just like harambe | vs Matthew Page
Oct 1, 2016 4:09:14 GMT
Valentina Lemay and Jack Owyns like this
Post by Finn Whelan on Oct 1, 2016 4:09:14 GMT
Just Like Harambe
Time and time again, I’ve sat in the back of arenas and listened to the words that seem to spew from every opponent I’ve ever had. While I won’t lie, some of the fabricated bullshit this time seemed to be quite entertaining, and to be fair, I was easily able to begin a dialogue that had others reeling. I’m a quiet individual. I don’t get on social media and proclaim to be the world’s best wrestler like literally everyone else in this company, and every other company in the world. It’s not my style to sit there and try to make a shitshow out of one hundred and forty characters because I’m bored and have no life. In fact, my life is pretty full: I’m happily married, and not arguing with my wife twenty-four seven. I live in a ski resort. I have more going positive for me than I’ve ever had in my life and . . .Oh, here’s a good one. One I most certainly enjoy profusely.
Despite all the ridicule and the ‘tough talking’, I was one of the chosen four. The ones who, you know, have a future in this company.
Yeah, that's right.
Victory has come and gone, and what do you know? I’m up there on that graphic with three other contenders that will now battle for the Ultimate Championship for the next few weeks in desperate attempts to gain points and be considered the greatest. I never said I would officially be standing there, because there is pretty decent talent on this show, but truthfully, I suspected that I had more of a shot than others. Endurance, stamina, intelligence . . . you can be the biggest brawler this side of the Mississippi, but when someone can finally get the upperhand, you fail against things that are a thousand percent more important than how hard you can punch.
This will be officially my eleventh match. I’m still a rookie -- I’m not in some rise to fame, or fighting for glory so I can have my name up in lights. If anything, I’m looking for the respect I actually deserve and have never been given. I’m a weedy motherfucker who looks like I don’t use the gym whatsoever, but it just goes to show that you don’t have to be roided up to do damage. I succeeded, and plan on continuing, come hell or high water. When EPIC I begins, it’ll be me facing someone who has fought as hard as I have.
It’ll be a good match when the time comes, but that time isn't now.
My focus is on my future in this company -- a future that includes me in the top of the bracket where people still continually place me out of. Was it not enough to come back and win in a match that my opponent used everything in the ring area except his own skill? Was it not enough to prove I had the audacity to rise to the occasion and do what I said I would? That's more than four other people on Victory can say. My goal was never to be on the bottom run of any promotion, and even when they try to push me down simply because they don't like me, I figure out how to come to the top of the ladder anyway. That’s where my destiny lies, and that's where my championship lies.
I'm not going to come out and say that I'm the only correct person to hold that title. That's pretentious and literally what everyone else does. I now I have my work cut out for me. But I can argue my way out of any situation, and like a wolf, you'll never know when I'm coming up on you. You may be in control of a match for the majority of the time, but sooner or later, bam, you're not and -- so sad, too bad -- you're feeding at the bottom of the ladder in a pool of your own blood.
It's funny; Felix thinks I'm all about the athleticism, about being the strongest person out there and technically fighting my way through every match. In every single instance, not one time have I ever just seen this as a competitive fight. This is literally life and death -- you don't live through failures and constant battles where you end up with nothing left. And you don't live down the shame of losing very easily. When it happens, I'll take my bow and continue on, but I can't say I see that happening any time soon.
If you've paid attention, I've mentioned my ultimate goal. While I desire the championship just as much as anyone else in this tournament, I also desire the safety of my wife. Aaron is my reason for existence at this point, and I really don't give a flying fuck what you think about that. She's the reason I'm even standing here today, and God forbid that I let her out of my sight. But at some point and time, I'm going to have to. I'm going to have to put one or the other first. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the hardest thing for me to do.
Despite that, I know what will arise.
This week, I face Matthew Page. He's one of those people you either like because they're a snobbish prick that knows what he wants, knows how to get it, and knows what else to do. Or, he's someone you hate because of those very same reasons. Personally, I'm indifferent. I respect him as a competitor . . . but beyond that, there's not much else I can say. He was smart in fighting his way to get here, and he is correct: it doesn't matter how you win, except that you win. People are so quick to put you, the winner, down because they feel so awful about losing. They disappear for a week and come back pulling punches -- likely because it took them that long to get over their failures.
