Post Your Best RP Ever - The Thread

[saint]

We have all e-fedded prior to this, I assume, so we must all have a promo or RP that we're proud of, so, I guess we could get some of that out in the open by posting our Best RP's EVER!

And, to make it somewhat resembling a game, the people who post have to provide some short feedback to the promo posted prior to theirs, that'll give this some purpose, writers helping writers and such.

I'll reply to this thread with my best one, just want to keep the first post uncluttered.

[saint]

NOTE: This is a promo I wrote a month or two ago, it's not my best, but I've found it with all the formatting retained, so, I thought I'd post it here, it's for my favorite e-fed character, Peter Saint, in a battle against a deranged sociopath with a thing for torture named Adrian.

________________________________

Define ‘Irony’:

‘A man, having only just reconciled for his betrayal of another man, is then betrayed by the same man he’d just made peace with.’

‘Furthermore...’

‘The betrayed man is then forced to fight another man guilty of betrayal.’

‘Let me ask...’

‘Is there anyone in this company who isn’t guilty of betrayal?’

‘...’

‘...Didn’t think so.’

The scene fades in with Peter Saint sitting upon a step, outside Full Metal Headquarters. He nurses the bandages on his neck, rubbing it gently every few seconds. He looks to his watch, noting the time, before standing up and walking towards the edge of the street. A taxi slowly rounds the corner, before coming to a halt in front of Peter Saint, he opens the door and steps into the cab to see Sara sitting across from him.

Sara: Keep driving, cabbie.

The driver complies and the taxi slowly begins its movement once more, driving down the street and taking a sharp left onto a freeway. Saint pulls out a small bottle, twists open the cap, and drops two pills into his hand, he throws them into his mouth and follows it up with a swig of water from a small flask he had in his pocket.

Sara: How long are you on that medication for?

Saint: Till it stops hurting.

Sara: ...What did they say?

Saint: I’m not on Anarchy this week...

Sara: Thank God.

Saint lets off a quick grin.

Saint: But I am booked on Alchemy.

Sara: Against?

Saint: Heh. You won’t like this.

Sara: You always say that.

Saint: I’m always right.

Sara: Modest, too.

Saint: Barbs like that won’t get you the information you seek, m’dear.

Sara: Just tell me.

Saint: ...“Alchemy vs. Anarchy” – Peter Saint vs. Adrian...

‘Needless to say, she wasn’t happy.’

‘She started saying all these things, things I was trying to keep out of my head.’

‘He’s deranged.’

‘Look what he did to his brother!’

‘He’s violent.’

‘Imagine what he’ll do to you!’

‘He’ll hurt you.’

‘The man DRINKS blood!’

‘Essentially, all she was saying was...’

‘He’s better than you.’

‘I won’t lie; it’s going to be an uphill battle.’

‘But then again.’

‘When isn’t it an uphill battle?’

The scene opens in a hotel room, Peter Saint lies in the corner of the room, his hands rubbing the various wounds he has sustained in the past weeks. On the other side of the room is Sara, a flustered look upon her face.

Sara: You don’t understand, Peter, you can’t keep wearing yourself out like this! Each week you go out and get your head beaten in, and you’re grinning the whole way through, it’s as if you ‘enjoy’ being beaten half-to-death.

Saint: Sara...

Sara: No, Peter, you’re not smooth-talking me this time, I don’t want to hear a ‘story’, and I’m not going to hear a sob story about how you ‘owe it to the fans’, you don’t owe anyone anything, but you’ll be owing your life to the heavens above if you keep this reckless fighting charade up.

Saint: I get a lot of shit, from people, but I don’t need it from you, Sara.

Sara: No, you do need it from me, and you need to listen to it, too. What is it you hope to achieve from this ‘unfortunate hero’ motif you have going?

Saint: What do you want to hear? Do you want to hear that I’m fighting for fame, glory and the cheers of the fans?

Sara: I want to hear the truth, and not just about wrestling either, you’ve been so distant lately and I haven’t been able to learn anything of your past life before you wrestled. I want to hear about everything you’ve done, especially this little “Mercenary of Peace” agenda you’re running, you used to be a hired gun, I know that much, why did you turn away from that job?

Saint: You don’t want to hear that.

Sara: Yes. I think I do.

Saint: No. You really don’t. It’s disgusting.

Sara: I can handle it.

Saint: Well, I can’t handle telling it.

Sara: What was it that made you turn away from that bounty-hunting business?

Saint: I haven’t thought of this for years. I haven’t wanted to think about it.

Sara: You need to get this out in the open.

Saint pauses, his grin subsides and for the first time, the words simply won’t come to his mouth. He pauses, looks to the ground, and closes his eyes, shaking his head slowly, his mouth opens slightly, a dull whisper being the only sound from Peter Saint.

Saint: I killed someone... A woman... I never killed women. Women or children. It’s just not right, y’know, so I avoided all hits that even remotely involved those two types, and trust me, there’s a lot of those out there.

Sara: What? Who?

Saint: A woman. Middle aged. Her beautiful shoulder-length hair was colored this etheral shade of red, it was beautiful, she was like someone out of a dream, everything about her was faded, the colors of her clothes, her hair, her skin, it was like she was bathed in this thick daze that made her look as heavenly as she did.

I still remember everything about her, that look in her eyes, that horrible look of fear in her eyes. I was given this assignment, I had to help these guys break into this house, I had bills to pay and it was the only job that came in months, so, I helped them. I knew the guys were sleazy, I knew they were trouble, but I helped anyway.

I got them into the house, and I was the first one up the stairs, they combed the lower levels while I searched the top, then, at the end of the hall, in this small bedroom, the woman they were looking for was hiding. I ran in and I saw her, it was then I realized that she was the one they were looking for. Everything became a blur, I tried to help her hide, but she wouldn’t stop yelling to me, I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I knew she was attracting attention from the men down-stairs. I drew my gun. I was prepared to fight them off, I may have been desperate, but there was no way I was going to allow a woman’s blood to be on my hands.

Everything was still blurring. The woman was still screaming and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and then one sound brought me back to reality, and told me exactly what the woman was yelling about...

...It was the sound of a baby’s screams. The woman had her child, lying in a cradle in the corner of the room; the infant had been awoken by her mothers screams and had answered them with shrieks of his own. I couldn’t think amidst the noise, and then, the other men ran into the room, their pistols drawn. I tried to get them to stop, they wouldn’t back down, so I raised my gun, at this point I was blindly stupid. I was just trying to get that woman and her kid out of there, but I was too slow, they popped two rounds into me before I could even pump out one of my own. I fell to the floor, everything had slowed down, and the last thing I saw before blacking out was the woman running towards the cradle, her arms flailing.

...

I woke up later. I had police and homicide detectives standing over me, taking blood samples of the room while paramedics strapped oxygen masks to me. I could barely muster any breath, the only thing I asked was “What happened to them?”. The paramedic’s expressions answered it for me, both the woman and her kid were dead, I’d failed. I had their blood on my hands.

Saint pauses; he closes his eyes and lies back.

Saint: The next morning, after I left the hospital. I retired.

Sara looks on, as if she’s on the verge of tears.

Sara: It wasn’t your fault.

Saint: I wasn’t quick enough.

Sara: You couldn’t have stopped them.

Saint: I led them there!

Sara: You didn’t know.

Saint: I should’ve. But ever since, I’ve been fighting as penance, trying to make up for that one horrible event, I don’t know if I’m even going in the right direction, but if I keep fighting for peace, then I can make up for that one failure.

Sara: You’re fighting for that?

Saint: I’m fighting for many things. But it’s that event that spurs me to keep fighting on, when I was shot, I went down and blacked out, I vowed to never let myself go down that easily again. No matter how badly I am hit. I’ll always get back.

Sara: That’s endearing, in a way.

Saint: That’s what Dante said.

Sara: ...How are you feeling for this week?

Saint: Well, I was hanged one week, betrayed and brutalized the next, whatever happens this week needs to be a step up.

Saint grins.

‘What are we out there fighting for?’

‘What’s Adrian fighting for?’

‘Another win?’

‘More momentum?’

‘A chance to get back at his brother?’

‘He’s motivated. No doubt about that.’

‘But y’know, I got the willpower.’

‘I got the speed.’

‘I have all the physical requirements.’

‘With a dash of luck, I can win this match.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’

The scene opens on the day of Alchemy 4.4. Saint sits on a examination table and is looked over by a man in glasses, recognized as a local doctor.

Doctor: Your neck wounds are healing nicely, Mr. Walsh.

Saint: How am I, going out tonight?

Doctor: You’re still nowhere near one-hundred percent, any strong strikes to your throat could re-open the gashes, and your bones are lucky they haven’t collapsed under all that duress.

Saint: And you’re saying?

Doctor: I’m not clearing you for action this week, or the next, you need rest and recuperation.

Saint: You can’t do this, man.

Doctor: I’m not you ‘man’, I’m a doctor, employed by this company, to do the best for its wrestlers, and the best for you, is to avoid action of any kind until further notice.

Saint: How much do you want?

Doctor: Want? It isn’t a matter of money, Mr. Walsh, I have morals.

Saint: I’m sorry; I interpreted that as ‘I have molars’, which I’m going to knock out if you don’t let me compete.

Doctor: Are you trying to be threatening? I’ve seen you, you’re not like that, you wouldn’t hit me.

Saint: (Under his breath) Son of a bitch.

Doctor: I’m sorry, Peter, I truly am, but I can’t let you compete out there, like this.

Saint: If you were truly sorry you’d let me fight, I’ve come so far, to bow out and forfeit this match? What a joke.

Doctor: If it was anyone else, I’d let you fight, but, this man, Adrian O’Rion, he’s... imbalanced.

Saint: You’re telling me. I’ve seen what the man can do.

Doctor: I’ve seen what the man has ‘done’, after he’s done it. I’ve wheeled men, men soaked in their own blood, men who are delirious, men asking me “If they won”, all because they stepped into the ring with Adrian.

Saint: And you think I’ll be the same way?

Doctor: I try to keep my personal opinion out of it.

Saint: That’s an answer in the affirmative.

Doctor: So what if it is? I’d prefer you to sit this out, rather than have to run out there with the oxygen mask, before wheeling you out the back, praying that you make the trip to the hospital.

Saint: That won’t happen, Doc.

Doctor: Oh? And why’s that?

Saint: Because I won’t let it happen. I’ve spent the last few weeks proving I can come out of anything, and still stand back up and do it all over again the following week, and this week, I’ll do the same. No matter how bad it gets, I won’t be put down for the count.

Doctor: You’re adamant about competing.

Saint: Yes. And I’ll wear a splint, or bandages, or whatever it takes, as long as you let me go out there.

Doctor: Blind optimism, I see it too much in this business. But, if I can’t stop you otherwise, I’ll let you compete, but my words still stand. Beware of Adrian; he is one of the most twisted men I’ve ever attended to. He is dangerous. If I was you, I wouldn’t turn up at all. Good day, Peter ‘Saint’.

The doctor exits the room, and walks down a hall, when he is confronted by a man, his face hidden by shadows.

Man: Did you persuade him to forfeit?

Doctor: I couldn’t.

Man: Hmmm. Expected. I take it you instilled fear into him?

Doctor: Yes. I did.

Man: Good. That’ll make it much easier tonight. Now, take your pay and leave.

A hand, holding a briefcase comes out from the shadows; the Doctor takes the bag and walks off.

‘I won’t lie, I’m scared.’

‘But, from fear comes courage.’

‘Tonight. I step back into the belly of the beast.’

‘To face Adrian.’

‘But with each battle, I get one step closer.’

‘One step closer.’

‘To the Gold Card Gauntlet.’

‘My ticket to the Full Metal Championship.’

‘Peter Saint – The Mercenary of Peace – Full Metal Champion’

‘Sounds good, doesn’t it?’

Fade To Black.

[Amanda Wallace]

My most recent post as VWE Legend, Crymson. I've never RP'd a full out match before, nor gone as detailed as this, so right now? It's my most pridfeul piece...



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"So... you know you're going to get killed, right? I just read that this girls a Submission master... what if she knows about your ribs?"

Melissa had been questioning Claire the entire time they'd been in England. Now, match time was in about fifteen minutes, and Claire had disappeared to the back to prepare, Change, mentally focus, expel "Pre-game jitters." She'd been at the top, done it all... yet, she was freaked out about this herself. It was her first time in another country. An entirely different crowd than the VWE one back in her adopted hometown of Columbus, Ohio. A harder crowd even. They didn't cheer your every antic, they didn't hoot and howl at the pretty girl. No... they watched intently, only awarding the ears of those that deliver physical skill in lieu of physically awesome power. America. Hmph... they'd cheer the biggest man who couldn't perform a simple wrist lock, yet they'd go to the bathroom during a scientific technician's match, ignoring the hold for hold countering, the intentional wear-down of a single body part into submission. Something, Claire herself had began to adopt. But... She's a lot smaller than she was during Wrestefest. She'd lost muscle... no way around it. Her ribs limited her muscle building. But... thank god she still had her speed and agility with her. She'd have to make due...

She looks down at the last piece of her attire, a simple head band. She dressed vastly different, because, well, she was entirely different. Not poor anymore, but richer than she knew how to be. Not a green rookie, but an accomplished, arguably premature, Legend. And not a basin for growing technical knowledge, but a smaller, slimmer shell of her former self that was now closer to realizing just how much she'd have to make due. And survive against a highly accomplished Submissionist, although she hadn't wrestled in months since her divorce to a Canadian superstar. The sister of a British Legend, stepping out of her brother's shadow. Well, trying to. Both had much on the line. Hell, Claire herself was wondering just what potential outcomes could come from this back in Ohio, despite all of the contractual agreements she had written in before appearing, just to cover her own ass in legalities. All footage of the match was property of her, which, in turn was property of VWE, so it couldn't be reprinted on DVD without written consent from Marl herself... or, Claire was wishing, hoping he still had the power, Aaron Blackthorn himself. Injury, she couldn't cover... she'd probably have to gut it out again to appease the bosses, much like she did at Wrestlefest with her cracked, soon getting worse, ribs. A risk she was willing to take. She didn't want to be behind all of those that had the opportunity to, and actually did it, to train. To perform in the ring, and keep their skills from becoming rusty. She finally stepped outside of the back room of her locker room, smiling, somewhat weakly, as she was still in a bit of a daze from her nervousness.

