The Unworthy, The Talker and the Reprobate.
Aug 31, 2021 8:57:42 GMT -5
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vastrix, Rob Garcia, and 2 more like this
Post by Deleted on Aug 31, 2021 8:57:42 GMT -5
A sandy beach sits empty upon the twilight hours just before morn. Pink and orange hues are stretched across the sky like brush strokes on a never ending canvas. The remnants of a fire long burned out sits before a figure draped in black.
A baggy thin black hoodie is frayed around the sleeve cuffs, small tears dot its faded surface, yet it still does it’s job. Obscuring all but his hands.
Staring into the blackened coals and greyed ash, wisps of smoke drift upward from errant coals missed during its extinction. He plunges his right hand into the ash grabbing as much as he can in his fist, warm and pure.
Like sand through an hourglass, it passes through his fingers blackening his hand and taking these precious moments of life with them.
“Forty-one hundred.” A seemingly random number stands alone as his voice trails off into a whisper. “That is about how many souls, on average, were taken daily for fourteen hundred and sixty days. Some six million innocents lost in just four years.”
The word atrocity had been thrown about throughout human history, like many words, its meaning diluted over time. But this? This were no fairy tale, this was one of the darkest periods in all of humanity. Atrocity might be the only word that fit.
“For four years in Germany controlled Europe, monsters posing as men committed atrocities against man, woman, child and god alike. What became known as Shoah; the Holocaust.”
The enigma bows his head, for a long moment he is silent as he gives reverence to the dead. It was undeniably one of the single most impactful and disgusting periods of any war.
“All that pain, all that suffering, all that hate. If you ask me what I bring with me come Honor? That is my answer. Pain, suffering and hate. That is what pushes me forward to Fight for the Fallen. Six million souls taken in hate and suffering and pain.”
Channeling that disgust, it’s clear the enigma is in a foul mood as ash continues to flow from his hand, visions of the gas chambers, the crematoriums, the children, drag through his mind and what those last awful moments must have been like. He can feel the goose flesh creep across his body as he speaks again. “Steve Awesome, the unworthy. The petty. The defeated. His crotch chops, his outdated schtick and tired jokes failed him once and they’ll fail him again. Just as the death and destruction of millions started with one life, this began with Steve. He had his chance. He doesn’t deserve to be in this match, he was weighed, and measured, and found wanting. Yet, he coasts on reputation, a reputation no one in this match cares about.”
Reputation; by reputation, the enigma had been a vengeful wraith sent from the darkness itself to cleanse NPW of tyranny…or perhaps, burn it to the ground himself.
That brought him to the anarchistic one, the mighty talker. A plague upon NPW akin to the fear and hatred that had once plagued Germany, the self-professed scourge was dangerous. Like those mis-led before him, he actually believed in his cause.
“Donzig, the talker. The man who won a match yet, didn’t actually defeat me. I wonder which of us that haunts more? You were handed a victory in name only, never forget that. Freakke gave you that win, you didn’t earn it. Your self importance, your talk, all of it is just smoke and mirrors, a distraction from the truth. You’re not the chosen of anything, you’re a delusional man in need of a reality check. It’s coming.” More ash trickles through his fingers.
Next was a man he knew by extension only. A newcomer to NPW, the brother of a former opponent, yet a different animal completely.
“Edward Zepp; you’re not your brother. He, at least, had heart, you? You’re big…and?” He paused before answering his own question. “You’re going to need much more than size. I smell fear on you. You still fear your own potential, your chance here lies in picking the bones I leave behind. I’m going to enjoy watching you tire, I’m going to enjoy watching you struggle for air. I going to enjoy showing you why your brother couldn’t beat me either. I’m going to expose you for what you are. A big man, akin to a dead weight, being dragged about upon Rob Riot’s crowded coattail!”
The mention of his former opponent turned Tagteam partner brought a certain amount of division into his voice. To say he and Riot were estranged was something of an understatement.
Events had transpired that would have to be acknowledged, and not swept under the carpet with a euphemism and an apology.
“I’m not going to be just looking to sneak in and steal a win here. I’m coming to Fight For The Fallen to win, to retain my Openweight Championship by any means necessary. Any. Means. Necessary.” He lets those words hiss from his lips, his voice low and his choice of words deliberate.
“The blame for the atrocities I commit at Honor in the name of defending my championship will fall upon one man, and one man only. After this night, Gus Arnold shall be remembered akin to the wrestling equivalent of Adolf Hitler, and I his Josef Mengele…his Angel of death. So ladies, gentlemen, my opponents, and most importantly NPW’s fans; remember that when September sixteenth comes, I’m only following orders…the Angel of death cometh and shall add three more souls to the fallen.” He finishes speaking, the ash draining from his hand runs out.