I'm not going to fail. I've said it once, I'll say it again. The more you put me down, the less you put faith in me, the stronger and more resillient I become. So when it comes down to it, Matthew, on Sunday, I hate to say it, but . . .
You’re fucked.
•••
The whistling of the wind through the leaves enters the fray as the picturesque view of greenery falls into a jungle-esque forest. A brook, filled with water, babbles as it flows down a small, sandy bed down a slight hill, across the way. Overshadowing all of it, as we meander through the landscape, the sounds of a flute play a melodic tune, soothing and sweet. The serenity pictured could, if you had any form of empathy and imagination and had closed your eyes, make you feel like you were transported to a relaxing, calm yoga class where everyone has no worries, no cares, and literally no problems because they don’t have jobs.
And quite honestly, the only reason anyone does yoga that’s male is to look at the butts of the pretty college girls who wear those skin-tight fitness pants. Don’t lie.
A woman, her voice also calm and soothing, and decidedly British, speaks as the picture flows across the terrain. “Nature -- across the world, forests and jungles alike breathe in the fresh air that flows through their boughs. It is a quiet place, unlike the world of humans. The denizens within the forests of the world react very differently to the space around them. There is a serene type of life that flows in this sphere, where even the most human of all mammals can find solace in the way that others treat them. In this world, there are no words that are said to one another to create an illusion of superiority. No, in this world, there is no such thing as communication as we know it. The way these mammals communicate is with their brute strength.”
As if on cue, an enormous gorilla shuffles into view, appearing out from behind a looming-type of willow. Even on its knuckles, the impressive specimen stands at 6’3”, and is a domineering sight to see. It is apparent that this creature, with his large, overbearing muscles, his stature of greatness, and his disdainful stare for the other animals that seem to fear him, is the primary alpha within the pack. He sits back on his rear haunches, gazing upon his territory. A long area of silver fur glints in the light from the sun as he stands at his full height for just a moment, before falling back down to his knuckles.
“The Silverback Gorilla: a domineering force within many jungles across the world. This species of hominoidea is known to live within packs with one male and several females and his very own offspring. Highly volatile to other males, the alpha Silverback is the source of sustenance for many of the members of his troop, and he is the one to make all decisions, mediates conflicts, and when threatened, protects his group. And just like a hierarchical male in the world of humans, this Alpha requires his troop to be subservient.”
The camera follows the enormous Gorilla as he moves towards his troop. Another male, down towards the bottom of the screen, is his target, and quite suddenly, without a warning, the alpha raises a hand and strikes down towards the submissive gorilla.
“This Silverback is the Alpha of his troop, and though some troops within the wilds have additional males from under the patriarch, this Alpha is not particularly fond of others. In fact, when confronted by his lessers, or when his lessers are even within his vicinity, this Alpha is known to preen himself, stand taller, and become much more aggressive. Researchers who watch this creature and observe him nearly daily seem to have come to the conclusion that in truth, the Alpha is not easily dominated, nor easily intimidated by others. Psychologically, they feel it is a showboating tactic, however, in order to prove dominance to the rest of the troop. Much like wolves, when under duress, this gorilla seems to feel as if he must bare his proverbial fangs. Yet, unlike the wolf, there is no subtlety in the way that a fight begins -- it is just immedi--”
A crackling sound cuts through the woman’s speech like a record being scratched, and the video pauses.
“There’s only so much of this boring shit I can take.”
The still of the gorilla sits for a moment as a male voice, deep and with a slight hint of an Irish accent underneath the trained American dialect, cuts across the video feed. A moment later, the camera zooms out to the actual figure this video is supposed to be about. In the background, we see the enclosure that looked just like a true jungle, but is instead completely surrounded by a concrete one. Families pass by, looking minutely interested in some of the exotic creatures they see, and little kids run back and forth, squealing happily and begging their parents for the “big kitty in the window”. We find ourselves in a zoo, and sitting with his legs folded in front of him and an amused looked on his face, is Finn Whelan.
