Post by masondestruction on Sept 7, 2021 18:04:36 GMT -5
Anything and everything comes to an end eventually. It’s the way the world works, whether that be a plan for the future, a life left unlived, or a relationship. All things end, and those of us who survive? Can only do what we know, experience that life while waiting for that end.
But what about being a father?
Is it death that ends that primordial call to protect? Or is it a mother, keeping her son away from the man who broke her heart time and time again? Are we all so perfect, that we never make mistakes? Is an unjust action for justifiable means worth it in the end?
And what if all your worlds ended at once, not so much death of life, but a death of the senses. Fired from your job, and walls put up around your family, your livelihood. What do we do then?
What do you do when your entire foundation falls apart? They don’t teach you that in school.
But that is where we find our former Ascension champion, Mason Destruction.
Mason looked rough, an unkempt spotty beard smearing across his face, and his hair more grown in than usual. His man bun was missing, and instead, he just let the longer parts of his hair hang across his face and ears - in no fashionable way. He sat at a rundown bar somewhere deep in the Yamashi territory of Tokyo, the kind of place where ultraviolence was just another way of life. And although he didn’t work for the company, he felt more comfortable in a place like this - than in some high-end hotel which Christian Demarco had paid for.
He was dressed in a sonic blue Japanese printed Donnie Calabrese shirt and a pair of cowboy denim blue jeans. One hand grips a room-temperature glass of the tequila, while the other loosely held his cellphone up this ear.
“What the fuck is this? “ Mason says, a tired almost annoyed growl in his voice as he takes a sip of his liquor.
“ You’re not right Mason, there’s something wrong with that head of yours… Narcissism maybe? A lack of a clear picture? I don’t know… But I don’t need it around my son, I don’t need him to grow up thinking hitting walls, and cursing at the mother of his child is alright. I don’t want him to be so fucking cynical, that he has to go chase his childhood dream because, and I quote “ The town was killing him. “ You had everything you could ever want here Mason. And what? You just threw it all away because wrestling? Who does that? I mean really… Who? Fuck dreams, you’re a god damn a father - you chose to leave… Just like I did… The only difference? Is I took Kadence with me. “
Scoffing in disgust, Mason pulls the phone away from his ear for a brief moment as he takes in a deep breath, trying his best to compose himself in a situation that was figuratively and literally tearing at his heartstrings. Stress, it’s the real killer, and that was all the more apparent as set his hand down to scramble to his pocket, pulling out a prescription pill bottle for Xanax, one with his name on it.
“ Are you there Mason?”
“ Give me a fucking second. “ He demands into the phone as he pops the top on the pills, and pours one into his mouth - washing it down with the rest of his tequila before tapping the bar for another. With a rattling sound, the bartender drops two ice cubes into the glass as Mason turns his attention back to his phone.
“ Me? I’m the one with the problem? What about you, huh? One second you have my back, supporting me and what I do, and the next minute I’m public enemy number fucking one! And you know what babe? I’m fuckin’ sick of it, I was sick of it before we ever had Kadence, and now? Now you think you’re just going to take my son away from me? While also derailing my career? But I’m the problem…”
“ HE WAS FUCKING KIDNAPPED! “
The screen of his phone almost cracks with the amount of pressure he was putting on it, biting his lip and blowing air through his nostrils like a bull might. He pushes back his hair and nervously chuckles, licking his lips before firing back.
“ Get the fuck over it… Shit happens, and then we pay for it. But the price for what I did, for what I allowed to happen isn’t the loss of my son! That’s now how this works Clair, I’ll get a lawyer, I’ll fight and you know what? I won’t even bar you from his life once I win. You can have supervised visits. “
“ Go fuck yourself, Mason.”
Mason mocks her, repeating what she said with his lips but not with his words as he rolls his eyes, taking another drink.
“ Nah, ain’t gonna be that easy as just a few words, you wanted to go here? We can fucking go here, babe. Just another thing I have to bust my fucking ass for, a few more years shaved off my life, but ones I will gladly get rid of it means that I still get to see my son, the only thing that fucking matters to me. “
“ Then why are you in Japan. Hmmm, Mason? “
You could almost see the veins in Mason’s temple about to pop, as this had been a conversation he hadn’t stopped having since that eventful night back in Australia when his entire world was turned upside down. Not just losing his championship, but possibly scaring his child for life. Mason had thought long and hard about what he could have done differently, he had blamed himself and went spiraling down that rabbit hole, and in a lot of ways, he was still in that spiral.
