Post by LeKKter tha Lunatik on Apr 22, 2013 17:12:23 GMT -5
"The viking has fallen. Another one to add to the list. This time, I am faced against three...and scarred they shall be, indeed."
1...Mental Evaluation
Now Playing: "Bury Em' All" by Twiztid
The ominous rumbling of the opening song begins as the scene snaps into focus. The cameras are focused onto a nameplate, laying on a solid oak desk, the name "Dr. Rouser Schleshinger, M.D." written across it, signifying who the owner is.
Moments afterward, the cameras switch to a bird's eye view of the top of the desk, showing a pair of hands--presumed to be Dr. Schlesinger's--opening the top left drawer, pulling out a tobacco pipe, a bag of tobacco and a small box of wooden matches. The camera snaps to a closer view, focusing soley on the pair of hands, following their actions: the left hand begins to open and reach inside of the pouch of tobacco, grabbing a fairly large plug of leaves; the right hand--holding the pipe--meets up with the left at the center of the desk, then begins packing the tobacco into the bowl. In the same motion--as the cameras follow--the right hand puts the pipe into the doctor's mouth, (the scene switching to a close-up of the doctor's face momentarily, followed by a slight readjustment of his glasses) then the left reaches for the matches. Dr Schlesinger slides the box open, grabbing a match and striking it alongside the box. The match flares momentarily, as the cameras focus in on the left hand holding the match as it's guided to the bowl of the pipe. The bowl is ignited, and the cherried plug burns brightly; smoke pours from the corners of the doctor's mouth.
Nanoseconds later, the cameras switch to a close up view of another person in the room: they begin to focus on the person from a close up of a pair of feet, occupying a pair of black combat boots as they lay on the edge of the doctor's desk--from the opposite side--one crossed over the other and fidgeting, restlessly back and forth, as if to tell that the person sitting there is running (or has already ran) out of patience.
The cameras continue to discover who is sitting in the chair opposite of the doctor; the cameras pan slowly and steadily left and upwards in an attempt to get a full shot of the individual. From the boots, you start to see more and more of the apparel the person is donning: a pair of knee-cut length khaki Ben Davis shorts--crisply ironed to a crease--begin to work their way into the scenery. The shorts are sagged slightly below the waistline and meet the top of his combat boots. The shorts are being held up by a thick, jet-black leather belt, with a very familiar looking white gold "CID FACE" belt buckle, encrusted with light green emeralds, glistening in the light provided by the room.
The cameras alternate this picture with a shot of the doctor as he breaks the silence as he exhales the smoke from his pipe...
"LeKKter..."
The cameras switch back to the previous shot as the cameras pick up a visual of a black basketball jersey, with a large dark purple Psychopathic Records "hatchetman" stitched on the front of it. The shot suddenly changes again, this time to a shot of the back of the jersey; in the same color the hatchetman and stitched on the back is the number "23" with the name "LeKKter" embroidered above it, similar to any sports jersey, thereby revealing the identity of the individual to be none other than, once again, LeKKter tha LunatiK.
The doc's voice continues...
"LeeeKKKKtteeerrr...are you with me?"
The cameras shoot to a quick close-up glance of LeKKter's face: his eyes are completely blacked out from the contacts he chose to wear on this particular occasion; he is wearing no facepaint this time around, however. LeKKter's dreadlocks are bleached in majority, with a hand- full of locks dyed black and purple scattered throughout. LeKKter's eyes dart around the room before settling on the doctor as the doctor continues...
"Hello? Hey... I need you to respond, LeKKter, even if it's nothing more than a word or two."
The scene then rests for the time being, at least, on a panoramic shot of the two: Dr. Rouser Schlesinger in his chair, puffing away as he stares LeKKter down; LeKKter sitting in his chair, gazing off into space with a look of disinterest. He is reclined in his seat, outstretched with his legs crossed over the other as previously shown, and resting on the end of the desk. His hands are behind his head and interlocked at the fingers, with his head resting casually in their palms. The scene rests for a moment before LeKKter responds to the doctor.
"How many words? Two, you say? Fuck. Off." LeKKter says back to the doctor.
".....Mmmkaaay. Well, I guess I should've seen that coming." responds the doctor.
"Is that helpful enough? Do you still have to break out the heavy-duty psycho-analysis, DOC?"
"You don't have to be so facetious, LeKKter; I was worried you may have slipped into a catatonic state of psychosis for a moment. Obviously something is on your mind. Do you care to elaborate?"
"No."
"LeKKter..."
"If you say my motherFUCKING name again, Rouser, I am going to make you EAT that goddamn pipe."
"LeKK--"
LeKKter shoots a MENACING glare towards the doctor's direction, cutting him off in the process completely. The doctor reaches for and strikes another match from the box and drags the pipe once again. As he does this, LeKKter follows suit and reaches inside his pockets for his trademarked "Camel" cigarettes and "zippo" lighter. He pops one from the pack, and quickly runs the lighter along his leg back and then forth to strike the lighter. He lights up and drags deep and exhales into the air, allowing the smoke to intertwine with the
doctor's. LeKKter continues to speak.
"Isn't this illegal, doctor?"
"Yeah; well...to hell with it, I suppose. We've been doing it for so long now that I really don't even notice the fault in it anymore. It's something I have actually grown accustomed to...it's a lot better than facing the elements outside in order to get a little smoke or two in. Screw California law, this is MY office...I do what I please."
"Way to be rebellious; way to go, doc..."
The doctor nods...
"In any case...I wanted to actually congratulate you on not only your progress with me and your mental evaluations, but your success in the PCW as of late, as well!! I--as well as Seth Azeroth--didn't envision you hitting the ground running like you have so far. Your talents in the ring have conjured a monumental wave of momentum, which you have been able to ride into a level of notoriety which was never foreseen upon you entering competition."
"Not foreseen by YOU and SETH...allow me to emphasize on 'YOU,' and 'SETH.'"
"Fair enough."
