A Dark History, A Spectreful Future
Jan 27, 2018 15:52:33 GMT
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CEO Vincent Pryde and Commish Lamarche like this
Post by DarkSpectre on Jan 27, 2018 15:52:33 GMT
"Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."
Thomas Edison
Thomas Edison
The scene begins in static, but slowly fades into the view of a smokey bar room. Billiard tables are strewn around the room with various patrons about. As the camera continues to pan the room, we fall on the masked face of a man deep in thought.
Once again,the field of battle changes. Once again, the Chaos Killer must adapt to his surroundings. And once again, the Agent of Chaos puts a notch in my win column.
It seems like my debut match here was merely a means for the universe to give me perspective. And if this is the case? Message recieved, Universe.
Spectre walks around a table, stick in hand. He bends down, taking aim and shooting one down. 12 ball pocketed. He surveys the table as the cue comes to a stop, checking his shots. He takes his stance a few feet down, leaning over... 15 and 9 pocketed. Another moment; he doesn't see a decent shot, so he ricochets the cue around to keep his opponent flustered. He walks away a few steps, focusing back on the camera.
Last week, I was supposed to face K.L. Henson for the opportunity to join the Tru Grit Championship match. Vincent Pryde, either having mercy on Henson or simply deciding he needed the match to generate more excitement, gave me Jobber Dave instead. Whatever the case, I did what I set out to do since day one- made my mark in the history books. I etched my name into the first ever Tru Grit Championship match. Now... Now it's time to turn things up a notch.
Many have seen what I can do. They see what happens when I'm backed into a corner, forced to fly faster and hit harder. Take Nyeo Son, for example. Two weeks ago, the two of us were slated in a triple threat match against Alex Richards. Now, the heart of the Guardians was indisposed for one reason or another- again, my best wishes to him- and the match became a one-on-one contest. I had come prepared to face two men in that ring, and I threw down as though I was still facing two men. Nyeo, however, lost sight of the bigger picture and had a loss handed to him. He put up a decent fight, I'll give him that much. But like leading the HSS, he just didn't have the balls to finish the job.
Spectre takes the table again as his foe steps back, missing his last shot. The Chaos Killer surveys the table, nodding as hr sees his mark; curve around the 8 ball, tap the 13 and... She's in. Spectre nods, moving in position. A tap to the cue... Hairline split bewteen the 10 and 14, knocking them in adjacent holes. He looks around, seeing no open shot at the 11, so he careens the cue randomly off to the side. He steps back, looking to the camera.
Nyeo. You were handed your place in this title match. Hand picked by Vincent Pryde. Whether or not your connections played a role, I cannot be certain. But what I can be certain of is that you have already failed once before. Admittedly, I don't have to be involved in the final pinfall or submission to lose my chance at the title. But that's just the thing; you don't have to, either. In fact, just to prove that you're not even a blip on my radar, I might tap Aquarius out on principle. Make sure the only people involved in the final fall are the only people who mattered in the first place. Then you can go play around somewhere you fit in a little better- mayhaps, the Bum Fight Division?
Spectre turns back to the table, noting ball placement and angles. Seeing no shot at his last ball, he sends the cue into a random path about the green. He looks back to the camera.
But then... By the powers that be, the- what does he call himself again?- Prince Foreskin? Stickmi Ondaflora? Mr Punta? Whatever nickname he wants to give himself, it matters not. Andre, let's be real, here. You come out here, night after night, spewing some stereotypical ghetto trash. Acting as though you're some hardened badass with an agenda. And trust me, I have seen you back it up in the ring.
But the personality... What a con. I've seen your type, Aquarius. Those kids who grew up under their mother's care, with daddy working two jobs. And you'tried to make daddy proud; you did your homework and you played sports and you even picked up a job at 15 so daddy would respect you. And he damn sure did, too; daddy was so proud, he even saved up and paid half the price of your first car. Sure, it was a... What do they call it... Beater with a heater. But you worked for it and you earned it. And you made your parents proud.
