Post by Jon Pryor on Mar 24, 2009 11:04:46 GMT -5
The champion. The target. Physical. Mental. It all ties together. The status is trying. The critics are many. But he is the one. The one that lives it. The one that sleeps it. The one that eats it. The one that breathes it.
The one that is consumed by it.
The critiqued. The questioned. The doubted. The targeted.
It was nothing new to Jon Pryor. His first title reign was plagued by losses in matches that did not determine his championship. He walked out on his second. Sacrificed his third. This is his fourth.
No, this is his definition. His life. The personal turmoil: past. To Pryor, this is all that he had. And this is all that he would fight for. All of the way to the point of insanity.
The camera pans his frame. Jon sits, back toward the camera. Darkened silhouette in the dim locker room. He can be seen applying the tape to his fists, utter silence filling the room.
Until he spoke.
"Forgive those that trespass against us...
No. I cannot do that. As I cannot ask those that I've trespassed against to forgive me. I've cheated the audience out of emotions with not one, but two deaths.
I've cheated an entire small federation out of their jobs with the help of an acquaintance.
I left with the chips had folded, leading to the demise of another job.
Not a man lives without sins to atone for. I'm no different, neither is any hypocrite watching this that thinks otherwise." His tone was calm. His process was slow, methodical. As he finishes speaking, his taping is finished. He examines the thoroughness on his hands, clenching his fist. I live day in and day out with what I've caused upon not only one, but millions of individuals. I don't deserve forgiveness for my trespasses.
Similar, to tonight. I don't ask for forgiveness to use a retiring, pointless dog as an advertising billboard. I live with what I've done. I breathe it. And I find the truth. Jack Jyndal, your crusade against me is as personal as my skin color is black. This is for you, and you only. Your chance to claw for the spotlight that I'd presented for you back in Detroit, that you're finally reclaiming here. You have your shot in the ass of confidence, I implore you to use it. You'll need whatever mental advantage you think that you can to hope to survive.
I'm not stable.
Jin Remmy, in retrospect. I cannot forgive you for the thorn in the side. I speak of the deceased in respect, you attempt to drag a situation through the mud. Brian Knight is responsible for who I am, and for the skills that I possess. I've faced the black cloud and walked through it in regards to his death and bringing in out of retirement for that single tag match. I can't begin to detail what it feels like, to watch a friend be dealt his killing blow when you're only a few feet away, and powerless to stop it. I envy those that have lost their's in a situation that was out of sight, but hardly out of mind. You feel that you could have made the result different?
Be in my shoes. Be there, and see how much more helpless you feel when the inevitable does happen.
You see, Remmy..." Back toward the camera still, he leans forward, forearms on thighs. His head down, "You had the entirely wrong effect on me that you wanted to have. I beat you down at your own game, at a fight that you wanted to try to invoke to prove a point. Only, the effect was far opposite of that one that you wanted to try to create.
I'm not stable.
I'm about as 100% as you are, Remmy. And an injured dog is the one to fear the most. I've been driven to the point of no concern, and for that, not only have you brought about your own demise. You've dragged Jack Jyndal into the mix. This isn't a title defense. This is a public sacrifice... one of which that will see none of us be the same again. Amanda wants to add in the toys, I say let her. All the more for me to destroy you both with later... and all the more metal that leads to the bloodstained glory that is my gold that remains around my waist when all is said and done."
The camera pans away from him, down the bench that he was sitting on. The GCW World Championship, draped in Jon's heavy chain can be the last thing seen before the camera fades away.
The one that is consumed by it.
The critiqued. The questioned. The doubted. The targeted.
It was nothing new to Jon Pryor. His first title reign was plagued by losses in matches that did not determine his championship. He walked out on his second. Sacrificed his third. This is his fourth.
No, this is his definition. His life. The personal turmoil: past. To Pryor, this is all that he had. And this is all that he would fight for. All of the way to the point of insanity.
The camera pans his frame. Jon sits, back toward the camera. Darkened silhouette in the dim locker room. He can be seen applying the tape to his fists, utter silence filling the room.
Until he spoke.
"Forgive those that trespass against us...
No. I cannot do that. As I cannot ask those that I've trespassed against to forgive me. I've cheated the audience out of emotions with not one, but two deaths.
I've cheated an entire small federation out of their jobs with the help of an acquaintance.
I left with the chips had folded, leading to the demise of another job.
Not a man lives without sins to atone for. I'm no different, neither is any hypocrite watching this that thinks otherwise." His tone was calm. His process was slow, methodical. As he finishes speaking, his taping is finished. He examines the thoroughness on his hands, clenching his fist. I live day in and day out with what I've caused upon not only one, but millions of individuals. I don't deserve forgiveness for my trespasses.
Similar, to tonight. I don't ask for forgiveness to use a retiring, pointless dog as an advertising billboard. I live with what I've done. I breathe it. And I find the truth. Jack Jyndal, your crusade against me is as personal as my skin color is black. This is for you, and you only. Your chance to claw for the spotlight that I'd presented for you back in Detroit, that you're finally reclaiming here. You have your shot in the ass of confidence, I implore you to use it. You'll need whatever mental advantage you think that you can to hope to survive.
I'm not stable.
Jin Remmy, in retrospect. I cannot forgive you for the thorn in the side. I speak of the deceased in respect, you attempt to drag a situation through the mud. Brian Knight is responsible for who I am, and for the skills that I possess. I've faced the black cloud and walked through it in regards to his death and bringing in out of retirement for that single tag match. I can't begin to detail what it feels like, to watch a friend be dealt his killing blow when you're only a few feet away, and powerless to stop it. I envy those that have lost their's in a situation that was out of sight, but hardly out of mind. You feel that you could have made the result different?
Be in my shoes. Be there, and see how much more helpless you feel when the inevitable does happen.
You see, Remmy..." Back toward the camera still, he leans forward, forearms on thighs. His head down, "You had the entirely wrong effect on me that you wanted to have. I beat you down at your own game, at a fight that you wanted to try to invoke to prove a point. Only, the effect was far opposite of that one that you wanted to try to create.
I'm not stable.
I'm about as 100% as you are, Remmy. And an injured dog is the one to fear the most. I've been driven to the point of no concern, and for that, not only have you brought about your own demise. You've dragged Jack Jyndal into the mix. This isn't a title defense. This is a public sacrifice... one of which that will see none of us be the same again. Amanda wants to add in the toys, I say let her. All the more for me to destroy you both with later... and all the more metal that leads to the bloodstained glory that is my gold that remains around my waist when all is said and done."
The camera pans away from him, down the bench that he was sitting on. The GCW World Championship, draped in Jon's heavy chain can be the last thing seen before the camera fades away.