How I feel about things
Nov 24, 2017 19:42:48 GMT -5
šš¾š“š® ššøš¼šµšøšÆšÆ and Hyperion like this
Post by Dackle on Nov 24, 2017 19:42:48 GMT -5
The room is pitch black. Nothing can be seen, and only a voice can be heard.
A man learns a lot of things when he is by himself. When all he has to keep himself company are his thoughts. A man will begin to talk to himself, just so he can hear something other than the chaos in his mind. Voices, the very manifestation of those memories will echo through his head, the only stimulation for a mind that feels as though everyone has forgotten.
The squeak of a spring, possibly from a chair is heard. Ice clanging against a glass breaks through the darkness. The glass is set down on a hard surface with a gentle thud. A gasp of refreshment (ahh) coming from in front of the camera is heard. The voice speaks again.
Parts of the psyche begin to shut off. As they lay dormant, the very processes that helped to define him, they grow stale; they die. And as each part dies, the structure of the brain, the structure of a manās very essence crumbles.
The creak is heard again and footsteps this time. A shadowy figure can be made out walking across the room. It stops. While it is walking, the voice continues.
He begins to revert to the early stages of evolution. Where once was a man who craved for social interaction, all that is left is a hollow shell, a slave to the very basic urges that necessitate human life. Sentences break into words that break into phonetic sounds that break into simplistic grunts. Complex thoughts, creativity, emotions, are all replaced with animalistic urges of self-preservation.
Pleasure, happiness, contentment, all are cast asunder in the ever-present struggle to survive. As the days blend into weeks and the weeks blend into months, all sense of time, all sense of anything leaves. All that is left is a hunger, a drive, a will to survive.
Suddenly a burst of light. Someone flipped a switch and a brilliant white light cascades down from a ceiling fan. The camera adjusts, and we see Dackle, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He is standing in front of a bookcase, filled with large books. He continues as he walks back to a desk.
No, I didnāt learn this in some lecture at a college. I didnāt retain this lesson from anything any civilized man taught. I learned this in a cave, in a dark, harsh, unforgiving hole in the side of a mountain. I learned this as I was captive.
He sits down behind the rather simplistic looking oak desk. A leather desk chair is barely visible over his shoulders. He folds his hands and places them on the clear top of the furniture he sits behind. He looks in the camera.
Those of you watching, I get it. I understand what you are thinking. āThis is just some wrestling show. This aināt real.ā Let me ask you this. Does this look real?
He turns and pulls the sleeve of his shirt up to his shoulder, revealing a six-inch scar at his shoulder joint.
Or this?
He bends his head down and three vertical scars on the top of his head are visible to the camera.
How about this?
He pulls the bottom of his shirt up to his neck to reveal several scars from a whip across his chest.
Wrestling is a place where we can suspend disbelief and escape into a world where humanity is defined by how much of a reaction is received when someoneās entrance music hits. Wrestling is a place where self-worth and importance are measured by how many time a ficticous title is around your waist.
He motions to the second shelf on the bookcase, where the Fire and Ice Tag Team Titles sit.
Are the outcomes predetermined? Sure, they are. They are as predetermined as what card is coming next on the blackjack table you and your buddies go blow your Christmas bonus at before you go harass an exotic dancer after you pounded too many mai Thais.
He reaches down and opens the bottom drawer of the desk. A brandy decanter is retrieved, and he pours a liberal amount into the glass tumbler, condensating on his desk. He replaces the decanter and shuts the door. As he straightens up, he lifts the glass and takes a gulp of the brown alcohol. As he replaces the glass into the puddled ring of water that has formed, he clears his throat and begins speaking again.
So yeah, I get it. A lot of these stories are made up. Some good athlete who canāt hack it playing pro football or someone who was a really good college wrestler decided they wanted the spotlight. So, they come in and learn how to fall just so, and to make a punch look like it hurts when it never touched them.
They come up with these elongated back stories. āIām an orphan and grew up on the streets. I have no friends and I am gonna whip your ass.ā When in reality, the guy was voted most likely to succeed, was a prom king, and Mommy and Daddy put him through a wrestling school in Lexington.
He takes another drink. When he sets the glass back down, he opens another drawer and pulls out a stogie. He puts the cigar between his lips and pulls out the cutter. He is not using his other arm, as the injury he sustained at Cold War is obviously still bothering him.
