Post by: Thatcher Rex on March 15, 2013, 05:08:12 PM
James Huntington-Hawkes III… one of the wealthiest individuals in the world, the Roulette Champion, the Brat Prince… on his knees, begging for his life. Tears streaming down his face, absolute terror broadcast in every expression. He knew his time had come, his executioner about to bring down the proverbial axe and end not only his reign as champion, but his entire career. For that was what awaited him behind the swing of Thatcher Rex, the sheer power of the Tyrant King hurtling down at the Brat Prince in the form of a steel chair. Huntington-Hawkes III, displaying quick thinking, rolled out of the way at the last second, the chair impacting heavily with the top turnbuckle. The chair bent in two, the steel warping with the sheer force of Rex’s swing. Rex turns to pursue his fleeing victim, but he is met with the referee. Thatcher paused, suspicion lacing his expression as he can tell what the official is about to do. He shakes his head in warning, wordlessly telling him not to make that call.
But he makes it.
The referee throws his arm, signaling for the bell and Thatcher’s disqualification. Rage surged through the Tyrant King; righteous indignation, as there had been no impact with his opponent. No connection had been made. However, an official’s authority superseded his… but not for long. The match had been called, and Rex wanted blood. He pursued the Roulette Champion. Huntington-Hawkes III had spent the entirety of the match running from Thatcher, but no more! All of his fleeing, his cowardly tactics, were going to end tonight. Of course, Simpson, James’ personal butler, leapt to the apron. He was a big one, but Thatcher was no mere boy. He slammed the chair into the dome of the butler, dropping him in one shot. Thatcher took no joy out of that one; Simpson seemed to be a good man trapped in the service of a spoiled child, and Thatcher took no pleasure in dismantling a good man. Even so, he’d been an obstacle. Now, his path was clear to Mr. James Huntington-Hawkes III. There would be retribution. There would be blood. Before the night was done, Thatcher Rex would have made the Brat Prince realize his own mortality.
And then everything went dark.
Words could not convey the surprise Thatcher had felt when he was lifted from the ground. They could hardly express the righteous anger that burned in his veins when he’d discovered the culprit had been Duke Ata Tipoi, the ACW Champion from NWA.
After Blaze of Glory II, Rex had had words with SCW brass. He’d practically knocked down their door, running on adrenaline and outrage. Thatcher had thrown down an ultimatum, and the brass, while they didn’t appreciate his approach, agreed. They offered a rematch with James, and had agreed to contact Tupoi. Thatcher wanted a piece of that bastard. He wanted to make him pay for his interference. But for now, he’d have to settle with putting down James once and for all. He’d have to settle for taking the boy’s belt away, to give it meaning once more.
“Speed is your weakness.”
The voice of Emma MacNamara sounded out in the gym. Her Scottish accent, while it was difficult to understand when he’d first met her, was now clear as glass. They’d known one another for years; they’d teamed together a few times, even fought one another for the CWC’s North American Title. He could always count on her; she was one of his closest friends, even though the two hadn’t wrestled in the same promotion for some time. He’d invited her to Blaze of Glory II, and she graciously accepted. The embarrassment had burned deep within him when he didn’t secure the title… but Emma had offered to aid him. She’d watched the match, and she had also been angry about the outcome… but she had a calculating eye, as well as a mind for strategy. Whereas Rex’s rage was seething, hers was cold.
Which was how he found himself in this particular gymnasium, standing in the ring opposite his friend. She’d approached him after the match, telling him that he could get angry, or he could get better.
“Strength is yer weapon of choice, Thatcher, but this James kid is ‘bout as strong as a wet noodle. Ye’ve got it in spades, but that wasn’t yer problem. Yer problem was getting’ yer hands on the little bastard; he’s faster’n ye.”
“Yeah. Kinda noticed that.”
“Don’t be givin’ me lip. Ye need to direct the boy; he’s quick, and he’s going to move faster’n ye. Ye can’t fully train to be faster’n someone half yer size with only two weeks’ notice, but you can train to control the match.”
“How do you mean?”
“Yer a reactionary creature, Thatch. It’s one of yer best strategies. Ye see them move, an’ ye base yer response on it. That can’t work with someone like James; he’s a reactionary creature as well. Whereas ye use it to fight, he uses it to run. He watches what ye do, and he reacts accordingly. Yer going to have to evolve beyond that. Yer going to have to trap him. Force him to move right into yer hands. Now watch what I do. Come at –“
“If you say ‘come at me bro,’ you’re getting a chair to the face.”
Emma waved him off.
“Like I’d stoop to that level, ye dope. Now come at me.”
Thatcher approached Emma, lunging for a lock. Emma ducked his reach, lithely moving around him.
“Ye see what I did?”
