I'm Nathan Fuckin' Cage | Masquerade
Feb 17, 2022 23:15:49 GMT -5
Hyperion, Jimbo, and 1 more like this
Post by Drag on Feb 17, 2022 23:15:49 GMT -5
“Well, time’s almost up for today, which means the end of our sessions.”
She glanced down at her notes, thoughts and addendums strewn wildly all over the pages, nearly every space of white occupied. Time with her patient had been… Illuminating, if nothing else. She peered back up.
“Do you have any thoughts or feelings about that?”
Nathan Cage’s expression remained unmoved. A quiet stare that had carried him through the majority of the experience.
“Not really.” Cage admitted.
“Why’s that?” His therapist asked, leaning back and tenting her hands. Her tone was one he’d heard several times. Not asking for the answer, merely to study how the answer was delivered.
Offering no such compliance, Cage merely continued his silent glare.
“Mr. Cage, we can’t hel-”
“Well that’s just it, ain’t it?” Cage interjected with cutting precision. “You ain’t here to help. I ain’t here to be helped. I’m here cause Gunn thought it’d be humiliatin’ for me and probably to keep me from focusin’ on my first title defense. You’re here cause Gunn kicked ya back a nice “donation” to talk to me every other day for two weeks and send him those lil notes you’ve been scribblin’ in.”
Despite the frankness of Cage’s response, she only offered him a raise of an eyebrow in response.
“That about sum it up?” He added, a hint of annoyance in his previously neutral tone. Surprisingly, he’d kept his cool throughout the ordeal, but with their mandatory time coming to an end, frustration was beginning to bubble through.
“That’d be the long and short.” She said, unfazed, removing her glasses and placing them in a plastic case. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have gotten something from the experience.”
Returning back to his silent glare, Cage seemingly confirms that he has not.
“To hear Gunn tell it, you’re little more than a psychopath.” She said, ignoring Cage’s stonewall. “That, apparently, most of your fellow co-workers share the same sentiment. Yet, going by everything you’ve told me, the fact that you won the company’s World Championship. That should have changed things for you.” She blinks, no evident emotion beyond cold analysis. “But it didn’t. You bested the people you look down on so much and placed yourself at the top of the proverbial heap. But it didn’t make you feel any better, did it?”
Through everything. The prodding about his mental state, the beats of his shitty life story he was forced to relive, the knowing that Gunn was likely in his office with a big shit eating grin on his face. None of it bothered Cage. Not until now, where he felt his body betray him and his eyes narrow at the woman.
“All of it paints a picture of a man desperate to feel something of worth. Not vindication over beating out the competition, but the feeling that all the things he went through, actually mattered.” There wasn’t arrogance in her assessment, only perceived logic. Arguably making it worse. “That the struggles you went through - personally and professionally - had a purpose. Tha-”
“I know what I am.” Cage interrupted once more. A drop of venom in his speaking that was not present previously. “You wanna try figure me out with some Freud bullshit. But I’ve never been that complicated, Doc. Winnin’ the world title? That mighta been enough for the Dresdens and the Goons and the Chants and the Whelans. S’probably why they had it ripped outta their hands. But it ain’t enough for me. I won that World Championship as a symptom of what I wanna achieve. Which is to shove down everyone's throat, that I’m tougher than ‘em. That’s the legacy of Nathan Cage.”
His hands grip the sides of his chair but he doesn’t register it happening.
“Yeah, maybe it started outta spite. Maybe, at one point, I just wanted to feel all special.” Cage sneers, mocking the doctor’s profile ascribed to him. “But that didn’t get me anywhere, ‘cept complacency. When I was a rookie, when I was wastin’ years in a cell. No, my vanity and feelin’s of worth are long behind me. So, I don’t intend to rise to this mind game crap, or make the same mistakes nearly every other World Champ in NLW has. I ain’t sittin’ comfortable, or second guessin’ myself with worry. Even if my opponent’s a guy that damn sure doesn’t know himself or got beaten by a stuffed animal.”
“A stuffed-?”
“Ya have to be a little bit fucked in the head to wanna beat on people for a livin’, Doc.”
Shrill beeping from a digital clock fills the room. Ending the final session. It washes over and off Cage, who can’t comprehend its existence over his words.
