Post by cavanagh on Sept 11, 2013 15:13:14 GMT -5
December 7th, 2008
10:23 P.M.
The world-renowned Hammerstein Ballroom is the place. The storied venue is packed to the proverbial rafters, the blood-thirsty masses in attendance for the evening’s entertainment: the International Pro Wrestling League’s premiere event, Death Threat 2008. The evening has been a marked success thus far. Bones have been broken, bodies battered and beaten, titles won and titles lost, careers made and stars brightened. The crowd has been riding the edge of nuclear heat throughout, all in anticipation of this final, shining moment.
The main event.
Everything has been building to this. All the blood, all the sweat, all the tears to this one single, defining moment. The vicious, dominating champion, Victor Cavanagh, versus his valiant and courageous challenger, ‘Hang Time’ Derrick Lang. The bad blood has been boiling for weeks between the cold, brutal title holder and his nemesis, the challenger ever present and biting at the monstrous champion’s boot heels. And tonight, finally, in front of the throngs of fervent IPWL faithful, it all comes to a head. This was the singular, shining moment in which one man’s career would rise…and the other would more than likely irrevocably plummet.
And quite frankly, it scared the Hell out of him.
He couldn’t stop pacing as he waited in the gorilla position. He’d checked his wrist tape and adjusted his boots until he couldn’t anymore, so now, he stalked the lonely strip of concrete just beyond the entryway, mind racing at the mere thought of what lay ahead. Everything was riding on this moment. If he didn’t perform…if he failed…there may be no getting back. All he’d suffered, all the indignities, all the blood spilled and all the bruises, all the ass he’d had to kiss and obstacles he’d had to overcome, all of it, every last bit, would be for naught. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs gathering in his mind.
He could do this.
He HAD to do this.
This is where he was meant to be. Where he belonged. If he couldn’t go out there, take that belt…give those people what they came to see…then he had no reason to exist at all.
He could do this.
He WOULD do this.
“Here To Stay” by Korn blared through the loudspeakers, drawing the appropriate roar from the crowd. That was his cue. He paused a final moment, taking one final, deep breath, crossing himself as was his ritual…And then he plunged through the curtain.
The roar was deafening.
The building was practically shaking at the sheer volume of the cheers coursing throughout the crowd, and in that moment, his every concern and anxiety melted away. He pumped his fists, bellowed to the crowd, slapped every hand he could possibly reach, and pointed to the ones he couldn’t. The second he’d stepped through that curtain, they were his people, and he would not…could not disappoint them. He was their hero, and he would do what heroes were meant to do.
He would topple the villain, and give them the justice they deserved.
He nodded his head, his confidence practically bursting at the seams as he slid into the ring, mounting the ropes to pose for the adoring crowd. He made the rounds of every corner, each time drawing a louder chorus of cheers than the last. When he’d finally satisfied himself on their response, he headed for the corner, leaning back against the turnbuckles…finally and truly in his element. His theme faded out, replaced by the virulent, rumbling bass notes that signaled the arrival of the unerring force that was Victor Cavanagh. The champion stalked through the curtain, jeers and garbage raining down upon him, the Championship belt glinting as it hung haphazardly from his shoulders. He made his way to the ring wordlessly, his eyes flickering here and there over the crowd, but once his eyes caught Lang’s, they never left, the cold fury in his gaze hanging palpably in the air between them. He stalked to ringside, slowly making his way up the steps and stepping over the ropes, immediately shoving his belt into the arms of the referee before heading across the ring, making a beeline for Lang. So, he did what he did best. He did what a hero would do.
He met him at the middle of the ring and matched his fury with his own.
And from there, it all became a blur. For thirty five minutes, they rained Hell on each other, his lightning quickness and speed Cavanagh’s sheer raw brutality and technique at every turn. Every blow that was exchanged was more vicious than the one that followed it, every near fall drove the crowd’s fevered pitch closer and closer to the absolute breaking point. His face was caked in blood, courtesy of the knees Cavanagh had driven savagely into his face again and again, and used to open his forehead in frighteningly brutal fashion. He couldn’t see, he could barely breathe, and his legs felt as though they’d give out at any moment. But he was there, still standing, still fighting.