Our time is up, morning comes soon and with it a new day, new opportunity, new pain. Humanity was often found it how one handled each day. Monumental or mundane, each day was an opportunity to push forward.
For him, there was no other direction, so forward he would go…through his opposition. Through The Unworthy, The Talker and The Reprobate.
A baggy thin black hoodie is frayed around the sleeve cuffs, small tears dot its faded surface, yet it still does it’s job. Obscuring all but his hands.
Staring into the blackened coals and greyed ash, wisps of smoke drift upward from errant coals missed during its extinction. He plunges his right hand into the ash grabbing as much as he can in his fist, warm and pure.
Like sand through an hourglass, it passes through his fingers blackening his hand and taking these precious moments of life with them.
“Forty-one hundred.” A seemingly random number stands alone as his voice trails off into a whisper. “That is about how many souls, on average, were taken daily for fourteen hundred and sixty days. Some six million innocents lost in just four years.”
The word atrocity had been thrown about throughout human history, like many words, its meaning diluted over time. But this? This were no fairy tale, this was one of the darkest periods in all of humanity. Atrocity might be the only word that fit.
“For four years in Germany controlled Europe, monsters posing as men committed atrocities against man, woman, child and god alike. What became known as Shoah; the Holocaust.”
The enigma bows his head, for a long moment he is silent as he gives reverence to the dead. It was undeniably one of the single most impactful and disgusting periods of any war.
“All that pain, all that suffering, all that hate. If you ask me what I bring with me come Honor? That is my answer. Pain, suffering and hate. That is what pushes me forward to Fight for the Fallen. Six million souls taken in hate and suffering and pain.”
Channeling that disgust, it’s clear the enigma is in a foul mood as ash continues to flow from his hand, visions of the gas chambers, the crematoriums, the children, drag through his mind and what those last awful moments must have been like. He can feel the goose flesh creep across his body as he speaks again. “Steve Awesome, the unworthy. The petty. The defeated. His crotch chops, his outdated schtick and tired jokes failed him once and they’ll fail him again. Just as the death and destruction of millions started with one life, this began with Steve. He had his chance. He doesn’t deserve to be in this match, he was weighed, and measured, and found wanting. Yet, he coasts on reputation, a reputation no one in this match cares about.”
Reputation; by reputation, the enigma had been a vengeful wraith sent from the darkness itself to cleanse NPW of tyranny…or perhaps, burn it to the ground himself.
That brought him to the anarchistic one, the mighty talker. A plague upon NPW akin to the fear and hatred that had once plagued Germany, the self-professed scourge was dangerous. Like those mis-led before him, he actually believed in his cause.
“Donzig, the talker. The man who won a match yet, didn’t actually defeat me. I wonder which of us that haunts more? You were handed a victory in name only, never forget that. Freakke gave you that win, you didn’t earn it. Your self importance, your talk, all of it is just smoke and mirrors, a distraction from the truth. You’re not the chosen of anything, you’re a delusional man in need of a reality check. It’s coming.” More ash trickles through his fingers.
Next was a man he knew by extension only. A newcomer to NPW, the brother of a former opponent, yet a different animal completely.
“Edward Zepp; you’re not your brother. He, at least, had heart, you? You’re big…and?” He paused before answering his own question. “You’re going to need much more than size. I smell fear on you. You still fear your own potential, your chance here lies in picking the bones I leave behind. I’m going to enjoy watching you tire, I’m going to enjoy watching you struggle for air. I going to enjoy showing you why your brother couldn’t beat me either. I’m going to expose you for what you are. A big man, akin to a dead weight, being dragged about upon Rob Riot’s crowded coattail!”
The mention of his former opponent turned Tagteam partner brought a certain amount of division into his voice. To say he and Riot were estranged was something of an understatement.
Events had transpired that would have to be acknowledged, and not swept under the carpet with a euphemism and an apology.
“I’m not going to be just looking to sneak in and steal a win here. I’m coming to Fight For The Fallen to win, to retain my Openweight Championship by any means necessary. Any. Means. Necessary.” He lets those words hiss from his lips, his voice low and his choice of words deliberate.
“The blame for the atrocities I commit at Honor in the name of defending my championship will fall upon one man, and one man only. After this night, Gus Arnold shall be remembered akin to the wrestling equivalent of Adolf Hitler, and I his Josef Mengele…his Angel of death. So ladies, gentlemen, my opponents, and most importantly NPW’s fans; remember that when September sixteenth comes, I’m only following orders…the Angel of death cometh and shall add three more souls to the fallen.” He finishes speaking, the ash draining from his hand runs out.
Our time is up, morning comes soon and with it a new day, new opportunity, new pain. Humanity was often found it how one handled each day. Monumental or mundane, each day was an opportunity to push forward.
For him, there was no other direction, so forward he would go…through his opposition. Through The Unworthy, The Talker and The Reprobate.