Post by GRENDEL on Apr 26, 2015 7:15:13 GMT -6
Moonlight fights its way through the slatted blinds, giving an eerie glow to the darkness of the night. The air in the room is still, and musty. From elsewhere, the lazy hum of an old air conditioning unit provides an underscore to the lack of movement. The room is small, and sparsely decorated. Plain white walls, a wardrobe, a nightstand and a bed. One lone action figure from a long forgotten TV show carelessly discarded on the floor is the only indication that this room might belong to a child. Suddenly from outside the window, a high pitched yelp, like that of an animal suddenly caught in a trap, bursts out, piercing the night. As it does, a small figure suddenly sits bolt upright in the bed. The child, a boy, is drenched in sweat, his olive skin glistening in the moonlight. Without even thinking, his hand reaches out to the duvet, around his groin, provoking only a look of exasperation as he feels the moistness between his legs. Clearly frustrated, he brings his hand to his forehead, and mops his brow. The look of frustration slowly turns to one of confusion, as he touches his forehead again. The sweat, warm, sticky, feels alien to his fingers. Slowly he pulls his hand away from his head, and his eyes grow wide as the moonlight illuminates the crimson tint on his fingers. His mouths opens wide in horror, letting loose a silent scream, as he starts backing up in his bed. He looks to his arms; both are bloodstained. He looks to the duvet. The damp patch is revealed as a pool of blood, dyeing the plain white duvet and sheets beneath a dark, crimson hue. The boy, now panicking, rolls out of bed, his breath coming out in short, sharp bursts. Looking down, he sees that, head to toe, he’s coated in blood, his pyjamas drenched in the same, dark ichor. He runs forward, almost slipping straight away, a thin layer of blood coating the wooden slats of the floor. Again, he screams, but no noise comes out. Managing a half run, half stumble, he staggers to the door, trying to grasp the brass knob in his blood coated hands. It won’t turn though, his hands slipping on the tarnished brass. Tears welling in the corners of his eyes, he starts beating at the door, but no matter how hard he slams his fists into the wood, no sound comes forth. He turns, crying, and staggers forward again. A crack, splintering glass, pierces the veil of silence. Slowly, his glare tracks down, to broken glass beneath his foot. Lifting his foot slowly, fragments of glass embedded in the soft flesh below, he sees a photo, of a family, now irrevocably stained in the blood. Letting loose a silent roar, he charges forward, ignoring the glass firmly lodged in his foot, and runs for the window. Tearing aside the slatted blinds, there’s nothing beyond the glass panes, just a dark void. As he starts to bang on the window, snow begins to fall outside. As he drives his fist into the glass over and over, the snow builds to a flurry, to a storm, until everything beyond the window is white. Once more, he screams, this time noise breaks through, a loud, guttural roars erupts, that of a man far larger, far older than this small boy. As he roars, the glass explodes outward, and the snow cascades into the room, blasting into his face.
He sits up, suddenly in bed. The teenager, a young man, is coated in sweat. He quickly pulls his hands up in front of his face, and sighs in relief, as they look normal. He looks over to the wall, the corrugated metal of the trailer wall, at a hole in the seam between the wall and roof, wind driving snow through the hole, the piece of timber that previously shielded the occupant from the outside world lying on the floor, the wind seemingly having dislodged it. As the cold breeze blows into his face he sighs, and stands. He coughs as he gets upright; the air is close, and stuffy. Groggily, he retrieves the stricken piece of lumber, and turns his attention to the tear in the wall. As the snow blows into his face, it feels strange. Not cold, but... dirty? He coughs again, something unseen attacking the back of his throat. As the... whatever it is continues to blow through the hole, he places the board to one side, and nervously extends out his hand, catching some in his palm. Bringing it up close to his eyes, it slowly becomes apparent what it is. Not snow.
Ash.