“People talk, and they talk, and they talk, and all I see are lips moving and all I hear is gibberish coming out." He starts, shaking his head. Despite the high nineties, he's still in his typical attire, wearing his dark, denim vest and (surprisingly) a bright colored shirt underneath. He has a pair of sunglasses on his face, likely because he's actually outside in the sun, and let's face it, the blacktop on the ground is probably not the easiest on the eyes. He seems amused, yet calm at the same time. "There were eight of us on Victory last week that fought, if not our hardest, then our smartest. You can see that in who actually sits on the pedestal right now. Sure, someone was crowned a champion on the last show, but was that the championship that anyone wanted? Nah, we were all vying for a shot at the Ultimate Championship, the crowning glory that is the tell all of who you are in this company, and why every bullet should be raised at your back. Four of us failed. Four of us rose to the occasion."
"But let's talk about last time, shall we? I'm out there, in my match with Jason Kaine . . . yeah, I won't lie. The veteran took it to the rookie, as to be expected. He used literally everything he could in that ring area to subdue me, but you want to know why I think he did? Yeah?" He pauses, waits, and then cocks his head to the side. "Because Jason Kaine doesn't have the ability to do much of anything when faced with the idea of an opponent who might actually be, or become, better than him. Kaine used everything to prove he had this vicious streak, but you know what? It didn't matter in the end, because he wasn't able to handle a simple stomp to the back of his head that implanted his mug into the mat. He couldn't last, and for a veteran . . . that's pretty sad. Pretty sad indeed. All it did was show Valentina that she made the correct decision in hiring me -- I don't boast on social media, I don't get on for crowd approval or try to be the best. I don't get on to argue quite often, simply because everyone is so fuckin' volatile. But you know what? I sneak in and I steal the show. I'm the first to put down, and the first to prove you wrong."
He shakes his head. "There's a lot going on these days at Epic. You've got Ernie Parker laying down some words over an e-mail to Valentina, telling everyone what he thinks, and I'm going to say, he's pretty observant -- and as much as I know you would be happy about it, Connor, I'm not leaving Victory, so please sit down and shut the fuck up while worrying about the Stoner this week. While it seemed to have incensed everyone on the roster, I kinda figured out exactly what he was doing -- that and, I'm sorry, but the only negative thing he could come up with was that I was quiet. I relish in that. But he had a few things to say about everyone that was legitimately true . . . and nothing is truer than my opponent this week. Hey, hi, Matthew . . . are you ready for this? I hope so. I'm going to say a few things that might go over your head."
Finn holds up his hand, and raises one finger. "One. Let's talk about you for one second before I even tackle that promotional video you so lazily put up. You're six-three and weigh two-hundred and thirty-five pounds. You're from the godawful shit state that is California -- Aaron wanted me to tell you she pities your existence because of football -- and you own a company of your own that is entitled 'Marvelous'. On top of that, you're blatantly the picture of solid wrestler, including the broken ass nose and godforsakenly terrible superiority-driven stance. You are the complete picture of a wrestler. Congrats. But let's dig in a bit deeper, shall we?"
Finn pulls off his sunglasses, and he produces a piece of paper shoved into his back pocket."Since we have access to each other's statistics, I thought it would be best to look at it since . . . you know, I have to prepare for what I have to face. One thing I noticed is that you really want people to realize your stature. What concerns me here is you repeated it four or five times -- are you trying to compensate for something that doesn't exist? Do you not believe you've made it into wrestling or something? I mean, I hate to say it, but your opponent last week wiped the floor with your ass, and you won on a technicality. Yes, you won, but you're not going to be able to repeat that shit with me, as I'm gonna be on to you quicker than Jacobs was. We're essentially main-eventing, as we're the last on the card -- do you really want to do the same tactics over again? That would be pretty pathetic. Oh, and . . . wow, for such a big fuckin' dude, you have some pathetic defensive strength against submissions. I would really hate to lock you into something and have you tap out. That wouldn't look so good, would it?"
Briefly, he taps the arm of his shades on his foot, and looks back at the paperwork. "You may be all muscle and brawn, but I can and will outlast you in the match up. When you've been shit on all your life, when you get into fights and end up winning simply because the guy on the other end simply couldn't last, you gain endurance and stamina . . . and hate to say it, but I honestly don't see you winning simply on that alone. There are a lot of variables at play here, but honestly . . . you're not going anywhere on the points counter."