"I'll have to make due... there's a reason why I jumped at this chance. I need to do this. I need to be ready. Because I don't think I'm putting that muscle back on..."

She watches Melissa staring at her...

"So... did you like... raid Hot Topic to wrestle in? You're seriously wearing that?"

Claire only nodded. She didn't say anything else... Why bother having the serious "I'm gonna kill you" look when she didn't need it anymore? Her name screams enough, has earned the right to be feared. Why look the part? She just wanted to have fun this year, be comfortable, and be an example, for the most part. And maybe make somebody cry because she buried them again so they carry that dark cloud with them and cry about it everywhere... but that's just another story to get into. One that makes her laugh every now and again.

"Come on... You need to get to your seat... It's time..."

******************************************

The British audience is still buzzing from the last match's fantastic finish, when the ring announcer steps into the ring, tapping the tip of the microphone, clearing his throat.

"*Ahem* Thank you... now that I have your attention... I'd like to introduce the participants of the next match-up.

First off... we have a very special guest. She hails from Columbus, Ohio of the United States of America......

She is a Legend of Virtual Wrestling Entertainment, as well as their Cooked brand's current Champion....

She weighed in today at eight and one quarter stone...........

CRYMSON!!!!!!!"



The same theme, different location, in any way, shape or form, signaled the incoming appearance by the bloody red bitch from Tennessee. "Tainted Love," is and always will be the selection, performed by Marilyn Manson himself, flashing red lights at each explosion of sound in the grinding intro of the song. The crowd explodes at the sight of her, although not used to her current appearance compared to what they were used to on the television. Dark red, plaid skirt, black tank top with a skull in the middle of a pentagram, the same design on her head band, this was nothing of the cat-suited, stone cold bitch and killer they had grown to hate, yet respect. Her new tattoo was highly visible, despite being slightly covered by a white stocking, showing the almost fiery, torn band she had wrapping around her thigh. She of course, had kept her bitchy demeanor coming down the ramp, despite giving a little shake for everybody before stepping through the ropes. She'd thought about hanging upside down for them, just for fun... but what's the point? It's almost kind of dumb without a reason for it... Climbing the turnbuckle, she holds her hands out at her side, pointing to herself before raising her hand, palm outstretched to the air, looking at the sky. "Tainted Love" had begun to quiet down, the referee checking her for any kind of weaponry for the moment. He goes over some rules with her briefly, Crymson nods in response... Now, the Announcer steps to the middle of the ring again, looking at the crowd before motioning to the entrance with his hand.

"And now, hailing from Manchester, in the Queen's land, England...

She is the sister of the Legendary, knighted grappler, the late, Brian Knight...

She weighed in this morning at nine and one half stone.........

ELIZABETH KNIGHT!!!!!!"



The fans are immediately on their feet, screaming for the country's own. The prideful citizen they behold, the flesh and blood of European wrestling royalty... Elizabeth Knight herself. Short, dyed yet beautiful brunette hair, proud displays of the British flag, all adorn the young woman as she makes her way down the ramp, soaking in the cheers she hadn't received in months. Warming the cold emptiness that had invaded her since her divorce and death of her childhood crush / love, all in one fell swoop on the same day. She hadn't smiled much since that day, but todays reaction brought that to her face. Especially standing across the ring from someone who came after her, in her first American exposure. VWE... Elizabeth had been there for two months, after spending months in the training federation. She stops from staring at the fans, her crystal blue eyes meeting her opponent's blood red across the ring from her. The blood red of Crymson's eyes, filling them when she starts to fill with a rage. Something she's worked very hard to channel for moments like this. The big match, or fighting in general. Crymson was a survivor, she was homeless, she was nearly killed during that time. Nearly starved even as she entered WTF. Fighting was what she knew best, and it was this rage that made her one of the elite. The normally, dull, gorgeously brown eyes of her's had become a dark crimson, staring down her current foe from the opposing corner as the referee checked Elizabeth for any weaponry before ringing the bell.

Crymson charged, immediately attempting a running headscissor's crucifix take down. She failed. Miserably. Elizabeth seemed to be prepared for the woman, watching her matches from VWE even. She expected a slight high flying assault and immediately grasped both thighs, slamming Claire down on her shoulders in a modified powerbomb to start the match off. She didn't release though, grasping her legs, folding them amongst themselves and turning Crymson, locking in a painful Cloverleaf submission. Crymson wasn't going to tap this early, yet her ankle was in so much pain. She tried swinging back at the ankles of Elizabeth, trying to get her to step forward, eventually succeeding in that goal. Yet, before Crymson could stand, she gasped, being immediately locked into a Dragon's sleeper clutch hold. She flails her arm, clutching at the shoulder of Elizabeth, who finally drops her forward on her face, stepping over and locking in a Camel Clutch to the delight of the fans at this immediate submission display.



Now, Crymson was howling in the pain being wrought on her. Her ribs were definitely being affected by the arch in her back. They were stiff from not being worked out, and this stretch added all the more burn to that feeling. Crymson clutched at the hands in front of her face with a white knuckled grip, her black nails digging into Elizabeth's flesh, tugging the hands away from their face-locked position. Just, barely, enough room to slide her head out, dropping to the ground underneath Elizabeth and yanking the leg out from underneath her. Crymson grasped it, but Elizabeth seemed immediately ready to counter a submission. Crymson immediately leaps up, dropping a leg across the face of Elizabeth. Problem solved... study that one...

Elizabeth, in fact, seemed a bit woozy after that leg drop, Crymson immediately noting it and seeing what else she can bring on the aerial front. She leaps onto the turnbuckle, not taunting, but immediately leaping off in another leg drop, a somersault added this time, dropping her tattooed thigh across Elizabeth's face again, who rolls up to her knees immediately, standing. She's lost at the moment, trying to gather her bearings. Crymson charges with a DDT. Elizabeth dropped right on her face, rolling to her back. Crymson added one more immediate high flying move to add some more hurt to her opponent after the gut wrenching minutes she'd spent in the submissions earlier. She springs up from the mat, a back flip moonsault, landing full weight on Elizabeth's midsection before bouncing off, to her feet.



Elizabeth was stunned by the flurry of high flying offense, that had started to garner Crymson herself some cheers from Elizabeth's home crowd. Crymson rests back against the ropes, watching Elizabeth slowly get to her feet. She didn't seem right already, probably shaken by some ring rust from her months off as well, as noted by her immediate widening of eyes as Crymson springboards off of the ropes behind her, flying at Elizabeth for a little "Air Crymson," catching her in the face with her calf in a flying, springboard back kick...



...dropping Elizabeth straight to her back. Crymson is feeling the moment now, yet, forgetting her environment. She rushes the ropes, leaning on them, saluting the fans, who were cheering, until her disrespectful in this country, enthusiasm surfaced. The crowds died down, confusing Claire, who immediately got grabbed from behind, and folded up on the ground following a sick German Suplex. Now it was Elizabeth's turn, who stomped on Crymson before latching onto another leg lock, eventually turning it into an STF after a minute in the hold. How is Crymson supposed to fly with her legs taken out? No answer? Exactly... Elizabeth had to take Crymson's new-found weapon from her. It was detrimental... as she showed by wrenching on the leg of her opponent, wrapped up within her own. Crymson struggled, crawling for the ropes, her vision becoming blurred from the pain of the holds. Finally, success greets her fingertips, Crymson clutches the ropes fiercely, forcing the break. But the damage had been done... she tried to stand, but dropped down to her knee. Quite a way to throw herself back into the fire, hm? Using the ropes, she climbs them, instinctual ducking as she felt rapid footsteps approach her from behind. Big mistake. She just caught Elizabeth's knee in her temple, a running knee strike. Her entire body rocked from that shot. Crymson dropped to her face, sliding out of the ring from the awkward landing. No pinfall out here... Elizabeth would have to drag her back in. Which was advantageous to Crymson. She needed the breather. The flurry of submissions, the suplex, the knee to the temple... she was in a bad way. Elizabeth was already sore as well from the high flying onslaught Crymson had thrown at her, as she could tell just from trying to lift Crymson from the mats outside of the ring. The dead weight of the girl made her ribs burn, making the lift difficult. She barely rolled Crymson into the ring, not working on her anymore by a shot to the apron or ring steps, thinking the knee had done her in. She was wrong. Crymson had gathered her bearings in the transition from floor mats to canvas, rolling up Elizabeth in a VERY close 2 and seven-eighths' count. A collective gasp had risen from the crowd... that? Was far, too, close...

Elizabeth rolled to her feet out of the pin and kick out, attempting another knee shot at Crymson who rolled away. Elizabeth stops herself by catching the top rope, grasping it. She turns, only to eat Crymson's boot in the spinning wheel kick, sending her toppling over the top rope. Crymson's knee was burning at this point from the STF... She looked at the prone Elizabeth Knight on the mat outside. She had to take advantage of this... had to. Elizabeth started to stir, starting to stand. Crymson's knee was too sore to hop up to springboard off of the rope, so she improvised. Leaning back, she pulled the top rope down before springing forward slightly, catapulting her over the edge. Crymson rotates, feeling the awesome breeze of the air through her dark red hair, making eye contact with Elizabeth who had looked up at the last second...



... to be caught by a corkscrewing Crymson flying over the top rope, dragging both women to the ground. Crymson yelped as her sore knee struck the mat, rolling off of Elizabeth. But the adrenaline was high... she was on her feet within a matter of seconds. Elizabeth was lost once again in a daze, rolling to her feet and looking around before Crymson bounced her face off of the ring apron twice, rolling her back into the ring. Now Elizabeth was out of it following the jarring head shots. She was back on her feet, swinging at the approaching Crymson, who ducked a wild punch, wrapping her arm around Elizabeth before yelling out to the crowd. Up next?



Her patented Crymson Mask complete shot finisher! Elizabeth drops down to her face, Crymson making the cover...

1....

2...

2 15/16's!!!!!!!!!!

ELIZABETH KICKED OUT!!!

How? She had no clue... purely instinct, as Crymson would guess, looking into Elizabeth's glazed over eyes. The woman was in a bad way... but the competitive spirit forced her to kick out. She was on her belly, attempting to get to her hands and knees to continue the fight. Crymson huffed out, heading for the ropes and stepping through them. May as well return to her biggest benefactor for this match, since Elizabeth has probably studied the MOST UNFAIR MOVE EVER TO MAKE PEOPLE CRY LIKE CHILDREN kick in the head that Crymson normally employed. A ducked kick could ruin a victory for Crymson. So... as Elizabeth gets to her hands and knees? Crymson pulls back on the top rope from outside the ring, springing forward in yet another catapult. She somersaults through the air, much like she did off of the turnbuckle earlier, before unmercifully dropping her leg on the back of Elizabeth's head, planting her face first into the mat once again...



Effectively robbing her of her consciousness, allowing Crymson to pick up the victorious 3 count after a dazzling high flying display. She lost the muscle... but as she said... She'd make due...



As the "I told you so" look met her dulling, brown eyes, meeting Melissa's in the front row, a prideful smile on both of their faces. "Tainted Love" celebrates it's return to the arena's speakers, the camera's that were a part of Crymson's contract fading....

[/i][/color]

[hollows]

Believe it or not, my favorite promo comes from WTF, the training fed over there in VWE for those of you taht didnt know. But anyway, it basically explained the transformation of my Character Psycho, into his real self, Corey Hollows. I personally think its one of the longest, most detailed threads I've ever done.

NOTE: These are actually 3 different posts, but it all pertains to the same thing. I just didnt have the time to post it all at once when I originally typed it up, but I will here....

----------------------------------------------------

After running into his old teammates but mere days ago, the man formerly known in the ring as Psycho, decided it was time to change his ways. The funny yet obnoxious 'clown' from Toronto was no more.

A video was sent in several months after the old Bingo Hall was demolished.

July 2nd, 2007

The focus of the camera is on the front of the now completely empty Bingo Hall. Not a soul in sight. They planned to tear it down soon. The cameraman moved towards the building, entering carefully. Didn't want the old place to fall down now would we? He moves gracefully through the building, all you can see are old flyer's and trash about. Moving farther into the "Hall", the man comes upon the locker rooms. The last door on the left seemed weird. There was an erie bluish light coming from the cracks in the door.

The camera moves closer to the light, until finally reaching the last door. Slowly, and cautiously, the camera guy cracks the door open. There was a man inside. He was watching an old match from WTF, a match from a year ago. Who could he be? And why would he be watching an old match? The camera zooms in to see what match it was. 15 minute Ironman match. It included two men. Presumably friends from childhood. Couldn't get a good look at the picture being it was old. Cut out here and there, lots of static. The view of the camera turns to the man standing there watching the video. The guy with the camera still couldn't figure it out. The man looks over, and the cameraman moves back, just far enough that he could see the video, and not be seen by the man watching it.

After about 5 minutes had passed, the man had still yet to make a move, staring dead at the wall, watching the match. The camera guy started to doze off, until he heard the ring of a bell. He lifted the camera back into position, focusing on the video again. He zoomed in just a little bit more, see if he could see who the match involved. The man in the video raised his hands in victory. The ref handed him a title, presumably the WTF title. No? The Wrath title. He then realized who the man was. Psycho. He hadn't been seen around these parts in over a year. What was he doing here now? The camera guy notices that he's being stared at now...He gets up, and takes off running toward the front of the building.

The tape cuts out to static....

To Date

Psycho sat in his new locker room holding a tape of some sort.. The room was new, yet the feeling he had was old. Nothing really changed. Maybe the location. But that was it. WTF was still WTF to him. It had been more than a year since he left the old Bingo Hall. It was his home. His start. His pride. He left it all behind, only to come back to nothing. Some looked down on his kind. The clown, or even better the china doll. Hell, he'd even been called a clown on crack. None of this mattered now....

He walks over to the VCR and slides the tape he had been holding. It was that match again. The only major title he ever won, and he won it off a man thats close to him. Gregory Shaddix. Better known as Blaze. Not even Blaze knew what was going through his mind right now. He watched the ending to the match over and over and over. What was the deal about this one particular match? Why was he watching it over and over? Change. Thats why. It was time. WTF was not where he belonged. Oh no. He was to be among the elite. Somewhere he truly belonged. Not Toronto, New York, or anywhere else for that matter. Just right here in Ohio.

He watched that tape over and over for about an hour. In those days nothing mattered. He just wanted to wrestle. But to come back to the place that started his legacy, that was something that he would not give up. Or should I say not fork up this time. Things were going to change for him...Yes...VWE shall see. Things were definately going to change....

