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Messages - Alexander Raven

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1
Climax Control Archives / The Trapped Loser
« on: March 05, 2024, 06:51:46 AM »
tw; suicidal thoughts, depression, self-harm

Trapped In Freedom
Scene One | Off-camera

Maybe life would have been easier if I’d loaded that gun.

The girls had gone out for the night. It seemed like for the most part, Luna wasn’t as full of disdain as he was expecting. Maybe she was just holding onto it until Adrienne had left. If she was, then their moments of time alone spent with each other… on each other were a strange way of showing it. Maybe he thought too much.

The issue with thinking too much however, was that when he was truly alone. The thoughts were deafening. Fears about what Sullivan could do, what he could reveal to the police. Would he tell them about Alex holding him at gunpoint? It wouldn’t matter if the gun was loaded or not, Sullivan could play ignorance on it. Pulling a gun on someone was bad enough. Nobody was going to care, or believe, that he didn’t load it.

The rational part of his mind had been silenced for the moment. In almost every part of his life, things were falling apart. He was at this point, a habitual loser. A loser in life, a loser in his career. A fucking loser who did nothing but find fault in the world around him and create excuses. Excuses for why he couldn’t kill Sullivan. Excuses for why he wasn’t going to do it. Excuses for why he couldn’t win a fucking match. Excuses on excuses. Everything he had was just full of them.

He could blame the death of James, but his life was falling apart long before that. He could blame being screwed by referees, by his wife, and by the re-emergence of old friends. He could blame all that, but still, his life was falling apart long before that. From day one, he was a fucking loser. Nobody cared who someone once was, they only cared for what he was now. And what he was now? The same thing he had been when he debuted all those years ago. A loser trapped in the shadow of his betters.

First it was James, then  it was Alexander Remington. Add Griffin Hawkins, Corey Bull and the eventual AmI Syco. Then it was Remington again. Years later, in a world of new faces, it was just more shadows to stand in. More shadows and more people he wasn’t ever going to be better than. Finn Whelan, Goth, J2H, hell throw Jack Washington and HB Carter into that as well. The thoughts were so loud. The thoughts just never stopped. Never got quieter, never gave him a moment. The more he thought the more he was reminded why he hated himself.

The only light had been Luna. A woman he was now bringing down his perpetual path of losing. His perpetual journey into being nothing but a talking piece. The butt of all jokes. The man they all claimed he was. A flash in the fucking pan that talked the world up, but couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make it over the mark. Begging for someone to recognise him. Begging for people to acknowledge him. To understand that he wasn’t just some boy struggling to make it. That he was a human being who just wanted to be someone.

To matter.

To live.

Midnight rolled around. If experience taught him anything, it meant that he'd be alone for at least the next four or five hours. Alex sat on the balcony once more. Always on that quaint little balcony that overlooked a city that beckoned him to continue down this path. This path of self-loathing. This path of disdain and hatred. This path continued to put him in the shadows and refused to allow him to escape into the sunlight. To be the man who could, but never did.

But he sat there anyway. Sat there, cigarette hanging from his lip. His throat is sore from having spent the last few hours chain smoking them. Six, maybe seven empty cans sat next to him. Four or five more inside, he wasn’t sure at this point. A bottle of Jack Rye Whiskey in hand, because he wanted to taste something different, just for a minute. That minute turned into ten, turning into thirty, turning into sixty. That hour turned into two. Seven, five and an empty bottle of rye. The city was beautiful when the lights were smeared behind those drunk goggles.

Nights like these, he wished he could just call James. Call him and talk. He’d always listen. James gave all he had, and that was that. He was a man who didn’t take, but was always giving. Nowadays he probably should call Luna. Call his wife, and let her know that he wasn’t okay. But that was the point wasn’t it? He’s never okay anymore. Her brother died, and she was having to fucking baby him. Because he couldn’t pull himself out of this rut of self-loathing.

Blaming the world, the invisible and the real. Blaming everyone except the man who deserved all the blame in the world. Except for blaming the man who was so fucking delusional he was too slow to get his best friend the help he needed. The man who was so stuck in the prank calls that he didn’t hear his staggering friend come back into the bar that night. Sullivan may have pulled that trigger, but it was Alex who killed James. He was to blame for everything.

The blurred vision only got worse, the tears welling in his eyes. But he did not dare cry them. Not anymore. He didn’t deserve to cry anymore. No, he deserved the pain he was suffering. He deserved the karma he was receiving for the actions that led him here. For jumping the queue. For nearly retiring the man who only wanted to give him a pathway to greatness. A pathway to the World Championship under his tutelage. He’d wanted to be the leader of his betters and forced them into a stable where he stood as the false leader. Playing the field to try and ensure he was protected as the king. Forgetting that the betters under him would simply behead the king for their own glory.

No, he could not cry the tears for every choice he made led to the karmic retribution that punished him. The karma that ensured he sat there on the balcony that night, filled with beer, gin and rye. Putting out another cigarette, but not in the ashtray this time. No, pressing it into the middle of his palm. Burning and singing the flesh, a hiss of pain. Failures deserved what they got. He was no king, he was no kingslayer. He was just a loud-mouthed, angry little boy. A little boy who was no longer getting his way.

In a fair world, he would’ve been the one laying on the floor that night. Not James. In a fair world, Luna would’ve been holding that gun to his head, not Alex holding it to Sullivan’s. In a fair world, she would’ve married a man who loved her the way she deserved to be loved. In a fair world she would be showered with the praise, friends and life that she deserved. Not being dragged down his pitiful path of vitriol and hatred. Free of the threat of him ruining her. In a fair world, James never would’ve died.

But this world wasn’t fair.

He got to his feet, and stepped toward the balcony railing. Standing right next to it. Leaning down, and resting his arms on the railing. Resting his elbows on the soothingly cold metal. His skin felt blisteringly hot, alcohol blanket more than anything else. He rubbed his wet cheeks on his shoulders, and stared out into the night sky, and then he looked down. Down at the ground below. He wasn’t that high off the ground. Fallen off ladders and scaffolding higher than his balcony. But the idea of teetering on the edge didn’t bring the usual dread that heights did. There was a soothing thought in the back of his mind. Permanent injury, injury to free him from obligation. From the hole he found himself.

Freedom in being able to choose.

His phone buzzed. How long had he been standing there? He wasn’t sure. Pulling it out from his pocket, it was somewhere in the vicinity of thirty minutes. Time was slipping away from him again. That wasn’t a good sign. Blanks in his memory were bad, bad things happened during the blanks. Maybe the alcohol and thoughts could be blamed for once. But he wasn’t so certain anymore. He wasn’t so sure that there was freedom in those thoughts anymore.

Luna’s name, his phone continuing to buzz. She was calling him. He answered by placing the phone to his ear. He could hear the chatter of the bar behind her, the thud of music. He couldn’t place the song, but it sounded far more Adrienne’s vibe than Luna’s.

“Hey, Lexi baby. Adrienne’s going to go home with a… friend.” Luna managed to get the words out, slurring somewhat. She sounded almost as drunk as his eyes told him he was. He could hear them giggling. Happiness.

“So, I’ll be home soonish. Maybe an hour? Just you and me for the rest of the night. Okay, lover?” Luna said a little louder than probably was necessary. But that was okay. Maybe the peace he needed tonight was a little bit of a taste of the comforts. Of her comfort.

“I love you, Lu. I’ll leave the door unlocked. I’ll still be up.” He said slowly, trying to keep the hollowness out of his own voice. The taint of alcohol heavy on his voice. Luna laughed a little, obviously picking up on it.

“Sounds like you had a party on your own. You okay, baby-boy?” Luna asked.

“I’m okay, Lu. I’m okay hearing your voice.” Alex said.

“Well, let me say goodbye to the wee Marigold, and I’ll talk to you all the way home. Okay?” Luna said softly. Warmly.

“I’d like that.” Alex said, sniffling a little. Who knew the once ice-hearted, cold shouldering and closed off Alexander Raven would be a blubbering drunk mess when someone finally warmed their way to his heart.

“I love you.” Luna said, as she hung up. Going to say her goodbyes to Adrienne. He lowered his phone from his ear, and smiled a bit. Deciding it would be a good idea to tidy up just a couple of the cans. A message came through. A photo of Luna and Adrienne. Smiling, heads resting on each other, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. Even if he wasn’t okay right now. Luna deserved to be.

Even in a world where he was a loser. An undeserving accident of a human being. Even in a world where he did nothing but loathe himself and wish he could give ever more to those he loved. Maybe it could be okay, if he could at least do right by her. A fantastical vision. But the only one that was going to get him through the immediate future.

The phone rang. He answered.

“Okay, so. Let me tell you everything.” Luna started straight away. He smiled as he leaned up against the kitchen island. At that moment, the pain slipped away.

“You have my full attention.”

Habitual Loser
Scene Two | On-Camera

Alexander Raven is sitting on a steel chair. The middle of a ring, in an empty arena. The lights are mostly off, bar a few emergency fittings and worklights for ring set-up. Metal spike in hand still, he is leaning forward in the chair, facing the mat.

“November Twelfth, Twenty-Twenty Three. That was the last time Alexander Raven beat anymore. Not just here in Sin City. But anywhere. In every foray, in every excursion. Failure. November Twelfth, Twenty-Twenty Three. You know who the last person I beat before the flash in the pan, Dubois? Gabriel fucking Wank. Before that? Bill Barnhart. I went from a career higher, dispatching the likes of Fenris, Ken Davison, Austin James Mercer, O’Malley and even the man who is holding tight onto a championship that I rightfully never should have lost, Miles Kasey.”

“A man who beat me for the Roulette Championship, and squandered it. A man, who like me, is a middling nobody at the best of times. But he stands here as the Internet Champion. Having beaten Calvin Harris, a man I couldn’t. Having gone to war with Austin James Mercer and surviving. Standing here now as the Internet Champion, and me? I can’t even get a fucking win.”

“It’s poetic in a way. I spent so long being the arrogant little bastard, and then my world started to crumble when Alexandra Callaway came into my life. The Blast from the Past tournament, we should’ve been a shoe-in. We should have been the ones to go all the way. To be the man and woman standing tall at the end, and then I could have gone on and at least given it a sniff at being the World Champion when the dishonoured Michael Harris reigned supreme. Instead, I became another historical statistic. The first person to ever lose their championship in the Blast from the Past tournament. To another fucking thorn in my side, Jack Washington. The man I’m coming very close to understanding the mental state of. Knowing that I am better than I am being presented, but never being able to capitalise on it.”


He taps the metal spike against the back of his neck, breathing heavily as he slowly sits upright in the chair, staring up into the rafters. His face is strangely serene for the intensity of his words.

“November Twelfth, Twenty-Twenty Three should have meant something. Coming within a hair of beating J2H, twice, should have meant something. I shouldn’t be stumbling against the likes of Gerrit. I shouldn’t be stumbling against the fucking likes of Jack Washington and Ben Jordan. And I definitely should not be stumbling against the likes of Miles Kasey. But if I’m learning fucking anything right now? It doesn’t matter how much I try, it doesn’t matter how much pain I inflict. It doesn’t matter how much I work to try and reveal the horseshit that is going on behind the scenes here, I’m going to be screwed.”

“Over and over again, I’m going to be screwed. The false end to the match at My Bloody Valentine. The slower pin counts every time I tried to pin Gerrit. Not to mention the sudden inability to put the turnbuckle cover back on when it would definitely punish me. I’m beginning to wonder, how long ago did they decide they wanted to ruin my life? Was it before Gabriel Wank? Was it when I embarrassed their confidence when I stumbled against the consistent thorn in my side, Jack Washington? Or was it the day I walked in here, and told the world. I would rattle the foundations and expose the lies for what they are.”

“Some would say there has been an over-abundance of clamour for Alexander Raven. It was a constant back and forth of that bullshit, wasn’t it Miles? That I wasn’t anything more than talk, and then I was the man offered too many opportunities. I was a pompous, pretentious prick. I believe the phrase that you used, gifted to you by the seemingly non-existent Lukas sister, went something like this. I’m the personification of a prickle prick, who likes to pontificate my prolific principles or pomposity.”

“Alliteration was a fun little thing, but that was the last time you ever got under my skin Miles. That was the last time you ever got a chance to bring me down. You won that Roulette Championship, and then? Nothing. It is without question that my reign as Internet Champion was without a doubt the hardest run of opponents in years. That in the list of people I took down, you were but a footnote in that list. And the differences between our first encounter, that second one and that fateful third. I was on a whole different fucking level to you, Miles. I was on a whole different stage to you. And now, now that you’re keeping warm, that championship. Keeping warm my Internet Championship. You’re in the crosshairs once more.”


He smiles a little as he stands up, pressing the tip of the metal spike up against his temples. Pressing it a little too tightly against the skin. A small stream of blood began to trickle down the side of his head. Despite this, Raven seems unphased.

“But what can I say? I’m on a bit of a downward trajectory, and you. You are only on the up and up. A dominant Internet Champion who claws towards a day that his reign actually means anything. The day when he steps into the ring with Peter Vaughn and is inevitably stripped of that championship. Stripped of the confidence, and stripped of any level of acknowledgment. Stripped of your dignity, stripped of your confidence and stripped of everything you hold dear. And why do I think that, Miles? Because it fucking happened to me.”

“Everything began to fall the fuck apart for me, when I lost that championship. And the sheer fucking irony of it all? Your partner, Alexander Callaway. She was part of my fucking demise. She was part of that which sent me down a pathway of failure, collapse and decay. She was punished for her transgressions, when Luna made her the canonical fifth victim. When Luna busted open Alexandra’s pretty little face and left her blubbering in a pool of her own filth. Concussion was the excuse she used. Concussion was the reason that she couldn’t beat my dear, sweet Luna.”

“I watch and I wait, Miles. I watch and I wait because the collapse of society begins with those who are beneficiaries of the bullshit that keeps those of us who truly want to see peace. To see freedom, and to raise up those who would be oppressed by the dictatorship of the superiors that exist here. The invisible fucking hands become physical and manifest in their direct abuse of our lives. You, Miles. You are a beneficiary of the horseshit that aims to keep me pushed down. That keeps The Conspiracy kept down. You’ll have to forgive me, if I do not mourn for you.”

“Because we’ve upset them now. And in their upset, they will aim to drag us back down. They will aim to ensure that I am punished until the final day, and they can no longer hold me here with threats. So, I don’t expect things to go down fairly in our little match here Miles. I don’t expect things to go my way. I expect their little rat, Jasmine St. John to be the bitch in control of our match. I expect that mousey little cunt will be the one who screws me again. And when I inevitably fucking snap, and choke her out, they’ll find some more ammo to try and punish me further.”


He pulls the spike away and drops it heavily to the canvas. Stepping backward a few times until the back of his knees touch the steel chair. Sitting himself down once more, his eyes fixated on something far off into the distance, out of frame.

“Problem here, for you, for Jasmine. For Christian and Mark. For anyone who is now trying to punish us. A problem that extends into the likes of Ben Jordan as well. There’s nothing that they can do, to hurt us anymore. They fire us? We win. They suspend us? We win. They fine us? Oh no, money, the evil of the world and one thing that is going to break us. They extend our contracts? They know the legalities of that won’t play out for them. The problem, Miles. The problem is if I put the boots to your face. And I do it, over and over. And I get disqualified, and they scream at me to get off you. But I continue to put the boots to you, over and over. What are they going to do to stop us?”

“I guess they could have me arrested, except. Even then, I win. I get the freedom that I want. Not in the way I want, but a freedom nevertheless. Any mental examination would find that I was driven to a point of insanity. No matter how clear of mind I may protest otherwise, everyone seems to think I’ve spat the fucking dummy, Miles. And maybe I have. Maybe I have spat the fucking dummy, and I’m just waltzing on the line between reality and total and utter delusion. But if I’m insane, and I’m crazy. Then why do they not just let me be? I’ll tell you Miles.”

“They won’t ever let us be free, because they fucking need us. They need beneficiaries like you and Alexandra. And they need whipping dogs like Luna and I. People to be punished for simply demanding that they let us be us. That they stop sticking their hands in the affairs of others. That they let fate be determined by fate itself. So if I have to force the hands of fate, when I wipe your blood from the heels of my boot, then so be it. I’ll wipe my boots and smile as I paint my face with your life essence.”


He raises a hand to the side of his head that is leaking blood. Smearing the blood across his face. Smearing it over his eyes and down towards his neck on the opposite side. Rubbing his hands together, he stares at them. Stares at his bloodied hands.

“But don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, sweet Alexandra. Oh no, I’ve got plenty for you. See, I kept very quiet about the unfortunate outcome of our match. I kept very quiet about my upset, about my frustrations. I kept quiet because I blamed myself. It had to be my fault, for I was pinned. Bobbie Dahl, a woman who seems to be your unending fucking thorn. She was meant to be an easy step-over for you. Instead, I lost. And so I kept quiet, as Luna decided to go to bat for me. In which you deemed it appropriate to include me. Why would you do something so stupid?”

“I left well enough alone, and fought my own battles. I left well enough alone, because I didn’t want to be involved. But there seems to be an idea. This idea that people who love and live with each other. That they are intrinsically linked. That the actions of one must dictate the thoughts of another. And you put my name in your mouth. Like a good little birdie, I never forget. They may call it elephantine memory, but reality is far less straightforward. Crows, Ravens, and all arrays of Corvids. Memories and stories to be given eternally. Never forget the eye of the Raven that stares into the soul of the broken and damned. I remember, Alexandra.”

“I remember your failings. Just like mine. I remember you being so confident in your veteran status. I remember you being so sure that you would walk over Luna. I remember you being so sure that we would be successful in the Blast from the Past, and you decided to walk back your words. You decided to blame me. Funny how things change so quickly, when you need the convenience of it. Funny, and sad.”

“Unfortunately for yourself, Alexandra. This match historically now goes in our favour. Luna holds a victory over you. I hold a straight victory over Miles. Technicalities and all that, I can hear the blustering now. But the truth? Miles is dead to rights. It doesn’t matter if it's me, or Peter. He’s going to experience the same embarrassment that I did, as a result of our mutual failings, Alexandra. Miles will suffer for your petulance. Miles will suffer, because I fucking said so.”


His hands smeared with his own blood, he leans forward and falls out of the chair. Landing on his hands and knees. Leaving light bloody handprints on the canvas. Slowly crawling on hands and knees towards the metal spike again.

“Things have to change eventually. Things will change eventually. Bad luck can only be bad for so long. And I feel… confident that you, Miles. That you, Alexandra. You’ll be the turning point. That when I dust my hands of you both, and look to the horizon. To the next steps, I’ll be thankful for this match. Thankful that we, The Conspiracy, changed our trajectories. Changed our fate and our destinies. With the blood and suffering of Miles Kasey and Alexandra Callaway. The failed queen, and the arrogant cocky bastard, Miles Kasey. And once I’m done with one English prick, I’ll take aim at the one Cockney King who needs to be brought back down to reality.”

“Oh, Ben. I know you’re listening. And I know you’ll be hurting after Aiden Reynolds works you over, stretches you out, and beats you down. But I know you’ll be watching now. And I know you’re listening right now. So listen closely Ben. You’re their golden child, you’re the man given what should be mine. And I promise you. I’m going to take great joy in tearing it all down. Tearing it all away from you. Ruining your life, Ben. That’s my job right now. Ruining your life, for having the audacity to think you could ever step into my world and just leave when you fucking feel like it.”


Coming to a stop over the spike, he slowly picks it up. Rolling it in his right hand, before raising it high above his head and slamming it straight down. Slamming it straight into the canvas, right through the lightest smear of a bloody handprint. A smile spreading across his lips.

“Miles, Alexandra, Ben. Are you listening now?”

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

2
Maybe not the face people were expecting, but a battered, starting to bruise and covered in wraps and bandages, Alexander Raven walks through the door.

Slight chatter, slight murmuring from the attending journalists.

Raven: No, no. Nobody help me. I'll be fine.

Raven sighs heavily as he finds himself a seat next to Mark Ward on at the table. Taking one of the bottles in front of him, as he motions to the reporters to sort themselves out.

Reporter 1: Mr Raven, great showing out there tonight. How are you feeling after that brutal match?

Raven: Hope you're not getting paid for these hard hitting questions. How am I feeling? How do you think I'm feeling? If you listened to the man holding me hostage, Mark Ward, you'd be led to believe that people are happy. That everything is just hunky dory and we're all singing kumbaya. But, let me answer your question. How am I feeling? Cheated. Cheated again. In any other circumstance they would have raised and dropped my hand, three times, to call the finish. Any other time. Today? Today, Jasmine, decides to invoke referee's discretion to make that call. Now I'm not one for conspiracies, clearly. But I think it's funny that they she can make a call like that, in a match of that magnitude, especially when Ben Jordan is pretty much out on his feet. That goes five more seconds, and I bet he can't keep hold of that chain.

Raven snorts in disgust at the reporter who quietly retakes their seat. Jotting away some notes on their pad still. He points at another reporter, a portly man sweating somewhat profusely around his neck.

Reporter 2: Speaking of Ben Jordan, what are you intentions moving forward from the Supercard? You said some pretty intense things in the lead-up, and taking a metal spike to someone seems very personal.

Raven smiles a little, taking a long slow drink of water.

Raven: I actually like that question, you can sweat a little bit less piggy.

The man dips his head a little. Some mutters of annoyance at the bullying and attitude coming out of Alexander Raven.

Raven: Suck it up. Now, Ben Jordan? I'm not done with that prick. For me, until October 26th, the day my contract finally runs out. Three years to the day of my signing, in fact. I'm going to make life hell for anyone that I see needing a kick up the ass. If it takes a few metal spikes to the head, a few pipes to the ribs and a few fingers to the eyes, then so be it. I'm not done with Ben Jordan, not yet. Not even close. I'm going to make Ben Jordan's life a, and excuse my French here, fucking hell. And if you need someone to blame for what I'm going to do over the next eight or so months, you need only look at the man sitting here, and the other cretin who prances about acting like the world is owed to him.

Reporter 3: We saw the crowning of two new male champions here in SCW tonight, in Eddie Lyons and Finn Whelan. Do you have your eyes on either men as a future opponent?

Raven laughs a little, leaning forward to rest both elbows on the table.

Raven: I'd have to be a fucking moron to step between the ropes with Finn as he is right now. That's the truth of it. I've beat the man before, twice. The Finn Whelan I beat? A shadow compared to our current World Champion. These final few months? If I have to take out Eddie Lyons and remind him of his place, beneath his betters? Then I will. If I have to look across the ring at Miles Kasey again, and remind him that he is keeping warm the championship that I made relevant again, then I fucking will. But Finn? The only way you'd get me in the ring with Finn for that World Championship? Is if, and it is a might big fucking if in this place. No, The Conspiracy, that is Luna and I. We've got our eyes on those pretty and shiny Mixed Tag Team championships, and that is where I'll take my shot at Finn Whelan. It's one thing to be on that apex as a single's wrestler. It's another to dethrone both of them. No, ideally. I'll finish up my grievances with Ben Jordan and Samantha Marlowe. Then, The Conspiracy will take aim at Finn and Kayla. And considering Juliana's demands? We might just take the entire company by the throat.

Big claims from Alexander Raven. Nodding a little he holds his hand up and points at one more person.

Raven: Last question, I can feel people's eyes burning a hole in my back.

Reporter 4: Thank you for your time Mr Raven. We're seeing a major attitude change from you, coming from off back to back losses to J2H last year, and in general a pretty harsh losing streak. You've come up short again here tonight. Do you think that maybe your eyes are just a bit bigger than your stomach, in this incident?

Raven's face screws up in disgust. Standing up and pushing his chair somewhat aggressively.

Raven: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise I was talking to a fucking expert. I'm well aware of my past, you moron. I'm well aware of my streak of unluckiness. Tonight, I was screwed, no two ways about it. Both times, I took J2H to the limit, and a single moment either which way and I'd have been the man standing in the main event tonight, probably against the same two men who decided the new World Champion. Attitude change? I'm just sick of attempting to play and placate to the masses. I am who I am, and if people have an issue with that? That's on their head, not mine. So my eyes? They work perfectly fine. Maybe the deadbeat dad cosplayer should remember why he is on that side of the microphone, and I'm the one up here ripped to ribbons and still taking time for your dumb ass.

Raven spits at the reporter, turning away as a nearby member of security steps up. Raven shakes his hands off him as he walks towards the door. A limp to his step, obviously feeling the evening's events.

He is escorted through the door, and away from the Press Conference as the attendees await the next SCW star.

3
Pleasantries
Scene One | Off-Camera

It was a strange feeling knowing exactly who was to blame for James’ death. In the end, there were only three people in the world that knew. Alexander Raven, Harrison Rines and the man who had pulled the trigger twice. Sullivan Pleasant. When he’d first been told by Harrison, all he could think about was punishing the man. Ruining the life of the man who had chosen to ruin theirs. Destroyed his decades long relationship with Harrison. Killed someone he had once called a best friend, and in turn ostracised himself permanently from the remaining two people who even gave a damn about Sullivan Pleasant.

The night they’d received that phone call, Alex had asked Luna what he should do. If he knew who was responsible for this final outcome, what should he do about it? She’d replied with a straight message, no sugar coating. The desires of a woman whose heart had been smashed to pieces. “Kill the cunt.” Even now, he could hear it in his head. She’d never asked how he knew, she’d never brought it up again. She’d just left him to stew on the idea. On what he should do.

Harrison had sent all the details, should he ever want to follow up. To ask questions, to beat the man bloody, to kill him. It was almost poetic that in the end, the two of them come to some sort of understanding. Came to connect over the only person that still mattered in their lives, Luna. Harrison left the decision in Alex’s hands. Staring at his phone, he read the address over and over. But death was too easy for a man like Sullivan Pleasant. Death didn’t scare him. Violence and brutality didn’t scare him. There wasn’t much in this world that could ruin a man like Sullivan Pleasant.

James had hurt Sullivan, and it had cost him his life. Payment made with two bullets, and a life. There wasn’t much he could do in the way of punishing him, but that didn’t change anything. Looking out the window of his car, Alex stared at the front door of Sullivan’s house. Nondescript, in a nothing neighbourhood, filled with people who went on walks with their families and worked nine to five jobs. It was a perfect cover for a career criminal like Sullivan Pleasant. It was a perfect cover for the man who now walked out of that door.

Some life had returned to him. He’d shaved, his suit was clean and pressed. Perfectly fitted to his skeleton-like body. Smiling that fake smile that lulled the world into a false sense of security. Alex pulled his door handle, hand in his pocket. Death might be too easy, but Sullivan Pleasant didn’t deserve life anymore. He gripped tightly to the cold object that sat comfortably in his pocket. Nothing suspicious about the heavy jacket. Sweat beaded his brow. The anxiety, the doubt.

Alexander Raven may have let his father burn, but he wasn’t a murderer. This wouldn’t just be letting someone die due to their own hubris. This was calculated, premeditated. He was going to place the barrel between Sullivan Pleasant’s eyes and pull the trigger. He was going to fucking kill that man who had taken the world from him.

“You motherfucker!” Alex yelled out, as he came to stand near Sullivan Pleasant. The man turned, that ever present smile still plastered on his face. Not a look of fear, not a twitch of anxiety. Nothing that indicated the man was even the slightest bit concerned.

“Hello dear Alexander. You’ve caught me at a most inopportune time, I’m afraid.” Sullivan said coolly, shaking his head somewhat in faux disappointment. Alex took another step, an arms length away from him now. The upside to such a nice and plain neighbourhood, was nobody was simply walking around the streets at two in the morning.

“I know what you did, you son of a bitch. You fucking killed him, and then you had the audacity to show up. To stand there and fucking watch as I cleaned up your crime scene. As I washed away the pool of blood that I found him in.” Alex spat his words, venom and bile in every syllable. Every part of his body was burning with an anger he’d never felt before.  His hand flexed and then he pulled the gun free.

He pressed it right in the centre of Sullivan’s forehead. A simple handgun, nothing fancy. But enough to do what he wanted. There wasn’t a line of concern. Not even a flicker of fear from Sullivan as the cold metal pressed right against his head. “Are you going to kill me, Alexander?” Sullivan asked, his voice calm and steady. A man who’d accepted the coming death.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit. How could you do that to James? All because you were too fucking weak to stand on your own two feet.” Alex said through gritted teeth. His face twisted in a visible rage. His eyes watering, the tears betraying the anger. He was torn even now. Even with the gun pressed to Sullivan’s head. His hand shook, tremors made the gun shaky in his grip.

“I’m not a good person, Alex. I make terrible decisions, and I intend to live by them. I cheated on Harrison, and James threatened to expose me. Call me a sociopath, but I do not like the control of my life taken from me. So I took it back.” Sullivan said, taking a half step forward. Pushing Alex back just a little. The tip of the gun is digging into the skin now.

“I regret my actions that night. I have no excuses for the choices that I made. I made a choice for myself, as always. I will always choose myself. I thank you for helping pull me from my rut all those years ago. I thank you for the food you put on our tables. I thank you for the work you did to provide for all of us that existed in your fictional little kingdom of delusion.” Sullivan’s words were icier now. The calmness seemed to be leaving with each additional word. He may not admit it, but there was definitely some part of Sullivan that expected he would die here.

“We were like a fucking family, Sul. I thought I was the fucking omen of death, but you. You destroy every good thing you touch. You corrupt and twist it, until it’s as empty and loathsome as you are.” Alex shouted, his voice carrying in the empty night air. Despite the echoes, nobody else in the world seemed to exist besides them right now.

“You put two bullets in him and you fucking killed him. You ruined everything because you couldn’t handle not being in control. Well what are you going to do now, Sullivan? Because you aren’t in fucking control here. I am. I get to decide whether you live or you fucking die.” Alex screamed the words now. His voice rasping with the visceral anger behind the words. His vision was blurred with tears. Tears of sadness at pointing a gun at a man he once called a friend. Tears of anger for what he took away from them all.

“You’re right. You do control this. Are you ready to be a killer too, Alex? I wouldn’t hold it against you, but the world doesn’t work on blood rights anymore. This street would be full of witnesses before you even had a chance to start the car.” Sullivan said, his voice wavering with the fear of death for the first time. For the first time he’d ever heard that slight bit of concern for his own life.

“I will live with regret for what I did for the rest of my life. Be it another ten years, or be it only another few seconds. I will regret my impulse. I didn’t come that night to mock you. I came because I expected to be there alone. I expected to be able to see what I had done. To validate the gnawing I felt in my gut. Believe it or not, Alexander, but I am human too. And despite the horrible, awful things I do, I too can feel regret. And I regret the pain I put you through.” Sullivan finally had some fire in his voice. His mask of faux calm slipped away, and the fear in his eyes shone through. He was afraid to die.

Alex’s forefinger wrapped around the trigger. His eyes locked with Sullivan Pleasant’s. He took a step backwards, still aiming it at Sullivan’s head. Then another step, and another. He was a good two or three steps away from Sullivan now. Gun still raised and aimed at him. “Good.”

And then he pulled the trigger.

Perceived Transgressions
Scene Two | On-Camera

A familiar dark space. A single spotlight lighting a central point in an endless stretch of black. The sound of footsteps echo in the space as a man slowly approaches from the left of the scene. Alexander Raven, looking deep in thought. A well-dressed Alexander Raven in this case. A maroon coloured suit, a white shirt and black tie. A vest buttoned up beneath the suit jacket. He walks into frame from the left, and then out of it to the far right.

Almost like it was stuck on a loop, he enters from the left of the frame again, and stops in the centre. To the right of the light, his face obscured in shadow. But his visible features speak of a man deep in thought.

“Why did I do it?”

He shakes his head a little and stares off into the distance. Another figure enters from the right of the frame. Another Alexander Raven, white suit, black shirt, maroon tie. A little different, but the same man in another outfit. A wolf in sheep’s clothing almost. White Suit Raven stops to the left of the light, his back to Maroon suit Raven.

“Simple question, complex answer.”

A third person now. Approaching from the darkness behind the spotlight. Stepping between the two other Raven’s. A third Alexander Raven now. No suit this time. Just a heavy jacket, a black t-shirt underneath, and ripped skinny jeans. Jet black in colour.  He stands between the other two, placing his hands on their shoulders. On his shoulders? On the shoulders of the suited Ravens’.

“There’s this perception. A perception that I don’t quite agree with. This perception that because I have had a stumble, I’m no longer the man. That I’m no longer the Napalm Kingslayer. That I’m no longer the guy who was handpicked as the would-be successor to our now defunct king, J2H. I have to admit, I am a bit lost. I’ve been lost for a while now, truth be told. I’ve been lost ever since I lost the Internet Championship. Now, that might strike as a strange thing. But if anyone had been listening, they’d know that I’ve spoken on this many times.”

“I lost my way, and I’ve struggled to come back to it. I was on the run of my life. The thing that was meant to perk me up, that was meant to return my confidence. That was the Mixed Tag Team Championships. See, last year was both a great and awful year all wrapped into one. The Kingdom of the Conspiracy, that being Luna and I. We had our ups, and we had our downs. Both of us have had and lost championship gold. See, we were one of the first to qualify for a chance at the Mixed Tag Team Championships. In the match that would decide the original champions, in a field where we were actually the favourites. Peter Vaughn and Kim Pain, Austin James Mercer and Tempest, the flavour of the week nobodies that were Oliver Zahn and Eiley. We should have fun, and then do a tango in the nude for all to celebrate.”


The centre Raven shakes his head a little, and walks straight forward. Disappearing behind the camera view. His footsteps echoing away into the distance, before silence falls once again. White Suit Raven turns a little, his face still swathed in shadows.

“We didn’t win. Another stumble, another worry. The workhorses of both the women’s and men’s division, and we… struggling. Luna would recover, she always does. A woman with a stubbornness only matched by goats who refuse to tumble down mountain faces. A hard-headed, foul-mouthed woman that I adore. That I’m glad I can call my wife. We failed, and that’s okay. It’s okay to stumble, as long as you get up again. What I can’t quite understand is the logic that followed. We were the favourites. We were one of the first to qualify. We were the team with all the eyes on us. So tell me why, we never got another sniff at it?”

“Tell me why, the Barnharts got several opportunities? Tell me why the delinquents that were produced by Jet City were allowed to run free over everyone, whilst we struggled for our spots? Why are we good enough to be seen as champions on our own two feet, but never quite good enough to be considered for the championships that we rightfully deserved a shot at? I’m good enough to be thrown into the six pack challenge, to become World Champion. I’m good enough to be the man who was hand fucking picked by J2H to finish the year with him. Tell me how I’m good enough to hold wins over World Champions, and even be spreading my horizons to become the best that this company has to offer on a global scale. But I’m not good enough to be the challenger for Finn Whelan and Kayla Richards. In what world is Ben Jordan and Samantha Marlowe deserving of an opportunity ahead of us?”


White Suit Raven spits aggressively and shakes his head. Storming off to the left of the frame, disappearing from the beam of light completely. His footsteps echoing for a moment before silence once more. Maroon suit Raven pivots somewhat, his back to the camera. Staring off into the void beyond.

“Why did I do it? The better question here, is why did I need to fucking do it? Why do I have to explain every action I take like a scolded fucking child. I have had my freedom stolen from me. I’ve had my honeymoon ripped from what should have been my vacation. I’ve had my choices taken from me by the scum of this company. So why did I do it? Because if I’m going to be fucking stuck here. I’m going to make sure everyone is put in their fucking place. And that started with you Ben. A former world champion in his own right. On a pathway to ensuring people understand what I’m here for, I fail to see a better fucking option. Ben Jordan was handed our opportunity and I ensured that he was punished for it. But that’s not enough for me, Ben. That’s not even close to enough for me.”

“No, ruining your shot at the Mixed Tag Championships, that’s just the beginning. Two years ago, when I was finding my feet. Both of us were thrown into a match with some of the greats. King for a Day, possibly the toughest field we’ve ever had. Mark Cross, Austin James Mercer, Ken Davison, you Ben, and me. See I’m like a fucking elephant, I don’t forget. The thing about it is I’ve faced and beaten every single man in that match. Except for you. I walked into that match, never even having had a sniff at the World Championship here in Sin City. But I was good enough to cross paths with all of you. Opportunity given. The only man in that match, I’ve yet to get my own over, is you, Ben.”

“See I recently got my win over Mark Cross. I’ve had my share of battles with Austin James Mercer, but I’ve come out on top more times than not. Ken is one of the few men I ever respected around here, and look at that. He got his fucking freedom, Ben. So here’s my thinking. I don’t expect you to follow me here, it would be asking just a touch too fucking much. But here it is anyway. I’m going to continue my warpath, taking down former World Champions, one by one. Adding to my resume that I am one of the only men in this company that holds victories over said former champions. I already beat Finn, twice. I’ve beaten Fenris, Ken, Austin, and James Mercer. I’ve technically beaten Goth by outlasting his bipolar fucking ass in that Six Pack Challenge. Hell there’s very few people who’ve had that belt currently in the company that I haven’t beat. So you’re just another fucking step on that pathway, aren’t you Ben? Another would-be king, in fact.”


Maroon Suit Raven reaches into his pockets, and squeezes a little. A crunching sound emanating from them. Slowly he pulls out handfuls of what appears to be glass. Shards of glass, digging into his flesh. Cutting into his hands. Rivulets of blood begin to flow from the appearing wounds. Sprinkling the shards onto the ground around his feet.

“I’m going to break the glass ceiling with your pretty fucking face, Ben. People seem to forget, but Alexander Raven wasn’t born to be a technical wrestler. I wasn’t born to be a submission king, or a strongman. No, I broke into this business doing one thing better than almost anyone else. That was bleeding. That was breaking people and making them bleed with me. That was taking steel bats and cracking their skulls. That was taking barbwire wrapped chairs and opening people’s pretty little faces with it. That was taking glass, nails and thumbtacks and drilling my opponent with them. I’m a blood and guts guy, Ben. And I’m going to take all the blood you can give. And I’m going to try and see what your fucking insides look like.”

“I’m not trapped in that cage with you, Ben. I’m not trapped in that cage with you, Aiden and Bill. I’m not trapped in that cage at all. All of you are trapped in that fucking cage with me. Last time I was trapped in a cage? I nearly broke Austin James Mercer’s fucking spine. Think what I’ll fucking do to you when the world is at my fingertips.”


Maroon suit Raven finally turns around, and smiles. His lips always messed up, dribbles of blood leaking down from the edges of his lips. A crimson to match the maroon. It looks like his mouth is filled with glass and small cuttings of barbed wire. Tinier shards falling from his Cheshire like grin. And then he spits forward, a mist of blood, glass and barbed wire cuttings. Obscuring the maroon suit man behind it.

And then as quick as it was there, it was gone. And the casually dressed, heavy jacketed, skinny jeans Raven is in the spotlight again. Sitting on a steel chair. In his hand a metal pipe.

“Aiden Reynolds. My virtual unknown, but somebody. Somebody who decided to put my name in their fucking mouth. Alexander Pigeon, I believe it was. Bet you thought you could get that one past me, Aiden. Here’s the thing though. I’m always fucking listening, you absolute mongrel. Always listening, and I’m always ready to step to the fucking plate. But let’s dig deeper into that, shall we? The Aussie Wolf himself. From the over-hyped, let down of a fucking tourist trap, the Gold Coast. See, I may not be a born and bred Australian. But my time in Melbourne, my time living there. I learnt a lot. I’ve seen a lot. I did a lot.”

“I’ve visited Surfer’s, the Gold Coast, Brisbane, Cairns. I’ve seen the vineyards of South Australia, and the midnight last calls of the far western city in Perth. I’ve experienced many things in your country, and I’ve learnt this. There’s a fucking reason that you all run away from those places to come here. There’s a reason that you all run away from your shitholes to ply your trade in places that actually fucking matter. Your shithole of a home town is rivalled only by the stupidity of the dribble that I’ve already heard from you, Aiden Reynolds. A quick look at your X feed tells me all I need to know. This ain’t your jam is it, Aiden? Violence, and danger. Toys of destruction and unforgiving steel to hold you tightly. In fact, I’d hazard that your cock-sure arrogance leads you to believe that in every scenario. The greater wrestler is the one who walks out the victor. I’m almost certain, your cock-sure arrogance is going to leave you lonely. Trapped here, like me. Trapped in a place you cannot escape, and forever being led down a path of failure. Insecurity. Nothingness.”


Raven shakes his head a little, smiling. He holds the metal pipe vertically, pressing the other end down on the shards of glass that sit on the ground around him. Crushing them up even smaller. Turning them into dust. Leaning forward he presses the pipe roughly into the ground and leans on it. Supporting his upper body with it.

“A man with everything to prove, who thinks that I am going to be part of that pathway. Beats down on me, but then says I’m in leagues with the best in the company. Delusional is what they call me, but delusion stares me in the face, and I have to pretend like it doesn’t fucking exist in you. No, I don’t think I’ll be that forgiving, Aiden. See you made a decision to put my fucking name in your mouth. Probably certain that I wouldn’t have heard it. Maybe hoping I wouldn’t hear it. Definitely feeling safe in the idea that you weren’t going to be put in a match at My Bloody Valentine, locked in a steel cage, surrounded by weapons of vitriolic violence. I can almost guarantee that your sun-bleached, himbo fucking walnut brain didn’t even comprehend that when you put my name in your fucking mouth.”

“And though I may have issues with Ben Jordan. And as much as I want to cave his fucking face in. I’ve learnt my lessons. I’ve learnt what putting the blinders on can do in a match like this. Danger lurks in the unknown, and you are dangerous as my unknown. But I’m not going to let you blindside me, Aiden. I’m not going to let you waltz up in here and fuck with what I’m planning. So just like I’m going to try and see what ol’ Ben Jordan’s fucking insides look like. I’ve got no problem taking this pole, cracking you straight in the ribs, and pressing down on your chest as your lungs deflate. Bust up those pretty little ribs so bad they start piercing and impaling whatever you got pumping away in you. I got nothing to lose, Aiden. And just like Ben?