As the realisation come to light, he’s assailed by another coughing fit, one so powerful it forces him backwards, to the middle of the room. He lets the ash fall between his fingers, as he looks up, and realises it’s beginning to rain ash, flakes as soft as snow, but grey and bitter. His coughing grows more intense, as his throat begins to draw itself closed. Staggering, he runs to the door. He reaches for the handle, but quickly draws his hand back, the heat of it biting at his palm as he begins to touch it. Looking down, he can see the thick, black smoke beginning to come in to the room, under the door. He turns, faces the room. The same smoke is coming in from all angles, from under the bed, from under the chest of drawers, barrelling into the room. He looks to the corner. An old, battered chair, dirty and cigarette stained upholstery, is aflame, but burns clear. Smoke is erupting from every single orifice, but nowhere around the chair. His coughing becomes more desperate, his eyes watering, as he begins to choke. Frantically, he runs to the window, pulling the tattered old curtains wide. He reaches for the catch, to open the glass panes, but it’s not there. It should be there. His eyes flooding, streaming with tears, his throat beginning to feel like it’s on fire, he begins to pound at the glass, to gain someone’s attention, to knock it free, something. But nothing. As he pounds, and pounds, getting weaker with each resultant hammer blow, the storm of ash outside the window begins to clear. As he starts to fade, he can almost see a face outside the window. Feminine, beautiful, but its eyes shut. As the image swells, to consume his whole world, he redoubles his effort, desperately slamming at the window, trying to elicit some, or any response. Her eyes remain shut, her face remains impassive, as the blackness slowly envelopes everything.
He sits straight up in bed. His breathing is shallow, his skin awash with sweat. He looks about, taking in the scene around him. The familiar walls of the apartment. The sound of the ceiling fan, as it tries to break the hot stillness of the California air. He looks beside him, to the beautiful girl stirring next to him, and sighs. Slowly, she fights her eyes open, the look of bliss on her face quickly replaced by one of concern.
Devan Whitmore: Wha... darling, are you OK?
She reaches out, and gently caresses him arm, her soft hand feeling good on his coarse, rough skin. He looks down to her hand a moment, then back into her warm, embracing eyes.
GRENDEL: I... I’m fine.
It’s quickly apparent she doesn’t believe him. She pulls herself up to a sitting position with her elbows, dislodging the duvet from her full, ample breasts.
Devan Whitmore: You know... whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right? You’ve been having these... incidents more frequently recently...
He shoots her a surprised look, as if this is something she couldn’t possibly know.
Devan Whitmore: Oh don’t give me that. Look at the size of you. You don’t think that when you get up suddenly in the middle of the night, that I don’t. Please, lover, whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?
He looks down, embarrassed, as she pulls herself closer to him, nestling into his arm. Avoiding her gaze, he looks up, to the ceiling fan, as if working something out.
GRENDEL: It’s fine. It’s nothing. Honestly.
Devan Whitmore: Darling, you know you don’t have to...
GRENDEL: It’s fine. I must... just be restless. The delay in the show, all the extra training Aries and I have been putting in for Strike and Kane. It’s fine. Really. We should go back to sleep.
It’s apparent she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push the point. Slowly, he lies back down in bed, eyes closing gently as he lays his head down. She cuddles into him, wrapping both an arm and a leg over him, and lays there a while, just watching him sleep, before slumber eventually takes her too.
GRENDEL Promotional VT . Scheduled air date: 26th April, 2015
A burst of static bursts onto the screen, before cutting to the image of a darkened room. The walls are washed in shadow, with a pool of light in front of the camera only being distinguishable by the way it lights the dust in the air in front of it. From off camera, comes a disembodied voice.
GRENDEL: What do you see?
A moment of silence passes.
GRENDEL: Blackness? Emptiness? Darkness? I’ll tell you what I see.
GRENDEL steps into view, the camera focussed on his large, barrel chest. The camera slowly pans up, and quickly refocuses to bring his face into sharp relief, his painted features enhanced by the dim light.
GRENDEL: Nothing.
He pauses, looking straight down the camera lens, as if staring straight into the viewer’s eye.
GRENDEL: I am Nothing.
He pauses once more, to let that sink it.
