“Synn’s City”
February 12th, 2012
Just After Camera-Down
Synn lay in darkness. The chair had turned him around, but the repeated blows he wasn’t ready for. He went down after a lucky shot to the chin rattled his jaw together, causing the lights to go out instantly for him. Lying in darkness, Synn felt nothing. He knew what had happened, and he knew why it’d happened; dominance has its price. He was three-and-oh here, and undefeated throughout his career. If you fight that long, that hard, and are that successful, you make enemies. He also knew he should be mad. But here, in this dark purgatory of unconsciousness, he didn’t much care.
Every now and then, he felt a bump, and saw it like thunder. It felt miles off yet, but he was vaguely aware that it was probably a continual series of punches and kicks being rained down on him. He did not care. His body had been through hell and back again, and nothing those three could do to him would come close to what he’d been through already. He’d still be roughly in one piece when he pulled out of this. The question was, how should he handle them?
A huge clap of thunder followed a jolt of lightening the slit the sky in two. In that flash of light, he realized he was standing not in a ring, but on a rocky desert. There were outcroppings of an orange stone all over the place, rising out of the ground like stony fingers. Despite the color of the rocks, everything had a washed-out grainy sort of look. It was like looking at very old color film. The sky was a dark, midnight blue, and Synn wondered, here in the desert, under the dim, starless sky, how he’d arrived at this destination. He understood it to be in his subconscious (or, he amended mentally, perhaps his unconscious, as he was currently lying flat in the ring) but it wasn’t a place he remembered having ever been. Usually when he lapsed into a delusion like this, it was an old house, or an apartment, a jail cell; something he’d had experiences with. Nothing like this arid desert under such an… alien feeling sky.
The lightening returned. There was a jolt of brightness, but instead of it fizzling out with thunder, the bright light stayed. Synn looked around, and realized that it was raining in slow motion. The lightening, too, was so slow it appeared to be almost still. As it sluggishly rolled across the sky, Synn felt his stomach sink when he realized what it was illuminating.
There was one spot on the desert that was dry as bone. The muddy dust wasn’t orange, like the rest of the sand, but a dark, ugly brown. It supported two tiny black rainboots that led up to a pair of enormous, bulbously sausage-like legs which were covered at the thigh by a bright yellow rain jacket. Synn’s eyes didn’t want to reach the face, but he knew it couldn’t be helped. The Voice was in control now. Synn’s eyes lifted slowly to see the rotting, bulbous face of a corpse with sickeningly yellow teeth grinning out at Synn. This man’s eyes were the only thing untouched by rot; they were a steely blue that matched Synn’s in intensity. Below this corpse’s flesh was a creature of unfathomable power. To it, Synn was nothing more than a rag doll. The corpse licked it’s lips, the tongue nearly falling off, just held on by a few strings of skin and a clump on congealed blood. It spoke to Synn inside his head.
THE VOICE
“Ah, I figured you’d end up here, boy.”
The Voice’s voice was like listening to somebody suck snot through a straw, but forming words instead of an awful slurping sound. Several maggots wriggled through The Voice’s teeth, though he was just mouthing the words wordlessly as they appeared inside Synn’s head. The Voice, Synn knew, was part of his mind. He wasn’t real, at least not anymore.
THE VOICE
“You always were a loser, and I knew you’d end up here eventually. You’re getting the shit kicked out of you now, boy. How does that feel?”
Synn lowered his gaze. The Voice’s body, though that of a corpse, had a magnetic property to it; similar to a train wreck, you just couldn’t look away. Synn’s shame at having failed fought with this magnetism, but The Voice won eventually. He always did. Synn looked up at that horrible creature, and noticed that the light was brighter. The rain was still falling in slow motion.
DAMON SYNN
“I haven’t lost—”
THE VOICE
“BULLSHIT!”
Maggots, cockroaches, and scarabs poured out of the corpse’s mouth as these words slapped Synn in a way that no human being ever could. It made him feel dirty, and his skin crawled. The light was brighter than ever, and Synn had to squint to see the Voice. The raindrops caught the light of the slow-motion lightening, and shone like diamonds.