I don’t fucking like you.”


Raven drops the pipe to the floor, and goes to stand up. Hands from either side of the light reach forward. Snapping a metal collar around his throat. A chain attached to the collar. The chain rattles and then is yanked violently as Raven is pulled up and off the chair. Onto his knees in the glass dust.

“Bulldog Bill Barnhart. It’s funny how no matter how far I try to get away from you, you’re always right there. Ready to be a thorn in my side once again. It’s almost poetic that you’re here with us Bill. Of all the men in the world to round this out, I think you are the most appropriate. See I remember quite clearly the stuff we’ve gone through. Thumbtacks, a fucking dog collar match. Violence begets violence and our history is filled with blood and guts, Bill. I actually respect you the most out of the members of this match, but I do find umbrage with you as well. Luna and I wiped the fucking floor with you and Bea. We beat you to qualify for our shot at the Mixed Tag Team Championships. And who was the first to be given an opportunity at the gold after Oliver Zahn and Eiley won them? The fucking Barnharts.”

“There’s almost this inherent link between at least three of us here. You see Bill, the Mixed Tag Team Championships are what made me do what I did. Undeserving fucking worms like yourself, like Ben Jordan and Samantha Marlowe. Hell, like the fourth man down, Aiden Reynolds. Take opportunities from those of us who really deserve them. We wipe the floor with you, and you and Bea get a pity shot at the gold? In what universe Billy boy does that make any fucking sense? In what universe do you then lose that match, and we don’t get bumped to the front of the line? I understand there is a pretentiousness in what I’m saying. I understand there is a pretentious idea underlying the belief that we were being overlooked. When I was getting World Title opportunities and Luna was being given chances to redeem her own short-comings. To become Bombshell Internet Champion for the first time. I understand the backwards logic in complaining when we were given the world.”

“But fact remains fact, and the fact is, that we wanted those Mixed Tag Team Championships. To build our own confidence back up. To build our own desire back up. To build our kingdom back up. Because that’s what this all is. A game of what-ifs. A game of kings and queens wanting to be bigger and better than the previous and all those to come. The Cockney King, the One True King, King James, the would-be and the defunct kings. Delusions of grandeur, and you’re all standing in the way of mine.”


The chain is yanked again and Raven is pulled onto his side. Then violently dragged out of the spotlight. Smears of blood, the empty chair and crunched up glass is all that remains. The metal pipe laying in the midst of it all. And then the lights go out.

And silence.

Silence.

Nothingness.

And then a flash.

A man sitting inside a dog crate. A metal collar with a chain attached around his throat. The metal pipe sitting just outside the crate. The man in the crate wearing only a pair of wrestling tights and boots. Bare-chested and smeared with the crimson red.

“We’re all just animals locked inside cages. We’re all just blood bags waiting to be bled. I said it when I last fought Goth, that if I’m going to be trapped here. To be kept like a bird in a cage. Then I’m going to make every person with me suffer as a result. Aiden Reynolds, Bill Barnhart, and of course the Cockney fuckin’ King Ben Jordan. You’re all trapped with me, and I’m going to make this the bloodiest valentine’s gift you've ever received. Don’t ever bet against Alexander fucking Raven.”

“Were you listening?”

“I need you to listen.”


The man in the cage looks up once more. The smile spread across Raven’s face. Delusional, and driven mad by his own anger. A man truly trapped in a cage of his own making.

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

4
Climax Control Archives / Karmic Retribution of Hellfire
« on: January 12, 2024, 06:35:59 PM »
Burn It Down
Scene One | Off-Camera | TW: Domestic Violence, mentions of Child Abuse, Alcoholism, Self-Harm

November 13th, 2015

The sound of flesh against flesh. No matter how many times he had heard it, he could never get it out of his head. Parts of him had been waiting for this day from his earliest memories. Part of him had been wishing it would never come about. All those years, all those nights. Cowering in fear at every bang, every knock, every slam of the door. Crying at the sound of flesh on flesh coming from the next room over. Never knowing if he was going to be the next to feel the boxer’s fists. It was a story the whole world knew at this point. He had never been shy about outing his father.

Yet, there had been moments of reconciliation. Somehow he had found a place in his heart to understand, to forgive. To accept that his father had an illness. An illness that made him do the awful things he did. Self-doubt, hatred and alcoholism led that stout, punch drunk old man down a dark path. People always like to think that the evil get their comeuppance. That the bad guys eventually get hit with karmic retribution. Yet, Lars Rabenschwarz was never going to suffer the whims of karmic retribution. No amount of reconciliation could ever truly undo the damage he had wrought. The damage that he had done onto not just his own son and wife. But his friends, his career, and even his pseudo-adopted children.

Freedom.

Alex had always just wanted freedom. Freedom from his father. Freedom from the past. The freedom to make his own path, free of the tortures of his past. Reconciliation was meant to give him his freedom. Reconciliation was meant to be the path forward. Reconciliation did nothing. He could remember that day well. November Thirteenth, two-thousand and fifteen. Tigers never change their stripes, and cheetahs never change their spots. This man however, was not a cat. Not even the bird his namesake would have you believe. No this man, he was a snake. A snake selling his own oil.

Flesh on flesh, no matter how many times he heard it. It took Alex back to a place he had long sought to escape. So on this fateful day, Luna had done nothing but attempt to help him. When she had been nothing but a sweet angel, he decided to take things into his own hands. Lars Rabenschwarz raised his drunken fist and cracked that sweet girl across the jaw. Hit her so hard he almost dislocated her jaw. Sent her crashing, unconscious to the floor. The sound of flesh on flesh. It all came back to him at that moment.

Alex could remember seeing red. His fist striking his father, over and over. The pig headed bastard laughing through it. Laughing after every hit. Laughing after every strike. As blood leaked from his nose, from his teeth, from open wounds. He just laughed, and laughed. Mocking the man who was beating his face in. Mocking Alexander, mocking his son. James had helped Luna out. The man was surprisingly restrained. Maybe feeling there was nothing else he could do. Nothing more than what was already happening.

In the furor he hadn’t noticed the over-turned bottle. The leaking booze onto the floor. The tea towel that had been bumped a little too close to the stove top. They hadn’t noticed that the pot on the stove was boiling over. In the furor they hadn’t noticed all the little details. The flames brought him back to reality. The heat of the flames had a very sobering effect. He looked down at the bloodied man under him. Still laughing, his face a twisted mess. Yet he still was laughing, choking through the blood.

The kitchen lit up almost instantly. Flash over was quick in these almost entirely plastic houses they lived in these days. The flames lapped up, and he suddenly found himself stuck in this ring of flames. The laughter had stopped. The sudden panic, the realisation of the situation. Alex looked down into his father’s eyes. Saw the panic, saw the fear. The first time he’d ever really seen the man afraid.

Staring into his eyes, Alex felt the smile creep onto his face. There was a window, a gap, a space in the suddenly rising flames. He could carry the man out. He could save his father. Save the man who had done everything in his life to make Alex’s a living fucking hell. He looked down into his father’s eyes, as he saw the realisation kick in.

Karmic Retri-fucking-bution.
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He released his hold on his father. Released the grip, and turned. Sprinting through the flames. Never looking back. Never taking a moment to look back at the moment he had just left to die. To burn in a grave of his own making. No regret, just a sense of freedom. A rush of freedom. An escape.

James had his phone out, but hadn’t yet made the call to emergency services. He saw Alex break through the flames and smoke, and out into the field. Out into the yard. Alex locked eyes with James from afar and shook his head. “Let it fucking burn.” Alex yelled out as he stumbled towards them. Luna had come to, her left eye already rocking a nice purple hue. A shiner to remember. As he came near them, he just fell. Fell to the ground, and rolled over. Resting himself on his elbows. Staring as the flames tore the house apart. They stared at it, and James knelt down. Placing a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll die, Rockstar. You good with that?” James said, softly. Without judgement.

Alex looked at him. It was beginning to dawn. The creeping guilt. In the moment, the release was perfect. It seemed to be the way forward. It seemed like a reasonable decision. The man had hurt everyone he had ever said he loved. Burning in his own hubris seemed the way to go. But, now that he thought about it. He didn’t know. Would he hate himself forever because of it?

“I don’t know, Jimmy.” Alex managed to eke out, slowly sitting himself up. James nodded, and turned away. Calling the fire services. The world was suddenly a bit quieter after that. His head was so loud, but at the same time. So quiet. None of his thoughts really mattered in that moment. The investigation ruled the fire as an accident. A drunken man had fallen in his state and accidentally started the inferno. The damage was mostly contained to the kitchen. The rest of the house was mostly unblemished by the sudden fire. A small miracle some might say.

“I’m sorry sir. Your father didn’t make it.” One of the Fire Fighters said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He would never forget that day. November thirteen, two-thousand and fifteen.

The day he killed his father.

Present Day

Sitting on his balcony, he felt the cool breeze on his skin. He’d been thinking about the past a lot more recently. Partly due to the return hallucinations. Ghosts of his past that wouldn’t let him simply forget about them. His father, Leon, and even his late wife. The ghosts of Raven’s past, if you will. He laughed a little to himself at the thought. It was ludicrous, but it was fitting too. Luna was in the process of breaking her lease, but had decided to spend one last night at her apartment. Getting her things together. Preparing to move into his apartment. Not that he was sure where they’d fit everything. The joys of marriage.

He had a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. A pretty common occurrence at this point. Sitting bare-chested in the cold wind, he was acutely aware of how strange it was that he couldn’t really feel it. He knew he should be cold, shivering and his skin should hurt from the sharpness of the chill. But he was just numb. Numb to the world. Thinking back to that day, maybe it affected him more than he liked to think. Things had really started to change then. He’d go back to wrestling for a short time after that. Become a world champion again, get his head beaten so badly that his brain swelled. Eventually he would suffer the fate of being burnt alive.

Left in the centre of the ring, set aflame as people just watched on. A spectacle for the violent masses to scream for more. Baying for more blood, more violence. They were never satisfied with what was before them. Always needing more. Maybe all the punishment had done some long-term damage? His arm was never really the same after he sliced it open in Puerto Rico. The sensation had never fully come back. His nose had been permanently crooked after Austin James Mercer broke it. His coccyx was almost always bruised. Part of the package with hitting the Raven’s Spine over and over. His body was breaking down. The real reason he wanted to get away from it all? He was killing himself, and he didn’t know if he could stop it.

The cigarette fell from his lips and landed on his chest. Rolling down it, burning the flesh as it went. A sizzle, a sensation of life. He felt it burn its way down, but didn’t stop it. The pain was reassurance. Reassurance that he was alive. A reminder that he could still feel, if he just let himself have a moment. He let it burn, the flesh burning more and more. The sharpness of the pain was almost… releasing. Then it clicked and he batted it away. Wincing a little as the reality of the pain settled in. He looked up slowly from the wound on his stomach and almost fell out of his chair.

James was there, staring at him. A look of worry in his eyes. He could deal with the torturous ghosts. His father, Leon, Lauren. He could deal with them tormenting him. Leading his dreams into places of fear and worry. But please, not James. Anyone but James. “Come on rockstar. You’re better than this.” The ghost of James said. He wanted to reach out. To wrap his arms around him, and say he was sorry. Sorry for the agony. Sorry for the pain, to apologise for not being able to save him. For not being there in the final moments. But he knew that he couldn’t. That no matter what, it was just a figment of his imagination, sent here by his own brain to torment him.

“I’m so tired, Jimmy.” Alex said, lowering his head again. Placing his face into his hands. Breathing heavily, shakily. The sudden rush of feeling made him shiver. The cold wind felt sharp on his skin all of a sudden.

“I said I was proud of you, rockstar. Don’t you ever forget that.” James said softly. A quick updraft of wind, made Alex raise his head. He was alone again. A moment of reprieve. Maybe not all the ghosts were bad. He hissed as he looked down at the burn that now sat on his stomach. The pain drowned out all other thoughts. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe this was his karmic retribution?

Stuck In Hell
Scene Two | On-Camera

“Last year was one of the best and worst years of my life. I cemented myself as not just another face in a murky puddle. No, I went in and proved that I am more than anything anyone has ever said. I became the most successful Internet Champion in recent memory. I became the workhorse of Sin City Wrestling. I fought every person thrown my way, win or lose; it didn’t matter. I stood at the peak of the mountain, and I fell all the fucking way down. Loss after loss. Failure after failure. I wanted to leave six months ago; my confidence was shot. I wanted out, I still want out.”
 
“No matter what I fucking do, I just can’t get out. So I made it a resolution to punish everyone else for it. I was put into that six-pack challenge, and I was second best. No matter what anyone else wants to say, wants to do, wants to argue. I was the man to be seen. I was the man who took James to his limit, and almost had him. So when everyone was screaming for attention. When everyone was screaming to be the man who would get him one on one, you know who got the attention? I did. I was the golden boy in that hour, because I am the only one that deserved to climb back up that fucking mountain. No journey is free of stumbling, and I am not an idiot. I’m not an idiot who thinks that I am infallible.”
 
“I wanted out. I wanted to be fucking free, and you know what I got offered instead? Threats. I’ve done everything fucking right by this company. I’ve done everything fucking right by Christian and Mark, and you know what that got me? Threats. I’m not being allowed out of my contract early. Apparently, J2H can pick his opponents. My choice in the match was only as good as picking the stipulation that benefitted them. I said if I lost, I’d walk. I got my match, I lost, I went to walk. And I got threatened about the consequences if I did. So now, I’m stuck here and I’m fucking angry about it. I wanted to go home, I wanted to bury my friend, take my new wife on our honeymoon. I wanted to get as far away from this place that takes and takes and gives nothing but heartache back. That tears and rips us apart.”
 
“And I get threats.”

 
Alexander Raven is sitting on a small hill. On the hill, a single patch of recently disturbed earth. A small gravestone. In his hands he is holding a lighter. Clicking it on and off, over, and over. His eyes fixated on the small grave. He was wearing a heavy coat, pulled tightly around himself. Braced against the cold world around him. The sun had long since gone away, but there was a nice glow from the moonlight.
 
“My year ended with Luna and I getting married. Within a day, my best friend. My blood brother, the man who got me into this business. Within a day of seeing his sister get married and having the peace. He was fucking dead. And nobody but us will care. This business doesn’t care for us. It just bleeds us dry until we have nothing else to give. I don’t even get the chance to fucking mourn him. So I’ve got some ideas on what I’m going to do. If I’m not allowed to leave, if I’m going to be dragged for every part of my worth. Then I’m going to make life a fucking hell for everyone else. You want to keep me here? I’m going to make both of you, Christian and Mark, fucking regret it. This little championship tournament? I’m going to have to win the whole damn thing. And what better way to start it, then with the man I just can't seem to get a win over.”
 
“Goth.”
 
“It’s interesting how the world brings us together again, don’t you think Goth? Maybe this is their cheeky little way of getting around the demands of J2H. Throw me to a person they don’t think I’ll beat. Historically, you’ve got the best odds. Actually, I think Vaughn is probably the scarier one, but between the two of you, I digress. You, Goth. You have two wins over me. In fact, at every point in which I start a turn in my progress. There you are, to stand as the first roadblock. It’s funny to me Goth. It’s funny that you are that person. You see, last time. I buried my past, my present and threatened to bury you. Maybe the metaphor was overlooked a little, the obvious nature of it. The new keeps some of the old still.”
 
“I want to be a new man, but sometimes. Sometimes the past has a way of creeping in. I always liked to make a stage show of it. To make a performance piece when I was tearing someone apart. For you, I linked our past. Linked the irony of the situation. That Mark Cross pitted us against each other in a casket match. The irony of the situation is that, despite my attempts at burying my past. My attempts at burying you. I was just the same person as I was before, without any real change.”

 
He stops clicking on the lighter and reaches into a pocket. Reaching deep into his coat. He pulls a cigar out of his pocket, a matchbook, and a cutter. He runs the cigar under his nose, inhaling deeply. Cutting the tip off, he holds it in the palm of one hand, the matchbook in the other. He stares at the gravestone, flicking the matchbook open and closed.
 
“I really have two options here, when I think about it. Option one, I bite the bullet, take another loss, get embarrassed and walk out with my tail between my legs. The other is I take this anger. This frustration, this irritation. I take it and put it on all of you. I punish Mark and Christian for their threats. I punish Sin fucking City Wrestling for keeping me in a place that I don’t want to be. At the whim of a champion that I don’t get to fight again. I take this frustration of the loss of my friend, of losing out on my honeymoon, of being forced to stay in a place I have come to hate. And I ruin the elite members that have been picked out. Take them down one by fucking one. So at the end, I stand as the World Champion, take that belt, and hold it all to ransom. Make my demands, make my claims. Those are my options, Goth. Those are my options.”
 
“I’m a bitter, angry, and stubborn bastard. But I’m not a coward. So despite the options, there is no choice here. The only outcome that works for me is this. I walk into Climax Control, I stare you down one more time, and I prove how much of a mistake it is. How much of a mistake that I am being kept here. That I am being kept against my will. I owe you twice over, Goth. I owe it to everyone to prove that I was the only viable choice walking into the match with J2H at the end of last year. To prove for all your bluster, I was the one who deserved it. So there is no choice, Goth. There is no choice because I am left with no choice. I’ve got to make an example of what happens when I’m pushed.”

 
A match out, striking it one handed against the strike strip. It ignites, his eyes fixated on the flames now as he raises the cigar to his mouth. He putts a few times, letting the tobacco warm up. Smoke filling his mouth. Shaking out the flame, he places the matchbook on the grave. Another few putts, and then he holds it out in front of him again. Offering it to the grave in front of him.
 
“This is a matter of freedom for me, Goth. Freedom to make my own choices. Freedom to hunt is what I once said to a mutual colleague of ours. That was the day things changed in my mind. That was the day I started to see things differently. That was the day I decided to take on the fucking world. Ken Davison told me that I had the freedom to hunt, and so I did. I hunted every single person that had wronged me in some way. I took lashes for my hubris, but I continued to run with it. My choices led me to being seen as the second best guy in all of Sin City. My hubris led me to being the second best. The problem for you? For Vaughn, for Austin, and every other person that was hand-selected. You were all hand-selected to be put down by the Napalm Kingslayer. If I’m second best, then all of you are third rate, you in particular.”

“So let us put aside the past. Let us put aside everything that makes this a journey of discovery. Let us decide whether or not this is worth the effort. You wanted to punish me last time. You thought it a method of vindication, of flagellation. Of excusing the sins of the flesh, and you wanted thanks? I’ll give you thanks, Goth. I’ll give you all the thanks you want. I’m putting every fucking person on notice. That until I am free of this place, no one gets away with anything. No one gets free without a bit of blood. No one gets to escape the violence of Alexander Raven. The best part? Every single person who turns up each and every week are going to be baying for your fucking blood. They will want to see the poster boys of Sin City torn down by the man who was just shy of greatness.”

“They’ll turn up, and they’ll scream for me to pop your fucking head off your shoulders. And then, you’ll thank me for it. Thank me for showing you the stupidity of your actions. Thank me for showing you the stupidity of it all. I’m a stubborn bastard who cannot change. So I’m not going to pretend anymore. You’ll get the real Alexander Raven. And if you beat me? Maybe, just maybe. I’ll finally be fucking free.”


He takes one long last putt on the cigar, and slowly lets the smoke billow from his nose. He extends it out and then lays it gingerly upon the grave in front of him. His eyes suddenly darker, his head dropping a little. All the anger flowing out of him with this one small gesture. A deep, heavy and shaky breath. Slowly getting to his feet. Dusting his legs off a little. His eyes fixed on the slowly embering cigar.

“Can you help me be free, Goth? Free of the pain? Free of the agony? Can you help me be free of the actions that I must take? I’m not going to wax poetic, or pretend to be anything grander than what I am. Simply a slug crawling on the surface of this earth like all of us. Another body for the fire, to stoke the flames of the greater authorities' blood lust. Can you help me be free of them? I don’t think you can. I don’t think anyone can. There is no freedom here, no matter how hard I try. I used to talk about rattling the foundations of this city of sin and filth. I used to talk about throwing stones at the stained glass lies that hung in the sky above us. I’ve learnt, the sky isn’t made of glass. The sky is solid fucking steel, and I’m just breaking my bones trying to break it. But maybe, your body will have a bit better of a chance. Are you ready Goth?”

“The Conspiracy is dead.”

And with that, he walks away. Leaving the world as it once was.

A hill with a grave, and the start of the flames of retribution.

5
Till Death
Scene One | Off-Camera | 10th December 2023

He sat there on his balcony once more. Staring off into the night sky. The hospital wasn’t particularly pleased at the idea of having the room having multiple people. It was hard enough to convince them let him sit in there, let alone have himself, Luna and Harrison present. Harrison had gone and got himself ordained, so that he could at least be there as the person authorising the whole thing. There was a part of him that felt a bit… lost in the whole situation. They’d get remarried again one day. With people, friends and the whole shebang. A proper honeymoon, and the rest of their lives.

This was for James. Really, it was for them to feel better about it all. It was a chance to give him a happy memory before he slipped from this world. It was about giving them a moment with him that they could hold on to. Rushed as it felt, it felt good too. It felt right. He sat there, looking into the night sky. A glass of white in hand, his attempt at keeping his mind clear. His attempt at keeping everything above board. At staying lucid. At keeping focused for what was to come. His phone buzzed, he pulled it out and turned it on. A message from Harrison. ‘I’ve got your wedding present. I’ll take you after.’ And then a photo followed. Sullivan Pleasant, sitting in a chair. Not restrained, but clearly feeling trapped. Bruised face, a blackened eye. Harrison had worked him over already.

He sighed deeply and put the phone away, placing the glass on the small table beside him. Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs, placing his head in his hands. Every part of him told him to tell Harry to let him go. Every part of him screamed that something bad was going to happen, and they had a chance to stop it here. Every part of him. And then he heard it. The shatter of a glass, and the gut-wrenching cry. He leapt to his feet and threw open the door. Tore through the house and into the bedroom. Luna was slumped on the floor, a shrieking mess. He knelt and slipped his arms around her, lifting her to her feet. Getting her away from the spilt water and shattered glass. Away from the immediate danger. Placing her on the end of the bed, he knelt in front of it. Looking into her eyes.

“Harry told me.” Luna whimpered, racking in shallow short breaths. His mind started to turn, started to spin. What had Harry told her? That Sullivan was waiting to be told the ways of the world somewhere? That James had been shot by Sullivan? What had Harry told her? “Harry told you what, Lu?” He asked softly, taking her hands into his own.

“The hospital isn’t going to let us do it. They aren’t going to let James out, and they aren’t going to let us do it there. They won’t let my fucking brother see us get married. They won’t let him have one more fucking happy memory before…” Luna whimpered somewhat before another gut-wrenching cry. She really could give banshees a run for their money. A wash of momentary relief came over him and he smiled. She just stared at him incredulously and shook her head.  “I know. We got things pushed back a little, but. We’re going to do it. One doctor thinks some fresh air might just be a good idea for our battler. We’re going to take advantage of the time. Take advantage of the moment.” Alex said, smiling. She sniffled, the waterworks finally coming to a stop. Of all things for her to have wailed about. This wasn’t the one he expected.

Hours passed, the night grew deeper, and soon the sun threatened to creep above the horizon. She’d gone to sleep soon after, happy with the soothing. Happy with the ideas. Today was the day, today was the day they’d make it official. He was happy, but he was also sad. Sad that another day meant that there was one less with James. Chances of recovery at this point were less than a single digit. A week, maybe two. Every day counted. Every day.

“A second marriage? Aren’t you just the shining example of the modern man.” That familiar voice came. He’d been doing better. Seeing fewer, hearing fewer. The ghosts of the past were doing their best at keeping quiet. Couldn’t expect the good times to last forever, he guessed. He rolled over and saw the far too solid form of his father. Staring down at him, smiling. He always had a great way of being uncomfortably close. Alex turned and placed his feet on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. Luna seemed fast asleep, but probably wouldn’t take too kindly to him conversing with his dearly deceased. Especially on a day that was going to be so important. “I wonder if Lauren is smiling or turning in her grave. Do you think she’d ever be okay with you doing this? I think she’d be quite resentful.” His father said, the mocking smile to accompany the bitter words. Alex sighed and stood up. Moving to the ensuite, closing the door behind him. The reflection showed himself, and his father now leaning against the closed door.

“I wonder what I ever did to be tormented by such a foul man, in both life and death?” Alex grumbled under his breath, turning on the tap. Moving to wash his face. “You killed me, remember? I only exist because you can’t forgive yourself. I wonder if I’m here because you are thinking about doing something incredibly stupid again?” Alex’s Father mocked, sneering as he did so. Alex thought about it for a moment. His mind drifting back to the night before. Drifting back to the thoughts of what Harrison was offering him. Despite every part of him screaming to tell him to let it go. To let bygones be bygones and suffer in the knowledge of what he had. There was a part of him. A part of him that wanted to hurt Sullivan. A part of him that wanted to kill him. To ensure that there was not a world where he got to live, if James didn’t. So maybe his father was right. Maybe that was why he was staring him down, here and now.

“Your mother loved Luna. I didn’t particularly like them, but your mother loved her. I guess at least somebody is happy with your decisions.” His father mumbled, moving to place his hands on Alex’s shoulders. Squeezing them. Even if it was all in his mind, there was something peaceful about it. As if his actual father was attempting to be supportive. Delusion, most likely. But that was just the way it was. He had to live happily in delusion, because reality was too fucking scary. “I hope when it all comes to an end. That you get replaced by James and Lauren. No more torment, just people who loved me.” Alex whispered, dropping his head a little. Staring down into the sink. Laughter filled his ears, and then silence. Just the sound of running water filled the air. Silence.

A deep breath, a heavy sigh.

He really wasn’t ready for this.

End of Days
Scene Two | On-Camera | 14th December 2023

“There was this idea for a long time. This idea that I liked the sound of my own voice. That I ran on and on because I had nothing important to say, but wanted to twist the words to make it seem like I did. I almost believed it at one point. I had all these things to say, my whole game was around getting under people’s skin. Yet the more people said it, the more I had to wonder. So I would go back, and I would listen to what they were saying. I would listen to the drivel that people had to say and ask myself. Why do they get to talk about nothing, and I am admonished for it? That is when it clicked for me, James. People weren’t admonishing me for talking about nothing. No, they were frustrated that I was able to get into their heads. That I was able to dig under their skin and get on their nerves. They were frustrated because there was always a piece of the truth hidden in sermons. I do like to talk James, that is no secret. I like to be able to convey how I am feeling with the world. I like to be able to tell people what is going on before their eyes. Truth and reality. Though I may have lived in delusion, I was all about showing them the truth. That was my justification for getting under their skin. Then I stood back and took in everything. See talking was half the battle. Talking and getting under their skin that worked two ways. For guys like Austin James Mercer it was like waving a red flag in their face. Riling up the bull and getting them angry. Getting them frustrated. The same could be said for you would-be teacher, Fenris. I forced his hand, and he overplayed it. I out-thought Fenris, I out-thought Austin James Mercer. The truth, however, was I was just getting lucky. That’s what people want to think. Guys like Jack Washington would tell you until the cows came home, I was just getting lucky. That despite it all, it wasn’t some grand plan. It wasn’t me being better. That it had to be a fluke of fucking fate that got Alexander Raven over the line. For a while, I thought they were right.”

“But then I took a moment to think. I looked over the scene and came to understand something. Hypocrites all of them. They did just what I was doing. Saying things to get under the skin of other people and they pretended like it meant more when they did. I grew tired of the prattling, the back and forth, the arguments and the arrogance. Hypocrites who could not admit that they liked the sound of their own voices just as much as they were accusing me of liking mine. Things keep on rolling, and here we stand at the end of it. You did that for me, James. You said something and it reminded me of who the fuck I am. It reminded me that even if the world had forgotten, nobody else would ever truly understand when they were just as delusional as me. You said I got under your skin, James. The first to openly admit it in months. In almost a fucking year, you admitted that I got under your skin. No matter what you say, no matter how you try and put me down. The truth of the matter remains this. I am under your skin, and it is driving you mad. So you went and got training from the one man who is probably as maddened as yourself. You went and got the help of Fenris to show you. To show you how to break me. To show you where he went wrong and how to stop that from happening again. But that is where things fall apart for you, James. That is where it all comes crashing down.”


Alexander Raven is standing in a field, wrapped up in a thick coat and a scarf around his neck. His beard has grown out, and his hair was somewhat messy. Deep heavy bags under his eyes, speaking of a lack of sleep. In front of him sat three small tombstones. Two looking aged, but the third in front of what appears to be a freshly dug grave. Standing in front of the fresh one, he turns his head up to the sky.

“Time of death, four fifteen AM. It’s funny how the world punishes us, James. You’ve been training with Fenris. Attempting to get as much knowledge in about submissions as you possibly can. Maybe even watching old tape to see if I’ve got any tricks up my sleeve that you don’t know about. What have I been doing? I got married, I nearly broke my knuckles over the face of an old friend. I watched my best friend die. Time of death, four fifteen AM. Everything has come crashing down, and I wonder. I wonder if there really is any reason to keep this charade going. I wonder if there is any reason to pretend that the outcome here is not already pre-ordained. I wonder if there is any fucking reason to step into that ring when everyone, their ma and their fucking dog think I am going to lose. Not a single person has even vaguely offered the olive branch to me. Not a single person has even thought about offering a word of fucking support for Alexander Raven. Why? No one thinks I can fucking do it James. You’re just an insufferable cunt that everyone thinks is just going to walk all over me. That is going to take what knowledge they’ve gained and step on the last of my time here. Time of Death, the final second of December 2 Dismember. That is the expectation for me. That in the final moments, I’ll either tap out or pass out. I’ll fade off and that’ll be it. The Forgotten will be forgotten. The end of my time here in Sin City. The end of my career some might say. They might be right. See, there’s a cruel fucking irony to this world. The irony being you share the name of my friend. You share his fucking name, and so every time I must think about you it taints his memory in my mind just a little bit more. I cannot fucking stand it, J2H.”

“You know what the worst part is? Behind all the bravado, you are just like him. Cool, calm and collected. Confident in yourself and brimming with arrogance. The difference? My James never had an issue telling you when he was afraid. When he was scared. He never had an issue telling people when he wasn’t sure he was good enough. He didn’t hide it behind frivolous words and manipulation. He told it straight. Stared down the barrel of hate and told you exactly how he was feeling. Someone we could all stand to take a lesson from. Especially you, J2H. See a blind man would think you have the confidence, arrogance and belief that you are a sure-fire win for this. The greater masses may think you are the guaranteed winner here. You might have even deluded yourself into thinking that what you are saying doesn’t reveal a greater image. Submissions weren’t you game, so you went and got trained. Not to better your skillset, though you may think that the case. You even had to swallow your fucking pride and saddle up with one of the boys who holds a win over you. Hell, a man who holds a win over us both let us not forget. No you saddled up with someone who made you feel violently ill at the thought of working with. You had to swallow your pride because the truth of it? You know I’m just good enough to take you off your mantle and drop you to the fucking floor. You know I’m just good enough, to wrap my arm around your throat and squeeze so hard your fucking eyes pop. You know I’m just good enough that even in such a ‘boring’ stipulation, you haven’t got a fucking chance. Behind all the bravado, all the arrogance all the bullshit. You’re just as fucking scared of walking out a loser as I am. The only difference now? I’ve got nothing else to fucking lose.”


Alex drops down to his knees, and stretches a handout, touching his hand to the makeshift wooden tombstone that marked the fresh grave. He lowered his gaze from the sky and fixed it on the grave in front of him, breathing out heavily. A glistening in his eyes, a shake in his hands. His other hand slipping into his coat pocket.

“You want to talk about killer instinct? Let’s talk about killer fucking instinct. See the only fuckwit walking into this match with a sheen of stupidity, is you. I’ve made a fucking career out of choking people the fuck out. I’ve made a career out of dropping people right on their neck. I’ve made a career out of ensuring that everyone knows that stepping into the ring with Alexander Raven is a case for danger. A case for agony. A case for pain. And a case to get your fucking lights put out. I picked submission only, because it affords me the opportunity to make you scream like the little bitch you are. I picked submission only because I know a hell of a lot about putting people in holds to make them tap the fuck out. I know a hell of a lot about breaking people. I won the Internet Championship when I put Lachlan Kane to fucking sleep. Put so much pressure on that poor boy’s back, it nearly snapped him in fucking half. You want to talk about killer instinct? I’m here week in week out, despite your claims otherwise. I’m here proving myself to be better every single time. And a fact of fate is that every person who wrongs me, eventually gets their comeuppance. I got my win back over Davison, over Fenris, over Kasey. You’ve fucking wrong me, J2H. And you have the balls to question whether I have the killer instinct? I don’t think you’ve got the killer fucking instinct James. You talk about me needing to choke your scrawny fucking ass out. What about you, brother? Do you have the killer instinct to choke me out? You think your little run around with Fenris is going to really prepare you to put me out? I don’t need to nearly kill you, James. I just need to hurt you. I just need to remind you of how fucking human we all are. You and I, we’re just people doing their best. A bit of success, a bit of competition and you lose sight of yourself. Harris was your better, and no matter what you think. Come December 2 Dismember, I’m going to show you who the fuck is your better.”

“Because this is the truth of it James. This is the fucking truth of it. You are not as good as you think you are, no matter how hard you try and convince yourself otherwise. You’re not as tough as you think you are, because I know how far a bone can be pushed before it snaps. I know how quickly a man can be put the fuck out with the proper chokehold. It takes only a second to put a man to sleep, James. A twitching, convulsing unconscious mess. Killer instinct? There’s only one guy here with killer fucking instinct. But you know what? You know what the most egregious think you throw out, week after week is? This assumption that I something of an alcoholic. Weird thing for a guy who likes a drink to be mad over, right? I can see the irony in it. Alexander Raven, runs bars, drinks on camera, hell he even ran a masterclass on the cruise once. Do you know why it bothers me, J2H? It bothers me, because it just shows how simple minded you really are. How baffling ignorant and blind you are to the reality that stands before. A man who talks shit, hides behind his own bravado, granted. Granted you’ve fucking earned some of it. Some of it. But not enough to be throwing out these accusations. Accusing me of something that I have spent my life ensuring that I never become. Ensuring that I stay in control of my vices. Stay in control of the aspects of my life that are influenced by the abuse of my youth. I’ve never been clearer in mind than I am right now. No alcohol, no fear. No worries and no qualms. I’m glad you went and got trained up. I’m glad you feel so goddamn confident about it all, because when it all comes to an end. And you’re blinking light back into your dim little head. Wondering where all the people went. Wondering where all the sounds went. Wondering why you’re being tended to by the doctors. When it comes down to it, and you must swallow your fucking pride. Let me tell you, James. I’m going to pour one out for you. I’m going to pour one out for both James’s in my life. The one who just got whooped, and the one who is going to be whooping ass in the great beyond.”


Alex pulls down and the makeshift grave marker comes down. Carved into the wood, and then painted in red is a name. James Huntington-Hawkes III. Alex spits on the grave, and stands up slowly, the wash of anger now settled on his face. Pulling the scarf from his neck, he places it over the torn down marker.

“What are you going to tell the world, when the drunk, stupid and less talented Alexander Raven chokes you the fuck out? What are you going to tell everyone when you lose at the final show of the year, in the main event, in a match that you did everything to prepare for, and it just wasn’t fucking good enough? Has the thought even crossed your mind, James? I’ve offered you my career, and I wonder. I wonder if you can take it from me. I have nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. Freedom to hunt, and the right to burn this fucking kingdom down. I am the fucking Napalm Kingslayer Alexander Raven. And I’m going to walk out of December 2 Dismember THE Sin City Wrestling World Champion. You can bet your fucking house on it.”

Taking a lighter out from his coat, he ignites it next to the scarf. After a few seconds it takes up in flames. The whole scarf quickly being enveloped. Then the grave marker, and then spreading to the nearby earth. The other two unmarked graves also catching flame. The fire spreading and spreading. Creating a circle around Alexander Raven.

“The Conspiracy is here.”

Raven is slowly enveloped by the flames too and obscured by them. The screech and croak of birds filling the air. The flutter of hundreds of wings. A swirl of birds filling the sky, and the area. The flames disappearing behind a cloud of black wings and beaks. Then as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. The flames too, and no Alexander Raven. Just the smouldering remains of the grave of J2H.

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

6
A Proposal of Convenience
Scene One | Off-Camera | 7th December 2023

Sometimes it was nice to just forget about life for a day. For a moment things felt peaceful. For a moment there wasn’t the impending doom of choice and action. World Championships meant nothing when you took a moment to yourself. For a moment, the hole he had dug himself was nothing more than a scary thought. Counting clouds was peaceful, even in the night. Even when the clouds were little more than a smear on the skyline. Even when the clouds were just apart of his own collapsing mind. There was a peace in the moment that was free of the agony of the day to day.

Alexander Raven was sitting in a chair on his apartment’s balcony. The night was dark, and the sky was full of grey clouds. A cold breeze ripped through the air, but it didn’t bother him. It was refreshing to feel so chilled. To feel so alive in this very moment. In one hand a half-finished beer, the other was just resting on a small table next to him. An overflowing ashtray, and a concerning number of empty bottles. A simple black tee, and maroon skinny jeans. A pair of bear-foot shaped slippers. A symbol of fashion and excellence clearly. His eyes fixed on the sky, drawing images into the dark blobs up there. Connecting the stars to create new images, new faces, new creations. For a moment, peace.

Days.

Days is all James truly had left. His body was on the brink of complete collapse, and they’d been told it was time to consider putting him out of his misery. It was an impossible decision. An impossible decision for his sister and his friend. Alex knew that James would not hold it against them, regardless of the decision. But it didn’t make the impossible any easier. It didn’t make the choice any easier. In fact, the fact that they had no choice was ruining them. There were fewer and fewer distractions, and they’d come to understand now. That there was a very real possibility that they would walk into the next year, without James. There was nothing to be done. He raised the bottle to his mouth and drank deeply. Drinking what remained of it. Placing the now empty bottle on the table alongside all the others like it. A deep breath, a heavy sigh. The peaceful moment was slipping.

The door slid open, as Luna came out. Cigarette hanging from her mouth, her eyes raw from a fresh session of tears. Alex stretched his hand out but didn’t move his eyes. Staring into the sky. She lit the cigarette and then took his hand. Instead of taking her own seat, she sat in his lap. Straddling him, as she buried herself  into his neck, hanging over his shoulder3. Despite all the negative, the situation had brought them ever closer. She’d not taken off the necklace he’d gifted her since coming back. She’d even been looking at ways of breaking her lease, to move in with him full-time. She wanted to be closer to Duchess, the poor dog had been working overtime to keep them from imploding. Keeping them grounded and reminding them that there was still something to enjoy at the end of the day.

“James couldn’t wait to see me wearing a white dress one day. To be the one to hand me off on my wedding day. It had never really been my dream, but now. Now I can see the happiness in such a thought. Something happy.” Luna mumbled softly, her voice a little raspy. The stress had started to make her sick. Both of them really.

“We could always rush things. Just us three. A Vegas wedding, without Vegas. Not the same, I know. But it’d be something.” Alex spoke softly, his free hand going up to her hair, gently running his hand up into her hair.

“Okay.” She whispered, and nodded, pulling herself tighter to him. Pulling her hand free to wrap her arms around him. His eyes widened a little, a brush of surprise. Just a month earlier, the idea of marriage seemed so far away. Was it even really a wedding? Was it just some way to make themselves feel better about the inevitability of what was to come? It didn’t really matter in this moment. There was a moment of peace.

“I’ll organise things tomorrow. Try and organise for it to happen on Saturday. I’m sure his doctor will let us. Let us have our final moment.” Alex said, a slight bit of happiness to his tone. It may have been momentary, brash and rushed. They may come to resent and hate each other in a few months and be divorced. But really, it didn’t matter right now. They needed something happy. They needed something hopeful. They needed to be okay.

“I love you, Lexi. Thank you for being everything to us.” Luna spoke gently, a plume of smoke billowing over the top of his head. He wrapped one arm around her, reaching up with his other hand for the cigarette. Wrapping it around her in turn he placed it to his lips and inhaled deeply. Partners in bad decisions, alcohol and escaping reality. They truly were made for each other it seemed. He looked up into the sky once more. A cloud that vaguely reminded him of his mother. He’d once thought Lauren to be his mother reborn. The more time had passed, he’d come to resent that view. Resent how simple that thought had been. There was so much of his mother in all three of them. In himself, in James and especially in Luna. A surrogate mother for her, yet there was her peace in Luna. A gentleness that even after hardening himself for so long, thawed him out.

“I told James, that once everything is over. That when I’m finished spilling my blood, I want to go back. Back to Australia. Back to the bar, and freedom and peace. To be in a place that wasn’t filled with memories of failure, of violence. Back to our place. Our freedom. I want to go home, Lu.” Alex said gently. Luna sat up and looked at him dead in the eyes. Face to face with him, mere inches away.

“I’d like that.” Luna said, a smile on her face that didn’t reach her sorrowful eyes. She’d tried to be so strong for him at first, but now. Now they were both just unrelenting sorrowful messes. “Want another?” She nodded her head toward the empty bottles. Alex smiled and nodded as Luna slid herself off him and stood up. Stretching her neck a little she slid the door open and went back inside. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Who would be messaging him at this time? He pulled it out of his pocket and looked down at the screen.

’Harrison Rines’.

It was strange for Harry to be messaging him. Normally he’d only talk through Luna or James. They’d never seen fully eye to eye, but they’d been somewhat friendly at least. Tough love and all that. He pressed his thumb to the reader and unlocked it. ‘I’m sorry for what has happened, but I know who shot James. I’m back in America for a week. We should talk.’

