[Matthew Knox]

THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat.

• Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amontillado

   

12/12/21
Pro Wrestling Valor: Slay Ride.

   In truth, he had felt the shadow of tonight’s bullshit long before it took hold. The copper of bloodshed was palpable on the cold Indiana air from the moment he stepped off the plane with his wife and her charge in tow. Between the reports of scattered Matthew Knox action figures being found around the resort town with their heads popped off and the fact that Cam Roth had an unwavering hatred for him he was sure that the night would end in some sort of chicanery unbecoming even the lowest of scum.

In truth, he had no idea.

No sooner had he conquered the monkey on his back of defeating a man known as “The Answer” and more recently “The Bogeyman” JC. Joseph Lee. The man who had brought him back into the wrestling business after his decade long attempt to remove himself from this mortal coil in the slowest and most agonizing of ways. A man he considered more a brother than his own.

Although, to be fair, they were both equally violent sociopaths.

Of all the people Matthew had beaten, this was the man who he couldn’t get past. And part of it was his own fault. He did everything he could not to take the easy road on JC. Stay away from the neck. Don’t attack the one hole in his armor. All out of love, respect, and appreciation. The big issue was…outside of that neck JC was goddamn near bulletproof.

But, like everything else set before him, Matthew was able to overcome The Answer and retain his first world title since 2008. His fourth defense. One hundred and thirty five days as champion…

….And then it all went fucky.

The one thing he had not accounted for was Thomas Rivers lowering himself to be a subservient dog for some snot nosed rich fuck like Cam Roth the Third. The first Apex Ultima rang his bell and took the last bit of fight out of him. It was a powerless feeling, watching that 20 pounds of shiny golden validation be taken from him. He willed himself to move. To fight. But the war with JC had won out.

His knee was on fire, he couldn't stand to put weight on it. His right hand throbbed in pain and seemed curled in upon itself. Probably a broken knuckle or three. He tasted copper, but couldn’t smell or hear anything. Outside of the ringing in his ears.
He felt Tom enter the ring, saw the chair and screamed to get up. To fight. Damn the title, this could put an end before it began.

For Christ's sake, SCW was hyping him up against someone he had come to want to engage with violently in his short time with the company..

But, exhaustion won out. Nagging injuries left untreated. Age. The wreckage laid upon him by the match with his still incapacatated friend.

You better kick his ass for this, Joe. He’s makin us both look b–

The crunch of metal, a distinct pain and numbness….

And then it was all black.

12/17/21
Unknown Location.
On Camera

“Matthew 7:15…and Christ said, ‘Beware False Prophets, Which come to you in sheep's clothing. But inwardly, are ravening wolves.”

The camera slowly faded in to find Matthew Knox sitting in a black room, white curtains blow lazily upon a gentle pacific breeze as a silvery moonlight creeps in, highlighting his stormy glasz eyes set within a sullen face baring a smirk betraying the macabre intent behind his words.

“It’s a familiar bit of scripture, in that it wrought unto the world one of its greatest cliches. A wolf in sheep's clothing. The threat hiding in plain sight. Be it an actual violent, visceral threat or a more benign sort of danger. The kind that rots the soul, and leaves the body to drift through life an empty husk…”

Long, pale fingers drum upon the table he sat at the head of, its expanse seeming to fill the room. Empty seats and unlit candles laid upon red satin with the most gratuitous helpings of wax fruit in wooden bowls betwixt each one. An absolute tribute to pomposity.

With the most pompous seated at the head of the table.

“Given your choice in totem, one all too familiar with me? I’m guessing that you’re much more one than the other…and yet you act as the one you least identify with. Funny, how the little details play out, isn’t it Alexander?”

“And I stand corrected as much as I do on ceremony. You didn’t just choose the Raven as a moniker, you took it as your name. And that sort of pretentiousness….I respect it as much as I can’t stand it. It’s one thing to say you inspire the same sort of terror a Corvid does in the heart of man, to say you are akin to the harbinger of doom and destruction..”
He sinks down into his seat, long legs swinging to bring his feet, clad in a worn pair of Stacey Adams, to rest upon the long, lonely tribute to the worst of humanity and the best of decadence. He was silent for a pause, fingers coming to steeple beneath his nose and over thin, pale lips. His tone is contemplative as much as it is condescending.

