Agostino & Brandon
Redemption
Scene One | On-Camera | 15/02/2022
“Redemption looms on the horizon once more. Yet this one holds more power than any other. Brandon Hendrix, Agostino Romano. Reality beckons. The redemption I seek extends further than the minute and forgettable missteps of recent. Redemption offered with two giving hands. The Branded Hen to collapse beneath my boot once more, and silenced, permanently. Opportunity to silence the old dog. Surrounded by a chance at redemption, I cannot allow this to slip. For this is the pathway to my greater ascension. Patience, it’s all about the patience.”
“Bulldog, you loom on the horizon of my eyes once more. You loom in my future once more, and you know, just as I know. We will stand against each other in that ring once more. Blaze of Glory X looms as the inferno that beckons the bringing of the True King. The Broken Messiah, Alexander Raven will be the one truth again, and you know Bulldog. You know, redemption looms. For reality is as reality will be. Two men in history own two victories over Alexander Raven. Two men alone, and no more will be added to that illustrious list. All get one chance, all get an opportunity to show their power and teach a lesson I will heed. A lesson that leads to ultimate and eternal redemption. Bulldog, my eyes are set upon you, for beneath my boot you will be the path of my ascension. Dogs, hounds, beasts and animals. Surrounded by the mystical and the obsessed. Animalistic nature pervades SCW. Obsession with beasts of power. Mockery of the nature of those blessed with the names. Mockery. Pathetic mockery.”
A crown, illuminated by a spotlight. Shimmering, golden and cracked. Broken yet not destroyed. Threatening to split in two. Resting upon the red velvet podium, wooden floor beneath. Hands slipping around the sides gripping the crown. Holding it tightly, pointer fingers looping the peaks to grip, the metal cutting into the flesh.
“Sickeningly, this business is infested with cliques and bodies of association. Unable to stand upon own feet, everyone is mixed in a gross orgy of connection. You know this better than any, Bulldog, don’t you? It’s impossible to be one of your own here. Association is everything, and history more so. Interestingly, my own history does not escape me, even now. All these years removed. Griffin Hawkins is one I am owed redemption for. A man who broke my crown. A man who dethroned me in a showing better than any other in his career previously. A dream match for you, wasn’t it? A dream match against Hawkins. The double bird himself. It’s a dream match for me too, Bulldog. It’s a dream match for me too. Redemption. It starts with the silencing of the Branded Hen. It continues with my victory and claiming of your own crown. A fresh, gleaming and clean one. With your collapse comes my journey to taking what is owed. Hawkins, Knox, Fenris. Men who own one over me. Men who threaten to add themselves to an all too short list. Men who wish to stand over my limp frame twice.”
“Never again will there be another Remington or Stygian.”
The jagged edges of the crown continued to slice into the flesh. Blood beginning to seep from the flesh, the red mixing with the shimmer gold and silver of the peaked crown. Crimson beads sliding down the face, dripping down on the velvet. Added stains to the gentle material.
“Bulldog, stand tall. Stand proud. For my redemption does not begin, nor does it end with you. You are the pathway to my ascension. You are the pathway, and you will fall beneath my boot. You are no Alexander Remington. You are no, Black Dragon. You are nothing but an old dog, lashing out and biting at any who come near. Lacking the gentle touch, you’re becoming bitter and old. An angry old bulldog, frothing at the jowls. Focus, Bulldog. For I am coming again, I promise you. This time, there is no contest. There is no battle. There is, one truth.”
“The crown of redemption, will rest upon my head once more.”
The crown lifted, the figure of Alexander Raven stepping into frame. The Cheshire grin spread across his face. The crown being placed upon his own head. Gems of crimson sliding down the face of it, onto his own. His hands stained of the same colour as the velvet.
“Redemption, Bulldog. I’m coming.”
The click, the shatter of a bulb. The sounds of glass raining down.
Darkness.
Silence.
My King
Scene Two | Off-Camera | 15/12/2015
“No more, please Alex. No more blood.”
The wounds were still fresh. His body racked with pain, numbed by the drips that flowed into him. They’d removed a part of the skull to relieve the pressure on his brain. Injuries similar to that of a severe motorcycle crash. Her hand was gentle on his face, light caressing of the skin. He smiled just slightly, as much as possible through the swelling. Jamilyn and Remington had done a number on him.
“You might be right, lover. You might be right.”
Grumbles, hardly formed words. Her free hand linking fingers with his, placing a gentle kiss to his face. The momentary pain was worth the sweetness that came.
“No more blood. No more violence. No more, please.”