“So you write and send whatever ya gotta do. But I ain’t ever been more sure who I am.”
He leans over, not out of a desire to intimidate. Merely to ensure the last recorded statement of his session is not missed.
“I’m Nathan Fuckin’ Cage. An’ I earned that middle name.”
The banner is clearly a placeholder. A draft version of where will soon stand the interview position during NLW: Masquerade. Yet it suits Cage just fine.
The Rabid Dog, who stands alone - save for a designated camera crew - in the Lakefront Arena. The proud display of the banner feels almost mocking, considering the person standing in front of it. He looks off-camera, somewhere else. Attempting to gather the words, thoughts and feelings on his mind, before giving way to a frown and shaking his head.
“Normally, I’m first into the fray. Sayin’ whatever the hell I’ve got to say about whatever shithead I’m facin’. Then the rest of that time’s spent waitin’ for the fight. Then… I do what Nathan Cage does.” His face remains looking away, but his eyes dart towards the camera. Like a predator, feeling something enter its domain. “I could blame the fuckin’ therapy sessions I’ve had to deal with the past couple weeks. By order of our illustrious leader. But honestly? I’ve been tryin’ to figure you out, Chris.”
Now he turns. There is no longer a crew, or an empty arena. Only The Rabid Dog and his soon-to-be opponent.
“Not from a strategic standpoint or anythin’. I do my studyin’ on motherfuckers and they get the best of Nathan Cage. Every time. Besides, if all I was doin’ was lookin’ up what the people who beat ya in the big ones had to say? I’d be kinda spoiled for choice.”
“I’m tryin’ to figure ya out mentally.”
Tapping the side of his skull for emphasis. Cage speaks with an unsettlingly quiet tone, eyes unblinking.
“What I’m tryin’ to figure out is, what Chris Sanderson am I gonna get at Masquerade?”
“Am I gonna get the Chris Sanderson from our debut?” He stretches an arm outwards. “Smug, apathetic, self-assured. Who says it’s “the biggest night of our careers” but for him, it’s just another day at the office?”
Smirking, he lets his arm drop to his side. The smack echoing in the empty halls. He then extends his other arm.
“Am I gonna get the Chris Sanderson who won the XHF Junior Heavyweight Championship? A guy beaten down by loss after loss, includin’ the loss of his family’s respect, apparently. Digs DEEP into alllllll that anger from his shitty little life and puts Florida Man’s dick in the dirt!?”
Again letting his arm fall. This time he looks dead towards the screen.
“Or am I gonna get the Chris Sanderson with “killer instinct”?”
“Desperate to be the top guy again. Secure with himself. Apparently all of a sudden now an underdog.”
Silence. The look of annoyance is nothing new from Cage, but the subtle undercurrent of disappointment certainly is.
“See, I’m havin’ a hard time believin’ that, Chris.” He sneers. “Sure, you like havin’ your picture takin’ and holdin’ a title so that you can feel like less of a worthless piece of shit in life. I can get that. Maybe not respect it, but I can understand and appreciate the honesty. But that’s the one of the few things that’s consistent about ya. No matter what. YOU. NEED THIS.”
Cage reaches off-camera and snatches the World Championship from the hands of some poor Crewmember. He looks at it with disdain for a moment before dropping it flat on the floor. We pan back to keep the Champion and his gold both in frame.
“This thing? You want it, Chris? Well why don’t you cut another promo and beg for it! Why don’tcha get on your hands and knees and CRY for it, Chris!”
The belt is lifted back up and slung on Cage’s shoulder. Not with reverence, but like trash.
“Sanderson you are one of- Nah, fuck that. Chris Sanderson you are THE most technically gifted athlete in NLW. Could you beat me? Ya damn well could! What’ll happen if ya do? You don’t stand for shit, Chris. You’re whatever you feel you have to be to survive. Whatever to get people’s love and to get the accolades. Now, that might be a mindset that makes ya real popular, but it ain’t a mindset that’s reliable in matches like this one.”
“I lose this title? I’m still Nathan Fuckin’ Cage, sooner or later I will have this title again because that’s what happens. I run through anybody that thinks they’re better than me, cause it’s all I know. I have nothin’ to live for. 'Cept for this.”