“But, aside from the shallow interpretation of such a fantastic creature, I'm afraid that’s where our similarities end. Because in all other ways you, Alexander, are lacking. One might even say…an ‘Alexander the Okay’ if you'll forgive the pun. I mean, sure, you’re in line for a title shot. You’ve carved out a decent name for yourself here…but it means very little…because it’s still on schedule.”

The steepled fingers come as undone as the man they’re attached to, one hand drops to the oblivion out of frame, the other remaining and curled into a fist. A finer pops up with each step he takes in the tragic plot of Alexander Raven.

“Man with greater purpose enters pasture that has heard hook nor crook of him, grandstands, maybe garners a few followers. Gets under the skin of opponents long enough to make them buy his bullshit, slip in their game and he takes their pride to add to his own…and it’s a fantastic operation. Has to be. As played out as it is.”

“Problem is..it all ends the same way. The fear only extends as far as the line of cowards and fools. Eventually? Eventually, someone comes along who isn’t moved by empty theatrics and emptier notions. Eventually, someone comes who sees right through it all to the scoundrel at the helm, selling salvation to the unsavable as if they won’t be cast upon by their glare as they share damnation…”

The fingers curl back in, except the index finger which rotates and points directly into the lens. His gaze was piercing, but not angry. Something far closer to pity and dismissal ruling his eyes.

“I see you, Alexander.”

12/12/21
PWV: Slay Ride
Back Stage, Trainer's Area.

“You don’t even understand why you’re there…”

The soft, even and all too familiar tone of Hope Adrienne Knox permeated the comfortable darkness he had let himself begin to slip into. His eyes drift open, staring up at the ceiling in the trainer’s room.  She wasn’t his by blood. Another wayward orphan like him, that he was able to pluck from the mire like he had been.

However, Matthew Aloysius Knox was nowhere near the father Hugh Thomas Alano had been.

She became an easy target upon his return. No longer the little blonde girl attached to his hip backstage at FWF shows, but now a captivating and intelligent young woman. Capable beyond reproach and possessed of an ability to deconstruct a person down to their core and poke at the worst and best of them, just to see what made them tick.

Not a drop of blood…

But she was his..

“I’m at least a little sure it has something to do with the chair…”

She scoffed, refusing to smile at his humor no matter how badly she wanted to. They had a falling out, incredibly public. She had met Cam Roth at the party following the second Roth Invitational Tournament. Hit it off, spent more time with him in secret because she knew how irrational her father was. Although, she held doubts that he would have been too focused. Given his new life he’d gotten to go with the world title he’d won.

“No, I mean…You still have no idea which way is up. Why you’re always ending up here, broken? Getting nothing but venom and ire from the people around you. Even your friends, and children.”

“Well, we all make our choices Hope.” he paused, furrowing his brow “If this is about you and Ca–”

“It’s got nothing to do with me and Cam. It doesn’t even have anything to do with me and you. It’s just about you….and the stupid, reckless life you’re leading…” she took in a breath, walking out of his purview as she fought the rage that bubbled just beneath the surface “You know, Ivy still has nightmares over him coming to get her?”

“And yet here her big sister is, facilitating his use in her father’s destruction.”

“I didn’t know..” she said softly, defensively. A twinge of regret she wouldn’t allow to become larger permeating the statement “Not that it would have mattered if I did…Cam isn’t going to stop until you understand, and you stop.”

“Well, he can fuck right off if he thinks throwing people at me i’ve already defeated is going to–”

“Is this what victory looks like?” She cut him off again, earning a frustrated grunt from him as he snapped his eyes shut, wishing his ears could silence her as quickly as his eyes blinded himself to her.

To how right she was.

“Over and over, you repeat the same cycle. You come in, hellbent on righteousness and glory. You draw people to you. Take a wife. Make children. And then you overstep and overestimate. You get yourself hurt, legitimately hurt to the point where sane people would walk away.,..and then prove yourself not only insane, but selfish.”

“Selfish and willfully ignorant to the truth that you’ve got nothing left to prove.No goal left to accomplish. You proved it all, you got your world title. You’ve won a majority of your matches since you came back. You’ve made impacts everywhere you’ve gone. You’ve opened a school to train a new generation…and still, you’re selfish. Still, you need the adoration and the violence and…I can’t deal with that anymore. I can’t be a part of the collateral damage. Not again..”