"No, it's not just FAIR ENOUGH, you goddamn quack...it's a completely truthful statement; I mean, what the hell did you EXPECT my mind state and expectations to be? Did you expect me to lack confidence in myself?"
"Honestly, upon seeing how you reacted to the idea of you re-entering professional wrestling, initially--which was apathetic at best, by the way--it wasn't extraordinarily difficult to assume such things."
"Really, Rouser? REALLY?!?! REALLLY!?!? You got me sounding like the goddamn 'Miz' over here--REALLY?!?!?!"
"Umm...really."
Epic stare down.
"And, I have no idea who or what a 'Miz' is."
Epic stare down...continues
"I should...I should take this here nameplate of yours, reach across this table and permanently IMPRINT your own name into your forehead for even saying something like that," said LeKKter.
"Well, I apologize dearly for not knowing what the definition of a 'Miz' is."
"Not..."
LeKKter drops his feet to the floor while he rubs at his eyes in frustration. He drags his cigarette, leans forward in his chair, and sets his upper body on the desk, allowing his elbows to rest on the tabletop, with his hands clenched one over the other in a fist. Then he places his chin on his knuckles, resting the dead weight of his head on them. He stares down at the table with a darkened scowl on this face, engraving deeply into his forehead before bringing his eyes upward and towards the doctor; doing this forms a rather unsettling and sinister facial reaction on LeKKter's face as he speaks.
"Not...that, Doc. No, not that. What I am referring to is how you and Seth have had the audacity to ever question whether or not I still had the drive, the fire OR the skill level I need in order to make the impact I have made thus far in Premium Championship Wrestling. I've never LOST anything in regards to any of those categories. Yes, I needed the push in the back in order to spark the flame once again, but I have never extinguished ANYTHING. And, whatever I may have lost track of during my previous hiatus from sanctioned combat I have re-established since then, in spades--quite possibly more so than what I possessed before."
"I am glad to hear this, LeKKter."
"I don't think you understand what I am getting at, Rouser. I feel like I am...I feel like I am...morphing...morphing into a being which dwarfs--and can demolish--everything within it's spectrum. It's as if I am becoming a sentinel of sorts; an UNSTOPPABLE and virtually INDESTRUCTABLE force. I have proven the resilience of my vitality to MANY over the years, as well as the levels of brutality in which I utilize. These past two or so months, however, I have seemed to unlock a Pandora's box of aggressive energy, which has been inhabiting my inner being--unbeknownst to me--for a long time. The result? The string of victims I have left in ruin and in my wake as I have continued to storm through the rest of the PCW roster; from men with a 'larger than life' disposition, such as Scar Lokbrok, to the 'socialite' pedigree like that guttersnipe, Reyna Carter.
"I have cut short careers. I have beaten bodies and tied up ligaments until submission. I have fought through and walked away from some grueling battles in the PCW so far over these past couple months. And, through it all, the only loss I have suffered yet was at the hands of the man whom I have yet to resolve my issues with: the man with two last names, Smith Jones.
"I intend to avenge this loss soon enough, however. And, apparently, James Baker and the PCW booking committee have provided such an opportunity to do just that."
"Indeed they have." said the doctor.
"'Indeed they HAVE..." LeKKter replied.
"...yes...yes, indeed..."
The cameras zoom in on a close up shot of LeKKter as he continues speaking to the doctor...
"The Scars of Wrestling Cup. Fifteen. This...prestigious...event has come along once again, this time is being billed as quite possibly the 'most star studded' cup ever showcased in the history of the PCW. And what a better stage to exhibit a spectacle of such...celestial magnitude than the greatest event in professional wrestling: Battle Finale 3.
"James Baker made a wise decision: he arranged for me to take place in the 'Scars' cup; and just when I made the assumption that I was being overlooked and relegated to the lowly annals of the 'low card.' Well, I guess I feel fucking sheepish. Well, I stood by my sentiment, and used that notion to motivate myself to change that wretched labeling. And by doing just that, I have begun wrecking every single opponent I have come across since that fateful night in which I was bested by Smith Jones.
"I also promised Jones that this would not be the last he has heard from me; that his Broadcast Championship would eventually change owners. That I would watch him drop from glory just as quickly as he arose, and it would all be done by the hands of the 'Catalyst.' It seemed at first that it was back to the drawing board for me when Mr. Jones rejected my proposal prior to our match a while back. It didn't help that I lost my match, therefore throwing the possibility of the BC title match consisting of a quartet rather than a trio, out the window, anyway.
"Was I upset? At myself, a bit...yes. Not because I felt I wasn't the better combatant; I knew--and still do know--just who is the better man. No, I was upset at a mistake I made along the way, and it wasn't the misfired move that led to my demise that night. It was my arrogance and--more importantly--my complacency which I turn a spiteful eye towards; it's something that I never like to display, and I HATE to see in others. I allowed myself to be sucked into Smith Jones' world, and I let myself get lost in ego. And I paid the price for it.
"But, that shit since has STOPPED...as soon as I recognized it, I exfoliated it from my mind state. And it's been evident; as evident as the moon's glow is to the night.
"The last one was Scar Lokbrok. 'Conan, the Barbarian' had a spot on his wall of trophies specifically designated for the mounting of my head...yet, look what happened. His jaw: shattered; his limbs: disfigured; his presence on the Battle Finale card: none. For undisclosed reasons, he has been replaced by Sjin Drako. From what it seems, it may be possible that Lokbrok may have fought in his first, and last, PCW match. I don't know for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.
"All in all...Scar Lokbrok's existence: revoked...."
LeKKter drags his cigarette sharply and gives a little grin towards the cameras as he glances towards them from the corner of his eye. He looks back towards the doctor as he continues...
"Reyna Carter felt as if her possession of fortune and the saturation of 'glitz' and 'glamour' that she wallows in gave her a sense of superiority over me. With this in her mind, she seen herself to be not only a viable competitor, but a better human being altogether. And...I kicked her in the head. In fact, when I think about it, honestly, one has to feel some sort of empathy towards her plight as of recent days: first she faces Danielle Lopez four weeks ago and...she gets kicked in the head...and submitted. Then, two weeks later, she steps in the ring with me and...she got kicked in the head....AND submitted. Now, in less than a week, she faces Lopez AGAIN...with the likely outcome being that she gets kicked...in...the head...