Then, somewhere during college, you realized something. You figured out that you had spent your life trying to please your parents. Trying to be good enough for them. Striving to be what they wanted. And something clicked. Something in your head suddenly realized that you didn't know who Andre was. Oh, you knew who your parents raised you to be, but you had no self-built core. So you struck out. Got in with a bad crowd. Explored 3, 5, 10 religions. Learned a few more languages. Traveled abroad and tried new things. You looked high and low to determine who Andre Aquarius was.
Spectre turns back to the table. Sees a trick shot, takes aim. Hop over the 4. Bounce, tap the 11. Pocket. Spectre nods, eyeing up the eight ball. He sets up his shot, indicating a corner, shoots... In. Spectre and his opponent shake hands, the luchador turning back to the camera.
That's when you found professional wrestling. And you settled on this character, this persona based on a stereotype. Oh, you made sure you had the talent to back it all up, but you hid talent behind a falsehood.
I wear a mask, Andre. It keeps me grounded; connected to my roots. Gives respect to those who came before me. But even behind the mask, I stay completely true to who I am. I am not just some character, Andre; I am the carefree loose cannon inside and outside that ring. I am the same maniac with no fucks to give whether I am competing or sitting at home. There is no line.
Spectre walks towards the entrance of the bar, the camera following close behind. He stops, turning back.
This is the Tru Grit Division, Andre. This is the test of who you are and what you can handle. You know what it is this personality you created can take. But what are you capable of? What are the real Andre Aquarius' mental and physical limitations? When the bell goes off, when the gimmicks no longer suffice and your only hope is to dig deep into who you truly are...
Can you survive? I mean, drop the façade for two seconds and really ask yourself, Andre. Brass taxes. Is Andre Aquarius, the smack-talking front getting his ass handed to him on Monday? Or is the underlying person of Andre going to bring his will and maybe put up a decent showing?
Either way, darkness will abound. And Dark Spectre will be your first Tru... Grit... Champion.
Spectre nods, pushing open the door. A breeze moves the smoke around as the camera pans out, watching Spectre mount his bike and speed off as we fade to static.
Once again,the field of battle changes. Once again, the Chaos Killer must adapt to his surroundings. And once again, the Agent of Chaos puts a notch in my win column.
It seems like my debut match here was merely a means for the universe to give me perspective. And if this is the case? Message recieved, Universe.
Spectre walks around a table, stick in hand. He bends down, taking aim and shooting one down. 12 ball pocketed. He surveys the table as the cue comes to a stop, checking his shots. He takes his stance a few feet down, leaning over... 15 and 9 pocketed. Another moment; he doesn't see a decent shot, so he ricochets the cue around to keep his opponent flustered. He walks away a few steps, focusing back on the camera.
Last week, I was supposed to face K.L. Henson for the opportunity to join the Tru Grit Championship match. Vincent Pryde, either having mercy on Henson or simply deciding he needed the match to generate more excitement, gave me Jobber Dave instead. Whatever the case, I did what I set out to do since day one- made my mark in the history books. I etched my name into the first ever Tru Grit Championship match. Now... Now it's time to turn things up a notch.
Many have seen what I can do. They see what happens when I'm backed into a corner, forced to fly faster and hit harder. Take Nyeo Son, for example. Two weeks ago, the two of us were slated in a triple threat match against Alex Richards. Now, the heart of the Guardians was indisposed for one reason or another- again, my best wishes to him- and the match became a one-on-one contest. I had come prepared to face two men in that ring, and I threw down as though I was still facing two men. Nyeo, however, lost sight of the bigger picture and had a loss handed to him. He put up a decent fight, I'll give him that much. But like leading the HSS, he just didn't have the balls to finish the job.