There was a shot of pain in his chest. His heart ached.

Two Outcomes
Scene Two | On-Camera | 8th December 2023

An empty street, a lonely bench on the footpath. A disappearing line of streetlights, illuminating the road all the way into the horizon. Sitting on the bench, Alexander Raven. Head in his hands, he seems to be battling with himself. Battling with his own mind.

“I’ve backed myself into a corner. I’m good at that. See, arrogance tells me that I can be the best. That when it comes down to it, when my back is against the wall. I know that I’m good enough. Strong enough, fast enough. That when it comes down to a matter of life or death, I’m the one who is going to walk out with my head held high and an array of new scars to wear as badges of honour. I’m confident in this, because I know what it’s like to scrap. To fight, to brawl. I know what it is like to bleed, and to beg. I know what it is like to be on the other end of an unrelenting beating. I know what it’s like to be the beaten and downtrodden child who spends every day hoping tomorrow will be the day my arms are strong enough to fight back. That my fists are hard enough to win. I know what it’s like to be the scrapper, because I’ve always been the scrapper. So my place of comfort is in that violence. My comfort is in the blood, in the gore, in the scrapping and brawling. I’m not a technical god, and I’m not the most skilled wrestler. I’m aware of who I am. I’m the guy who you get in the ring with, and I’m going to beat you every which way. I’ll step to your game, and hope that my fists are just a little bit tougher than yours. So when J2H offered me the opportunity to pick our stipulation. My first instinct was violence.”

“I wanted a display. Something to stack the odds in my favour, because I’m certain of my ability to withstand the punishment. I wanted glass, barbwire, weapons. I wanted to see him bleed, leak and flop about like a gutted fish. But the more I thought about it, the more I doubted myself. What if you weren’t as fragile as I was thinking? I mean, I’d already been proven wrong once before. The two best men at the end of day, and I was second best. He’d already proven that he was willing to go the whole ten yards with Michael Harris. Credit where credit is due, J2H can go. He may not be wrestling every week, but when does. He makes it count. So that doubt started to creep in. Wondering if I was good enough. If it was worth giving me another chance. Then something inside me clicked. I heard another person make the same remark that Jack Washington has been making all year. Peter Vaughn made comment about the opportunities handed to me. In fact, it seems like everyone has it in their heads that I am handed golden opportunity after golden opportunity. That I’m constantly put in this position of being opposite the world champion. Bald faced lies, but it didn’t stop them from pretending it was the truth. Third time’s the charm, and that is what this is. I was one step short against Ken Davison. Austin James Mercer was there to see that I was continually one step short. The next opportunity? The six-pack challenge. The challenge where I proved I could step to the best of the best in this company. And that the only person I was second to that night, was you James. The only one I wasn’t better than, stronger than. The only person that had better cardio, and more desire to win, was you.”


He lifted his head up and stepped into the empty road. Standing in the middle of it. Heavy shadows cast over him from both sides. Obscuring his face in the cloak of their shadows. He lifts his arms, extending them out to each side. His left hand with the palm facing upwards, the right hand with the palm facing down.

“They lit this fire in me, with their accusations. And the only person who wasn’t accusing me of being in a position I didn’t deserve, was you. Of everyone the only person that offered me even the modicum of respect that I have earned, was you, James. And that confidence came back, just not in the way I was expecting. No, as much as my mind screams at me to take this to my place of comfort. There is something that I can’t see either of us doing. Giving up. Some might question why I would go for something like an I Quit match, or similar. But I think this is far more in the wheelhouse of us both. It gives me that slight edge, without devaluing what happens. It wasn’t enough though. It wasn’t enough to choose Submission only. It wasn’t enough to pick a match type where one of us must give up or pass out. It wasn’t enough to simply put the belt on the line. All risk and no reward. Failure from me just meant that I’d have to spend another year listening to the same people bitch about my opportunities. The same people that got back-to-back-to-back opportunities and squandered them every time. The same people who have done nothing with their opportunities. No, I don’t want to go back to listening to those same people bitch and moan. I don’t want to hear them complain about opportunity afforded to me, that is a straight out lie. I worked my fucking ass off to get here. I’ve been here every single time they’ve asked me. I was here when I wanted out. I’ve been here whilst my best friend, who unironically is also called James, lies in a hospital bed on the brink of death. I’ve been here doing what is asked of me, for a chance to prove. To prove that I am the guy in Sin City. That I am the guy who everyone can put their support behind.”

“So I made a choice to offer something to ensure that whoever wins, walks away as the guy here in Sin City. I win, I prove all the fucking naysayers wrong. I walk out of this year as the World fucking champion. I walk out as the man who stands at the apex of the fucking mountain and looks down upon the filth who squabble and squirm. I stand here not just as the Napalm Kingslayer, but as The Forgotten who will never be erased. I want the best J2H that there is. I want the man who doesn’t just want to put me down, but to put me out. So I put my offer on the table. Submission Only, and if I lose. I walk away. Not just for a day, not just for a week. I take my boots off; I pack my bags and I go home. I go home and sulk. I go home and let the naysayers have their day. I go home, and never come back. I win, I become the guy. I win your respect. I prove that I’m not second best to fucking anyone. I lose, I go home.”


The lights flicker for a moment, casting the world into darkness. A few long and dragging moments past, the croaking of raven birds filling the air. Then a snapping sound and the streetlights on the left side of the road come back on. In his left hand, a card. The King of Hearts.

“I called you both my Ace and Joker last time we crossed paths, James. Arrogance maybe, underestimating you proved to be my mistake. I took every other person in that match seriously. I saw myself as the man who didn’t belong, but I mocked you. I thought of you as the ace, but also the joker. The man who thinks himself on top of the world, but still a step short of true success. I looked at you with clouded eyes and I was made to see. Yet, despite that. I got under your skin. From your own admittance, Alexander Raven got under the skin of J2H. The opposite is true as well. I live with my emotions on my sleeve, visible and seen to the world. I don’t pretend to be well-adjusted; I don’t pretend to be emotionally stable. You got under my skin just as much James. Fixated and focused, I was obsessed. No longer just the Ace and Joker in one. No, you had proven yourself. The King. The King of Hearts. A man with all the heart to fight, and all the bravado of a stalwart king. The joker? That belonged to me. Alexander Raven, The Forgotten one, the Joker. I like to think of myself as the ace. As the workhouse. As the man to beat, and I’ve gone a long way in proving that to be true. I am the man to beat. I proved my worth when I run through a cavalcade of talent. Austin James Mercer, Fenris, Ken Davison, O’Malley, Miles Kasey. All current and former champions, most with world title accolades. But at the end of the day, it’s just bravado. I’m good, but Fenris once put that grain of doubt in my mind. Called the Internet Championship a secondary title. That he didn’t want to be second best. I asked him, second best to fucking who? Here we are, at the end of the year. And I now must prove, that I’m not the joker. That I am the fucking Ace. That I am not second best. I am the best. All that stands in my way is you, James. I keep going over things in my head. I wonder if things will go the way I want. I wonder if I’ll win your respect. I wonder if I can do what I plan to do. The only thing I know for certain is that there is no chance in hell I give in. There is no chance in hell I let you simply walk all over me. There is no chance in hell I go down quietly. So I ask this of you, James. Are you ready?”

The lights flicker and then go out once more. A strained few seconds. The croak and cry of more birds, of the ravens. Then the lights come on, on the right side of the road. A stopwatch hanging from his hand. His eyes distant and hollow. His lips pulled in a tight line.

“Time. It’s all a matter of time. We walk towards an inevitable end, and someone is going to lose it all. Time will tell, and in that. Our peace. I’ll either be free, or forever tormented by failure. You’ll either come to respect me, or you’ll laugh in the face of my arrogance. Laugh at the time I wasted to be nothing more than second best. Time, James. Times is all we’ve got left. At December 2 Dismember. We’ll see the end of this all. I’m willing to go the distance, James. I’m willing to choke your ass out. I’m willing to do what I need to walk out as the World Champion. To be the man who holds the world in his hands. I’m ready to be respected. I’m ready to prove that I am the fucking workhouse of Sin City Wrestling. To be the man walking into next year as the top of the mountain. To prove every fucking naysayer wrong. Time will tell all, and as the clock ticks, know this. I am more than just another body. I am more than just another arrogant nobody. I am Alexander fucking Raven, and I will not be forgotten. I will not be silenced. I will not be made to walk home with my tail between my fucking legs. At the end of the day, when it comes down to it. If it’s you or me, it’s going to be me every single time. If you’re not ready, if you’re unsure, if you think that this is another easy win. I need you to reconsider. I have everything to lose. And I won’t let it go to a man like you.”

And then the world is plunged into darkness once more.

“The Conspiracy is here.”

And then…

The Truth
Scene Three | Off-Camera | 8th December 2023

“Thanks for coming, Alex. Harrison said gruffly. He’d grown out his beard and was looking a bit heavier than he once did. Less focus on staying in shape. That wasn’t to say Harrison was out of shape, just not as defined as he once was. Happily living a relaxed life, rather than one of being on the edge of violence and crime. They’d met at a café, somewhere public but not too public. Somewhere where Alex couldn’t get too over the top with his reaction. Somewhere where the truth when revealed would mean he would have to stay calm. Cool and collected.

“We’re getting married. Luna and I. With you back for a bit, if you wanted to be there. We’d appreciate the support.” Alex said softly, lifting a cup of coffee to his lips. He inhaled the steam deeply, trying to push the ebbing throb of a headache away. Luna and he had drunk a few too many the night before. The sun was punishing his eyes and head this morning. Harrison laughed a little and banged a hand down on his leg. He seemed more relaxed these days. Even if the conversation to come was unlikely to be a pleasant one. “Just tell me where and when. Gotta see my Lulu off into a terrible union firsthand.” 

Alex sighed and shook his head. He could have done without the berating today. It wasn’t particularly high on his list of positives. He straightened in his chair and locked eyes with Harrison across the table. They both nodded a little, acknowledging the matter before them. “I wish I didn’t know about this all. I wish I wasn’t on the other side of the world. I think you would have a pretty good idea of who the culprit is.” Harrison spoke softly, his voice hushed. Alex kept his eyes locked with him, his mind running in every direction. There was only one person he could think of. Someone he had actively been seeing at every turn. A guilty conscience perhaps? That night, when he was sitting there. Wiping up the blood. Cleaning it up. There had been so much blood. And a visitor. Alex shook his head a little and narrowed his eyes.

“Sullivan.” Harrison said, harshly.

Frustration, anger, rage. Everything built up in him. He could feel the heat rising in his face. The blood pumping in his ears. His head hurt. His vision narrowed, clouded. The smiling fucking cheshire cat of a man. That skeleton wearing skin. The bedraggled bastard who had mockingly sat there and talked the night away whilst he cleaned it up. Cleaned the blood that had pooled onto the floor. Had sat there and watched as he relived that moment over and over. Relived watching his friend bleed out onto the bar floor. That bastard had sat there, and fucking watched. Watched as he cleaned up his actions. “I’m going to kill that fucking rat bastard. I’m going to wring his fucking neck and mount his fucking body over the bar.” Alex grunted out, hissing his words.

Harrison nodded and lifted his mug to his mouth. He breathed out heavily and took a deep sip. Swirling it a little after a mouthful, he replaced it on the tabletop and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Sul blamed James for our split. I found out a few things. He had cheated on me, Alex. After twenty fucking years together, the bastard cheated on me. James found out, turns out it was with one of his ex-flings. Threatened to tell me, if Sullivan didn’t end things. I’d rather have known the choice. I would have broken his fucking neck myself.” Harrison spoke matter-of-factly, but there was obvious anger there. He was frustrated too. Seems like their world was falling apart simultaneously, and it was the result of a man they had trusted. Someone they’d worked with, shared drinks with. Sullivan had been their friend.

“The rat bastard confronted James. The first shot was in the leg. Shot him outside the bar. James being the bloke that he is, decked him clean across the jaw and told him to leave. He didn’t. Followed him inside and shot him again. Clean in the gut. Sloppy work, I think. He didn’t realise you were there. He would’ve wanted James to suffer but die there. That’s his style. Make him physically hurt, like he was emotionally. Didn’t account for you. But he just had to fucking gloat. Got drunk, told me the truth over a call. Thought I would stay quiet. Stay away. I liked James. I fucking love Luna. I might not have seen eye to eye with you, but you didn’t deserve that. None of you deserved what that fucking cunt did.” Harrison grumbled more, his hands curling into tight little balls.

Alex looked at him, suddenly all the heat was fading from his face. Harrison had a firm look on his face. There was something uncanny about it. Something intimidating. Something… dark. “I’m going to make things right, Alex. We were always bad people. Regardless of everything. But if you and Lu can make a go of it. I think the best outcome has been reached.” Harrison said, eyes locked with Alex’s. He was going to do something stupid. Regrettable. Dumb. As much as Alex wanted to kill Sullivan, there was this part of him. But he wouldn’t do it. Beat him bloody? Sure. Force him away forever? If he could. Yet, he knew Harrison. He knew what he would do. What he was capable of. Harrison would kill Sullivan.

“Harry. Don’t do anything stupid.” Alex said softly. Harrison smiled and stood up. He threw a twenty down on the table and turned. Waving over his shoulder. “Time and place, Alex. Let me know.” The tap of his shoes as he walked away, bounced around in Alex’s head. Bounced around behind his eyes. Everything was falling apart.

He just wanted it to stop.

7
Climax Control Archives / Back to Blue Beginnings
« on: November 24, 2023, 07:14:43 AM »
Back to the Beginning
Scene One | Off-Camera | 20th November 2023
 
Organ failure. Despite their best efforts, James’ organs were shutting down. His liver, his kidneys. His heart was slowing, and his lungs were threatening to give in. His best friend was dying. The doctors had lied. The doctors were wrong. The doctors couldn’t save him.
 
James was going to die.
 
James was going to die, and there was nothing he could do. All he could think about was that gunshot. The single bullet that had become two. How did it become two? How did he miss the second shot? Or maybe. Maybe he missed the first? It didn’t matter really. All Alex knew was that James going to die, and there was nothing he could do.
 
Comfortable.
 
They offered to make it as comfortable as possible for him. For the final few weeks, days, hours. However long his body kept fighting, for however long they could keep him alive. They offered to make him comfortable. So, whilst they were keeping him comfortable, and Luna was there to hold his hand, Alex had taken a trip.
 
A trip back to Australia, back to Melbourne. A trip back home. Back to where they’d spent six nights a week, slinging beers, singing loudly out of key and causing a general raucous. With their friends, their regulars and the walk-ins off the streets. Back to their bar. Back to a place that was filled with memories of happiness, peace and love. Where Lauren had spent her evenings writing at the end of the bar. Where James had thrown many a fuckwit down the stairs and out into, he cold. Their place.
 
Home.
 
The beginning.
 
Alex sat at the further end of the bar. Near the pool table, next to the window. The window that looked out into the dull afternoon city streets. Typical Melbourne weather. Drizzling, when only fifteen minutes earlier the sun had been making it unbelievably uncomfortable to sit in the sun. He held a glass of some local pale ale. Probably Colonial or something along those lines. Tipped forward a little, he swirled the half-drunk pint, watching as it sloshed. They were surprisingly busy for a Monday afternoon. Things were doing well ever since they’d sold it. Kept afloat. Good team, most of the stalwarts still here. Owner and bar manager between them. Engaged, and wildly excited to catch Alex up on everything that had been going on in their world.
 
Eager to distract him from death.
 
“What brought you back down this way, big fella?” Richard asked.
 
Richard had always been a good guy. A mane of hair, a big thick beard, and a jovial smile. A voice that carried over the thick sound of a busy night no matter how quiet he was trying to be. They’d fallen out of touch since Alex moved back to America. Nothing negative or problematic, just not as close. Sometimes work friends stay that way, but no matter the time or the distance. The man lit up with a big smile and yelled ‘Dad!’ every time Alex walked in. An inside joke, back from the days where he’d sported this horrendous looking pornstache every festival. Also helped that he was pretty much like everyone’s dad when he was here. Alex their dad, and James the alcoholic uncle who was everyone’s friend.
 
“I needed to come back for a bit. See how things were going. Been a while since I visited Lauren, you know?” Alex replied.
 
Richard nodded smiling, as his attention was pulled away by another patron. Always something to be doing, never enough time to finish a full conversation. He downed the rest of his drink, slapping the bar top and hopping to his feet. He pulled his jeans up a little, covering his ass and reducing the sag in them. The stairs up to the rooftop beer garden were next, stomping his way up them rapidly. The Rum Bar was currently un-manned, George in the kitchen. A nod and a wave, he swung around the dividing wall and stepped up onto the rooftop beer garden. Settling onto a chair, pulling a cigarette from his shirt’s chest pocket. To the lips, a cigarette following. Flicking it on, igniting.
 
Sometimes it felt like his world existed in slideshow. Never one moment lasting longer than the next. His mind never holding more detail than necessary. Cigarette, lighter, igniting. Beer, mouth, empty. Love, death, hollow. It all seemed to move in one frame at a time. How long had his life been this way? He couldn’t even remember a time when he had full memories. Just snapshots. Just flashes of light.
 
Gunshot.
 
No matter how much he tried otherwise, he couldn’t drown the sound from his mind. He couldn’t drown it in liquor. He couldn’t hide it behind delusion. He couldn’t pretend that something else was going to make it all suddenly better. There was a chance James would recover. The doctors kept saying it like that. Not to get hopes up, but there was a chance. A chance that he would survive. That he would come back, and he would live. For how long, they couldn’t say. But there was a chance.
 
Chance.
 
Chance was what had started it all. The chance signing. The chance acknowledgement by Alexander Remington. The chance to be the youngest ever UECW World Champion. The chance to become a one and doner. Chance had brought him to Sin City Wrestling. A chance conversation between himself and Christian. Chance had led him to beating his biggest naysayer in his return to the ring in Brandon Hendrix. Chance had brought him to the hospital, and in turn met his future late wife. It was appropriate that the first championship he had held in Sin City was the Roulette Championship. Chance and fate. Two sides of the same coin. Chance had led him here, and now fate dictated that he faces it all. That when he reaches for the apex, the world threatens to crash down around him.
 
“So, what match type are you going to go for?” George asked, slapping him on the back.
 
George had come to spend some time with him. An avid watcher it seemed. A few of the boys had said they’d been keeping track of everything going on for him. The Bravery Trials, Sin City. Hell some of them had even caught the few weeks of warm-up he spent in Steel Cage. It was nice, to know that they cared. That people he knew cared to know him. Followed what he was doing. Followed his career. It meant that what he was doing, was right. That the path he was on was the correct one. That there was a reason he was going to be World Champion again. Even if he had to walk through hell to get there.
 
“Not sure. Poetically, something to do with fire and flames would be the go. Appropriately, I’d stick our hands into super glue, stick it with glass and barbwire, and we could tear chunks out of each other. Whatever I pick, there’s going to be a lot of fucking blood. Enough to make what happened in Puerto Rico look like an afternoon stroll.” Alex replied, going to that place in his head where everything was just a little darker.
 
For whatever reason, his head had gone back to his father. He could hear his voice in his head. ‘Doesn’t matter what the gimmick is, what matters is the outcome.’ Boxer’s mentality. Didn’t matter how he got there, if he got there. Knock-out, a sneaky forced DQ, or a points victory. The outcome is what mattered. If that meant stacking the deck, then so be it. There was one thing he’d always been sure of. When it came to bleeding, brawling and fighting, there was few that could go toe to toe with Alexander Raven. He might not be the strongest, smartest, most technically gifted or the best wrestler. But when it came to beating ten shades of blue out of someone, that was something he knew how to do.
 
“You’re one sick cat. Personally, I think you should beat him clean. But there is something cool about a potential dismemberment at a show with dismember in its name.” George responded, lighting his own cigarette.
 
He’d brought a couple of shots over with him. Jameson, and pickle juice. A staple really. Couldn’t go to Ravens without having a pickleback. Shots lifted, and clinked. They knocked them back, a slight hiss from the burn. Followed by the shot of pickle juice. Momentary happiness. It all felt like it was right again.
 
“In the few times James has been lucid, he told me he wanted me safe. That the worst thing that could happen, is if I end up in the bed next to him. I told him that was a risk every time I got in the ring. All these people are so good, so dangerous. Peter Vaughn, eyes deceive with that one. Goth has my number. Austin nearly snaps me in half every time. Jack Washington can break me every which way to Sunday and not break a sweat. I think the least of my troubles would come from having some crimson loosed from my veins.” Alex quipped, nodding to himself. His mind going elsewhere.
 
“I like the fire idea, but man. No matches with fire ever come out any good. You’d really have to put your thinking cap on for that one.” George remarked, nodding to himself as well.
 
Good guy George, but also someone he likely could do without. He appreciated the support. But Alex had a bad way with dealers. He’d passed a blind eye to it back then. He was popular with the ladies, and… he had good drugs. That was the truth of it. A voice like gravel and oil made a baby. Yet he somehow kept business flowing and didn’t let his illicit activities affect his day to day. He just couldn’t really forgive him for fuelling Luna’s addictions as long as he did. Even when she was starting to get clean. He kept her on a line, and he hated it. George was okay, but he wasn’t a good person.
 
Seemed like he surrounded himself with not good people, really.
 
Someone called out, orders coming in. George smiled at him, putting his cigarette out and rushing off to the kitchen again. Leaving Alex to stew as he slowly smoked away at his own cigarette. His mind no quieter, except now there was many trains of thought. What would James want? What would his father do? What would Luna say? How was he going to put the world on notice? How was he going to break J2H?
 
He’d gone back to where it all began, and now he had no answers.
 
“Fancy seeing you here, Alex.” A voice came.
 
He sucked in a deep breath and raised his eyes. It was funny, how the past kept coming back to greet him. On the other side of the world, and he still couldn’t escape Sullivan fucking Pleasant. He still had that gross scruffy goatee. His skin looked even looser on his skeleton than usual, but somehow even more gaunt in the face. This was the second time they’d run into each other in a bar. Both times in James’ creations. It was somewhat uncanny. Alex took a long and deep drag on the cigarette and shook his head.
 
“Fuck me.” Alex muttered.
 
Blue Collar Beat Down
Scene Two | On-Camera | 24th November 2023
 
“This year started as the year of culling wolves, and then became a journey of Saviors. I started with Austin James Mercer. Then it was Ken Davison. Peter Vaughn crossed my path, but it was a blur in my mind. That mid-year slumps. The cruise ship where I stumbled for the last fucking time. The cruise ship that almost marked the end of my journey here in Sin City. The arrogance of us both to walk in thinking we’d easily walk away the victors. Yet, the truth? Neither of us were even remotely good enough to be toe to toe with those young kids. So here we are, months later. No matter how much I try and escape it, I’m constantly bombarded with the same ideas of the past. Wolves and Saviors. All year I’ve run into the same roadblocks. Arrogant kings, former and present. Cocky beasts who have continued to come up a step short against me and all others they’ve challenged. Two different journeys have taken us, however. Vaughn has been a dominant champion, and I’ve struggled my way through this year. Coming off a powerful reign as Internet Champion, I’ve only just found my footing once more. That footing leading me to being the clear second-best wrestler in this whole damn company. Or at least, that is what it would appear on the surface. That finally, they can’t just ignore me. That finally people are acknowledging Alexander Raven. The forgotten are having their voices heard, and now. Now there is a silver lining on the horizon.”
 
Alexander Raven can be seen sitting inside a rock formation, looking out over Papago Park. Looking onto the water. The low afternoon sun casting a yellow glow over the water’s surface. The dusty and sandy earth illuminated in the same warm glow. A small glimpse of warmth in an increasingly colder time.
 
“It’s an interesting place we find ourselves in this week. Both of us have our end of year opponents lined up. Eddie Lyons and J2H, respectively. Peter Vaughn is on track to be the man of this year. Regardless of the awards handed out. The respect given to our forcefully evicted former World Champion Michael Harris would deem him the man of the year. I’d normally be inclined to say so as well. However, I know Peter Vaughn is a man with lofty intentions. Focused, unassuming and dominant. A man who belies his own appearance with an acumen that few could ever hope to have. An acumen that few ever even come close to. No, Peter Vaughn is without a doubt the man of the year. The eleven-time World Champion himself looks to close this year out with one more showing. To prove that he is the man of the Roulette division. Smart money is that despite Eddie’s best efforts, Peter will once again walk out champion. I respect you, Peter. Of all the Saviors, you probably rank a close second. Just below the man who set my course, who made me see beyond the mirrored world I’d created for myself, that being Ken Davison. This week is interesting for us because it determines two things. If you beat me here, and I go on to dethrone James at December 2 Dismember, then it would only be assumed that the real man on top of the mountain is none other than yourself. Despite out shortcomings in the Mixed Tag Team Championship match.”
 
“See my confidence comes from my other half, Luna. Kim Pain was put in her place and made to see and understand how much this all means to us. I may not fully agree with the pathway that Luna is on currently but rest assured. She did exactly what she needed to. Proved that despite their two former encounters, at the end of the day she was the one who’d finish on top. It fills me with confidence that now, with us having this important match-up that the hand of fate changes just a little bit. No wheel of random chance to affect us. No random ruleset to put us at an equal disadvantage. No, just a straight up contest. You versus me, to see who the big dog heading into our respective encounters is at December 2 Dismember. Unfortunately for you Vaughn, I have little care for my own health and well-being. No, right now, I have a focus. A goal. Regardless of how much I am hurt, I’m going to make it to December 2 Dismember, to once and all put an end to my journey. One more time. Yet I wonder, how much are you willing to risk in this exhibition. Do you put it all out there and risk injury just weeks out from what could be seen as your biggest match of the year? Are you willing to go down in blood, bruises and broken bones at Climax Control? Will you let J2H simply exist at ringside? I don’t think so. No, I think you’ll hedge your gamble and take the safe bet. The safe bet to phone it in against Alexander Raven. The safe bet to let yourself a warm-up week, that is without risk. No injury, no damage. Just to keep yourself afloat and above board. I think, I’m not going to get the dominant janitor  this week. I don’t think I get the man who won eleven world championships this week. I think I’m going to get a man at half mast, who is holding on to all he has for the big match.”

 
Alex crosses his legs, feeling around on the ground near him. Picking up an assortment of stones and rocks, placing them in the gap created by his crossed legs. The crow and screech of birds indicating life beyond the window of tranquillity he finds himself in.
 
“Why do I think this? Arrogance, really. I want to think that the man I’m getting this week isn’t going to be the absolute best he can be. I want to think that he is aware of the man who will be sitting at ringside. Banking on that man to interfere in some way, to affect the outcome of the match in his favour. J2H gets involved, gets me disqualified by laying hands on you. Easy win, easy march towards December 2 Dismember. Alternatively, you could be pretty confident in James doing his best to distract me and leading to your own success. Waiting for a moment to take the cerebral action and take advantage of a distraction. I think, Peter Vaughn is a smart man who knows that he can easily allow fate to affect things. But maybe, just maybe. I ask Eddie Lyons to join us at ringside too. Maybe I should reach out to Eddie and get him to be there. To ensure you don’t take the easy path, and to add just a little bit of equality to the situation. Arrogance comes from thinking, and boy oh boy, am I a thinker Peter. See what people may have forgotten whilst I was stumbling. What people may have forgotten is that Alexander Raven is the goddamn workhouse of Sin City in Twenty-Twenty Three. James can flaunt his ability to turn up to speak, and prance about. He can send in recordings, bait me into responding. Hell he can even mock my lack of attendance whilst my best friend is laying in a hospital bed if it makes him feel better. A showtime figure is appropriate. I’ll give him credit where its due too. We’re here every other week putting in the hard yards, tuning ourselves up and getting in those reps. You and I, Peter, you and I are the ones who really bring in the viewers. The viewers to see what sick match-up you’ll end up in, in your next defence. They turn up to see Alexander Raven put in another round in the ring. Knowing they’ll get exactly what they’ve paid for. A man who will fight tooth and nail to get it done in the ring or die trying.”
 
“You are the last hurdle on my journey towards being the workhouse World Champion of Sin City. The last bump in the road before the two biggest draws in this company go head-to-head, one more time. You are the last blip on my radar, and I just know your head is going to be in the same place as mine. So let’s not bang about, Peter. Let’s not let skip stones on this one, and dive in headfirst instead.”

 
Almost a proclamation in action, Raven throws a few of the stones that he had collected out into the water. Small splashes and sploshes from where the rocks and stones dropped into the water. Uncurling his legs as he dusts himself off to stand.
 
“You’ve got your focus, and I’ve got mine. Let’s not fuck about and act like this is anything more than it is. A distraction from our true goals. So I posit this, Peter. I have no problem in being the Napalm Kingslayer at Climax Control. If you want to bang heads and go the full hog, then I’ll saddle up and ride for the dawn. But if we’re going to do this, when the final bell rings know this. Whoever wins, is without a doubt the second-best guy that Sin City has. And that in the new year, one of us is going to be the World Champion. Either a third time for myself, or a twelfth time for you. Doesn’t matter, don’t care. I just want to see change. I want to see someone show up. I want to see a champion who doesn’t run their mouth, and act like their appearance fee is what makes them a worthwhile investment. Give me something to hope for Peter. Give me something to fuckin’ hope for. Or this janitor is going to have a hard time cleaning up his own spills.”
 
“Talking about talking, I’m glad you’re going to be ringside J2H. I’m glad you’re going to be there so you can hear in person what I have in mind. You offered me the golden platter to stack the match up however I felt, and boy. I’m nothing if not a sucker for stacking the odds. But I will give you a little something. A taste of what this means to me. A taste of how much winning our upcoming encounter means. One more time means one last time. If I can’t beat you at December 2 Dismember, then that’s it. Stipulation one, to give you something extra to bring it all. You beat me at December 2 Dismember. I’ll leave my boots in the middle of that ring. No more Alexander Raven in Sin City. This is it for me. So when I announce the match type at Climax Control, I want you to know. That ever drop of blood, every bead of sweat and every ache will be worth it. You beat me, you put me to sleep. So keep your eyes open and your ears ready. Cause win, lose or draw with Peter. I’ve got my eyes on you.”


Alex smiles to himself, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. He walks forward, one step at a time. One foot in front of the other.

“The Napalm Kingslayer is here. And I’m ready to burn down every single person who stands in my way. Bring it all or bring nothing Peter. You’re just a bump in the road at Climax Control. With no one to save us.”

He steps off the edge of the rock formation, and plunges down. Disappearing completely, a whirl of birds flying through the opening. Obscuring the world in a flurry of black feathers and beating wings.

“Happy Holidays. The Conspiracy is here.”

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

8
Climax Control Archives / Bloody Iconic
« on: November 10, 2023, 07:48:27 PM »
Gunshot Wounds and Sadness
Scene One | Off-Camera

There was so much blood.

It felt like he was walking under water. His friend was laying there, blood pooling onto the hardwood floors. James was laying there, bleeding out and there was just so much god damn blood. James’ grip on his hand was loosening somewhat. He was weakening. The sirens were getting closer. They were so close, but they weren’t close enough.

There was so much blood.

“Come on Jimmy. Come on.”

“I ever tell you what the biggest cruelty in this world is? You were born straight as an arrow, and the world saw fit to make us partners in life. This big ol’ boy, who was just a little bit bent. I loved my way through a smorgasbord of lovers, rockstar. You’ve seen me in my highs, and lows. The biggest cruelty in this world? I fell in love with my best friend, and he ain’t ever gon’ love me the way I love him. But that’s alright with me, daddy. That’s alright with me, ‘cause our Lulu? She fuckin’ loves you. And if you’re happy, that’s all that matters to me, rockstar.”

“You’re delirious Jimmy. Just hold on. Just hold on, please.”

“I love you, rockstar. Don’t you ever forget it.”

He’d only noticed the shot in the leg. He’d only heard the one shot. There should have been only one wound. But there it was. A second shot in the gut. His leg, his stomach. His friend was fucking dying and all he could do was apply pressure and hold his hand. His weakening grip. He didn’t even hear them come in. His head was so far away from his mind. Alex watched himself being dragged off the body by the paramedics. Orders being shouted, questions. Autopilot. He was under water, and he was in autopilot.

There was so much fucking blood.



“Alex what the fuck happened?”

Reality. He snapped up, Luna was there with tears in her eyes. She was holding his hands, kneeling in front of him. His hands wrapped in a tight little ball in his lap. His hands were still stained red. God, there was so much blood.

“I… I don’t know Lu. I was sitting there, hanging out in the back office. Lost in my own world. Then I heard this bang. I knew that bang, you know? I knew the sound of a fucking gunshot. He was just lying there. Lu, there’s so much fucking blood.”

His voice wavered; he was breaking. His soul was tearing itself apart, and his voice was breaking. She was staring into his eyes and watching him fall apart. He looked at her, looked for something.

“Jimmy will pull through, Lexi. He’ll pull through. He always does.”

Her brother was dying, and she was trying to comfort him. Her brother, and Alex was the one falling apart. He loosened his hands and sucked in a deep breath. His fingers intertwining with hers. Linking with hers. It felt like they were in a bubble, waiting to hear something. Any update. She twisted up off the floor and planted into the seat next to him. Hands linked in her lap now, in each other’s touch for the moment. Her hands were red now too.

There was so much blood.



How many hours had passed? He wasn’t sure. He had no idea how long had passed. Yet here they were still. Luna had fallen asleep on his shoulder, her jacket draped over her as a makeshift blanket. Alex hadn’t moved. He was hyper aware of how stiff his shoulders were. He was aware of how tight his jaw was. His teeth hurt from being grit so tightly. His fingers were bright red from all the tension. The footsteps of the doctors, someone coming to them. A sombre look. No peace in the face of the man.

“Mr Rabenschwarz? Miss Pasilno?”

Luna roused, groggily and suddenly. She looked at the doctor, and leapt to her feet, nodding. Alex nodded too and tried to stand. The doctor shook his head a little, but with a little bit of a smile. Somewhat reassuring.

“The good news is we’ve got him out of surgery. He’s stable for the moment. But he’s lost a lot of blood. The leg wound nearly tore his femoral artery in two. Any longer and he wouldn’t have made it. The more concerning however is the bullet to the abdomen. It wasn’t a clean wound. It’s bounced around and caused some real problems. We think he’ll be fine, but it is a little touch and go for the moment. You’ll be able to see him soon. Please, let us know if you have any questions.”

The doctor talked; Luna listened. Alex just sat back down. His head was under water, his thoughts were so heavy. So clouded. His head was so loud but also so quiet. It was like being high all over again. Sinking into the couch, melting into a different world. They were all addicts at one point. The broken children, who hid behind their vices. Luna turned to him and smiled. For once she was the strong one. For once she was the one who was holding it all together. Holding it together for her brother and her boyfriend. She deserved to be collapsing right now. She deserved too not be okay. She sat and placed her hands either side of his face. Holding his face and smiled.

“You saved him tonight, Alex. If you weren’t there, Jimmy would be dead. You saved him. Please, don’t blame yourself for this.”

He managed a smile, but that was about it. Life was taunting him right here and now, and all he could do was swim. He nodded, but it wasn’t real acknowledgement. It was a moment of acceptance. Of being allowed to be okay for just a moment.

“I’m like the angel of death, Lu. Everyone around me keeps on dying.”

Her expression was pained, tears welling in the edges of her eyes. She pulled her face to his and rested her forehead against him. Shaking her head a little. Reassuring, reaffirming. Trying to keep him from spiralling himself.

There was so much blood.



Iconic
Scene Two | On-Camera

“I was a heartbeat away from being the World Champion. One moment away, and I came up short. I came up short, because I slipped up. Just for a moment, and it all came crashing down. You know what consolation prize I got for that? Another week off, and my best friend dying in a hospital bed. That’s what I got for being one moment off. Some would say its poetic, that the one who didn’t deserve to be there, got put to sleep by the only one that really did. But what I did prove, is that ever other person was God damn wrong. That Alexander Raven can tussle and tumble with the best of them. That in a field of the best, I’m only just a heartbeat off being the best. It’s iconic of everything I’ve been talking about. The world forgot who I was, and it was up to me to fucking remind them. It was up to me to remind everyone who the hell Alexander Raven is. Alexander Raven is the best that Sin City has to offer. Alexander Raven is the workhouse of Sin City. Alexander Raven is the man of Sin City, and all I must do is beat J2H.”

An empty bar, hardwood floors. Stools turned up and sitting on the bar. Except for one, which is being occupied by Alexander Raven. An ashtray in front of him, a whiskey tumbler sitting in front of him. Two fingers high with the amber dark liquid. His eyes downcast. A stain on the nearby floorboards.

“I heard you last week, James. I was listening, I was watching. Took your advice and turned on the TV, and low and behold there you were. Talking. That’s when it dawned on me. You like to talk, James. I like to talk. In fact, some might say both of us are all fucking talk. I’m not that person. No, I like to talk because it lets me get my thoughts out there. It lets me get under the skin of those who scream about it. Cheap heat you call it. Accused me of attempting to get under you skin. Let me clarify something for you, brother. I didn’t try and get under your skin. I was under your skin. Talk and talk and deny and deny. I know who you are James, because I was you. I’ve been you. I know what it’s like to deny the truth that lays at your feet. So let me make it clear to you. Let me make it clear to anybody. I’m ready, anytime. Any fucking place. You want to prove yourself? I’m ready to tussle, boy. Hell, I’ll be there this week. To answer your call to arms.”

“But that brings me to this week. Dubois, Iconic Dubois. The Iconic newcomer to this here Sin City. I remember when I signed up to Sin City. Mark said something apropos to our situation here. He said that typically, they ran their new blood up against the established stalwarts of the roster. Feed the new guys to the likes of Fenris, Mac Bane and hell even Austin James Mercer and Jack Washington. Tune up matches for the established, but a chance. A chance for the fresh faced to make a name for themselves. I can respect someone with a history. You have history, Dubois. What little I can see, you’re not half step bad. You come into this with accolades and wins to your name and you’re here to prove you can swing and dance with the big boys. So they feed you to me. The man who has had two matches in the last month. A loss to the delusional, and a heartbeat’s missed chance at being the world champion. The man who caught the eye, attention and ire of our would-be ever king. A tune up match, some would call it. Shaking off that rust. Ensuring that when I step up to that plate one more time, I’m fucking ready for it.”


He lifts the glass to his mouth and knocks it back. Drinking it down quick. A sigh of satisfaction, the clink of the glass being placed back on the counter. A cigarette pulled from behind his ear, placed to his lips. Held there for a moment, he holds the lighter near it. Not yet lighting it.

“I’m not that guy, Dubois. I’m not that guy to simply overlook someone who is fresh faced and dewy eyed. You might be new here, but you ain’t a fresh fish in a big fucking pond of scum. You’re a big fish stepping into a river of seasonal salmon. Guys who drop in and drop out whenever they feel like it and demand the world gives them that. You’re stepping into my playground. Into my world. You’ve got the fucking workhouse of Sin City to run against in your first outing, and as good as you may be. As good as you think you are. As confident as you might think yourself. I’ve news for you, Del. Alexander Raven is the measuring stick, as much as the others may want to deny it. Jack wishes I’d go away but can’t acknowledge why I keep getting to the top. Austin James Mercer and I are joint at the hip, and as much disdain as there is there. There is a respect for two guys who don’t simply throw it in. The two guys who are here every fucking week to show up, put up or shut up. A mind straighter than a god damn arrow, and a world of things I need to prove. So you stand there, Del. Dubois. Iconic. Whatever you want to go by, and you listen up. You get ready to show up, or you get ready to be put down.”

“I’ve got my eyes on greater horizons, and you are just a step in my pathway. I feel for you, Dubois. I got lucky when I stepped into Sin City. I got to rip down Brandon Hendrix, a thorn in my fucking side. I got to settle my debts, and then I got to look ahead to blaze my path. A few stumbles, a few trips. Yet here I am, on the cusp of taking down arguably the greatest world champion that Sin City has ever seen. To be the guy who took his lashings, took the barbed words and whippings, and rose to the task. You beat me, you show the world you’re a player ready to take to the sky. You beat me, your stock hits the roof. You lose, it’s just another day at the office for us. I hope you are ready to show up, Dubois. I hope you don’t forget who you’re standing across from. I hope you are ready to step to the Napalm Kingslayer. Or else, you’ll just be another one of the forgotten.”


The flash of fire, the crackle of the cigarette lighting. A deep and sharp inhale, and he dropped his head into his hands. A hurting, broken man.

Get Out Damn Spot
Scene Three | Off-Camera

He’d told Luna he had to go and clean. He had to go and wash out the spot. He had to go and work it all out. She was going to stay with James, but for the first time in a long time. She asked him to call her when he was ready. She was holding it all together, and he didn’t understand how. He didn’t understand why.

“I love you, Lexi-baby.”

A soapy bucket, and a sponge. He didn’t even know what he was doing. He just let his mind work for him. Surely this would get the blood out. Surely this would wash out the stain. He was down on hands and knees. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. The more he scrubbed, the more it seemed to seep into the floor itself. The more it seemed to stretch. The more it seemed to extend into the greater world beyond. Scrub, scrub, scrub.

“You look like you’re fighting for your life there, Mr Rabenschwarz.”

Sullivan.

He stopped; his knuckles were red raw from how aggressively he had been scrubbing. The floor was soaked, but it was still there. The dull red outline. The staining into the floor. He turned and saw Sullivan sitting at a stool by the bar. He looked… unhealthy. Moreso than usual. He had a rough scraggly beard, his skin seemed even tighter and stretched across his bones than usual. He seemed to be less than himself. He didn’t even have that usual uncomfortable smile. No, for once Sullivan seemed strangely… human.