"...and submitted. To go further, it may explain her delusions of royalty and elite status in the pro wrestling world: the bitch is brain damaged. It's not her fault. The NFL is going to be in trouble when they find this out: CTE is a real thing. Go figure.
"In any case, all of this has obviously placed me in the conversations of the PCW fans, staff and locker room. Enough so that I have been blessed--so to speak--with a rap on the door from opportunity to not only avenge my loss to Smith Jones in the near future, but also to do what I REALLY want to do, and that is strip that Broadcast Championship from around the waist of him, as well. And then, I can witness the descent of one whom was once a gallant force, into the crestfallen shell that is it's former existence.
In order for me to get this chance, I must do what the event's moniker says: battle. Gain scars. Give scars. Endure the scars of wrestling."
LeKKter then takes this opportunity to spin around in his seat, and face the cameras. As he does this, the camera closes in on him as he hits it cigarette and continues, this time not to the doctor, but to the audience...
2...Hunger.
Now Playing:[/u] "Hunger" by Tech N9ne[/i]
"So...you motherfuckers like to attack people from behind, do ya?
"I have so much to say to the two of you whom I am referring to, and for good reason. Here's a little refresher to the ones who need it: on the last episode of Saturday Night Rapture, two of my opponents this Sunday, Liam Reilly and Konstantine Weylin, decided to, I guess, attempt to deliver a message to me after my decimation of Scar Lokbrok. Capitalizing on me while I was in a vulnerable position, Liam decided to strike me from the blind side, while Weylin madly wielded a steel chair at me. And believe you me, it looked bleak for a while.
"But then their foolish antics backfired, as they then proceeded to get humiliated. In the end of things, Reilly was the one snacking on the edge of a steel chair, while Weylin got some of those cannibalistic intentions knocked out of her as she was sent tumbling outside the ring. So, one could say that I foiled their plans to accost me.
"One thing I can say about the both of them is that, while one is NOT the one intended to get through, they were successful in delivering a message to me; a couple of them, to be honest. One of them being that the both of these superstars are just as determined to become the next 'Scars' winner as I am, and they are willing to do whatever it takes in order to become just that. The unintended vibe I got is the most important, however: they see my presence as one which makes them worried. One that makes them...nervous.
"I am not going to insult any of you by saying you are 'scared' of me; NONE of the men and women who represent the PCW are anything in which I would consider as 'scared.' However...the fact that the both of you felt it necessary to double-team attack me, having no other history of alliance, not to mention completely contrasting identities and personas, screams your intention. It doesn't help your case when you factor in that it was a SNEAK attack as well as a POST match assault. And the way Weylin was swinging that steel, there would have been a good chance that I would not be all the way there, so to speak, for Battle Finale. You take out the biggest threat, and your chances are much, much better; it's a method that has been utilized for centuries. It didn't WORK this time around, but it's understandable that you would try something like that to me; I AM what you assume me to be...a threat. A threat to your victory at Battle Finale 3, a threat to the rest of the locker room and a threat to the world, in general. I am turmoil.
"The message which I want you to receive is this: your attempts to strike fear into or injure me did nothing in your favor. In fact, as a result, all it has done is pissed me off. Severely. You have gotten my attention...now let's see just how much of a good idea you think it was to entice me after Sunday, when I systematically DISMANTLE the three of you--starting with you, Konstantine Weylin.
"I am addressing you directly as of right now, Konstantine. I never had any reason to ever include you on my shit list, but you insist on being added to it, so...so be it. New entry into the database: Weylin, Konstantine. Data updated. Congratulations.
"Okay, first off, you would've become enemies with me, regardless if our little encounter hadn't occurred; that's just how I am as a person. Especially when you consider the fact that you are an opponent of mine. Opposition is considered the enemy in my eyes; the whole concept of 'sportsmanship' is irrelevant to me. 'Fuck you for the time being,' is what I say in regards to that. Meaning if you are in the ring across from me, up to the time it takes for the closing bell to sound, I fucking hate you; and your personal status with myself means little, as well. Ask Seth Azeroth what happened when we first met; he will tell you what happened. Quite possibly he would tell you with pure anger in his eyes as he recollects the incident, but nevertheless, he will let you know just to what the extent my animosity reaches. And I don't expect anything that wavers too far from that feeling about me coming from you, either. Sympathy is administered through sport, when the limits of violent measures are pushed too far; remorse is felt when actions go beyond the barriers of 'sportsmanship,' past the simple strive for victory...when bones get broken and body parts get mangled. I don't have any of that. I don't know what it's like to feel that...
"And neither do you.
"Our similarities don't stop there. You have spent the majority of your years locked away in a padded room, shackled and tied together for twenty-four hours-a-day. Daily monitoring of your every action; being poked, prodded and analyzed by dozens of faceless 'experts' in the 'name of medical science' during the precious time in which you don't have your freedom and mental stability strangled to death.
"Sedatives, anti-psyches and muscle relaxers, constantly being fed to you, in order to reduce the growing and searing ball of mania that has steadily been developing in the pit of your brain for countless days, months and years. The results of these 'medications' are revealed to be as nothing more than a side-effect, all it's own, turning your brain into mush and utterly numbing your sense of emotion to the point of socio-pathic, and that's if it wasn't teetering the borderlines of such already. Yes...I can relate to such a torturous existence. I have been through that song and dance for the majority of my lifetime. And, whether it's caused by traumatic experiences from a previous time, i.e. yourself; or if it was something that you were always burdened with, and it was a part of you since birth, i.e. myself, this is NEVER an idolized destiny to be dealt.