THE VOICE
“You’ve killed before. You were a soldier once, boy. A hell of a soldier. Just like your daddy, and we all know those instincts don’t go away. You’re just getting lazy. fucking pathetic.”
Synn knew this to be true. Where formerly he’d experience such rage when he’d seen, heard, or felt The Voice’s presence, he only felt angry at himself. The Voice was right, and a slurping sound, like human fat being boiled, signaled that The Voice was laughing at him.
THE VOICE
“You never even let someone hit you when you were in Blackwater, boy. You never did, and you never ought to again! These two guys couldn’t beat you on their own on his best day and your worst, so of course this should not be a relevant problem. You hear me boy?”
Synn nodded his head. He did hear him. For the first time in a long time, the psychotic delusion was making a measure of sense. Nick Jones and Kain were nothing; Synn would beat them a hundred out of a hundred times. Synn knew his opponents probably possessed an edge that he had never seen in an opponent before. They probably thought they were better than Synn. They would show no fear, and nothing pissed Synn off more then somebody failing to fear him. That was usually a fatal mistake.
THE VOICE
“I SAID DO YOU HEAR ME BOY?”
The Voice’s yell sounded like a dog being dragged through a wood chipper. Synn flinched, but felt that little spark of anger explode into a full-blown inferno of rage. Synn felt his fists ball, and the light suddenly grew dimmer.
DAMON SYNN
“Yes..I… I understand. I fucking…I FUCKING UNDERSTAND!”
His mind was fading to black, but the Voice kept laughing that maniac laugh that sounded like he was sucking in sewage. Synn didn’t realize it, but he was laughing now too. He was laughing right alongside his own imagination, not because anything was funny, but because everything was serious. He laughed at how in over their heads his three opponents would most likely wade. He laughed at how broken Nick Jones and Kain would be in eleven days. He laughed, because the whole world would cry.
Meanwhile, in the ring that Synn had been brutally assaulted on, right after the cameras have faded out….
JASON ADAMS
“Wow, thank god the other wrestlers have left the ring. Synn’s down, he’s hurt bad!”
And true to his word, Synn was bleeding from the head, under the eye, behind the skull right where the skull meets the neck, his nose seemed broken, and he had a few cuts that bled freely on his arms from where he’d covered up. It had been a brutal assault, one that a normal man might not survive and even somebody with the seemingly godly resistance to damage like Synn might not pull through.
BELINDA SIMONE
“Aw, man I love to see a beat down but that was just too much. Those numbers on one, and with that ferocity? Forget about it. It looks like we’ve seen the last of Damon Synn.”
The crowd, which was emptying out, suddenly seems to shift and sway, as if they’d all been part of the same creature, noticing the same thing together. The soft murmur of the crowd’s excited voices suddenly died out, and all that could be heard (and only to those with good ears) was a soft gurgling sound. Adams and Simone look at each other, and then the jumbotron turns back on. It pans across the crowd, looking for the source of the noise, and the crowd’s attention. The cameraman follows everyone’s gaze to the center of the stage, where the paramedics attending to Synn were all running for the apron.
BELINDA SIMONE
“Oh my god…”
JASON ADAMS
“No fucking way, that ain’t right!”
The camera finally settles on Synn’s massive body laying the center of the ring, a smile on his face though his eyes are still closed. The gurgling is coming from him, though as Adams speaks, it is clear that Synn is laughing. The deep, throaty laugh of a madman is filtered through a mouth full of blood that splashes up on the center of the ring. The eerie sound has brought silence to the whole ring, and Synn’s laughter grows progressively louder. Soon, it’s like a thunderstorm in a far off, alien world. In a way, Synn brought his delusion to all the people in the crowd, and the sound of this huge man laughing through the blood, the sweat, and the broken nose that would jet out blood on each laugh was so unsettling and disturbing on a feral level, several people in the audience cried silently. Single tears would slide down their face, and though their bodies told them to run in the same way that an animal’s body told them to run from forest fires, they could not, because they were so paralyzed by fear. Deer in headlights.