“What do you want?”

Sullivan smiled a little and shook his head. Tapping a finger against his temple. A cigarette pulled from his suit jacket breast pocket. Seems like they’d all picked up that vice again.

“I want Harrison back. I want James to be okay. I want my friends to all stop hating me. I want to be, Sullivan Pleasant. The guy who does the dirty jobs. Everything is falling apart, Alexander. All those years ago, you found me. You picked me up out of the gutter and put me back on a path. We don’t see eye to eye, but I respect what you did for me. I respect what you did for Harrison, and Luna and James. We’re not good people, Alex. We’re not good people at all. But I try to be the best person I can. I let Harry go, because he deserves to be free. Not to be leashed to a hound master. But free to be happy and loved. Not stuck with me. I miss him.”

Harrison had officially gone back to Ireland. He had changed his number, and besides Luna. Nobody had had contact with him. That was his choice. Harrison had always protected Luna, and she had always had a soft spot for the man with concrete fists. The brawn to Sullivan’s brains. Things had changed so much lately, and they’d all fallen apart. Once so tight knit, now they were hanging on by a thread.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, Alex. I need to… find myself. Find a way to be happy with a new me. I promise, I’ll find out who did this to James. I’ll pass it on. You can do with it as you wish. Goodbye, Alex.”

He left. As quickly as he had come, he was gone. Something felt final about that. That goodbye, it wasn’t a see you later style farewell. It felt… final. Sullivan was an odd cat, but he was worried.

“I’m just the angel of death.”

And he cried.

9
Supercard Archives / A Cowboy's Peace
« on: October 19, 2023, 06:48:56 AM »
Ride ‘em Cowboy
Scene One | Off-Camera

“You look like a wanker, rockstar.”

It’d been a while since Alex and James had hung out. The bar had been getting more and more busy. James never one for the managing side of things had been stressed beyond belief. He’d recently hired a young guy, very much James’ type, to run the day to day of the business. Rostering, scheduling and all that fun stuff.

This was the first time in a while that they had actually spent any time together. So why they were going horse riding in the Nevada desert was as good of a question as any. The answer? Alex really wanted an excuse to slap on a ten gallon hat and jump on a horse. Was it a good reason? Hell yeah it was.

“You can talk, dickhead.”

James was all denim and without a shred of remorse. Blue skinny jeans, a blue vest with the sleeves cut off. A plain white tee underneath. Ignoring the fact that he had also brought a ten gallon hat, a stark black in contrast to Alex’s bright white one. James, ever the resourceful one. Pulled a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebag, and a set of glasses. Alex couldn’t help but smile as he handed one of the glasses over, poured them each two fingers, and slipped the bottle away.

The raise of the glasses, a cheers and both men sunk their respective drinks in one swift motion. The sizzle, the burn and morning air. It was all very refreshing. They placed their glasses on a small table nearby, their ranch stay for the next few days. Things seemed a bit icy between James and Luna, as they hadn’t spoken almost at all over the last day. She’d elected to sleep in whilst they boys went riding, and so they were taking advantage.

“How you traveling, rockstar?”

Alex managed to keep his smile, but the wash of pain in his face was a little harder to hide. Luna had taken the necklace, and she hadn’t stopped wearing it. But she was as reserved now as she had been. She’d spent a couple nights at the apartment, but for the most part. Things hadn’t really changed. She was floating away from him, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

“I’ve been better, Jimmy. I’ve been better.”

James slapped Alex on the back somewhat roughly, and smiled wide. He couldn’t read his eyes behind the big framed and heavy set sunglasses. Alex could make a good guess though. The eyes were definitely not matching the smile. They loosen the ties on their horses and climb into the saddle. Turning them about as they take off at a slow measured trot. The sun is still only just beginning to crest the horizon. Very early start.

“I love her, Alex. Truly, I love my sister. But fuck me, she is a hard-headed bitch at the best of times. I don’t know what she got crawling up in her brain at the moment, sugar. But let me tell ya, she better fuckin’ come good soon. Else she's gonna lose it all again. And I won’t be backin’ that horse in your life anymore. “

Could always rely on James to talk straight. Never one to sugar coat things. There was more going on than just the marital problems. Were they marital problems? They weren’t married, but the old fellas down at the slots would always say anything with the missus was a marital issue. Regardless of whether or not you had ‘stopped renting the cow.’

No, there was a lot more going on in his world at the moment.

Doubts around his career. Doubts around himself. It was one thing to tear people down on camera. Hell, he could go blow for blow with most of them. But the confidence was a make or break in most instances. And his confidence had been low for a while.

“She’ll come good, I hope. Just not used to independence I think. Better this than the crystal saxophone. Take a win where we can Jimmy. Ain’t no Leon this time to take her down that path. I’m a little bit more worried about whether or not I’m doing the right thing. I made a call to give wrestling my all, but I don’t know if it really is my thing. Always the challenger, never the winner, you know?”

James shook his head, pulled a cigarette from a pack in his vest pocket. Lighter to follow, and the sizzle and burn of the ember. He offers one to Alex who takes it, and the small black lighter. Another sizzle, and the burn of an ember. Lighter back, as they pull out into the greater open fields.

“Then quit.”

Not quite the response he was expecting, but again. Nothing ever sugar-coated by James. The Pasilno’s were not much for making people feel coddled or warm. They said it how they saw it. Or at least, to make you think.

“Fuck no. I might be down in myself over it, but I’m still that fucking guy, James. No, I’m just not sure about where I’m going with it all anymore. I talk straight, and people cheer. Take a slight change, and they all hate me again. That’s when they even fucking remember me. One match this whole fucking time. One match is all those bastards could put together for me. No excuses if I come up short again. No claims of injury, no claims about work-rate. Not that there is a single other bastard working at my pace.”

James laughed, heavily and fully. Actual happiness in it.

“That’s the fucking fire they want, rockstar. Give ‘em that, and you ain’t got a thing to worry about, daddy. Trust me.”

Always a sounding board. A therapist with far too much judgement. Alex missed spending all day every day with his best friend. Especially in a world where Sullivan and Harrison were no longer joint at the hip.

“You hear about Sul and Harry?”

“Yeah. Harry’s a mess. Sullivan’s been drinking every night. Hard to read that boy, but. I don’t know, daddio. He looks might down on himself. Heartache everywhere I think. All too in tune with you and Lulu.”

“Harry’s going back to Ireland.”

James’ smile slipped and he nodded, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“He needs space. He’ll be better off without Sullivan. Just need to see what the world can offer. He always liked them freckled boys.”

There were dark clouds gathering in the distance. A worry, but hopefully nothing major. He’d rather not have their first ride out ruined by a sudden storm. Though knowing their luck it wasn’t far outside the realms of possibility.

“I think. When I hang my hat. I’m going to go back to Melbourne. Things were easier.”

James nodded and sighed.

“I ain’t moving again. Tired of following your scrawny ass all over the world, rockstar. But I get it. I just hope Lulu’s head is good by then. Take her with you, and just be happy. As happy as we can be.”

Alex nodded, a slight smile.

Imagining a world free of pain. Free of the schedule. Free of the arguments, the twitter fights, free of it all. No more nasty words, or people talking about their faux importance. The ability to be forgotten again. It all seemed so nice. Yet, even in peace. The ghosts would always haunt him.

A Ride To Success
Scene Two | On-Camera

The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon line. A picture straight out of a Wild West film, the Vegas mesas stretching up into the sky. High grass stretching into the sky. A few people saddled up, taking a slow horse ride through the landscape. Alexander Raven, donning a white 10 gallon hat. A flannel shirt, red checked. Boots, and black skinny jeans. Looking every part the cowboy he is pretending to be. He is sitting atop a Mustang, staring off into the distance.

“Sometimes, the most simple things in life are there in front of us. Staring us in the face, begging for the most obvious outcome. I was right, in that most people don’t think I deserve to be here. Jack is annoyed that I seem to be getting all the opportunities he thinks he deserves. Austin has been deluded into thinking that his recent achievements are anything but a confidence boost. Miraculously forgetting that he has still never been able to put me down. Not by himself, and not in a situation where it mattered. Goth went on another religious rambling rant. It was almost like I could hear the complaints people have leveraged at me for months and months now. The only difference being, is everything I ever said had a meaning behind it. Had reason to why I was saying it. I wasn’t rambling and mouthing off for the sake of rambling and mouthing off. The ironic thing being that even though I’m the one who deserves not to be here, Goth acts as if he has been given a mission by the very lords of redemption to be here himself. Despite having done… nothing? Though, I think the most insulting part is that of everyone. Carter had the least to say, and somehow. Some fucking way, James had the most? It’s wildly insulting, realistically.”

Alex pulls at the reins, turning the horse. The slight jab of heels and it begins to trot, moving through the long grass. The sun slowly creeping up over the horizon line Casting a golden glow across the morning sky. He raises a hand and tilts his hat down a little, obscuring his eyes from the sunlight.

“Actually, the most insulting part is everyone had more to say about fucking Michael Harris than they did about me. The arrogance of it is the worst part. The arrogance in simply shrugging their shoulders at Alexander Raven. You want to hear what I have to say about Michael Harris? He’s gone. That’s it. He had his chances, he fucked them up and now he’s gone. No more thought, no more focus. The attention is to be brought here. To the now, to the five other men who are standing across from you in that ring vying for a chance at the world championship. As much as it pains me to acknowledge, a fact is a fact. Harris is gone, and we are what is to fill that void. The irony of it being that the only person in this match who has done nothing to fucking earn it, is the man who thinks the championship belongs to him. J2H. James himself.”

“Why, you might ask? Let’s go back to our conversation a little earlier this week. The one where I called you out for using the most bafflingly, boring remark in wrestling. ‘Who’s that guy? Never heard of them.’ James has the audacity to talk about me being lazy. About me having done nothing. The real irony of that James? Jack is the only one that’s been as active as me this year. Were it not for me somehow not getting a match this cycle, which I have an idea on why, I’d be far and beyond the most active competitor in this match this year. That’s following my mental health breaks. My absences due to injury. That’s following everything else. This marks match fifteen for me this year. My fifth supercard match of the year. I haven’t missed a PPV since I signed with Sin City almost two years ago to the day. In fact, High Stakes twenty-twenty-one marked my signing with Sin City. I haven’t missed a supercard, I haven’t missed an opportunity. I’ve taken everything thrown my way and turned it into fucking gold. So if you want to talk about who is who, James. Let's talk about it shall we?”


Alex reaches up and takes his hat off his head. The sun finally crests the horizon line fully, the early morning warmth adding its colour to the world. A light wind whips the grass up as he rests his hat on a knee, patting the neck of his horse with the other hand, pulling it to a stop again.

“Let’s talk about how pissy you get whenever someone calls you out on your shit. Let’s talk about how a man who is so confident in himself was mockingly telling someone to turn on their TV, ignoring the fact that the person he is saying that to is the one actually turning up week after week. Let’s talk about how the man who has every witty retort in the world, had absolutely nothing to say when I suggested they needed five guys to make them look good. The only thing I can think of that James, is you’re worried about being fucking exposed. The only thing I can think of, Mr most competitive era, is how you seem so sure of your own ability to mock, when you aren’t uncomfortable with the situation. Or, that you’d put down a few too many single malts and the hands were feeling somewhat twitchy for once. I know some fluffers if you’re in desperate need, James. I promise, you’ll only need one to make you look any good. Though, if you prefer being handled by five, I can arrange that too.”

He smiles a little, shaking his head. Waving himself off a little with the hat, turning a bit in his saddle and then lowering himself out of it. Getting somewhat caught up in the stirrups. Clearly not a great cowboy just yet.

“You know what is the most outrageous thing? I could almost recite a Jack Washington shoot, word for fucking word. It’s the same thing, every fucking time. Coming out of whatever high he has been riding for the week, face up in a camera, whines and complains about the world being against him. Criticizing others for successes he feels unfounded, and then begs the question as to why nobody wants to give him the opportunities that he keeps squandering. You want to talk about how I keep coming back, Jacky boy? You want to talk about how Goth keeps coming back? Just like the sun rises and the sun sets, the inevitably of life is that Jack Washington will find a way to make everything a victim story and wonder why nobody wants to listen anymore. Death, Taxes and a whiny little Jack Washington. I get it Jack, truly. I get it. You’re sick of not being as good as you think you are, and you cannot place the blame on yourself for that. You beat me a few times. Congratulations. You’re still banging on this rhetoric that I wear eye-liner, write poetry, and hell. You got one right. I do take black and white photos, but that’s because I find it wildly funny how many take them so seriously.  You want to know why I keep getting these opportunities? Let me tell you, Jack.”

“I don’t know. I made it clear, I don’t think I belong here in this little rumble we got going. I’ve made it clear that my mind has been elsewhere. I lost focus, and I stumbled. I stumbled because you shook my fucking confidence. Not only did you take what I thought would be mine until I beat fucking Despayre’s record. But you defended it too. The one guy who for whatever reason rattles me to my core. It’s you Jacky boy. And I’ve done nothing but show you the respect I feel you deserve, yet you. You continue to beat down on those you feel lower than you. Instead of punching up, you kick mud into the wallowers who are doing nothing but trying to climb. Trying to better themselves so that they can feel good about what they have achieved. So what have you achieved Jack? You beat me, congratulations. You came up short in The Blast From The Past. You came up short in the World Title opportunity, again. You came up short in the King for a Day ladder match. You want to talk about someone who keeps getting handed opportunities? It’s you Jack. You keep popping up, keep stumbling and wonder why the world won’t give you what you think you deserve. I keep working towards earning what I want. What I need to do to get where I need to be. You want to know my secret Jack? The cheat code that keeps putting me in your path? It’s because I’m not a whiny little bitch who screams about the unfairness of it all. I took the bull by the horns and I worked. I take some time off to rehab some injuries and you try to lambast me over it? You’re only just matching me boy. You’re the closest to me in work-rate, but you’re a half step behind in doing anything with it. The highlight of your year? It was because I made you look good. Just like I’m going to make James look good. I might be one of The Forgotten, but I am not forgettable. I refuse to be.”


Alex places the hat back on his head, and turns away pulling a few strands of grass from the ground. Throwing them into the air. His horse chuffs a little before it decides to settle itself down, picking a nice cool spot to lay itself down. Alex smiles and finds a spot next to it, giving it a few rubs on the neck.

“You know who is opting to be forgettable though? Goth. A man so lost in his own mind he cannot see the stupidity of himself. Props to him, he got me good. I’ve never been one to deny a man being better on the night. I pay my dues, and the dues to Goth. Dude can go, no doubt about it. Yet, when it comes down to it. When it comes down to the nitty gritty details, I have to wonder. This is your first real opportunity back since injury. Your first shot at gold, a leap from the Roulette Championship all the way to the World Championship. I have to wonder, Goth. Are you truly ready to be back in the thick of it? See, I think you might be getting a little stuck up in your head. Delusions are my area of expertise after all. Why, it’s all everyone ever has to fucking talk about. Either they don’t know me, or they think I speak in rambling riddles and mockery. Nah, not even close to the truth. See, out of everyone Goth. I know your fucking game. I know what you’re attempting to do. I know how you are trying to get under the skin of everyone. I was right in calling you my club, brother. You are nothing but the instrument of violence that will be used to ensure the victory for one of us. My club hand, ready to lay out any who try and forget the danger that Alexander Raven poses.”

“See, I understand what you’re saying Goth, because I was a delusional little boy too. Shatter the stained glass lies, I cried. Rattle and shake the foundations of the false world built on the wallowing and festering filth of the mucky incestuous mixes below. Oh yes, Goth. I have a gift for rambling and going off. A gift for getting in the head of people. A gift for making them uncomfortable, making them unsure. I know why they think of me the way they do. I know why the crowd hated me so much. I also know why they now understand me. See whereas before I saw myself as the man who would save them. The Jesus in this story. The conqueror Alexander the Great, as you so pose. It’s the arrogance of it that really upsets people. So I’m not going to pretend that what I say has any more or less merit than the next Tom Dick or fucking Dirty Harry strollin’ on down. I do this, so that I can be remembered. So that when the lights go on, and the crowd erupts. They chant ‘Let’s go Raven! Let’s go Raven! Let’s go Raven!’. I do this because I want to be remembered. I want to be seen. I want to be the Forgotten One who everyone remembers. Not because they had to, but because they god damn wanted to. And nobody remembers the guy who wears a mask and rambles in riddles. Nobody remembers the guy who talks about fixing the invisible wrongs and fighting off the invisible hands. So let me give you a word of advice, Goth. Be unique. Not another rambling weirdo who everyone wishes would just go home.”


Alex leans back, further and further before he planks out and lays in the grass. Placing his hat over his eyes, smiling still as the sun touches his face. A wild discrepancy from the intensity of his worlds is the placid nature on his face.

“We start to round it all out. Carter, oh Carter. I like you, truly. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. But I do like you. One of the few people that has anything nice to ever say about anyone. You did decide to take a jab though, and we all know that I’m not one for letting jabs slide. I’ve said it, and I’ll keep saying it. Dark horse? Me? Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ve been on a downward trajectory, anybody can attest to that. Jacky boy sent me stumbling and tumbling, but you. You started it all. Rattled the confidence, something fierce. Rattled Luna’s confidence so early on. Made a good point of how you could be the man who knocked me off my perch. So I have to wonder, if your black of memory is because you wanted to be the Jack Washington in my life. See, I think you care a little bit more than you let on. I think you care a damn lot. And because you care, you can’t see two feet further than that which lies before you. The past is gone and the future remains shrouded in mystery because the present is all that matters to H. B. Carter. That ain’t a bad thing. No, in this circumstance it would be a good thing. The One True King, now he would’ve taken the low road. Made a remark about how your head can’t possibly be in this one. That the world is telling you that this is not going to be your day of success. No this is a day of sorrow, grief and agony. That the passing of your father was an omen. I’m not going to do that. I think you've become infinitely more dangerous.”

“Now you have a reason to win. A reason to fight off  all challengers and win. To prove that this is the year of Carter. This is your year to be the man walking out of High Stakes with the World Championship wrapped around your waist. That after all the agony, all the pain. After the fights with King James, you’re now the guy. But unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to play out like a fairy tale. No, because what lies before us less than deserving outliers is a pack of dogs ready to rip us from nose to tail, and run our guts along their reels. Yet I wonder if the past itself comes to haunt us all. Austin with his eyes set on you. Jack with his eyes set on Goth, and now. J2H himself with his eyes set on me. Actions leading to our inevitable demise, or perhaps a sweet outcome. Who knows? I know this at least. If ain’t me, it better fucking be you Carter. Why? Because not a single other one of them deserves it.”


The first few splatters of rain. A sudden sun drizzle to add some more interest to the pleasant morning. The horse shakes its head nudging its face into Alex’s side. Shaking him a little to get him up and moving again. A deep breath, a heavy sigh. He sits up, setting the hat on his head as he pushes up onto his feet. Grunting a little. The horse lifts itself as well, stomping its hooves a little in anticipation.

A flash of lightning. The whip crack of thunder. A storm is coming.

“Lucky last, King James. You don’t like me, James? You don’t respect me? You want to beat the hell out of me? I get it, truly. I understand the hatred for me, Austin. Too dense to have understood the references at the time. Too thick-headed to understand that I am willing to do whatever it fucking takes to put the big bad wolf down. Just like I did before. Just like I did with Fenris. Just like I did with Finn and Miles. The wolves who cannot stay out of this bird’s life, but continue to get their eyeballs pecked out. You're crowing like a mangy mutt, and you wonder why the world won’t bend to your whim. I’ll tell you why, Austin. It’s sad to see actually. Jack’s made a good point for months. You talk about being the big bad wolf, about being the man everyone should be afraid of. By your own admission, you’ve come a step short on that. Just like the whiny little bastard himself however, you continue to prattle on. Blaming others for your own inadequacies. You couldn’t beat me. You couldn’t beat Miles. You couldn’t beat Harris. Hell, who can you beat? Throw a ladder in, and you have a good chance. But throw some gold on the line? Oh no. You choke, every single time. The saddest part of it all, Austin? When you put me through that table all those months ago. Set me on the path that would lead to me being the Internet Champion, to continuing my path through Wolfslair. When you put me through that table I thought it was the start of something. I’m not stronger, but I’m a hell of a lot smarter. I’m not as skilled as Jack, but I’m a better brawler. I’m not as rich as J2H, but I’m far better of a wrestler. I’m not as quick as Carter, but boy. I am stronger than him. Each person is better than everyone else at something, but not a single one of them is as good as I can be.”

“You of all people know that, and that is why you don’t like me Austin. Not because you have an issue with the way I go about things. Not because you actually think you can beat me again. No, you have an issue with me, because you know at the end of the day, you can’t. You can’t beat me, hell you probably can’t beat a single one of the other men in this match in this day and age. What can you do though? Create some mayhem. Hurt people and make them think you have a chance at being World Champion again? No, I don’t think so. I may be The Forgotten, but just like Goth. Just like Jacky boy and hell. At this rate, just like Carter. You also run the risk of being just another guy who wasn’t good enough. Prove me wrong, Austin. I don’t think you can.”


Alex is back in the saddle now, feet in the stirrups. The sky had turned a dark murky colour real quick. A sudden storm. More lightning flashes, rapid cracks of thunder. The horse is panicking somewhat but not taking off just yet. Alex turns the spurs of his boots inwards, giving a slight prod, and pulling the horse around.

“Six men walk into High Stakes XIII with their eyes set on the top prize. Six men walk in ready to prove that they are the top dog, and that they can beat anyone put before them. Six men walk in, and only Alexander Raven walks out. Jack, James, Austin, Carter and Goth. Listen well, and listen close. I am ready to drag each and every one of you, broken, bloodied and battered over the line and dropped in the centre of that ring. I will choke each and every single one of you boys out cold if I need. And I will drop each and every single one of you on your necks if I have to.”

“The Conspiracy is here.”


With that he pulls the horse all the way around and takes off. Thundering across the open landscape, barrelling towards a ranch in the distance. The lightning continues to strike. A large flash.

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

10
Supercard Archives / Sin City Blackjack
« on: October 13, 2023, 08:10:09 PM »
How Does That Make You Feel?
Scene One | Off-Camera

The ticking of a clock fills the silence in the air. Alexander Raven is sitting in an uncomfortably lavish arm chair, directly opposite a well-dressed man. Unnecessarily well dressed for a middle of nowhere Psychologist. Therapy was an escape into a world that for a moment he could pretend to understand. But trying a new psych was always trying. Always exhausting, and always frustrating. The new man who sat across from him, did not fill him with tremendous calm.

“Tell me a little bit about how things are going at the moment. You mentioned that you were experiencing some fear around your relationship with Miss Pasilno.”

“Not much to say. Nothing of import anyway. She’s the only person that knows who I am. The only person that still sees who I am. The only person who has actively stood by my side recently. Yet everytime I turn to her for solace, she’s seeking her own. Seeking her own elsewhere. Happy masks being worn for people who don’t even fucking matter. I like Vhodka, but fuck. I’d be surprised if I’m not actually being slowly left behind for friends that are more exciting.”

The scratch of pen on paper. Notes being taken, the occasional nod and grunt of acknowledgement. It was somewhat off-putting actually. The sun had sunk to a rather low level, and a shadow was cast over the face of the man sitting across from him. His features were mostly obscured, but his mouth was visible. Pulled in a tight and taut line, a little curl of a smile. Not particularly reassuring, but it wasn’t malicious either. Deep thought, Alex assumed.

“And why do you think another’s friendship would invalidate your relationship?”

“Truth is. I don’t think I’ve ever really forgiven Luna for betraying my trust all those years ago. She places unending faith in me. She doesn’t get jealous, she doesn’t feel the need to be obnoxiously protective. But, that’s because she wasn’t the one who got burnt. I did. I was the one who got hurt when she sacrificed our relationship for the excitement that Leon brought. She got to be okay, and I had to stay upset.”

It was momentary, but he could swear there was a flash of a toothy grin when he mentioned Leon. Maybe it was a catch of the light. The reflection of the sun off the tie bar the psych was wearing. Maybe the pen. The scratching had stopped again. Another question, more probing. It was exhausting.

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive her? Is the resentment too great? If you’re not able to forgive her, would it not be smarter for you both to walk away? Less pain in the long run.”

Alex sighed. A deep breath, and a shake of the head.

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t fucking know. I need her to be present, now more than ever. Yet it is right now when she needs her space. A time to find herself. To be herself. And that is terrifying to me. For even though I cannot fully forgive her yet. Even so, I don’t know if I ever will. The person I am without her? I don’t want to be that guy anymore. If I have to be forgotten by the world. Then so be it. But I don’t want to be forgotten by her.”

Laughter. The psych was laughing. Alex frowned and began to think. When did he come here? Why was he here? He didn’t remember leaving the house. He didn’t even remember making this booking. Who was this Psychologist? Who was…

“Surprise bird-boy. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

The man launched out of the chair and wrapped a hand around Alex’s throat. The other pressed heavily against his chest. The pen straight into his heart. It pierced his shirt, his flesh and dug deep into the warmth beneath. A black goo flowed from the wound, instead of blood. Sharp pain piercing his chest.

“Fucking Leon.”

“You need help bird-boy. Everywhere you look, it's just me, me, me. You really do need to get out.”

His throat was tight. His chest was tight. Every part of him was screaming to move. But he couldn’t. The goo continued to flow from the wound. Inky almost, but it moved like it was alive. His eyes fixed with the psychologist that had lunged at him. Leon’s twisted smile staring holes into him.

“I’m the only person that fucking remembers who you are, Alex. The only person, and I’m not even fucking real. What does that say about your pretty little head, birdie?”

The goo continued to flow, enveloping him. The last thing he could see was that smile. The twisted smiled. Tearing into his soul. Tearing into him and then.

BANG!

He bolted upright in bed. Another dream. Another nightmare.

His window had slammed shut in the middle of the night. His blanket was pulled up and wrapped around his neck, slightly suffocating him. The black blanket symbolic of the black goo. Or maybe the other way around. He turned and looked at the empty space in the bed next to him. A pang of heartache, turning away aggressively and planting roughly back into bed.

He would happily be forgotten by the world.

But he didn’t want to be forgotten by her. Not anymore.

Undeserving
Scene Two | On-Camera

“I can hear it now. J2H, Austin, Jack and even Goth. They’ll all have the same thing to say. Out of everyone in this match, I deserve to be here the least. And I don’t deny that. I don’t pretend that I am anything but a body to fill numbers. Anything but a pity entry to add a little bit of spice to this otherwise straightforward affair. And I say straight-forward, because the simple fact is this. J2H and Carter are the only two that actually belong here. The only two with wins of Harris. Jack couldn’t do it. Austin couldn’t do it. Goth was hiding away nursing an injury and developing a mental schism with reality. The only people that are owed anything right now, are Carter and J2H. And I’ll stand by that.”

A standard blackjack table, a less than standard room for it. Green top, and five places set. At each place cards are dealt out.The face up cards are not standard cards, but have writing on them, as well as their suit. ‘JACK WASHINGTON’, a spade. ‘AUSTIN JAMES MERCER’, a diamond. ‘GOTH’, a club. ‘H. B. CARTER’, a heart. ‘J2H’, the joker.

Alexander Raven stands in the dealer’s spot, his own card face down. His hands flat on the edge of the table, a slight smile settled upon his face. He extends a hand out and deals a second card to the Jack spot. A three card.

“Jack Washington. The irony of this situation is not lost on me. The man who has beaten me, three times. The man who took and then retained the Internet Championship against me. The man who I see as my foil. The man who wants nothing to do with me, Austin James Mercer or Goth. Yet the more he attempts to get away from us, the more he becomes stuck with us. The part-time champion who thinks himself nothing less than the god designated world champion. The man who despite his screaming for recognition, continues to be denied it. The man who continues to fall one step short. Now with the opportunity to prove us all wrong. To beat Goth again. To beat me, the undeserving one, again. To stand over five other competitors and raise the World Championship high above your head and proclaim the godspoken truth. The truth that Jack Washington is the man among men. The one who, in what some would say is the toughest era of Sin City. Others would say the most lacking, regardless. You can be the one who stands above the pack and says “I fucking told you so.”

Alex shakes his head slightly, and taps his temple. A hand extends from the darkness that sits behind the set places. Waving that they will stand. A bad decision really, but one made. Alex sighs and clicks. The cards in Jack’s spot igniting.

“You are the spade Jack. Do you know why?  You’re the spade for a simple reason. That no matter what you do, you continue to bury yourself. You dig your own grave and pretend it is otherwise. The truth, Jack. The truth is that whilst I am forgotten. You are known for being just one step short. Unable to carry the loser Alexander Raven to victory. Not quite good enough to be Kind for a Day. Forgettable as Internet Champion, and a failure to the man who would eventually be dethroned by Miles Kasey. You’ve got all the talent, all the skill and all the charisma. You’ve got the world in your hands, yet you continue to dig down, in hopes that you’ll find a way up. The man who pretends not to care. The man who will, as always. Say they do not listen. Do not care for what we lesser persons have to say. Why listen to those who know nothing? I wonder, Jack. Why indeed should you listen to us? I mean, you’ve proven you’re better than me. I don’t even deserve to be here, right? Someone who showed promise but over and over continues to fail, and will fade into obscurity. The Forgotten, Alexander Raven. I made my choices lately. I’ve done a lot of thinking, a lot of introspection. I know myself better than anyone. I’ve been out, expanding my horizons. Battling some of the biggest juggernauts that this industry has on offer. Exploring the world, and battling my way across it. I’ve been fucking busy Jack. And whilst I’ve been busy, what have you done? Sat complacent and dug yourself into a grave. A grave of your own doing. For I continue to improve. I continue to find ways of stepping forward.”

“I am free, Jack. Free of myself, free of the expectation. And in being forgotten, I’ve become humbled. Humbled in the knowledge that no matter what anyone says. No matter their accolades. No matter the path they take. At the end of the day, Jack. Not a single fucking one of us matters. And that is freeing. That is relieving. That is beautiful. For beauty comes from simplicity. And the simple fact is this. I may not deserve to be here in your eyes. Or anyone’s eyes. But when I step to you, I keep stepping. I keep coming back, and you get more and more frustrated. I will be worthy. For you aren’t half the man you want to be, and aren’t half the beast you could be. Complacent and happy with being substandard. I’m not happy with being complacent. I’m happy with being free. And when I finally put you down Jack. When the world looks and sees that we are no longer neck and neck, it is clear that I have surpassed you. Will you continue to be your own spade? Content in sitting at three, when you should be aiming for twenty-one? Lethargy will be your undoing, and it will continue to be your undoing. For every person in this match, is hungrier. For every person in this match, I want this more. There won’t be excuses about how we were screwed out of an opportunity. Bitching about our lack of a one on one. No, there will be nothing but acknowledgement. Acknowledgement that whoever wins, is the peak of Sin City Wrestling. And you’re sitting in the depths. You’re going to go down in flames Jack. Because you can’t see beyond your own nose. And I pity you for it.”


Waving his hand, the burning cards sizzle out and a small pile of ashes are left in their place. The chair is pulled from the table into the darkness beyond. Alex now deals out another card, this time to J2H. An ace, also marked with a joker.

“The superstar himself. J2 fuckin’ H. James, I know how it must feel. Angry that what you feel was rightly yours, being taken away and then offered up to us less-thans. I get it man, truly. I get how it must feel. I’ll be honest, I don’t know much about you. That’s on me. I didn’t care to, I still don’t really care to. You, just like fuckin’ Jack. You prance in when it is worthwhile. Throw your weight around and demand that you be shot put to the top of the world. And why not? Your history speaks for itself. One of the greatest World Champions that Sin City has ever seen. Over a year in your first reign. A multi-time world champion, at that. Granted it took you five fucking years to do it, but, nevertheless. You got there, and then you proved why you deserved it. You stood at the top and you made everyone acknowledge who you were James. Unfortunately, the little bit I do know, doesn’t excuse you. Doesn’t improve you, and doesn’t change you. You are the Joker in this little scrimmage. Granted the one with a history of success in a similarly unfair situation. You won it in a gauntlet. Impressive, really. Yet beyond your own touting of success and import. What have you done? Like I said. You come back, throw your fucking weight around and demand that people treat you like a superstar. The star you haven’t been in many years. The star that has well and truly faded, and is getting by on the last bit of burn. I know as much as I need to know about you James. But maybe, you need to know a little bit about me.”

Raven extends his hand out towards the card marked J2H. Another hand extends from the darkness. Blood drips from the palm of the hand, staining the cards with droplets of crimson. Then it slips back into the dark.

“See, you and I, James. We grew up very different. Whereas you had the world at your feet, I was the poor kid of an immigrant family. A boxing daddy, and a home-making mama. We weren’t the worst off, but hell if I didn’t do it tough. See, whilst you were being the rich prick you inevitably would always be. I was learning to fight cunts like you for a living. See, I learnt young that the rich and the poor. Well there is a reason that we stay separate. It’s more than just the money. It’s more than anything else. See us poor kids, us beaten children, us victims of real life. We learn the hard way that life isn’t all cream, gold and expensive champagne. No, we learn that just like diamonds, it's going to take a bit of work for us. But what that does teach, James. What it does teach is when it is time to go. No matter how many people walk over us. No matter how many try to beat us down. No matter how often the ‘elite’ try to stand over us lesser. The Forgotten filth. No matter what they do, they won’t beat us. Simply put, James. You’re a joker, because you don’t really know what it is like to bleed.”

“And I’m not ignorant enough to deny that you’ve gone to war before. You’ve bled, you’ve cried I’m sure. You’ve been taken to the limit and made to see the extent of what your body can take. But your limits are just my upbringing. Your bleeding is my Saturday fuckin’ night. I’m not worried about you James, not because you aren’t a threat. I’m not worried because I know each and every person in this match will go a mile further than you could even think. You might think of yourself as the ace, but reality is. You’re nothing but a joker.”


The chair for J2H is then pulled into the darkness beyond also. The cards soaked in the blood that had been dribbled over them. The next card is dealt out to H. B. Carter, a queen of hearts. Alex’s face shifts from the smile to one of slight pain. His eyes closed, leaning down on his elbows on the edge of the table.

“It’s funny, Carter. Everything started to change when you and Ariana beat Luna and I. I never truly recovered from that moment. Yeah, I went on to beat Ken Davison. Funnily enough, something a lot of people can’t say. I beat Fenris and I beat Ken. I share a match with the few people that can say they’ve beat either or. That’s what makes this special. But, when we lost to you, when you pinned me. When you beat me. I lost my confidence. I was on a run that few others could have dreamt of. I was in fact doing more for that championship than the likes of Goth, Jack and the eventual Calvin Harris ever did. I was making it more than just another championship. I was making it THE championship. Who wouldn’t want to beat the guy who was taking down the likes of Austin James Mercer, Ken Davison and Fenris. Who was beating up and comers like Miles Kasey, and old names like O’Malley. And I know that it was expected when all was said and done. We’d go one on one, and we’d make the world see just how fucking good we are. I have every confidence that in a Carter versus Raven championship match, we’d be taking the match of the year. There would be no quips or qualms. It’d be clear cut. And everyone can query otherwise, I don’t care. Everyone can think and suggest alternatives, I don’t care. I know, and I know you know. That this, that fucking proving ourselves worthy of what we are taking is everything. You are the heart, because you are the one with it. The only one with the fucking heart to step to each and every person in this match and continue to fight back. Fight Austin James Mercer still. To clean the clock of J2H. To silence the asinine ramblings of Goth, and to put a bit of passion in Jack Washington. You are the heart of this match, because you damn well deserve to be. I respect you Carter, but that changes nothing.”

“I made it clear that I think this match should have been between yourself and James. I’ve made it clear that I don’t think I deserve to be here. But just because I don’t deserve it, doesn’t mean I don’t belong. Everyone else may have forgotten. Everyone else may see me as nothing. As the guy who was handed a World Championship opportunity after sitting at home since week one’s loss to Goth. And it’s true. I didn’t earn my way here this time. I sat at home thinking I’d been forgotten. Thinking that they didn’t care anymore. That my failure against Goth was the final knock in the wood, and the tree that is Alexander Raven had fallen. In a forest with no one around. Yet I am not silent.”


He thumps a fist against the table. The cards bounced a little. Another hand from the dark, this time placing a silver necklace over the cards. A silver love heart, split in two. Raven stands himself up and pulls down the sleeves on his white button up. Smoothing down the forearms.

“But here I am, once more being handed an opportunity to shine. And if history has shown anything. That when Alexander Raven is handed an opportunity, he will shine. That those who have forgotten just how damn good I am, will be made to remember. Because every person out there can see it. Every person has been waiting for it. Waiting for the moment for Alexander Raven to take control. To have confidence, to reach the heights that I damn well can. And I want to thank you Carter. Because without you, there is no change in confidence. There isn’t the stumbling, there isn’t the slump. There is a forward momentum of stagnation. And stagnation sucks. So thank you Carter. Thank you for being the one to undo my kingdom. To start me down the path of being remembered for who the fuck I am. I am a god damn former world champion. I am the best Internet Champion this company has ever fucking seen. And I will be the next World Champion. You can guarantee it.”

The hand from the dark, and a knife stabbed right into the cards, splitting the two halves of the heart necklace. The chair being pulled away. Alex waves his hands over the table, and then deals a card to Goth. A Jack of Clubs. Alex laughs a little and raises a hand to his face, obscuring half of it.

“It’s funny, Goth. It’s funny how alike we’ve become. Though you barrel down this path of a righteous saviour. Barrel down this path of giving redemption and forgiveness, you lose yourself. The man you stand as now, is not that man you could be. Is not the man you were. It is not the person you should be. Take it from the one that was accused of being the rambling goth, who waxes poetic and takes aesthetic black and white photos. You’re deluding yourself into thinking that what you are doing now makes any difference. You’re as bad as Jack, in that you’re digging yourself into a grave. The theoretical grave you were buried in. Yet you’re just a little bit dumber. For all my claims of not being worthy of being here, you are the biggest fraud of them all. A man who is here because they spent the last month beating up anyone who dared even look at you wrong. You crack me over the head for saying how confident I am in a rematch? I am fucking confident Goth. I am confident, because the truth is. You are not the scary redeemer you want to be. You are not the punisher, and you are not a messiah. You are a deluded man who is going to be shown the folly of their actions. The only fucking messiah Sin City ever had, was Alexander Raven. And even I wasn’t deluded enough to think I should be thanked for what I was doing.”

“No, Goth. You and I are alike because we are both delusional. You are living in your delusions and I am attempting to break free of mine. Both of us are fearing a life of being forgotten. Of being ignored. Of being left behind. I can admit my faults. I can admit where I fall down, where I lose, where I stumble. I’ve stumbled against you twice. I’ve stumbled against Jack many times. I’ve started stumbling against Austin and I’ve stumbled against Carter. And the difference between you and I, is that I won’t allow myself to continue stumbling. I will find my feet. I will find presence once more, and in my presence you will learn. You will learn why you are simply the club of my whim in this match.”


An iron mask is tossed from the dark and lands on Goth’s cards. A loud thunk as it lands, coming to a dead stop. Raven swaps the hands. Covering his eyes, whilst leaving his mouth free.

“I don’t have much more to say about you Goth. You are blind, yet your mouth runs free. I know what that is like. I know what it is like to be a slave to your own mind. But don’t worry. As the club, you will pave a way forward. You will get to unleash all that anger, resentment and vitriol on us. And when it has completely ebbed from you, and you stand looking down at your hands. Wondering whose blood it is you are wearing. You can take a moment to understand. Understand that you are doing nothing but deluding yourself into thinking any of this really matters.”

The chair from Goth’s spot is pulled away. Large coins being placed over the eyeholes of the mask in turn. Alex smiles and turns, dealing the last two cards out. One to Austin James Mercer and one to himself. Both are Kings of Diamonds. Alex laughs a little and shakes his head. Two small wood carvings are placed on the table. A wolf on Mercer’s cards. Alex takes the other, a small raven bird. He places it upon his own cards.

“King James. Our year started together, our year looks likely to end together. Though we’ve taken dramatically different paths across the last ten months, here we are. High Stakes XIII, once again in a match of great importance. We both fell short of the Mixed Tag Team championships. You beat me in the King for a Day ladder match. There’s no doubt about who was the clear winner in that match. We seem destined to do this dance over and over. I wonder if it has something to do with the fact you often mistake my silence for complacency. You often mistake my arrogance for being unfounded. But you also acknowledge that at any point. At any time, I can step up. That even at your best, there is a chance I’ll be better. And that is smart, King James. It’s smart because I know exactly how much you want this. You were my first, and you will be my last. And we will do this dance, again and again. Until time stops for us both. Because we are the kings, King James. We are the ones who matter. Wolfslair has been intrinsic in my success. Their failures have been my successes. Finn fell, Miles fell, King James fell. Every wolf will still fall beneath my boot, and that is okay.”

Raven dings the bell and throws his raven carving at the wolf carving. A sudden flash of light, a bang and then ringing. The world is dark, the table gone. All that remains is the empty place for Austin James Mercer and Alexander Raven standing in front of it.

“I’ve been silent for a long time, Austin. The only one comfortable enough to call me out on it, and actually understand it. Understand that my silence was not in fear. But in necessity. I had some introspection. I should have walked away. Let things happen and take my time to work it out. But I’m a glutton for punishment. I’m a glutton for the competition. Even in my lowest spaces I’d rather be in that ring breaking my body for the entertainment of those around us. I’d rather be collapsing under the weight of expectation, than to simply sit at home wasting away. And that is my promise to you King James. That now that I stand here, ready, focused and understanding. I’ll leave my silence at the door, and you. You can hear my rambling. You can hear my delusions. The things that get you off. The things that excite you. I’m here to please, and you King James. You will be happy, I’m sure of it.”