"Yes, we share similar mind states, but In this particular instance, however, shit is a bit different. You see, I take attacks like that personally; and there is another rather serious problem I deal with: this pesky anger problem. I have a bad temper and vendettas I tend to commit myself to, and this incident has only added fuel to an already RAGING fire. And it's that very same scorching blaze in which you will find yourself enveloped in until you are completely engulfed, and all that is your entity has been incinerated to dust.
"You have a history of cannibalism. You like to eat human flesh, huh Konsantine? Well sink your teeth into this, bitch: I don't give a FUCK how psycho-sick you are, clinically or self-proclaimed. All the psychiatrists and psychologists in the land could shudder at the mere thought of your imposition. You are still a target; a BREAKABLE target. It doesn't matter to me how many dead bodies and cellmates you have chewed on, because my mind is set on 'masticate' mode as well, Weylin. And I will fufill my insatiable appetite on Sunday, and you find out that you are edible, yourself; in fact you are merely the appetizer. And when I see I see you on Sunday, I am going to EAT you alive. Dinner and a movie."
2...No More Warning Shots.
Now Playing:[/u] "Boogie Man" by Tech N9ne[/i]
"I TOLD your fucking ass long ago, Liam Reilly, not to cross me in the manner which you did last Rapture. And...you did. You fucking fool...
"Right before I was set to face Smith Jones, I took notice to the alliance you and Damon Warrens had with Jones, and how you utilized the numbers game to your advantage at every opportunity. Having seen this, I made it a stressing point of mine when I gave you not a warning, but a statement of fact: if you try any of the shit that you pulled on Brian Stryker, Jay Thunder or ANYthing for that matter on ME, I would react. Swiftly, decisively and viciously.
"I thought I made myself very clear when I stated this to the three of you. I thought I articulated my words well enough to garner some sort of compliance from the likes of you; it seemed to be the case even more so that Saturday when, although I lost the match to Jones, it wasn't due to any foul play from the three of you. Nor was there any post-match shenanigans, either.
"WELL...I guess I was WRONG about that. Fast forward to my post match with Lokbrok, and Lord, oh behold, out of all people to strike first was...you. Liam Reilly. So, I must've made an error in my approach. Well, I think I figured out what I did wrong: I didn't establish just what the repercussions would be had you defied me in the first place. So, in an effort to show the world the magnitude of my vengeance, I will use you....Reilly...as an example.
"I am going to graphically display your punishment for all to use as a reference for whenever the urge comes along inside of them to even THINK about running afoul of me, ESPECIALLY in the manner in which you and Weylin have done. You made this not about victory between me and you; you made this personal, from my point of view.
"I can't wait to get my hands on you.
"Unlike Weylin and I, you and I are NOTHING alike. Aside from the fact that you seem to prefer taking the route of cowardice with your sneaky group attacks, you derive from a pedigree which is in complete contrast to mine. Just like Reyna Carter, your life residing in luxury's lap has given you this overbearing sense of entitlement. And let me make this VERY clear to you, Reilly: the only thing you are entitled to get from ME is your fucking head knocked off your shoulders. I promise this to you, I will NOT let ANYONE get in the way of me going on to facing your 'BFF,' Smith Jones. And, I will tell Jones this just as I told YOU before I fought him: keep it to yourself. Remember, Smith, you have a very important match, yourself, Sunday night as well. You stick your fucking nose in my business, it will all but ENSURE mine will be in yours. And I will be sure to PUNCH you in that fucker for your troubles. But you won't do that; this is destiny for this to happen. Our encounter is in the stars...it's inevitable. Don't play with fate, Smith. In fact, I will be cheering for your victory on Sunday, regardless of whether I win or not. I am determined to see that I have the last laugh, and the Broadcast title.
"In the meantime, I have to get through this test of strength; this test of will. My resiliency will be tested to the utmost level as I head into combat. In nine days, I will get the window I need to be opened...opened. In five days, the chaos and hostility that has built up for the past four weeks inside the minds, bodies and souls of all involved will finally reach a boiling point.
"The insanity will commence....starting with the Scars cup."
3.....Battle Scars.[/b]
No music is playing. Just the sound of a fuzzy tape recorder running. LeKKter's voice begins to speak on the tape as the cameras flash into multiple angled shots of LeKKter's silouette.
"Many...many scars.
"We have endured a multitude of these over the years; it's part of the job. We as superstars and competitors put our lively hoods and our health on the line every single time one of us laces up and steps through those ring ropes. Every time we land an Asai moonsault, twenty or so feet off the second to last rung of a ladder, onto the prone body of our enemy. For every cheer given and every bit of adulation received from the crowd, there is a cracked rib; a broken collarbone or slipped disc. The prices we pay as competitors far exceeds the price of general admission, and we pay that price so they can feel as exhilarated as we feel when we step out there and put forth the effort we put forth.
"We EARN these scars...scars of wrestling.
"At least most of us do. There is a major percentage of the PCW locker room that feels as if they should simply have their stripes handed to them. These people don't understand or acknowledge the sacrifices necessary in order to not only gain the notoriety they desire, but the respect that they demand, yet expect to be given to them, unearned. These people will never become more than what they are as of right now, and on this particular Saturday night in San Diego--in MY home state, only about 400 miles away from MY hometown, by the way--they will NOT be better than I am. And for the foreseeable future, I don't think they will EVER be.
"William Steele, the man who I have not come to encounter just yet, I enter this contest as an unknown to you, and vice versa. Underestimate you I will not do, but sit in worry over the prospect of facing you I will NOT. Terror is lost upon me; I am the harbinger of such horrors that haunt the dreams of Liam Reilly's associate, Damon Warrens. I am the STORM that DESTROYED Konstantine Weylin's parents, and left their bodies in ruin. Inside my body is a hunger that is equivalent to the panging famine which drove Konstantine to cannibalize the rotted corpses of her mother and father. I am the burden on your shoulders that you cannot shake. I am the 'Catalyst of Insanity.'
"I suggest you do yourself a favor and sharpen up your weapons as much as you possibly can. I want you to write your final will and testament; I want you to hammer out all of your brother's affairs. I want you to call up Dante Daevian, and tell him the charade is over...