With the cigar in his mouth, he cuts the end off. The severed piece of cigar lands and rolls about on his desk momentarily. He pulls a lighter from his pocket. He puffs the cigar until it is lit. After taking a big drag, he slowly blows out the smoke. With the cigar in hand, he readdresses the camera.
I know what you people do. You log into your computers and while you are sitting in a short sleeve button down shirt and a skinny tie behind a desk in a cubicle, you check the dirt sheets. You check to see what Uncle Dave gave a match on his star rating. You go to message boards and bitch, moan, and complain about how your favorite guy, some Indy darling is being misused and would be better off wrestling in front of 50 people in a VFW somewhere.
You people sit there and order your 4XL t-shirts and drink from a souvenir cup you got the last time Vince was in town and you bitch. With autographs hanging on your walls of a bunch of never-will-beās you met at a comic-con you use your fat sausage fingers and you click your mouse over to YouTube or somewhere else and you watch video of wrestlers you pretend to love wrestle matches against people you never heard of. Then you go back to those message boards and you boast how it was the best match you ever saw when most of you wouldnāt know talent if Ric Flair had you in a head lock.
He takes another pull from the cigar and flicks the ashes onto the floor. As he talks, he waves the cigar about in his hand.
You people sit there, and you write your recaps and feel so good about yourself because you got 200 views on a website you checking your views counts as half of them. And you same people have the gall to come to these shows and run off at the mouth, provoke wrestlers, and say some of the most vile, disgusting, low down, ignorant shit both in the crowd and on twitter because you think your badass.
He gingerly uses his bad arm to raise the drink to his lips. As a little escapes the corners of his mouth, he sets the drink down, and with the back of his good arm, wipes his mouth. He takes another pull from the cigar and blows out the smoke as he speaks the first few lines of whatās next.
When I was freed from my captors, I did not have the ability to communicate. All I knew how to do was survive. And even then, even as I am sitting in a straight jacket, sitting in a cinder block room with a lone light bulb keeping the darkness at bay, I was still more intelligent than you super marks. While I was learning how to be a human being again, I still had more brain function than you jackasses.
So, go ahead, down your Mountain Dew and eat another slice of pizza. Choke down some more hot wings and get on the internet. Tell pussystank221 and ajforprez2020 how you are pissed off at what Dackle said. Long into twitter ROH4lyfe and tweet at me and tell me all I say is self-absorbed bullshit. Go ahead, make yourself big and bad behind a keyboard or a cell phone.
He snuffs the cigar out against the wood of his desk. As faint trails of smoke rise from the half-smoked cigar and the scorched wood and ashes on his desk, he folds his hands again and leans in closer to the camera. The camera zooms in where his face dominates the frame.
But deep down, deep down underneath the piles of women repellent, the cellulite, and the cholesterol clogging your arteries, deep down in places you know exist, you know Iām right. So, as you are now, covered in Doritos crumbs, lounging about on the old couch in your apartment, that is really your motherās basement, look around. Look around and realize while I spent an eternity having every ounce of my being stripped away from be and beaten so often I feel weird when I am not in the center of violence, realize that I have lived in one day in that cave more than you will ever.
He picks up the glass and finishes off the drink in the glass. The cubes smack the bottom of their crystal holder. He leans back in the chair and puts his feet up on the edge of the desk. Now turned slightly and no longer facing the camera, he begins to talk as if he is speaking to the bookcase along the wall.
So, go on. Write about how Dylan Black is the more talented member of the Darkness. Write how Lethe is the best wrestler of all-time. Write about the genius of Kosloff. Write how Bobby Barratt would be good here or there. Tell us your thoughts on Hyperion. We all wanna know about Nathan Thunder and his prick of a manager. Remind us about how you absolutely loved the ICW, but didnāt contribute a fucking thing when the company was about to go bankrupt. Go ahead, write your stuff. Spew that nonsensical garbage from your fingers. And while you do, while you sit there and smile because you sound just as smart as Dave Meltzer and Paul Heyman, I want you to think just how pathetic, just how meaningless your using your time.
In the end, all we have is our time. Money comes and goes, memories fade away, and people die. All we have is our time. Ask yourselves, while you sit there and shove another snack cake down your gullet, ask yourself if you are making good work of your time.
He pauses and kind of chuckles.
Ya know, Ronald Reagan once said, āSome people worry if they have made a difference. Marines donāt have that problem.ā Have you made a difference? Is your incessant bitching and moaning changed anything? I may have lost several years in that cave. I may have lost a good chunk of who I was. I know I lost my family, my friends, and joy in my life. But fuck, I made a difference.