A knock is heard at the door to Psycho's room.

Come in...

He said as he finally shut the tape off. He didn't want anybody to see his past. No one but him.

I have a delivery for a Mr. Hollows.

That would be me...

Who would be sending him anything. It's not like anybody cared. His family was gone. Most of his friends were, but one of course. He couldn't think of who though....

Sign here please, and I shall be on my way....

Taking the pen from the man, he signed the bottom of the form. Then he handed the pen back to him, and took his package. The delivery boy had already left the room, closing the door behind him.

He began to feel the package, making sure it wasn't an explosive or something. As he turned the package over, he noticed there was no return address. Thats weird. Now he knew it was from no one he knew...or could possibly have any connections with. He began opening to package, only to be left with another tape. All that was on the little sticker was a date:

07/02/07

What did this mean? He didn't really remember that far back...He went back to his VCR, and removed the other tape. He made sure no one was around, although he was in the room alone. But you know how this place is. Anyone could drop in at any givin moment. After making sure he was the only one there, he proceeded to hide 'his' tape. Then he slipped the 'new', yet mysterious tape into the VCR opening. Hopefully this wasn't bad......

As the camera came into focus, He could see the front of a familiar building. As the picture moved about the screen, he began to realize what it was. His original home. The Bingo Hall. But why would someone send this to him? He then began to remember the date. It all started coming back to him. The day he heard about the "Hall" being demolished. The day he found the 'tape'. The day he caught someone snooping around spyin on him. Yes. It had all come back to him. The very reason he was cautious about the tape he had been watching earlier.....

It had angered him. Seeing this new tape, he realized why he was who he was. Hitting the eject button, the tape was spit out, and he threw it over to where everything from his past had been set when he first got use of the room. He had yet to unpack, so everything was still in order....

Minutes later, the cameras outside the building show the back of the arena. His new found home meant for a new found life, as he was seen walking aroung the buiding, with a trash bag full of stuff. It looked as if he was headed to the barrels that set far to the back...As he arrives there, he empties everything outta the bag into the barrel. Everything from the make up he used for his face paint, to the two videos he had just watched. All thrown in the trash. He pulls out a book of matches, and lights the stuff inside the barrel on fire, burning it all...riding of his past.

The past is no longer here. I can no longer dread my history with me. A new start is due, a new beginning, The end of the man you all know as Psycho is history. At this very moment, a new era begins.....

The camera fades to Black.

The cameras return to his room. It was different this time. Anything and everything that had to do with his past were gone. Even he had changed some. The man everyone knew as Psycho was no more. The face paint was gone, even his hair was different. He looked....normal? Yes, thats what it was...normal. You could actually see the face that had been hiding all those years. It was a site to see. The hardcore nutcase had lived up to his word.....

Offseason, great. Gives me plenty of time to get everything set. WTF is going to change. The world of wrestling is going to change.....

Was change such a bad thing? Surely not everything needed fixed. VWE managed to make it through another season alright. Some went and some stayed. But how would 08 pan out? Only time would tell right?

He walks through the door of his room, heading down the halls. He had one thing to do before everything was set. He arrives at the front door of the building. He just stands there. Could he make the trip? 15 minutes surely wouldn't take time away from him. But it was the only thing left of his past...and just like his past it was laid in ruins.....

The cameras show the former lot of the Bingo Hall. Walking down the street he couldn't help but look at...well....nothing. It was gone. Demolished. Who could do such a thing. It wasn't much, but it was home to several VWE hopefuls. Those men and women fought with pride in the building that once sat here. That lot had history...and now it sat vacant. Just like everything else he managed to have. Vacant. The first time he laid a finger on gold..well, what everyone in that building thought was gold. It was nice though. He had good times and bad times in that building.....

Though he destroyed everything in his past, he couldn't help but think about it. The great battle he had with Vatiel, the Revolution with Nitemare. The Tag Titles with Blaze. The battle with Kaos. And finally the Wrath title. All of it gone, and nothing to show for. They could have at least left a memorial on site. He couldn't look at it much longer, and began walking back in the direction he came from. Back to everything that had changed in his time away from the Hall....

All he had back home was a family that had abandoned him after the plane crash in New York. He was lucky he survived, yet he was left alone. The night became his only friend during that year away. The dark and rehab....

He makes it back to the facility, and heads inside. He didn't really pay attention to the inside before. The only conversation he's had in these halls was with some new girl, Blaze and and old friend turned enemy. The girl seemed nice, something new to WTF....He continued to explore the new building. Well, new to him. I wonder who runs this place now? Was it still Kahn? The man that never showed when he called upon him. Or was it Chr.......nah......he was fired along time ago. I guess I'll find out eventually. He decided it was time to get some sleep. Enough roaming for today.....

After the long needed sleep, he leaves his room, heading to the gym. It was the offseason, and the only way he could keep in shape was to train. He wanted to be ready, ready for anything and everything that would be thrown at him in the season to come. He still had several months until opening day....

Arriving at his destination, Hollows went through the door. He didn't know if he was still allowed in here, but who was going to stop him. He walks over to the bench, and sets his bag on it, taking a seat beside it. He openes the bag, removes some tape, and began wrapping it around his wrists. After he was finished, he got up and stretched a little bit before moving over to the punching bag. You can hear the 'thuds' and 'grunts' everytime his fist connected. There was nobody around, and the echo was quite loud. He was sure someone would catch note of the noise, and come check it out. But it didn't bother him if he made friends or enemies. All he was focused on was getting through the offseason, and opening the next chapter of his career. VWE. The one place he has yet to make an impact, or even make a failed attempt....

Continuing to give the bag a beating, he began thinking of his past in WTF again. More so this time about the gold he had won there. The tag titles. He and Blaze had over come so much to win those titles, only to lose them to a couple of nobodies. He couldn't remember who them 'nobodies' were at the moment, and moved on to the next one. The Wrath title. He wasn't sure if it was still around or not, but he wouldn't mind holding it again. He had won that one off of his former tag partner Blaze. Though he burned all his past, that one was permanently burned in the back of his mind.....

Then he got to thinking. Right before he left he had a shot at the top title in WTF. Why had he been so stupid to give that chance up? All over a stupid incident, that he knew should've never happened. He swore at that very moment, although the title didn't mean much to him, he was going to win it at least once before going to VWE. IF he would even get to go.

He continued punching the bag...the grunts and thuds echoing throughout the room......

[Jayceon Williams]

Post my best RP ever? Well... That's a lot I'd have to search through. Unfortunately... Some of my best, I either can't get to cause the board is locked down or something OR it was deleted or something. Got too old and disappeared when I went searching for it. Or I can't find it. So...

I went with something recent. Nothing real recent. But recent enough. It's by my prized character Tha Infamous 187. The scene was during when he was in a coma. Having a dream in his subconscious. The dream was about the reason why he's an alcoholic. His inner pain. The day his younger brother was killed by a stray bullet and the exact same day he was disowned by his entire family for his gang-related ways. Enjoy.

------------------------------------------------

Dream 1....

Tha Infamous 187 continues to lay in his hospital bed, motionless and unconscious. Unable to feel or hear a thing, he stilled laid there in his coma, unaware of what’s going on around him. The doctors would continue to try to keep the man alive the best they could. The only thing they could do was wait it out. Comas are unpredictable. Some last but a few days and others last years and years. Who knows what it could be like being in a coma? Is it simply lying there unconsciously or is it possible that it’s similar to a dream? There was still brain activity going on in 187’s head. It’s possible.



Deep within the subconscious of Tha Infamous 187’s mind….



The year was 1999. The man simply known to the world as Tha Infamous 187 was but a young seventeen year old teenager. He was in the beginning stages of being one of the baddest around in California. Growing up in the streets of Compton was not the easiest thing in the world for him. He picked up on certain things that would eventually lead him to who he was today. Selling drugs, armed robbery, getting into fights, getting involved with all the wrong people... Not the picture perfect life that normal people envision for their kids. To top it all off, the young man had even gotten himself involved with a local gang known as The Piru Bloods. Which would only make things worse. It would only fuel the fire that burned deep within Adrian Taylor. He was dubbed "Tha Notorious 187" by his new found "family" for the simple fact that Adrian Taylor was one crazy kid when it came to doing the "dirty work." 187 is simply the numeric code for the crime of murder used by law enforcement officials, particularly in the state of California. The number is used for this purpose because Section 187 of the California Penal Code defines the crime of murder. I'm sure you get the picture now when it comes to this "dirty work" that Adrian has done for his "family." Fast forward several years after joining The Piru Bloods...


It was a hot summer day. A young seventeen year old Adrian Taylor sat across a couch in the living room of a house located in Compton, Los Angeles, California. Dressed in a white tank top, red Dickies shorts, a red bandana was tied on the back of his head as it wrapped around his forehead, no shoes but there was a pair of black socks on. The house was empty with the only two people inside was himself and his younger brother, a ten year old Chris Taylor. There was a television was on in front of the two. They were watching the Saturday morning cartoon line up. Adrian was babysitting his brother as they waited for their mother and little sister to return home from a day of shopping for groceries. Adrian laughed to himself at the cartoons on the television.

Adrian Taylor: "Hahahaha... Damn 'dat rabbit's smart..."

Chris Taylor: "Hahahaha... Yeah..."

All was good. All was calm. All was peaceful. Just sitting there, having a good time with his kid brother. Adrian looked down at his brother whose eyes were glued to the television screen. It made him smirk as he shook his head. It was times like these that really made family feel like family. His real family, that is. But in this story, there are no happy endings. This warm and fuzzy Kodak moment is soon interrupted by loud shouting outside of the house. The voices of three men could be heard in front of the house that they lived in. To make it worse, they were yelling at the house. They were calling for someone to come out. Someone very specific.

Male Voice 1: " This the place where his @$$ live right?"

Male Voice 2: "Yeah. This the place. His @$$ better be home. If not, there will be more hell to pay than he gon' get."

Male Voice 3: " YO! 187! I know your @$$ is in there! Bring that @$$ on outside mothaf**ka! It's war time, nigga!"

Upon hearing those three numbers shouted out, Adrian raised an eyebrow as he looked in the direction the voices were coming from. He slowly stood up from the couch he was sitting on and proceeded to make his way over to the window. Ever so slightly, taking a finger and pulling the curtain a few centimeters over so that he could take a peak to see what was going on out there. He saw three men, dressed in all blue, angry looks on their faces, and they were definitely not calling him out to have a talk. Adrian couldn't recognize the faces. He couldn't decide whether or not he had seen these men before and why they were angry with him. From the way they were dressed, he could only imagine the number of things that could have triggered this moment. In the past, 187 and the Crips... well let's say they weren't always the best of friends. Not like they were in the present. In the present, 187 strive for gang unity. No more color wars and things like that. But back in 1999, well.. it's a MUCH different story. As he stared out the window, he said under his breath...

Adrian Taylor: "What the fu-...?"

But this was shortly cut off, with the three men quickly reaching within their coats. Slowly pulling out three automatic guns. Mack-10s, if you want to get more specific. Their last words were...

Male Voice 1: "FINE! YOU AIN'T COMIN' OUT THEN B***H!? I'LL SHOW YOU WHATS UP!"

Male Voice 2: "GET THIS MOTHAF**KA!"

Male Voice 3: "SLOB @$$ NIGGA! SUCK ON THESE! "

With that said, the three men opened fire at the house. Not giving a damn who was inside. Not giving a damn whether or not Adrian was inside the house. If he wasn't, he was going to get the message when he got home. Unfortunately, he was home and with his innocent kid brother. His eyes widened as he seen the triggers being pulled and the sounds of the guns firing rapidly ripped through the air. Adrian rushed over to his kid brother Chris and kneeled below the window. He looked over at his brother and yelled out to him...

Adrian Taylor: "Sh*t!!!! Duck down!!!"

Chris Taylor: "Why?"

Adrian Taylor: "Quick!!! People are shooting!!!!"

With no time to spare, Adrian jumped from his position and tackled his brother onto the floor. Holding him closing with his back facing where the shooting was coming from. Shielding his brother from the bullets if any happen to make their way to where they were at. Chris tightened his grip and he tried to stay as close as he could to his older brother. Feeling safe and secure within the arms of Adrian. Bullets tore into the house like it was nothing. Blasting through the walls and hitting whatever was inside. Creating a huge mess of shattered glass, wood, and whatever else the bullets broke through and hit. After a few moments, the gun fire had stopped. Adrian looked up from the floor and said in a low voice...

Adrian Taylor: "I think it might be ova'..."

But something wasn't right. Adrian looked up and the bullets were not flying. That wasn't it. He looked around the room and there was no one around. Something just felt... off. Something felt like it wasn't right. Something deep inside him felt like something was wrong. He raised an eyebrow as he could feel a wetness on his chest. Could he have been hit? If so, why didn't he feel anything? Then it hit him, he slowly pulled back his brother from his chest only to find a lifeless ten year old body in his arms. The shock of this moment hit him right to his very core. Blood covered the chest of the young boy. It was plain to see what had happened, he just didn't know how. Adrian could still hear voices outside of the house. There was but one thing on his might at this moment... revenge. He didn't care how. He just wanted them three men who shot at his house to be six feet under the dirt. Adrian slowly lowered his brother's body onto the floor and said...

Adrian Taylor: "Don't worry bro... I'ma get these mothaf**kas fo' ya... 'Dis sh*t ain't gonna slide..."

Adrian stood up from the floor and reached underneath his shirt he was wearing. Slowly, he pulled out a chrome Desert Eagle pistol from his waist line and took it off safety. He cocked the gun and proceeded to make his way over to the front door of the house. His thoughts were of murder once again. The pain he felt in his chest was indescribable. An eye for an eye, that's the price to pay when it came to how he handled things. He did not know the motives that the man had for attempting to take his life away. But he was damn sure not going to let them walk away from this. Adrian kicked the door open to the front porch and stepped out. Looking at the three men who had not left yet. No words were spoken by Adrian, he simply lifted his gun up, aimed, and fired...

Male Voice 1: "F**K! IT'S 187!"

Male Voice 2: "GET HIM!"