"The REAL Lucifer is coming to collect his due."
*END TRANSMISSION*
1...Mental Evaluation
Now Playing: "Bury Em' All" by Twiztid
The ominous rumbling of the opening song begins as the scene snaps into focus. The cameras are focused onto a nameplate, laying on a solid oak desk, the name "Dr. Rouser Schleshinger, M.D." written across it, signifying who the owner is.
Moments afterward, the cameras switch to a bird's eye view of the top of the desk, showing a pair of hands--presumed to be Dr. Schlesinger's--opening the top left drawer, pulling out a tobacco pipe, a bag of tobacco and a small box of wooden matches. The camera snaps to a closer view, focusing soley on the pair of hands, following their actions: the left hand begins to open and reach inside of the pouch of tobacco, grabbing a fairly large plug of leaves; the right hand--holding the pipe--meets up with the left at the center of the desk, then begins packing the tobacco into the bowl. In the same motion--as the cameras follow--the right hand puts the pipe into the doctor's mouth, (the scene switching to a close-up of the doctor's face momentarily, followed by a slight readjustment of his glasses) then the left reaches for the matches. Dr Schlesinger slides the box open, grabbing a match and striking it alongside the box. The match flares momentarily, as the cameras focus in on the left hand holding the match as it's guided to the bowl of the pipe. The bowl is ignited, and the cherried plug burns brightly; smoke pours from the corners of the doctor's mouth.
Nanoseconds later, the cameras switch to a close up view of another person in the room: they begin to focus on the person from a close up of a pair of feet, occupying a pair of black combat boots as they lay on the edge of the doctor's desk--from the opposite side--one crossed over the other and fidgeting, restlessly back and forth, as if to tell that the person sitting there is running (or has already ran) out of patience.
The cameras continue to discover who is sitting in the chair opposite of the doctor; the cameras pan slowly and steadily left and upwards in an attempt to get a full shot of the individual. From the boots, you start to see more and more of the apparel the person is donning: a pair of knee-cut length khaki Ben Davis shorts--crisply ironed to a crease--begin to work their way into the scenery. The shorts are sagged slightly below the waistline and meet the top of his combat boots. The shorts are being held up by a thick, jet-black leather belt, with a very familiar looking white gold "CID FACE" belt buckle, encrusted with light green emeralds, glistening in the light provided by the room.
The cameras alternate this picture with a shot of the doctor as he breaks the silence as he exhales the smoke from his pipe...
"LeKKter..."
The cameras switch back to the previous shot as the cameras pick up a visual of a black basketball jersey, with a large dark purple Psychopathic Records "hatchetman" stitched on the front of it. The shot suddenly changes again, this time to a shot of the back of the jersey; in the same color the hatchetman and stitched on the back is the number "23" with the name "LeKKter" embroidered above it, similar to any sports jersey, thereby revealing the identity of the individual to be none other than, once again, LeKKter tha LunatiK.
The doc's voice continues...
"LeeeKKKKtteeerrr...are you with me?"
The cameras shoot to a quick close-up glance of LeKKter's face: his eyes are completely blacked out from the contacts he chose to wear on this particular occasion; he is wearing no facepaint this time around, however. LeKKter's dreadlocks are bleached in majority, with a hand- full of locks dyed black and purple scattered throughout. LeKKter's eyes dart around the room before settling on the doctor as the doctor continues...
"Hello? Hey... I need you to respond, LeKKter, even if it's nothing more than a word or two."
The scene then rests for the time being, at least, on a panoramic shot of the two: Dr. Rouser Schlesinger in his chair, puffing away as he stares LeKKter down; LeKKter sitting in his chair, gazing off into space with a look of disinterest. He is reclined in his seat, outstretched with his legs crossed over the other as previously shown, and resting on the end of the desk. His hands are behind his head and interlocked at the fingers, with his head resting casually in their palms. The scene rests for a moment before LeKKter responds to the doctor.
"How many words? Two, you say? Fuck. Off." LeKKter says back to the doctor.
".....Mmmkaaay. Well, I guess I should've seen that coming." responds the doctor.
"Is that helpful enough? Do you still have to break out the heavy-duty psycho-analysis, DOC?"
"You don't have to be so facetious, LeKKter; I was worried you may have slipped into a catatonic state of psychosis for a moment. Obviously something is on your mind. Do you care to elaborate?"
"No."
"LeKKter..."
"If you say my motherFUCKING name again, Rouser, I am going to make you EAT that goddamn pipe."
"LeKK--"
LeKKter shoots a MENACING glare towards the doctor's direction, cutting him off in the process completely. The doctor reaches for and strikes another match from the box and drags the pipe once again. As he does this, LeKKter follows suit and reaches inside his pockets for his trademarked "Camel" cigarettes and "zippo" lighter. He pops one from the pack, and quickly runs the lighter along his leg back and then forth to strike the lighter. He lights up and drags deep and exhales into the air, allowing the smoke to intertwine with the
doctor's. LeKKter continues to speak.
"Isn't this illegal, doctor?"
"Yeah; well...to hell with it, I suppose. We've been doing it for so long now that I really don't even notice the fault in it anymore. It's something I have actually grown accustomed to...it's a lot better than facing the elements outside in order to get a little smoke or two in. Screw California law, this is MY office...I do what I please."
"Way to be rebellious; way to go, doc..."
The doctor nods...
"In any case...I wanted to actually congratulate you on not only your progress with me and your mental evaluations, but your success in the PCW as of late, as well!! I--as well as Seth Azeroth--didn't envision you hitting the ground running like you have so far. Your talents in the ring have conjured a monumental wave of momentum, which you have been able to ride into a level of notoriety which was never foreseen upon you entering competition."
"Not foreseen by YOU and SETH...allow me to emphasize on 'YOU,' and 'SETH.'"
"Fair enough."
"No, it's not just FAIR ENOUGH, you goddamn quack...it's a completely truthful statement; I mean, what the hell did you EXPECT my mind state and expectations to be? Did you expect me to lack confidence in myself?"