Alex tightened his hand in hers. Turning his head slightly to look at her. Eyes closed gently, lifting a hand to her, gentle running his fingers along her arm.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted, to be the king.”
A smile crossed her face, strands of red falling across his features. Her sun-kissed face creasing with a mixture of pain and sadness.
“You’re always going to be my king, Alex. Always. I don’t care for the gold, the glitz, the money. I don’t care about any of it. Just you. You’re always going to be my king.”
“I love you, Loz.”
She kissed him again, holding his hand tightly, the one on his face cupping just slightly tighter. He was okay hurting for her. If he was never to return, it would be okay. If he was her king, that’s all that mattered.
Branded Hen
Scene Three | On-Camera | 17/02/2022
The waft of cigarette smoke, the clink of glass on glass, the silence of the night sky. Illuminated lightly by a string of fairy lights, Alexander Raven sitting on his decking, eyes looking out into the night sky. A small table to his side, ashtray, bottle of that Old Number Seven, and a tumbler. Glass half full, whiskey stones sitting within.
“Once again, we cross paths, Brandon. Once again, for an opportunity at success. Once more, Brandon, you stand in my path. Not for the first time, you stand between me and a crown. Between me and my ascension. Not for the first time, I will have to walk through you, to get what I want. Brandon, I showed you once, and now I will show you again.You are beneath me. I proved it when we both arrived here. Luck is what gave you a win over me. Luck. No body beats me twice, Brandon. No one stands above the king. No one holds my crown aloft my own head, except for me. No one runs me out of town. No one, Brandon. Not you, not the bulldog. Not Agostino. No one.”
“The stakes are different this time, aren’t they? You’re no longer on top of the world. You are focused elsewhere, and you do not have your eyes on the prize. Offered similar trajectories, yet you’ve fallen short of myself again. Yet they offer you the same, over and over. Yet they give you opportunity to stand against me again. Do they doubt me so? Or do they have such admiration for you, that they are willing to overlook your failures? Constant and continuous failures. I wonder, Brandon. Do you understand my words yet? Do you understand what I offer to you? You do not. You do not understand and you do not follow. Failure is your meta, and I understand that. I will not allow myself to slip to your level.”
A deep sharp inhale, a spike of pain across his face. Lowering the half smoked cigarette to the ashtray, laying it on the edge. Lifting the half full glass, swallowing deeply of the liquid. Draining every last drop in one large mouthful.
“The Branded Hen, do you know why that is your name? For you a branded naught but a chicken in my life. Clucking and pecking the ground. Looking for success beneath you, rather than raising your head to the sky. Short flights of obsession, wishing you could match the birds of prey that fly above. Branded with failure, to be the first pecked to death. Yet there is more to this branding, isn’t there? A reality that if you fail again, Brandon, you’re exactly what I’ve accused you of. Being nothing but a liar. Nothing but a complete failure, who got lucky. That you couldn’t beat me then, you couldn’t beat me now. Reality, Hen. Reality. I am your reality, and in that reality you are beneath me. You will always be beneath me. I proved it when I got you one and one. When you couldn’t run from me anymore. I got my opportunity against the Bulldog. I came up short once. I won’t come up short again. What have you done? Offered multiple opportunities at a crown. Failed to even get to the coronation ceremony.”
“Yet, here we stand, with a man to have donned that crown that eluded you. Does it boil your blood, Branded Hen? I wonder. Does it boil your blood that despite every acidic word you spewed my direction, you failed. Not only yourself, but every one you pretend to be a leader for. No one respects the fallen, do they Hen? No one respects that man who cannot succeed. I know this well. I spend a lot of time with no respect for myself. I spent a long time, with no respect for myself. Beaten and broken. I often hurt myself. But, there was a guiding hand for me, Branded Hen. Someone who helped me see my potential. Who laid the unbreakable truth on me. I will never, ever, forget her. I do not fail, for I cannot. I will not fail, for I will not ever let her down. Do you have a guiding hand, Hen? I do hope so. Dearly, I do. For that guiding hand, will guide you out the door.”
The cigarette now a trail of ash, the filter falling limp just to the side of the tray. The glass placed lightly on the table, his opposite hand going to his head, running through his hair, before holding his own head. Lowering it slightly, leaning forward in his seat.