Male Voice 3: " YOU F**KIN' SON A B***H! "

The three men drew their weapons again and began to fire at Adrian. Miraculously, Adrian seemed to be able to dodge the bullets or they weren't hitting him. It was like some kind of divine intervention. Either way, the bullets were flying again and Adrian was not getting hit. The same could not be said about the three men in the street. Adrian's shots seemed to be spot on. Something he taught himself from this life he led. He knew how to aim very well, shoot, readjust himself for the next target, aim, and shoot again. Almost like he was on some kind of military mode. He was just able to aim, shoot, and hit the three men like it was nothing. When it was all said and done, and all the smoke cleared... Adrian Taylor... no... Tha Infamous 187... stood there victoriously. Tears streaming down the sides of his face from the loss of his younger brother. That fire burning deep inside him. The rage in his eyes could be see. The anger in his face as he stared out into the street at the three bodies lay lifeless and filled with bullets. At that moment, a dark green mini van entered the area with two females inside. One was at least in her early thirties while the other was about five years old. They had a shocked look on their faces at the sight in front of them. Adrian looked up at the green mini van with tears in his eyes. Then he turned away from the outside world and made his way back into the house. This would mark the day that Adrian Taylor was dead to the world. This would mark the day that he would be disowned by his own family and kicked out onto the streets to fend for himself. If it's not obvious by now... That was the mother and sister mentioned earlier. Shocked at seeing Adrian and what appeared to have happened. Disowned because the life he led in the gang had claimed the life of his younger brother. His family wanted nothing more to do with him. Adrian Taylor was dead. Tha Infamous 187 was now in his place. With his "family" The Piru Bloods. Ever wonder why 187 was such an alcoholic? Now you know. You can imagine for yourself how this scene ends. Plenty of screaming, crying, and well... the laws involvement. Can't commit murder in broad daylight without there being some consequences. But long story short, Adrian Taylor is disowned and dead, Tha Infamous 187 takes his place in this world, beating the system in court under "self defense" with his part in the shooting. And the world keeps spinning and life goes on from there... Thus concluding this dream... and letting the man known to the world as Tha Infamous 187 rest in his unconscious state of mind... Motionless... In a coma...

[saint]

NOTE: I actually think I prefer this one of the other one posted, this is the same character, Peter Saint, but in heel format, this is the beginning of a character arc where Saint becomes addicted to a powerful drug, I tried to include as much detail as possible for the drugged up scene, early on, in order to make it seem as real as possible. Despite the fact that I've never been on drugs in my life, and I don't plan to, so, here's a drug promo written by someone who doesn't do drugs. Ironic. I suppose.

This one is for my first title defense as a champion, against a wrestler by the name of "The Sublime". It ended in a win for me.

Here it is. If you read it, I'd really like some feedback on this one.

__________________

“The best kind of revelation is the kind where you illustrate your own inner-struggles, what makes you ‘you’ and tie up all the loose ends, only for nobody to understand what the hell you’re saying.”

- Peter Saint
In an untelevised interview

Morse.

Peter Saint would often spend his evenings walking the street; it provided him with a rare chance to collect his thoughts. During these times, he would often merely travel to wherever his own legs would carry him, sometimes, he would end up in a bar, other times, in an alley, usually he would have no idea where he was and would merely sit and wait until the large black limousine marked "Public Enemy" would come to collect him.

The limo would then drive back off into the night, taking him all the way back to Public Enemy Headquarters where Saint would then be led back into his small office, where he would sit to kill away the hours of the day.

He was not sure, exactly, what his 'position' at Public Enemy entailed. He had an office, he had a desk and he had a chair, that was all that he was given, and he was too scared to ask his anyone what he was expected to do. So, Peter Saint found himself leaning back upon his chair during the day, wandering the streets during the night and wrestling all the time in-between.

His life lacked any real 'spark', he expected the life in PE#1 to be all glitz and glamour, sure, he had the United States Title, but that gave him one-hour of distraction per week, when he wrestled, leaving little else to spend his time on during those remaining 167 hours of the week.

"Idle hands are the devil's tools."

Peter Saint's nights out on the street would continue, each night he would find a new place to settle and just take in the atmosphere. However, as his boredom continued, he would leave earlier and earlier for his walks, finding himself further away from the clean-cut business sector that PE#1 was located in, gradually, he would make it towards the 'seedier' places that could be located. On one of these such occasions, he found himself inside a dirty little dive-bar, the music was loud, the people were dressed in extremes of fashion and the entire place was covered in a thick layer of grime, Peter Saint seemingly found himself drawn to places like this, he harbored the idea that it would make him seem more 'evil' if he were to hang out at these places.

So, Peter Saint took a seat, and simply enjoyed the music, occasionally he would allow his eyes to dart around the room and look at the various lowlifes and degenerates that surrounded him, addicts shooting up in the corner, drunks passed out on the floor, Peter could find himself at home in a place like this.

Three hours would pass before a young woman would catch Peter Saint’s eye and pull him out of the trance he was in, her hair was a dark shade of black, her entire body was covered in piercings and she had several tattoos on her back and stomach. The woman almost certainly was diseased, dirty, dark, but this didn’t deter Saint at all. His eyes surveyed her body and immediately his thoughts turned dirty, he was overcome with a feeling of pure animal lust. He wasn’t sure what it was that made him want her so bad, whether it was real attraction, or merely him trying to show that he had moved on from his last relationship and he could be a one-night stand guy.

Of course, in the end, Peter Saint’s motivation for bedding the girl wouldn’t bear any real weighting on the story, a few hours later, and for the first time ever, the Public Enemy Limousine would be ferrying an inebriated Peter Saint, and a young, dark-haired women, and instead of being bound for Public Enemy Headquarters, it would instead find itself parking outside a small motel.

The night would pass, and Peter Saint would wake up in a daze, he would look to the corner of the room to see the girl he had spent the night with, squatted in the corner, he arms frantically shuffling through a bag looking for something. She would pull out a small zip locked bag, open it, and pull out a thin syringe filled with a translucent liquid, finding her vein quickly; she would shoot up with the bizarre substance before falling onto her back, closing her eyes and humming to herself. Peter Saint would fall asleep soon-after, only to wake up the next morning, to see the zip locked bag still lying there on the floor, while the girl would round up her clothes.

This is where the story begins.

~.-- .... .- - | .... .- ...- . | .. | -... . -.-. --- -- . |~

~.-- .... .- - | .. | -. . . -.. . -.. | - --- | -... . ~

The scene opens with Peter Saint sitting across the room from a black-haired woman; she seems to be struggling to find something in her bag.

Saint: What was in the syringe?

Woman: Are you a cop?

Saint: I don’t even know your name, yet.

Woman: It’s Mab.

Saint: Well, Mab, if I were a cop, I’d be slapping the cuffs on you right about now, but, I’m yet to see anything like that happen, so, get talking.

Mab: It’s a drug.

Saint: Obviously. What drug?

Mab: Nothing you’ve ever heard of.

Saint: Try me.

Mab: Well, it doesn’t really have a scientific name, yet, it’s still relatively underground, and so, it hasn’t been classified. The street name is “Cloud Nine”.

Saint: Cute. What does it do?

Mab: Heh. What does it do? Cloud Nine is the drug that gallops through the minds of mortals, night by night, Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies straight, O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees, O’er ladies ‘ lips, who straight on kisses dream...

Saint: Romeo and Juliet. Cute. You seem ‘educated’ for someone I found in a dive.

Mab: I’m an art student.

Saint: Could’ve fooled me.

Mab: Looks are deceiving. Now, on Cloud Nine, it’s a drug that can change the way you perceive the world, it’s the most ecstatic experience that you will ever have, it makes any pleasure you’ve ever had seem second-rate. It’s euphoric. That’s the best way I can describe it.

Saint: Where can I get some?

Mab: You don’t seem like the type.

Saint: Looks are deceiving.

Mab: How about this. I’m going to give you a hit, one hit, of Cloud Nine as a little introduction, I’ll write down where and who supplies it, and if you like it, you can track it down yourself.

Saint: Hmmm. You only live once.

Mab: Well then, if you're that adament. Here you go, cowboy.

Mab tosses a small pouch from her bag into the hands of Peter Saint.

Mab: Now, here’s the point where you get to make a choice on what sort of trip you want to go on. One injection, and you’re suddenly watching the greatest light-show in the history of the world, two hits, and you leave reality.

Saint: Leave reality?

Mab: You’ll be blasted off to another place altogether.

Saint: What do you see while there?

Mab: It’s different for everyone. Personally, I took two hits, and I saw my mother.

Saint: Wow. That’s quite a trick, isn’t it?

Mab: She’s been dead for five years.

Saint: Ah. Makes more sense then.

Mab: What do you want?

Saint: Let’s start with a single hit.

Mab: Okay then, let me help you find your vein.

~-.. --- | .. | .-. . --. .-. . - | -... . -.-. --- -- .. -. --. | - .... .. ... |~

~-. ---~

She would move towards him and help inject him with the drug. Prior to that moment, Peter Saint had never used drugs, so he hadn’t known what to expect. The moment he shot up, however, everything changed. Suddenly, the world seemed to be warping around him, his only conscious thought was that he had “Found an end to the boredom”, he was being treated to the most amazing lightshow in the entire universe.

Colors swirled and darted across his field of vision, his eyes darted back and forth, trying to take it all, Peter Saint couldn’t believe it all, for a few seconds, Peter Saint was able to forget everything that transpired, forget the controversy, forget the feuds, and just be Peter James Walsh for a moment. It was an amazing experience.

And Mab. Oh beautiful Mab. The injection had taken away any semblance of flaw from her and turned her into an absolute goddess. Her jet black hair, her beautiful blue eyes, everything about her was so ‘perfect’, it was unbelievable. He wanted this woman more than anything he had ever seen, such, was the effect of the Cloud Nine, like turned to love, love to lust, lust to obsession, all in the same of sixteen seconds. But it felt like an eternity. An eternity of bliss.

Every part of his body became numb, he was amazed at the speed Cloud Nine affected his body. It was orgasmic. He wanted to go a step further, see if it could get any better, so, utilizing the little control on his body he had, he would stand up and tap Mab upon the shoulder, before motioning to his vein. A small sly grin crossed her face; she reached in her bag and pulled another syringe from her pocket.

The moment that syringe hit him, everything would go black. His entire body would be encased in a thick layer of darkness, he couldn’t move his arms or legs, but that feeling of euphoria would remain, only for it to be replaced by a mammoth thud and a short, sharp feeling of pain up his back. His eyes would open a few moments later; Peter Saint would find himself lying in a small green field, surrounded by tall grass.

This is where our story continues.

Peter Saint slowly brings himself to his feet, he looks around, seeing nothing but the endless rolling fields that surround him, seemingly continuing on forever.

Saint: Ugh. That trippy bitch dumped me out in the fucking wilderness.

Voice: Oh no she didn’t, you’re here because you want to be.

Saint turns around quickly, his arms raised in attack, only to see a man he formerly knew. The man is dressed in a white t-shirt, a red bandana and nothing but a grin on his face, his features are noticeably lighter and he body lacks any scars or lacerations; souvenirs of battle. Saint looks at him with a look of disbelief upon his face.

Saint: Who the fuck are you?

Voice: I’m you. Or rather. I was you when you first started your career. I guess you could call me “Homicide”.

Saint: ...This is a dream.

Homicide: Is it?

Saint: ...Oh shit, I’m on a trip aren’t I. That bitch told me I’d see shit.

Homicide: Spot on.

Saint: I mustn’t have much of an imagination if all I can come up with is another one of me.

Homicide: It’s not you, you, are a conniving, self-centered prick, I had morals.

Saint: You had nothing.

Homicide: I had friends.

Saint: I have business associates.

Homicide: I had fans.

Saint: I have titles.

Homicide: I had love.

Saint: ...I don’t need love.

Homicide: Everyone needs love. It’s what keeps us honest, and good.

Saint: Unfortunately, I don’t see that as the portrait of what I’m supposed to be.

Homicide: Oh yes. You’re the new and improved Peter Saint, aren’t you? The man who turned his back on everything that he held dear, for nothing more than a hunk of gold attached to a strip of leather, you’ve become the symbol for everything you fought against. You disgust me.

Saint: You’re nothing but a figment of my imagination, and I refuse to have this sick morality play shown to me by someone who doesn’t even exist anymore, I’m leaving.

Homicide: How?

Saint: I’ll wake myself up.

Homicide: I guess you could try...

Saint: Something I don’t know?

Homicide: I only know what you know; after all, I am you, geddit?

Saint: Get cancer.

Homicide: That’s hardly a nice thing to say.

Saint: Okay, y’know what? I’m going to humor your little charade for a few moments and dignify you with a response. I am the only man in that locker room who had the strength to go out and fight tooth and nail for what I wanted. I should be lauded above the masses, not portrayed as a villain, I’m a man who worked hard to get where he is.

Homicide: By turning your backs on those around you?

Saint: Turning my back? I didn’t do that. I betrayed them, and I’d do it again. It was the greatest choice I’ve made, to date, I threw off the shackles of being the second-banana in the MWA and I became something truly amazing. I wasn’t going to ever get a title shot while I was under the MWA, but, I earned that shot and I earned that title.

Homicide: You picked it up off a shelf, you’re no champion, you’re no non-champion, you’re nothing to anyone, now. Besides, you’re going to lose that U.S. title by the end of this week.

Saint: Bullshit.

Homicide: No. Not bullshit. You’re fighting a man who has motivation and reason, something you lack, greatly.

Saint: Talking about Sublime?

Homicide: You know I am. He’s fighting not just for himself, but for the good of Inferno and Insanity, he’s there to topple the Uprising, and what are you doing? Sitting around in the back-room of Public Enemy and doing nothing?

Saint would run forward and grab Homicide by the throat, clutching tightly.

Saint: Don’t you dare imply anything like that.

He lowers Homicide.

Saint: I play second-fiddle to nobody. Sublime, he’s living my story, only he’s a few chapters behind, he has all the hopes in the world, he thinks he can affect change and make the world, or at least, his world, a better place. But it doesn’t work like that. The crowd is going to go in and they’re going to be praying, hoping, pleading with the divine that The Sublime comes out with the win and the title.

Homicide: (Coughing) Just like the fans used to do for you.

Saint: Yes. Just like the old days. But what those fans don’t know is that this is the real world, this isn’t scripted, choreographed or staged, this is the real world, there are no fairytale endings for anyone. This is not the kind of world that allows people to simply stand up and achieve, just because the idiots in the crowd believe in them, cheers can only go so far before they stop affecting you.

