the edges of the lectern, clearly focused only on one thing: his opponent for Holiday Hell, Tommy Lipton.
Syndicate: Times have changed, Tommy. You may have been "Mr. WWX" once upon a time, but when you look at the past eight years of this company's life, there has been no single person as successful, as resilient, or as infamous as the WRESTLING GOD. I have defeated EVERY opponent, I have won EVERY championship and most of all, I have been THE premier performer in that ring over all others. But what have you done, Tommy? Taken opportunities away from the deserving? Plaster your face on every piece of merchandise known to man? Or maybe you've just been here to waste everyone's time? Because from my perspective, all I see you as...is a mild roadblock on my own path to wrestling immortality. For the Wrestling God is inevitable, Tommy, and every time you have tried to stand in my way, I have barreled through regardless. And even as you emerged victorious at Hall of Pain, even as you managed to briefly recapture the Holy Grail at our last encounter, none of it shall matter once the Inferno Asylum is unleashed upon our souls.
With a sick smile spread across his chiseled jaw, the Wrestling God continues his tirade against the WWX World Heavyweight Champion.
Syndicate: I chose the Asylum for our match, Tommy, because it is the only way to make sure that you cannot recover from your inevitable defeat. I mentioned the last time we spoke that I've viewed our encounters over the years as incremental progress towards the final goal of forcing you out of my world, and quite frankly...I've grown impatient. I've waited far too long for you to fall, Tommy Lipton...even after burying you alive, you still manage to somehow get back up and fight another day. It's an admirable quality, really, something that I myself am also accustomed to. But in this specific instance, Tommy, I can no longer keep eating away at your spirit piece by piece, no...more drastic measures must be taken. At Holiday Hell, Tommy Lipton, your friends and family shall watch as you burn in the embers of Hell itself, and they shall be helpless as I mangle you beyond recognition and take back the Holy Grail that rightfully belongs in my grasp. For eight long years, I have played witness to the unmitigated spread of a plague, a PESTILENCE, of disrespect across this very industry, led by none other than yourself. Undermining my accomplishments, taking away chances that I've rightfully earned, and placing yourself above me in the metaphorical pecking order. And to be quite honest with you, Tommy, I cannot allow my future children to be born into a world where this plague still lives. I cannot let people like YOU, Tommy Lipton, live another day on this earth without being taught their role in society - MY society. Because I am not simply God's gift to professional wrestling, I am GOD HIMSELF, and at Holiday Hell, you will pay for your sins against humanity, Tommy, if it's the last thing that I do.
Syndicate takes a moment to steady himself, looking down at the book in front of him. He flips through a few pages, eventually arriving at an image of a much younger Syndicate facing off against Xander Adams at World Series 2015, winning his first WWX World title.
Syndicate: Once upon a time, Tommy, I did my best to be the "good guy", to take the high road and do things the "right way". Even if my actions weren't always righteous, my end goal was always to bring prosperity to the company that took a chance on a young child from Los Angeles with nothing but a t-shirt and jeans to his name.
Syndicate flips through the book again, this time stopping at an image of himself and Tommy Lipton, face-to-face in a WWX ring with thousands in attendance.
Syndicate: And then, Tommy, I met you. You professed similar goals as my own, but yet, you and I were constantly on opposite sides of one another, never able to get on the same page.
Another trek through the pages, with the Wrestling God now taking a gander at a picture of Syndicate, with a large metal brace covering a then-injured right knee, hitting Lipton with an Original Syn just moments prior to winning yet another World title.
Syndicate: Whenever I thought I had a good thing going, you were always there, ready to knock me down from behind with another twist to our saga.
Suddenly, Syndicate grabs the large book by the side and slams it shut, shaking the podium upon which it sits.
Syndicate: Our story ends at Holiday Hell, Tommy. You and I have gone back-and-forth for eight long years, and that's all about to come to its fateful conclusion. The planets are aligned, the location is right, and when you step into that horrible Asylum, Tommy Lipton...there is simply nothing you can do to save yourself from the slaughter. That championship that you hold over your shoulder means EVERYTHING to me, and I don't care if I need to DIE in that ring to make it happen, but by the end of the night, I will personally see to it that you shall NEVER touch that Holy Grail ever again. For the fires of Hell shall consume the damned, Tommy...and I'm afraid it's simply too late to save yourself now. Praise be to the Wrestling God...and may you learn to cherish life on this earth, Tommy...before it ends.