Years later, these people would remember this event as the scariest time in their lives. Even those who had been to war claimed to have never felt close to something so primitively evil.
Backstage, 30 Minutes Later
Synn stood on shaky legs in the inky blackness of backstage. Every 30 feet in the arena concourse, there was an emergency light, but by and large this part of the arena was empty, and deserted. His legs shook not from the blows administered to him by the mysterious figure that had attacked him, but rather, from pure adrenaline. He felt good, felt great, like there was an even bigger person inside of his already gigantic frame just waiting to burst out, like a horrible Russian doll. He felt good again, he felt… alive. It wasn’t the contentment he had over the past few weeks; sure, living the good life was great, and he had thought he was on top of the world then, but he wasn’t.
It took a good strong series of blows to the head to wake Synn up, shake out the cobwebs, and force him to face why he’d been put on the world to begin with: he was a man from another time. He’d be right in place to be raiding villages with the Norsemen, or fighting barbarians with the Romans. He’d had the misfortune of being born into a time where all wars were fought with missiles, planes, and all manner of death that would allow a soldier, if you could even call today’s warriors soldiers, to kill without ever seeing his opponent. Synn had been an exceptional killer as a contractor, but it was rarely a rewarding feeling. When you fought somebody with your hands, you felt their fear, their anger, their strength, and as you broke them, their life ebbing out between your fingers. In war now, all you felt was recoil. That’s why Synn was here; not just to have a belt and money, but to fight the right way. At SCW, it was time for the Bad Old Days to return. Synn knew he was back to where he was most dangerous; on the precipice of madness, ready to topple over at a moment’s notice into a dangerous psychosis that would create, in him, a whirlwind of destruction so fierce that even the attack he’d just suffered would pale in comparison, like a match before a jet engine. He was now ready to jump into SCW, and make an explosion so big it would suck the fire away from Nick Jones and Kain, the same way you’d put out an oil fire. It was time to make an example of these two, and let them know that he was still the sheriff in these parts, and that he would stop at nothing to be called World Heavyweight Champion.
He waited impatiently, five minutes past, then ten. Synn turned and murmured to the darkness:
DAMON SYNN
“Rook, where are you…”
A movement in the dark. Synn’s senses, hypersensitive because of how manic he was, exploded, and he turned to face the would-be attacker. Instead:
SAM ROOK
“I’m right here, brother, you got no patience in you still. Where’s the love? I haven’t seen you in a month!”
Synn clasped Rook on the back, his mentor and elder by five years. The man had aged somewhat in his month abscence, and had somewhat less of a physical edge. He was still big, standing just a few inches shorter then Synn, but he didn’t have his muscles rippling under the designer black suit he wore. His dark skin was almost invisible in the darkness, but Synn could make Sam Rook out by his eyes. It was apparent that Rook wasn’t here to back up Synn in the ring, so what exactly was he here to do?
DAMON SYNN
“Rook, I’m glad to see you, you know that, but what the hell are you here to do? I wanted you here to fight with me, not … I mean, you look out of shape is all.”
Synn was fighting the energy inside of himself. To keep himself under control, he was fidgeting a lot, taping his fingers, rolling his neck, and various other little behavioral quirks.
SAM ROOK
“Nah. My fighting days are long over. I’m here to help teach a little. I taught you, and I figure it’s about time we find ourselves another great fighter. Which reminds me…”
Rook reaches into his suit and pulls out a manila folder, sealed with red wax. And hand’s it to Synn, who looks at it quizzically.
SAM ROOK
“Yeah, don’t worry about it just now, since I can tell you need to hit the gym bad, or have a cigar or something, but I heard that you are looking for a few good men, so to speak. I think I’d like to help, ‘cept I don’t wrestle no more. So I’ll help you FIND a few other good men. I wrote you down a list of the people you’ll want to have your back in this federation. The winds of change are in motion, cool cat. You need to ride that wind stronger than anyone else. You got me?”