"Honestly, upon seeing how you reacted to the idea of you re-entering professional wrestling, initially--which was apathetic at best, by the way--it wasn't extraordinarily difficult to assume such things."
"Really, Rouser? REALLY?!?! REALLLY!?!? You got me sounding like the goddamn 'Miz' over here--REALLY?!?!?!"
"Umm...really."
Epic stare down.
"And, I have no idea who or what a 'Miz' is."
Epic stare down...continues
"I should...I should take this here nameplate of yours, reach across this table and permanently IMPRINT your own name into your forehead for even saying something like that," said LeKKter.
"Well, I apologize dearly for not knowing what the definition of a 'Miz' is."
"Not..."
LeKKter drops his feet to the floor while he rubs at his eyes in frustration. He drags his cigarette, leans forward in his chair, and sets his upper body on the desk, allowing his elbows to rest on the tabletop, with his hands clenched one over the other in a fist. Then he places his chin on his knuckles, resting the dead weight of his head on them. He stares down at the table with a darkened scowl on this face, engraving deeply into his forehead before bringing his eyes upward and towards the doctor; doing this forms a rather unsettling and sinister facial reaction on LeKKter's face as he speaks.
"Not...that, Doc. No, not that. What I am referring to is how you and Seth have had the audacity to ever question whether or not I still had the drive, the fire OR the skill level I need in order to make the impact I have made thus far in Premium Championship Wrestling. I've never LOST anything in regards to any of those categories. Yes, I needed the push in the back in order to spark the flame once again, but I have never extinguished ANYTHING. And, whatever I may have lost track of during my previous hiatus from sanctioned combat I have re-established since then, in spades--quite possibly more so than what I possessed before."
"I am glad to hear this, LeKKter."
"I don't think you understand what I am getting at, Rouser. I feel like I am...I feel like I am...morphing...morphing into a being which dwarfs--and can demolish--everything within it's spectrum. It's as if I am becoming a sentinel of sorts; an UNSTOPPABLE and virtually INDESTRUCTABLE force. I have proven the resilience of my vitality to MANY over the years, as well as the levels of brutality in which I utilize. These past two or so months, however, I have seemed to unlock a Pandora's box of aggressive energy, which has been inhabiting my inner being--unbeknownst to me--for a long time. The result? The string of victims I have left in ruin and in my wake as I have continued to storm through the rest of the PCW roster; from men with a 'larger than life' disposition, such as Scar Lokbrok, to the 'socialite' pedigree like that guttersnipe, Reyna Carter.
"I have cut short careers. I have beaten bodies and tied up ligaments until submission. I have fought through and walked away from some grueling battles in the PCW so far over these past couple months. And, through it all, the only loss I have suffered yet was at the hands of the man whom I have yet to resolve my issues with: the man with two last names, Smith Jones.
"I intend to avenge this loss soon enough, however. And, apparently, James Baker and the PCW booking committee have provided such an opportunity to do just that."
"Indeed they have." said the doctor.
"'Indeed they HAVE..." LeKKter replied.
"...yes...yes, indeed..."
The cameras zoom in on a close up shot of LeKKter as he continues speaking to the doctor...
"The Scars of Wrestling Cup. Fifteen. This...prestigious...event has come along once again, this time is being billed as quite possibly the 'most star studded' cup ever showcased in the history of the PCW. And what a better stage to exhibit a spectacle of such...celestial magnitude than the greatest event in professional wrestling: Battle Finale 3.
"James Baker made a wise decision: he arranged for me to take place in the 'Scars' cup; and just when I made the assumption that I was being overlooked and relegated to the lowly annals of the 'low card.' Well, I guess I feel fucking sheepish. Well, I stood by my sentiment, and used that notion to motivate myself to change that wretched labeling. And by doing just that, I have begun wrecking every single opponent I have come across since that fateful night in which I was bested by Smith Jones.
"I also promised Jones that this would not be the last he has heard from me; that his Broadcast Championship would eventually change owners. That I would watch him drop from glory just as quickly as he arose, and it would all be done by the hands of the 'Catalyst.' It seemed at first that it was back to the drawing board for me when Mr. Jones rejected my proposal prior to our match a while back. It didn't help that I lost my match, therefore throwing the possibility of the BC title match consisting of a quartet rather than a trio, out the window, anyway.
"Was I upset? At myself, a bit...yes. Not because I felt I wasn't the better combatant; I knew--and still do know--just who is the better man. No, I was upset at a mistake I made along the way, and it wasn't the misfired move that led to my demise that night. It was my arrogance and--more importantly--my complacency which I turn a spiteful eye towards; it's something that I never like to display, and I HATE to see in others. I allowed myself to be sucked into Smith Jones' world, and I let myself get lost in ego. And I paid the price for it.
"But, that shit since has STOPPED...as soon as I recognized it, I exfoliated it from my mind state. And it's been evident; as evident as the moon's glow is to the night.
"The last one was Scar Lokbrok. 'Conan, the Barbarian' had a spot on his wall of trophies specifically designated for the mounting of my head...yet, look what happened. His jaw: shattered; his limbs: disfigured; his presence on the Battle Finale card: none. For undisclosed reasons, he has been replaced by Sjin Drako. From what it seems, it may be possible that Lokbrok may have fought in his first, and last, PCW match. I don't know for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.
"All in all...Scar Lokbrok's existence: revoked...."
LeKKter drags his cigarette sharply and gives a little grin towards the cameras as he glances towards them from the corner of his eye. He looks back towards the doctor as he continues...
"Reyna Carter felt as if her possession of fortune and the saturation of 'glitz' and 'glamour' that she wallows in gave her a sense of superiority over me. With this in her mind, she seen herself to be not only a viable competitor, but a better human being altogether. And...I kicked her in the head. In fact, when I think about it, honestly, one has to feel some sort of empathy towards her plight as of recent days: first she faces Danielle Lopez four weeks ago and...she gets kicked in the head...and submitted. Then, two weeks later, she steps in the ring with me and...she got kicked in the head....AND submitted. Now, in less than a week, she faces Lopez AGAIN...with the likely outcome being that she gets kicked...in...the head...