He wouldn’t give up on this, not until his very last breath.
Cavanagh caught him with another violent backhanded chop, this one slamming into the bridge of his nose, the sheer force driving him to one knee. He couldn’t feel his left arm anymore, the annoying stinging of the blood trickling in his eyes now drowned out by the terrifying feeling of numbness in his limbs. The inexorable Champion saw his chance to finish things and charged…and that is where he found his opening. As Cavanagh bolted toward him, he forced himself to his feet, and in one final move of utter desperation, lanced out with the most ferocious superkick he could possibly throw. The bone-rattling crack of the foot connecting with the Catalyst’s jaw was soon eclipsed by the roar of the crowd. Cavanagh crashed to the mat with a heavy thud and in that moment, he saw his destiny. All he has to do is hook the leg, hold the Champion down for those three glorious seconds…and it’d all be his. Everything he’d worked for, strived for, fought and bled for…right there in his hands.
But in that moment, a sound pierces through, burrowing deep into his ears.
A chant, rolling across the entire building, powering to a crescendo. “450…450…450…” the words ring out, again and again. An entire building of people calling for one thing, and one thing only: his signature 450 splash. He pauses a moment, hesitating. The victory is right there, ready to be taken, right in his grasp. But there were the people, HIS people…crying out, begging for more. Just a little bit more. He could take the win, take the title right now…but at the risk of leaving the ones who had brought him to the dance dissatisfied. In that moment, he knew exactly what he had to do.
The roar when he extended a single blood-stained finger to point to the top turnbuckle was unbelievable.
He staggered over to the turnbuckles, climbing slowly and unsteadily. He only had one arm with which to steady himself, the other still throbbing numbly from the brutal strike mere moments ago. Finally, fitfully, he made it to the top, first crouching, then slowly starting to rise as he turned. He wobbled once, nearly slipping, having to use his good arm to steady himself, but he quickly righted and began his ascent once more. The blood in his eyes was clouding his vision, leaving the Cavanagh a blurred mass on the canvas. He clawed at his eyes as best he could, desperately trying to clear his eyesight so his approach would be dead on. It was for naught, however. The blood was thickened and drying, the clotting gluing his right eye nearly shut. To Hell with it. It was now or never.
He took in one long, deep breath…and leapt.
The first turn was perfect. His body arced through the air, the height impressive even by his standards. But then, something went wrong. His body twisted in the air, his trajectory going more awry by the second, and soon enough, he was falling, falling fast and hard. He tried desperately to right himself, twisting in the air, trying to find some way, any way to save himself from what was coming….but he couldn’t.
Everything went silent the moment he hit. Deathly, deathly quiet. Quiet enough that he could hear the bones in shatter beneath him. The numbness in his arm was a distant memory as he crashed down. His ankle was screaming at him, the pain like a thousand fiery knives stabbing through his flesh. He tried to clutch at it, tried to cry out, tried to do something, anything, but he couldn’t. He was helpless. Completely, utterly helpless. He collapsed back, the darkness closing in for what felt like an eternity.
And then everything went red.
Red with pain. Red with horror. He tried to scream, but the words choked in his throat. He felt his ankle wrench, twist, felt the sinew snap and the bones crack…and then it was just pain. Searing, burning, mind numbing pain. Ceaseless, never-ending, unerring and inexorable…
Just like the man causing it.
The last thing he heard as the darkness swallowed him up was the bell ringing out sharply, stabbing through the waves of blinding agony washing over him…announcing his failure as he fell into the dark.
The crowd was in shock, unsure what to do, or what to think. They sat in awe and horror…entirely unaware of what they’d witnessed.
This was only a Catalyst, after all.
Little did they know that the worst….
The worst was yet to come.