Homicide: You’ve become bitter.

Saint: I’ve become realistic.

Homicide: Don’t you believe in miracles? You used to.

Saint: I used to believe in Santa Clause. I used to believe that the world had ‘good’ in it. But you know what the sad truth is? Everyone’s working for a reason different to what they say, when I claimed I was fighting for the fans, I was fighting for the money, when Sublime says he’s fighting for LPW, he’s actually fighting for the mere hatred he harbors towards them. If you look below his outer shell, you’ll see what he really is, an angry, hate-mongering hypocrite.

Homicide: You’re a liar. A dirty liar. You used to believe in it all, but you turned your back upon everything that made you human. You had love.

Saint: I told you already, I don’t need love!

Homicide: Then why do you still wear that ring upon your finger?

Saint: What ring?

Homicide: The one you’ve worn since Sacrament, the one that represents your engagement to Sara. The ring that represents your love.

Saint: I have no love for that whore. I have no love for anything.

Homicide: These words will be your downfall. I guarantee, The Sublime will destroy you, he shall defeat you and you will lose that title. Then what will you have?

Saint: I’ve had enough of you.

Homicide: What’re you going to do? Get angry? Do your little ‘hatred’ schtick?

Saint: (Breathing heavily) Just shut up.

Homicide: You’re pathetic.

Saint: (Exploding With Rage) I said shut-up!

Peter Saint runs towards the doppelganger Homicide and begins to pound away at his face, blood flies up and coats Saint’s knuckles with a thick sheen of the fluid, a sadistic grin adorns his face as he batters away at Homicide, who quickly fall unconscious.

Saint: (Panting) I will never allow myself to lose that title! I will never fall into a trap like ‘love’! I will never revert to what I once was, Homicide!

Fade out

~.-- .... .- - | -.. --- | .. | .... .- ...- . | .-.. . ..-. - ~

~- .... . | ..- ... | - .. - .-.. . ~

The scene re-opens in the motel room. Peter Saint sits up, his throat is parched and empty, his eyes are glazed over and his body is covered in a cold sweat.

Saint: That was... Amazing. Everything felt so... so... real.

He looks to the bedside table and sees a small note, an address is scribbled on with a note “If you want to keep it up, come here, I’ll see you around.”. Saint grabs the note and places it within his pocket.

Saint: (In thought) I’ve been living my life wrong, I’ve always planned things and never allowed my impulses to lead me to true happiness. From now on. That all changes. I will never drop that U.S. title, just as I will never become my old self. “He that has the steerage of my course Direct my sail”

~.-- .... .- - | .-- --- ..- .-.. -.. | .. | -.. --- | ..-. --- .-. | - .... .- - | - .. - .-.. . ~

~. ...- . .-. -.-- - .... .. -. --. ~

Peter Saint would walk to the door, and place a pair of sunglasses over his emerald eyes before walking out onto the street where a Public Enemy Limousine would be waiting for him, he would give one last look back to the room where he had discovered euphoria unlike any other before opening the door and allowing the limousine to take him back, surely to that same small office where he would sit and pass the time, until he fights once more.

This is where our story ends.

Fade To Black

[theman]

This was a post I did with Joe Bruiser back in Toronto. The scene opens up when Joe decides to go visit his worst enemy 187 in the hospitol. My best all time RP EVER.

Joe Bruiser has just left the arena for the last time this season. After receiving a phone call from Warrior and saying goodbye to a few other wrestlers before he left the arena. But while Joe was driving out of the parking lot, he could only think of one thing. That thing you will be surprised what it is, even Joe was surprised when he realized it. That thing is the man, the one known as Tha Infamous 187. Why you may ask? Why would Joe be thinking about the one man that could have and should have killed him? Why would Joe be thinking about the guy that he could have and should have killed? Why would Joe be thinking about his biggest enemy ever, yes 187 has beat out Jacob Holt, the boxer that ended Joe's carrer and Joe ended his as well. All Joe could think about was his first reaction when he logged onto apwproductions.com and saw the headline, "187 Hospitolized". After he read the article he was in a state of shock. But how come? Isn't this what Joe has wanted sicne he first layed eyes on 187? It was at one point, and now it has happaned. The reality of this event isn't what Joe expected it to be like. He expected it to make him the happiest man in the world, a big party is what Joe would have had. There will be no party nor will there be any kind of celebration at all. As Joe drives down the road, he isn't heading back to the interstate on his way back to Miami, Florida. No, he turns off and heads over to the Toronto Hospitol, to go see Tha Infamous one. Once Joe arrives at the hospitol he sees a sight that even he is shocked to see. Joe sees a crowd of 187 fans standing outside of the hospitol.

[glow=blue,2,300]Are they his fellow gang members?[/glow] Joe asks himself.

[glow=blue,2,300]Are they angry fans rioting?[/glow]

No, they are just fans of 187, most holding up posters that say GET WELL SOON, WE MISS YOU 187, DON'T LEAVE US 187.

Joe is shocked to say the least. Once Joe finds a parking spot he just sits there in his car for a few minutes before getting out of his 2006 Cherry Red Dodge Charger Daytona R/T. Joe now stands there and takes a deep breath before heading inside. He walks by the fans and just stands there looking at them. he hears a few fans saying FUCK YOU BRUISER, GET THE FUCK AWAY ASSFRO, FUCKING SNITCH. But he also hears a few, OH MY GOD THERE IS JOE BRUISER, DUDE IT'S JOE BRUISER, WHY IS HE HERE? Joe just stands there and smiles as a little boy dressed up like 187 walks up to him with his father beside of him.

You are Joe Bwuzza aren't cha?

Joe gets one knee.

[glow=blue,2,300]Yes sir I am little man.[/glow]

AWESOME.

Joe removes his sunglasses and puts it on the little boys face and rubs him on the head. Joe then gets back up and nods at the father and shakes his hand.

[glow=blue,2,300]How are you doing today sir?[/glow]

Not well, 187 is in there isn't he.

[glow=blue,2,300]Yes sir you are right, he is in there. That is why I am here.[/glow]

The man seems a little shocked but at the same time it is like he understands. But Joe knows he doesn't understand it all. Joe just turns around and walks away, but all of the sudden turns around and speaks to the father.

[glow=blue,2,300]Would you two be interested in seeing 187?[/glow]

The little boy's mouth drops to the floor and stays there as the father just gets big eyes. First they meet Joe and now Joe asks them to come with him.

Sure man, is it ok?

[glow=blue,2,300]Of course it is, I am Joe Bruiser after all haha.[/glow]

The man and the kid laugh with Joe as they walks inside. Joe stops to ask the lady sitting at the desk where 187 is at.

[glow=blue,2,300]Excuse me manm.[/glow]

Yes sir, how may I help you?

[glow=blue,2,300]I am looking for Tha Infamouse 187 AKA Adrian Taylor?[/glow]

Oh he is in room 176 on the third floor in the coma area.

[glow=blue,2,300]Thank you manm.[/glow]

The lady smiles as Joe walks away. Joe heads over to the elevator and gets in along with the man and his son. As the elevator goes up Joe speaks.

[glow=blue,2,300]So how old are ya little man?[/glow]

Eight and half.

[glow=blue,2,300]Really? Your getting old dude.[/glow]

Hehe no I am not.

Joe laughs as the little kid grabs his hand. The little boy now has one hand is his fathers hand and the other in Joe's. Joe has no idea what to do at this moment as the elevator door opens up. Joe walks out along with the father and the son. They walk down the hallway until they see the room that 187 is in. Surprisingly no one of The Famalia is here at the moment. They are probably still here just not here at the moment. Joe lets go of the little kid and tells him and his father to wait here.

[glow=blue,2,300]Wait here you two.[/glow]

They father nods as Joe opens the door and heads inside, he sees a doctor and asks him if it is alright if he came in.

[glow=blue,2,300]Dr. can I come in?[/glow]

Yes sir you sure can.

[glow=blue,2,300]Thanks.[/glow]

Just sign the visitor book before you leave.

[glow=blue,2,300]Ok thanks.[/glow]

The doctor leaves. There is Tha Infamous 187 lying there motionless and unconsious in the bed. Joe just stands there as it is very uncomfortable yet comfortable for him right now. He wakls over and sits down beside the bed of 187. Joe speaks.

[glow=blue,2,300]Hey there......................[/glow]

Joe is silent.

[glow=blue,2,300]Well it finally happaned haha, you are finally in the hospitol. I tried so hard to get you in here threw out the season, but never was able to. Now, a freak accident has put you in here not of yours or my doing. AMAZING isn't it? [/glow]

Joe is silent again as he knows that 187 can't here him, but he knows if he could he would have already cussed him out a million times.

[glow=blue,2,300]Did you ever think that you go down like this? I know I didn't think so,m I though either you would be shot by a fellow ior enemy gang member, or I would of killed you. Haha we sure did have some brutal battles. Haha dman I will never forget the first match we had, haha I freaking threw you over the top rope by doing the Last Call. I turned around and had no idea you went over haha. I was like, where in the hell did he go? Haha good times man good times. You did win that match though, but I would come back next week and beat you. Remember that Backstage Brawl we had? I think that was the most brutal match that we had this season. Haha that interview session we had, oh shit all of those weapons we found that we used. Shit I thought we were going to kill each other then haha. Oh man oh man, 187 you truly did take me to my limits...........[/glow]

Joe is silent.

[glow=blue,2,300]You sure did bring out.........[/glow]

About that time a tear runs down Joe's cheek.

[glow=blue,2,300]The best in me.[/glow]

Joe puts his head down and tries hard not to cry, but he just can't help it. It turns out that Joe and 187 even though they may have been MAJOR MAJOR enemies they both gained the upmost respect possible for each other. Even though neither would and never will admit it. Neither would ever admit that they both did like each other on the inside. Battle after battle both me would bring each other to there limits and would pull in some of APW's most highest ratings threw out the year. No one would be surprised if there feud would be the best feud this year for APW and maybe forever. Only Joe and 187 know that it was the best feud ever. Joe raises his head and puts his hands in a praying position under his chin. Tears are still slowly falling out of his eyes. Joe whipes the tears away and grabs a tissue and blows his nose.

[glow=blue,2,300]Damn dude why did you have to ruin my danm commercial? I put alot of work in hiring those fat asses and camera me to shoot that thing. [/glow]

Joe laughs.

[glow=blue,2,300]Good times right there.[/glow]

Joe is silent again.

[glow=blue,2,300]You can fight in man, I know you can. You are Tha Infamous 187 you have been threw H E DOUBLE HOCKY STICK all your life. There isn't nothing in this world that you can't over come my freind. [/glow]

Joe gets up and stares at 187. Joe has never really gotten a good look at 187's face before, just glmipses of it. Joe pulls out a bandanna from his pocket, what 187 never knew about was when Joe raided his locker room one time trying to find any dirt that would lead to his arrest. he stole the bandanna as 187 always wore them. Joe puts the bandanna in 187's right hand and walks towards the door. He opens the door and lets the kid and his father come in to see 187. The little boy begins to cry as he sees 187 laying there. Joe didn't think the little boy could handle it but the boy will never forget this until the day he dies. That to Joe is worth letting the boy see 187. After 5 minutes the father escorts the little boy out of the room who is still crying. The father stops as the boy breaks the grip and hugs Joe's leg. Joe just looks up at the father and smiles. If only this kid wasn't in such a bad situation other wise Joe would play with him like he does with his nephew back in Miami. Joe puts down the kid and the kid says thank you and so does the father.

Thank you Joe Bwuzza.

Thank you Mr. Bruiser.

[glow=blue,2,300]No problem guys, enjoy your day and don't worry 187 will be ok. He is a tough son of a gun.[/glow]

The kid smiles as a tear falls down his face and the father nods as they leave the room. Joe goes back in and sits down and speaks again.

[glow=blue,2,300]187, if you don't make it man, you can bet your ass that I will be at your funeral service. I wouldn't miss that for the world. I know we have never seen eye to eye and probably never will, but your a good man 187. One of the best men that I have ever known and met. I am fortunate enough to have known you, the mean side of you yeah but still I did get to know ya man. Haha we will probably fight in heaven as well. Damn angels would be seperating us up there as well haha. We can fly up there so that would add top the excitment. Hummmm I wonder how much we would sell up there? Oh well, we will find out someday and that someday will not be any time soon dude. Your going to make it threw this 187, and I will see you soon man. [/glow]

Joe gets up and fixes the bandanna as it has fallen over somehow. Joe takes one last look at 187 as this may be the last time he sees the man he once hated so so much. Joe smiles and speaks again.

[glow=blue,2,300]You made my wrestling carrer man, you made me who I am today. Thanks buddy.[/glow]

Joe closes the door and signs the guest book. He looks at the names and alot of people have come and visited such as Marshall Porter(187's Agent), Jason Arielle, King Vegas, Damien Juarez, Chantell Angel, Laura "Love" De'Icco, Dice and Kasino, Jay Crack, Tommy Guns, Michael Xavier, Barry White(APW Ref), Terrel Claude(APW Ref), Andy Lusk(APW Ref), Joseph Thompson(Father), Daniel Thompson(Little Boy), and now Joe Bruiser is added to the list. Joe now makes his way back to the elevator. Once inside he just paitently waits for the elevator to go back down the first floor. The elevator hist floor one and the door opens and Joe walks out and heads towards the front doors. At the doors Joe sees all of 187's fans again as he grabs a different pair of sunglasses from out of his pocket and puts them on. He goes out the front door and just walks with his head down as he passes the crowd of 187 fans. Once at his car Joe unlocks it and gets in, starts the car up and puts in drive and drives off. As he drives by the crowd he hears them all scream, WE LOVE YOU JOE. Joe just smiles as he pulls out of the parking lot and heads back to Miami, Florida.

End

[saint]

This is my latest promo. It is for the first round of a tournament for a new title, I wrote it the week after Peter Saint was drowned in a match with Eric Scorpio. As always, if you read it, tell me what you think. Here we go.

