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Post by REDEFINE Pro on Jun 15, 2014 3:30:48 GMT
In a grudge match almost four years in the making, former 23 time World Champion John Pariah goes one on one with his hardest hitting rival ever, “The Hand of God” Michael Norcia in a spectacular grudge match! Pariah feels he’s done everything in wrestling, but he has never pinned Michael Norcia. Can Chicago’s Finest quell his demon and topple the Extinction Level Event, or will Norcia continue his unbeaten dominance over the King of Wrestling!?
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Post by Norcia on Jun 28, 2014 4:57:48 GMT
Six months.
A small eternity had passed for Michael Norcia in that span of time; one that felt like an almost literal lifetime ago with the various and sundry things that occupied his daily life. Be it the daily grind of rehab that had consumed his days as he made the steady march toward recovery after he had all but tore his biceps muscle in two or that hollow feeling of being left behind, staring at the walls while his girlfriend, Georgie Nickles, flew around the world while occupying the grandest stage in the wrestling business-it felt like six years instead of a scant six months. He had spent his days doing all but nothing, it felt. Nothing but either sitting in silence as he waited to hear from this doctor or that physical therapist, only for it to change to answering one of many phone calls for an interview after Georgie had been rendered practically silent by a well placed pen to the throat. Even when he could return to the gym and gradually begin rebuilding the strength that had once been a trademark of his, there was no joy. It was just another form of waiting, another way to waste time when he had no more time to waste.
He could’ve sworn that he could see the lines on his face deepening or feel the cartilage that padded his joints grinding away beneath the weight of his movements. He could feel his bones grow brittle and useless like a man twenty or thirty years his senior. All of that time passing so slowly, the soft and subtle ticking of the clock’s second hand crackling like thunder in his ears. He could feel himself weaken and become less of a man, less of an elemental force and more…mundane. And it was the fact that he was aware of it, the fact that he could feel it as keenly as he could feel the warmth of an embrace, was what made it truly maddening.
He was losing immortality, losing life, and he couldn’t bear the thought of it.
He had fooled himself, long ago, into believing that he could obtain some kind of timelessness in the guise of a professional wrestler. The idols of his youth were changed from mere sportsmen into Gods by the celluloid films; their every move a promise that those who dared could join them upon their veritable Mount Olympus. He had dared to make that journey, but after fifteen years he had found that there was nothing there for him. He had found that his heroes were liars, that this mountain that they once sat upon was little more than a pile of shit...and yet, even then, he couldn’t help but kneel down and worship. Shit, though it may be, was at least something in comparison to the losses that he had been given far too much time to consider.
The loss of his family.
His friends.
His wife.
His daughter.
His world. It would be a lie to say that things hadn’t gotten better throughout the years. After reaching an all time low, where all he knew was the inside of a decaying trailer on the outskirts of Baltimore and whatever whiskey he could afford on a given day, he had managed to turn things around. He entered Phoenix Wrestling’s Iron King Tournament the year prior and, despite a few years of rust, he had made it to the finals. His efforts allowed him to put a hefty down payment on a house in Fells Point and make a return to some measure of normalcy. He had found love in the form of Georgie Nickles, who supported him in ways that his ex-wife, who hated the wrestling business, never could. He had begun to believe in himself again, believe that-at the age of thirty two-he could finally make steps toward leaving behind the trappings of being an ‘Independent superstar’ and finally achieve the one thing that had always eluded him-fame and fortune on the highest echelons of the wrestling business. Things were looking good, the future brighter than he could’ve ever imagined...and then his bicep all but snapped in half, both heads, like a dried wishbone.
In that instant, one that he found himself reliving constantly, he could feel everything that he had worked for begin to circle the drain. He wouldn’t lose the house-Georgie would make sure of that, no matter how much it would injure his pride-but everything else seemed to be slipping through his numb fingers. The rust he had fought like Hell to lose would creep back. The prowess he had to relearn would wither back to that of a rookie’s. Worst of all? His bread and butter-the Hand of God-would lose effectiveness. He’d be just another wrestler, whose main form of attack would be lost to him. And with that? The dream was dead.
He was too stubborn to let it go though. Even after he had recovered, even if he could’ve simply enjoyed the idea of retirement, there was always the next fight. There was always another battle to be had. He could’ve lived off of Georgie’s earnings-Lord knows she wouldn’t have minded. He didn’t have it in him to take that easy route though, even if it promised him things that he would never have otherwise. He just had to do things the hard way, the way that left him scarred and broken before the eyes of the world. He just had to do things the difficult way, the unforgiving way.
He just had to try and make love, one more time, to a business that would never love him.
And it began with John Pariah.
[It was as cold and as dark as the grave in the basement of Michael Norcia’s home in Baltimore, Maryland-the only source of illumination a distant, bare bulb that hung somewhere out of view. That space hadn’t seen much use, it seemed. The faint haze of cobwebs clung to the support beams that supported to floor above, while an ever growing layer of dust covered a rack of weights that were pushed up against the foundation. In the months since his injury, he hadn’t come down into that space that he used for his training. There was no point to it, as all that remained within that small place was nothing but memories that brought the Hand of God pain. On this particular evening though, something was different. As the camera seemed to come in and out of focus, the distinct whine of metal on metal could be heard-a faint squeaking noise, preceded by a dull thump of dead weight being battered by something heavy. Those sounds came at a slow and steady clip, leisurely almost, but each impact sent flecks of dirt and dust fluttering into the camera’s viewfinder. This continued on for a few long moments before a voice, roughened by time and liquor, spoke out in a distinctive drawl that was unique to only one man.]