He let her venom wash over him, tugging violently at the heart beating behind the bruised and battered chest. He did all he could to control his breathing, not give her anything to latch onto.to lash out at.

“If you think that this is all hubris, you’ve got it wrong.”

“I don’t care if I'm wrong, or if I'm right. I just care that you lied.” She hit him harder than any opponent, “You came back, saying it was about fixing what you broke. That you were going to protect me from Grandpa Nate’s world, that you were going to be a father. And I believed it…”

The pause was akin to feeling the death blow fly through the air.

“I believed it, believed you gave a fuck. Even after you walked away, so easily. So willingly….and what did it get me?” another pause, another blade being dropped from the guillotine. “Mocked by Christopher St John. Made out as a daddy issues trope by Scott Dunn. Stalked by your cousin, and then kidnapped by those painted freaks from Chicago…”

“And I had NOTHING to do with ANY of those wars, Dad..” her voice wavered, the emotion raw as it was evident “You haven’t protected me from shit….”

“I tried.” meek, small. Defeated.

“Oh, I'm aware. And all your efforts did was make it worse…and it dawned on me finally, why. Especially after Cam told me why he’s harboring such hatred for you…It’s because you can never be sincere….everything has a purpose attached, one that serves you, and you alone.”

She begins to list his faults then, counting them off on one hand. Each one landing harder than a physical blow, tearing at him in places only she could hurt him. At parts of his heart where only her, and her sisters resided…

A place quickly becoming abandoned…

“I’m a recovering addict, behold my struggle to do right by the kids that i did wrong. Okay you’re on my side. Later Hope, later Ivy–when was the last time you saw her, anyway?”

She steps forward, leaning down to get in his face. Her tone dripping with venom…and hurt.

“ ‘Oh shit, this big guy is wreaking havoc and bullying the rookies I've tried replacing my kids with because even since I got them back in my life, I can't look at them without feeling guilty. Oh shit I mocked him into stalking my eldest, now I look like a hero while I do something that goes a half step, if that, beyond ego…”

“Enough.” He rasped, exhausted. The morphine, war, and attack all slowly trying to drag him to the hell her words were damning him to.

“You don’t know the meaning of the word.” she bit once more, taking a moment to bask in the stale air of the room. Her ice blue eyes staring into him, slowly tearing him in two with the truth.

“Even now…you’re going to go after him. Because you can’t stand the stalemate. You can’t stand not having a bloody war to wage…” she bared her teeth then, a knowing and mocking smile “Or is it just to get close to–”

“I said Enough.”

He cringed at the tone, shaking his head and forcing himself to sit up, grimacing at the pain that shot through him as he brought his gaze upon her. She stared him down defiantly, baby blue eyes tearing past every defense he ever had, just like any other day.

“So have I…” she whispered, shaking her head and reaching up to fidget with the messy bun she’d pulled her hair into “I’ve got to go…Cam has to get back to New York, prep a conference for the next Roth tournament..”

He only stared at her as she stepped to the exit, lingering for a moment before turning to face him.

“I love you. More than I want to. It does hurt seeing you like this, but I can’t stand idly by and get burned by your self immolation….” she trailed off, pursing her lips before finding his gaze and speaking pointedly “I’ll be there, when it’s over. Be it to hug you and enjoy you having come to your senses, or to make sure the earth they shovel upon you is enough to contain you…Goodbye, Dad.”

12/17/21
Unknown Location.
On Camera

“And I'll be the last one to lay eyes upon you, as you are now.”

The finger retracts, as does the rest of him. Lithe form shifting until it’s sat sideways in the chair, long legs draped over one arm as his back rests against the other. His hands fold into themself, eyes staring up into the moonlight, the only light in his life.

“You’re an unfortunate sort of man. Unlucky, and due for an unkindness. See, you’re not the only pious asshole in SCW preaching a better, or worse way are you? No, you’re not the only man possessed of greater purpose…just the loneliest one.”

The flat, emotionless facade shatters under the weight of a smile, the silence dies a violent death from a deep chuckle that resonates through the emptiness of the room. Soon, it dies off though as he shifts in the seat once more. Planting his feet on the floor, leaning upon the table to stare into the camera as it zooms to meet his gaze.