But at this moment, he was done fighting that battle - he had made his peace with it and there was nothing that Clarissa could say that he hadn’t already branded in his psyche.
“Fallout needs me.”
And just like that he hangs up the phone, clicks the little red phone button, and ends the call. The bartender in front of him, a young Japanese woman with blond streaks flowing through her naturally dark hair looked at him sympathetically as she topped off his drink.
“Kanpai,” he says with a nod before downing the entirety of the glass and slamming it upside down onto the bar. He then lets out a large belch, the kind that really frees up some room in the ol’ gut. The woman giggles as Mason pulls out his wallet and throws his money down on the counter, paying for his drinks while also leaving a rather generous tip. He then spins off of his stool and heads for the door.
“Good luck Mason Destruction!”
The woman from behind the counter yells out, this was a bar deep into the wrestling territory of Japan, so it was no surprise that she recognized who he was. But Mason doesn’t stop walking, instead, he just pushes one hand into his pocket and lifts the other, giving her a peace sign before pushing open the door to the bar and exiting through the threshold.
The struggles of the responsibility of the father weighed heavily on the shoulders of Mason, it’s not something you could just remove. Oh, how he wished it was just a chip, that he could knock off- but it wasn’t. It affected every part of his life, from his health to his career. How was he supposed to focus on being there for Team Fallout, when he couldn’t even be there for Team McQueen? He was failing in all departments, and all the Xanax and alcohol in the world couldn’t stop the churning feeling in his stomach.
His anxieties were through the roof, with every breath he took he could feel the walls closing in around him, so he decided to remove those walls, separate himself from the society, the social construct that he was so blatantly struggling with.
At least for a few hours.
When the cameras catch back up with Mason Destruction, he no longer looks disheveled, his beard had been trimmed and the splotches had been taken care of. The sides of his head are now shaved, and what hair remains now is tied loosely in a top knot. He was no longer in Tokyo, far gone from the grimy backstreets bars. No, instead Mason stood leaned up against one of many twisted trees in a forest as thick as an ocean with overgrowth. The sun peaked through the patchworked top as fall was on its way, and the dense underbrush glistened with the cooling freeze of morning.
Mason was now dressed in a pair of army green cargo shorts, with his black and blue wrestling boots tied to his feet. His chest was bare, besides a loose-fitting, tacky-looking Asahi beer Kimono that he had picked up at a tourist shop on his flight in. His eyes meet up with the camera, as a confident yet borderline cocky smirk curls up one side of his face. As he runs his tongue along his bottom lip, over his lip ring his eyes gaze above the camera - as a flock of birds rustle by overhead. Crows cawing echoing through the otherwise silent forest. The leaves crack underneath Mason’s weight as he crosses his arms and begins to speak.
“ Did you miss me? No… How could you? I wasn’t gone long enough. No, see I was told I was fired, then rehired all in the span of a few weeks. But I didn’t fret, not not for one fucking second. Because I knew it wasn’t going to stand. See I had made a connection with you Fallout fans, the people who pay my ticket - my salary. And I wasn’t going to let something as small as my own failure get in the way of giving those people everything that I had promised. Because I’m only human, I’m just a man, a father, I’m a person who makes mistakes in and out of that ring, but let me tell you that I always learn from them. I always take them as they are, and learn how to avoid that shit in the future.
And when I look around me, when I look at Team Fallout, I see a bunch of failures…
Just like me.
Men and women who have been given the short stick time and time again, people who weren’t born with the silver spoon in their mouths - but plucked it from the corpses of their enemies. SwitchBlxde, Charon Seede, The Killjoy Club…The only thing that the five of us have in common is that we’re all flunkies of society. Born in a place that doesn’t get the recognition it deserves, or on the streets scrappin’ for our eats.
It doesn’t matter because we all share that fucking hunger for success... Because unlike our opponents over their on Proving Grounds, Team Darling, we ain’t bred for it. Do you know what I mean? “
A slight breeze rushes through the forest, picking up leaves and opening Mason’s shirt, revealing the scars of battle that he wears so proudly along his flesh. The camera slowly pans up to his body, up his gut, and over his ironic “drug-free” tattoo. Stopping on his face, as his icy blue eyes shatter through the lens of the camera - giving it a wink as it pans out he continues.