The camera focuses in just behind the desk and on the wall panning Dackleās awards and pictures of happier days in the Marine Corps.
So, while your reading the transcript of this monologue, or watching this live, or on YouTube, or wherever. Ask yourself, right now. Did I make a difference?
He removes his feet from the desk and they slam the floor with a thud. He turns back and faces the camera again.
Zoom in on me.
The camera obliges.
While I know this is breaking kayfabe, and I know I am going to get heat for this from the boys in the biz, was that inside enough for ya? Was that enough wrestling jargon for ya? I know this will not be received well. I donāt care.
My story is 100% true. I wrestle to keep myself in shape, to keep the injuries I sustained overseas from ruining my life. I wrestle to take out some frustration and to hopefully keep myself from reverting back to the insane madman who created characters in his own head. I wrestle to keep myself from losing it.
It seems the anger was building inside of him. His head began to cock to the side and his eyes got very wide. However, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He smiled and began to speak again, calmer and almost jovial in nature.
Do I exaggerate what I am going to do to my opponents? Absolutely. Itās called entertainment you buffoons. Am I really going to bite off someoneās finger and shove it down their throat? Are you ever going to get off your fat ass and make something of your life you blogging pile of excrement? Both answers are no.
But let me assure you this. None of us are fools. We know while you sit behind a keyboard and threaten us, our families, and call us every name but our own, we know you all would cut off your virgin testicles to be in our shoes.
He picks up the half-lit cigar and pulls out the lighter again. After three attempts to light the cigar, he just throws it down. He mumbles some curse words under his breath as he pulls out another cigar. This time, he just bites the end off. He lights this piece of tobacco with no problem. A few quick puffs and he wraps this up.
So, while my next match is against some dude from Kentucky and I will more than likely lose, just remember this you spineless cretins. I have lived a life no one ever wants to life. I am living a life you all want to live. I aināt afraid of the consequences of either one, and you will never be my equal, my better, or worthy of anything but a passing glance and a secondary thought.
Iāll send this hardworking man away now. That should give you fuck heads plenty of time to blow up my twitter, plenty of time to vilify me on the internet, and plenty of time to realize you, your opinions, and your entire life, are nothing but shit stains on the underwear of the world.
And that, you can take to the bank.
He puts the cigar in his mouth and puts his feet back on the edge of the desk. With his left boot over his right, and his good arm propped behind his head, the camera pans back over his awards before cutting out.
A man learns a lot of things when he is by himself. When all he has to keep himself company are his thoughts. A man will begin to talk to himself, just so he can hear something other than the chaos in his mind. Voices, the very manifestation of those memories will echo through his head, the only stimulation for a mind that feels as though everyone has forgotten.
The squeak of a spring, possibly from a chair is heard. Ice clanging against a glass breaks through the darkness. The glass is set down on a hard surface with a gentle thud. A gasp of refreshment (ahh) coming from in front of the camera is heard. The voice speaks again.
Parts of the psyche begin to shut off. As they lay dormant, the very processes that helped to define him, they grow stale; they die. And as each part dies, the structure of the brain, the structure of a manās very essence crumbles.
The creak is heard again and footsteps this time. A shadowy figure can be made out walking across the room. It stops. While it is walking, the voice continues.
He begins to revert to the early stages of evolution. Where once was a man who craved for social interaction, all that is left is a hollow shell, a slave to the very basic urges that necessitate human life. Sentences break into words that break into phonetic sounds that break into simplistic grunts. Complex thoughts, creativity, emotions, are all replaced with animalistic urges of self-preservation.
Pleasure, happiness, contentment, all are cast asunder in the ever-present struggle to survive. As the days blend into weeks and the weeks blend into months, all sense of time, all sense of anything leaves. All that is left is a hunger, a drive, a will to survive.
Suddenly a burst of light. Someone flipped a switch and a brilliant white light cascades down from a ceiling fan. The camera adjusts, and we see Dackle, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He is standing in front of a bookcase, filled with large books. He continues as he walks back to a desk.
No, I didnāt learn this in some lecture at a college. I didnāt retain this lesson from anything any civilized man taught. I learned this in a cave, in a dark, harsh, unforgiving hole in the side of a mountain. I learned this as I was captive.
He sits down behind the rather simplistic looking oak desk. A leather desk chair is barely visible over his shoulders. He folds his hands and places them on the clear top of the furniture he sits behind. He looks in the camera.
Those of you watching, I get it. I understand what you are thinking. āThis is just some wrestling show. This aināt real.ā Let me ask you this. Does this look real?