______________

*SPLASH!*

‘I'm underwater... I'd say something insightful or poetic, but, that's really all that can be said... I'm underwater. My entire body is frozen solid, my eyes are clenched tightly closed and everything is quiet. This would be quite peaceful if it wasn’t so life threatening.’
‘...’
‘What the fuck am I doing? Sitting and letting this happen? Kick and struggle, Peter, it’s your only hope to be leaving this alive!’
‘...’
‘His hands, they’re wrapped so tightly around me, he’s holding me down, and I got no ropes to jump off or turnbuckles to flip off, this time.’
‘...’
‘I’m feeling so light-headed. In a way this is quite funny, I mean, I had the option, I could’ve ticked the box on my contract, “No Gimmick Matches”. Heh.’
‘...’
‘And it’s not funny anymore.’
‘...’
‘How long have I been down? I got no idea. Could be seconds, could be a whole minute. Either way, it's probably not good for my brain...’
‘...’
‘Ugh...’
‘...’
‘Things are getting pretty hazy...’
‘...
‘It's all getting a little... dark...’
‘...’
‘...Fucking Scorpio...’

Suddenly, the scene changes, the murky depths of the Hudson River slowly fade away, replaced by pure darkness. Nothing can be seen except the ever-present, flowing darkness than stretches on for an eternity... that is... until... as if by omnipotent intervention... a spotlight appears, parting the darkness, revealing the body of Peter Saint, lying in the light, as if it’s a platform.

Images begin to flicker all around Peter Saint’s subconscious, he sees his past, one flicker shows Syanide, reeling back after a strike, another shows Korran Halycon preparing for ‘Lower Expectations’, a final flicker shows John “Doc” Derrick striking. He then sees his present, Dante Jones in prison, Eric Scorpio laughing, Drew Michaels crucified.

He then sees... the future, he sees: [SCENE MISSING], [SCENE MISSING] and the [SCENE MISSING] as [SCENE MISSING].

Slowly, Peter Saint begins to stir, his eyes flicker, he rolls himself onto his side and immediately begins to cough and splutter, trying to rid himself of the water he ingested. Suddenly, the silence is cut into by the growing sounds of an electric guitar, being picked, one note at a time.

Saint suddenly recognizes the tune, “September” by Earth Wind and Fire. He brings himself to his feet, slowly, and looks up to try and find the source of the music. Suddenly, the song hits a crescendo and the lyrics fly in.

Do you remember? The first River match? Contender.
Love was changing your mind, Contender.
While, chasing Original Sin, away.

Saint: Where the hell am I?

The song continues into its next verse.

Your lungs were drowning.
You couldn't escape, you were frowning.
While Scorpio smiled, away.

Saint: Am I dead?

Hey! Hey! Hey!

Saint: Ugh. The afterlife is disco. Great.

Fight on! You've got to live, Contender.
Fight on! Drowning in December.
Fight on! You're gonna be a-okay.

Saint: Wait. What?

Suddenly, another spotlight appears, revealing another man standing near Saint, he casually struts towards Peter Saint, looking him in the eye.

Man: I try to give you a dramatic near-death experience and the point of it somehow flies over your heard.

Saint: What are you talking about?

Man: Did you even listen to the lyrics?

Saint: I heard “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

Man: ...If you looked up ‘idiot’ in the dictionary, do you know what you’d find?

Saint: (Sarcastic) Oh, let me guess, a picture of me?

Man: No. The definition of ‘idiot’, which you are! Now. Stop talking; I’ve been here ten seconds and I already know why Dante prays to me, louder than anyone else, every night, hoping that you’ll learn to shut up.

Saint: Wait. What?

Man: No talking! It’s my turn to speak.

Saint: ...

Man: Good! You’re learning. Now, I bet you’re wondering, where are you?

Saint nods.

Man: That’s an easy answer, you’re not dead, you’re not alive, you’re in the middle, somewhere. And no, you’re not in purgatory, that’s a myth, there’s heaven and hell, I don’t give middle-grounds, that’s what Earth is for.

Saint smiles

Man: Now, you’re a lucky man, Peter, some would call you blessed, I don’t, I hate the whole inclination of the word. People seem to think that when I pick someone as a messenger of mine on Earth, they’re blessed, but they’re not, I pick names from a hat. They’re lucky, that’s all, some are unlucky, as well, I wouldn’t want to carry the one-begotten-son of the father around for nine months in my stomach, yet for some reason, she saw it as a blessing? You people are insane.

Saint’s smile turns to his smirk.

Man: Oh, I should probably take this point to apologize to you for not being Morgan Freeman, you wouldn’t believe the amount of people knocking on Heaven’s door looking for that guy. Now, back onto you, you’re a lucky man, Peter, while everyone else has free choice, I’ve got a plan for you.

Saint looks somewhat unsure.

Man: Yeah, not so much of a blessing, is it? Having your path planned out in its entirety. But, still, nonetheless, you’re a lucky man, Peter, because my plan involves you living past this little dip in the river with Eric Scorpio.

Saint’s eyes widen, and the smile returns.

Man: Yeah, now you’re happy, if I tell you about your grand duty as a mercenary of God, you could care less, but if I tell you you’re going to live another day, you’re singing and dancing. Now, would you like to hear about the divine duty I’m emplacing upon you? Or should I give the duty to someone else, maybe Dalby Sound, instead?

Saint: No! Not Dalby!

Man: What did I tell you about speaking? I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, but you best keep your mouth shut from here on out or I’ll rain hellfire on your house. Now, this is going to seem as cliché as it comes, but, it’s a good duty, I promise. Your duty is... to protect your friends, as they’re the only family you have left. Thoughts?

Saint: Are you serious? That’s the most clichéd bullshit I’ve ever heard!

Man: Of course you’d say that, but think of it this way, I’m not asking you to sacrifice your son or go to Earth to be crucified, Dante’s in prison, he doesn’t need assistance, though a tetanus shot may be in order, Striker’s batshitcrazy, so he doesn’t need any help either and Alex O’Rion carries sporting equipment to the ring, ‘nuff said.

Saint: Heh.

Man: I’m asking you to make sure Nick Bryson doesn’t ignite himself eating breakfast and Drew Michaels doesn’t get crucified on his way from the bed to the bathroom, it’s an easy goddamn job, and it’ll guarantee you some relevance in the final story of “Original Sin.”

Saint: Oh?

Man: Yes. Lets just say I’ll make sure to get you in the fray of battle, somehow. Now, it’s about time you went back down, I’m sure I’ve allowed enough time for the paramedics to take your wallet and sell your clothes.

Saint: You’re a compassionate God, that’s for sure.

Man: Screw compassionate, it’s Monday morning, I’m all Old Testament until I get my coffee into me. Now, Peter, before you leave, I may as well impart some knowledge into you, stick with Sara, she’s the best thing you’ll ever get. No matter what anyone ever tells you, never stop joking around, you’re the one who keeps everyone around you honest. Finally, always remember that you need a reason to fight, you need something in your heart that can drive you to get up when you should remain down, don’t think that you’ll ever be carried through life on talent alone, you need much more than that. Talent is ten percent of the equation.

Saint: Thanks.

Man: Oh and one more thing, I have no problem with gay people, but I do have a problem with Showstoppa.

Another smirk crosses Peter Saint’s face.

Man: Now, close your eyes, click your heels and say “I hope they haven’t taken me to the morgue, yet.”

Saint abides, closing his eyes. Everything fades to black.

"How'd it feel?"

"What? Drowning?"

"Yeah."

"It was... new. I suppose."

"Did you have the whole, life flashing before your eyes thing?"

"No... But, I did experience something pretty enlightening."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You could say I learned a few life lessons from a man who knows what he's talking about, and, at the same time, I saw how it all ended. This Original Sin business.

"And how is that?"

"Oh. I don't want to ruin the surprise."

"That's one hell of a decrescendo, Peter."

"I aim to please, Dante."

"...Was there a point to this call?"

"I just want you to know, your favorite student is still standing and fighting, even after what happened last week."

"That's good to hear...(muffled voice)...My time's almost up on the phone, Walsh, so we better wrap this up."

"Ah. Getting rid of me so quickly. One question though, do you really pray every night for me to shut up?”

“You’re like a goddamn parrot or something, you never shut up. How’d you know?”

“Heh. Call it a hunch... Stay well, Dante.”

*click*

---
Peter Saint's eyes flicker open, his eyes dart around the room from the walls covered in peeling paint to the luggage he had brought, now draped in the shadows commonly coupled with the night.

Was that conversation all a dream? Probably. He should've known that the real Dante Jones would never congratulate him blatantly to his face. Saint rolls over to his side and looks to his bedside clock, 4:21 a.m, a smirk crosses his face, it was pretty funny, if he did say so himself.

Peter Saint sits up, before bringing himself to his feet, there was no point trying to get back to sleep, his mind was already racing with thought, and slowly it had begun to drift towards his impending battle upon Anxiety. Yeah. There was no chance he was getting back to sleep now.

Saint would rub his eyes, twice, before dressing himself back into his trademark outfit, pants, a shirt, sunglasses and that long-flowing jacket of his. It was no doubt cold outside, so, for once, he wasn't looking like something out of Columbine for dressing in such a way. Peter Saint walks over to the front door and carefully places a hand over the knob, turning it slowly, he didn't want to wake Sara up, it wasn't worth the worrying she would no doubt do, the moment he left the confines of the apartment.

Moments later he would find himself in the lobby of the hotel, everything had gone to sleep within the area and nothing but a few lights in the reception would remain on. As Peter Saint walks out the door and onto the street, his mind would begin to race once more. The cogs within his brain would begin to turn, bringing forth thoughts regarding the Black Pharaohs.

'Who are these guys?' Saint would find himself asking every few moments, it was true, he had almost never encountered these men before in his career. This was always a bad sign, he had a bad track record against people who hadn't crucified, burned or cut-up, I mean, just look at his match against John "Doc" Derrick. If Derrick had stabbed him and put him into the hospital three weeks previously, Saint would've had him, no sweat. ‘But... Yeah. It's Doc’ he mused to himself.

'Get back on track, Peter.' He had to remind himself to stay on topic, his mind would often wander if left untended for too long, and that’s what these late-night walks were for, to keep his mind focused and clear, to aide him in whatever it was he was pursuing.

He would barrage his mind with questions regarding them, in the hope of striking gold. What? Why? How? Who? What was it he knew about the Black Pharaohs? Then. A thought strikes him...'Well. They're black.' It took fifteen minutes for this fact to present itself, he was really treading water. 'Ha Ha, very funny, Peter, but you're going to have to try harder if you want to win.' He was getting sloppy; he needed to figure something out if he wanted to have any hope.

‘Lets get to a logical starting point.’ He had to find one, eventually, I mean after all, he had to have some idea about these guys. Saint rounds a corner and veers off the street, turning into a park, as he walks down the narrow path, he surveys the landscape around him, everything is covered in a thin layer of snow, as he looked over the park that surrounds him, his thoughts would differ to the conversation that he thinks he had with God. 'It definitely happened, I know that much, but when did he mean about putting me into the fray?' The fray, he wondered to himself, did he mean the tournament? Was it God's will for Peter Saint to be entered into this battle for the title? Not even Peter Saint was conceited enough to think that God wanted him to win the title, but still, it's nice to think you're important.

'Calvin Xavier, what do I know about him?' He asked himself, 'I know he's about 6'8, weighs a few hundred pounds.' Great. Stats. They're a starting point. 'He's a lot bigger than me, so I can't rely on strength, that's for sure, it's gotta be speed and endurance.', he had a plan, things were shaping up. Saint walks over to a park bench, takes a seat, and continues to muse to himself, before he hits a snag, his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with God, 'What is my motivation, my drive, to fight?' he asked himself, 'What is it that is going to drive me an extra mile to fight Calvin Xavier?'. Nothing would come to him.

'Has he hurt me?'. No.

'Has he hurt my friends?' No.

'Does he intend to?' ...

'Yes. Yes he does.' Immediately, Peter Saint's mind swapped into high-gear, his thoughts began to race, he could see the Black Pharaohs, he could see Solomon, Calvin and Kamal, as clear as day in his head, and he could see Jaro, he could see the sickly smiles etched upon their faces when they were announced as the latest drafts to Anxiety, he knew what their reasons for draft were, they were sent as an advance party in order to quell the radical movement that threatens Anxiety. He knew what God was implying when he said he needed to protect his friends, he needed to keep them safe from Original Sin, that was the obvious point, and if Calvin Xavier is allowed to win, he will no doubt go on to battle either TyranT or Skyler Striker, that's a 50% chance that one of his friends would be in danger, Peter Saint knew he couldn't take that risk.

'What is your motivation?' He would ask himself once more, an answer quickly following, 'The fight with Calvin Xavier was arranged for the soul purpose of beginning the demise of the resistance on Anxiety, so, obviously, it is my purpose to go out and stop this from happening, obviously, through the defeat of Calvin Xavier I will be assisting in reducing the threat that faces us. I suppose when God said he wanted me to keep my friends safe, he meant it in as literal a way as possible.' He was proud of himself; he had come up with something, something to take into the match to aid him.

Striker: Peter?

Peter Saint is drawn away from his thoughts by a familiar face, he looks up to see Skyler Striker, standing on the path looking at him.

Saint: What are you doing here?

Striker: I couldn't sleep, I went for a walk.

Saint: Thinking about the match?

Striker: Amongst other things.

Saint: Come take a seat.

Striker walks over and sits next to Saint on the bench.

Striker: How have you been?

Saint: Aside from the drowning? I’ve been just fine.

Striker: There has been talk that you were ‘reborn’.

Saint: Who’s talking?

Striker: Mainly myself, any truth to the rumor?

Saint: You could say I have been.

Striker: Reborn into what?

Saint: I was going to say ‘Saint’, but, that seems a little too worn out, lets just say that after that near death experience of mine, I’ve got everything into perspective.

Striker: Ominous.

Saint: I prefer ‘foreboding’.

Fade To Black

[Amanda Wallace]

Need I mention more why I'm glad Silvia found you, good sir?

[sil]

amanda said:

Need I mention more why I'm glad Silvia found you, good sir?

*Strays away from her hand crafted mirror for a moment*

Hmm?

*Upon realization of the situation at hand*

Oh yes, of course he's fabulous. Only the best, I always say...

*Would post something up herself, but it would be put to shame by what has been posted already.*

[Cameron Kincaid]

sil said:

amanda said:

Need I mention more why I'm glad Silvia found you, good sir?

*Strays away from her hand crafted mirror for a moment*

Hmm?

*Upon realization of the situation at hand*

Oh yes, of course he's fabulous. Only the best, I always say...

*Would post something up herself, but it would be put to shame by what has been posted already.*

^^ Liar...