He held out his hand to Synn. Synn didn’t fully understand what he meant by winds of change, but he did understand Rook’s proposition. Hunt down and recruit the people on this list, or destroy those who stood in his way. It was a strategy that Rook wouldn’t like, but that was perfect for Synn, and thus he’d designed it. Rook’s problem had always been that he was far too nice, far too kind, and far too fair. Synn had none of these imperfections. He was cruel, mean, and cold. He was calculated, but very rarely compassionate. Synn shook Rook’s hand.
DAMON SYNN
“So that’s it?”
SAM ROOK
“For now.”
Even in the dark, Synn could see Rook’s eyes shimmer. He was expectant, and he knew Synn would go for the plan.
DAMON SYNN
“Alright then. I’ll see what I can do.”
Rook nodded, and the two parted ways. Synn walked the concourse at a brisk pace, nearly stumbling over his own feet. It felt hot, too hot, too crowded; he wanted to fight. He was ready, he needed the action like a junkie needed a fix. He decided he’d need to take a walk, cool his heels on the pavement, maybe see if he couldn’t stir up some local heat. He had a day or so left before he got to mix it up with Jones and Kain, and until then he needed to sap the energy somehow.
Synn pushed the heavy glass doors open, and stepped out into the cooler, night air. The streets around the arena were dark, desolate, deserted places; shadows hid what wished to not be seen in a million corners of a million alleys. In all the movies, people would say something like “my city screams,” or “my city is alive.” This was Synn’s City, and it was very quiet. It was like a carcass in the road; no life left, save a few drops of blood that hadn’t coagulated and hardened onto the hot Texas pavement.
Synn crossed the main street which had not a car in sight. The streetlights were inexplicably off, but Synn didn’t mind. He kept walking until he got to a portion of the street where there was power. Under the streetlamp, he stood like a statue, examining the folder in his hands. He was both excited, and terrified. Synn knew that he’d need these people, and the idea of needing anything other than his two bare hands and pure brutality terrified him. It was a loss of control that Synn had held out of his life for years. The energy inside him, the beast, would burst out soon though. Synn needed to read this first before he gave in to irrationality. He ripped the top off the paper and read down a list of six names. Or at least, that’s what he’d intended to do. His eyes got scanned the first two names and froze, unable to continue onwards. He stood for a time, even more like a figure carved in stone under the light. With his pale skin, hair, and wardrobe of all black, a passerby may have even considered him to be a statue. Finally, he managed to restart his brain with a flick of his head. No, he hadn’t misread it, but he kept trying to re-read it, almost as if doing so enough times would change the text. The implications of this were… deep. Synn coughed to clear his throat. The excitement of the fight had faded back into his head like another delusion ready to pounce. Synn didn’t feel it. All he felt was a sense of awe.
DAMON SYNN
“Damon, my friend, this list might seem strange. Keep in mind, if you want to evolve, you’ll need to make some changes, and band together. Whenever something changes, be it the environment, or the times, those who win, the predators, need to change. They need to become the oncoming darkness that forces the rest of the world to react. If you want to get this Company off the ground, and make yourself the forefront of the SCW for years to come, these are the people you need. Either bring them into your fold, or destroy them utterly. Each represents a dark side and a light side. Each has the power to add tremendous talent and strength, but also has the ability to use that against you. This is the cream, brother. Do with it as you will before it spoils.”
The preface had all the usual metaphoric nonsense that Rook loved, but despite how goofy it sounded, it had a certain power. And Rook was right; these people would certainly bolster his strength. Synn nodded, and tucked the paper into his patchwork leather jacket. He headed out toward his suite, toward home. These streets might be dead and decaying, but he was no longer interested in His City’s state. Synn’s City.
The first two names on the list were Nick Jones and “The King of Kings” Kain. The two and the same that he wanted so badly to destroy, was two of those he needed most to befriend. No, Synn corrected himself, because in this world there were no friends. There were enemies, and then your enemies’ enemies. Synn would sweep these six into his arms, and leave the rest of the roster in ruin. This was the match that would start him on a path to glory, or throw him into one of the greatest tasks he’d ever faced.