---
September 11th, 2013
10:36 A.M.
Somewhere in Washington.
He sits, hood drawn up over his head. A thin layer of rainfall spatters around him, the only other sound the gentle intake of breath coming from the man. Measured. Cold. Calculating.
When you understand the nature of a thing…
You understand what it’s capable of.
I’ve been watching, you know. Watching for weeks now. Studying you. Studying every last one of you. Weighing you out. Your strengths, your weaknesses…your insecurities. Trying to separate the chaff from the wheat. The sheep…from the wolves.
And do you know what I’ve found?
There’s no wheat.
Only chaff.
There are no wolves.
Only sheep.
Sheep without a shepherd, bleating mildly, wandering dumbly in every direction. Surely, some of you think otherwise. You believe yourself to be the predators. The hunters, and not the hunted.
Your assumptions are incorrect.
You’re just as weak as all the rest. Just as callow, and just as blithe and blind. Your delusions let you dominate some of the others, to be sure…
But you’re all just prey.
Little lambs…
Waiting to be lead to slaughter.
Some of you are just less eager than the others. A little more wary. A little more cautious.
It’s time to play a game. It’s time to see which among you knows what to do…when you find a wolf in your midst.
We’ll start with the Ranger. Test his resolve. See how far he bends before he breaks. See, it’s not a matter of winning for him. For any of you. Not even a matter of survival. Winning isn’t an option.
Survival isn’t on the table.
All that’s left to you, Ranger…all that’s left to ANY of you…is to make it worth my while.
You’re all going to lose the game, regardless.
All you can do now is…
Make it interesting.
Rapture. September 14th.
It all starts with one.
The Ranger…he’s already been a disappointment. I’ve already found him wanting.
I’m already bored with him.
So I’m going to make him an example. A litmus test.
An opportunity for you to understand what you’re dealing with.
WHO you’re dealing with.
Pay close attention to what I do to him. Pay mind to what happens to lambs who wander blindly to slaughter.
Pay close attention to what happens when a wolf runs among the lambs…
And don’t disappoint me again.
10:23 P.M.
The world-renowned Hammerstein Ballroom is the place. The storied venue is packed to the proverbial rafters, the blood-thirsty masses in attendance for the evening’s entertainment: the International Pro Wrestling League’s premiere event, Death Threat 2008. The evening has been a marked success thus far. Bones have been broken, bodies battered and beaten, titles won and titles lost, careers made and stars brightened. The crowd has been riding the edge of nuclear heat throughout, all in anticipation of this final, shining moment.
The main event.
Everything has been building to this. All the blood, all the sweat, all the tears to this one single, defining moment. The vicious, dominating champion, Victor Cavanagh, versus his valiant and courageous challenger, ‘Hang Time’ Derrick Lang. The bad blood has been boiling for weeks between the cold, brutal title holder and his nemesis, the challenger ever present and biting at the monstrous champion’s boot heels. And tonight, finally, in front of the throngs of fervent IPWL faithful, it all comes to a head. This was the singular, shining moment in which one man’s career would rise…and the other would more than likely irrevocably plummet.
And quite frankly, it scared the Hell out of him.
He couldn’t stop pacing as he waited in the gorilla position. He’d checked his wrist tape and adjusted his boots until he couldn’t anymore, so now, he stalked the lonely strip of concrete just beyond the entryway, mind racing at the mere thought of what lay ahead. Everything was riding on this moment. If he didn’t perform…if he failed…there may be no getting back. All he’d suffered, all the indignities, all the blood spilled and all the bruises, all the ass he’d had to kiss and obstacles he’d had to overcome, all of it, every last bit, would be for naught. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs gathering in his mind.
He could do this.
He HAD to do this.
This is where he was meant to be. Where he belonged. If he couldn’t go out there, take that belt…give those people what they came to see…then he had no reason to exist at all.
He could do this.
He WOULD do this.