GRENDEL: And you know what? I embrace that. I live that. I am that. But there are others, others who strive to hide what they are, ornament it in false accolades and titles. Yes, I’m talking about you, Strike. Your title, it defines you. It's why you fought so desperately to claw it back when you lost it... Well I reject that definition. I reject that concept and I surpass your expectation, and that's why my cause, my ideology, will ultimately surpass you. That is why I did what I did in destroying the Tag Team titles, and in removing their stain from this company. I took your definition of me, I took the summary of my achievement, and tore it asunder. I am not a belt. I am not a title. I am not a champion. I am defined by nothing. I represent nothing. I'm the King Of Nothing, because nothing's what I am, and nothing's what I'll be. And you know what that makes me? That makes me something that weak minded individuals like the Collins woman and Lifer could only aspire to be. It makes me a threat.
A sneer develops on GRENDEL’s lips.
GRENDEL: Not a threat to peoples well being, mind. Not a threat to the person in the street. Not even a threat to this company, but to the industry itself. I threaten the status quo, held in place by an uncountable number of narcissistic, nepotistic company owners and directors. I threaten the core belief held by our industry. By rejecting your definitions, your championships, your accolades, all of your attempts to control me, I become the one thing that truly threatens you all. I become the man who has Nothing. And I assure you, as will soon become apparent, there is no greater threat.
He slowly tilts his head to the side, audible cracks and pops spring forth from his neck.
GRENDEL: But what’s that, I don’t hear you cry? I have some things? I can’t have nothing, if I have possessions, family, love? You’re being pedantic, but you’re also right. And guess what? That only makes me more dangerous. Listen to me, EXODUS, Strike, Collins, all of you. And listen good. For the man who has nothing is a dangerous man to face. They may gamble all they have, and come off no worse, whatever the result. They may dictate they are someone to be feared, as they have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. But they are wrong. Because even more dangerous, is the man who has little. The man who has fought, scrabbled, scrimped to obtain the little he has. A man who, at every single turn, in the space of a heartbeat, can lose it all. And that is the man you will see face Strike on Monday.
He stops, and looks thoughtful a moment.
GRENDEL: Born of nothing. Made of nothing. My name, I chose for myself, made my own. My home, my family? I chose them. I made them. Our direction, our belief, governed by our choices, not yours, not anyone else’s, but our own. We have made ourselves, modelled ourselves. And now we will do the same to this industry. Now, will show you what it means to have made yourself, from the clay of nothing. We will show you what this industry can do, can bring, when it’s foundations have been shook, when its core ideals have been assaulted, and when a new way is shone upon them. The REVOLUTION, even when it stumbles and staggers, marches on. And nothing will stand before it. After all, Nothing marches with it.
The wistful look vanishes, to be replaced by the familiar angry scowl.
GRENDEL: Strike. You seem to think you understand us, to understand me? The veteran, recognising the sins and follies of youth? Well, understand this. Don't come on Monday expecting a match, a fight, in that square circle. Come expecting a war. Don't come looking for fairness, for respect, for honour. If you do that, you'll find nothing but the broken bones of your own mistakes, the bloody wounds of your preconceptions. See what fairness gets you in life. See what respect gets you in a buyer’s market. Why don't you stand in the ashes of a broken industry, and ask the ghosts if honour matters. I won’t stand idly by, and let you and yours choke the life out of this industry with your selfishness and greed. I won’t let your self-appointed War Machine roll over the broken bones of the workers who hold this company aloft, in the name of your own selfish ambition. You have time and time again proven yourself capable of overcoming your opposition, of overcoming great odds, of overcoming everything thrown against you. Well, on Monday, let’s see how you cope with a different fight. Let’s see what your response is, when instead of being faced with everything, all that you find...
GRENDEL leans down, his face getting right into the rapidly refocusing camera. His eyes, burning pools of hatred pierce the lens, boring a hole through the soul of the viewer.
GRENDEL: ... is Nothing.
The video snaps to black.
He sits up, suddenly in bed. The teenager, a young man, is coated in sweat. He quickly pulls his hands up in front of his face, and sighs in relief, as they look normal. He looks over to the wall, the corrugated metal of the trailer wall, at a hole in the seam between the wall and roof, wind driving snow through the hole, the piece of timber that previously shielded the occupant from the outside world lying on the floor, the wind seemingly having dislodged it. As the cold breeze blows into his face he sighs, and stands. He coughs as he gets upright; the air is close, and stuffy. Groggily, he retrieves the stricken piece of lumber, and turns his attention to the tear in the wall. As the snow blows into his face, it feels strange. Not cold, but... dirty? He coughs again, something unseen attacking the back of his throat. As the... whatever it is continues to blow through the hole, he places the board to one side, and nervously extends out his hand, catching some in his palm. Bringing it up close to his eyes, it slowly becomes apparent what it is. Not snow.