He knew he could absolutely destroy the ttwo men that he’d have to face at SCW’s Blaze of Glory. It was really a handicap match, because Mark Ward knew that Synn had no friends, even though he had scheduled this match at the downfall of Kain. It was probably going to end up being Synn against the two of them. As far as Synn was concerned, those were even odds.
He would beat them. And then, he would present the SCW roster with an option with only one real answer.
____________________________________________________________________
And then there were none.
Kain, it seems to me that you have been elected for the job of Patsy in our upcoming match. It would seem to me that you have been elected to be the fall guy, the knock-around guy, the man that I will step over to finally reach my career-long goal. You will be the man I overcome to prominence. You will become a figurehead in the history of Damon Synn. You will be, Kain, the most important man in the history of SCW. You see, it’s not because you’re going to beat Damon Synn. It’s not because you’re going to find a way to somehow pick up the win and go on to become the Sin City Wrestling Heavyweight Champion…
You’ll be remembered for being the trigger on it all. The new revolution. You will be remembered for being one of the men whom Damon Synn defeated to win the champuonship. You will be one of the men that everyone remembers being beaten and broken in the middle of the ring. You will be known as the final step towards ascension in the life of Damon Synn. It’s an honor for you. Make no mistake about that. It’s an honour for Kain to be remembered for something greater than being the bitch boy patsy for every single predictable main event in SCW history. It’s an honor to actually have something tangible and worthwhile to hold on to. It’s an honor to be able to tell your inbred grandkids about how Damon Synn’s revolution all began on February 23rd, 2012. It’ll be an honor to tell all you know, how Damon Synn’s final battle for the championship, had been decided when you or Nick Jones’s shoulders touched the mat for three seconds.
Don’t resist it Kain, don’t. There’s no reason for you to try and prove to everyone that you can hang with the very best. You’ve tried, and you’ve succeeded. You’ve managed to hang with the very best that SCW had ever offered before… but that was before me. You see, as soon as my feet stepped between the doors at Sin City Wrestling Headquarters, everything changed. The rules of the game changed, and the measuring stick had been raised to impossible levels. You were no longer wrestling the very best Kain, you were just wrestling as filler to help round out a show.
Don’t believe me? Think back on it. Think about how everything was before Damon Synn entered the picture. Think about how the most awe-inspiring main event that SCW could throw together would be Nick Jones, Kain, and Casey Williams versus Spike Staggs, Jordan Williams, and Wyatt Peterson in a six man tag match. Think about how Kain managed to get himself thrown into the equation. I don’t doubt that you WERE one of the very best in SCW Kain, but that had all changed when I came aboard.
And now look at the title picture. Now look at the company in general. We’ve got dissention, we’ve got psychopaths, like myself, crawling around trying to seduce man-hating women. We’ve got lesbians representing the company at the very forefront… and we’ve got the true wrestlers being buried time and time again. Yeah, we do. We’ve got real wrestlers who go to the ring and do their jobs, with no flash or sizzle, losing to the likes of Lucian Frost. Lucian Frost.
I’ll let you think on that for a minute.
What has Frost ever done to deserve the piece of tin he carries? What has he ever done to ever go near such a title in the first place? I can’t think of a single thing Kain… can you? I can’t seem to figure out how in a company so rampant with characters and pretty colors and “cool storylines”, that we’ve got… Damon Synn rising through the ranks. What separates me from them, Kain? What separates Damon Synn from Sinful Obsession, The Surf Boys, or “Big” Steve Scanlon?
To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I’m not quite sure whether it’s the undeniable talent, or the fact that I’m damn near unbeatable. I’m not quite sure if it’s because I know how to play the game, or if someone in the office likes me. I’m leaning towards the former myself, but that’s because I’ve never kissed a single ass to get to where I am today.
You on the other hand Kain, have done quite a lot outside the ring to get to where you are today.
Let’s look at the facts, shall we?
Number one; you’re a joke. You always have been and you more than likely always will be. You’re nothing more than a pompous, arrogant kid who managed to stumble his way through a wrestling school. You’re nothing more than some sugar daddy who wooed all the right people into securing your spot within the ranks of SCW. You never did it the hard way, and you sure as hell didn’t do it the right way. What you did SCW, was go from point A to point C without ever earning a Goddamn thing.