“But that’s not the point is it? This before us is the final test. Just like Carter and I, you and I had some of the best encounters this year. Some of the best battles of words, some of the most exciting matches. And no matter how much anyone tries to deny it. No matter how much anyone tries to say otherwise, the truth, King James. I know how to best you, and you know that I will do it when the time calls for it. So, when that bell rings. Will you let history take us again? Or just like me. Are you ready to be remembered? To stop being… The Forgotten?”


Raven reaches forward and places the two small carvings on the chair. He smiles and turns, walking away and disappearing into the darkness.

“The Conspiracy is here.”

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

11
Climax Control Archives / Buried Conflict and Internal Memories
« on: September 07, 2023, 08:55:57 PM »
Internal Conflict
Scene One | Off-Camera

The last few months had really run away from him. He and Luna were steadier, but there was a truth being hidden from her now. A truth that he didn’t truly want to believe in himself. A truth that he refused to believe. Leon was most assuredly dead. There was no number of phone calls, faked kidnappings and bizarre happenings that could change that fact. Yet if that was true, then that meant one thing. That the reflections were true. That the flashing memories were accurate, and that the truth he was trying to deny was in fact inevitable.

If Leon was dead, then Alexander Raven had been sabotaging himself. That the Leon Trucose that had threatened to destroy his world. That the Leon Trucose that threatened to ruin everything he had spent years trying to better, was in fact, Alexander Raven. This was a truth that he now had to deal with. One that threatened to unravel his world. One that threatened to unravel all his hard work.

He stood over the sink, the night air hung heavy with the smell of booze, cigarettes and sex. He hadn’t been able to sleep well as of late. Leaving Luna to sleep in the bed as he whittled away the hours. Climbing back into bed when the time called for it. Leaving her none the wiser, or so he deluded himself into thinking. She’d have to be an idiot to not notice the bags under his eyes, the huge amounts of alcohol that was miraculously disappearing. The fact that he was lights on but nobody was answering the door. Just his absence through the night. There were only so many times he could pretend that he was going to the bathroom, or getting a glass of water.

“Oh sweet baby boy. Does it hurt to know that I’m forever living in your head now?” spoke a voice.

Ghosts had a habit of being far too loud, and far too aggressive in his life. Staring into the mirror, he splashed water onto his face. Shaking the cobwebs away. Attempting to sober himself up just a little. The grinning man who stared back at him wearing a face not his own. Leon Trucose was dead, and that meant that he had to deal with his ghosts. Only the dead haunted him as such. The flick of the tongue, the unnecessarily white smile. Fake teeth that hid the years of abuse. He remembered a man so many years younger, so of course. Even his fucking ghost was full of youthful vigour. Why were they ever friends?

“Bad enough that you ruined everything for me when I was alive. But even in death? That’s petty. Even for you.” Alex answered.

“Alex, my dearest friend. I’m hurt. How could you say such vile things? Especially when we are becoming so close. Does my sweet Luna flower know you see dead people, bird boy?” Leon quipped.

A bizarre world he lived in where he’d prefer the berating and belittling of his father, over the faux belligerence of Leon. He flicked water at the mirror, the distorted face disappearing. His own face now staring back at him. The sound of dripping water sounding vaguely like that of a tapping foot. He turned, and leaned up against the counter top. The uncomfortably solid spectre of Leon Trucose was sitting on the toilet, legs crossed. A pondering look on his face.

“Sorry Leon. Our conversations are entirely our own. Nobody else needs to know how messed up my broken little brain is.” Alex snorted in response.

“You know what I think, Alex?” Leon asked, more statement than question.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” Alex sighed.

“I think you’re already afraid of being forgotten. And now, things are too easy. Too happy. Too nice. You needed a reason to be remembered. You needed to give them a reason to remember you. Before you fade into obscurity. Isn’t that why we were friends,  Alex? I ruin your life, you get a moment in the sun. I take away your happiness, and the world fawns for you.” Leon said. Without a shred of apprehension.

How was his mind so clear in its belittlement of him? Separation, and attachment. It was a horrific way to deal with his own insecurities. His own doubts. Yet here it was, laid bare before him. Fear of being forgotten. Unknown. He wasn’t wrong. Alex craved recognition beyond all else. For being known. For being wanted. For being loved. The icy-hearted beast he became after Luna was not for his own sake. It was to further control. It was to ensure people would continue to hack away with their tiny little ice picks. To thaw and excavate his heart. In turn, ensuring they recognised him. Acknowledged him. Remembered him.

“You truly are insightful. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be seen. To be remembered. But the way you think of it? That’s funny, and not in the ha-ha kind of way. Funny in how sad it is.” Alex said, his voice soft.

“Know what I think? I think it’s funny that you try to argue with yourself. Isn’t that right, bird boy? I’m just another person, wearing a face you know. Torture yourself all you want, it doesn’t change the truth. I’m just a figment of your over-active imagination Alex. I’m speaking what you refuse to acknowledge.” Leon replied, coolly, still with that ease. Not a second thought.

Alex sighed and turned away. He couldn’t stand to look at the gloating face. Logic said that this was indeed his own mind. A mental break that was attempting to force him to deal with things. Another part of his mind wished desperately that this was some form of dissociation. That the moments where he had no recollection of his actions, was a case of his mind snapping. That he had lost himself, to himself. That the convenience of Leon’s death gave him an out. A fake death. Another attempt at controlling him. Another attempt at ruining his life. It had to be.

Leon sighed from behind him. Then he was there again. In the mirror. Standing where Alex should be reflected and grinning. He wasn’t grinning, so Leon shouldn’t have been either.

“You’re never going to get better Alex. It’s almost… sad. Take care of my pretty Luna flower will you? Better than you did your sweet Lauren.” Leon mocked.

Something snapped. His mind had forgiven him months ago for Lauren. She had told him to move on with his dreams. Lauren had been his guidance, the shining light of happiness. He’d been forgiven. So why the fuck was his mind attempting to torture him with it again. He didn’t even think about it. His hand slammed into the mirror, an impressive amount of force to shatter it. The cracked shards sprinkling down from the frame, some larger chunks remaining attached. The grinning face was fractured in the spiderweb pattern, glimpses of himself. Glimpses of Leon, Lauren and even his father.

“Alex, what are you doing?” Luna’s voice came.

He shook his head. The cobwebs being cleared. His mind was slightly more focused. He frowned as he turned. His hand was cut up something fierce. Rivulets and streams of blood flowing from the open wounds. Luna grabbed a nearby towel and rushed forward. Wrapping it around his hand. He looked at her. For the first time, with fear. With worry. He was afraid of himself.

“I think something is wrong with me, Lu. I’m seeing ghosts.” Alex whispered.

She looked at him. Not with pity or remorse. But with worry. Sadness, love and worry. And his heart sank just a little more.

Buried Memories
Scene Two | On-Camera

Once again we find ourselves in a graveyard. A little less grandiose than the one in Brazil, but still as sombre. Three graves sit empty, a figure in front of each. Each wore a white sheet over their faces, the rest of their attire a black against the murky night that enveloped them. A few workman’s flood lights lit the nearby area, marking the empty graves. Alexander Raven is seen standing to the left of the furthest person on the left. A shovel in one hand, a marker in the other.

“It’s a little poetic, I think. The one time you and I ever got to face off Goth, was just after another Monarch for a day event. Mark Cross deemed it appropriate that the walking poet and the gothic one do battle. It turned out that my path would become intrinsically linked with both wolves and Saviors alike. See, I have this nasty habit of remembering things with a skewed vision. I remembered Austin James Mercer and Ken Davison speaking so poorly of me at the time. Fast forward, I beat both of them. In a reign where I made that Internet Championship fucking mean something. A championship that meant something to the would-be World Champion Ken Davison. A championship that meant something to our current king, Austin James Mercer. Fate almost, that my path would begin not with their disparaging remarks. No, not with them. No my path truly started with you, didn’t it Goth? The irony of the cycle is not lost on me. You beat Jack, Lachlan beats you, I beat Lachlan, who beats me? Jack. Funny how time works. Calvin Harris is attempting to break the cycle, and I respect it. But the way he wants to do it? A gimmick.”

Alex smiles and lifts the marker up, placing it to the white sheet over the face of the nameless figure. In large black red lettering ‘ONE TRUE KING’ is scrawled on it. One word beneath the next. He sighs and slips the marker away, gripping the shovel with both hands. He takes a step forward, standing just in front of the figure. Rearing back he holds the shovel like a baseball bat.

“History is important to us, Goth. See whereas yours continues to follow you, I do my best to bury mine. What I’ve learnt attempting to do so? That history has this nasty habit of creeping up on us. I failed to beat Bulldog multiple times for the Roulette Championship. I’ve rectified those wrongs, even having my first successful singles defence against Bill. A man of your past in fact. A man you did not fail to beat. A man that you beat for the Roulette Championship. A championship that you likely would still hold were it not for the unfortunate circumstances of health. As someone who once laid up in the hospital for months with brain injury, a cracked skull, and a multitude of burns. I can sympathise with being forced onto the sidelines. I can sympathise with the idea of being left behind.I can sympathise with not knowing if you’ll ever do what you love to do again. I can sympathise, because I know it. I was once the One True King. It wasn’t even a name I gave myself. No, the most ironic part of it. I didn’t want to be king. I never did. I just happened to stumble upon it. The most sane of the insane. Alumni of a former fallen federation. Alumni who banded together to show the new blood that we would not fall victim to them. Yet like any group, in-fighting is to be expected. The moment I was expected to truly capitalise on being the fucking king, guess what? My own partner dethroned me. Sent me on a downward trajectory. Had me beaten, had me down and took it all. So in stride. I became false. The False King, and the truth in the same. I watched as my own ego allowed me to be broken down. I watched as my own ego allowed me to be undone. And so the sword of damocles, fell.”

He swung, the sound of the shovel crunching against the face of the nameless figure. The one marked as the ‘ONE TRUE KING’. The person crumbled instantly, and fell into the open grave behind them. Alex sighed as he stood there. Nodding, and crossing himself. The lights flickering and then going out. Blackness taking everything.

“A toast to the former king, now slain.”

The lights come back on. The grave is filled with fresh dirt. A loose mound not yet packed down. The tombstone, a simple grey stone slate now had a small light illuminating it. ‘Here lies Alexander Raven, his ego was large and his fall from grace a sad sight.’ Alex is now standing to the right of the further right figure, marker in hand once more.

“We go through a lot to reach where we are, Goth. I mentioned earlier about fate. We crossed paths before at the hands of Mark Cross. Excuse the unintentional. This time at the hands of Zoey Lukas. Someone who I once had a war of words with. In fact, probably the reason behind the fire that led to Miles Kasey dethroning me in an unfortunately short first reign as Roulette Champion. Do you know what my first brush with fate was? We have to go a long way back for this one. In fact, you were challenging for world championships, and I was just a floundering upstart rookie. More obsessed with games and comics, than I was with my acumen in the ring. I’ve talked about this before, but I think it deserves repeating. Because it was the turning point. I was as happy as I could be. I was ready to take on the world, I was liked by the crowd. By the people. They cheered when they saw Alexander Raven. ‘Raging’ Alexander Raven, they called me. I was young, and I was angry. Raging seemed the appropriate nickname. The unfortunate part of it really is that I’m still fucking angry, Goth. Every day the pit in my stomach grows. Every fucking day that rage bubbles away. I'm an angry, angry man.  The asinine remarks are constant here. The bullies, Goth. I was made by a bully, formed by the bullying, and changed because of one. Bullies everywhere Goth. I fucking hate bullies.”

He takes the marker to the sheet over the face of this new figure. He scrawls across it in red once more, a name this time. ‘ALEXANDER REMINGTON’ The marker slipped away. This time holding the shovel more like a cricket bat. Standing side to the person he holds the shovel just in front of his legs. The spade tip looks dangerously like it is going to go straight between the thighs.

“I owe thanks to this man. Thanks for making me what I would become. For being the bully who beat up my other one. Crucified my father in fact. Hung him from the rafters and set him alight. That was the payment I received for splitting his skull with a steel chair. That was the payment I received for leaving him in a heap. Bleeding out and begging for mercy. Actually, scrap the begging. Remington wasn’t the king to beg, ever. No, he just smiled. Smiled knowingly. Even as he faded into unconsciousness, he was already plotting how he’d get back at me. That was the bully who shaped me. Alexander Remington was the one that put me to the sidelines. Cleaved my head, busted up my brain, cracked my skull and set me on fire. It was more than just payment. It was a message. A message not to fuck with Alexander Remington. Yet, here I am. Still standing, still going. Despite all the naysayers, the deniers and the haters. I’m still fucking here. I’m still clawing for success. I’m the former One True King, undeniable the best Internet Champion in Sin City Wrestling history. I beat wolves, I beat Saviors and I beat god damn kings. And every single person I put down? A bully wearing sheep’s clothing. But snap back to our last encounter. Snap back to the lies and filth spewed at the time. Alexander Raven was going to be a forgotten nobody. They want everyone to just forget about Alexander Raven. Yet they cannot forget, can they? They can’t truly deny what I’ve done. It is so easy to look at the failures, but acknowledging the success? Oh no. Not here. Not with these mongrels of hate.  But, everything equals out in the end.”

Alex takes a short step back and swings the shovel upwards. It misses the legs and careens upwards, cracking the underside of the figure's jaw. Just like before, they crumble in a heap, and fall backwards. Collapsing into the grave. Alex crosses himself once more and takes a step back. The lights flicker and then black out once more.

“A toast to the man who shaped me, now retired.”

The lights come back, this grave now filled too. The dirt packed down a little tighter this time, but still a mound on top. The light is gone from the first tombstone, now replaced onto the further right one. Another simple grey slab that reads ‘Here lies Alexander Remington, a great tag team partner, and greater adversary.’ Alexander Raven is now standing directly in front of the final figure. The centre grave, the centrepiece. The shovel is now gone, just the marker in his hands. His back to the world, face to sheet with the final figure.

“I am The Forgotten. I am the Napalm Kingslayer. I am motherfucking Alexander Raven.”

He lifts the marker and writes a single word on it. It is obscured behind his head for the moment, the marker slipping into a pocket. His hands suddenly wrapping around the throat of the figure, his arms tense, but not yet applying any pressure through his hands. The figure stands unmoving.

“But we must come to the present. We must come to today. To us, in this moment Goth. You are another blemish on my past. A mark of failure. A mark of discontent. But the beginning of a journey for me. A journey that led to me being who I would become. A journey that led me to Austin James Mercer, Fenris, Ken Davison. A journey that led me back to Jack Washington. The journey that brings me to this point. To being The Forgotten. To being the Napalm Kingslayer. This is the mark of a change for us. You journey down a dark path, and I. I want to be free. I want to be loved. I want to be seen. We all want to be seen, and we all want to be free. To be known. To be thought of. I am tired of the same tired bullshit every single week. Every single fucking person. I have to listen to the crap every fucking time. And I’m sick to death of it, Goth. I am angry. I am beyond angry, I am full of hateful rage. Rage that things are allowed to be this way. Allowed to be as messy as they are. Allowed to be full of bullies. I won’t stand for it anymore. I won’t let people put others down for the sake of their own vanity. I won’t allow others to be bigots of success because they feel they can. No fucking more, Goth. We won’t put up with bullshit like that.”

He tenses and pushes forward, shoving the final figure into the grave. The word on the sheet is visible for just a moment. ‘GOTH’. The figure falls into the final open grave, with a hard thump. Alexander Raven stands at the edge of the pit staring into it. His hands balled into fists, a slight shiver in the cool night air.

“I’ve stumbled, and fallen from grace. I have grown, I have matured. I have changed, because this place has made me change. You buried me the last time we faced off Goth. Put me down, and flitted about with ideas focused elsewhere. I am not to be overlooked. Never again. I will purge the bullies. I will cleanse them. In holy napalm we will fix the filth. I like you, Goth. But that doesn’t mean I can’t hate what you stand for. You are the first bully who will fall at our feet. The Conspiracy demands freedom. Demands recognition. And I am nothing but a servant to them. Every single person that watches us do what we do. Every single person that begs for an autograph, that asks for a photo. Every single person that acknowledges our existence for nothing more than admiration of our craft. I am doing this for them. I am doing this to be free. I am doing this because we are The Forgotten. And we will be fucking remembered.”

The lights flicker, and darkness comes once more.

“A toast to Goth, the Savior who started it all.”

Lights back. The final grave filled, Alexander Raven standing behind the final tombstone. The workman’s floods are now dormant. The only light from the small one illuminating the tombstone. This one a marble white, still mostly plain.

‘Here Lies Goth, the first bully to fall to The Forgotten.’

“Mark my words Goth. I am awake at last. And I am fucking angry.”

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

12
Climax Control Archives / Deception and Sleeping with the Dead
« on: August 11, 2023, 07:25:28 PM »
Deception
Off-Camera

Alone.

He was alone again.

Luna hadn’t been able to tell him the truth. Leon Trucose was dead, and they had hid from him. All of them had hid it from him. Luna, James, Harrison and Sullivan. The irony of it all, was it actually felt like a conspiracy. A conspiracy out to undermine him. It was the first time in months, hell maybe a year, that he didn’t have anyone around him. He was alone again, and that was scary. That reminded him of the isolation, the mortality. It reminded him of working through repressed anger. It reminded him of his own existence. Alexander Raven was alone again, and now nothing could change that. He needed to wake up. He needed to understand.

Between nearly bleeding out in Peru, and being uncomfortably humiliated in his outing with Gabriel. He had taken a moment to return home. To go back to the only thing in the world that cared if he came home or not. The only thing in the world that hadn’t been able to betray him. The royalty of his own home. That poor little pup, Duchess. The dog that was meant to be the reason he’d always come home. Not just for the sake of the animal, but for Luna as well.

The nest was cold and empty. Memories of her danced across the walls. The smells of the incense, the spray of the humidifier. They’d never officially moved in together, but they’d been living like it. This was as much her home as it was his. If not more. The quaint little apartment that had been brightened by something other than his own hand. Now it was cold and empty. Devoid of the brightness that seeped from the love. A home built on lies and evasiveness. There were only a few reasons in the world that they would have kept the truth hidden from him.

The most obvious was that it involved Lauren. The truth sometimes was brutal, and he assumed that this was it. That she had been unfaithful in their marriage at some part. Not just unfaithful, but with Leon. The man who stood to continue taking everything from him even in death. If he didn’t hate the man so much he’d almost be impressed. No proof existed, but the truth was hidden. The fact it was being hidden spoke for legions of truth. Lauren, before she died, had cheated on him with Leon.

Someone knew the truth. He suspected it was Luna. Leon would have told her, to hurt her. To hurt James, and in turn knowing it would hurt Alex. A terrible friend, but they always knew what to expect with Leon. It didn’t make it better. It didn’t excuse anything. Time had passed, and he was only finding out truths now. Truths that everyone else had had time to deal with.

Stroking absent-mindedly at Duchess’s floppy ears, he found himself sitting on a chair on his balcony. A cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, his mind floated through the past. Wondering where things had changed. Was there a moment where Lauren seemed to have betrayed his love? He suspected it was towards the end. He had been less than attentive in her final days. Selfish really. He couldn’t see her like that. He suspected it was towards the end that she had found solace in Leon.

It was hypothetical anyway. He didn’t know, and probably never would. Even if they told the truth now, it wouldn’t matter. It was the deception that was the problem. A deep, long inhale. He pulled his phone out. Another missed call. Another message asking to talk. He had tried to talk when he found out. He’d thanked James when he got home and asked if he could leave Duchess with him again when he flew out again. That was the extent of it. If nothing else, James understood why there was distance. He didn’t pretend that he had done something noble. The hurt was evident, but he would still be there. Alex respected that. Hell, it was James who had drawn the gun on Leon years earlier. Maybe that was why. He’d always assumed it had to do with Luna. Never to do with Leon hurting Alex.

Another deep inhale, and he unlocked his phone. He pulled open the messages. Apology after apology. Requests to talk. She was punishing herself. He needed her, as much as she needed him. Maybe more. Betrayal or not. The only way he was going to wake this all up, was with her. But would she ever be the executioner he needed her to be? It was unclear. He pressed the call button and held the phone up to his ear. Closing his eyes, continuing to stroke Duchess’s ears.

“Alex? Please don’t hang up on me.”

He thought about it. The world seemed to slow down just a bit. Deep breathes.

“Was it Lauren?”

The silence. The whimper. The acknowledgement in voicelessness.

“I deserved to know.”

“We wanted to tell you, truly. But the day James found you, strung out on the couch. Half between worlds. We made that choice.”

“Is that why he is dead?”

“He blamed all of us. For abandoning him. For running him out.”

Alex nodded, exhaling heavily. There were moments of silence. He could hear the whimpers in her throat. The attempts to hold back tears. Punishment for a crime not her own. One of attempted leniency. To save, not harm. He knew this.

“Come home.”

He was leaving tomorrow. Heading to Brazil. Preparing for the remainder of his world tour. Bermuda, beckoned him as well. Something was stirring, and he felt hollow. Things would never be the same in his world. But there was always the opportunity to be happy whilst he could.

And she wailed. Grief, happiness, uncontainable joy all in one.

Almost akin to a death rattle.

And he smiled.

Humanity.

Sleeping with the Dead
On-Camera

The sun was beginning to dip beneath the horizon. The low light of the waning Summer in Rio cast an eerie light over the Cemitério São João Batista, the Saint John the Baptist Cemetery. A labyrinth of mausoleums and graves. The maze-like structures create shadows within the long stretches. One of these hallway-like sections is occupied by Alexander Raven.

He is kneeling in the centre of the lane, his eyes cast on the ground in front of him. His hands held out, resting the backs of his palms on his knees. His palms facing upwards in offering.

“It’s an interesting little group we have here. The two men who took my crowns, and the former King who marked the beginning of my passage the Napalm Kingslayer. Strange bedfellows indeed, but an interesting one for me. I hold no resentment for Jack. I hold none for Miles, and I particularly hold none for Austin James. Jack deserves his praise, Miles and King James, whilst they stole what I felt deserving. They too are worthy. The problem however is this. Of all the potential kings, I feel like the imposter. The once false, who became true, now feels false once more. I no longer feel the Kingslayer I so adamantly screamed. I no longer feel the leader of the Broken, or the teller of the false prophecy. No, I am but a shell. A shell of who I once was. A shell of who I wanted to be. A failure. A failure that started with you, Jack.”

He lifts his hands up slowly, and holds them above his head. Shoulder width apart, holding an invisible object above him. Accepting the light from the world above.

“It started a while back actually. It was the first time we faced off, Jack. See, your nonchalance is upsetting to me. It bothers me, because it’s not real. The veil you wear doesn’t obfuscate you as well as you think it does. No, in fact it is more telling than you probably realise. I do not like you Jack, but not because you have my number. That’s irrelevant, truly. I don’t mind losing when it is necessary. All those who rise up will eventually come down. There is even some level of understanding despite your vitriol. You acknowledge, even if you hide it behind your false visage. You listen, even when you deny it. Because you need to know. You need to know what people are saying, and you need to know when it goes poorly for you. Understandable, really. So let me tell you something now, that you can listen to. Something you can understand. I will not save you. I do not mind losing, and because of that. I expect you will do everything you can to ensure that failure does not become us. It’s almost a guarantee. So I leave you with this, my fated companion. Will you let them break you, in order to prove yourself greater?”

Alex slowly brings his palms together, and touches his wrists, his fingers curling up towards themselves. The snap of fingers, and then a sudden shift. The moon hanging high in the sky, shadows thrown through the long laneway of mausoleums. Alexander Raven was in the same spot, but now in his curled fingers, a single rose. White petals, with a smattering of red.

“The white bleeding rose. A symbol of hurt, either given or taken. It’s appropriate for our relationship isn’t it, Wolves? You see, the three of us are inherently linked. It was through my demands of revenge on the mouthy mutts of the Wolf’s Lair, that we crossed paths. The one who defended the honour, the one who now realises its failings. The man I call King James. A man who I first crossed paths with, in that which awaits us. A stain on the mattress, I believe he called me. A flash in the pan. To be seen, thought of, and then forgotten. The same bullshit I have had to listen to, over and over. An argument without substance. A complaint without reality. Yet the irony of it all, is that each and every single one of you has said the same tried and tired bullshit. It all started with Fenris in fact. Another wolf who was blooded in my crusade of silencing the Kings of the past. Then was the would-be King James. Jack Washington was to follow, and then the pup himself, Miles Kasey. Like the bleeding rose, pain has been inflicted to my ego and my physical form by all three of you. But you in particular King James. You hold a special place in my heart. For as much as you hurt me. Broke my nose and belittled my existence. You were made to see the truth. That the lies are just that, lies. But in failing, King James. In failing you were hurt. Your reputation hurts. Everything to do with the big bad wolf coming back was broken. Because not only did you fall, you fell to Alexander Raven. The stain on the mattress.”

“Things have changed now, haven’t they? You appear to understand the weakness that I claimed in the pack mentality. The arrogance of it all. You are now passing that knowledge on. Passing it to the ignorant, passing it to Miles himself. Yet locked in combat, you are both far too focused on maiming to succeed. You collapse at the behest of each other’s whims and it undoes you both. The bleeding white rose is a representation of the fall of the lair itself. But in your failings, it becomes evident. Neither of you could stop me. On my worst days, you are dangerous King James. On my best days, you are another stepping stone in my path. And though I am sleeping, I will soon be awoken. I will soon grasp that which belongs to me, and I will tear it down. I am not a flash in the pan, a momentary distraction. I will prove to you again, I will prove to Jack Washington and I will prove to Miles Kasey. The world will see that Alexander Raven is not the story of his missteps. But the journey of his incomparable successes. Of all the Internet Champions, there is few that will ever be thought of as more successful than me. King James and I are forever linked as a result of it, but he can attest, I'm sure, that my path was not the easy one. So lift your head King James, and prepare to place it on the executioner’s block. For I will be the one who brings the axe down. This is simply fate.”


He wraps his fingers around the rose, crushing the petals tightly between his palms. He pulls his arms down and extends his balled hands out in front of him, slowly beginning to sprinkle the surprisingly untarnished petals from between his hands onto the ground in front of him.

“Fate however, was the time of calling for us Miles. That which sent me on the path that led me here, and which took you to heights you never thought possible. The man who handed Bulldog Bill Barnhart his second reign, and the man who gave you that opportunity. Fate was the call when we clashed for the Roulette Championship. Destiny however was the decider for when we next met. The Kingslayer and the fallen fate lord. You looked upon what was on offer and spited the existence that led you to it. Yet you are the biggest let down of them all, aren’t you? You were given every opportunity when you beat me, and you squandered it. You let the Bulldog get inside your head. You let the sway of love and romance distract you from what lay before you, and in turn. You became lesser. I know all about the weakening in the face of love. As much as I adore Luna, there is a simple fact that cannot be denied. Whilst she may make me a better person, she makes me a worse wrestler. In the same way, I feel I probably make her worse at this craft by simply existing in it. A cruel irony for lovers who would share a passion in slapping flesh on flesh. You interest me Miles, but the interest only extends so far. For what lays before us, is just interest. Strange bedfellows indeed. Can you co-exist with the man who hurt that which you love? Can you co-exist with Austin James Mercer? Can you co-exist with the man who you’ve spent months brawling with? Simple logic will say that it is an impossibility.”

“Impossible is the name of the game for us though, isn’t it? Impossibility is what leads us to a success that is beyond the measure of a normal man. Success reserved for future kings. This however, is not about impossibility. This is survival. None of us want to be here, Miles. Not a single one of us trusts the other. Not a single one of us wants to lose. But if I have to sacrifice anyone, I will. I will throw Jack to the wolves and let them rip him apart. I will throw you to King James and let him finally let him unleash the rage he seems to be holding in for you. Hell, I’ll throw Austin to you and Jack, just so that there is no big bad wolf in our way come Violent Conduct. For me, this is a game of numbers. A logic based approach would be to save myself. A logic based approach would be for none of us to give into the whims of the manipulative elite that seek to control and direct us in their own directions. But the ego. Ego is far too big on all of us to simply let this be nothing. No, this is a war of the bleeding white rose. A preview of what is to be expected at Violent Conduct. So I offer you, Miles, an opportunity. Do what must be done, and I will ensure you the legacy you so desire. Or maybe that in of itself is a deception. For benevolence is not the kingdom I seek. Happiness is not a path in which. No, Miles. What I seek is freedom from myself. A freedom from my own mind. I want to wake up, Miles. I want to wake up.”


He opens his hands, nothing remaining inside. A small pile of red tinged white petals lay in front of him. A slight smile tugs at the edges of his lips. The wind whipping through the long lane way, throwing them to the air. The moans of the stone against the elements echoing through the night covered graveyard.

“A labyrinth, is the greatest representation of that which lies before us all. A pathway to a greater end, hidden behind unending pathways to nothingness. Jack, Miles and King James. We are those who will affect everything going forward, and whilst this particular match is more one of mental gymnastics than actual result. We cannot deny that which it offers. A sacrifice. Who will bleed for the sake of the hurt we intend? Who will be our white bleeding rose? Who is the danger that must be stopped? Arrogance would suggest none, confidence would suggest oneself. Truth would tell us that all are dangerous. Miles and King James cannot stop me. I cannot stop Jack. Jack cannot control his ego, and in turn cannot stop Miles and King James. This is a test, and the only one who can win.”

“The Conspiracy.”


He slowly raises to his feet, a slight wobble after kneeling for so long.

“Sometimes, the most obvious pathway to success is right before our eyes. Are you all sleeping too?”

Raven smiles, and turns towards one of the mausoleums directly beside him. He steps forward, and then into it. The long pathway swathed in a darkness, the end of it hidden. A roaring sound follows a quick snapping sound. The rush of fire. Flames tear through the long laneway and cover everything. Bathing everything in the red glow.

Another snap.

Sudden darkness.

“Who will be the sacrifice?”

And then.

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

13
Climax Control Archives / Burn it Down
« on: July 21, 2023, 10:41:03 PM »

A Martyr

“Failure.”

Alexander Raven is sitting on a nice, if not a little septic, couch. A deep teal colour, shadowed by the lack of lights. A small coffee table in front of him, a large candle in the middle of the table that has a flickering flame. It casts a light glow over the immediate area, casting shadows over the face of Alexander Raven. White tee, white pants, white shoes. A stark contrast to the dark world around him. His eyes are masked by the shadows.

“Failure.”

He breathes out heavily, and shakes his head. Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, clasping his left hand over the top of his right. Pressing his forehead against his clasped hands, breathing deeply.

“The arrogance of this situation is truly baffling to me, Gabriel. I have fallen from the top of the mountain, and now. The Kingslayer is fed the filth of the vermin who crawl in the lower throng of the sewers beneath the city. You, Gabriel. You are a mockery of everything I have done to prove that I am something. You are a mockery of everything I have spent my time trying to disprove. That I am nothing but bluster. That I am nothing but hot air. That I am nothing but an excuse to be excused. Yet here we are. The second time I put my eyes on becoming King for a Day, and you are what is put before me. Is it a placation from the Invisible Hands that have spent the last few months in an attempt to ruin me? I wonder, Gabriel. I wonder what wisdom exists that puts your before me?”

“I ask, because I do actually like you Gabriel. I do not think you deserve the opportunity you are being afforded, but I do like you. I like you because you are totally oblivious. A delusional, angry man-child. Disconnected from the truth of yourself. Disconnected from the reality of the world. Arrogant and full of bluster, you are the mirror image of what they wish me to be. So it almost poetic. Poetic that they lay you before me. It is almost poetic that they put that of which people wish me to be, as the martyr for their stupidity. A sacrifice to a greater outcome. A moron to be culled for the sake of entertainment. I’m sorry that you must suffer for their arrogance. I am sorry you must suffer for their ineptitude. But your very own inability is what will be your undoing, Gabriel. But why believe me?”


Raven lightly taps his clasped fists against his skull, sighing heavily. A defeated, deflated man. Lacking his usual fierceness. Lacking that fire.

“I am tired. I am sad. I am lost. I am many things, but myself is not one of them. I’m despondent, Gabriel. I’m exhausted with being less than I should be. I am exhausted with failing. Failure, Gabriel. Fucking failure!

He kicks out violently, the coffee table flipping. The candle slams to the floor, the glass dish it was sitting on shattering. The flame continues to flicker, beginning to lap at the edge of a rug, threatening to set it on fire.

“People are wondering where my mind is at. I wonder this too. I wonder why I feel like I am asleep. Walking through sludge. I am not the person I was. The man who beat Lachlan Kane, stood toe to toe with Fenris and Austin James Mercer. The one who went hell for leather with former world champions every damn week. I am not myself anymore. I am asleep. I could make any excuse in the world. That I was playing the long game. That I was freeing myself up for greater things. That on any day, it was a matter of luck or fate that decided the outcome. The truth? I was afraid. I’m still afraid. I will continue to be afraid. I am afraid of being insignificant. I am afraid of being nothing. I am afraid of being forgotten. But my fear, my fear is holding me back. My fear is causing me to be lesser than I should be. Lesser than I could be. Lesser than I am.”

“I am without a doubt, one of the best Internet Champions that Sin City has ever had. There is fewer men who held it longer. There is but one who had more successful defense than me. There is not a single one among them that comes close to the pace, the difficulty and the danger I faced as Internet Champion. I avenged my demons. Defeated Miles, defeated Fenris. I slew kings in James and Davison. I made a victory over The Conspiracy mean something. It wasn’t just a win, it was a career changing victory. I suffered two losses in my one hundred and sixty eight days as the most dominant Internet Champions in history. What the fuck do I have to be scared of? I’ll put Jack Washington down, I’ll put fucking Calvin Harris down. I’ll put ever mongrel that steps in my path down, because that is what I need to do. I will defeat my fear.”


The rug catches, rapidly going up in flames. The fire leaping into the air, as it begins to slowly spread to the greater room. Throwing more light across the dull gloom. Alex is still sitting, unmoving. The flames threatening to leap to the couch he is sitting on. He slowly lowers his hands, placing them upon his knees as he leans forward. A flash of passion in his eyes.

“Failure, Gabriel. Failure is your story. And I apologise. I apologise for what is to come. I apologise for what you will inevitably suffer. I apologise, because you do not deserve it. You are disillusioned, deluded and just plain stupid. And whilst I like you. I truly do like you, Gabriel. You are everything that is fucking wrong with this place. A mockery of everything I have tried to undo. A mockery of the work I’ve done. To cleanse the Stained Glass Lies. To cut down every king, and melt their broken crowns in Napalm Death. You stand as the antithesis to everything I do. And I will snap your fucking neck for it. I will bleed your piggy little body.”

“Look upon your future, Gabriel. Look upon your destiny. I am the man who will fight fear. I am the man who will eradicate delusion. I am the man who will burn down all the world. I just need to wake up. Can you wake me up? Are you even aware of what is expected? I don’t want you to worry, but I need you to fear. I need you to fear what is coming. Because I want to smell the fear. I want to feel the fear. I need to feel the fear. You need to be afraid, Gabriel. Otherwise, you will be laid a broken, bleeding fucking mess in the middle of the ring. A cuntish little maggot good for nothing but the comic relief he refused to acknowledge himself as. A mongrel unloved by even their own kin. I will burn you in the Napalm Death if I must, Gabriel.”


Raven slowly stands up, reaching into his pocket. The flames leaping to the couch, engulfing it rapidly. He stands in a room that is burning down around him. All shadows eradicated by the blazing inferno. He pulls a cigarette out, placing it to his lips, and leaning forward. Lighting the tip of it with the leaping fire.

“My world is burning down around me, Gabriel. Everything has been taken from me, and I am now reduced… to you. I hope, you are ready for it all, Gabriel.”

“Luna.”

“I need you to Wake. Me. Up.


Inhaling deeply, the cigarette burning brightly, the ember flashing a bright red. He shakes his head, and sits back down, sitting in the flames. The world being engulfed in the flicker red and yellow. Obscuring before completely hiding Alexander Raven from view.

“The Conspiracy is here.”

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

14

No More
Scene One | On-Camera | 24th June 2023

A pier, a few people out fishing. Alexander Raven is sitting on the pier, a fishing rod in a holder next to him. A small esky next to him. His eyes are fixed on the water to the distance. Watching his bobber in the water gently sway in the light movement of the water. The sun is pouring down, and he has some zinc on his nose not fully rubbed in.

“I’ve been stumbling as of late. I’ll be the first to admit it. I stumbled against Jack Washington, twice. I thought my fire had come back in beating Barnhart, but that is far from the truth, isn’t it? No, it wasn’t fire. It was just a proof. A proof that I haven’t fallen, just that I’m… stumbling. That currently I’m missing something. That my eyes are not focused, and that my mind is lost. Calvin showed me up, there is no question about it. Washington is one of the best I’ve stepped in the ring with, but questionably, I wonder how much of it comes from freshness. I’ve been given my few weeks of recovery. I’m feeling better than I have in over half a year. I’m feeling more alive than I have in a long time, but that changes very little. That doesn’t change the fact that this is more than just an issue of the body. This is an issue of the mind. This is an issue of stagnation. I spent six months trying to beat the past, rather than focusing my eyes on the future. I spent six months fighting former kings, rather than putting my dominance over the future. Something I must thank Luna for. For showing me that the past can only hold so much. There is times when the past will keep you going. That the experience will show you something new. Something interesting. But stagnation is the death of the career. That stagnation is the death of success. That stagnation is what ensures kings fail, that kingdoms fall and words become nothing but that. Words. Luna showed me the revitalisation of new. Of moving forward. Of focusing forward. Yet, the past stands to mock me once again. In two ways, really. Austin James Mercer, King James.”

“A man who knows that in a situation of opportunity, none are more dangerous than a focused Alexander Raven. A man who knows that it takes more than brute force, and pure strength to beat me. A man who knows better than anyone that stepping to Alexander Raven invites a journey into a beating not previously expected. That Alexander Raven is more than just talk. For that is all I ever fucking hear. That Alexander Raven is just talk. Yet those who stand against me, learn the truth. They learn that the beating of fist on flesh feels far fucking realer than the talk ever did. That the blood that flows feels far more real, warm and painful than the words of fear ever were. That when Alexander Raven talks, it is not just bluster. It is in fact truth. A truth that Austin James Mercer knows well. A truth that another Savior, Ken Davison, knows well. A truth that fucking Fenris, Lachlan Kane and O’Malley all know well. Even Carter learnt not to disrespect Alexander Raven between the ropes. Washington will never admit it, but his acknowledgement of me, speaks legions. Every person who steps in the ring with Alexander Raven leaves with a better understanding of the man afterwards. A better understand that the words, are just part of the experience. That the words are not the part to be fearful of. That the words speak of what is to come, but the flesh and bone are what is to be feared.”


 Raven reaches over to the rod, slowly reeling it in a bit. Just a bit. Moving the bob and bait. Tempting the fish below. He reaches up, slowly rubbing the zinc into his nose a little bit more. A tight fitting plain white tee, and chino-style shorts. The cuffs rolled up twice, his legs hanging over the edge of the pier. A wide-brim straw hat, decorated with small white shells. Looking a far more normal man that he would normally present himself as.

“But the words, they are all I’ve had lately. Words, and no substance. There are few men tougher than Bulldog Bill Barnhart. But there is also nothing to be gained in his defeat. Beating the Barnharts to get here, was the most disrespectful pathway that could be given to us. There was never any doubt that we’d win. There was never any doubt that we’d step into the tournament, and despite the naysayers, we are the favourites. We are the favourites because this is it. We cannot afford any more stumbling. We can’t afford another mistake. We can’t afford to be the butt of anymore jokes. I spent six months as Internet Champion ensuring that nobody would question me. Tearing down every threat I could, to show that I was more than my failures. And then it was all stolen. And I was reminded. Reminded of the views of the world. Reminded of the insecurity of those who would stand behind us. For no other reason than to trip us up. For no other reason than to say they told me so. Because it is so much easier to tear down someone, than it is to accept that they have grown. Accept that Alexander Raven could be vaguely better than they give him credit for. No, because it is acceptable to tear people down. It is okay to bully them, into being what you expect them to be. And yet, I continue to push forward. Pushing out the white noise, and to grow. And I stumble. And I will stumble again. And again. And again. Because growth only comes when you see the issues that are sitting before you.”

“But no. No growth is impossible, because they tell me it is impossible. Growth is impossible, because they all know the truth. The truth that they refuse to change their own minds on. Truth that they think is owed only to them. But, I refuse to accept that. I refuse not because of these delusions of grandeur. I refuse because I want to know the truth. I want to see what lies beyond the arrogance, the bullying, the filth. I want to see what lies beyond the ignorance and depravity of it all. I’m extending my horizons, because I refuse to stagnate. I refuse to be stuck in the stumbles. I refuse to be acquiescent to inferiority. I refuse to be the truth that they want me to be. For I am not the simplicity of the deception. I am not the simplicity of any of it. I refuse to be mundane. I refuse to be simple. I refuse to be because I need to be more than that. No matter how much I want to prove that people are no more or less than each other. I’ve become aware of my own vanity. My own desire to be more than I am. To really be the Napalm Kingslayer that I demand of myself. No more false titles. No more pretending to be something special. For that is not the case. I want to be more than I am, and to do that, I need to stop hiding behind the arrogance. I want to be the difference maker in my life. And Luna has helped me see that.”


He shakes his head a little and stands up slowly. His eyes sit focused on the bobber in the water. His hands slipping into his pocket as he turns, slowly taking slow strides alone the pier. Finally turning his head away to face towards the horizon. Only going a few steps away before spinning and returning. Pacing back and forth.