He turns and pulls the sleeve of his shirt up to his shoulder, revealing a six-inch scar at his shoulder joint.
Or this?
He bends his head down and three vertical scars on the top of his head are visible to the camera.
How about this?
He pulls the bottom of his shirt up to his neck to reveal several scars from a whip across his chest.
Wrestling is a place where we can suspend disbelief and escape into a world where humanity is defined by how much of a reaction is received when someoneās entrance music hits. Wrestling is a place where self-worth and importance are measured by how many time a ficticous title is around your waist.
He motions to the second shelf on the bookcase, where the Fire and Ice Tag Team Titles sit.
Are the outcomes predetermined? Sure, they are. They are as predetermined as what card is coming next on the blackjack table you and your buddies go blow your Christmas bonus at before you go harass an exotic dancer after you pounded too many mai Thais.
He reaches down and opens the bottom drawer of the desk. A brandy decanter is retrieved, and he pours a liberal amount into the glass tumbler, condensating on his desk. He replaces the decanter and shuts the door. As he straightens up, he lifts the glass and takes a gulp of the brown alcohol. As he replaces the glass into the puddled ring of water that has formed, he clears his throat and begins speaking again.
So yeah, I get it. A lot of these stories are made up. Some good athlete who canāt hack it playing pro football or someone who was a really good college wrestler decided they wanted the spotlight. So, they come in and learn how to fall just so, and to make a punch look like it hurts when it never touched them.
They come up with these elongated back stories. āIām an orphan and grew up on the streets. I have no friends and I am gonna whip your ass.ā When in reality, the guy was voted most likely to succeed, was a prom king, and Mommy and Daddy put him through a wrestling school in Lexington.
He takes another drink. When he sets the glass back down, he opens another drawer and pulls out a stogie. He puts the cigar between his lips and pulls out the cutter. He is not using his other arm, as the injury he sustained at Cold War is obviously still bothering him.
With the cigar in his mouth, he cuts the end off. The severed piece of cigar lands and rolls about on his desk momentarily. He pulls a lighter from his pocket. He puffs the cigar until it is lit. After taking a big drag, he slowly blows out the smoke. With the cigar in hand, he readdresses the camera.
I know what you people do. You log into your computers and while you are sitting in a short sleeve button down shirt and a skinny tie behind a desk in a cubicle, you check the dirt sheets. You check to see what Uncle Dave gave a match on his star rating. You go to message boards and bitch, moan, and complain about how your favorite guy, some Indy darling is being misused and would be better off wrestling in front of 50 people in a VFW somewhere.
You people sit there and order your 4XL t-shirts and drink from a souvenir cup you got the last time Vince was in town and you bitch. With autographs hanging on your walls of a bunch of never-will-beās you met at a comic-con you use your fat sausage fingers and you click your mouse over to YouTube or somewhere else and you watch video of wrestlers you pretend to love wrestle matches against people you never heard of. Then you go back to those message boards and you boast how it was the best match you ever saw when most of you wouldnāt know talent if Ric Flair had you in a head lock.
He takes another pull from the cigar and flicks the ashes onto the floor. As he talks, he waves the cigar about in his hand.
You people sit there, and you write your recaps and feel so good about yourself because you got 200 views on a website you checking your views counts as half of them. And you same people have the gall to come to these shows and run off at the mouth, provoke wrestlers, and say some of the most vile, disgusting, low down, ignorant shit both in the crowd and on twitter because you think your badass.
He gingerly uses his bad arm to raise the drink to his lips. As a little escapes the corners of his mouth, he sets the drink down, and with the back of his good arm, wipes his mouth. He takes another pull from the cigar and blows out the smoke as he speaks the first few lines of whatās next.
When I was freed from my captors, I did not have the ability to communicate. All I knew how to do was survive. And even then, even as I am sitting in a straight jacket, sitting in a cinder block room with a lone light bulb keeping the darkness at bay, I was still more intelligent than you super marks. While I was learning how to be a human being again, I still had more brain function than you jackasses.
So, go ahead, down your Mountain Dew and eat another slice of pizza. Choke down some more hot wings and get on the internet. Tell pussystank221 and ajforprez2020 how you are pissed off at what Dackle said. Long into twitter ROH4lyfe and tweet at me and tell me all I say is self-absorbed bullshit. Go ahead, make yourself big and bad behind a keyboard or a cell phone.