“ This place is known for its suicides, the Forrest. Not Project Honor, no it’ll be years until any of us show the effects of the CTW we suffer here. But It’ll all be worth it, right? That’s what people like Switch, people like Lazarus, people like me… That’s what we tell ourselves as we throw ourselves into the fire, time and time again. No holding back, pedal to the fucking metal, crashing into that fucking brick wall that was laid out long before our generation. The rebelling youth, no longer so youthful, with a few nicks in our bones and bags underneath our eyes.
We march forward, into the horde of Indy’s alliance. The men and women of Proving Ground riding in on their high horse, their prestige granted to them at birth. Wealthy in talent, and overbearing in excellence. When you look at the two groups side by side, there is no way in hell you would put your money on Fallout - but me? I’ll go all fucking in! I will bet it all on us because we have what they will never have…
A need to survive. “
Cracking his knuckles Mason chuckles underneath his breath as he lets his back slide down the tree so that he’s sitting the Indian style in the dirt and leaves. He takes a handful of dirt and lets the majority of it slip through his finger trips before smearing some across his face, like warpaint.
“ I am the King of Indiana, but that wasn’t something I was born into. It was hard-fought through buckets of blood and a need to be better than those who had more than I did. Because I was born with nothing, my parents worked and slaved away at dead-end jobs just to put the baloney and cheese sandwiches on the table for me and my younger brother. My grandfather worked in the mines until the mines dried up and then he busted his back scraping just to leave something to his children that was worth wild. A house, that now sits abandoned because I decided that the life that my forefathers lived, wasn’t going to make me the man I wanted to be. The wrestler that I knew I was since I was five years old and first watched some forgotten motherfucker suplex someone onto a table.
So I got a group of friends together and started putting on shows, started putting people through tables… But the tables weren’t enough, so it escalated to glass, to fire, to light tubes, and more. I destroyed myself, pretending to be what I am now! And the people who I have at my side at Night of Honor, I can tell they have the same kind of story, maybe some of the details are different, but what matters is that dream of being bigger than our worth. The desire to break the glass ceiling, or better yet... Put someone fucking through it.
We’re not friends, we’re not enemies. We’re brothers in arms, fighting for the place that has given us the recognition that we deserve. Fallout isn’t about the strongest, it isn’t about the most technically sound. It’s about who has the most heart, who has the most grit, the most fight! What dog can bite the hardest, and we are a team of fucking hyenas, snap your fucking bones and suck out the marrow. That’s Team Demarco.
That’s Fallout. “
Mason takes in a deep breath of air, letting the fresh breeze run through his nostrils and out of his mouth as he rolls his head around his shoulders. Stretching out his arms and hands, he lets his fingers extend towards the camera before shoving one into his pocket and pulling out a pack of Marlboro reds, flicking one up and putting it in between his lips. Lighting up the smooth cylinder of paper-wrapped tobacco, he lets the cowboy killer smoke ill his lungs. It seeps from his nostrils as he starts to speak once more.
“Swindle Sheldrake, that name alone sounds like two fucking nerds who played too much DnD while getting their masters had a child. And the old god obsession just completes that fact quite perfectly. You came here with a partner, but now you find yourself teamed up against no one with a familiar face, you find yourself alone lacking your world-ending status. And instead, you’re teamed up with the rest of the overachievers, the heartbreakers, the all-star team of Proving Ground. Swindle we both know you’re too full of yourself to even think about letting anyone else shine in this match, sure you’re a competent tag-team wrestler and you’d that would give you an advantage. But without your man by your side, I think those many tentacles of the Kraken will become filled with hubris, lashing out at anyone who tries to enter their whirlpool, shine in their spotlight. Are you willing to share your waters with the likes of Tj Thompson? Ulf? What about the Real Shogun himself, The Gajin killer Arata Asakura. “
Looking down at his Kimona, that smirk grows tenfold on the lips of Mason, his eyes peaking up as his head remains down.
“ I bet you find this pretty disrespectful, don’t you Arata? “
Another chuckle from underneath his breath, as he brings his knees into his chest and lets his arms rest on his knees - a few strands of hair coming loose from his topknot and falling in front of his eyes.
“ Arata, I don’t have anything against you personally, in fact, I love Japan… I love the culture, I love the beer, I love the way that punk rock is still alive over here. So the fact that I’m wrestling here? Well, this is something of a dream come true for me. It’s something that I could have never imagined just a few years ago, but here I am… Standing tall, and there you are, in my fucking shadow. In the shadow of Mark Hunter, of Swindle Sheldrake. Look at the Gaijin to your left, and then the one to your right. And tell me that they aren’t the exact thing that you want to get rid of. But you’re suppose to work with them? Form an alliance? Like they would give a single shit about you if they weren’t forced to have you at their backs? No, I don’t believe it. “
He shakes his head and takes another drag off his cigarette before continuing.