Ash.
As the realisation come to light, he’s assailed by another coughing fit, one so powerful it forces him backwards, to the middle of the room. He lets the ash fall between his fingers, as he looks up, and realises it’s beginning to rain ash, flakes as soft as snow, but grey and bitter. His coughing grows more intense, as his throat begins to draw itself closed. Staggering, he runs to the door. He reaches for the handle, but quickly draws his hand back, the heat of it biting at his palm as he begins to touch it. Looking down, he can see the thick, black smoke beginning to come in to the room, under the door. He turns, faces the room. The same smoke is coming in from all angles, from under the bed, from under the chest of drawers, barrelling into the room. He looks to the corner. An old, battered chair, dirty and cigarette stained upholstery, is aflame, but burns clear. Smoke is erupting from every single orifice, but nowhere around the chair. His coughing becomes more desperate, his eyes watering, as he begins to choke. Frantically, he runs to the window, pulling the tattered old curtains wide. He reaches for the catch, to open the glass panes, but it’s not there. It should be there. His eyes flooding, streaming with tears, his throat beginning to feel like it’s on fire, he begins to pound at the glass, to gain someone’s attention, to knock it free, something. But nothing. As he pounds, and pounds, getting weaker with each resultant hammer blow, the storm of ash outside the window begins to clear. As he starts to fade, he can almost see a face outside the window. Feminine, beautiful, but its eyes shut. As the image swells, to consume his whole world, he redoubles his effort, desperately slamming at the window, trying to elicit some, or any response. Her eyes remain shut, her face remains impassive, as the blackness slowly envelopes everything.
He sits straight up in bed. His breathing is shallow, his skin awash with sweat. He looks about, taking in the scene around him. The familiar walls of the apartment. The sound of the ceiling fan, as it tries to break the hot stillness of the California air. He looks beside him, to the beautiful girl stirring next to him, and sighs. Slowly, she fights her eyes open, the look of bliss on her face quickly replaced by one of concern.
Devan Whitmore: Wha... darling, are you OK?
She reaches out, and gently caresses him arm, her soft hand feeling good on his coarse, rough skin. He looks down to her hand a moment, then back into her warm, embracing eyes.
GRENDEL: I... I’m fine.
It’s quickly apparent she doesn’t believe him. She pulls herself up to a sitting position with her elbows, dislodging the duvet from her full, ample breasts.
Devan Whitmore: You know... whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right? You’ve been having these... incidents more frequently recently...
He shoots her a surprised look, as if this is something she couldn’t possibly know.
Devan Whitmore: Oh don’t give me that. Look at the size of you. You don’t think that when you get up suddenly in the middle of the night, that I don’t. Please, lover, whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?
He looks down, embarrassed, as she pulls herself closer to him, nestling into his arm. Avoiding her gaze, he looks up, to the ceiling fan, as if working something out.
GRENDEL: It’s fine. It’s nothing. Honestly.
Devan Whitmore: Darling, you know you don’t have to...
GRENDEL: It’s fine. I must... just be restless. The delay in the show, all the extra training Aries and I have been putting in for Strike and Kane. It’s fine. Really. We should go back to sleep.
It’s apparent she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push the point. Slowly, he lies back down in bed, eyes closing gently as he lays his head down. She cuddles into him, wrapping both an arm and a leg over him, and lays there a while, just watching him sleep, before slumber eventually takes her too.
GRENDEL Promotional VT . Scheduled air date: 26th April, 2015
A burst of static bursts onto the screen, before cutting to the image of a darkened room. The walls are washed in shadow, with a pool of light in front of the camera only being distinguishable by the way it lights the dust in the air in front of it. From off camera, comes a disembodied voice.
GRENDEL: What do you see?
A moment of silence passes.
GRENDEL: Blackness? Emptiness? Darkness? I’ll tell you what I see.
GRENDEL steps into view, the camera focussed on his large, barrel chest. The camera slowly pans up, and quickly refocuses to bring his face into sharp relief, his painted features enhanced by the dim light.
