In Flames
Scene One | Off-Camera | 17/12/2021
Never mess with Alexander Remington.
“It’s been close to seven years. The man I had admiration for. Aspired to emulate, to replicate. We’d become even better enemies in the end. The hatred went deep, and even if neither of us would ever admit it. The other was founded upon the disdain held for each other. Blood and flames were the reality of the feud. A skull crushed with a barbwire bat. A father crucified and martyred, set aflame as little more than a warning. A final encounter elusive. A final battle never realised. In flames it was ended. In flames it was finished.”
Dear god, what is happening? They’re burning him alive! That’s a living breathing person they’re burning.
Never mess with Alexander Remington.
“Seven years I went away. Seven years, I left this business behind. I stayed out of the ring. I stayed out of the spotlight. So did he. Retirement for the man who tried to end me. For the man who returned the favour, twice over. Cleaving the flesh, splitting the skull. Then burning the man to ensure the final knell would ring for me. Seven years, in obscurity. Seven years licking wounds. Seven years, doubting oneself.”
Rockstar, you gotta give it up. You’re out of your depth.
Never mess with Alexander Remington.
“Matthew Knox. The Raven. A man who reminds me the person I once admired. A man who reminds me of the mutterings of the man who ruined my career, who attempted to put me on the shelf for the better part of close to a decade. Men, filled with bravado and confidence. Men who do not understand defeat. Men who, do not relent. Do not give. Do not, stop. Men, who do not need to listen, follow, understand. Men who demand to be listened to. Who demand to be followed. Who demand to be understood. Matthew Knox, though you aren’t the man I want. You will be the man, who falls. There is one truth in the world. One constant.”
Never mess with Alexander Raven.
Adulation
Scene Two | On-Camera | 17/12/2021
“The Raven. A messenger of tragedy, harbingers of tragic news. The death of a hero, cried from the croaks of the black bird. Yet, a bird mired in more than myth and reality. A bird who is more than the death it regales. A symbol of wisdom and affection. A representation of a change in consciousness. The bird has many meanings. I choose not to ignore the death it represents, but the offering of its knowledge of the world to the people for safe-keeping. My knowledge is on offer for all the world. It is on offer to any who would take heed of it. My conspiracy are always welcome in my arms. My broken flock, are worthy of my affection. The Raven is a messenger, but it is also a symbol. Death is tragic, when it is the hero who falls. Yet the wisdom that comes from the collapse of a hero, is worth more than all the blood that has flow.”
Gross yellow light, illuminating a grungy, decaying kitchen. Untouched, dirt and and dust covering all the surfaces. Rodent damage, peeling lino and flaking walls. The ceiling stained with water, sags in the foundations. A single halogen bulb, throwing out that sickly warm yellow light. Accentuating the collapse of what appears to have once been a nice family home. A small table against a wall, the wood sturdy if aged. Over-turned chairs on the floor, one upright. One occupied. A man, fingers locked, staring into the void. Straight at a small burn hole on the wall.
“Matthew Knox. The Raven. A man who has taken the moniker of my family name. Rabenschwarz, raven black. Alexander Rabenschwarz was my birth name. My familial name. A moniker of mockery of the name that belongs to me. I am, Alexander Raven, not by choice, but by god damn birth right. I embody the name, because I believe in it. I believe in the symbolism that it offers to me. I believe in the symbolism and meaning of the raven. The Harbinger of Tragic News. The spiritual symbol for the passing of knowledge. A change in consciousness. That is what I embody. A harbinger of demise, yet in that demise. A symbol of hope. Of affection. Of wisdom. Hope for those broken and dismayed. A symbol of wisdom for those who lack it. A symbol of progress.”
The man at the table shakes his head, sighing out. A ripped black tee, maroon skinny jeans, the classic black and white converse. His fingers slowly separating, moving his left hand to his face, scratching at it. His other hand slipping into his pocket, pulling a small green cricket lighter free. The hand at the face pulling a cigarette that was nestled behind his ear. The click of the flint, the flare of flame, the deep inhale of the first drag.