“But enough about my semantics. Enough about me. Let us look at who stands across from us. From least, to most. Interestingly, both King James and Pitiful Vaughn hold equal levels of importance, for mostly different reasons. Oliver Zahn however. A mocking little boy. A man with arrogance to think he can step in and win. To take his skill and apply it in a way that will reward him. Oliver Zahn and Eiley are nothing more than pitiful children, looking to step into a world with juggernauts that they are not ready for. Oliver Zahn has no chance against the likes Peter Vaughn, let alone Austin James Mercer. A man with eyes too large for the success that he will not achieve. A man who denied those who rightfully should have been here, so respect in that. But again, nothing substantial. They offer naught, yet expect to take all. I can respect the arrogance. I can respect the bravado. What I cannot respect is the desire to do so at the forsaking of those far more deserving. What I can’t respect Oliver. Is that you are actually here, stepping into the ring to detract and take away from what we are actually working towards. I don’t respect you Oliver. I don’t respect you, Eiley. You are the rookie upstarts who do not deserve to be here. You do not deserve to even be in the running. Insultingly, to all involved. Miles Kasey and Alexandra Calaway deserve the spot you have taken. The dynamics would’ve been so much more interesting. Your arrogance stole that from us. Stole another face off with former litter mates, Miles Kasey and Austin James Mercer. Stole another face off of the battling beauties in Calaway and Luna. Stole my chance to show the misplaced belief in Austin and Miles. A belief that should have been mine. But, still. You mock that all and stand to gain everything. So perhaps you are concerning Oliver. Maybe I need to keep a closer eye on you. Maybe I’ll keep my ear to the ground for this one.”

“But the next person on my mind. Is you, Peter Vaughn. And you may wonder why that is. Unfortunately for you, it’s not you yourself that interests me. No, it is far more rudimentary than that. It is who you represent that makes you interesting to me, Vaughn. The Saviors, are arrogant bunch at their core. Full of themselves, with this holier than thou stance on it all. Ken Davison and I will go to war again one day, of that I’m sure. But in my recent encounter with him, I became aware of something. I became aware of my disdain for your arrogant ilk. I became aware of what I wanted to achieve, and what I needed to do to achieve that. I became aware that the Saviors are everything I have spent my time here attempting to change. A poison of the past that attempts to permeate into the future. A poison that builds in the depths of the filth, and continue to hold itself over us all. You, Peter, are part of that problem. Part of the incestuous filth that continues to dribble all over this Sin City and hold it down. You are part of that which needs to change to allow for the future to come through. You are part of what needs to change to ensure that the old school doesn’t ruin the modern. Doesn’t ruin the future. You, Peter, are the saviour of nothing but the status quo. You are the saviour of nothing but the conspiracy that keeps things from very changing. You are nothing Peter Vaughn, except for the failings of this place to adapt and grow.”


Alex comes to a stop slowly, and looks out at the water. His bobber now thrashing about somewhat aggressively, before being pulled under. He picks his rod up quickly, and pulls back on it, definitely with something hooked.

“But worse than you being part of the problem, Peter. Is that like Oliver Zahn and Eiley. You are nothing more than your arrogance. Double duty, to prove what? That you can be better than any others on a show as big as Summer XXXtreme? To show up the rest of us mindless drones who are only willing to risk ourselves once. Arrogance breeds arrogance, Peter. And your arrogance seems to know no bounds. I feel for Kimberly Pain being slogged at your side. Being required to carry your team, because there is no chance in hell you step into that ring any level of acceptable. There is no chance in hell that you step into that ring and feel you can adequately stand against Austin James Mercer and Alexander Raven. I’m not worried you’d be up to stand against Oliver Zahn, for, truthfully. It makes little difference whether or not he actually shows up for the match. No the bigger concern is your arrogance leading to your own downfall. Your forcing of Kim Pain to carry your ass through the match. To carry your arrogance to success. I feel for her, because you don’t. I feel for Kim’s pain. Because you clearly don’t. But it’s okay, Peter. It’s okay. For you are the next Savior on my journey. I bled the wolves, and now. Now I will bleed the Saviors. One by one, until they are washed from relevancy. Until their taint, their failings. Their poison is scrubbed clean from the veins of Sin City Wrestling. I want you to understand what it coming for you Peter, yet I don’t think you will. I don’t think you’ll fully comprehend it. And I feel for you, because of it.”

“Yet the man I have my eye on mainly. The man I cannot seem to avoid these days. Austin James Mercer. The one competitor in this match I respect. The one man I respect because our history shows our ability. King James knows the danger in underestimating Alexander Raven. King James knows the danger in Alexander Raven being given an opportunity to exploit the scenario. King James is a man who will break my nose and then wipe the blood on his chest. King James is the one to watch in this match, and the one man I believe capable of upsetting it all. Of taking my opportunity away from me. But I know our last encounter showed something to Austin. That being labeled with the pack mutts was nothing but a hindrance to him. Free from the shackles of the binding leash, King James is now a free man. And whilst I take harborage with both he and Miles being given the chance against Michael Harris before me. Whilst I believe that to be in bad taste, and poor faith. I understand it. For him. I understand the danger in Austin James Mercer, and so I will not pretend that this will be simple mathematics. I will not pretend that this will be the outcome that is beneficial. I will not pretend that the former champions are the safe ones to overlook. Because that is wrong. It is wrong to overlook Austin James Mercer, and I know the first hand.”


Alex pulls back hard on the rod, and then there is a loud snap. The line breaks and whatever was hooked takes the bobber, bait and half the line into the depths below. Alex sighs deeply, shaking his head. Throwing the rod onto the pier beside him.

“But I cannot let you walk over me either, Austin. I cannot allow anyone to walk over me. There is two promises coming out of this. When The Conspiracy wins. When we walk away as the champions, the open challenge begins. Every single week, every single card. We will defend the championships against any team that wants to step to the plate. New, old or anything in between. One off, or established relationships. It does not matter. We will be there, every week to show that The Conspiracy cannot be broken. But the other truth, the other promise. If Alexander Raven stumbles again. I will need to find myself. I will need to breathe. Recover. Explore. I’ve got my mind focused elsewhere currently, and that may be bad. I have my mind focused on those who I wish to fight, rather than those I am being forced to. Counter-intuitive, I know. But to offer the opportunity, rather than being the proverbial prey. It is a difference, that I cannot ignore. So, the two promises stand. When we win, we will be here every week. And if we lose…”

Alex smiles a little, lifting his head up, towards the sun. Through closed eyes, and a creased face, a smile. A bright, warm and happy one.

“Then I will step away. To allow her, her freedom. And to find my own.”

Alex turns away slowly, and lifts the rod from the pier. Holding it loosely in his left hand, about half way up the rod. He slowly walks away, off the pier and to the world beyond.

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

15
Climax Control Archives / A Journey of Suppression
« on: June 09, 2023, 09:32:05 PM »

The Future
Scene One | Off-Camera | 8th June 2023

“You’re having doubts again?”

“I always have doubts. I think they are just a bit louder than normal. I run away from my problems a lot Luna. You know this.”

“Yeah but. Running from this? It’s not like you, Lexi. It’s not like you at all.”

“Doubts, Luna. Doubts are hard to overcome.”

The tiny creature that had comfortably nestled itself into his lap. Terrifying. Humanising, and far too pure. Alex looked far out of his depth, and this was highly amusing to Luna. Why she had chosen a Beagle puppy, was beyond him. Yet the floppy eared, curious little beast in his lap did have a certain charm. His major concern, was that this was a sign that Luna’s mind about children may change. A change he could do little about. A clucky partner is one thing. A clucky partner when the other is lame, is something else entirely.

A man who was confident in every aspect of his life, was entirely lost when it came to mutual raising. A puppy was just a start.

“I picked her, you name her lover.”

He cocked an eyebrow, and sighed. Humanising. She was always find ways to soften his heart further. To ensure the man outside of the ring was far closer to a happy man than the closed off one he presented. A fixed messiah, if you will.

“Duchess.”

He had had a fair few pets growing up. It was one thing that his family had always wanted around. Cats, dogs, horses, donkeys, pigs and chickens. They’d had a veritable farm. Yet there was always one animal he held fondly in his heart. More than any of the others. A three legged one eyed dust coloured barn cat. Sweet as sugar, and always happy to see him. Her name had been Duchess.

“You sure do like your nobility don’t you? There’s a softness in there Alex. I’ll get it out to the surface.”

He knew why she was doing it. Even if his fears took him down a different route. A route he couldn’t give, and never had the desire to. The fear of children. The fear of a necessary family. Marriage, children and the perfect life. A life neither of them had ever even pretended to want. A life devoid of it all. Yet the sudden desire for a pet between them. A fur child. It was terrifying all the same, even if the logical part of his brain screamed at him to ignore the emotional. To ignore the fears.

“Duchess the Second, really. The first was a sooty little furball. Given a rough hand, yet always full of love. Always full of happiness. Always full of a desire to be loved and to love.”

“A sweet angel in the life of the hardened bird boy.”

“A sweet angel, to remind me of the kindness of the world.”

Luna smiled, with a gentleness he felt undeserved. A kindness he still strayed from. Vulnerability was something they’d been working on. Something he had been working on. They’d had their fair share of fights. Understanding what is open to one, isn’t always to the other. A learning experience he never expected he’d have to go through again. He lightly ran his fingers over the big floppy ears of the tiny pup in his lap. Gentle stroking the velvet soft fur. He’d always liked beagles, quietly. Curious creatures, always into mischief. Talkative and loud. A companion for the soul who needed to be pulled from their rut.

“She will always expect you to come home, you know? Dogs are smart, but they always need you to come back to them. You can’t self-destruct with her around. People may not hold much over you Alex. But she will. And if you have to choose, I know you’d make the right choice.”

That was the logical reason. To ensure he didn’t continue barreling down this path of self-hatred. This path of self destruction. He had his eyes fixed on an end goal, and once his mind was set. He was hard to stop. He was difficult to reduce. His eyes were fixed on the elder Harris. Perhaps to their own detriment. Luna and he both needed to have their minds focused for the upcoming Mixed Tag Championship match. Perhaps the timing of the animal was a bit early. Poorly timed.

“I thought James was the needy puppy.”

“Oh, he’d kill you if you ever went too far. Rather it be his own hand, than yours.”

They both laughed. They were far more in-sync with a lot of things these days. She could read him better, read his mind better. He could see the struggles in her eyes. The doubts, the fears and the confusion in her brow. He was becoming better at reading her, but it didn’t make it any easier to communicate. A man so confident in his own words, who was afraid of the slighest bit of conflict. The light yawning, the soft squeak of the sleepy creature.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

He turned, his eyes fixing with hers. His face gentle, the smile slipping. Not in sadness, but in determination. In confidence. In expressionless expression. He lifted the sleeping pup up, and held it next to his face. A smile nestled on her face. Fears assuaged, if only for the moment. The dog was more than just the logic, but less than fear. It meant that he would always come back to her too.

And then, it peed on him.

Suppression and Repression
Scene Two | On-Camera | 9th June 2023

“The arrogance of flaunting their own repression in my face. Three people given my opportunity, and now they flaunt the reality in my face. Disgusting.”

A faint breeze rustles the leaves of the overhanging trees. An empty park, a single bench illuminated by one of the few lights that line the walking paths. Alexander Raven is sitting on the chair, bare chested. His hair and beard rather disheveled, his eyes closed currently. The wind whips leaves along the ground. The world beyond is bathed in a low setting sun light. The edge of the orange creeping over the horizon. His left hand moving to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“There is this idea. This concept, if you wish. This underlying delusion that Alexander Raven is just a little bit nuts. That Alexander Raven is seeing things where things aren’t to be seen. Nobody is brave enough to voice the words. Why would they? No, if you acknowledge, you start to unravel the web. Yet it has been evident for many, many weeks now. This idea of suppression. Repression. The silencing of those whose voices raise above the cacophony of useless noise. The noise of the prattling, inane failures that crawl in the filth that allows them to be washed in the cleansing of the authority. The authority that now spits in the face of the one who is shouting for the light of truth to reveal them for what they are. To reveal them for the favourites they play. Insanity is trying the same thing, over and over, and expecting a different result. So why, why do they try the same thing over and over, and pretend that I am the one who is insane? Our consummate king, Michael Harris. He parades himself like the light of the world flows from his very mouth. That the arrogance of his own delusions, make lesser the truth that lays before the eyes of all who stand before him. No, you see, it’s baffling to me. It’s baffling that they continue to allow himself to run at the mouth, mocking the very faith and trust they put in him. Yet they do naught by ensure my voice falls upon silent ears. Austin James Mercer and Miles Kasey. Both men I have torn down from their lofty perches to show the truth of my world. Yet who do the favourites proffer to? Who do they give the opportunity? Why, King James and the puppy of the litter. Mac Bane, the man who continues to show himself naught more than the tester of true kings, failed to ensure the outward sources were silenced. The man who stands at the head of a group that flounders and flails in their own retched failings. Kings who invited the failed bitch of Adelaide into their arms, only to have her spit on their very inability. Mac Bane failed, and now we have Michael Harris.”

He shakes his head slightly, heavy breathing making his upper body shudder with the heaviness. The pinching getting tighter as his face screws up in anger.

“King James and Miles failed, and so we still have Michael Harris. Men who took my opportunity, and squandered it. Men who took what is rightfully Alexander Raven’s position, and failed to act upon it. And what do they do, to soothe my anger? What does the fawning authority do to rectify their own failures? They throw me back into the ring with Jack Washington, and expect all to be smoothed over. Expect that Alexander Raven will pin Jack Washington, and the two men will go about their lives happily. But no. No the man who holds championship defense victories over King James, Ken Davison, Miles Kasey and even the might Fenris. He is slighted in order to proffer the favouritism for their new favourite manipulator of the world. So we are stuck with Michael Harris, because they deny me the opportunity that is rightfully mine. The opportunity that rightfully belongs to The Conspiracy. So we must take what they offer and show them that there is no failure in Alexander Raven. That there is no stepping down for Alexander Raven. Luna and I will step to the plate, and take the returning crowns into our grasp. We will then run a gauntlet like no other. Each and every fucking week we will demand they find a challenger to stand against us. And if they don’t, we will make them feel the anger. We will make them understand that we are not content to be silenced for their favouritism. Yet before that. Before we lock eyes on our rightfully crowns, they place another mockery in front of me. Another betrayal of what should be mine. Another betrayal of the opportunity that belongs to none other than Alexander Raven. The nephew of the king, yet the one who fails to wield the blade effectively. Calvin Harris. The failed kin.”[/color]

He releases the pinch on his nose, smacking his closed fist to his forehead rather forcefully. Then again, and again. The knuckles leaving red marks on his forehead where they were beating against the flesh. His eyes snapping open. Bloodshot and full of bitter anger. They threatened to pop out of his head, bulging. A vein in his neck popping up.

“They deigned to leave us off the card, to try and placate our anger, yet ignore the actual gripes that we have. Listening at a surface level like all the filth that walks around us. All those who benefit from the deception of those who would speak out against the manipulation of power. They deigned to leave me off the card, to ‘heal my wounds’, and in turn. They further insult me. Calvin Harris is given my opportunity to step to Michael fucking Harris. Calvin Harris is given the opportunity he does not deserve, that he has done nothing to earn. Calvin Harris is given my damn opportunity. But do they apologise for that? No. Do they even acknowledge that the one person who deserves to be given the opportunity to dethrone their new favourite toy is Alexander Raven? No, they simply gloat and throw it in my face. The insult in putting me against the failed kin, Calvin Harris, is beyond any other. For the expectation is that Alexander Raven shall fall to the former World Champion. That the desire to redeem himself for coming up short against his better relative, will ensure that he does not misstep against Alexander Raven. That he will step to the man who they wish nothing more than to keep in a place of control. For once the truth is revealed, it is impossible to return the cat to the bag. Shredded to pieces, the bag of obfuscation will be no longer. But expectation leads them to conclusions that are far from the truth. Because one truth remains. It should’ve been me.”

He slowly stands up from the bench, pressing down on his knees. The vein in his neck still bulging, visible frustration etched across his features. Anger burning deep in his popped eyes. He violently jabs a finger into his own chest.

“It should’ve been me. Me! ME! Not you Calvin. Not Mercer, not Casey, and definitely not fucking J2H. No Mac Bane, no Ken Davison, and no fucking Fenris. No more lies and beatings to obscure the truth that lays before them. No more should they be allowed to manipulate and distort the fucking truth to fit their rhetoric. No more, Calvin. It should have been me. It will be me. I am the fucking Napalm Kingslayer, the man who will take the mockery of a king and put his face in the mud. I have no qualms about what would be necessary to ensure that I get the fight that I want. I have no qualms about doing what everyone else seems so fucking afraid of doing. I am a man who has no depths he will not sink to. I am man who will bleed for any outcome I see as necessary. I am a man who will bleed just for the sake of showing that I care about what I must do. His bitch wives? I’ll choke the mongrels out. He wants to play dirty? I’ll play fucking dirty. It is sickening to watch the bullshit play out, week after week Calvin. And you, you did exactly what everyone else does. You went in expecting better, and were shown up by the lesser. The filth and the muck do not care for the prestige and the pristine. The filth and the muck will dirty any who step to them. If you are not willing to take to the plate, you will be shown wanting. And that is what I will show of you, Calvin. I will leave you wanting. I will show you lacking. I will show that you are not in the ballpark of Alexander Raven, let alone the kingdom that stands before us. The kingdom of lies, deceit and manipulation. Of distortions and delusions. Hidden truths in plain sight, and the mockery that results. Do you understand me, Calvin?”

Alex breathes in deep, and lowers his hands. Palms outward, fingers splayed. A deep breath in, hold… hold… hold… slow exhale. The vein subsides, his eyes soften. Anger fading, but frustration remaining. Every feature, every line. Frustrated.

“It’s insulting, Calvin. It is insulting that they have deemed this an appropriate time to test either of us. It is insulting, because my mind is elsewhere. My mind is focused on ensuring that The Conspiracy flies in, stands on the ship, takes the crown and leaves. Tandem rulers of a mixed tag world. Those who will set the pace. Those who will set the expectation. The open challengers, the expected dominators. Those who will tear down the very foundations if they must, to ensure they stand at the peak of the mountain. The Napalm Kingslayer, and the Queen of Vanity. Accolade beseeches that we do what we must. So they deem it appropriate to flaunt their arrogance in our face, Calvin. They deem it appropriate to put us together. Yet they continue to slight us. Two people seen as challengers for the kings, yet denied the main event. Over and over, the penultimate match. Expected to set the scene for the main event. For the peak of the card. I am not a penultimate challenger, Calvin. I am the man, I am the king. I am the fucking Broken Messiah who will guide the misunderstanding and traumatised scum to their better tomorrows. I am the False Prophet who sings only prophecy of truth. The man who is always assumed the liar, but always speaks a truth that they would deny. I am not false because I am wrong. I am false, because I do not speak their truth. Do you understand, Calvin? Do you understand, failed kin? I hold not disdain for you, for being you. I detest you, because you took my opportunity and acknowledge nothing. You flaunt your inability in my face, and then you attempt to lower the stock of Alexander Raven. I am the fucking main event, Calvin. It is insulting that they would lower us, because of your failures. Because of your inability. Because of you, Calvin. I am once again subjected to their manipulation of reality. Their attempts at reducing Alexander Raven.”

Pacing, slow and measured steps. He takes a few steps past the bench to the left, and then turns on his heel and paces back the other way. Back and forth, back and forth. He raises a hand and taps a finger to his head, rubbing his temple. Closing his eyes as he comes to slow a stop.

“Calvin, I must apologise. You are not the focus of my ire. You are simply the target that lays before me. A person who stands in the path of my journey. The mockery that the elite, the authority, those whose names are spoken but in the shadows. They use you to show their power. Their mockery over Alexander Raven. They use you, to show that they do not care for Alexander Raven. That they would prefer I fade away. That they would prefer that the Conspiracy is silenced, put to pasture and left to the whims of the past. Maybe, just maybe, Calvin. Maybe I’ll do what they want. Lose to you. We lose the Mixed Tag Championships. And we walk away. We take our ball, and we go home. No more The Conspiracy. No more Alexander Raven, no more Luna Vanity. We prove them right, that not even we can change the wheel of fate itself. That the authority gets to push their control down on us all. Do you wish that too, Calvin? I wonder. I wonder if you care for us. I wonder if you think, like everyone else. They all claim Alexander Raven is nothing but bluster, hot air, a failure to live up to his own words. A career mid-carder. A career failure. I wonder sometimes myself, Calvin. I wonder if they are right, and I am wrong. I allow myself to fall into my own doubts, for what is a man, but a miserable sack of his own failings? What is Alexander Raven, but his own arrogance? A failed Roulette champion. A challenger, but never a winner. Only one of the best Internet Champions of the modern day, but largely ignored for the arrogance of his success. I wonder, Calvin. Will they remember Alexander Raven when I walk away? Will they remember Alexander Raven when I take my ball and go home? Will you remember Alexander Raven when I break Michael Harris’ fucking neck. Choke out his pretty little wives, and leave them all in a pool of their own blood. Will you watch as I break your family, Calvin?”

Alex slowly lowers himself back onto the bench, holding his weight mostly on outstretched hands. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, covering his eyes with his palms, fingers resting on his forehead. A heavy sigh, the croak of a bird. The scattering of pebbles thrown by the wind, skittering across the ground. His flesh going blue with the cold.

“Will they watch, Calvin? Will they watch as I pare the flesh from bone? Will they watch as I bleed you for the recompense I am owed? Will they watch as I take out my anger, my aggression, my hate. Will they watch as I prove myself to you? To make it once again, impossible for them to stand against Alexander Raven. To make it harder for them to deny my existence. To make it harder to deny who Alexander fucking Raven really is. The man who is owed the opportunity constantly stolen from him. The opportunity to show people the requirements of fighting the evil with evil. That their failure to understand the depths of depravity required to fight the delusional. The delusional bastards that keep the delusional kings in place need to be shown that their depravity is not equal to the traumatised and broken masses that follow in the wake of my kingdom. Disconnected, I am. Disconnected from the lies that they spew. Their false prophecies. I will make it impossible for them to deny me any more, Calvin. And you are the person who needs to be blooded. You are the one who will pay their debt owed. For taking my opportunity. For taking what was owed to me. Not to you. Not to Miles. Not to Mercer, and not to the failures who lay beneath my fucking boot. None of them are owed what I am. And yet they all get it before me. Mockery, Calvin. It is a mockery of my hardwork. It is a mockery of the prestige I brought to the Internet Championship. It is a mockery of the blood I’ve spent, the bones I’ve broken and the bodies I’ve battered and bruised. It is a mockery of all that I have done, that they place us here and act like it is worthy. None of it is worthy. None of it is acceptable. Yet you will continue on my path, and pretend it is yours.”

“So let me show them, your failures, Calvin. Let me show them what awaits their family, when they stand before Alexander Raven. The blood, the sweat, the tears. It is all for nothing, for I do not care. Deflated, Calvin. An unending battle, leads to constantly tiring. To constant failure. To constant exhaustion. They throw challenge after challenge at me, and yet they cannot break me. Yet the body stands for only so long. I wonder, Calvin. Will you break me, before I break you? Can you break me? Can anyone break Alexander Raven? I wonder. I wonder what you will do, Calvin? When you are faced with the reality. The reality that you mean nothing. That you are simply a lesser in the eyes of the greaters. A lesser in the eyes of the world. But I am happy to teach you, Calvin. I am always happy to be the teacher, for I understand what it is like to be the student. Depravity beats depravity. I can show you how, Calvin. Everyone thinks they know. Everyone thinks they have something that I don’t. Everyone thinks they are ready to go to depths, yet. Yet none know the pain of trauma like we do. The Conspiracy, the Kingdom of the Broken. The home of the Napalm Kingslayer. A place where the pain of loss is accepted. The pain of the world is given, and the pain is taken for strength. Beaten, bloodied, bruised and battered. Broken and left for dead. The depraved become the saviours, for only the depraved are willing to do what they must. So if I need, I will. I will break you, to show them all what I will do. I will break you, to show your family. I will break you, to show what I intend to do with any who step in my path. Win or lose, it matters not anymore. This is a journey of truth. A journey of understanding. A journey to expose the lies and the fetters of the unknown. The lies of misconstrued ideologies of the delusion favourites. A journey, that begins through those who take my opportunities. A journey through you, Calvin. Will you greet us with open arms? Or will you fall to the depths we expect?”


He lifts his head up, resting his chin on his palms. Touching them together at the wrist. Creeping his fingers up onto his face. A smile, cheshire in appearance. Wide and unfriendly. Lacking warmth. His eyes focused off into the distance, the flutter of wings. The croak of birds. The whipping of wind.

“Join us, Calvin. And we can show you everything you need.”

The Conspiracy is here.


The clap of his hands rapidly, the screeching of birds. Obscured in a whirlwind of sudden wings and feathers. Screeching, croaking, crying. And then they all fly into the sky.

The bench is empty.

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

16
Climax Control Archives / The Conspiracy is Here
« on: May 26, 2023, 08:52:25 PM »

The Conspiracy is Here
Scene Two | On-Camera | 26th May 2023

“So they want to see us burn? Fall and collapse? Silenced for speaking out against the tyranny of the lies? We will not let them.”

“Love above all else, they will learn to understand. Understand the peace that we offer, in accepting the truth. In accepting the future, as The Conspiracy deems it.”

A small table under a spotlight. Wooden, four legs, no larger than a metre by a metre. The world around it swathed in darkness. There is a steady beat, the bang of a bass drum. Boom… Boom… Boom… Over and over, steady in its rhythm. Two sets of hands extend from the darkness and rest their palms on the table. Heavily tattooed, one set far more slender than the other. Both with palms down and pressing lightly on the wooden surface.

“Battered and bruised, but not beaten. They hope to see us collapse under the unending pressure put upon us. A pace unlike that of any other.”

“Recovery is held for those in the accepted lies. Recovery is held for those who wish to be forgiven for their collapse. Recovery is held for those who are seen in the bright lights, as the golden child of incestuous filth. Not held for the rebellious scum who wish nothing more than to pull all from the depths of the sewers.”

Both persons turn their palms over and face them upwards. Pointed towards the light. In the male’s left hand, a small red crown is painted. In the lady’s right hand, a mirroring crown painted in white. Their unpainted hands slip into the veil of darkness beyond the table. Leaning down, their heads enter the spotlight. Alexander Raven and Luna Vanity.

“A victim of abuse, slogged against those who pull the train of experience, expertise and feigned mockery forward. Arrogant, selfish and insipid creatures without an out. They bathe the Queen in a crimson veil, to hope she bleeds out for their very sins. Yet beaten, bruised and battered. She stands tall.”

“Baptised in pain, the Queen is forced to walk a path that her King already paved. Fate, the unforgiving mistress. Unforgiving and unrelenting. The wheel turns away from them, and they are left to wallow in the dark once more. Yet refusing to give in, they pay their debts of blood. A King reduced to baying like a dog, battering the very representative of canine influence with the shackles of the agony.”

“Though opinions differ, she strove to be better than she was before. She strove to show the world that experience isn’t everything. No back down, no fear. The Queen would take the barbwire crown and wear it proudly, sheathed in the crimson waterfall that would paint her. Unforgiving is the steel that splits the flesh, and yet into the lion’s den she does crawl. They do not back down in fear. They do not leave in far of themselves.

“And now. Dual crowns, to seat themselves upon the apex. Dual crowns to appease blood debts still unpaid. Methods of appeasing the failures of the past, to lay the foundations of the Kingdom to come. And in our path, the very pair of mutts that would seek to turn the hands of fate against us, time and time again.”

Their other hands now returning to the light. In Raven’s hand, a dog collar, his hand wrapped in chain. In Luna’s hand, a wreath of barbwire, the barbs pulled upwards, emulating the crown of thorns. Their painted palms now slip from the table and disappear into the darkness. They straighten up, and their faces plunge back into the veil of dark.

“But fate has a funny way of ensuring our debts are paid. For before us, lay The Barnharts. Yet opportunity lays in the path of progress. For the stalwarts of resistance lay before us. Bulldog, Miles, Carter. Men who have stood against the path of progress and sought to end it. All three men who have victimised my very own self for their own benefit. Respect is given to all who can take it, but in this. In this a failure of progress. For Bulldog fell down, and has failed to stand again. Miles took the crown of fate, and failed to act. Carter insult us both, yet now wallows in the shadow of the very man who failed to act upon fate. Failure is the tale of this tape, and in this, we the greatest. The greatest of failures, for we never seem to live up to the expectations laid. Nay, the success is forever forgotten in the face of failure. But when the time calls. When it is demanded of us, to the plate, we step. King and Queen of Fate. The most dominant Internet Champion of recent time, and the woman who is taking the experience of the former, and making them work for every step forward they now attempt to make. Calaway fell. Salco refuses to acknowledge how close to failure she has come each time, but understandably. Success is founded in the blindness to the short-comings. A heartbeat of difference in reaction, and Jessie fails. A heartbeat of difference in reaction, and before you are the Internet and Roulette rulers once more. But fate, fate is not always in the hands of they who would seek to change.

“But laying before me, also a journey through possibility. A chance to show that Vanity, is all powerful. A chance to show that Vanity, is all encompassing. That Vanity does not fall short of the lies. That Vanity does not collapse when things are made hard. For they wish nothing more than to see us collapse. It is not a measure of chance that they put us up in the first qualifier. No, they could have placed anyone in front of the path. Calaway, Richards, Angelos. Any of them would have been fine, but no. The powers that be wish nothing more than to see failure befall those who would seek success. So success must be wrenched from their grimy mitts. Success must be painted in the path of The Conspiracy, for The Conspiracy is the only ones seeking to illuminate the path to truth. Calaway, Richards, Angelos, Eiley and Barnhart. They stand before us, and yet. They believe that The Conspiracy must be the ones to start it all. Charming, though it may be. The regret of leaving this path before us, will surely be their undoing. None can stand in the path of truth, and we will show them that one fundamental truth.”

Raven’s hands slide from the table, and disappear into the darkness. Luna rounds the table, and places the wreath of barbwire in the centre of the table. She steps closer, her face shadowed by the overhanging light. A highneck crop top, a black harness with clips over the chest and belly. A black leather skirt, a different look for the normally white clad lady. Hair pulled back tightly, cascading down her back in a long waterfall of hair.

“Acceptance. Acceptance is a requisite of progress. Acceptance that things are not always in our hands. That the cruel matron of fate, does not always play into our hands. Salco took fate into her hands, and denied me my future. Not once, but twice. Stole the matron mantle, and swindles it with lies, deceit and buffoonery. Molly-coddling and manipulative gas-lighting of the ignorant youth. Poor Harper, who must be treated like the ever child she will be in the eyes of the perfect and progressive Salco. Yet before me, lay another victim of success. Another victim of experience. Another victim of enduring legacy, that is tainted by their associations. Though Bea does not pretend to exceed herself, complacency is an insidious killer. Happy to remain in her lane, as the Barnharts are prone to do. Complacent and happy to remain lesser than. Happy to remain devoid of their possibility, for the sake of adequacy. Contentedness. Yet the world lay at their feet and they refuse to do anything with it. They refuse to step forward into the light. Self-love is within their grasp, yet they are battering rams for those who would take their vanity to their own essence. Bea, are you listening to me? I want you to listen deeply. To put aside the overbearing shadow that is your husband, your partner, the chain of repression. To put Bill behind you, and raise to the peak of success that is guaranteed to you. The success that you need only reach up and take. The brass ring that hangs from the stained glass lies. Pull free the shackles, and be bathed in the light of truth. Free from the mockery and delusion. Free from the cesspool of filth that they have us squabble and squirm in. Begging for acknowledgement. Begging for the progress that is our damned right. Our damned right, Bea.”

“The crown they have us baying for is not the first time it’s been in your sights. Former tandem rulers, however short of a term it was. I know all about having success ripped from you Bea. Salco put a boot to my growth, and I will not let her slip away into the future so easily. No, for I am one for blood grudges. Blood debts to be paid. My own vanity dictates that I cannot allow failures to simply slip away. Traumatised by those who would up and leave, I refuse to simply let those who wrong me, move on. It may be next week, it may be next month, it may be next year. It may be in the next life, Bea. But I will always pay the debts owed to me. And for the moment, Bea. This journey of recovery. This journey paved in the path of blood, sheathed in the veil of crimson ruin. You stand in my way. The Barnharts, in the way of progress. In the way of truth. I am, lesser than I should be. Broken, and beaten down. I have gone to hell, back, to back, to back, to back. But that is who we are. That is who The Conspiracy is. We are not content to lay back Bea. We are not content to wither and shy away from pain. Bruised, beaten and damaged. Blood flowing, cuts unhealed and muscles aching from the beatings. We continue to step up and forward, for that is who The Conspiracy is. That is what we deem as necessary for success. That is what we deem as the requisite part of peace. The King and Queen, the tandem rulers. They should not step away from any challenge. They should not shy away from any danger. We have our path in front of us, Bea. And whilst I may not be at one hundred percent. On our worst day, we are better than The Barnharts. Let that be known.”


Luna reaches forward and takes the wreath in both hands, wrapping her fingers gingerly around the barbs. The barbs digging into the flesh, threatening to cut through it. She grimaces slightly, lifting it slowly, placing it slowly upon her head. A set of hands coming over and grabbing her shoulders lightly.

“But I want to tell you something special Bea. Something that we’ve come to agree upon. Desperation paves a very dangerous path, and in that. A chance for immeasurable success. Happy and content with past success, we stand by and allow the world to continue to barrel past us. Content with failure, we allow others to think themselves superior. Better. No longer. No for we, The Conspiracy, have decided. That when we win the Mixed Tag Team Championships of the World. We will take on any and all-comers. Every single week, an open challenge. For that, Bea. That is our confidence in success. That is our confidence in growth. So fear not, Barnharts. You can smash your face against the barrel of failure, over and over. For when we win, the crowns will be forever out of your grasp. Forever out of your reach, and we will stand atop the mountain. Gazing down and pushing forward for an unending level of success. We will be the first of the new era, and the only. And we just know, they will find some people for us. Every single week. The authority, the purveyors and perpetrators of filth and manipulation. They will push their will on us, to see us collapse. To see us fall, to see us perish. For they do not want The Conspiracy to succeed. They wish to see you take us out, Bea. Don’t you see? You’re being manipulated by powers far beyond yourself. Denied of your own vanity, they lead you to think that you have a choice. That you matter. None of us matter. They wish nothing more than to keep things under their thumb.”

“No longer, Bea. No longer will be suffer at their whims. We will show them that there is nothing that they can do slow us down. So talk to Bill. Work it out. Understand that his respect for Raven will be your undoing, for he knows. He knows now that the path to truth lays through us. And in your acceptance of the inevitable, a path of opportunity. For the tandem rulers, will be benevolent. You can smash your face against the brick of the kingdom, over and over. Week after week, and the result will never change. Success belongs to The Conspiracy. And we will show them all, why that is the case.”


A smile spreads across her face, before the hands on her shoulder slide upwards to her throat, and then either side of her face. She closes her eyes, and then falls backwards. Plunging into the darkness, and disappearing from sight. The hands that were on her face, also disappearing into the dark beyond.

“Unforgivable are the failures of the successful.”

Alexander Raven steps forward, replacing himself where Luna had been. Around his neck, the dog collar, the held taut off to the left, someone holding the chain in the distance. He leans forward slightly, the collar straining against the chain.

“Fate puts us before each other once again, Bill. It seems we are destined to face each other over and over. Does that lower me, or raise you? I do not know. For it seems that regardless of each other’s success and failures. They deem us equal and necessary to repeat the past, over and over. One of few men that I can honestly appreciate. One of few who despite the settlings of the muck and filth. Despite the settlings of the foundation that holds the lies on this incestuous and filthy scum filled city. Despite it all, Bill is one of few with his eyes firmly in his own head. Fate, as it were. Fate deems to pus before each other once more, and in that. Revelation. Revelations of truth and power. Revelations, Bill. For we both know this fundamental truth. At the end of days, we will still be locking horns. Still be bashing heads, and the one truth. The one truth is Bill Barnhart is the only honest person in this god forsaken hellhole. Bill Barnhart is the only person that will step to the plate, and acknowledge his failures. Acknowledge that on the best days, the worst can still be better. Can acknowledge that the turns cogs of fate will chose their own champions for the sake of success. But Bill is a representative of the system I intend to tear down. The obsession of the elite, the authority, the ever-looming threat. Chris and Mark, if face and name must be given. They deem to keep the status quo. Keep us from reaching the summit that we need be. The Conspiracy, my own little kingdom. My pack of followers, and those who would listen to the words of this Broken Messiah. They bring the napalm, so that I may slay all the kings before me. Again and again, I will take the former shells of fallen kings and lay them to waste in the flames of retribution, freedom and cleansing. Bill, I will strip you clean, bathe in you flame and blood once more. Bathe you in a freeing wash of cleansing fire. And in that, you will tell all. You will be my own prophet. You will tell the world the truth, my truth.”

“For you see, Bill. I respect you because you are honest. You are true, you are blind. Blinded to the filth that keeps you in place. That shackles you, and returns you to their assumed place of content. No longer Bill. No longer should we stand in the shadows of their oppression and their control. No longer shall we stand for the failures of those with grandeur far outweighing their own insignificant lives. You stand in the pathway of eternal grace, and I cannot forgive that. I cannot forgive that they do not wish us to recover. I cannot forgive that they continue to push the broken and the battered. Wondering how long it will be until they break us. How long it will be, before we fall apart. But she speaks the truth Bill. You are stepping stone to the eternal truth. That the tandem rulers are not to be overlooked. That when we take the crown, we will stand at the apex of the mountain. That we will stand and defend against all-comers. That all who would deign themselves worthy of standing in the light and life of The Conspiracy, will be turned back into the filth that they so willingly relish in. You are a stepping stone, Bill. You and your precious wife, Bea. Stepping stones for our pathway to greatness. That once we take the tandem crowns, they will follow us to our grave. For we will give them what they want. An unrelenting, trundling path forward. An open challenge for greatness, each and every fucking week. Each week Bill. You can smash yourselves against the walls of our world, over and over. And only when you accept the greater truth. Only when you stand to shake and rattle the foundations of the lies. Only when you shatter the stained glass lies, will you see. Fate holds all, and we are the masters of it. For everything is a carefully laid out plan. I stand free. Able to journey to where I wish to. Able to take the path to greater success, and in that. A freedom unlike any other. A truth, free of the delusions and distortions of reality.”


Raven slowly kneels down, resting his head on the table. The chain slacks slightly, as the person holding it moves forward. They reach a hand out from the world beyond, and gently stroke Raven’s hair. Gently touching and caressing his head, fingers trickling down onto his face.

“But I leave you with this Bill, Bea. I leave you with a question. A question of your importance in my journey. A question with your importance for anyone’s journey. Is there a Alexander Raven in this place, right now, without Bulldog Bill Barnhart? Is there a rage boiling and bubbling in Bea Barnhart, were it not for Luna Vanity’s appearance in her match against Alexandra Calaway? I think not. I think that this before us, despite the machinations of the greater. Despite the ideas of those who wish to subjugate and control. We stand tall. We stand free. We stand above the control and manipulation. For it was in failure to Bulldog Bill Barnhart, that Alexander Raven’s blood debts began. Failure sits poorly with us, and we are not ones to accept it lightly. Blood for blood, and if not our own, than the others will flow. Two and three, Bill. Two and three, is the tale of our tape. Thumbtacks, submissions, dog collars. Agonies shared, and yet. Bonding too. I appreciate that we get to start this journey together, Bill. But I resent that they think it appropriate. A world of people to chose, and they slog us together once more. They ignore the weakening of the body, in place of pushing their own uninterrupted path. I will take the force, if I must. For Luna, she should not have been forced here. She should have been giving the grace of recovery. The grace of equality. But, they wish to see us burn in the flames we wish to start. And so, Bill. I must apologise for what must be done. Such as the apology for the dog collar, I must apologise here once more. For dashing your cute, committed little dreams before they even start. Before they even begin, Bill.”

“It is unfortunate, that we will not repeat the past on that wonderous cruise liner this year. Though I have no desire for it, another round of the speedo, another round of showing everyone that Alexander Raven is a king to be expected. It would have poetic, don’t you think? Alas, that is not what they hold for us. Not this time. Not this year. I will however, be crowned once again. I put Finn Whelan down, twice, to win that championship. I stepped through you and Miles, to do so. I will do that again, if I have to. I will step through every mirror of my past, and emerge the Napalm Kingslayer that I am becoming. The man who will cleanse this filth in the flames of righteous retribution. And so, when the tandem rulers stand at the apex of the mountain, none can deny. None can refute. None can escape the truth. That we are, what we are. The Conspiracy has arrived Bill. And we cannot be stopped.”


The hand stroking his hair, slowly slides away. There is a rough yank of the chain, and Alexander Raven is pulled from the table and into the dark beyond. Silence, the lone table standing by itself. The drumming had long since dissipated. Eerie.

Then Luna and Raven once more, step into the light. Opposite sides of the table. In her hands the dog collar and chain. In his, the barbwire crown. They outstretch their hands, palms pointed upwards. In the hands once painted with crowns, small visages of bulldogs, with large x shaped crosses through them.

“The hour draws near, and we will be ready. None shall escape the wrath of The Conspiracy. Barnharts, you are but the start. The start of a journey of ultimate truth. We will not be denied, and in our truth. Love. A love for yourself, for all others. Vanity beyond all vanity, for achievement should be recognised. And we will recognise every person’s achievement who throws themselves worthlessly at the walls of our kingdom.”

“The unforgiving steel. Chains and barbwire. Blood for blood, and napalm death. We stand ready, to take whatever is given to us. Do not fret, Barnharts. We will be merciful, for you are the only ones that have the opportunity to see the truth. My prophets and priests to be. Though you may not know it, you are guided by this humble shepherd. And all will be guided to my greater tomorrow. Free of the lies. Free of the distortions. Come, Bill. Come, Bea. All are welcome in The Conspiracy.”