GRENDEL: Nothing.
He pauses, looking straight down the camera lens, as if staring straight into the viewer’s eye.
GRENDEL: I am Nothing.
He pauses once more, to let that sink it.
GRENDEL: And you know what? I embrace that. I live that. I am that. But there are others, others who strive to hide what they are, ornament it in false accolades and titles. Yes, I’m talking about you, Strike. Your title, it defines you. It's why you fought so desperately to claw it back when you lost it... Well I reject that definition. I reject that concept and I surpass your expectation, and that's why my cause, my ideology, will ultimately surpass you. That is why I did what I did in destroying the Tag Team titles, and in removing their stain from this company. I took your definition of me, I took the summary of my achievement, and tore it asunder. I am not a belt. I am not a title. I am not a champion. I am defined by nothing. I represent nothing. I'm the King Of Nothing, because nothing's what I am, and nothing's what I'll be. And you know what that makes me? That makes me something that weak minded individuals like the Collins woman and Lifer could only aspire to be. It makes me a threat.
A sneer develops on GRENDEL’s lips.
GRENDEL: Not a threat to peoples well being, mind. Not a threat to the person in the street. Not even a threat to this company, but to the industry itself. I threaten the status quo, held in place by an uncountable number of narcissistic, nepotistic company owners and directors. I threaten the core belief held by our industry. By rejecting your definitions, your championships, your accolades, all of your attempts to control me, I become the one thing that truly threatens you all. I become the man who has Nothing. And I assure you, as will soon become apparent, there is no greater threat.
He slowly tilts his head to the side, audible cracks and pops spring forth from his neck.
GRENDEL: But what’s that, I don’t hear you cry? I have some things? I can’t have nothing, if I have possessions, family, love? You’re being pedantic, but you’re also right. And guess what? That only makes me more dangerous. Listen to me, EXODUS, Strike, Collins, all of you. And listen good. For the man who has nothing is a dangerous man to face. They may gamble all they have, and come off no worse, whatever the result. They may dictate they are someone to be feared, as they have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. But they are wrong. Because even more dangerous, is the man who has little. The man who has fought, scrabbled, scrimped to obtain the little he has. A man who, at every single turn, in the space of a heartbeat, can lose it all. And that is the man you will see face Strike on Monday.
He stops, and looks thoughtful a moment.
GRENDEL: Born of nothing. Made of nothing. My name, I chose for myself, made my own. My home, my family? I chose them. I made them. Our direction, our belief, governed by our choices, not yours, not anyone else’s, but our own. We have made ourselves, modelled ourselves. And now we will do the same to this industry. Now, will show you what it means to have made yourself, from the clay of nothing. We will show you what this industry can do, can bring, when it’s foundations have been shook, when its core ideals have been assaulted, and when a new way is shone upon them. The REVOLUTION, even when it stumbles and staggers, marches on. And nothing will stand before it. After all, Nothing marches with it.
The wistful look vanishes, to be replaced by the familiar angry scowl.
GRENDEL: Strike. You seem to think you understand us, to understand me? The veteran, recognising the sins and follies of youth? Well, understand this. Don't come on Monday expecting a match, a fight, in that square circle. Come expecting a war. Don't come looking for fairness, for respect, for honour. If you do that, you'll find nothing but the broken bones of your own mistakes, the bloody wounds of your preconceptions. See what fairness gets you in life. See what respect gets you in a buyer’s market. Why don't you stand in the ashes of a broken industry, and ask the ghosts if honour matters. I won’t stand idly by, and let you and yours choke the life out of this industry with your selfishness and greed. I won’t let your self-appointed War Machine roll over the broken bones of the workers who hold this company aloft, in the name of your own selfish ambition. You have time and time again proven yourself capable of overcoming your opposition, of overcoming great odds, of overcoming everything thrown against you. Well, on Monday, let’s see how you cope with a different fight. Let’s see what your response is, when instead of being faced with everything, all that you find...
GRENDEL leans down, his face getting right into the rapidly refocusing camera. His eyes, burning pools of hatred pierce the lens, boring a hole through the soul of the viewer.
GRENDEL: ... is Nothing.
The video snaps to black.