He snuffs the cigar out against the wood of his desk. As faint trails of smoke rise from the half-smoked cigar and the scorched wood and ashes on his desk, he folds his hands again and leans in closer to the camera. The camera zooms in where his face dominates the frame.
But deep down, deep down underneath the piles of women repellent, the cellulite, and the cholesterol clogging your arteries, deep down in places you know exist, you know Iām right. So, as you are now, covered in Doritos crumbs, lounging about on the old couch in your apartment, that is really your motherās basement, look around. Look around and realize while I spent an eternity having every ounce of my being stripped away from be and beaten so often I feel weird when I am not in the center of violence, realize that I have lived in one day in that cave more than you will ever.
He picks up the glass and finishes off the drink in the glass. The cubes smack the bottom of their crystal holder. He leans back in the chair and puts his feet up on the edge of the desk. Now turned slightly and no longer facing the camera, he begins to talk as if he is speaking to the bookcase along the wall.
So, go on. Write about how Dylan Black is the more talented member of the Darkness. Write how Lethe is the best wrestler of all-time. Write about the genius of Kosloff. Write how Bobby Barratt would be good here or there. Tell us your thoughts on Hyperion. We all wanna know about Nathan Thunder and his prick of a manager. Remind us about how you absolutely loved the ICW, but didnāt contribute a fucking thing when the company was about to go bankrupt. Go ahead, write your stuff. Spew that nonsensical garbage from your fingers. And while you do, while you sit there and smile because you sound just as smart as Dave Meltzer and Paul Heyman, I want you to think just how pathetic, just how meaningless your using your time.
In the end, all we have is our time. Money comes and goes, memories fade away, and people die. All we have is our time. Ask yourselves, while you sit there and shove another snack cake down your gullet, ask yourself if you are making good work of your time.
He pauses and kind of chuckles.
Ya know, Ronald Reagan once said, āSome people worry if they have made a difference. Marines donāt have that problem.ā Have you made a difference? Is your incessant bitching and moaning changed anything? I may have lost several years in that cave. I may have lost a good chunk of who I was. I know I lost my family, my friends, and joy in my life. But fuck, I made a difference.
The camera focuses in just behind the desk and on the wall panning Dackleās awards and pictures of happier days in the Marine Corps.
So, while your reading the transcript of this monologue, or watching this live, or on YouTube, or wherever. Ask yourself, right now. Did I make a difference?
He removes his feet from the desk and they slam the floor with a thud. He turns back and faces the camera again.
Zoom in on me.
The camera obliges.
While I know this is breaking kayfabe, and I know I am going to get heat for this from the boys in the biz, was that inside enough for ya? Was that enough wrestling jargon for ya? I know this will not be received well. I donāt care.
My story is 100% true. I wrestle to keep myself in shape, to keep the injuries I sustained overseas from ruining my life. I wrestle to take out some frustration and to hopefully keep myself from reverting back to the insane madman who created characters in his own head. I wrestle to keep myself from losing it.
It seems the anger was building inside of him. His head began to cock to the side and his eyes got very wide. However, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He smiled and began to speak again, calmer and almost jovial in nature.
Do I exaggerate what I am going to do to my opponents? Absolutely. Itās called entertainment you buffoons. Am I really going to bite off someoneās finger and shove it down their throat? Are you ever going to get off your fat ass and make something of your life you blogging pile of excrement? Both answers are no.
But let me assure you this. None of us are fools. We know while you sit behind a keyboard and threaten us, our families, and call us every name but our own, we know you all would cut off your virgin testicles to be in our shoes.
He picks up the half-lit cigar and pulls out the lighter again. After three attempts to light the cigar, he just throws it down. He mumbles some curse words under his breath as he pulls out another cigar. This time, he just bites the end off. He lights this piece of tobacco with no problem. A few quick puffs and he wraps this up.
So, while my next match is against some dude from Kentucky and I will more than likely lose, just remember this you spineless cretins. I have lived a life no one ever wants to life. I am living a life you all want to live. I aināt afraid of the consequences of either one, and you will never be my equal, my better, or worthy of anything but a passing glance and a secondary thought.
Iāll send this hardworking man away now. That should give you fuck heads plenty of time to blow up my twitter, plenty of time to vilify me on the internet, and plenty of time to realize you, your opinions, and your entire life, are nothing but shit stains on the underwear of the world.
And that, you can take to the bank.
He puts the cigar in his mouth and puts his feet back on the edge of the desk. With his left boot over his right, and his good arm propped behind his head, the camera pans back over his awards before cutting out.