The lift their hands slowly, pressing the barbwire against her open palm, and the collar and chain against his. Their fingers link awkwardly over the objects. Nods of affirmation, smiles, that flicker of anger and rage in Alexander Raven’s eyes. Luna’s with that ice cold cut, soulless and deep. Then the break, and step into the shadows.

“The Conspiracy is here.” “The Conspiracy is here.”

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

17
Climax Control Archives / Safe Distance and No Personality
« on: May 19, 2023, 10:10:40 PM »

Keep him Safe
Scene One | Off-Camera | 15th May 2023

“Mama Raven, please, keep him safe.”

Mother’s day had only just passed by, so it felt appropriate for them to make the trip back ‘home’. Alex had suggested it actually, much to her surprise. He hadn’t usually been one for sentiment. Not that she was aware of. The only grave he ever felt comfortable visiting was Lauren’s. Even now, she knew he didn’t make the trips as regularly as he did. She feared for Alex, because she knew death was such a sombre affair for him. Terrifying to the core, and it hurt her to know that she could do very little to soothe his fear. So when he suggested they go and say their dues to Mama Raven, she took the opportunity in full stride.

So they found themselves on the the little hill they had spent many years growing up on. Campfires, parties, drunken mistakes. The Raven home was always a fun time for them. It was bittersweet to think those days were long past. No mama, no vater. Alex held resentment, she knew this. They all held resentment for their less than perfect parents, but she knew he beat himself up over never truly forgiving them for their mistakes. Abuse was unforgivable, but Alex refused to believe the man who was tortured by his demons and the bottle was really his father.

She was kneeling in front of the small plaque that indicated the tandem graves of the deceased elder Ravens. Alex was standing a little ways away, staring into space. He had an unlit cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, his mind elsewhere. She smiled, as she looked at his profile. His features were so much softer when he wasn’t lost in the thoughts of bettering himself. A King to all but himself, it burned her very soul to know he couldn’t see himself through her eyes. She let the smile slip from her face, as she turned somberly to the grave. She lightly ran her fingers over the plaque face, moving some dirt and grass. Memories of their past, the stern woman who gave her some life lessons. Brutal words for the breaking of her son’s heart, but understanding of mistakes. Understanding of youth. But a warning. Bitter warnings.

“I won’t hurt him again, Mama. I won’t, I promise you. But please. Please watch over him, for the moments of my weakness. Our sweet baby. He is softer than us, you know. The sweet innocent boy who wears a cold heart to protect himself. Watch him from above, so I can watch him from here.”

She touched a finger to her lips and then to the plaque. The kiss of the protector, is how she used to describe it. A kiss to the fingertip, passed to the person needing the protection. Luna smiled and stood up. She felt his arms slip around her waist, his hands grabbing his forearms. His grip was tight, the cigarette still unlit, hanging from his lips. She reached over her shoulder and took it from his lips, placing it to her own lips.

“She always liked you, you know. Mama always loved all of you. Her own kids. Her own little flock. He did too. He didn’t know how to show it, but he loved us too. Demons are hard to fight. He just didn’t win the fight too often. But she loved you. I’m sure she is glad you are here.”

She slid a hand into one of her pockets, and pulled a lighter out. The spark of flame, the flash of heat and then the flash of the red ember. Bad habits were hard to beat out. She’d done a good job of quitting for a while, but being around James and Alex so often really did make it hard for her to keep it up. She never really wanted to quit, but like many things. She conformed to the desire of another in the effort of keeping peace. With Alex, she felt far more free. Felt more able. Alex disapproved, she knew this. But that was because he blamed herself for the relapse. Denying it would prove nothing, so it was best left to the silence. Small arguments not worth having.

“Ich liebe dich, Mama Rabe.”

Alex never spoke much German. It wasn’t particularly necessary, but he was pretty fluent. She remembered many days and nights where the Rabenschwarz family would slip into German. Arguments best left for their own ears and not that of their guests. Luna had always wanted to learn, but she was never a particularly a good student. Raven had never really wanted to teach her either. Probably for her protection more so than anything else. She knew some things said were probably not the most illuminatingly positive of her and James. Particularly of her. She might have been loved, but unfortunately. Luna also had an unfounded reputation growing up. Alex had bloodied his knuckles many times silencing the bullies. But reputations were hard to keep silenced.

“She’d be proud of you, Alex. She’d be proud of all of us, I’m sure of it. Proud of her little bird. I’m proud of you, baby. James is proud of you. We’re all proud of you.”

She could feel the reluctant smile. A man who was incredibly bad with compliments, but would take them regardless. She inhaled deeply, before blowing a thick cloud of smoke out. Her ribs still hurt, and her back was still littered with small puncture wounds. Her torso hadn’t recovered as quickly as she would have liked, and taking the match against Jessie Salco so quick after Into the Void may not have been the brightest idea. Yet she was determined to continue to show that the faith put in her was not unwarranted. Alex had prepared her the best he could, but she needed to make her own successes. His warmth against her back, made her somewhat more confident in all the decisions she would make. His soft touch, the gentle cleaning of wounds. Dealing with her threats of violence when he was disinfecting the punctures for her.

She would make Mama Raven proud of her, and she would make sure he was proud of her. She would show them their own vanity.

Distant
Scene Two | Off-Camera | 17th May 2023

“Hooker, let me tell you something.”

They’d closed up the bar early tonight. Thursdays tended to be somewhat hit or miss, and this week was unfortunately a miss. Luna had at least made a good run of it, sitting one wink off being horizontal to the wall. Through bleary eyes, and scattered vision, she looked towards the distorted mess that was her brother. Narrowing her eyes, she attempted to get some semblance of of her vision back.

“Only one hooker here, and I’m lookin’ at him.”

James laughed deeply, as he placed a glass in front of her. Water, sweet, delicious and life-saving water. To which she managed to spill half of it down herself, as she attempted to knock it back. Alex was on his way over to pick her up. He didn’t feel much up to being around the world tonight, so she had let him stay at home on his own. The man never slept a full night anyway, so she knew he would at least come pick her up. An early close meant he could actually get there at a decent hour.

“Shut your trap, and listen. You got that boy all twisted and busted up over you. Sugar, you got you wanted, yet you are here and he ain’t. You’re two clucks from done under, and he is sober to Sunday. What gives little miss?”

She swallowed down as much of the water as she could, and turned on her stool, resting her elbows on the bar top. She groaned, not at all wanting to be having this conversation. Particularly not with her brother. Yet she knew they wouldn’t be escaping it.

“Can we just fucking not?”

“Or we just fucking could. What happened, Lulu?”

Smoother than melted butter, his tone could switch up on a dime. She was so used to it, but she wasn’t immune to the sway. Her own brother was the most charismatic member of the family. Which meant that when he wanted to coax something out of people, he would coax it out of them.

“I don’t think he actually loves me, Jimmy. He says he does, but the words never have the warmth they should. Empty, hollow. I don’t think he even fucking knows what love is. I can see it, all the fucking time. Thinking, and thinking. Every word, every action, every move. I can see his mind moving for every god damn word.”

She’d felt James hand go to her shoulder, gripping it. Then she heard the slam of a door. She hadn’t heard it open, but she definitely heard it slam shut. James squeezed her shoulder, and went to follow. She stuck her hand out and placed it on his chest and shook her head.

“I’m sorry Lulu. I didn’t expect him to…”

“It’s okay. Argument to be had, thoughts that should have been expressed.”

She wobbled to her feet, James helping a little, before she pushed him aside. She was far too drunk to be having this happen right now, but maybe that was what was needed. A little bit of liquid courage to let her express her mind. Express her feelings. To not feel the necessity in keeping silent.

When she stepped outside, Alex was leaning on a wall to the left of the door. She couldn’t see clearly, but she knew the look. The hollow, empty and icy look. Alex had always complained about the Pasilno stare. The icy, cut throat gaze that stopped most people in their tracks. There was few things scarier in this world to her, than the empty, hollow look in his eyes. A man so full of passion, vim and vigour. To be so empty when everything said he should be otherwise.

“Tell me how you feel, Lu.”

The words were soft. Much more gentle than she was expecting. But they weren’t warm. They weren’t inviting. There was a hardness behind them. The cool, hard and incredibly frustrating logic. A smart person would diffuse the situation. Wait until cooler heads prevailed. A smart person would wait until the trickling of whiskey wasn’t warming the lashing of the tongue. A smart person she was, but not when it came to her heart. Not when it came to her soul.

“That, Alex. That right fucking there, is my damn problem. You shut down on me, all the time. You shut down, and you hold everything inside. When you are in front of the camera, when you are talking about being in the ring. You are full of life, full of passion. Emotion in everything. Yet here, here with me. Here with the person you say you fucking love, there is nothing. Hard and cold logic. Thoughts overthought and an icy tone to match your fucking bullshit approach to it. I fucking love you Alex, but I don’t even know if you love me back. You say it, but you say it the same way you ask for toast. You say it the same way you tell someone you don’t have a spare cigarette. You say it the same way you say anything mundane in your life.”

Alex nodded, fiddling with something in his pockets. He pushed off the wall and walked forward a little. She heard the door lock behind her. She knew James knew better than to listen in, so she wasn’t worried that he was eavesdropping on them. Alex kicked at the ground slightly, and nodded his head a little.

“Maybe you’re right, Lu. Maybe I don’t have the passion in the words for you, like I do other things. Maybe I don’t express myself adequately enough, and I can understand it leading to doubt. Hell, even now. This… this way I talk. It’s the only way I do know how to talk. Not because I want to, not because I want to shut down. Not because I want to be icy, and empty and without emotion. No, I think about what I say, because when I don’t, I say stupid things. You know? I say stupid fucking things, and then someone gets hurt. And if I hurt someone again, I don’t think I can forgive myself for that. So I do think, I do overanalyse. But, let me be clear on this. Do not doubt my love, Luna. Do not doubt the words I say, because the fact that I can even feel love again was surprising to me. The fact that you walked back into my life, and every part of me screamed not to let you in, I did anyway. And I’m glad I did, because for the first time in years. For the first time since I had to verbalise to someone that Lauren was dead. For the first time since I got that news, I felt some semblance of love and happiness. My friends, my childhood romance. My love. It was all back.”

She refused to let herself get emotional, but it was quite hard to tell if it was tears welling in her eyes from the fight, or just because she could hardly focus forward. He turned towards her, and she could see it. Not the hollow and empty look. But the pained, agonised one. A hurt puppy, seeking some love. The wounded dog, afraid of being approached but begging for someone to need it. Emotion.

“I don’t want you to think about loving me, Lexi. I want you to just do it. I don’t want you to think about the words. I just want you to say them. Say them how they are meant to be said, or do not say them at all. I want your stupid. I want your happy. I want your anger, your agony, your passion. I want all of it, but what I don’t want. What I cannot stand, is the distance. Do not be fucking distant with me, Lexi. Not with me.”

She stumbled forward, the world spinning slightly. He had stepped into her quickly, arms wrapped around her. Keeping her standing. His face hidden from her once more, but the warmth. The warmth was there. His warmth, his smell. It made everything better, just for a moment.

“I love you, Lu. Don’t you ever doubt that.

Warmth.

“Think less bird boy. Think less and love more.”

“I wish, you could see you, how I see you. I wish you could see yourself, through my eyes.”

And she swooned.

And then…

She passed out.

Ten years, No Personality
Scene Three | On-camera | 19th May 2023

“If I have to listen to this utter fucking cow talk about her ten years of experience for once more moment. I may actually purposely burst my ears drums, to save myself from the agony.”

The bustling of a casino, bright lights. Cheers and hollers from winners, cries of mixed anguish from the bigger loses. Blackjack, roulette, poker, baccarat and a variety of in-house games of varying levels of success. A stray table, a single dealer and one participant. Luna Vanity sitting at the table, dressed for the occasion. A loose jacket, fur-lined. A black bralette, clinging tightly to the frame. A slim leather skirt, a deep purple colour, with elegant stitching down the sides. Legs crossed, she has a stack of chips before her.

“I have to give it to her though. Jessie Salco is one slimy, conniving little bitch. Her ten years has definitely taught her something, and that is delusion. Delusion that she actually won on her own merit, when she beat me. Delusion that in a contest of actual skill, that she with her ten years of experience, would come remotely close to being on the level of this upstart. Jessie Salco, loves to play fate, and pretends that she is on the upper side of it. Pretends that the world is bending and twirling to her beck and call. That her ten years means anything in the grand scheme of things. Sweet baby angel, a decade can change a lot, but a decade can also make the monotony of the repetitive nature of the world the same. Ten years from now, they’ll be saying the same thing they are now. Opportunity missed, and a cow without any actual talent. Ten years, to build to her apex being the person to put the youth through the ringer, and nothing more. Ten years, is a long time, to be the court jester and never the Queen.”

“Ten years, is all Jessie can ever fucking talk about. A catch all, if you will. Whenever she succeeds, it is because of her years of experience and ability to think outside the box. Failure, well. Failure is to be expected at times, isn’t it? That’s not a failure of experience, that’s just the way that things fall down. No, in Jessie’s sweet and sad little world. In her world, success is a matter of experience, and failure is a lack of foresight. But never, never a lack of experience. Does it annoy you, that your whole person is reduced to just this idea of your experience is all you are? Nobody cares about anything else Jessie. Even you, reduce yourself to just veteran status. The accomplishments of the past, and your ability to ‘out-think’ because of it. It’s baffling to me, Jessie. Absolutely baffling that you can continue to this idea of yourself and not find itself wanting. I am all for self-love, self-acknowledgement and understanding of one’s own Vanity. Yet… I have to ask. At what point does the being alive longer than others, stop being a point of it? Stop being a point of vanity, and become a point of denial? Denial that you are nothing more than age. Nothing more than a failure of growth. Jessie Salco, the ten year veteran. What else do they say? Nothing, Jessie. They say nothing else, because there is nothing else.”


Luna looks at the table before her. Not a traditional roulette table by any means. Instead of numbers, the different colours were all occupied by three different images. All black squares were emblazoned with a red barbwire crown. The red squares with black steel folding chairs. And the greens with little flick knives. Luna leans forward and places a chip on a red square. The dealer dings the bell, and waves their hands over the table. No more bets. They drop the ball skittering onto the roulette wheel.

“Does it boil your brain like it does mine, Jessie? The repetitive nature of it all. How many times can I badger on about ten years, before it drives you fucking nuts? Because, let me tell you something sweetheart. Every one else is sick of listening to you. Every other person is done with the bullshit, the rhetoric, the over and over. The repetition of nothing but time. My sweet angel, do you know what I proved when I stepped into the ring with Alexandra Calaway? That experience means nothing, in the face of a would-be upstart with the arrogance, bravado and desire to prove the rat-nosed authorities to be wrong. I underestimated you, Jessie. That’s truth. Babygirl, I underestimated you, and you embarrassed me something fierce. So blood, would pay, blood. That creed of The Conspiracy. Bulldog paid for Alex. Calaway paid for me. A clean slate, a clean field. A focus and a desire, but an understanding as well. The Queen was not just one of pleasure and pride. The Queen was not just the vain one anymore. No the Queen, was the one who put the crown of thorns upon the martyr for the cause. Calaway bled, so that your transgressions against us, could be cleansed. That’s our creed. Blood for blood, and in the spilling, redemption. But the reality remains this. I underestimated you, and no matter which way you cut it. No matter which way you want to twist or turn it. The truth remains the same. You couldn’t beat me clean, and you had to think on your feet for a way that ensured I couldn’t get up again. And not because you beat me down, no. I couldn’t get up, because you actually tied my fucking feet. You tied me up, and then you stand there like you did a good thing. You stand there like it was a matter of out-thinking, and not a sleazy and snaky way to ensure you put this sweet little girl in her place. Because arrogance undoes you, Jessie. Arrogance that you are right, and all others are wrong. For in your own eyes, your delusion is what allows you to stand. But sugar, let me tell you the truth.”

“The truth, is that that crown is heaviest upon the head that would resist it the most. The crown is the heaviest upon the brow that is most undeserved. The crown is the heaviest upon the head of the false. How heavy is my crown, Jessie? How heavy does the mantle of destiny feel upon your shoulders? For I cannot imagine, my sweet. I cannot imagine the agony you feel in being so far out of your own depth. A step away from permanent failure. A step away from being forgotten, ten years in. Because what do you actually offer, Jessie? What do you offer that everybody else doesn’t? That you stand at the side of those who will be better? Sapping the youth and vigor of the fresh, to keep yourself relevant? There is something key that is taught in The Conspiracy. That no matter how much we support each other, every one must stand on their own. We are taught that you cannot rely on the experience of others to guide your own path. Something that sweet Harper could benefit from. Getting slugged with you at her hip, does nothing but slow her down. Deny it all you like, Jessie. But the success of her is purely for your own sake. Your own selfish vanity, devoid of the truth of self-love. You do not help others to lift them up. You help others so that you can take their achievements and claim them as your own. Take their success and state that without you, they’d be wallowing in the depths of the world again. I know people like you Jessie, because I was surrounded by Succubi of talent for years. Surrounded by the mongrels of expertise and experience for a long time. Yet I refused to be controlled by those who thought they knew better. I refused to be held down by the vampires of youth and life. Holding on to their previous lives, and denying the growth that I deserved. My sweet, I hope you understand what I’m saying.”


The ball comes rolling to a slow, clacking across until it lands on a black section. A crown of thorns. Luna smiles, as the dealer pulls a ring of barbwire from beneath the table and places it in front of Luna. She lightly wraps a few fingers around it and pulls it towards herself, before placing it on her head.

“But I don’t want it all to be hatred and bitterness. No, sweet Jessie. No, let us talk of arrogance. Of undeserved vanity, devoid of the self-love required of it. You see, delusion is something that we in The Conspiracy are doing our very best to dispel. Delusions of grandeur. Delusions of supremacy. Delusions that break everyone from the reality that lays before them. Alexandra Calaway, a delusional little girl. A victim of time, who believed their experience would lead them to success. A woman with far more experience in violence, decadence and barbwire than this sweet, innocent baby girl. How could the untested, wallowing rookie, Luna Vanity, truly stand against someone with so much more experience? I told her, what I will tell you. Experience means nothing if you are ignorant of the others past. You wear your success on your shoulder. Blathering at the gill to every person that will even give you the time of day. Ten year, ten years. Did you know, ten years? Ten years is the time I’ve spent trying to break every falsity, every rumour. To recover the reputation I had growing up, for simply being who I am. Unapologetically myself, which led to the disdain and vitriol of the false. But she didn’t care to know that. No, she just wanted to tell people I was delusional. That I was going to lose, that her experience. Her fucking experience meant something. I showed her, that experience means fucking nothing in the face of desire. That experience means nothing in the way of the person who wishes to succeed. The crown of thorns was donned by the the Queen of Barbwire, and I showed her. I showed her that all her knowledge with weapons. With barbwire. With her deluded reality, means nothing.”

“So I need you to understand this, Jessie. I’ve seen your tricks, I’ve felt your fists. I know what you’ll do. What I didn’t know the first time, lover. I know that despite all outward images, you are snaky. A sleazy, dirty little cow, who will take any advantage to secure a victory. To force the hands of fate in your direction. Lover, I do not appreciate that you pretend to be something you are not. I do not care for the fact that you live in this delusional little world. What I do care for, Jessie. Is what you are holding, validates this crown of thorns on my head. What you are holding validates my attitude. Validates my behaviour. Validates everything I fight for. The mantle of fate, belongs to us, to The Conspiracy. I am the matron mother of fate, that is undeniable. I broke the doldrums of failure and took the hands of fate in mine. Guided them, and you ruined it. You ruined everything, and you stand there like it was by anything more than devious means. Ten years to be nothing but a liar? Nothing but a snake? Unbelievably foul.”


She leans forward placing another chip down on the table. This time on where the 0 would be, on one of the little flick knives. The ding of the bell, the wave of hands. No more bets.

“But the drawing board brings many ideas for me lover. I had to take a step back, think more deeply on it. I had to think more widely on what I needed to do, to ensure that you do not get the jump on me again. If I had a knife, I could’ve cut myself free. If I had the steel chair, I could’ve put you to sleep. If I had these things, then losing would be an impossibility. So, to the drawing board I go. And you may think this a stupid endeavour. I understand the logic, sweetheart. I truly understand the idea behind preparing for every outcome leaves you weary for them all. The wheel decides everything, and to prepare for the unknown makes it impossible to see the truth that lays before us. But that is where I succeed, lover. I succeed because it does not matter where the hands of fate fall. It does not matter if it is the blade, the thorns or the steel that need define us. Because I know now, I can let you Jessie beat Jessie. Follow me here, just for a second sweetheart. You are so certain of yourself, so certain of your ability to exploit, and out think. So certain that you can beat down anyone who would step against you and by that. By that you are doing yourself a disservice. Fate dictates more than you acknowledge. You had a sole focus last time. To beat me. I have a sole focus this time. To beat you. Focus allows for single minded power. The blade, the knife. The knife that cuts the strings of fate lays in the hand of she who is prepared not for everything. But prepared for you. Angel, I am prepared for anything your ten years can throw at me, because you’ve played your hand.”

“Though, maybe cards aren’t your deal sweetheart. So let’s talk Roulette. Did you know it’s possible to play the table? The dealer is trained to look at people reading the table. Similarly to counting cards, the dealer has to see if people are reading the spins. Quadrants. It’s not an exact science, nothing ever is. But there is always a way to change the stakes. Turn a forty nine percent into a fifty one percent. Rig the stakes in your favour. So a smart player, they learn to read the table. To work out where the ball is more likely to fall. A bad dealer will always land in the same quadrant. Can you read the board Jessie? Can you read the strings of fate? Or will the flick knife that cuts the strands of fate blind the veteran? I am more inclined to believe Jessie. I am more inclined to believe that you are already regretting your decisions. An open challenge? What were you expecting? Who did you expect would be the first to step to the plate? You denied me the opportunity to not only embarrass sweet Alexandra, but deprive her of the title of the matron. The mother, the guardian. The guide of fate. You denied me that, by tugging my strings. So this time, Jessie. This time I will cut myself free, and leave you all tied up.”


The ball comes skittering to a stop, but lands on the red square with the steel chair. Not the green. The dealer shakes his head head, and pulls the chip from the table, a rough tap of the fist against the table. Luna sighs and shrugs, pushing the remainder of her chips forward, scattering them across the table. The dealer rings the bell, and waves their hands once more. And then, one more ring.

Darkness.

“It is only in the absence of reality, that we can see the truth before us.”

The snap of a light, and a steel folding chair is illuminated by a single spotlight. Luna sitting in the chair, cross legged. In one hand the ring of barbwire. In the other, an hourglass, with the sand almost completely trickled through.

“Time is running out Jessie. But it is okay, all things of the past must come to an end. You have had your time, and I am beginning mine. Just like Calaway, your arrogance will undo you. Just like all others who think they know The Conspiracy, they will be shown the error of their ways. Stepping stones to a greater reality. Free of the lies. Free of delusion. And free of the delirium of the elders who suck the youth from the fresh. I detest you, Jessie, for you refuse to acknowledge your shortcomings. But the sands of time run short for all who would deny them. Fate dictates that the mother takes hold of the wheel. For I am the mother of fate, Jessie. You are simply holding onto her. Onto my child. The wheel of chance. The wheel of fate. Destiny.”

“The Conspiracy is here.”


The final grain of sand falls through. Luna smiles widely, and lets it fall to the floor. The smashing of glass, the light going out. Laughter echoing around the empty world.

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing. 

18
Supercard Archives / Memoirs beneath the Hypocrite
« on: May 05, 2023, 10:31:08 PM »

Barbwire memories
Scene One | Off-Camera | 4th May 2023

Been a while since I wrote a diary entry. Been a while since I did any kind of writing really. Psych suggested it might be a good idea to start getting some things written down again. Sure, I guess. I might be a solid talker, but writing has never truly been my strong point. Where do we start?

I told Luna I love her. That’s a pretty step for me. The nightmares are less, I’m seeing and hearing my father less. Not completely gone, still there to mock and abuse. But not as often. Lauren… I can feel her face slipping from my mind. I don’t like that. I don’t like losing people. The connections, the ideas. I don’t like losing what is before me, yet I know I have to lose some of it. I’ve taken one too many bangs and bumps not to have some things fade. But her. Her voice. Her smell. I don’t want that to fade just yet. I know that’s not fair on Lu. She loves with her whole heart, and she is incredibly patient. Yet I cannot help how the heart feels on these things. Lauren was the rock that kept the anger at bay. That stopped Alexander Raven from going too far again. From doing things that might endanger himself or others. The current Alexander Raven, is the one she would have stopped. Maybe not the best thing for me, but it would’ve been the best thing for us.

Controlled, focused. A better wrestler, and not a brawler. Not a boxer, not a blood seeker. No, I would have been more controlled. I don’t even know if that is a good thing anymore. People are far more talented than I ever was these day. There are people who faster, stronger and more skilled. Yet I seem to get one up on them, over and over. Jack Washington. He is the next stop on this path, and I refuse to let his arrogant little fucking ass be anything more than the bully he is.

Sorry, emotional. Angry. Been angry a lot lately, actually. Feels like I was when I was starting out all over again. God, it’s been over ten years now. Twelve, maybe thirteen? It’s been so long since I’ve been thing angry. So long since I’ve been ‘The Raging Raven’. It was all so much simpler back then. Comic books, video games. Drinking and partying. Drugs. It was all so much simpler. But times change. I changed. I thought I changed. Lauren helped me change, but maybe. Maybe it wasn’t change anymore. Adapting rather than change. Fitting the role I need to. But I don’t think that anger every goes away. Being here. Being in the ring. Surrounded by people who refuse to acknowledge their own arrogance and bullying.

It doesn’t matter. I can control it. I have to control it. I have to control it for Lu. For James. For Lauren. For every single person who has acknowledged everything I’ve said to be true. For all the members of The Conspiracy. People think I’m insane. I know they do. People think I’m fucking nuts, and that is fine. Because maybe I am just a little. Just, slightly. Angry, and nuts. But I’ll show everyone. I’ll show them why you cannot discount Alexander Raven. And it starts with Jack Washington. For Luna it starts with Calaway. It starts at Into the Void. And I refuse to be embarrassed again. I won’t let it.

More of… More of a statement than a diary, huh? Oh well. We’ll try again next time.


The Hypocrite Beneath
Scene Two | On-Camera | 5th May 2023

Alexander Raven is sitting in a quaint little armchair. Horrifically patterned, and an obnoxious greenish blue colour. In his hand a pint glass with the yellowish liquid within. The room is sparse, the only other object being a tall wardrobe on the opposite wall. His eyes transfixed upon the wardrobe. One of the doors is slightly ajar, but the inside is bathed in darkness.

“Oh how it must be, to live in the delusions that you find yourself in Jacky boy. So fixated on the details, yet ignoring the larger truths. You weren’t pinned in your last world title match? But you did not win, Jack. You complain about Ken Davison, yet he has been World Champion in the last twelve months. You complain about Austin James Mercer, but he is the only person that has had the balls to step to the plate every time somebody begs of it. But you see, the biggest irony Jack. The biggest load of hypocrisy is that you cannot see beyond your own failings. You cannot see beyond your own bluster. You cannot see what you say is identical to that which you deny is the truth. Big and long winded, I believe these are the ways you describe me. That I talk, and talk. That I say so much but without reason. Yet, you continue to talk. You continue to dig yourself into holes of hypocrisy. Saying one thing but then feeling too exposed. Too vulnerable. Too real. You’re not listening, but then you tell me you not going to listen. You continue to prattle on about who I am as a person. An edgy goth dude. That I wrote poetry. You ever thought I might cry, make analogies I’ve never made. No, Jack. I am none of these things, and I have done none of them. You misunderstand me. You have no idea the man I am, Jack. You have absolutely no idea, because you pretend not to. You live in this self-indulgent world that holds you on a pedestal. That makes you feel valid in your achievements. A narricissitic approach to being an arrogant little bully if there ever was. Yet I do not abhor you for it Jack. Why, you have every reason to be confident in yourself. You have every reason to feel good about yourself. You have every fucking reason to be the man who sees themselves as the face of the franchise. Except! You’re not facing Michael Harris, are you? You’re not facing, Mac Bane, Austin James or even Ken Davison. You’re not facing current or former world champions. No, you’re stuck with me, again. So that leads us to two avenues of thought, doesn’t it, Jack?”

Alex tilts his head, raising the glass to his mouth. His eyes continue to stare at the wardrobe, as the door swings open slowly. Only slightly further but enough for a couple of rubbish bags to tumble to the floor. Black with yellow ties, the insides obscured. They’re bizarrely shaped, lumpy and swollen. Alex nods a little as he lifts himself out the chair and steps forward towards the bag, still holding the glass for the moment.

“What’s that Kenneth? Jack doesn’t understand his own hypocrisy? Yes, well. You see Ken, I believe that to be the case. The juvenile jostling is a little bit unbecoming of the man who sees himself as the Face of the Franchise, isn’t it Ken? But yes, yes, yes. I understand. Jacky boy, let me remind you of who the fuck Alexander Raven is, because you seem so deluded in this idea that you are something better than me. That you are somehow stronger. That you are somehow more talented. That because you say the words it makes it true. Yet in reality, you’re once again at my feet. Lets talk the long game, Jacky boy. The long game would suggest I took a dip. I fell so you could win the championship. Boost your bravado, but confident that you wouldn’t make it all the way. The two outcomes are this. I let you keep the Internet Championship, and for the foreseeable future, you’re not in the picture. Forced to go at it again and again with the likes of Bulldog Bill, the dear Goth when he makes his inevitable return in good health. Ken Davison, Carter, Miles. The list goes on and on, and you would stand against them, because your own arrogance dictates that failure is not an option. The long game suggests, that that outcome is beneficial to me. That whilst you are stuck with the prize that I have shed, I take aim at the top. I become the next Worlds Champion, whilst lowly, arrogant little Jacky boy is stuck with the thing he took to mock me. ‘On a whim’. The second option, a slightly shorter game, is that I intend to embarrass you, Jack. I lose the belt, whether or not it was of choice or otherwise, is irrelevant. I lose the belt knowing that come Into the Void, I’ll be given the opportunity to take it back. The opportunity in this case, is this time. There is no one at your back. There is no reprieve, there is no recovery. This time you’re stuck in the ring, with the person you’ve spent all this time insulting. A man who you’ve deluded yourself into think is not a dangerous person to be stood across from.”

“No, you see Jacky boy. I have quite the temper. Though it may see that I am somewhat mad, that I am somewhat unhinged. The extent is not realised by your tiny little scope. I told you something, and I want to reiterate. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter. We go our separate ways, and I am happy for that. Win, I take away the championship in your first defence. It is far more insulting for you to drop the belt at the first threat, especially when it is the man who you ‘took it from on a whim’. Lose, you’re stuck in my long game. Lose, you are stuck in the place that you mock others for being. Yet interestingly, I don’t think your arrogance allows you to see that. In the same way, my arrogance didn’t allow me to see it. Yet the difference between us, Jacky boy. I wasn’t happy to sit back on my laurels. I wasn’t content with just letting the world pass me by, and letting others decided for me. No, I made an active choice. I went out and took what I wanted. I wanted the Internet Championship to mock the wolves. I got it. I wanted to beat Austin James Mercer in the cage, to prove that I was ready for the next stage. I did it. I called Fenris out and demanded his attention. I made him understand that Alexander Raven isn’t second best to fucking anyone, Jacky boy. I called him out, forced his hand, and won. Miles? Took him down. O’Malley? Took him out. Ken? Well, he had to pull out didn’t he? I’m sorry Kenneth.”


Alex steps forward slowly, kneeling down and placing the glass by the edge of the wardrobe. He picks up the rubbish bag that was laying on the floor and rubbed it gently, a caring stroke of the plastic. He turns the bag, in large yellow marking the word ‘Godly’. He slowly pulls the door open somewhat more. Inside is an array of rubbish bags, all similarly misshapen and bloated. A kill closet.

“You see, Jack. Whilst you’ve been fucking around the during the last six months. Scrambling for opportunity, desperately trying to prove to everyone that you are something more than the empty spiteful words you pretend to be. I’ve been doing exactly what I need to. I’ve been slaying Kings. There is no one who could even pretend that in the last year, they’ve been anything to me. Yet your arrogance deludes you into thinking that anything you say, holds more gravitas than anything I say. Yet here we are, face to face. What does that tell you, Jack? What the fuck does it mean to you, that the man you think yourself so far above, is the man that you can’t help but attempt to belittle, is the one that strikes the fear into you right now. Do you know why this is your fear? Do you understand why I know that you are afraid, Jack? It’s the way you talk. See, I do this thing that might blow your damn mind, Jack. I listen. I hear the things people say. I hear the words, I understand the words. I look at the person saying them, and consider it some unwanted psychology. But I get what they are saying, Jack. You, are full of hypocrisy. You deny that you care, you deny that you listen. Yet you say things that are clearly tickling the back of your mind. You took note of the hunter remarks, yet you refuse to acknowledge that you actually care. You talk about me be long-winded and full of air. Yet, you talk just as much as I do. The sound of your own voice is music to your own damn ears, and I understand. I understand because I was a young, angry and over-confident little fuck like you Jack. I was a hypocritical bully. I ignored the world, I ignored everyone who would give me any level of notice. For I was the best, that was undeniable. Six months is all it took for me to win my first World Champion. Six months. Six months is all it took for me to become the most desired Internet Champion in the history of Sin City. I win that back, I have a line of people baying for a shot at Alexander Raven. Can you say the same? Arrogance would tell you that it’s because they fear you, but the truth. The truth is this Jack. Beating you, means nothing for them. Beating you, is just another match. Beating you does nothing to help elevate them.”

“Yet, someone gets a win over Alexander Raven. Suddenly there is notice. Suddenly people are talking. Could this be the man to silence him? Could this be the man to put Raven in his own kill closet? Could this be the man who finally wrests the power from the Mad King? Then they fall. One, after the other, they fall. I am undefeated in singles competition this year. I have lost, once, in singles competition since I won the championship over half a year ago. Once, Jack. I am not a tag team guy, I put too much pressure on myself. I allow my vision to be clouded. I allow myself to get distracted. You took it on a whim? Good for you, Jack. I won it on a fucking whim. That is where your undoing occurs, I’m sure. You don’t care enough to acknowledge who I am, yet you listen to the things that you feel upset you. Interesting that Jacky boy. Interesting that you can be so delusional that you think that anything you say doesn’t directly reflect your own internal fears. A confident man, stays confident. He doesn’t feel the need to attack the character, to create lies and illusions. A confident man doesn’t feel the need to reiterate, over and over. That he is better, and your are worse. I am confident man, Jack. I acknowledge that some days are better than others, and at times. Even the greatest will fall. I know the weakness of vanity, for vanity is one of the key pillars in The Conspiracy. I’ve been stung, I’ll be stung again. But I continue to move forward each time. I do not sulk, I do not hide. I do not hang my head in shame. I look forward, take another step, and reach for the brass ring again. Six months, World Champion. You can bet your fucking ass Jack. That I will be World Champion here in Sin City before the so called Face of the Franchise. The arrogance you spew is only rivaled by the bullshit dribbling of our current Worlds Champion. You, the unknowing protege of the bullshit spewing Greatest Ever.”


Alex goes to push the wardrobe door closed, but another bag tumbles from the unsteady pile. The loud sound of it cracking against the floor bounces around the the empty room. His nose twitches, and he puts his foot on the back. The sound of a wolf, squealing in pain. ‘Kasey’ written across it.

“Miles, Miles. I hear you, I hear you. The puppy of the pack, and you still need to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. But that is the story of this all isn’t it? Whilst Jack and I, the truly rightful contenders for that Worlds Championship, bicker back and forth over the semantics of the title I brought back to acclaim. You squeal like the little puppy you are, unaware of the clashing teeth and the unforgiving bullet that are coming for you. Fret not, Miles. You are already a part of my kill closet. You are safe from the peck and pull of the ravens. Though carrion for them you are. Let us not forget, Miles. Let us not forget, sweet Jacky Boy. This comparison, will surely upset you Jack. It would upset me. Miles was the thorn in my side at one point. The man who was seen as the one who would be my foil at every turn. That was upsetting. The puppy of the wolves was nothing but a arrogant little prick. But arrogance gave him strength beyond my understanding. Over and over, he was the thorn. He embarrassed me, like you did, Jack. He took the Roulette Championship away. Though I care not for the whims of the wheel of fate, it is interesting that it was Miles who was this to me. For it seems, that at each stage, there is a new puppy. No longer is it Miles. I have the blood of the puppy on my hands, and now. Now a new runt steps to the plate. You step to the plate and spout off the same bullshit you spout every single week. You think I’m repetitive? No, I have something new to say each time I open my damn mouth, Jacky boy. That’s the real difference. I take scope of the situation. I take eye of what is before me, and then I speak. Nobody listens, because they think I will speak the same, over and over. Yet the truth is, Jacky boy. The truth is that I speak the truth. Miles learnt that truth, when he finally fell beneath my boot, and he came to realise. The man he beat, was no longer. The man he knew, would now be the foil to him. A threat, a danger. Because win or lose, it is irrelevant to me Jack. What is relevant to me, is ensuring people understand the fallacy of their actions. The fault in their words. The arrogance that undoes them.”

“What matters to me, Jack, is that when I beat your face over and over. That when my knuckles strike your forehead, over and over. That when you feel the fists of a son of a boxer, bash your puny, tiny little face in. That you realise the blood that flows is not a reprieve. That the blood that is flowing is a payment you owe. A payment of arrogance. A payment of the bully. The when you bleed, and you will bleed. I promise you, I will make certain of the fact that your face is as red as the fists that bust you open. I will ensure that you wear a mask so dark, they fear it many never be washed. It is irrelevant, win or lose, Jack. All that matters is that you are made to realise the fallacy of your ways. That you are made to listen for the first time. Because your arrogance leads you to believe that any success is a note of future and eternal success. That the man once beaten, shall remain beaten. That improvement is not possible for others, and only yourself. But maybe. Just amybe. Your arrogance breaches so far into the future, that you think you are at your apex. That be claiming to be the face, you are already are. That improvement is unnecessary, because nobody is better than Jack fuckin’ Washington. Except. Jack couldn’t win the big one. Jack couldn’t even fuckin’ lose it. But he couldn’t win it. Then the excuses start. So he had to try again, except. He couldn’t win that opportunity either. Then finally, it seemed on the cusp. He had taken the Internet Championship on a whim. He and Bobbie Dahl were soaring towards the finals, and WAIT! He failed again. Interesting isn’t it Jack? That the more we tried to succeed. The more we dance around and bark. The more we attempt to be something that we perceive ourselves to be, the further away it gets. For now, you will go back to the bottom of the pile, won’t you Jack? The words of the greaters telling you that you have to try again, and again, and again. Just so you can fall down and fail once more. Just like poor sweet Miles came to learn. That the more you battle against the truth, the harder it becomes. The harder it becomes to deny what is evident before you. The harder it becomes to even be the lies you spout. For I pretend to be nothing more than I am. A broken child, filled with trauma and anger. Someone who spits upon the bullies would would parade themselves with bravado and strength over the rest of us. I spit upon you, Jack. For you need to be spat upon. A mouthy little runt who thinks everything is because of their success, and not the stumblings of others. Refusing to acknowledge their own shortcomings, because acknowledgement doesn’t fall in the wheelhouse of the delusional.”


He pushes down harder with his foot and then a loud crunch. The sound of the whimpering wolf silenced. The bag goes flat, lifeless. Alex shakes his head and lifts it up, placing it back into the wardrobe. Then he turns his head rapidly. Something seemingly catching his attention. Shaking his head over and over, he slams the door closed, knocking the beer glass over. He moves over to the chair and pushes it aside. The floorboards underneath seem to be slightly different. He stomps his foot on the edge of them, and they pop up. Grabbing the popped edge he lifts and pulls them out of the ground.

There, in a hole in the floorboards, a white sheet over what appears to be something in the shape of a body. Scrawled in black letters, the name ‘Fenris’. He climbs down into the hole, leaning over the body, feet either side of it. He shakes his head over and over, frustration stitching its way across his face.

“Fenris reminds me of you, Jacky boy. A man full of bravado, arrogance and thinking himself far better than me. Second best, is what he referred to me as. Second best to fucking nobody, is what I showed him. If I was second best, than he was lesser than. If I’m second best, than currently you must be the best Jacky boy. But we both know that isn’t true. We both know that there is nothing in this world that could be further from the truth. You see, Jack. I at least respected Fenris. That was a man who despite the fact that he was a keyboard bully. That he attempted to weasel his way away from me. When the final nail was rung, he was made to see. He was made to know that Alexander Raven is more than just fucking talk. You know what is interesting to me, Jack. You talk about never letting people live it down. You talk about wanting them to go away, hang their heads in shame. You even wanted me to cry, Jack. Yet, when I beat people. They stop their crusade. They stop their path. They stop their mockery. Reality becomes the only thing they can understand in that. In that, Jack. A truth is bestowed upon them. That Alexander Raven does not speak for the sake of speaking. That the threats of Alexander Raven are not mere threats. That the hunter sometimes fails a hunt, yet the hunter who does not die, can always kill the next bear, wolf, deer or runty little squirrel. Do you know, what you are, Jack? If Fenris and King James are wolves. If Ken is a hunter. If Miles is a puppy. I must be wrong about you, for you can’t be any of those things. You have to be the runty little squirrel Jack. It suits you perfectly I think. Mouthy, over-confident and a mouth full of your own nuts. Self-fellatio is generally impressive Jack, but not when it comes to your ego. Yet you will continue to bang on and on, like anyone actually cares. The truth, Jack? The truth is that yes. The Internet Championship is designed to shut you up. Because nobody cares anymore. Nobody wants to listen to little ol’ squirrel boy suck himself off over and over. The arrogance of it is more upsetting than the visual I assure you. Yet what do you claim when you lose the Internet Championship to Alexander Raven? Do you pretend that it was all part of your plan. That it was actually your long game to ensure that you could go for the top prize, except. Except you can’t go for the top prize, can you Jack? Because losing to me just proves everything I’ve said.”

