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.