“ And what about you Ulf? The golden boy who has set records in his youth, literally chiseled from Ragna Lothbrooks image, the son of Odin, of thor, the blood that flows through your veins is richer than Mark Hunter’s bank account. You were bred for battle, to do war. It’s in your DNA to you, this shit? Wrestling? It comes as natural as breathing, and I understand that it’s very fucking intimidating to someone who is standing you down. You wear warpaint, make yourself look all fucking Viking and you go out there and scream until your lungs bleed because that is what you were made to do!
So how is someone like me suppose to compete with superior genetics? How is my shitty central plain state, USA blood… Suppose to break down the ultimate warmonger? With blood and violence of course, because while you were breaking records in high school, I was breaking fucking faces off steal chairs. While you were playing fucking grab-ass, trying to be Mr. MMA. I was hauling lumber, jumping off roofs, and bleeding for my dream.”
Taking one final drag off of his cigarette, Mason flicks it into the camera - it burst into flames upon collision.
“You don’t scare me Ulf, I used to fuck people like you’s Girlfriends back in high school. You may be big, but I’m bigger. You may be tough, but I’m tougher! You may be mean, but I just don’t give a shit. I think you’re a punk, and if you stand in the way of our lovely little bunch of misfits, I’ll fuckin’ blood eagle your ass. “
Mason moves his arms up and down, like an eagle taking flight as he stands back up to his feet - squawking as he does so. He knew it was humorous, and that was apparent by his laughter followed by another crack of his neck. Mason looked upon the sea of trees before him, all a bit different - not straight, but twisted in an almost haunting pattern. He could understand why people came out here to die, it was very peaceful.
Pushing the few strands of hair that had fallen earlier back up his head, he turns back to the camera, clapping his hands three times before clasping them together.
“ I’d talk about TJ Thompson, but honestly any words wasted on him are better off for people who actually perceive him as a threat. I want to talk about you Mark Hunter. “
With his fingers still clasped, he points into the camera, almost imitating as if he was holding a gun - he closes one eye and shoots.
“ Bang.”
The smirk returns to half of his face as he lets his armrest at his side - pushing his back up against the tree, much like when we first found him.
“Mark your name alone, brings so much credence to your team, so much credential to Proving Ground as a whole. You’ve been here, you’ve done that. And that is why I said that I don’t see anyone else on your team. Not because I don’t believe they are some of the cremes of the crop, the elite that Proving Ground, or no better yet, wrestling has to offer. You’ve won championship, after championship, after championship! You are the guy that not only I, but everyone else on my team wants to beat.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you Mark? You love being that guy, that everyone wants to beat. The big dick on campus, that’s why you took the head of team Indy. Because it’s not equal over there! At least in your mind… But over here? I can’t say I’m better than the man standing to my left or my right, I haven’t proven that yet… hell.. I’ve lost more matches than I’ve won, but that speaks tons on why Christian picked me to be on this team. Because I’ve been in this kind of situation before. “
In a very theatric fashion, Mason lets the kimono fly off of his body with the passing wind, giving a greater scope of the scars that made up his body. They ran along his arms, his chest, and his back and the camera spun around collecting every inch of it within its view. Before stopping directly in front of The Indiana Beach Bad Body. He crosses his arms, leaning up against the tree once again - placing a foot up against it for stability.
“ I outlasted other men to gain the Ascension Championship, I outlasted other men earning the right to do it as well. When it comes to these kinds of clusterfucks I am the go-to man, because I’ll stay standing long after the mind has gone to sleep. Like one of these lumbering trees, it’s in my nature to survive. You can hang as many bodies as you want from my branches but, I? I will stay exactly where I’ve been planted, and that’s project honor, that’s Fallout! It doesn’t matter who you put in front of me, how many times I’ve failed in the past. When you see Mason Destruction on the card you know that you are seeing a man who is willing to die inside of that ring - because I wasn’t made for this.
But it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted. And at Night of Honor… I’ll prove it to everyone. “
The scene abruptly, jarringly cuts to black.
“ Or kill myself trying. “
But what about being a father?
Is it death that ends that primordial call to protect? Or is it a mother, keeping her son away from the man who broke her heart time and time again? Are we all so perfect, that we never make mistakes? Is an unjust action for justifiable means worth it in the end?