He tosses the paper onto the ground. "But additionally, let's look at your promotional video, since you posted it about a week ago. You spent about five minutes talking about yourself and how you could do this, or that, or win, and then you decided to spend a little time on your opponent. Hey, hi, that's me. So let's move into number two: the fuck are you smoking, Matt? What did Mysti slip you? Because you've gotta be smoking her grade A bullshit weed to come up with the lazy ass information you did.
"First of all, were you born in this era? Because the nineteen-fifties called, and they want your argument back. I'm not going to get into psychological bullshit with you as to why I'm pissed off eighty-five percent of the time, but you can guess it's because of stupid, bullshit comments you make like the only argument you even made to even sort of try to figure me out. And just like everyone else at this point, you don't even come at me with an insult -- you insult Aaron. Did you forget who you're facing? I'm not four-eleven with bright ass blue-green hair and a baby in the maternal oven. You fuckers keep bringing her up like she's the one that matters. It's not her foot that's going to be punting your head across the ring, did you forget?
"You see, unlike you, bud, I really could give a fuck less about stardom. Yeah, I go home to a woman who is a fifteen year veteran in this sport, but let me make this fuckin' clear to you: she's retired. She gave up her boots four months ago, and from what I can tell, she's not coming back to it. But going home to her is literally the best thing in the existence of my life. I'm not the breadwinner. Kind of hard to be when you've only been doing this for . . . oh, I don't know, less than a complete year officially. Neither of us had thought of that bullshit comment until you came up with it because your head is stuck in a misogynistic society. But what should I suspect from someone who thinks money is the best thing in the world? You've got your multi-million dollar company, and your Gucci -- or honestly, what-the-fuck-ever designer -- suits and leather shoes, but what do you go home to? Nothing. Here, let me fabricate bullshit on you now: you probably go home with an overly priced hooker and drink your sorrows into a bottle of vodka to hide the crap festering inside of you. You come out on shows acting like you're the supreme deity, but hate to know that . . . besides Felix, I don't think anyone actually really gives a fuck about you. You're just another wrestler on this screen, and one that is going to be taken down pretty deftly in the end. Not only is the argument you made shit, your winning streak is going to be shit."
He shakes his head, a snicker coming from his lips. "You. Are shit. I really hope you're smarter than this in the ring. I really do. Because yeah, I'm gonna get pissed because it's people like you that simply stand across from me with a smug expression on your face and no respect for anyone, including yourself. That irritates me. But like I said before: I don't always lose my complete cool. Making me pissed only furthers my drive, and only furthers the damage to yourself. It might even hurt me in the process, but you know what? At that point, I'm not even going to care."
Finally, Finn looks behind him, into the enclosure. He's probably said all he wants to, but in the end, there's usually more than can be said. Regardless, he looks back at the camera, and he raises an eyebrow. "You want to know why I chose the zoo, of all places, to shoot this video? Animals are sometimes one of the most abrasive and destructive creatures out there. You might remember a story that originated some months ago out of Cincinatti . . . yeah, you remember, Harambe?" He pauses, waiting for recognition one more time. "The kid that climbed into his enclosure could have been seriously injured because of the gorilla. Harambe, himself, carried himself much like you, and much like the Silverback in that enclosure. Gruff. Abrasive. Superior. Haughty. But he got himself into a mess, picked on the wrong person, and instead of being tranquilized . . ."
He makes a gun with his fingers and "shoots" at the camera.
"Bang."
A grin slides across his face.
"Just like you come Sunday Night. You're just like Harambe. And people will pity your fall, but honestly . . . in the end, it'll be for the good of the Epic fans. They don't need to see a smug bastard rise to the top."
He pauses once more. His phone buzzes in his hand once. His eyebrow raises. Twice. He exhales. Thrice. He narrows his eyes. He shoves it into his pocket and rises to his feet.
"Nah . . . that will be me. We'll have a match that will be talked about for a while, but in the end, the best one will have the win and the other is just going to have to suck it up. Good luck, Matthew. See you Sunday."
[fin]