“Here To Stay” by Korn blared through the loudspeakers, drawing the appropriate roar from the crowd. That was his cue. He paused a final moment, taking one final, deep breath, crossing himself as was his ritual…And then he plunged through the curtain.
The roar was deafening.
The building was practically shaking at the sheer volume of the cheers coursing throughout the crowd, and in that moment, his every concern and anxiety melted away. He pumped his fists, bellowed to the crowd, slapped every hand he could possibly reach, and pointed to the ones he couldn’t. The second he’d stepped through that curtain, they were his people, and he would not…could not disappoint them. He was their hero, and he would do what heroes were meant to do.
He would topple the villain, and give them the justice they deserved.
He nodded his head, his confidence practically bursting at the seams as he slid into the ring, mounting the ropes to pose for the adoring crowd. He made the rounds of every corner, each time drawing a louder chorus of cheers than the last. When he’d finally satisfied himself on their response, he headed for the corner, leaning back against the turnbuckles…finally and truly in his element. His theme faded out, replaced by the virulent, rumbling bass notes that signaled the arrival of the unerring force that was Victor Cavanagh. The champion stalked through the curtain, jeers and garbage raining down upon him, the Championship belt glinting as it hung haphazardly from his shoulders. He made his way to the ring wordlessly, his eyes flickering here and there over the crowd, but once his eyes caught Lang’s, they never left, the cold fury in his gaze hanging palpably in the air between them. He stalked to ringside, slowly making his way up the steps and stepping over the ropes, immediately shoving his belt into the arms of the referee before heading across the ring, making a beeline for Lang. So, he did what he did best. He did what a hero would do.
He met him at the middle of the ring and matched his fury with his own.
And from there, it all became a blur. For thirty five minutes, they rained Hell on each other, his lightning quickness and speed Cavanagh’s sheer raw brutality and technique at every turn. Every blow that was exchanged was more vicious than the one that followed it, every near fall drove the crowd’s fevered pitch closer and closer to the absolute breaking point. His face was caked in blood, courtesy of the knees Cavanagh had driven savagely into his face again and again, and used to open his forehead in frighteningly brutal fashion. He couldn’t see, he could barely breathe, and his legs felt as though they’d give out at any moment. But he was there, still standing, still fighting.
He wouldn’t give up on this, not until his very last breath.
Cavanagh caught him with another violent backhanded chop, this one slamming into the bridge of his nose, the sheer force driving him to one knee. He couldn’t feel his left arm anymore, the annoying stinging of the blood trickling in his eyes now drowned out by the terrifying feeling of numbness in his limbs. The inexorable Champion saw his chance to finish things and charged…and that is where he found his opening. As Cavanagh bolted toward him, he forced himself to his feet, and in one final move of utter desperation, lanced out with the most ferocious superkick he could possibly throw. The bone-rattling crack of the foot connecting with the Catalyst’s jaw was soon eclipsed by the roar of the crowd. Cavanagh crashed to the mat with a heavy thud and in that moment, he saw his destiny. All he has to do is hook the leg, hold the Champion down for those three glorious seconds…and it’d all be his. Everything he’d worked for, strived for, fought and bled for…right there in his hands.
But in that moment, a sound pierces through, burrowing deep into his ears.
A chant, rolling across the entire building, powering to a crescendo. “450…450…450…” the words ring out, again and again. An entire building of people calling for one thing, and one thing only: his signature 450 splash. He pauses a moment, hesitating. The victory is right there, ready to be taken, right in his grasp. But there were the people, HIS people…crying out, begging for more. Just a little bit more. He could take the win, take the title right now…but at the risk of leaving the ones who had brought him to the dance dissatisfied. In that moment, he knew exactly what he had to do.
The roar when he extended a single blood-stained finger to point to the top turnbuckle was unbelievable.