You see, a lot of people dislike Damon Synn… they hate the way he looks, they hate the way he acts… but there’s one thing that they’ll never deny, and that’s the fact that I am here and where I am not based on politics, not based on who my associates are, I’m here because Damon Synn is the very best that this company has to offer. Which one of the others can say the same? Can they admit to not knowing someone in the office? Can they admit to not knowing someone who runs the company? I know I can…so how about you?
You can’t Kain, and you never could. You were designed as filler, and will always be filler. You were caught and snagged in hopes that the bookers could throw whoever the champion was a bone and to give them the token first defense. You know, to make them look legitimate. And then, somewhere along the way, you grew an ego.
It could be because you thought since, hey, you’re in the main event it MUST mean you’re good but…
JT—or rather Justin—was in the main event too. Repeatedly.
The main event means shit Kain, it means shit if the ones competing are haphazard jokes that give this sport a bad name. You’re such a joke. Where you got the balls to get an ego, I don’t know… but it ends at Blaze of Glory Kain. It ends on next Sunday night because the real deal is coming into his own. The revolution is at hand, and the man to lead us into a new era of excellence—and dollar bills—is finally going to get what’s coming to him. I’m not doing this solely for me anymore Kain, I’m doing this for the betterment of this sport… and the pleasure of breaking men aparty. The more asses I put in seats, the more money I enjoy kicking asses into seats.
Sadly, that means I’ll have to make some cuts… and you’ll be one of them.
So I say this Kain, enjoy the main event while you can. Enjoy the second glances you get at the Heavyweight Championship while you can, because when I’m wearing that gold around my waist, and when I am rightfully declared the king of all I see in this company… then you, and your haphazard friends will be no more. They will not remember your names as they chant mine throughout the arenas. They won’t remember any of you, save one.
Kain , you’re about to make history on next Sunday night. You’re about to become something greater than you could ever aspire to be. Do yourself a favour, and take it graciously. After next Sunday night when I prove to the world that Damon Synn is their leader. That Damon Synn is their saviour, and, they will look at you with a fondness never before seen through your eyes. They will thank you Kain. They will thank you for birthing their messiah, and giving him to the people… and then they will turn their backs, and they will forget you.
Savor those moments Kain, they will be the greatest in your life.
And that brings me to the current Heavyweight Champion.
Nick Jones… think about what you’ve accomplished now.
I want you to think of what you’ve accomplished to get here… to get to this moment in time. I want you to think about the bodies you’ve hurt, and the people you’ve damaged. I want you to think about all of the beatings you’ve taken, and all of the back stabbing you’ve put up with, and dealt out in spades. Nick Jones, I want you to look into a mirror and realize that the destination is over, and now you’ve finally arrived to where you’ve always wanted to be.
Nick, how does it feel? How does it feel to see that after almost eight years of hard work, you are now being recognized as a champion? How does it feel to be a former X-Champion and GXW World Heavyweight Champion, and only now are you getting what you think you so rightfully deserve? It’d be nice to know, Nick, because I fail to see what reasoning Mark Ward or anyone else could have to put you in this position.
The simple fact of the matter Nick, is that you don’t belong here. You walk these halls and pretend to fit in amongst the champions. You dine at my table and pretend along with everyone else, that you belong with me. You walk into my ring, Nick Jones, and you think that because you can do a few nice moves that it makes you some sort of champion… someone who has a hope in hell of beating me for MY Heavyweight Championship.
It’s quite funny, actually. I find it hysterical every time you walk those halls, dine at my table, and walk into my ring trying to make the world believe that you’re some kind of wrestling machine. It’s funny to watch you try so desperately to convince the world that you have what it takes to carry this promotion on your back. Do you know why it’s so funny, Nick? Do you really want to know why Damon Synn can never take you seriously?