Taking one last glance at his book of memories, the Wrestling God smiles into the camera and steps off into the darkness, leaving only the empty podium behind.
We transition from the familiar pulpit of the Wrestling God to a scene much less recognizable, that being the exterior of a modern Los Angeles home. The house, its walls painted a perfect white and its supports made of dark stained wood, is placed directly in front of a beautiful beachfront scene, with the sun setting perfectly in the background as if this were the finale to an 80's teen beach movie. Unfortunately, however, the pleasant vibes of the area undercut a much more tense sequence of events, as we are currently playing witness to the Wrestling God, Syndicate - dressed in a white button-down shirt and khaki pants - placing a suitcase into a black Tesla Model 3 as his wife, the beautiful "Oracle," Sophie Irvine, stands and watches from the porch. Her arms folded in front of her, Sophie looks disapprovingly at her husband - he obviously has not backed down from the malicious thoughts that Sophie has tried so very hard to discourage.
Sophie: I can't let you go through with this.
Syndicate tiredly smirks at this - he's obviously been having this argument with Sophie for quite some time.
Syndicate: I'm only trying to secure a better world for our family, Oracle. I do not wish to see my future children grow up in a world where people like Tommy Lipton are still around to disrespect them. He deserves to perish, my love...they all do.
The Wrestling God slams the trunk of the Tesla shut and turns towards his wife, who's clearly ready with a retort.
Sophie: You're walking into a death trap. There's a solid chance you won't even be able to HAVE kids after this.
Syndicate: And would that be such a bad thing? At least they wouldn't end up being corrupted by the vile congregation, the people that SAY they have our backs but are just waiting for the right moment to stab us instead. Do you really want our offspring to live in THAT kind of world, Oracle? I certainly do not.
Sophie: And what if you're wrong? What if this imaginary "plague" that you've been so worried about doesn't exist? What if you're putting yourself in harms way for no reason whatsoever?
The couple is now face-to-face on their porch, inches away from each other as they continue to argue.
Syndicate: You don't know what it's like to walk in my shoes, Oracle. You don't know how it felt to migrate across this country in search of a home, only to have that eventual home try to throw you out the door at every opportunity. I am SICK of being disrespected, I am SICK of being shoved aside, and I shall see to it that after this match, the WWX is finally rebuilt in the image of the WRESTLING GOD.
Sophie: Oh, come on, Sydney -
Syndicate: DON'T CALL ME SYDNEY.
Sophie is quite literally taken aback by this outburst, shocked into silence by her husband rejecting his real name, a tactic that he last employed when he was but 24 years old, wrestling his first matches as "Syndicate" in the WWX. Back then, he strayed away from the name Sydney Irvine because it reminded him of his true home of Apter, Tennessee, but now...it shows just how demented and broken Syndicate's mind has truly become.
Syndicate: I am the Wrestling God...you, of all people, should recognize that.
After staring angrily into Sophie's shocked eyes for a moment, Syndicate turns and walks back over to the car. Opening the drivers door, he looks back over at his wife, still standing on the porch.
Syndicate: After this match, Oracle, the gates of Valhalla shall finally open for us both. The Holy Grail will be back within our grasp, and I shall personally see to it that the need for myself to enter these dangerous situations shall be permanently extinguished. But for now, I suggest that we head out...we must prepare for the upcoming war. Praise be.
Stepping into the Tesla, Syndicate disappears from the view of the camera. Meanwhile, Sophie seems to be running scenarios through her head - she's obviously stumbled upon a soft spot for her husband...one that could possibly be used to fix the shattered persona of Sydney Irvine and bring back the husband she once loved. Until that point, however, Sophie merely takes a deep breath, locks the front door to the house behind her, and walks towards the car, readying herself to travel with Syndicate to Holiday Hell. As the couple leaves the driveway, globs of darkness eat away at the shot until there is simply nothing left.