He staggered over to the turnbuckles, climbing slowly and unsteadily. He only had one arm with which to steady himself, the other still throbbing numbly from the brutal strike mere moments ago. Finally, fitfully, he made it to the top, first crouching, then slowly starting to rise as he turned. He wobbled once, nearly slipping, having to use his good arm to steady himself, but he quickly righted and began his ascent once more. The blood in his eyes was clouding his vision, leaving the Cavanagh a blurred mass on the canvas. He clawed at his eyes as best he could, desperately trying to clear his eyesight so his approach would be dead on. It was for naught, however. The blood was thickened and drying, the clotting gluing his right eye nearly shut. To Hell with it. It was now or never.
He took in one long, deep breath…and leapt.
The first turn was perfect. His body arced through the air, the height impressive even by his standards. But then, something went wrong. His body twisted in the air, his trajectory going more awry by the second, and soon enough, he was falling, falling fast and hard. He tried desperately to right himself, twisting in the air, trying to find some way, any way to save himself from what was coming….but he couldn’t.
Everything went silent the moment he hit. Deathly, deathly quiet. Quiet enough that he could hear the bones in shatter beneath him. The numbness in his arm was a distant memory as he crashed down. His ankle was screaming at him, the pain like a thousand fiery knives stabbing through his flesh. He tried to clutch at it, tried to cry out, tried to do something, anything, but he couldn’t. He was helpless. Completely, utterly helpless. He collapsed back, the darkness closing in for what felt like an eternity.
And then everything went red.
Red with pain. Red with horror. He tried to scream, but the words choked in his throat. He felt his ankle wrench, twist, felt the sinew snap and the bones crack…and then it was just pain. Searing, burning, mind numbing pain. Ceaseless, never-ending, unerring and inexorable…
Just like the man causing it.
The last thing he heard as the darkness swallowed him up was the bell ringing out sharply, stabbing through the waves of blinding agony washing over him…announcing his failure as he fell into the dark.
The crowd was in shock, unsure what to do, or what to think. They sat in awe and horror…entirely unaware of what they’d witnessed.
This was only a Catalyst, after all.
Little did they know that the worst….
The worst was yet to come.
---
September 11th, 2013
10:36 A.M.
Somewhere in Washington.
He sits, hood drawn up over his head. A thin layer of rainfall spatters around him, the only other sound the gentle intake of breath coming from the man. Measured. Cold. Calculating.
When you understand the nature of a thing…
You understand what it’s capable of.
I’ve been watching, you know. Watching for weeks now. Studying you. Studying every last one of you. Weighing you out. Your strengths, your weaknesses…your insecurities. Trying to separate the chaff from the wheat. The sheep…from the wolves.
And do you know what I’ve found?
There’s no wheat.
Only chaff.
There are no wolves.
Only sheep.
Sheep without a shepherd, bleating mildly, wandering dumbly in every direction. Surely, some of you think otherwise. You believe yourself to be the predators. The hunters, and not the hunted.
Your assumptions are incorrect.
You’re just as weak as all the rest. Just as callow, and just as blithe and blind. Your delusions let you dominate some of the others, to be sure…
But you’re all just prey.
Little lambs…
Waiting to be lead to slaughter.
Some of you are just less eager than the others. A little more wary. A little more cautious.
It’s time to play a game. It’s time to see which among you knows what to do…when you find a wolf in your midst.
We’ll start with the Ranger. Test his resolve. See how far he bends before he breaks. See, it’s not a matter of winning for him. For any of you. Not even a matter of survival. Winning isn’t an option.
Survival isn’t on the table.
All that’s left to you, Ranger…all that’s left to ANY of you…is to make it worth my while.
You’re all going to lose the game, regardless.
All you can do now is…
Make it interesting.
Rapture. September 14th.
It all starts with one.
The Ranger…he’s already been a disappointment. I’ve already found him wanting.
I’m already bored with him.
So I’m going to make him an example. A litmus test.
An opportunity for you to understand what you’re dealing with.
WHO you’re dealing with.
Pay close attention to what I do to him. Pay mind to what happens to lambs who wander blindly to slaughter.
Pay close attention to what happens when a wolf runs among the lambs…
And don’t disappoint me again.