"...and submitted. To go further, it may explain her delusions of royalty and elite status in the pro wrestling world: the bitch is brain damaged. It's not her fault. The NFL is going to be in trouble when they find this out: CTE is a real thing. Go figure.
"In any case, all of this has obviously placed me in the conversations of the PCW fans, staff and locker room. Enough so that I have been blessed--so to speak--with a rap on the door from opportunity to not only avenge my loss to Smith Jones in the near future, but also to do what I REALLY want to do, and that is strip that Broadcast Championship from around the waist of him, as well. And then, I can witness the descent of one whom was once a gallant force, into the crestfallen shell that is it's former existence.
In order for me to get this chance, I must do what the event's moniker says: battle. Gain scars. Give scars. Endure the scars of wrestling."
LeKKter then takes this opportunity to spin around in his seat, and face the cameras. As he does this, the camera closes in on him as he hits it cigarette and continues, this time not to the doctor, but to the audience...
2...Hunger.
Now Playing:[/u] "Hunger" by Tech N9ne[/i]
"So...you motherfuckers like to attack people from behind, do ya?
"I have so much to say to the two of you whom I am referring to, and for good reason. Here's a little refresher to the ones who need it: on the last episode of Saturday Night Rapture, two of my opponents this Sunday, Liam Reilly and Konstantine Weylin, decided to, I guess, attempt to deliver a message to me after my decimation of Scar Lokbrok. Capitalizing on me while I was in a vulnerable position, Liam decided to strike me from the blind side, while Weylin madly wielded a steel chair at me. And believe you me, it looked bleak for a while.
"But then their foolish antics backfired, as they then proceeded to get humiliated. In the end of things, Reilly was the one snacking on the edge of a steel chair, while Weylin got some of those cannibalistic intentions knocked out of her as she was sent tumbling outside the ring. So, one could say that I foiled their plans to accost me.
"One thing I can say about the both of them is that, while one is NOT the one intended to get through, they were successful in delivering a message to me; a couple of them, to be honest. One of them being that the both of these superstars are just as determined to become the next 'Scars' winner as I am, and they are willing to do whatever it takes in order to become just that. The unintended vibe I got is the most important, however: they see my presence as one which makes them worried. One that makes them...nervous.
"I am not going to insult any of you by saying you are 'scared' of me; NONE of the men and women who represent the PCW are anything in which I would consider as 'scared.' However...the fact that the both of you felt it necessary to double-team attack me, having no other history of alliance, not to mention completely contrasting identities and personas, screams your intention. It doesn't help your case when you factor in that it was a SNEAK attack as well as a POST match assault. And the way Weylin was swinging that steel, there would have been a good chance that I would not be all the way there, so to speak, for Battle Finale. You take out the biggest threat, and your chances are much, much better; it's a method that has been utilized for centuries. It didn't WORK this time around, but it's understandable that you would try something like that to me; I AM what you assume me to be...a threat. A threat to your victory at Battle Finale 3, a threat to the rest of the locker room and a threat to the world, in general. I am turmoil.
"The message which I want you to receive is this: your attempts to strike fear into or injure me did nothing in your favor. In fact, as a result, all it has done is pissed me off. Severely. You have gotten my attention...now let's see just how much of a good idea you think it was to entice me after Sunday, when I systematically DISMANTLE the three of you--starting with you, Konstantine Weylin.
"I am addressing you directly as of right now, Konstantine. I never had any reason to ever include you on my shit list, but you insist on being added to it, so...so be it. New entry into the database: Weylin, Konstantine. Data updated. Congratulations.
"Okay, first off, you would've become enemies with me, regardless if our little encounter hadn't occurred; that's just how I am as a person. Especially when you consider the fact that you are an opponent of mine. Opposition is considered the enemy in my eyes; the whole concept of 'sportsmanship' is irrelevant to me. 'Fuck you for the time being,' is what I say in regards to that. Meaning if you are in the ring across from me, up to the time it takes for the closing bell to sound, I fucking hate you; and your personal status with myself means little, as well. Ask Seth Azeroth what happened when we first met; he will tell you what happened. Quite possibly he would tell you with pure anger in his eyes as he recollects the incident, but nevertheless, he will let you know just to what the extent my animosity reaches. And I don't expect anything that wavers too far from that feeling about me coming from you, either. Sympathy is administered through sport, when the limits of violent measures are pushed too far; remorse is felt when actions go beyond the barriers of 'sportsmanship,' past the simple strive for victory...when bones get broken and body parts get mangled. I don't have any of that. I don't know what it's like to feel that...
"And neither do you.
"Our similarities don't stop there. You have spent the majority of your years locked away in a padded room, shackled and tied together for twenty-four hours-a-day. Daily monitoring of your every action; being poked, prodded and analyzed by dozens of faceless 'experts' in the 'name of medical science' during the precious time in which you don't have your freedom and mental stability strangled to death.
"Sedatives, anti-psyches and muscle relaxers, constantly being fed to you, in order to reduce the growing and searing ball of mania that has steadily been developing in the pit of your brain for countless days, months and years. The results of these 'medications' are revealed to be as nothing more than a side-effect, all it's own, turning your brain into mush and utterly numbing your sense of emotion to the point of socio-pathic, and that's if it wasn't teetering the borderlines of such already. Yes...I can relate to such a torturous existence. I have been through that song and dance for the majority of my lifetime. And, whether it's caused by traumatic experiences from a previous time, i.e. yourself; or if it was something that you were always burdened with, and it was a part of you since birth, i.e. myself, this is NEVER an idolized destiny to be dealt.
"Yes, we share similar mind states, but In this particular instance, however, shit is a bit different. You see, I take attacks like that personally; and there is another rather serious problem I deal with: this pesky anger problem. I have a bad temper and vendettas I tend to commit myself to, and this incident has only added fuel to an already RAGING fire. And it's that very same scorching blaze in which you will find yourself enveloped in until you are completely engulfed, and all that is your entity has been incinerated to dust.