He pays no mind to the gleaming gold on his person. Instead, he looks upwards. NLW. Competing. Wrestling.
“You lose this title? You’ll flounder along AGAIN. Workin’ out the next version of Chris Sanderson so ya can throw yourself headfirst into this wall AGAIN. No less talented, but a lil bit more of ya lost.”
“Heh… S’far as I’m concerned you’re the one that’s crazy. Not me.”
“Not me… ‘Cause I know who I am. That’s why I want you to show me the same goddamn respect I will be showin’ you at Masquerade! I don’t want ya to tap into what I do, or your dad or your fuckin’ UNCLE!”
Eyes widen.
“TAP INTO YOU, CHRIS!”
“YOU!”
Breathing heavily. Frenzied and enraged at the mere idea of the perceived disrespect. In a truly bizarre way, there is a sliver of genuine respect and expectation from The Rabid Dog.
“If people sell ya short. GOOD. If your family thinks you're a worthless waste of talent. GOOD. I want you at your best. If that means pissin’ ya off or droppin’ ya after your battle royal. So be it! ‘Cause that warnin’ ya got about me, was dead-fuckin’-on.”
He drops the belt once more. Clatter of metal meeting concrete. Not two wrestlers competing over gold. Two men with a point to prove.
“I’ll break things in you that will never fully be fixed. Things that your body will remember every time you try to stand up so you can play with your kids. The slightest misstep, or mistake. I’ll be on it. From bell to bell, I will be doin’ everythin’ in my power to put you down. I don’t care about winnin’, or the glitz, or bein’ the top guy. I care about goin’ toe-to-toe with the best of the absolute best. The people on the Network that are apparently Next Level. An’ tellin’ em:”
“Fuck you. I’m better.”
Hand runs through his hair. Eyes fixated on the challenger, so close he can hear the opening bell and the roar of the audience filling the Lakefront Arena. For the main event, at Masquerade.
“‘Cause I’m NATHAN. FUCKIN'. CAGE!”
He cracks his neck. No title to make a point, only the Champion.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Off he marches. Silence returning to the awaiting arena, as we fade on the NLW banner.
She glanced down at her notes, thoughts and addendums strewn wildly all over the pages, nearly every space of white occupied. Time with her patient had been… Illuminating, if nothing else. She peered back up.
“Do you have any thoughts or feelings about that?”
Nathan Cage’s expression remained unmoved. A quiet stare that had carried him through the majority of the experience.
“Not really.” Cage admitted.
“Why’s that?” His therapist asked, leaning back and tenting her hands. Her tone was one he’d heard several times. Not asking for the answer, merely to study how the answer was delivered.
Offering no such compliance, Cage merely continued his silent glare.
“Mr. Cage, we can’t hel-”
“Well that’s just it, ain’t it?” Cage interjected with cutting precision. “You ain’t here to help. I ain’t here to be helped. I’m here cause Gunn thought it’d be humiliatin’ for me and probably to keep me from focusin’ on my first title defense. You’re here cause Gunn kicked ya back a nice “donation” to talk to me every other day for two weeks and send him those lil notes you’ve been scribblin’ in.”
Despite the frankness of Cage’s response, she only offered him a raise of an eyebrow in response.
“That about sum it up?” He added, a hint of annoyance in his previously neutral tone. Surprisingly, he’d kept his cool throughout the ordeal, but with their mandatory time coming to an end, frustration was beginning to bubble through.
“That’d be the long and short.” She said, unfazed, removing her glasses and placing them in a plastic case. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have gotten something from the experience.”
Returning back to his silent glare, Cage seemingly confirms that he has not.
“To hear Gunn tell it, you’re little more than a psychopath.” She said, ignoring Cage’s stonewall. “That, apparently, most of your fellow co-workers share the same sentiment. Yet, going by everything you’ve told me, the fact that you won the company’s World Championship. That should have changed things for you.” She blinks, no evident emotion beyond cold analysis. “But it didn’t. You bested the people you look down on so much and placed yourself at the top of the proverbial heap. But it didn’t make you feel any better, did it?”