Thatcher gritted his teeth; this was Wrestling 101, and he hated being talked to like he was a trainee. But he had to swallow that irritation; Emma wasn’t there to berate him. It was part of how she taught, mainly because it really made the message stick. He nodded.
“Ye don’t know how to prevent something like that, Thatcher, because ye’ve never really had to. Ye’ve faced cowardly opponents before, but none that have out-and-out fled from ye. They’ve all tried to fight ye, but James isn’t going to do that. He knows he’s physically outmatched, despite his bravado, so he’s going to run.”
“So I wear him down.”
Emma shook her head.
“No. The guy is eighteen years old, fer fuck’s sake. Yer what, thirty? He’s a kid, but kid’s always have more energy. Ye’ll wear down faster’n he will. He jokes about ye being an old man, but there is some truth in there. He’s younger, faster. But you, yer stronger, more experienced. And nastier. Once ye’ve got him where he can’t escape, he’s done for, but ye’ve got to get to that point!”
Thatcher had lined up with Emma once again, the two standing in opposite corners. Emma signaled for the go-ahead, and Thatcher approached her, slower this time, eyes on her feet.
“No no, Thatch. The feet tell ye what’s already happened.”
She reached up, patting her shoulders.
“These, the shoulders, they broadcast every move regardless of what their owners want you to think. They can fake ye out with their feet, but not their shoulders. Ye keep yer eye on them, and act accordingly.”
“Isn’t that reacting instead of acting?”
“In a sense, yes. But yer reacting to predicted movements, not ones that have already happened. Technically speaking, it’s more of a preventative measure. Watch, and keep an eye on which direction my shoulder dips.”
She leaned to the left, as if she were about to dodge in that direction. Her right shoulder dipped, and a split second later, she lunged to the right.
“See that? Body language, Rex. It tells us far more than we realize. Now, try to stop me.”
They went through the exercise again, but this time was different. Rex’s steely gaze never left Emma’s shoulders, and he was able to hook his arm around her torso and hurl her into the corner. Emma bounced off of it, hooking her arms around the ropes to keep from falling.
“And what would ye do after that? Hit me with a splash?”
“No. I tried that with James already, and he dodged. Did more damage to myself.”
“Exactly. Ye want to stun the hell out of him before hitting him with one of those. Keep him in the corner, block his escape exits. Yer a wall, Thatcher, especially to him. Use yer size to block his options. Leave him with no other choice than to actually fight ye. And fer the love o’ God, stop picking up chairs! How many times have those gotten ye into trouble, eh?”
Rex shrugged it off, but Emma didn’t let up. She’d never been one to let go of an issue until it was resolved.
“Don’t ye be treatin’ that lightly! Yer ass has gotten into far more trouble than not when you pick those things up, and yer going to have to stop. This James, he’s goin’ to throw everything he can at ye, and he’s going to try and get you disqualified again.”
“Because he isn’t a man. He’s a child, a weak little piece of garbage.”
“Right. He knows he can’t stop ye, Thatch, so he’s going to do everything he can to avoid going head to head. He did it last time, and ye walked right into it.”
“The ref-“
“Made a bad call, I know. I know, Thatch, I really do. It happens. But in this instance, who gives a shit? He threw in a chair, and ye used it the way he wanted you to. Ye played his game.”
Emma planted a hand firmly on Thatcher’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. A feral grin lit her features.
“Now it’s time to make him play yers.”
* * *
So here we go. Round Two. Our last match was practically saturated with controversy, James. It’s the whole reason this one was scheduled. Now, you might call it crying on Twitter, your new boss may call it complaining… but in the end, I got what I wanted. Do you know why I got what I wanted, James? It’s not because Mark Ward can be bullied by his own employees. It’s not because the board is scared that it’ll lose the Tyrant King. It’s because Ward can see through your bullshit. He’s on the same level of everyone else that watches: he can see what kind of a man you are. He can see that you’re just a sad excuse of a champion, a placeholder, as it were. He knows as well as I that your entire reign has been a farce. You’ve never truly defeated a single person, and Mark Ward has had enough of that. I’ve been given another shot because I can put you down. I had you running and screaming and crying like the little girl that you are. You know it, I know it, and Ward knows it. The fans know it. The entire goddamn locker room knows it. Even your new boss, Erik Staggs, is aware of this.
I know that you’re pretty proud of your Plan B. Hell, you probably gave yourself a pat on the back all the way back to your hotel room. You congratulated yourself on your ingenuity, your strategy. In point of fact, I waded through your Plan B. I dropped Simpson like a sack of rocks, and then I came after you. You had to call in Plan C, in the form of Duke Ata Tupoi, to save your sorry ass. And make no mistake, Tupoi will get his. Once I put you down for good, once I walk away with the Roulette Title secured about my waist, I’ll be looking to settle that particular score.