“See, there are already whispers in the wind of why I have come to SCW. A place where once there may have been friends, but now only ire. See, I must admit Alexander I, too, possess delusions of grandeur unbecoming my humble station in life.”

“I fancy myself a solution, to men like you. Men who would apply a false sense of purpose to cover up their mundanity. Or perhaps, to be the one to matter for once. See, some men like you. Me. Us. They fancy themselves…Saviors. When all they’ve ever been is ‘the other one’ for as long as I have known them, with only fleeting bits of glory. Enough to keep their links to actual greatness valid..”

A pregnant pause, a flattening of the smile. From mockery, to the type you pay someone you have to smile at. The one that’s expected, but you never mean. Not once….now, or ever.

“Hello Mac. I’ve missed you.”

He waves the lie of pragmatism away with one sweep of a pale hand, standing from the seat and leaning over the table. Battered, broken and bruised knuckles press lfush to the polished oak as he rests upon his knuckles. Staring down the camera.

Staring down Mac Bane.

Staring down Alexander Raven.

Staring down Fate itself.

“But hey, that’s disrespectful to you, Alexander. When you’ve no doubt given me the chunk of your attention. If you’re worth your salt you’ve dug all the good dirt up. Addiction issues, fallings out with management, bad temper, unprofessional behavior…I am an absolute goddamn mess. Should be unhirable…yet here I am.”

He stood up straight, spreading his arms as he spoke the last words. As if presenting himself for judgment.

As if anyone here were worthy of doing so.

…..Well, maybe one.

“Because I’m a proven commodity, Alexander. For all my faults, I turn heads. I draw money. And I fight like hell….and that’s when i’m unmotivated.”

Trailing his fingertips over the backs of the chairs he passed as he moved along, Matthew began to pace the length of the table. The camera zoomed out to track his slow journey. The moonlight seems to follow him, only adding to the spectre-like presence he possessed.

“I am motivated now. I’m motivated to exorcise ghosts and I'm motivated to reduce you, and the men like you to ashes. Alexander Raven, self appointed false prophet. The dime store one-man version of Mac Bane’s island of misfit Saviors. You’ve wandered into the deep end and i’m going to fucking drown you in it, son..”

He stops, close to the camera now. Close enough to see what distance and lighting could hide. Dark rings under his eyes, a three day beard. Top buttons on his shirt undone. Face still covered in discoloration courtesy of his cousin Thomas Rivers’, or Supreme Machine as some knew him, attacked at the Slay Ride PPV for PWV.

The first shot of the war..the one heard ‘round the world.

His tone slid once more, to something matching his altered state. A little more unhinged, feral even.

“I don’t hate you…but I have to hurt you. I have to show them what to expect, what to prepare for. Because that…that is how you make fear take root, Alexander. Real, visceral fear. The kind that once made man cling to fire. You show them what is going to happen, the inevitable. And you let them simmer in what they’ve witnessed…”

“And live…with the realization. That they can’t stop it. No matter what lie they craft to ease their mind into a heavy sleep at night. No matter what solution they come up with…the inevitability wins out…”

Slowly, he exhales a breath he had no idea he was holding. He fishes a pack of Camel non-filter cigarettes from his breast pocket, snatching the last one up betwixt his teeth as he crumpled the pack and threw it over his shoulder with so little care…

He produced a polished silver zippo yet, small scuffs betraying its age, a flick, a puff to bring the smoke to life. The snap of the lid snuffing out the flame. He took a long hit, before exhaling the noxious fumes from his nose. He stared into the lens pointedly, voice dripping with venom as he did his best to warn a man who was already dead…

“I am Raze….I am Ruin…I am The Raven. And I’m going to live within your sleep from now until the End, Alexander. As the first man who saw you in SCW….as the man who lit the match…”

Flick.

The zippo roared to life, and holding the gaze of Alexander and whomever else was watching, Matthew held it up to one of those lazy white curtains which soon was engulfed in flame. A flame that spread far too rapidly, dancing to the next set of curtains and on and on until suddenly, Matthew Knox stood at his pulpit…in Hell.

“That burned you alive…”

He walks out of flame as the fire continues spreading, small embers falling upon the table which goes up as if it were drenched in accelerant. But maybe, it was simply drenched in sin and decadence..

As the camera fades to black, his voice rolls forth from the darkness. Calm, even, inquisitive…

“Now…...Can you stop me?”