Through everything. The prodding about his mental state, the beats of his shitty life story he was forced to relive, the knowing that Gunn was likely in his office with a big shit eating grin on his face. None of it bothered Cage. Not until now, where he felt his body betray him and his eyes narrow at the woman.
“All of it paints a picture of a man desperate to feel something of worth. Not vindication over beating out the competition, but the feeling that all the things he went through, actually mattered.” There wasn’t arrogance in her assessment, only perceived logic. Arguably making it worse. “That the struggles you went through - personally and professionally - had a purpose. Tha-”
“I know what I am.” Cage interrupted once more. A drop of venom in his speaking that was not present previously. “You wanna try figure me out with some Freud bullshit. But I’ve never been that complicated, Doc. Winnin’ the world title? That mighta been enough for the Dresdens and the Goons and the Chants and the Whelans. S’probably why they had it ripped outta their hands. But it ain’t enough for me. I won that World Championship as a symptom of what I wanna achieve. Which is to shove down everyone's throat, that I’m tougher than ‘em. That’s the legacy of Nathan Cage.”
His hands grip the sides of his chair but he doesn’t register it happening.
“Yeah, maybe it started outta spite. Maybe, at one point, I just wanted to feel all special.” Cage sneers, mocking the doctor’s profile ascribed to him. “But that didn’t get me anywhere, ‘cept complacency. When I was a rookie, when I was wastin’ years in a cell. No, my vanity and feelin’s of worth are long behind me. So, I don’t intend to rise to this mind game crap, or make the same mistakes nearly every other World Champ in NLW has. I ain’t sittin’ comfortable, or second guessin’ myself with worry. Even if my opponent’s a guy that damn sure doesn’t know himself or got beaten by a stuffed animal.”
“A stuffed-?”
“Ya have to be a little bit fucked in the head to wanna beat on people for a livin’, Doc.”
Shrill beeping from a digital clock fills the room. Ending the final session. It washes over and off Cage, who can’t comprehend its existence over his words.
“So you write and send whatever ya gotta do. But I ain’t ever been more sure who I am.”
He leans over, not out of a desire to intimidate. Merely to ensure the last recorded statement of his session is not missed.
“I’m Nathan Fuckin’ Cage. An’ I earned that middle name.”
NEXT
LEVEL
WRESTLING
The banner is clearly a placeholder. A draft version of where will soon stand the interview position during NLW: Masquerade. Yet it suits Cage just fine.
The Rabid Dog, who stands alone - save for a designated camera crew - in the Lakefront Arena. The proud display of the banner feels almost mocking, considering the person standing in front of it. He looks off-camera, somewhere else. Attempting to gather the words, thoughts and feelings on his mind, before giving way to a frown and shaking his head.
“Normally, I’m first into the fray. Sayin’ whatever the hell I’ve got to say about whatever shithead I’m facin’. Then the rest of that time’s spent waitin’ for the fight. Then… I do what Nathan Cage does.” His face remains looking away, but his eyes dart towards the camera. Like a predator, feeling something enter its domain. “I could blame the fuckin’ therapy sessions I’ve had to deal with the past couple weeks. By order of our illustrious leader. But honestly? I’ve been tryin’ to figure you out, Chris.”
Now he turns. There is no longer a crew, or an empty arena. Only The Rabid Dog and his soon-to-be opponent.
“Not from a strategic standpoint or anythin’. I do my studyin’ on motherfuckers and they get the best of Nathan Cage. Every time. Besides, if all I was doin’ was lookin’ up what the people who beat ya in the big ones had to say? I’d be kinda spoiled for choice.”
“I’m tryin’ to figure ya out mentally.”
Tapping the side of his skull for emphasis. Cage speaks with an unsettlingly quiet tone, eyes unblinking.
“What I’m tryin’ to figure out is, what Chris Sanderson am I gonna get at Masquerade?”
“Am I gonna get the Chris Sanderson from our debut?” He stretches an arm outwards. “Smug, apathetic, self-assured. Who says it’s “the biggest night of our careers” but for him, it’s just another day at the office?”
Smirking, he lets his arm drop to his side. The smack echoing in the empty halls. He then extends his other arm.