[brandonpayne]

I know this one was just done a few days ago. But I must say this is by far my favorite RP (and one of the best) in a long time I think. This is the last post taken from the "Showdown" thread between myself & Avenger. Enjoy !!
=============================================

Hmm. You seem very eager to get this over with don't you ? Well, can't say that I blame you. I for one want nothing more then to have your blood on my hands ! And to watch you die a petty less death out here in the streets of Chicago.

HaHaHaHa...

And would've thought.. things would end like this. After 2 years, THIS place... this dark and wretched alleyway is where it all ends. You call this place your 2nd home. Well, you got that right. The ground you stand on will be your final resting place. Those rats over there in the corner, will be feasting on your flesh when your body starts to rot & decay.

And I will enjoy every waking moment of it.... EVERY....SINGLE...WAKING...moment of it. hehehe !

Brandon turns his back on Avenger once more. Just as he did earlier. And takes several steps away from him. Stops, and crosses his arms as a devilish, evil, grin crosses his face:

You know something Sebastian... maybe... just maybe I'm going little soft. Now that I think about it, perhaps fighting out here on the street isn't the way to go about things.

Sure, I'd love nothing more then to spill your brains out right here, right now. But what I gain from it ? Considering that I technically didn't defeat you where this all started from in the beginning.... inside the squared circle !

Brandon turns back around and starts to walk back towards Avenger. As he now stands face-to-face again with him.

And with that... Sebastian... this conversation is over ! You may go on your way. Just remember the next time we meet... I might not be so generous !

***WITH PERMISSION FROM HANDLER***

Avenger. Took the words of Brandon Payne to heart. And actually felt that BP meant what he said. So without ever giving it a second though. Avenger turns his back and starts walking away from him. As he does, Brandon looks over next to him and spots a small lead pipe.

Brandon walks over and grabs it. Then proceeds to follow Avenger a little ways before yelling at him:

Sebastian ! You dropped something !

Avenger stops and turns around. As he does this:

BAM !!

Brandon clobbers Sebastian right in the face with the pipe. Knocking him down the ground. Avenger starts to crawl on all fours away from BP. Trying to get away. Brandon hits him in the lower back this time with the pipe. Then strikes him again and again.

Avenger screams out in pain as he rolls over on his back. Brandon just sands over him and begins to taunt Avenger:

Whats the matter "FRANCHISE" !?

Brandon then stomps Avenger in the ribs twice. Then from there, tosses the pipe down and walks over and grabs a 2x4 nearby. Brandon walks back over to Avenger and just stares at him.. loving every second of this. Looking down at his former mentor/friend. As Avenger is unable to defend himself and just looks up at BP, eyes glazed over.

Brandon says to him:

Its a shame Sebastian that things had to end like this. We had a great run together. 2 years of going up and down the road. All the things we've achieved. Both together and as seperate foes. I have to do this Avenger... I MUST do this. In the end, whether you live to see another day... or you die. You'll know in your heart that I did this as a favor to both of our careers.

All Good Things... Must Come To An End Sometime.....

Brandon then goes off in a fit of rage and beats The Avenger mercifully with the 2x4. Across his face and ribcage. Bashing him over and over and over until the 2x4 gave way and just broke in half.

When it was all said and done... Avenger was left a bloody mess. Blood dripping from his forehead, nose, and mouth. He starts to spit up blood as he tries to tell BP something. Brandon laughs at Avenger and says:

What ? I can't hear you Avenger ? Speak up ! Poor kid, now you can't utter a fucking word. I've been waiting for that for YEARS ! No more 3rd person nonsense, no more Avenger is better then everybody.

I just wanna leave you tonight with this one final note. Whether you live to fight another day... or you die out here in the streets. I just wanted to thank you...

Thank you for making me the very 'Monster' that I am today. Without that, none of this would've been possible. What you've done tonight is help unleash the true evil, hate, and bitterness that rested within' my soul for the past 2 years. And now that its out in the surface. I will use it to rule GCW.

And with that...

Brandon leans down the ground near The Avenger's ear and whispers:

"Live or Die Avenger.... its your choice ! Just know that either way it goes.... I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL !"

As that was said... Brandon gets back up to his feet and causually walks away from the scene of the crime. An innoncent bystander walking by spots The Avenger and goes running for help.

Several minutes past, and an ambulance finally arrives to tend to The Avenger. The Avenger had all but lost consciousness after BP left. The ambulance drivers on the scene suspect Avenger has suffered a concusion, broken ribs, and severe eternal injuries.

And worst of all... since know one was around to actually witness the attack. Brandon Payne would get off the hook scott free. The drivers quickly put Sebastian on a stretcher and load him up into the back of the ambulance. Then quickly speed off down the street to the nearest hospital.

After this haneous attack by Brandon Payne... The Avenger is left now to fight for his life. Is this the final time we ever see The Avenger ? Has Brandon succeeded in 'killing' his old mentor and best friend ? Or if he lives. How and will The Avenger be able to extract his revenge after this horrible tragedy ?

END

[interested]

This RP I just came up with for Testudo over in XWA, and is what I consider my longest and best RP to date.

Enjoy reading.

=======================================

Location: Unknown. Most likely New York.

It stood there before him, decrepit, thanks to the life-long enemy known as time. Looking at the aging building in incognito (with help from a black beanie to hide his hair and a large jacket to cover up most of his body mass), Testudo closed his eyes. The flood of memories that hit him was slightly overwhelming: the start of his training, the amount of hours he put into his training... his entire commitment to the sport was what kept him going through the pain and suffering that came as a cost. Finishing off his little refresher in time, Testudo opened his eyes yet again. Stepping up to the slightly ajar door, the giant pushed it open with ease: the creaking from the hinges could've waken up the nearby neighbourhood thanks to its volume. With that task done with, Testudo stepped into the structure.

The state of the inside was disgusting. Whilst the only-remaining workout apparatus were still in a surprisingly good condition, vandals had left their marks among the walls and floor. Graffiti was the most common damage that had infected the walls: random tags displaying gang monikers were the obvious culprit, whilst other sections of the walls had various punctures, varying in size from the size of a baseball to holes that Goatse dreams of. However, the apparatus left behind caught the attention of Testudo. Hah, looks like Big Mike couldn't be assed with taking it all. Typical. He slowly walked through a clear path, looking all around at the state of the large and mainly singular room. Sure, one wouldn't be happy with how abused the interior decoration had become, but at this point of time, that didn't matter to Testudo. From the look of things, the South African native was heading for one room in particular: the old changing room. Despite the ever-crumbling condition of the building, Testudo was able to find the desired changing room. Passing through the archway, he had a glance at the surroundings. To his surprise, the interior was barely damaged: looks like vandals didn't like fucking up this part of the building. Whatever the case, Testudo sighed a bit of relief. Looking at the mirror on his right, the 6'11" giant took off his beanie and jacket, throwing them to a nearby bench. A small sound could be heard as the jacket made contact with the bench, most likely caused by something in one of the pockets.

Crouching down to look at his reflection, Testudo stared hard at what he viewed. With each passing second, he grew saddened with what he had become: an aging, worthless fool with a stupid haircolour.

"How did I end up like this...?"[/b][/size]

"Blame your own stupidity."

Shocked, Testudo whipped his head to his left. In some weird form of hallucination, he looked down at a younger, slightly shorter version of himself, reminiscent of his time in WCW: a sensible haircut and hair colour, a small tattoo on his right shoulder, scarless and clean shaven. Wondering what is going on, Testudo begins questioning the figure of his younger self.

"My... stupidity?"[/b]

The younger Testudo took a step forward.

"Duh. Remember back at that one Nitro show in '91? You were in a No. 1 Contendership match with that schmuck Ron Simmons. You wanted to wow the audience by trying something you've never done before: a diving attack over the top rope to the outside."

"But it worked didn't it?"[/b]

"Wow, you've really suppressed this memory, haven't you?"

The real Testudo looked confused. Suppressed memory?

"That's right. You actually botched the landing, and crashed onto your right knee hard. The match ended and you had to forfeit the match to Simmons. Management was pissed off at you for doing that stunt, which lead to you having your contract TERMINATED."

"No..."[/b]

"Yes! You can't admit it, can you? You made up some pansy excuse, saying you were Suplexed badly by some rookie who 'twisted' you in mid-air!"

The revelation caused the real Testudo to look back at the mirror, breathing heavily.

"I... I..."[/b]

The young Testudo soon stood behind him, looking down on the real Testudo, who was now slouching over the sink beneath the mirror.

"What did you do next? You tried hiding your past by moving to the UK and opening the 'Dojo', the only success so far in your life. But what did you do? You changed your hair colour to that RIDICULOUS lime green! What the FUCK WAS WRONG WITH YOU!?"

"I... I wanted..."[/b]

Turning around in quick succession, the real Testudo faced his younger self, shouting with rage.

"I WANTED TO FORGET MY MISTAKES! I KNEW WCW WOULDN'T HAVE ME BACK AFTER I HEALED! THE BOTCH WOULD HAUNT ME IF I TRIED ANYWHERE ELSE! CHANGING MY IDENTITY SLIGHTLY WAS THE ONLY WAY TO CONCEAL MYSELF!"[/b]

The young Testudo stared on, unimpressed.

"But did you actually try anywhere else after you healed? NO! You were too SCARED to try again! The Dojo was the only way you felt you could redeem yourself!"

"Then explain why I started again back at XWA!"[/b]

"By that time, you were relying on the fact that everyone would've forgotten your 'mistake'. That's why you went back into wrestling looking like the mess you're in now: scarred on the face, a ridiculous hair colour and tattooed to the extreme. You wanted to be the kind of veteran that could be respected by the younger generation by 'joining' them, as you subconsciously put it."

Truth hurts, doesn't it? The real Testudo collapsed onto his knees, struck down with the hurtful past.

"Do you see where this state you're in had got you to? Let me REMIND you: a pitiful losing streak, month-long reign with a low-tier title, and an absolute PASTING at XWA's biggest PPV! If you want to actually make a name for yourself again as an ACTUAL veteran, you KNOW what must be done!"

The real Testudo looked up at his younger hallucination.

"You mean...?"[/b]

"Too fucking right! Clean yourself up, get back in shape and DROP THE FUCKING UGLY HAIR!"

Sighing heavily at what he was told, the real Testudo picked himself off the floor and turned back to the mirror. Rubbing the green patch of hair on his chin and rubbing through his green hair on top, the giant sighed once again. I guess it's the only way. Turning around once again, he found that his hallucination was gone, vanished. Going over to his jacket, Testudo rummaged through the pockets to find what he was looking for: a bottle containing rather unknown chemicals. However, its purpose would become evidently clear. Heading back over to the sink, Testudo switched on both taps, hoping that water would come out: it did, from both taps, and surprisingly clear. Putting the bottle on the rim of the sink, the veteran wrestler proceeded to take his dark t-shirt off, revealing his naked upper body: his arms riddled with tattoo's with the back bearing a mark of its own. After clogging the plughole, Testudo grabbed and opened the bottle, rubbing the chemicals into his hair. Massaging all he could into his hair, he threw the bottle to one side. Looking down to the sink, he turned the taps off, as at that point, the sink was completely full. Bracing himself for what was going to happen, Testudo knelt down once again and hovered his head over the sink. After a quick count to three, the giant proceeded to dunk his head into the water, whilst leaving the mouth of the water to breathe through. However, breathing would come second, as Testudo proceeded to release an almighty and blood-cringing scream of pain. The sheer velocity would scare any passer-by outside, unaware of the "purging" process this determined veteran was now putting himself through...

End.

[saint]

'Saint beating Derrick? Possible. Not probable.'

- NovaScotiaPride451

'Derrick's already won twice, I don't see them depushing Derrick in any way, shape or form this show unless the rumors are true and he really did contract HIV from that prostitute escort outside Dallas.'

- TheLastMark

'I heard Saint's father just passed away, they might delay the match.'

- ApostlesCreed21

There comes a point where all the travel, all the night life, all the sights and sounds encountered by the Full Metal Wrestler's becomes monotonous. It's when this boredom finally sets in that the professional wrestlers turn to the dirt sheets of the IWC for entertainment, and that is where our story begins...

Saint: ...He died? ...That's news to me.

A series of furious clicks follow, cutting through the silence of the small hotel room with the swift taps of an urgent man. With every 'click' the screen changes, black to white, white to purple, purple to red, the man jumps from forum-to-forum, looking for a source. Common sense dictates that it was nothing more than lies fabricated by the IWC as a substitute for real news, but something inside Peter Saint told him otherwise. Finally, the screen settles and the clicks stop:

Obituary
James Walsh (58), Australian Journalist and Documentary Film maker passed away last night following a heart attack in his home in the Northern Suburbs of Sydney. He is survived by his wife, Sandra, and his three children, Peter, Kate and Christian. Plans for the funeral have been kept private, though Sandra Walsh has stated it will be a small affair with only the immediate family attending. James Walsh spent his life as a journalist and achieved national fame through his in-depth documentaries about Aboriginal Tribes and the Dreamtime Spirituality in the Northern Territory.

Saint's eyes widen, his jaw drops, he quickly clicks the page away and flicks off the computer screen. He stands up and walks over to the other side of the room, picking up a phone and dialing a number before placing the receiver to his ear.

* * *

Peter Saint
‘God has a funny way of fucking with you. He’s like a voyeur, watching our lives unfold, and then, just as plans have been laid out, he moves into action,
throwing a cruel twist of fate into your face. Is it my own mortal failing that I don’t think I deserved this? Hell, if that’s my only failing as a human being, I should be pretty happy with myself. But, in the past twenty-four hours, I’m almost surely convinced the man above is a comedian playing to an audience of sadomasochists.’

‘Now, I don’t want to seem like someone attempting to seize the moral high ground, but I had this week all planned out, I was going to eat, breathe and sleep upon the subject of John “Doc” Derrick, that’s not overstatement, that’s fact. And believe me, upon hearing the news of my fathers passing, I was ready to do just that, I wasn’t going to get my plans ruined because someone’s heart forgot how to beat in a regular rhythm. My father and I haven’t spoken in years, so I saw no reason in attending the funeral, but, the thought of missing it made this amazing feeling of coldness sink over my body, I knew in that moment that if I didn't attend, I'd think about it all week. Having a conscience is hard work.’

‘To put it simply, my father, despite our falling out, deserved better than for me to simply snub him, we may not have had even a semblance of a relationship, but, I still have to farewell the man.’