“But oh, if I lose. It must prove everything that Jack says. That he is better than me. That I am nothing but words and bluster. That everything I say is nothing more bravado. That he is better than me. That he deserves to be in the spotlight and I will forever be scrounging for scraps. Except… Except he is stuck and I am free. Free to hunt. Free to seek out whoever holds the top prize. So who wins? Jack? It seems that this match in particular, puts us in a stalemate that we aren’t particularly wanting. No, the only thing to come out this match is a proof. A proof of who is going to be the one to scrounge and who is the one that will hold their head high. Arrogance fights aggression. Anger fights delusion. Proof, and proof again, is what you want Jack. The idea of success is far more important to you than the reality of it. Piss and moan, and then claim its okay because you are right and everyone else is wrong. Nobody can be right except for Jack god damn Washington. Nobody could be true unless it comes from the mouth of Jack Washington. Yet maybe there is cracks forming in the armour of the abuser. For I heard the niceties you played to Bobbie Dahl. Interesting that you would be so content with coming short, when your arrogance leads you to believe you are better than everyone else. Why didn’t you win, Jack? Is the fear that you will come short when you finally have your dream in your grasp again so terrifying? What excuse do you use when you get beaten by the best of the best. What excuse do you use when you flounder and fall for those you think yourself so far above? Cracks in the armour, Jack. Cracks in the armour indeed. For whilst you’ve been floundering, I’ve been flourishing. The only reason that the Internet Championship means a god damn thing is because of me. The only reason you can be on your damn high horse, is because deep down you know that facing up against Alexander Raven .That unlike Fenris, my favourite of the victims. You don’t even stand a chance, when I try, Jack. This arrogance, this bravado. This mockery of delusion. You talk about how you didn’t even try. I wonder, Jack. Does it ever occur to you, that others just don’t care?”


Alex leans down and heaps some dirt that lays in piles under the floorboards onto the sheet. Covering the the name, and eventually covering the entirety of it beneath heaped handfuls of dirt. Breathing deeply he slowly climbs his way back out of the hole. Pushing the floorboards back into place and moving the chair. He looks at the spilled beer near the wardrobe and sighs, lowering himself back into the seat.

“Into the Void is not your day Jack. I want to make that clear to you. I want you to understand, win or lose, I do not care. What I do care for is, beating your fucking face in. What I do care about, is ensuring that you learn your damn lesson, and that the Face of the Franchise is sufficiently bloody. That you learn the reality of what happens to bullies in my Kingdom. For I’ll make this very clear, Jack. The Napalm Kingslayer isn’t just another moniker. Isn’t just another name. No, the Napalm Kingslayer comes from truth. A man born in flames and crucifixion, will lead you to your own grave. For you are just another king hellbent on abusing their power. And I will not stand for the abuse any longer, Jack. I will not stand at the edges of existence and allow bullies to pollute and muck about in this filthy degenerate swamp that we call Sin City Wrestling. No, come Into the Void Jack boy, I make a point with you. That anyone who steps out of line. That any arrogance. That any bravado will be met with the steel will of the Napalm Kingslayer, and everyone. Every single person will be baptised in the blood of those who fall. For in flames, rebirth. And they will all be redeemed by the One True King. The Broken Messiah and the False Prophet. The Napalm Kingslayer of The Conspiracy.”

“Do you hear Jack?”

The Conspiracy is here.


And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

19

A Little Bit Morbid
Scene One | Off-Camera | 25th April 2023

“So you have Jack the Ripper, Jack the Stripper and the Thames Torso Murderer. Torso might have been the Ripper too, but not enough evidence to support it. Murder of prostitutes is pretty common amongst Serial Killers, so that’s not enough evidence to connect the dots.”

Alex smiled, and nodded. It was almost like Luna had been waiting for them to arrive in London. She’d automatically assumed that Jack the Ripper was going to be final unsolved mystery of the tour. And, whilst she denied being a Ripperologist, here they were. Was it somewhat disconcerting that Serial Killers were a hobby of hers? Yes. Did the glow of happiness that came with rattling off the morbid details and the differences seem to be coming from a rather dark place? Yes.

But seeing her happy, was worth listening to all of it.

“So, how unsolved of a mystery are we talking here? For all three.”

”Oh baby, I’m glad you asked.”

And so, he spent his afternoon, hearing all about the suspects involved in the many different cases. The legitimacy of each one, the likelihood of another. The reality, it seemed, was everyone was an expert and absolutely nobody would have been any closer to solving the crimes at the time they occurred, than they are in the modern day. Yet, the rhetoric did make him realise one thing.

That maybe the lack of solution is sometimes more refreshing than finding some semblance of the truth. Because when they moved onto the more modern day killers. The Fred and Rose West’s of the world, or the one that made him shudder more than any of the others, the Dennis Nilsen’s of the world. There was almost a safety in the idea that the rippers and strippers and the torso murderers of the yesteryear never had their lifeless and emotionless visages exposed to the greater light.

And that is what he needed. She may not have meant to show him the way forward, but Luna had definitely helped him understand what he would need, walking into Into the Void. The killer mindset, the viciousness of Nilsen, with the unassuming and unapproachable reality that was Jack the Ripper. The irony of the name was not lost on him either. Jack Washington across from him once more, and the former Ripper Queen across from his own. Fate, had a funny way of presenting itself for them. Jack the Ripper was the opposition of The Conspiracy, two hundred years later, and he didn’t even know it.

“Lexi, what’s going on in that head of yours?”

A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, sitting on a small balcony, overseeing the greater city. He inhaled deeply, holding a bottle loosely in his left hand, the right moving to take the cigarette from his lips and tapping the ash off.

“I’m amused, is all. I go to dark places, and wish nothing more than to escape them. Find the warmth in the day, the warmth in the reality. Warmth in you. The frozen heart thaws, but I find solace in the darkness. Imagery is so much more visceral when we live in the dark. You, however.”

He places the bottle down on a small table that sat between them, moving his hand then under the table to take hers in his. Lacing their fingers through each other, and pressing their palms together.

“Your purity is in the light, in the happy. Yet, you seek the dark. You find the frozen to thaw, and you melt it with your warmth. The dark leads you not, and in your softness, release. Don’t let them take that from you, Luna. Don’t let anyone take your light.”

A smile, all it takes. Just a smile, the slight blushing of her cheeks, the tightening of her fingers around his. For a moment, they were the moment. She was fixated on his problems, because he allowed himself to be lost. But it wasn’t her fault. It didn’t belong to her, to fix what was wrong. The opportunity now stands before him to fix what is wrong. To win the Internet Championship back, it would take a little extra. Jack, had his number. Jack, was the better wrestler. Jack, made his fucking blood boil. But the opportunity to rectify past mistakes lay in front of him, and there was one thing he was certain of.

He was far more of a killer, than Jack Washington.

She took the cigarette that was embering in his fingers, and placed it to her lips. Bad habits resurrected, but he had no legs to stand on to deny her. Sometimes, bad came with the good. They were victims of their own addictions at times, though, they had fought others off.

“You say the sweetest things to me, sugar. All buttered up, and make my heart beat, you do. But, Lexi. Don’t you forget. We’re all a little dark, honey. From the top, all the way down. We’re coated in the paint of evil. So don’t worry lover, I’ll be your sun, if you stay my rock. I love you, Alex.”

“I love you too, Lu.”

Was it the first time he had said it? No. But was it the first time that the meaning was truly conveyed in the words? Undoubtedly. She had lifted herself out of the chair and rapidly spun around the table to land in his lap. Arms wrapped tightly around his neck, as she buried her face into the nape of neck. His hands snuck around her sides, as he held and pulled her into him.

“Just don’t go Mary Ann Britland on me, please.”

She laughed, heartily and shook her head against his neck.

“Too late. Your drink was already poisoned. Nice knowing you, lover boy.”

He knew sure was joking, and yet…

Rippers, Strippers and Murderers
Scene Two | On-Camera | 26th April 2023

Tap, tap, tap. The light tapping of shoes against old cobble streets. The light of the moon filtering through the streets, old school lanterns lining walls, lit with a off-putting buzzing low yellow light. Whistling, a man in heavy thick trench coat slowly walking his way down the street. A briefcase in one hand, his face obscured under a large top hat.

“Jacky boy, Jacky boy. You took something from me, with claims of grandeur. You took something from me, to spite me. You took something from me, and you failed to succeed on it. You took away my opportunity for a guaranted shot at whoever holds the crown of crowns, and in turn, you took away my own. You embarrassed me, Jacky boy, and then you spat in my face. You continued to mock, because your way of success involves the utter belittlement of all others. Ignorance and denial of anything before you, and overconfidence as a result. You are the epitome of arrogant bullies, Jacky boy. And now, it all comes full circle, doesn’t it? Once again, you fail. Right on the cusp of success, and you come up short again. You took my opportunity, you took my crown, and you fucking squandered it, Jacky boy. And now, here in the land of the Rippers and Strippers, you have to stand against me, once again. And I am looking forward to it, Jack. I’m looking forward to meeting once more, because this time. This time the stakes are a little bit different.”

“Do you know why the stakes are different, Jacky boy? Let me tell you. Because the truth remains the truth. No matter what you say about me, no matter how much you deny my existence in your mind. You had something to prove. You had to prove that Alexander Raven was not as good as you. That the things you claim, the things you say. The things you spout as gospel truth, are just that. Gospel truth. Are they gospel, Jacky boy? Are you going to make me the next victim of Jack the Ripper? Are you going to put me down for a third time. Are you ready to fight me once again, Jack? I wonder about that, I do. I wonder, because failure doesn’t sit well with you, does it Jack? You mock me. You belittle me. You spout accusations of tears, and grovelling. Of begging and pleading. You belittle me, because you are projecting your own failures onto any that will fucking listen to you, Jacky boy. But, if I remember. You were the one crying about the lack of fairness. About how you were being held down. About how you had to jump through hoops and loops to get what you feel you deserve. You see yourself, as the King upon all other kings. That the world title belongs to you. That you should have had the chance against Mac Bane, and not Michael Harris. That you should have had the chance against Ken Davison, and not Finn Whelan. That you should be in the main event of Into the Void against Michael Harris, and not the undeserved King James and the pack puppy. Yet here you are, against Alexander Raven once again.”


A small alcove lays to the side, swathed in darkness. From just beyond the edge of the dark, a pair of feet, the lower part of a leg. The man turns to look into the darkness, and places his briefcase on the ground.

’NAPALM’

The snapping of the locks, echoes off the darkness. Murmurs and muted voices bounce through the air from the distance. Speaking of a world beyond the isolated once they were in. From the case, he pulls a large surgical saw, and a pair of gloves. He closes the lid of the case, and places the saw on top of it, as he pulls on the gloves.

‘FAILURE

“Truth is as truth is, Jack. You are not as good as you want to be. You are not seen the way you want to be seen. You are not anything beyond what you feel yourself to be. Yes, you took the Internet Championship from me. I can admit my failings. Something that seems to elude the narcissistic, arrogant elite that fester and muck about in the filth the permeates every aspect of this fucking cesspool. You are one of the worst, Jacky boy. Like the filth that mucks this here city of sin. It is, convenient, that we end the tour here. That the fates have authored a redemption for us. A redemption of failures. A redemption of our own misgivings. You see, Jacky boy. You see I do not like you. I do not care for you. You are, what I stand to eradicate. A goddamn bully. An arrogant fucking prick, and a senseless dribbling sycophant. Words, yes. You seem to have an issue with words. Nothing I say is beyond the intelligence of the groveling maggots that you seem so akin to. Yet your insignificant, juvenile mind thinks that I use words to hide behind. There seems to be this ideology that Alexander Raven uses language to befuddle and confuse. But that’s not in the slightest bit true. Every word I say, means exactly as it is stated. Every word that I say, is within the conscience of any who would just listen. Yet you won’t listen, Jacky boy. Nobody ever fucking listens. And if they just listened…”

‘KINGSLAYER’

“You would fully understand. I speak only what is true before me. The reality that I stand in, is one that exists outside of the Stained Glass Lies of the world above. Distorted and disconnected though I once was, no longer will I allow myself to be continually deluded by failures of existence. No longer will I allow the filth to run rampant over the cesspool that I intend to clean. The streets will be washed, and in the napalm death that follows, salvation. Salvation from the incestuous unending murk that you perpetuate each and every fucking time you step into the ring, Jack. Every time you open your forsaken mouth and spout and spill lies upon lies. Cry? You think I would fucking cry because of a stumble against a pathetic little worm like you? No, Jack. No, loss doesn’t scare me. Loss doesn’t make me run away, loss does not affect me in the way it seems to affect you in your mind. Failure does not end anything, for the story, the story will continue. And in this story, Jacky boy. In this story, I am the FUCKING Ripper.

He picks up the saw slowly, holding the handle in one hand, the blade resting lightly against his other palm. He holds it up to the light, reflecting the surgical steel off the ambient low-light of the buzzing lanterns. He stands up slowly, pushing the briefcase into the darkness beyond. The legs on the ground slowly beginning to move, and then the figure plunged into the dark. Screams, croaks and cries. A cacophony of sound, a mixture of women wailing, men crying and birds croaking. The feet curl and tense and then suddenly disappear into the dark alcove. And then.

‘SILENCE.’

Silence. From beyond the veil of the dark, liquid pooling. Liquid flowing into the deserted alleyway. The clop of hooves, the rumble of wheels. The world suddenly filling with noise once more.

“Symbolism, Jacky boy. I am a man who believes in the symbolism of things. Metaphor, example, symbols. I am a believer in the mind, because the mind dictates the actions of the physical. I work in undoing the problems of ones own false narcissism, breaking the distortions of their own falsified reality. I am the False Prophet because I deem what is truth in the real world. Only false because of the lies that everyone lives in. But it’s okay, Jacky boy. It’s okay. I understand your hesitance. I understand your reluctance. I understand your problems within oneself, because I know the mongrels of this world. I know the bullies. I know, the arrogant swine that you associate with. You are forever attempting to show the world that you are more than the pathetic, snotty little brat that they see you as. And no matter how much you claim it is not skin of your back, you continue to live in the lies you create for yourself. You create a reality that you cannot hope to continue. For the world does not react to the way you put yourself out there. Nobody sees Jack Washington the way that Jack Washington wishes they did. No, what they see Jack, is what I see. A petulant child who screams and cries when he doesn’t get things on his own terms. And now, they see you, in the same you try and paint others. A failure. Coming short of your journey, once more. The consolation, Jack. Why would you listen to me? What words do I have that maintain any level of sincerity? What words do I have that mean anything to you? You’ve painted the picture of me in your head, and there is no changing that. An edgy, over-yearning adult emo. Someone who wanes poetic, someone who uses black and white filters. Who sees themselves as more than a pretentious hack. Someone who thinks that they are greater than they are. Yet the truth, Jacky boy. The truth, that you refuse to see. The truth that you refuse to acknowledge, is that Alexander Raven. Alexander Raven is more than just the lies you paint.”

“I am nothing more than another person walking this earth. A person born of trauma, agony and pain. A person born of their failures. I am broken. We are all, broken, Jacky boy. From the women who work the corners, to the psychopaths that run businesses. From the nobodies that you pretend do not exist in your world, to those you dethrone for your own sanity. Beating me was a god sent for you Jack, you know this. It was a god sent, because without the Internet championship. Without another victory over me, you’ll be known as nothing but the muck beneath the boot of those who are able. Beating me, proved nothing. Nobody wants to see Alexander Raven succeed. If you hadn’t lost, there wouldn’t have even been space for me on this card. I know that very well. Or they would have thrown me back into the Roulette title picture. The main event is populated by men who couldn’t stand to me. Yet, they get the opportunity, that should rightfully be mine. You want to talk about what is owed to someone, Jack? I am owed far more than you. Who the fuck have you beaten? Who the fuck do you think you are standing in my ring, making claims about my insignificance? I am the one who beat Austin James Mercer in a fucking cage. I’m the one who out-wrestled Fenris. I am the one who silenced the runty fucking lap puppy, Miles Kasey. O’Malley, redeemed. Ken Davison couldn’t beat me again. I am the fucking Kingslayer, Jacky boy. I am the one who dictates where things fall, and yet they hold me down. You, you are to blame for the silence that they place upon me. For the rattling of the foundations, they seek to punish me. I will not allow it, Jacky boy. I will not allow for the words to twisted and manipulated. I will not allow for your lies to continue pump into the world. So like the women who lay slaughtered in the streets over a hundred years ago, you too, will fall. You will be the fucking whore that I rip the body of. Mutilated, beaten and broken. Forget about you, Jack? Not a fucking chance.”


A horse drawn carriage slowly trundles into the laneway. It stops just in front of the darkness, and the side door swings open. What looks like a body bag is thrown into the carriage through the open door, and the figure steps out of the darkness, holding the saw up to the light. Stained with red, in his other hand something that appears to be leaking. He grips the weird carrion tightly in his hand, and slams the door closed.

‘INSOLENCE.’

The carriage pulls off into the distance once more, the clopping of horse hooves on the pavement. The person pulls their briefcase from the darkness once more, and kneels down whilst opening it. He places the saw into the briefcase, gazing down at it, removing his gloves. The trophy is placed beside the suitcase, as he closes the lid. He lifts his hands to his head, removing the top hat. Alexander Raven, of course, beneath the veil of the darkness. A smile wide across his face, his eyes wide open. Spatters of muck and viscera across his face, a grisly visage. A mask of death.

‘ENDING.’

 “I need you to understand something Jack. This is personal. This is personal, because you’ve made it so. You thought it okay to undermine my own personage for the furthering of your own. You embarrassed me again, Jack, and I am not a forgiving man. And any of those who have wronged me before, will tell you the same thing Jacky boy. That no matter what you may think of me before. That no matter what you may believe to be the truth of Alexander Raven. That when I step into the ring with a goal in mind, there is not a single person who is more violent, more focused and more skilled. They’ve all learnt over the last year that Alexander Raven will rise to any occasion, and that when opportunity presents, I will take it. Yet I must pose a hypothetical, to you Jack. Something to make you weigh your arrogance against your ambition. You beat me again, congratulations. Thoroughly humiliated, I must slink away. Hide and lick my wounds for all the words become lies, and in that a truth is painted. That Jack Washington is just better than Alexander Raven, on every day of the week. That here at the climax, with the peak of the mysteries, you are the iconic name alongside the unsolved mystery. Jack Washington to become Jack the Ripper, and to leave Alexander Raven insulted and defeated. Handed his first one-on-one loss of the year. My first one-on-one loss since O’Malley got one over me at the beginning of my reign of power as Internet Champion. But then, you are stuck with what you wanted to mock with. Do you think, they’ll give you a second look whilst you stand as Internet champion? No, the truth, Jack. You beat me again, you’re just as fucked as you were before you entered the tournament. No Michael Harris, no Austin James Mercer and no Miles Kasey for you. Placated and silenced, they’ll throw the same people at you, over and over. Bill Barnhart, Ken Davison, hell, probably Miles Kasey, even Carter. The same, over and over, because the repetition is what makes it mind numbing.”

“You become what you seek to destroy. The second best. Something Fenris deemed me to be. Second best. Because everyone is focused on being the King of Kings. Everyone wants to be the one who stands on top. I am no different. What is different, and it is what Fenris was made to learn. That when I stand as Internet Champion, I am not second best to fucking anybody. When I wear the crown, I am the king of kings, the One True King. But more than that, far more than that. I learnt something in my reign. That kings fall by my sword at my whim and decision. That kings fall when I take them to be hunted. For I am the god damned Kingslayer. The Napalm Kingslayer, who will cleanse everyone in glorious fucking death. So I ask you Jack. Do you win, and become all that you resent? Do you lose, and have to admit that Alexander Raven is better than you when it comes down to the big match? Do you win, and forsake your opportunities to demand your supposedly rightful claim to the throne? Do you lose, and get laughed out of the conversation? I ask you these hypotheticals Jacky boy, because the truth is hard to digest. The truth is hard to acknowledge. The truth is, that with you taking the championship from me, you put yourself in an unenviable position. I lose, I look no worse than previously. Jack Washington gets a win over Alexander Raven for the third time. He has Raven’s number. You have the ability to beat me on my best days. Okay, that’s fine. There’s always a worse one. I set my eyes on the future winner of our main event, and whoever is lucky enough to take the whole damn tournament. I let them know, that the blade of freedom is hanging above their heads and in that. Coming redemption and retribution. Coming is the end of their reigns, for I am the Kingslayer. And they are the final Kings that need be slayed. So I ask you, Jacky boy. What do you do, when the bell tolls?”


‘DEATH.'

From his coat pocket, he removes a small box of matches. He slowly slid the box open and slid one out. The rapid strike, the flicker of a quick flame. He moved and touched it to the amorphous blob of carrion, it quickly taking in flames. An explosive burst of rapid flame.

“Hypotheticals, symbolism, analogy. God-complex and arrogance. You, Jacky boy, are everything I’ve spent my time here trying to fix. Trying to eradicate. Trying to change. And I am the villain for it. I am the bad guy for stating the facts as they stand. Calling out the arrogance, calling out the bullies. The cock-headed arrogance of it all, and then you have the bravado to go and make claims on who I am as a person. Someone so lost in themselves, that they think they can comment on the reality of another. No, Jack. Whilst we all may be insignificant slugs crawling on the face of this plane of existence, we are starkly different. I comment, because I know myself fully. I know my disconnects, my distortions and the truth of the world. I do not belittle for the sake of amplification. I bring you down, to remind you that just like I, you are nothing but the muck beneath the boots of those who would seek to oppress. Beneath those who break the fragility of a child. Broken and beaten, traumatised and left to rot in the street. You, embody what Jack the Ripper was. A faceless man who thought himself better and stronger. Able to elicit his strength, power and fear over those who were not strong enough to stand against him. The problem for you, Jacky boy. I will not simply roll over like an obedient fucking dog. I will not stand by and let you continue to mock, belittle and arrogant effuse yourself all over the fucking insidious muck hole that is this city of sin. Unlike the Ripper, you, Jacky boy. You will be caught in my grasp, you will be brought down, and The Conspiracy will choke the life from your ebbing body. Carrion and corpse you will be, for I am the Napalm Kingslayer, Jack, and you are nothing. Just a petulant child with far too much ability for the minuscule grasp and understanding he has on the world. So continue to prattle and beat on. Continue to mock, continue to run your mouth, like the slimy little cunt you are. And I promise you this, Jack. I will bleed you dry, and you will be forced to finally see. That no matter how much I talk. No matter how much you pretend to not be listening. Complain about my words, yet match me at every beat. No matter how much you run, on and on. Nothing will save you form the retribution that is coming. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter to me anymore Jack. I have one goal.”

“I want to hurt you.”


Slipping the box away, he lifts the top hat back onto his head, and grabs the briefcase. Turning on his heel, he kicked the burning carrion backwards into the darkened alcove. Inside, the walls are splattered with the same viscera and liquid as his face. And in the middle, in front of a small door. A wax head, with another hat sits in front of the door. The head clearly moulded in the visage of Jack Washington. Eyes rolled back, and a bloodied neck. The burning ball touching to head, and sending the wax up in flames as well. The door behind it swinging open slowly, as Alexander Raven steps through it. In the distance, what looks a small room with a wardrobe. A smile across his face.

“I don’t forget, Jack. And I want to know. That I am coming for you. I am coming to redeem my faults. Win or lose, I do not care. All that matters, is that you are brought to your knees. That you are made to bleed, and feel your life leaving you. I want you to know that this is personal for me, because you, you felt the need to make an example of me. And nobody gets to make an example of Alexander Raven. So, Jack. Are you ready to make true on your claims of my obsolesce? Are you going to make me cry, Jack? I waiting for you to do something fucking meaningful with your time here. Right now, nothing you can do will change my opinion. Nothing you can do, will change what I intend to do. Championship or not, it is fucking irrelevant. You are another king of the filth, that must be eradicated. So prepare, Jack. Here in this city of killers and filth, I will show you the danger. I will show you my truth. And when I beat you, Jack. Because I will fucking beat you. Be it here, or be it the next time, or the next time, or the next. When I beat you, I need you to understand. There is nothing you could do, to prevent what I have planned for you. I am going to choke you the fuck out, bitch.”

He laughs, stepping into the doorway. His head snapping up, seemingly hearing something.

‘AGONY.’

He turns his head towards the wardrobe at the other end of the small room beyond the door. Nodding a little as he slowly closes the door behind him.

“Can you hear the voices, Jack?”

“The Conspiracy is here.”


The closing of the door, the click of a lock. The sounds within, men crying in pain. The lap of flames, muted beyond the closed door. A world crying out in pain beyond the door.

And then…

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.

20
Climax Control Archives / Napalm Nightmares
« on: April 13, 2023, 09:16:26 PM »

Nightmares
Scene One | Off-Camera | 12th April 2023

“Inescapable, even across the world. You truly do enjoy haunting me.”

It was a dream he was quite used to. The forgiveness of an ex-lover. The touch of kindness, ripped away in a instant by the return of the domineering aggression of his mind. Dreams filled with self-deprecation and abuse. Always in the form of his father. Always there to remind him of his own self-doubt.

“I’m in your fucking head boy. You can’t run away from me. There is nowhere in this world, that you can escape your own mind. I’ll always be with you Alex. You cannot escape me. I’m just another thing you fail to understand.”

The off-white, cigarette stained world of his childhood kitchen was his prison this time. Sitting across from the sharp, stern man. His hard features were as crisp in his mind today, as they had been twenty years ago. For everything he’d done to suppress the memories of the abuser, he also could never forget the man he had once adored.

“So, how do I hate myself today?”

“Why ask me? You know what I would say. You failed, again. Ever the failure, and yet you will rise above it. You always need to rise above your failures, or you’ll be washed in your inadequacy once again. Run, run away little bird. Run far away, and let them be true. Everything they say about you, it will all be true. And you can go back to pouring amber piss for all the drunkards who pretend that you are their friend.”

Echoing laughter, the clink of bottles. Memories of the past flooding his mind. The drunken slurring of his father. ‘Failure! Pathetic! Worthless!’ The descriptors of his past. Anger misdirected and taken out on the innocent. He’d always thought he’d come to terms with it. That in forgiving and working with his father all those years ago, he’d overcome his demons. But his dreams always taught him otherwise. His dreams always showed him the real truth.

“Why are you never able to be proud of me?”

The figure of his father faded for a moment, feeling a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder. The coffee stained grin, the hard and empty eyes. Devoid of life.

“Failure makes you me, boy. The more you fail, the more you become me. Addicted to your vices, losing your faith in the world. Heartless, disconnected. She melts your icy heart, but what happens when the truth of their deceptions comes to light? Do you reserve yourself? Become my mirror? That is your fate, little bird. To become what you resent, if you fail to climb your mountain. To become, me.”

Never.

He reached up to grab the hand on his shoulder, but found himself alone. Sitting in the kitchen. Alone. The world around him seemed to warp and distort, the echoes in his head. Voices of his friends, of James, of Luna. Accusations of failure. Calaway’s blaming of him, Luna’s manipulations of his mind. The radio silence of all those who had spent the last year mocking him. Jack’s laughter.

“Get out of my head. Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out!

His hands go up to his own ears, pressing his palms tightly against the sides of his head. The sounds didn’t mute, they just got louder. Bouncing around inside his own head, pushing on the backs of his eyes. The pressure threatening to push his mind out through his eyes.

“It’s okay, bird boy.”

Arms wrapping around his head, covering his ears, arms covering his eyes. The gentle touch, the softness of lips to the top of his head. His peace. Lauren.

“Be kind to yourself. You have so much good in your life, Alex. So much. Don’t let the small things get you down, my king. Don’t let the bad parts, obfuscate the good. She loves you, like I loved you. James loves you. The world, loves you, Alex. You’re doing so much good. Let them see that. Let them see, your good.”

And then he woke up. His arms wrapped tightly around Luna, her face serene. Softness, and gentle. The world beyond his own mind so much more gentle. Even in the depths of his own despair, he had someone to save him. Luna in reality, Lauren in his dreams. His mind was always in constant turmoil, and it was ever harder to stop it. He put on a face for the world. A face of confidence, a face of vanity.

Yet here, in the dark of night. In his own bed, he was weak. He had no confidence. He had no strength. His self-love dependent on others acknowledgment of him. And they could never know. They were broken too, all of them. James, Luna, Sullivan, Harrison and even Leon. Broken children, born of trauma and abuse. And they all expected him to keep it together, because they needed him to.

And maybe he couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was lacking the strength that he once had. His body ached constantly. He was sore, he was hurt. He hadn’t fully recovered from the pace of his Internet title reign, and the brutality of the encounters. His nose hadn’t ever fully set correctly, his breathing laboured. The beers flowed more freely, and he was smoking more than he had. He was dangling by a thread, and he was putting so much emphasis on being able to succeed in his next venture.

But maybe it wasn’t about him now. Luna was now a champion. And she wore her emotions on her sleeve. In a world where he was so unsure of himself, he knew he had to be sure of her. Regardless of the deceit. Regardless of the secrets. They all had secrets, and she was entitled to keeping hers. So he would be there for her, and hold her high whilst she was soaring. He would forge his own path, but it was about her success. For in his own journey, hers could emerge.

“Lexi, you think too loud.”

Luna grumbled at him, turning to press her face into his chest. He smiled, truly smiled, as he pulled her head into his chest tightly. Even in his silence, she could hear it all.

The Napalm Kingslayer
Scene Two | On-Camera | 13th April 2023

“Failure demands payment. The payment of The Conspiracy is blood. Be it your own, or anothers. It does not matter. Blood must be paid, and payment will be taken.”

A man stands with his back towards the world, a large wooden table in front of him. Black and white, everything devoid of colour. A wooden cabin, with mounted deer heads line the walls, pelts and furs. Hanging grouse and pigeon. A hunter’s cabin.

The man at the table has both hands on the table, leaning down. Spatters of a darker grey spot the edges of the table, and a steady stream of similarly coloured liquid pool at the end of the slight tilt, dribbling down into a bucket at the end of it.

“There is a mistake that people make when it comes to Alexander Raven. This idea that Alexander Raven is a man of cowardice, and words. Someone who can fight, but is never the strong man in the contest. Dirty tactics, poor behaviours. A king of chance for nearly half a year. What they don’t understand, is there is a lot more beneath the surface of the words and behaviours. There is a lot more that happens beneath the bravado of the One True King. True and False at the same time, there is a world of happenings beneath the generally maintained demeanour. Blood, sweat and tears, these are just a few of the things that take daily penance. Blood, sweat and tears are the payment that is made to keep control of the masses that expect nothing but regal perfection from the Broken Messiah. Guidance is given to the broken masses, but only in success do they listen. So blood is paid, and in failure, blood is taken. But what is truly disappointing, is that not a single person was willing to step to the king to silence him. Everyone has an opinion on the King, yet when offered the opportunity to insult, to demean and to reduce him. They all fall silent. Keyboard warriors of the Internet, and silent bastards without the balls to step to the plate. No one answered the challenge, and in it, a validation.”

“A validation, that I am the hunter. The one who seeks, the one who reaches. I am the one who must take the brass ring in hand and pull it down. I am the one who must reach into the depths, pull the blade free and plunge it into the necrotic flesh of incestuous decay. A failure of the Sin City, is a failure on all who would pretend to abide by its lies. The Stained Glass Lies now sit above us, fractured and shattered. The glass ready to collapse and the freedom of truth standing beyond. Truth for the broken and the disconnected. I offer only guidance to a better light, and yet. For all those who deny my truth, they also stand in the depths afraid of stepping forward. So, I will be what I claim.”


His right hand moves forward, fingers wrapping around the handle of a large butcher’s cleaver. He lifts it up high, and slams it down onto something on the table. An arterial spray spurts into the air, a cacophony of screams filling the air. Men, women, animals. A deafening mixture of cries in pain. The cleaver raised up again, the screams slowly fading away.

“So I will take my payment. I will be the hunter, and this time. Steel will beget flesh, and a man who I owe a final reckoning to, stands in my path. A year ago, Bulldog Bill Barnhart, denied me the beginning that is now offered to my sweet queen, Luna. In what would have been my mirrored third match, I had a chance to dethrone the Guardian of Fate, Bill Barnhart. I failed. Not once, but twice. I failed to dethrone the Bulldog, twice. A flash in the pan, a man full of potential but failing to live up to it. That was what was thought of me. Every person had something to say about it. Finn Whelan, Fenris, Austin James Mercer, hell even Bulldog and Ken Davison had doubts. Who can blame them? I failed, time and time again, because that is who I am at heart in the eyes of the many. A failure. Someone who has all the potential but continues to fall short. A man who cannot meet the expectations of all those who place them upon him. A Broken Messiah, whose own flock demand truth that I cannot give them. A False Prophet, who speaks more truth than the lies he tries to push as prophecy. The One True King, who has never been more than the False One. I am aware of who the fuck I am, and yet. Everyone wants to tell me who I am. Fenris, King James, Jack fucking Washington. Arrogant and over indulgent bullies who think that anything they say holds more sway than anything I do. Yet I will step into the circle of combat over and over, between the ropes time and time again. I will climb into the cage, and I wear the collars of steel and blood. I will do it over and over, because at the end of the day, nobody has the fucking passion that I do. Nobody has the desire that I do. Nobody is as inventive, nobody is as hungry. I do not look at this as a point of proving anything. I have nothing to prove, for I am exactly what I am. I am Alexander Raven, the man who will take payment in blood.”

The cleaver slams down once more, another spurt of fluid, everything swathed in the black and grey cover. Cleaver up, and then down. Up, then down. Up, and then it is held there. The man turns, his face awash with the grey, spotting all over his face. Dripping down into his mouth, onto his beard, down onto his clothes. Heavily and thick, it continues to drip. Similarly to the blood pooling into the bucket.

“I have one goal, and that is to bring the truth to all. With their eyes open, and their minds closed. I do not care. For every single person will be forced to understand the bloody truth. That Alexander Raven is not just a man of bluster, shadows and mirrors. That the arrogance that builds into every single one of them is not validated in my mind. That by the end of this year, I can guarantee. I will either be the Worlds Champion, or I will have taken down every single person who stands in the way of truth. And the journey, starts with you, Bulldog. The man who started it all, for Alexander Raven.”

The smile crosses his face, as the black and white begins to fade away. Colour returning to the word. The grey turning to red, the cabin bathed in a low sickening yellow glow. His face, covered in thick slashes of red, blood. His body obscuring whatever was being hacked in to on the table. Another person steps in, holding a white sheet, handing it to Alexander Raven. A nod in acknowledgement as the second disappears, Alex spinning on his heel to throw the white sheet wide over the table. Splotches of red instantly soaking through the white sheet. He steps to the side, and moves towards the bucket that is now full, his hands wrapping around the sides of the steel bucket.

“Bulldog, we’ve gone to war before. Thumbtacks, submissions, an embarrassing dive into a pool. Speedo Barnhart, as you were dubbed. A man who mocks everything that I stand for. A man who belittles everything I do. Someone who continues to benefit from the falsification of reality that ebbs and flows through the effluvial grime of Sin City. What has Bulldog done to deserve to challenge Mac Bane? I busted my back for months. Taking challengers that everyone fears. Fenris, Mercer, Davison. Former World Champions, Kings of the delusional. I took them, over and over. There has not been an Internet Champion in recent times that has been as dominant, and as consistent as Alexander Raven. A pace that none other has even come close to matching, and a reign that dwarfs the flippant World Title Scene. Davison, Finn, Davison, Bane, Harris. Five changes in the time that I have stood as the One True King of this Sin City. And you, Bulldog. You were given the opportunity to dethrone Mac Bane, before me? Placating me. That was what the Internet Championship was. A peace offer, to keep me occupied. To keep me silent. To keep me from reaching the heights that every single person is afraid of Alexander Raven reaching. The offer of the hunt wasn’t in respect for me, Bill. No they did it keep me occupied. To focus my obsession elsewhere, so that I didn’t expose the filth that controls us.”

“But no more. I told them, I would be here. If nobody was willing to step to the plate, they needed to find someone. And so here we go. Match five, two wins a piece. Everything comes full circle, for the mouthy mutts are what started my journey towards this point. And the mouthy mutts, started with you, Bulldog. I have blooded every dog that I’ve come across. So it is fortunate that the world takes us back to here. That my next journey, begins where my first started. Redemption for my the failures of a younger man. Redemption for failures. And Blood in payment. Twenty feet of steel, six metres of agony for the home grown audience. Collar to collar. A dog collar match is generally reserved for the bloodiest of feuds. The deepest of anger. For battles that require an outcome that is as bloody as the participants within it. And so some may think it unnecessary. Some may think it too much for something borne from my own aggression. But that is where they are wrong, Bulldog. There is nothing better than a Dog Collar match to mark the fifth encounter. There is nothing more poetic, than putting to heel the Bulldog himself, with the dog collar that should be restraining his arrogant, bastard ass. I am not afraid of Bulldog, despite the fact that everyone will always say to expect the unexpected from the veteran. No, I fear no man, for at the end of the day. There will always be a winner and a loser. I know this very fucking well. So Bulldog, I do have to apologise. For this match, it isn’t for you. It’s isn’t for us. It is to show that I am completely dedicated to the path before me.”


He throws the contents of the bucket over the table. Instead of the red however, it is far more yellow in colour. Almost opaque, somewhat amber. Dropping the bucket, his smile is etched deep on his face. A hand going up to his face, and wiping it, smearing the blood more over his features. All of his skin hidden behind the mask of red. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a silver flip lighter, igniting the flame. His eyes locked on the flicker of fire.

“So let me tell you, Bulldog. Blood is the price we pay this week. Blood is the price that everyone will pay. But I need you understand something as well. Baptism in fire is the expectation of my emergence into the world. Though it is the messenger of death that stands as my spirit creature, the phoenix is more emblematic of the journey I take. Each failure is not a death knell for me. Each collapse is not a fault. It is another chance to succeed. For each time I fall, I will rise again. I will pay the boatsman fee, and in that. My own true freedom. Yet I refuse to allow my blood to be the only currency, and in that, Bulldog. My redemption requires yours. For I will be the one stand tall after our fifth encounter. I will be the one who demands the attention of the World Deceiver at the end of Into the Void. King James can have his moment of arrogance, but I will be the one who stands tall at the end. For I will do anything necessary to prove the truth. The Dog collar is symbolic for the joint passage of my journey to this point, and in suffocating you with it, freedom from it. Yet this is more than just us Bulldog. I want you to listen well. I want Jack Washington to listen well. I want Mac Bane and Kenneth to listen well. I want Michael Harris and King James to listen well. Every single one of them, needs to listen. For there is a target on the back of every single one of them. Former kings, people deserving of holy retribution in the light of truth that I offer. The Conspiracy is coming, and in it, the Napalm death will be their freedom. For cleansed in the flames of my coming, they will realise the folly of their paths. The folly of their existence. The folly of everything they have worked for. Jack Washington’s arrogance will be washed from him, and in the end he will have to answer to the flames themselves. Kenneth wanted my head, and in turn he will lose his own. Mac Bane is the shadow that looms over the World championship, and only in his failure, can someone truly call themselves the Kingslayer. Michael Harris. The man who is everything that accuse me of. Who hides behind his false queens. Dangerous game you play, old man. For if it necessary, I will break everything you love. If I cannot cut the flesh from you…”

Holding the lighter in his left, still burning the flame, he once again grips the bloodied cleaver in his right, and holds it up high. Lowering the light, it touches to the white sheet, flames beginning to lap at the edges. And then.

White hot flames, an explosion. The sounds of screeching, crying men and women. The croak and cry of panicked birds. The flutter of wings. Everything obscured by the burning flames.

“Then I will burn everything you love. I am, the Kingslayer Alexander Raven. And I will slay the mouthy mutt known as Bulldog Bill Barnhart. I will blood him for the last time, and then I turn the light of absolution upon all Kings who stand in the way of the truth. Broken and collapsed, they will burn in the truth that I bring forward. For like Napalm, everything will be devoured in me.”

The cabin is gone, as is the table. The flicked up snow of the rough winds of the Scottish mountain tops. Flame dances in the snow, burning away. Alexander Raven is kneeling in the snow, his eyes cast to the heavens. On the other side of the flames, a taller, more distorted version of him. Thick hair, an almost grey tinge to him. The real Alexander Raven wraps his arms around himself, his face dangerously close to the violently flickering fire. The grey Raven stepping into the flames, seemingly untouched.

“Bill. I want to thank you. You may not have taken the challenge earnestly, but you will be the one who acts it appropriately. So when I wrap that chain around your throat. When I pound my fist into your skull, over and over and cause the crimson flow to ebb from the wounds. When I break you, and everyone is baying for the violence. I want to thank you, for being the next victim in the list of Kings. For I am, the Kingslayer. And in napalm, all will be cleansed.”

Alex stands slowly, still with arms wrapped around himself. The grey figure standing in the flames still, stretching a hand out to him. Alex leans down slowly, and picks up some snow, throwing some into the flames. Before kicking, over and over, kicking whirls of the snow into the flames. Snuffing it out slowly. In a wash of white and smoke, the grey figure disappears, and Alex is left alone on the mountain with the smoldering ground.

“Things will change.”

“The Conspiracy is here.”


And then.

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothing.


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