“Am I gonna get the Chris Sanderson who won the XHF Junior Heavyweight Championship? A guy beaten down by loss after loss, includin’ the loss of his family’s respect, apparently. Digs DEEP into alllllll that anger from his shitty little life and puts Florida Man’s dick in the dirt!?”
Again letting his arm fall. This time he looks dead towards the screen.
“Or am I gonna get the Chris Sanderson with “killer instinct”?”
“Desperate to be the top guy again. Secure with himself. Apparently all of a sudden now an underdog.”
Silence. The look of annoyance is nothing new from Cage, but the subtle undercurrent of disappointment certainly is.
“See, I’m havin’ a hard time believin’ that, Chris.” He sneers. “Sure, you like havin’ your picture takin’ and holdin’ a title so that you can feel like less of a worthless piece of shit in life. I can get that. Maybe not respect it, but I can understand and appreciate the honesty. But that’s the one of the few things that’s consistent about ya. No matter what. YOU. NEED THIS.”
Cage reaches off-camera and snatches the World Championship from the hands of some poor Crewmember. He looks at it with disdain for a moment before dropping it flat on the floor. We pan back to keep the Champion and his gold both in frame.
“This thing? You want it, Chris? Well why don’t you cut another promo and beg for it! Why don’tcha get on your hands and knees and CRY for it, Chris!”
The belt is lifted back up and slung on Cage’s shoulder. Not with reverence, but like trash.
“Sanderson you are one of- Nah, fuck that. Chris Sanderson you are THE most technically gifted athlete in NLW. Could you beat me? Ya damn well could! What’ll happen if ya do? You don’t stand for shit, Chris. You’re whatever you feel you have to be to survive. Whatever to get people’s love and to get the accolades. Now, that might be a mindset that makes ya real popular, but it ain’t a mindset that’s reliable in matches like this one.”
“I lose this title? I’m still Nathan Fuckin’ Cage, sooner or later I will have this title again because that’s what happens. I run through anybody that thinks they’re better than me, cause it’s all I know. I have nothin’ to live for. 'Cept for this.”
He pays no mind to the gleaming gold on his person. Instead, he looks upwards. NLW. Competing. Wrestling.
“You lose this title? You’ll flounder along AGAIN. Workin’ out the next version of Chris Sanderson so ya can throw yourself headfirst into this wall AGAIN. No less talented, but a lil bit more of ya lost.”
“Heh… S’far as I’m concerned you’re the one that’s crazy. Not me.”
“Not me… ‘Cause I know who I am. That’s why I want you to show me the same goddamn respect I will be showin’ you at Masquerade! I don’t want ya to tap into what I do, or your dad or your fuckin’ UNCLE!”
Eyes widen.
“TAP INTO YOU, CHRIS!”
“YOU!”
Breathing heavily. Frenzied and enraged at the mere idea of the perceived disrespect. In a truly bizarre way, there is a sliver of genuine respect and expectation from The Rabid Dog.
“If people sell ya short. GOOD. If your family thinks you're a worthless waste of talent. GOOD. I want you at your best. If that means pissin’ ya off or droppin’ ya after your battle royal. So be it! ‘Cause that warnin’ ya got about me, was dead-fuckin’-on.”
He drops the belt once more. Clatter of metal meeting concrete. Not two wrestlers competing over gold. Two men with a point to prove.
“I’ll break things in you that will never fully be fixed. Things that your body will remember every time you try to stand up so you can play with your kids. The slightest misstep, or mistake. I’ll be on it. From bell to bell, I will be doin’ everythin’ in my power to put you down. I don’t care about winnin’, or the glitz, or bein’ the top guy. I care about goin’ toe-to-toe with the best of the absolute best. The people on the Network that are apparently Next Level. An’ tellin’ em:”
“Fuck you. I’m better.”
Hand runs through his hair. Eyes fixated on the challenger, so close he can hear the opening bell and the roar of the audience filling the Lakefront Arena. For the main event, at Masquerade.
“‘Cause I’m NATHAN. FUCKIN'. CAGE!”
He cracks his neck. No title to make a point, only the Champion.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Off he marches. Silence returning to the awaiting arena, as we fade on the NLW banner.