"You have a history of cannibalism. You like to eat human flesh, huh Konsantine? Well sink your teeth into this, bitch: I don't give a FUCK how psycho-sick you are, clinically or self-proclaimed. All the psychiatrists and psychologists in the land could shudder at the mere thought of your imposition. You are still a target; a BREAKABLE target. It doesn't matter to me how many dead bodies and cellmates you have chewed on, because my mind is set on 'masticate' mode as well, Weylin. And I will fufill my insatiable appetite on Sunday, and you find out that you are edible, yourself; in fact you are merely the appetizer. And when I see I see you on Sunday, I am going to EAT you alive. Dinner and a movie."
2...No More Warning Shots.
Now Playing:[/u] "Boogie Man" by Tech N9ne[/i]
"I TOLD your fucking ass long ago, Liam Reilly, not to cross me in the manner which you did last Rapture. And...you did. You fucking fool...
"Right before I was set to face Smith Jones, I took notice to the alliance you and Damon Warrens had with Jones, and how you utilized the numbers game to your advantage at every opportunity. Having seen this, I made it a stressing point of mine when I gave you not a warning, but a statement of fact: if you try any of the shit that you pulled on Brian Stryker, Jay Thunder or ANYthing for that matter on ME, I would react. Swiftly, decisively and viciously.
"I thought I made myself very clear when I stated this to the three of you. I thought I articulated my words well enough to garner some sort of compliance from the likes of you; it seemed to be the case even more so that Saturday when, although I lost the match to Jones, it wasn't due to any foul play from the three of you. Nor was there any post-match shenanigans, either.
"WELL...I guess I was WRONG about that. Fast forward to my post match with Lokbrok, and Lord, oh behold, out of all people to strike first was...you. Liam Reilly. So, I must've made an error in my approach. Well, I think I figured out what I did wrong: I didn't establish just what the repercussions would be had you defied me in the first place. So, in an effort to show the world the magnitude of my vengeance, I will use you....Reilly...as an example.
"I am going to graphically display your punishment for all to use as a reference for whenever the urge comes along inside of them to even THINK about running afoul of me, ESPECIALLY in the manner in which you and Weylin have done. You made this not about victory between me and you; you made this personal, from my point of view.
"I can't wait to get my hands on you.
"Unlike Weylin and I, you and I are NOTHING alike. Aside from the fact that you seem to prefer taking the route of cowardice with your sneaky group attacks, you derive from a pedigree which is in complete contrast to mine. Just like Reyna Carter, your life residing in luxury's lap has given you this overbearing sense of entitlement. And let me make this VERY clear to you, Reilly: the only thing you are entitled to get from ME is your fucking head knocked off your shoulders. I promise this to you, I will NOT let ANYONE get in the way of me going on to facing your 'BFF,' Smith Jones. And, I will tell Jones this just as I told YOU before I fought him: keep it to yourself. Remember, Smith, you have a very important match, yourself, Sunday night as well. You stick your fucking nose in my business, it will all but ENSURE mine will be in yours. And I will be sure to PUNCH you in that fucker for your troubles. But you won't do that; this is destiny for this to happen. Our encounter is in the stars...it's inevitable. Don't play with fate, Smith. In fact, I will be cheering for your victory on Sunday, regardless of whether I win or not. I am determined to see that I have the last laugh, and the Broadcast title.
"In the meantime, I have to get through this test of strength; this test of will. My resiliency will be tested to the utmost level as I head into combat. In nine days, I will get the window I need to be opened...opened. In five days, the chaos and hostility that has built up for the past four weeks inside the minds, bodies and souls of all involved will finally reach a boiling point.
"The insanity will commence....starting with the Scars cup."
3.....Battle Scars.[/b]
No music is playing. Just the sound of a fuzzy tape recorder running. LeKKter's voice begins to speak on the tape as the cameras flash into multiple angled shots of LeKKter's silouette.
"Many...many scars.
"We have endured a multitude of these over the years; it's part of the job. We as superstars and competitors put our lively hoods and our health on the line every single time one of us laces up and steps through those ring ropes. Every time we land an Asai moonsault, twenty or so feet off the second to last rung of a ladder, onto the prone body of our enemy. For every cheer given and every bit of adulation received from the crowd, there is a cracked rib; a broken collarbone or slipped disc. The prices we pay as competitors far exceeds the price of general admission, and we pay that price so they can feel as exhilarated as we feel when we step out there and put forth the effort we put forth.
"We EARN these scars...scars of wrestling.
"At least most of us do. There is a major percentage of the PCW locker room that feels as if they should simply have their stripes handed to them. These people don't understand or acknowledge the sacrifices necessary in order to not only gain the notoriety they desire, but the respect that they demand, yet expect to be given to them, unearned. These people will never become more than what they are as of right now, and on this particular Saturday night in San Diego--in MY home state, only about 400 miles away from MY hometown, by the way--they will NOT be better than I am. And for the foreseeable future, I don't think they will EVER be.
"William Steele, the man who I have not come to encounter just yet, I enter this contest as an unknown to you, and vice versa. Underestimate you I will not do, but sit in worry over the prospect of facing you I will NOT. Terror is lost upon me; I am the harbinger of such horrors that haunt the dreams of Liam Reilly's associate, Damon Warrens. I am the STORM that DESTROYED Konstantine Weylin's parents, and left their bodies in ruin. Inside my body is a hunger that is equivalent to the panging famine which drove Konstantine to cannibalize the rotted corpses of her mother and father. I am the burden on your shoulders that you cannot shake. I am the 'Catalyst of Insanity.'
"I suggest you do yourself a favor and sharpen up your weapons as much as you possibly can. I want you to write your final will and testament; I want you to hammer out all of your brother's affairs. I want you to call up Dante Daevian, and tell him the charade is over...
"The REAL Lucifer is coming to collect his due."
*END TRANSMISSION*