Because it ain’t done, Tupoi. Do you feel good about the paycheck you received from that night? Was it worth being the personal henchman of James Huntington-Hawkes III? Does pride swell in your chest over those actions? I truly hope so, because I’m going to rip that pride out of you with my bare hands, and then shove it down your throat. I’m already going to remove James’ title from his possession… and I can’t think of a better punishment than to add yours to my collection. We haven’t heard a damn word from you since Blaze of Glory 2. The SCW offices contacted you, tried to set up an inter-promotional match against the Tyrant King, but we haven’t received a response. Where’s your courage, Tupoi? Where’s that hunger for the fight? Maybe we have you all wrong, Duke. Maybe you’re just secure in attacking people from behind. Perhaps you really are nothing more than a hired goon. But even goons must answer for their transgressions. Even henchmen must face a reckoning when it comes kicking their door down. Your time is coming, Tupoi.
Much like that of Mr. Huntington-Hawkes III.
See, I’m a fair man. If someone bests me, even if I don’t like them, I’ll give them credit. Credit where credit’s due, after all. You need only look to the various individuals I have faced throughout the years. I’ve been beaten before, clean and without interference. It happens in this business. Kris Keebler defeated me in the unification of Evolution Wrestling and PWO, and he was one hell of an opponent. Michael Thunder defeated me for the New Age Title back in EW; the fact that I took it back later notwithstanding. This business is rife with athletes of the utmost skill. I’ve beaten some, some of have beaten me, and I will always give an adversary their due.
That is, if they earn it.
And boy, you’ve earned nothing but scorn.
You have displayed no skill. You have given no indicator of talent. What you have given is every reason to be disrespected, to be laughed at. You may have joined Staggs’ group of rejects, you may have found a kindred spirit in Giani, but in the end, all you are is a piece of garbage that needs to be taken out, kicked to the curb, and forgotten. Oh, I can hear you now, mocking each and every word I say. I already know that you’ll roll your eyes and further blind yourself to the truth. Willful ignorance is a sad thing, James, so consider my next words, mull them over, let the swim around inside that tiny little mind of yours: it took three of you to stop me. Thatcher Rex waded through you and your bodyguard. You had to pull in help from another company to protect your sorry ass, and that was when I just wanted the title. Imagine what it’s going to take to put me down now that I’m angry. Ponder the number of men that you will have to hire to keep an enraged Tyrant King, out for blood, from reaching you. Because I guarantee, there isn’t enough money in the world, no henchman big enough, to stop me from teaching you the lesson you so richly deserve. Bring in each and every member from Team Erik, James. Beg your new allies for aid, call them to your side. Look for your strength in numbers….
For that is the only strength you have.
You’ve got nothing on your own, James. You don’t have the talent, the skill, or the sheer attitude to be a winner. But for a moment, let’s assume I am wrong about that. Let’s pretend that you do have what it takes to be an actual wrestler instead of some figurehead.
Prove it.
I’m daring you, James. I’m daring you to stand toe to toe with me, to fight me like a man. Not a child hiding behind his chaperones. Not a coward hiding behind his newfound protectors. A man. I dare you to wrestle. Step up, or shut up. Simple as that. You keep proclaiming to anyone who will listen that you beat Thatcher Rex, well, I’m challenging you here and now: actually do it. Do the one thing that no other member of the roster has been able to do, and pin the shoulders of the Tyrant King to the mat.
I’m not saying have Simpson crack me with a chair, and then pin me. I’m not saying have Duke Ata Tupoi do your dirty work and then claim the pin. I want you to give it your best shot. I want to see you live up to the hype you’ve been surrounding yourself with. You’re so good, you’re so talented? Then let’s see just how good you are. Let’s see what kind of talent you have stored within you. Out-wrestle me, James.
I dare you.
I goddamn dare you.
But you won’t do it, will you? You won’t even give it your best shot. You’ll run, hide, and wait for someone to come to your rescue, because you’re not champion material. When all is said and done, you’re just a cowardly rat. Regardless, I promise you one thing, James. You will taste defeat. You’ll know what it feels like to be deconstructed, to be torn down from the pillar you have placed yourself on. But you’re not going to be pinned, oh no. That’s far too good for a boy like you. You’re going to feel what it’s like to be trapped within the K-T Boundary. You’re going to feel every muscle in your body scream in agony, your very bones bent to their limit. You’re going to tap out, James. As your chaperone looks on, helpless, you’re going to give up. Your hired goons will not be able to help you. You’re going to scream in the center of that ring, you’re going to cry, and you’re going to lose the Roulette Title by slapping that feminine hand against canvas as fast as you can.
Step aside, Brat Prince… for the king has come home.
A vengeful king.
A Tyrant King.
And he has come to claim what is rightfully his.
Edit: wrong graphic