* * *

[/b][/size]
Central Australia, the outback, a place of both immense beauty, isolation and rolling sands that precede humanity itself. The sun was high within the cloudless blue sky, it was a beautiful day. Our scene is set fifteen kilometers north of Uluru, off the roads and out of the way, a small group of people are gathered in the middle the bush land. An area not normally traversed by people has, today, become a funeral site.

In a small clearing between the wild growths of the desert, a small cross had been erected in the ground, a lasting testament to the life of James Walsh. The cross was surrounded by a small group of people; Saint would've recognized them as his family, albeit older than when he last saw them. On one side of the cross stood his sister, tears streaming down her face as she stared at the cross, his brother, a stern expression uncharacteristically painted across his youthful features.

On the other side of the cross stood the mother of Peter Saint, looking severely ragged, her make-up is mussed and the rolling winds of the plains have made everything about her look out of step. Standing behind her were three large Aboriginal men, elders of their tribes, wearing ceremonial shrouds looking positively grim, 'like they were going to a funeral' as Peter Saint would say with that cynical tone of his. The three men had been there as liaisons of the Aboriginal Tribes of the area, it had been those three men who had helped integrate James Walsh into the Aboriginal Community years previously, when he had worked as a journalist, bringing the story of these tribes and turning them into documentary film. It was those three men that had allowed the procession to go ahead on what is usually sacred land, land not to be defiled by anyone outside the tribe.

A few moments would pass and one of the Aboriginal man, the leader of the three, with a frazzled grey beard and withered features that were synonymous with age and wisdom, would step forward carrying a large pot, the final remains of James Walsh, burned down and turned into ashes. Immediately, the elder began to speak, the eulogy had begun, without Peter Saint. They didn't wait for him, because, simply, they had no idea he was attending. Saint had, for the last few years, lived without any contact to his family, having become estranged from them at age seventeen, he couldn’t bring himself to call or contact his family in any way, and as such, he wasn't standing there with them on that day.

No. He wasn't standing with them. However, if one were to look down three hundred meters, further towards the horizon, one would find Peter Saint, standing nest to a large pick-up truck, a hat on his head and an emotionless glance across his face. While he was only a few hundred meters away physically, Peter Saint was emotionally detached to the extent of miles from the family affair that played out before him. All he could see was small dots in the distance, huddled together, together, sharing one and others pain and acting as statues for each other, providing strength where there is none. To put it minimally, it was frightfully depressing, to be alone on that plain that day.

It felt like hours for Peter Saint, merely standing and watching it all happen from afar. Finally, in the distance, the movement stopped, the urn was placed in front of the cross and the mourners moved in the opposite direction. It was within local custom for the ashes of the deceased to remain as a testament to the departed's life for a period of days, until, as the sun set, signifying death, the urn would be opened and the ashes would be scattered, sending the soul of the deceased back into the land of the dreaming, whence he came. The family would disappear into the distance, fading from view, and immediately, Peter Saint would walk towards the makeshift cross in the distance. His walk quickened into a jog, which then sped into a run, impatience struck Peter Saint and he began to move as fast as he could to reach his target. Finally, Peter Saint would arrive in front of his fathers urn, containing the last remnants of a man Peter Saint swore he would never see again. With his mind racing and his heart beating wildly, Peter Saint would begin to speak:

* * *

Peter Saint
‘Hey... Dad... I’ve always had trouble with these sorts of things, you know that as well as I do, it’s just not my strong suit, dealing with death, but, we never got a chance to make peace while you lived, so, now at least I know you have no choice but to listen.’

‘I have no need to lie to you, try and make myself seem like something I’m not, not anymore and I’m not the man who would try and disrespect you past the grave by lying to you at this point. ’

‘Do you remember why we had this grand falling out, Dad?’

‘I know I do.’

‘You spent all this time, weeks, months, even a year at one point, away from home, living your dream out here. You always had a one-track mind for it, Dad, I guess that’s where I got it from. But all you ever wanted to do was live out here and make your films, when you came back, you barely knew me, when I was seven, you were my hero, you were the man that I truly wanted to be, in my eyes, you were everything and more. You were the perfect guy, you were daring, adventurous, strong, smart and most of all, you didn’t fear anything.’

‘But then, you started coming here. It began to consume you, you spent all your money on plane-tickets, cameras, and notepads, everything to take you and live your dream as a journalist. Your family became second to your job, and when you returned, I didn’t know what to make of you. Years of my life had gone in a blur without a father, you came back and didn’t even care about us anymore, and how they can look back on you fondly while my memories are so full of these feelings of betrayal is beyond me.’

‘I’ve searched my mind, trying to find a moment that I can remember when you and I were happy, but I could only find one. One moment in twenty-one years. It’s one that I’d hope you remembered, too, as it was an important one for me. I was six-and-a-half and you had just begun showing me how to play chess. I had just picked up the basics, the movements and such, and I had already grown ambitions outside of my own reach. I challenged you to a game, hoping I’d beat you, partly to fulfill my own competitive nature and partly hoping that if I did beat you, you’d treat me as an equal, I had pretty big dreams for a six year old, all revolving around respect.’

‘Our styles of play greatly reflected ourselves, from the get-go, I played on impulse, stressing fast plays and quick assaults of your pieces, playing my own little speed game through it. I sought to beat you quickly, taking a lot of high-risk maneuvers with my bishops and my queen. I played recklessly. You, on the other hand, played the exact opposite. Your game was based around carefully defined moves with strategy over quick attacks; you played your game slowly with more power than mine. You could’ve played all day, and you were happy to slow down the momentum of the game through your movements. I recall complaining once or twice for you taking so long to make a move, yet, at the end of the day, it paid off for you. When you and I played chess together, expectedly, you defeated me.’

‘From that moment on, most likely due to my undeveloped mind, I seemed to equate the way we were treated in public upon that chess game. You garnered respect and admiration from everyone around you, people looked up to you and they knew who you were, you were well-respected and loved by many people due to your immense charisma and the way you handled yourself.’

‘I, on the other hand, due to my age, was seen as such. A young man who was nothing more than a novelty for older people, looking back, it’s obvious why I was seen like this. I was a child. But still, at the time, I felt that it was the chess game that defined how you and I were treated, you as the adult, me as the child, you as the teacher, me as the student.’

‘Soon enough, you left, and at that point I felt I could become respected through other actions, not through victory in a game, I was growing older and I began to find other forms of success through my actions. I felt I was finally gaining the respect that I felt I deserved, yet, upon your return, I was instantly relegated back to my previous role as novelty act. Who were you? Who were you to come back after all this time away and take the limelight away from me?’

‘It seemed, no matter what I did I would never be able to surpass the respect that you yourself had from your peers and from my family, so, I just stopped caring about the people in my life and began to live for myself. I was about sixteen, I’d met a girl and life was looking up, I found odd jobs making collections for a few of the local business owners, it acted as the seeds that would sprout into job as a hired gun. It was nothing serious, nobody was truly hurt aside from the odd shakedown here and there, I was a naive youth and I always had a good heart, I never sought to hurt anyone.’

‘Then, you returned, and heard all these rumors of what I was doing. Nothing but second-hand words from second-rate people, but you treated it as if it was the divine word of God himself and you, only having just re-entered my life, decided to try and discipline me. I couldn’t stand the idea of it, you, after all these years, still exercising this control over me, and I just lost it. I swung at you, hit you in the face, my reckless demeanor got to me, but you didn’t fight back, you just turned around and walked away. You were always a lot more collected than I was.’

‘But, that was the end of us, Dad, that was the last time you and I spoke. The last thing I ever did to you was punch you in the mouth, and for that, I apologize. But this last year, I’ve changed as a man, Dad, I’ve grown and learned more about myself than I ever did before, I’m no longer arrogant and I’m no longer unable to accept flaws within myself.’

‘I’m a man who lacks patience, I tend to fly off the gun sometimes, it’s a pitfall of my youth I suppose. I’ve always had a loud mouth, as well, and it has often gotten me into trouble. But, if I can say I’m one thing, I’m a man who always dreams and always has high ambitions. You know what they say, Dad, ”Reach for the stars, so if you fall, you land on a cloud. and that’s what I’ve been doing, Dad, always shooting myself towards the stars, trying to achieve everything.’

‘On my way over here, I thought a lot about what it was that made you and I what we were, that core trait that made us the men that we would eventually become. Some people run off hatred, others run fuelled by their own arrogance, some people are defined by their conscience and others by their lack-there-of. I know men who lived their lives based around possession, others, living their lives by passion, some even being driven by anger and rage. Some people try to hide their own past struggles through veils of apathy and powerful vocabularies, while others are open about everything that has happened within their lives.’

‘I know I am a man defined by his heart, I’ve always had a moral compass telling me which way to go, I’ve always put myself in positions to help others and I have always fuelled myself with love. I may not have ever had you as a family, but in the past year, I’ve set about forging myself a family stronger than any bond-of-blood that we share. I’ve become a man completely content with his own standing in life, I have a family, I have friends and I will always have the dreams that push me towards the sky.’

‘There are many things I don’t possess, but what I lack in size, strength and power, I make up with in sheer determination and heart, I’ve been called the Mr. Miracle because I’ve always been able to pull out something, some extra inch of strength, that led me to success.’

‘I regret that we never made peace, Father, and I’m sorry that it has to be under these circumstances that I come to you. But, for everything, I want you to know, I’ll always remember you for what you were, a man with dreams as big as mine, a man who would stop at nothing to achieve them, and a man who acted as the catalyst that made me who I am today. It is with that final goodbye that I say ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’
Goodbye, Dad.’

* * *

Some would say it was right on cue, others would merely call it dumb luck, but just as Peter Saint’s final goodbyes were said, the sun slowly began to set, the sky having turned into an amazing shade of purple with darts of red scattering across the horizon. Saint would pick up the urn and look towards the sun, slowly setting as the temperature began drifting down before opening the lid and throwing the ashes out before him, putting them at the mercy of the swift winds of the north.

The ashes would slowly drift off towards the horizon, destined to settle upon the lands that precede life itself, a destiny that Peter Saint was sure to bring peace and happiness to his father.

Saint would stop and watch the ashes as they began to drift off upon their final journey, as the dust drifted off into the distance, a lone tear would begin to well up within his eye. Saint would quickly brush it away and place his sunglasses back on over his eye before turning back to his truck. A quick glance back over to the cross and Peter Saint would step back into the truck and drive off towards the airport, a smirk on his face and a weight slowly lifted off his shoulders.

* * *

The scene opens; it’s New Years Eve, 2007, Sydney Harbor. The sky is jet black with thin silver clouds creeping across the horizon, providing cover for the moon up above. Down below, thousands of people sit around bringing in the New Year in the typical fashion, the boozehounds are boozing, the partiers are partying and the VIP are maneuvering from party to party, looking for the ever-present photo opportunity. Amidst all this jovial celebration, a focused Peter Saint leans across his balcony, his thoughts drifting around as he surveys the action below.

The past days had moved in a blur, he exited the Northern Territory before his family had returned to find the ashes missing from the urn, and upon return, he attempted to make up for lost time in preparation, after all the training he had forced himself through, he deemed New Years to be the day of rest, but still, his mind would be set on the battle ahead. He had recently been thinking a lot about the subject of New Year’s Resolutions, the idea that a man could make changes that he would swear to live out in the year that follows. As his eyes drifted past an errant party boat sailing close to shore, he was asking himself what the men and women out upon the harbor had planned, his mind swarmed with these hypothetical ideas from hypothetical people, hypothetical pledges to exercise more, to laugh more, to drink less, to find a woman, to find a man, it was all quite fulfilling, he thought to himself.

Yet still, that aura of pessimism was evident within him, he still found himself narrating his ideas to himself in that manner and New Years Eve was no different: ‘I have to admit, it’s quite easy for me to simply lose myself in the atmosphere. It’s like Sydney is fighting a war with neon lights and laughter out there, and I assure you, no matter who wins, my head loses.’ he thought to himself with a small smirk crossing his face.

And then, as always in recent times, his thoughts would shift to John “Doc” Derrick. Peter Saint was not deluded, not in the slightest, so he knew from the get go that he wasn’t the favorite walking into that match, and his various trips onto the world of the internet would merely cement the claims into his mind, yet, at the same time, his recent trip to the Northern Territory had somehow strengthened Saint’s resolve.

It wasn’t cockiness, it wasn’t arrogance, but, for some reason, Saint had this feeling within himself that everything was going to turn out alright, he knew what it would mean for himself if he were to win the match, he knew what was riding upon it, for him and this was where he drew most of his confidence from: ‘What’s the mentality I have going into the match, I’m a man with nothing to lose and everything to win, he’s the man who doesn’t care either way, it’s this moral ambiguity and overriding sense of apathy that acted as such a strength for Doc in the past, he’s a man who simply doesn’t care, doesn’t allow him to get emotionally involved into a match, doesn’t allow him to put all his eggs in one basket, and it’s allowed him to bounce back from set-backs and also put him as a man to fear, it’s terribly disheartening to have someone not care about you in the slightest and inform you of that fact, something he does ad nauseum...

...But I feel as if I have the advantage this time, simply because I have more to win from it, I’m the man that’s going in with nothing, but if I do come out the victor, I’ll finally be working towards that respect I so sorely desire, I’ll have done something that finally warrants some respect from the men around me, I’ll have fulfilled my goals. And that is why I’m so confident, I know I have motivation, I know that when I’m in the ring I’m going to fight tooth and nail until I can’t fight anymore, hell, until I can’t breathe anymore, just to defeat Derrick. Will he fight as hard with the stakes this low?’ More questions were being raised in his head, more things for him to mull over as he lived out his final preparation for his battle.

His own ambitions were his greatest strength, it was said, and Peter Saint knew it was going to be what carried him through the match, he knew that he could fight his heart and his soul out, and that was what he was going to do, not now, but forever. His mind once again flicked back to the idea of resolution, and he’d found the creed that he could take into the new year with him, he was going to never lose heart, never lose faith and always fight until he couldn't fight any longer. Peter Saint knew that he was given opportunities to shine and within them, he knew that it would take this level of ambition to truly show him the success he had wanted since childhood. It was this that he could truly live by, until the ends of time. Then, just as he had his heart set upon his resolution, the countdown began.

10.

9.

8.

7.

6.

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

Bang!

All who have accomplished great things have had a great aim, have fixed their gaze on a goal which was high, one which sometimes seemed impossible.
- Orison Marden[/center]