“Agostino. A man to be crowned, looking for a new kingdom. A man who laps in the admiration of the dying fans. The thrill of the rev of an engine. A happy man. An ignorant one too. Success is in your blood, isn’t it, Agostino Romano? Success is your achievement, your reality. I respect that, Agostino. I respect it. A three time champion here, strong, powerful and yet a failure in of itself. Three victories, three losses. Failures to hold your kingdom together. Now you stand at the precipice of a new land. A new journey to power. You stand in my path. My trail. You do not know the fallacy that, that is. You are nothing, Agostino. A failure of success. A failure of a king. A failure. I resent failures. I resent those who mock what I do. I resent those who stand to mock everything I do to make myself great. I resent all of it, because at the end of the day, there is no success in you. Happy, and ignorant. Do you understand what it takes to bleed your own people, for success? Do you even understand pain?”
“I wonder, Agostino. I wonder what drives you. I wonder what makes you tick. I wonder, I wonder. For you are my virtual unknown, despite everything I do know. You are new to me, you are fresh blood. One look on you, one look on me. A world of difference. Scars and pain that separate. I’m sure you’ve experienced the hurt of loss. I’m sure you’ve experienced the physical pain of being hurt and broken. I’m sure you think yourself capable of being successful. Yet, reality dawns quickly for the ignorant. I ask you, Agostino, are you following me? Do you understand what I’m saying? Are you listening? I need you to listen to me. I need you to follow. I need you, to understand.”
Alex slowly stands up, slipping both hands into his jeans pockets. His coat hanging loose over his shoulders. His eyes fixated off into the sky, moving to stand at the end of his deck, leaning upon a railing. Left hand removed, gesturing slightly at the open night sky. The light rustle of trees in the wind. A quiet, devoid area.
“I find solace in the night time sky. I find solace in the empty nature of the dark. I find solace in the peace. Where does your solace lay, Agostino? Do you too have a guiding hand? Do you too have someone who keeps you grounded? Promises made to a person you love. Promises made to the sky. Promises made to the ether. Do you make promises? I have broken many, but I am reminded by the little things. The twinkle of the stars, the ash that drops from my cigarettes, the harsh burn of the liquor that satiates the demons. I am reminded when I look at the scars, fading but forever there. I am reminded when I look at them, at the person who helped heal them. I am reminded of who I do this for. What I do this for. Why I do this. I promised to always be her king. Forever, and a day. Even in my lowest times. My periods of self-hate and disrespect, I know. I know that when I look upon the world beyond me, that she is there. That she holds my crown, and caresses my flesh. That for every drop of blood, blood she begged not to spill. She wipes it clean, and kisses the wounds. Do you have that guidance, Agostino? Do you understand what I fight for?”
“I often lose myself, to myself. Lose myself to the anger. Lose myself to the disconnect in my own brain. My own loss of reality. I lose myself regularly. I lose myself in the bullshit I spew at times. There’s a hard line that I walk between my reality and the next. I am a king, I will be the one true king again. I do believe in my Conspiracy. These are my truths, and that they say remain. I do believe that words I offer, give guidance to the broken and the lost. I am living a reality close to the bullshit I spew, but I do lose myself. I lose myself to a place that she guides me free from. I lose myself to a world that she reconnects to this one. Guidance, in love. Guidance in understanding. She is the one I speak for, you understand, Agostino? I have my faith, and my mission. I have my crown to achieve, and I have my blood to take. You stand in the way of me getting that. In the way of me taking the blood of those who will not get the best of me. Hendrix, Bulldog, Fenris, Knox, Hawkins, Stygian and Remington. I will not be bested, and you will not be added to a list of names far beyond yourself. You will not become another thorn in my side owed a beating. You will not become another who is owed violence. I will end any who stand in my way. Know this Agostino. You and the Branded Hen are naught by parasites suckling upon the gifts of this world. Suckling upon my reality.”
“Do you understand me?”
The smile spreading once more, eyes closing. The lights beginning to blink out, one by one. Slowly casting the world into a moonlit night time dream. His hand still outstretched, palm up turned, fingers tensed and curled. Gripping an invisible object. Pulling down the scene begins to fade into darkness. All light fading, everything dipping into that pervasive blackness.
Darkness.
“Hendrix. Agostino. I am, Alexander Raven. The Broken Messiah and the future True King of SCW. Failure, I will not allow. She will not allow. Failure is not allowed in this path. Be the bones beneath my boots that build my throne of porcelain white. The bleached bones that adorn my armour, that signify my victories. Be those who fall, and rise again as my Conspiracy. Guidance, salvation. Reality. I offer these gifts. For you, Hendrix, an escape. For you, Agostino, a taste of true violence. No more, no less.”
“I will guide you, as she guides me.”
Silence.