Spectre takes the table again as his foe steps back, missing his last shot. The Chaos Killer surveys the table, nodding as hr sees his mark; curve around the 8 ball, tap the 13 and... She's in. Spectre nods, moving in position. A tap to the cue... Hairline split bewteen the 10 and 14, knocking them in adjacent holes. He looks around, seeing no open shot at the 11, so he careens the cue randomly off to the side. He steps back, looking to the camera.
Nyeo. You were handed your place in this title match. Hand picked by Vincent Pryde. Whether or not your connections played a role, I cannot be certain. But what I can be certain of is that you have already failed once before. Admittedly, I don't have to be involved in the final pinfall or submission to lose my chance at the title. But that's just the thing; you don't have to, either. In fact, just to prove that you're not even a blip on my radar, I might tap Aquarius out on principle. Make sure the only people involved in the final fall are the only people who mattered in the first place. Then you can go play around somewhere you fit in a little better- mayhaps, the Bum Fight Division?
Spectre turns back to the table, noting ball placement and angles. Seeing no shot at his last ball, he sends the cue into a random path about the green. He looks back to the camera.
But then... By the powers that be, the- what does he call himself again?- Prince Foreskin? Stickmi Ondaflora? Mr Punta? Whatever nickname he wants to give himself, it matters not. Andre, let's be real, here. You come out here, night after night, spewing some stereotypical ghetto trash. Acting as though you're some hardened badass with an agenda. And trust me, I have seen you back it up in the ring.
But the personality... What a con. I've seen your type, Aquarius. Those kids who grew up under their mother's care, with daddy working two jobs. And you'tried to make daddy proud; you did your homework and you played sports and you even picked up a job at 15 so daddy would respect you. And he damn sure did, too; daddy was so proud, he even saved up and paid half the price of your first car. Sure, it was a... What do they call it... Beater with a heater. But you worked for it and you earned it. And you made your parents proud.
Then, somewhere during college, you realized something. You figured out that you had spent your life trying to please your parents. Trying to be good enough for them. Striving to be what they wanted. And something clicked. Something in your head suddenly realized that you didn't know who Andre was. Oh, you knew who your parents raised you to be, but you had no self-built core. So you struck out. Got in with a bad crowd. Explored 3, 5, 10 religions. Learned a few more languages. Traveled abroad and tried new things. You looked high and low to determine who Andre Aquarius was.
Spectre turns back to the table. Sees a trick shot, takes aim. Hop over the 4. Bounce, tap the 11. Pocket. Spectre nods, eyeing up the eight ball. He sets up his shot, indicating a corner, shoots... In. Spectre and his opponent shake hands, the luchador turning back to the camera.
That's when you found professional wrestling. And you settled on this character, this persona based on a stereotype. Oh, you made sure you had the talent to back it all up, but you hid talent behind a falsehood.
I wear a mask, Andre. It keeps me grounded; connected to my roots. Gives respect to those who came before me. But even behind the mask, I stay completely true to who I am. I am not just some character, Andre; I am the carefree loose cannon inside and outside that ring. I am the same maniac with no fucks to give whether I am competing or sitting at home. There is no line.
Spectre walks towards the entrance of the bar, the camera following close behind. He stops, turning back.
This is the Tru Grit Division, Andre. This is the test of who you are and what you can handle. You know what it is this personality you created can take. But what are you capable of? What are the real Andre Aquarius' mental and physical limitations? When the bell goes off, when the gimmicks no longer suffice and your only hope is to dig deep into who you truly are...
Can you survive? I mean, drop the façade for two seconds and really ask yourself, Andre. Brass taxes. Is Andre Aquarius, the smack-talking front getting his ass handed to him on Monday? Or is the underlying person of Andre going to bring his will and maybe put up a decent showing?
Either way, darkness will abound. And Dark Spectre will be your first Tru... Grit... Champion.
Spectre nods, pushing open the door. A breeze moves the smoke around as the camera pans out, watching Spectre mount his bike and speed off as we fade to static.