“There is a world of people out there, who think they understand me. A woman who thought in idolising me, she could help recognise the broken crown I wore. Who showed me the path from being the One True King, to being the False King. A man who took the rage filled youth, who was obsessed with comics and games. A man who took the rage filled youth and channeled it. Guided the wild aggression and taught me to harness it. A man who cleaned my wounds and soothed my burnt flesh, who took me across the globe. Who showed me a life free of the pain that exists inside the ring. A man who showed me, freedom. Rockstar, he calls me. The False King, she called me. A child, he called me. There is pillars in every persons life. There is pillars of guidance who help form the person you will become. A misguided abused youth, full of rage. Moulded into an articulate, specific and channeled beast. I thanked that man, by taking his own bat to his skull. Hit him so many times, it was lucky he woke up. It was lucky he didn’t suffer long term injury.”
The man slowly lifts himself out the chair, turning. Alexander Raven. His beard grown out quite thick. His hair messy, thinning lightly on top. A sense of loss in his eyes. The cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His right hand slowly moving up to it. Placing a finger to the burning ember. The sharp inhale of pain as he held it there. Burning the flesh. Then a moment later moving it away, shaking the pain out.
“Do you know how he thanked me, Knox? He strung my abusive father up on a crucifix. He hung him above the stage, and he set fire to him. The fact that it was my father, is irrelevant. It’s the message that was most important. He took the man I resented. That even in my attempts to reconnect as an adult, he brought doom and gloom upon me. Remington took this man, strung him up and martyred him. He put forth a message I didn’t appreciate. That I had failed to put him down, and that we were no phoenixes. That in flame, we would no be reborn.”
“It was in this moment, a pact was forged. It was in that moment, I understood. Adulation and admiration would get me no where. That adulation and admiration would get me burnt. Yet, it was not anywhere near as painful as the lesson I was to learn. As lesson he would teach me. He repaid that favour, Knox. He took my preferred weapon. He took a chair to my skull. Yet leaving me in a pool of my own visceral carnage wasn’t enough. No. He wanted to make an example. To remind me, that the raven is not a phoenix. Just like my father before me, he lit that match, and surrounded by his new allies. They watched it all happen. My body go up in flames, my leaking blood sizzling in the inferno. They all stood and watched. They all saw, and none of them did anything. They laughed, they mocked. They made it reality.”
His eyes narrowed with frustration, staring down at his reddened finger. The flesh beginning to bubble slightly. Blistering. His teeth clenching, his jaw stiffening. A rough intake of the smoke, with a slow exhalation out of his nose. The light tap of his shoes on the peeling lino. Crossing through the kitchen, into a derelict lounge area. The walls moth eaten, the carpet filled with grime and dirt. An old couch sitting in the middle of the room, focused on a source of flickering light. A fireplace, burning away.
“I know men like you, Knox. Confident, untouchable. Focused. Elite. I know men like you, because I wanted to be a man like you. I wanted to be a man like Alexander Remington. In wanting to be a man like you, I lost myself. I became disconnected, and disillusioned with my reality. Fractured though my mind became, a guiding force led me to a safe place. My friend, James. He guided me through my recovery. He tended to my cracked skull, he soothed my burns. He took me far away, and showed me a life free of the pain. Free of the abuse. Free of men, like you. Yet…”
He slowly lowered himself down onto the dilapidated couch, throwing the filter of his cigarette into the fireplace. Allowing it be engulfed by the flames. His eyes focused upon the flickering flames. His fingers linking again, the burnt one sticking out, keeping it free.
“I couldn’t just leave. I came back, not for Alexander Remington. I came back, against the protests of James. I came back, not to admire men like you, Knox. I came back, to remind myself of who the hell I am. I came back, to remind the world, of who I am. Alexander Raven, the Broken Messiah. The man who will change the consciousness of all those who subscribe to my wisdom. To those who become part of my Conspiracy. A man, such as yourself would know. A group of ravens is known as such. A conspiracy. I am not man of all the people. I could care less for the doting of a child, and the hapless obsession of a crazed fan. I am here to lead those who have been so severely broken. Who have been disconnected from reality. Who are fractured.”