It’s quite simple, really. The reason why Damon Synn cannot take you seriously is because you are nothing but a mere shadow. You’re a beast riding the coat tails of Bernard Jones and Anthony Capicelli. You have these delusions of grandeur. You put on this mask and try to make the world believe that you’re better than your brethren. You try to convince everyone that you’re better than God Himself…
… But that’s not the truth, is it Nick?
Once upon a time, you may have been a good wrestler. Once upon a time, you may have not needed this mask you wear. And once upon a time, you may have actually stood a chance in the ring against a man such as I… but those times have long since passed, haven’t they Nick? Those times are dead and buried, and your ability has been buried along with them. You scratch and claw at the pine box that surrounds you. You scratch, you bite, and you try to force your way out, to the surface above you… but it just doesn’t work, does it Nick?
You can’t seem to break through. You’re weaker now, and you refuse to allow yourself the truth. You refuse to allow the truth to enter your mind… and that truth is, Nick Jones, that you’re nothing but a shell of the man who was.
The truth that you so desperately try to hide beneath your mask of arrogance. The truth that you so desperately shield your brethren and even the fans from seeing… the truth of the matter, Nick Jones, is that you haven’t been this man you claim to be for many, many years.
And yet you fight on. You try and convince that sap Big B that he still needs you. You try to convince Slick Tony that he’s nothing more than muscle, and that he’s useless and directionless without the great Nick Jones to guide them… and yet, that’s not the truth Nick. You know it as well as I do. You know that the truth of the matter is that Nick Jones would be nothing without his bodyguard. Nick Jones would be nothing without his muscle man… and Nick Jones would be nothing without this gimmick of “the Entourage”.
Ah, truth stings, doesn’t it? The truth you have been so desperately seeking to shield the world from, that mask of arrogance… Nick, it has been cracking. That mask you wear, that holier than thou attitude you hold so dear, it’s cracking, and the real Nick is starting to show through. It’s been cracking for awhile though, even all the way back when you lost the GXW World Championship to Matt Seex the first time. Ever since, the cracks have been deepening, and you, the great Nick Jones, have been scrambling around like a wild dog trying to keep the pieces together. You can’t dare to see what the world will really think of you. You can’t dare to present the true, hollow shell of Nick Jones to the world… because then they’d realize something, wouldn’t they, Nick?
They’d realize that Nick Jones is obsolete.
Yeah, they would Nick. They’d realize that Nick Jones is nothing but a shell of his former self. They’d realize that Nick Jones has lost the “it” he had quite a long time ago. And you know what would happen next, don’t you Nick?
Yeah, I bet you do.
You’d be abandoned, Nick. You’d be left out in the cold because slowly, one by one they’d all turn on you. Diana would whisper those magic words into the ear of Big B, and they’d be swept away to riches and perhaps even championships… your championship, most likely—well, actually, mine. Then you’d have Slick Tony. The man you have tried for so long to keep leashed. The threat you’ve known of for so long… if only he were to gain some confidence in himself. He would be gone, too, Nick. He would have broken the collar you keep so tight around his neck, and he would have ravaged all those in his path to get to me. Along with them your accountant Maxwell Emanuel Goldstein would leave as well... and you, Nick? You will have been left in the cold, all alone, and with no coat tails to ride into the big money.
And this is quite a dilemma, isn’t it Nick? It’s quite the dilemma because you realize that your mask will be shattered into pieces. You realize that the moment the bell rings and it’s just you, me, and Kain in front of the thousands I brought to SCW… you will realize just what kind of life of loneliness and despair you’re in for, come the end of that match. You know there is no chance for you to come away with the title. You know that there is no way in hell that you could possibly beat me… and yet there you will be, standing across the ring from the newly-crowned World Heavyweight Champion, and you will be forced to reconcile with the disaster you have wrought upon yourself. You will have to deal with those men you have held down for so long when you step back behind that curtain. You will have to get down on your knees and beg them not to leave you… how you almost had it… how you’d need just one more chance…
And then, your greatest fear will come true, Nick. They will leave you, and you will be alone.
And really, I can’t think of a more fitting end for such a manipulative piece of shit.