Norcia: ...John, after all this time, I see you can still talk a good game.
[Those impacts stopped for a moment, a dry and brittle bark of laughter leaving his unseen lips before he carried on with whatever it was that he was doing.]
Norcia: ...Rah-rah. Fire the crowd up. Give them hope. Be the hero you always dreamt of being after each and every comic book you’ve read and every time you’ve rewatched The Dark Knight when you’ve needed your short and curlies bristled.
[Another pause comes after a particularly hard impact, that metal squealing loudly before the noise tapered off with several softening squeaks.]
Norcia: ...What a bunch of happy horseshit.
[His voice sounds bitter, a touch darker and harsher, before those impacts resume once more-those sounds the camera’s cue to begin steadily panning to the right, revealing more of that basement room. On the wall, a pair of tattered boxing gloves hang off of a rusted nail. A duffle bag that has seen better days lays rumpled on the floor, alongside a pair of boots that hadn’t seen regular use in years. There was still no sign of Norcia though, who continued to busy himself with whatever it was that had his interests.]
Norcia: ...But that’s typical you, isn’t it, Johnny? You’ve always strived to be some kind of hero, craving the adulation of the fans even when they hated you. You’ve always wanted to be Batman or Superman, the Green Lantern or the Flash. You wanted to be all of them wrapped up into one, a one man Justice League because you need that kind of love from the crowds...but in reality? You’re just Aquaman. A trumped up joke that a few people on the internet try to make into some kind of pseudo-badass, while everyone in the know understands what they try to deny; that no one, not a single person, could give a fuck about you except for the very neckbearded bastards themselves.
[As something of a chuckle leaves the Neck Breaking Beast, the camera continues it’s journey. A plywood board adorned with a crisscross of gusset boards and nails serves as modern art on one wall...while the blur of something swinging back and forth begins to gradually invade the frame.]
Norcia: ...It’s an apt comparison, really. After all, you’ve tried so hard to build this aura of being a legend in this business-the King of Wrestling, you so arrogantly refer to yourself as. However, much like the King of Atlantis, it’s nothing more than a bunch of eyerolling, masturbatory bullshit clad in hideous spandex. You point to your resume, the fans talk about all of the titles you’ve won...but let’s be honest, John. You won all of those titles in companies that were effectively mom and pop jobs, where the wrestlers were basically glorified backyarders or, worse still, trained by someone like Stefan Raab. You’re a star in the independents, sure...You’ve got your cult following, like your poorly dressed counterpart, but you know what that means, don’t you? That means you aren’t good enough to step into a Phoenix Wrestling, A Sin City Wrestling, a PRIME or a TFWF or one of the countless other companies that can actually get a deal of basic cable. That’s why you have to cater to your collective of mouthbreathers, those who would buy the literal shit straight from your ass, because in their world? You’re a God. In everyone elses? You’re...who? A man whose life story is only fit to be told by the illustrated brilliance of Rob Liefeld, because not even Frank Miller could be bothered making your obscure ass interesting.
[As the camera pans further still, the distinct sound of a throat being cleared and a mouthful of spit being launched off to the side is heard...just in time for that original noise to be identified. There, rocking back and forth, is a heavy bag-abused by the fists of Michael Norcia himself. Wearing only a pair of jeans, the Hand of God throws right hand after right hand into the ruined leather that surrounds the bag-the distant light showing the dark metal outline of a protective brace that surrounds his right arm from knuckles to mid-bicep like a cage. His motions are slow but heavy, brutally forceful despite his own doubts and the evident injury.]
Norcia: ...You’re a liar, John. You have been for years. But that’s alright, because I’m a liar too. I’ve been lying to myself about just how good I really am. The difference between us though? I’ll admit my faults. I’ll tell the world that I could never make it, but I’ll still keep trying. Meanwhile, you keep running around, hands in the air shouting ‘Best in the world’ to anyone that will listen, oblivious to the fact that the very same people who believe you are the types of people who like My Little Pony and write slash fanfiction about the Powerpuff Girls. You just accept it because you need it...but I don’t need anything. I don’t need the fans. I don’t need the love. I don’t need a damned thing beyond my fist sexually assaulting your face for a nominal fee.
[Another sharp punch lands upon the heavy bag, sending the sand-filled structure swaying violently before it’s caught by bare hands. It was only then that he turned his gaze toward the camera, greeting it with his weathered, scarred features and eyes that simply couldn’t care anymore.]
Norcia: ...At Cardinal Sin, I return to wrestling. I bring it back to where it all started for me-Chicago-not because you’re important enough to be my first match back after injury, John, and certainly not because you matter enough to me to warrant one more go. I step into Cardinal Sin with only one thought on my mind-climbing my way to the top of the wrestling business, one rung at a time. I’ve failed in the past, but that was due to a lack of focus. I know what I need to do now, where I need to go to get my mind right...and that is home. Where it all began. With who it all began with, but this won’t be a celebration. This? This is the end. You and I, John, end it. Not because it needs to end, but because it has to...because Kings die. Kings rot. Kings are forgotten...but Gods live on in history forever.
[At that, the heavy bag is pushed aside so that the hulking, battle scarred figure of Michael Norcia can walk past. Paying no further mind to the camera, the scene is left to rest as he abandons it-his words spoken and his mind set on the action ahead. There was only one thing left to be said, a final parting shot before the camera fades to black on this place of personal despair. Something muttered, barely audible, yet still picked up by the microphone as the scene fades into the ether.]
Norcia: ...Hope someone bought a body bag.
[end]
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