“I ask people to listen to me. To understand me. To follow me, for one simple reason. I need them their ears, mind and eyes to learn. I need them to see me, and in seeing me, see the reality that I offer. I need them to see that I am not a deluded and deranged fool, Knox. I am not a cult-like leader. I am not a wildly unhinged person. I am, disconnected and fractured, like them. I am one who struggles to find the reality because I too, am broken. Yet I know how it feels to be broken. I know it feels to be left in the eyes of everyone and helpless. To be burning in the flames of rebirth, that are not meant for you. To be leaking your life essence and watching the world fade. I understand the loss of reality, because I no longer accept it. I am the Broken Messiah, and I am Alexander Raven. I am the Harbinger of Tragedy. The tragedy that it your fall, Knox. There is no heroes and villains in real life. Just men, doing what they need. The ravens will hark and they will croak. One of us will fall. Of us will be left to the feeling of loss and decay.”
“Never mess with Alexander Raven.”
With a heavy breath, he slowly removes the lighter from his pocket. Clicking the flame to life once more, staring into it. The world around it beginning to fade. Darkness creeping in. Only the two flames dancing.
“I will extinguish your flame.”
The sharp breath, then.
Darkness.
Silence.
Symbolism
Scene Three | On-Camera | 18/12/2021
The flapping of wings. The croak of a bird. A roulette table spins in a spotlight. The clatter of a ball gliding across its surface. The laughter of disembodied persons, general murmur and chatter, indistinguishable.
“Knox, you are my first real test. There’s no doubt about it. The second match king was a joke I coined. Yet, there’s some semblance of truth in it. My first match, Branded Hen, dispatched, second match of the night. The four that became three, at my hands. The match I won with a god damn slingblade of all things. Second match, victory, dispatched, and my path forged. The Bulldog will be collared at my hands. The Bulldog will gamble with me, and yet. He will not realise the game is rigged. That I leave naught to chance. Consistency, odds and favour. I like consistency. I like to have the odds in my favour. I don’t gamble, Knox. I play and I win. There is no chance about it.”
The flutter of wings as a bird, a large black raven, lands upon the edge of the roulette table. Croaking loudly as it pecks at the spinning wheel, attempting to grab the ball that continues to skitter across the surface.
“Second match, Knox. Insulting as it is, there is a pride that comes with consistency. If I am, to be the “second match” guy, then I will make a spectacle of it. Consistency dictates that the second match of the night, belongs to me. The second match of the night, is mine to win, and everyone else’s to lose. There is more to this match than a need to win, Knox. For you, a loss is excusable. Battered, beaten, focused elsewhere. Less than your best. For me, there is no excuse. If I can’t beat a man in half state, on the match that I have deemed to be my consistency. Well, do I even deserve to collar the bulldog? Does my guaranteed odds suddenly become a bet that I am unwilling to play? There is more on the line here than a W or L, Knox.”
“Who is, the true Raven? Who will stand as the continued hot streak? Who will be undefeated in this reality? You may think these rhetorical. I know I do. The answers we have however, differ. I cannot lose here. I will not, lose here. I need you to understand that, Knox. That when reality calls, this isn’t just about maintaining my streak. This isn’t just about ensuring I go into my title match with the Bulldog with momentum. This is about avenging myself. For Remington may never be within my grasp again, but there are men who are. Men who remind me of him. Men who will behave no different and illicit a reality where they are the breakers. You are a breaker, the one who fractures. I will not ask you to follow, and I will not ask if you understand. I know you understand, and you know that I cannot lose to you. I need to win, Knox. You will see.”
‘We are broken, but we see clearly. We are fractured, but we are whole.’ Voices chanting those words. Over and over. In unison, bounding off the darkness that surrounds the table. Another raven, and then a third. All three pecking at the table, grabbing wildly at the ball. Continuing to skitter, to elude.
“You will see. I promise you. This is my reality, Knox. I cannot, and will not, lose. You will fall victim, and you will be the tragic news that we carry. I will end men like you. I will end all those who break others. I will end all those who burn others. I once was lost, but no more. I will bring my wisdom to the world. You will fall victim. I assure it.”
The snap of fingers, the flutter of wings as the birds take off. The ball slowly coming to a stop. Landing on double 00.
“The house, takes all.”
And then.
Nothing.