And what if all your worlds ended at once, not so much death of life, but a death of the senses. Fired from your job, and walls put up around your family, your livelihood. What do we do then?
What do you do when your entire foundation falls apart? They don’t teach you that in school.
But that is where we find our former Ascension champion, Mason Destruction.
Mason looked rough, an unkempt spotty beard smearing across his face, and his hair more grown in than usual. His man bun was missing, and instead, he just let the longer parts of his hair hang across his face and ears - in no fashionable way. He sat at a rundown bar somewhere deep in the Yamashi territory of Tokyo, the kind of place where ultraviolence was just another way of life. And although he didn’t work for the company, he felt more comfortable in a place like this - than in some high-end hotel which Christian Demarco had paid for.
He was dressed in a sonic blue Japanese printed Donnie Calabrese shirt and a pair of cowboy denim blue jeans. One hand grips a room-temperature glass of the tequila, while the other loosely held his cellphone up this ear.
“What the fuck is this? “ Mason says, a tired almost annoyed growl in his voice as he takes a sip of his liquor.
“ You’re not right Mason, there’s something wrong with that head of yours… Narcissism maybe? A lack of a clear picture? I don’t know… But I don’t need it around my son, I don’t need him to grow up thinking hitting walls, and cursing at the mother of his child is alright. I don’t want him to be so fucking cynical, that he has to go chase his childhood dream because, and I quote “ The town was killing him. “ You had everything you could ever want here Mason. And what? You just threw it all away because wrestling? Who does that? I mean really… Who? Fuck dreams, you’re a god damn a father - you chose to leave… Just like I did… The only difference? Is I took Kadence with me. “
Scoffing in disgust, Mason pulls the phone away from his ear for a brief moment as he takes in a deep breath, trying his best to compose himself in a situation that was figuratively and literally tearing at his heartstrings. Stress, it’s the real killer, and that was all the more apparent as set his hand down to scramble to his pocket, pulling out a prescription pill bottle for Xanax, one with his name on it.
“ Are you there Mason?”
“ Give me a fucking second. “ He demands into the phone as he pops the top on the pills, and pours one into his mouth - washing it down with the rest of his tequila before tapping the bar for another. With a rattling sound, the bartender drops two ice cubes into the glass as Mason turns his attention back to his phone.
“ Me? I’m the one with the problem? What about you, huh? One second you have my back, supporting me and what I do, and the next minute I’m public enemy number fucking one! And you know what babe? I’m fuckin’ sick of it, I was sick of it before we ever had Kadence, and now? Now you think you’re just going to take my son away from me? While also derailing my career? But I’m the problem…”
“ HE WAS FUCKING KIDNAPPED! “
The screen of his phone almost cracks with the amount of pressure he was putting on it, biting his lip and blowing air through his nostrils like a bull might. He pushes back his hair and nervously chuckles, licking his lips before firing back.
“ Get the fuck over it… Shit happens, and then we pay for it. But the price for what I did, for what I allowed to happen isn’t the loss of my son! That’s now how this works Clair, I’ll get a lawyer, I’ll fight and you know what? I won’t even bar you from his life once I win. You can have supervised visits. “
“ Go fuck yourself, Mason.”
Mason mocks her, repeating what she said with his lips but not with his words as he rolls his eyes, taking another drink.
“ Nah, ain’t gonna be that easy as just a few words, you wanted to go here? We can fucking go here, babe. Just another thing I have to bust my fucking ass for, a few more years shaved off my life, but ones I will gladly get rid of it means that I still get to see my son, the only thing that fucking matters to me. “
“ Then why are you in Japan. Hmmm, Mason? “
You could almost see the veins in Mason’s temple about to pop, as this had been a conversation he hadn’t stopped having since that eventful night back in Australia when his entire world was turned upside down. Not just losing his championship, but possibly scaring his child for life. Mason had thought long and hard about what he could have done differently, he had blamed himself and went spiraling down that rabbit hole, and in a lot of ways, he was still in that spiral.
But at this moment, he was done fighting that battle - he had made his peace with it and there was nothing that Clarissa could say that he hadn’t already branded in his psyche.
“Fallout needs me.”
And just like that he hangs up the phone, clicks the little red phone button, and ends the call. The bartender in front of him, a young Japanese woman with blond streaks flowing through her naturally dark hair looked at him sympathetically as she topped off his drink.
“Kanpai,” he says with a nod before downing the entirety of the glass and slamming it upside down onto the bar. He then lets out a large belch, the kind that really frees up some room in the ol’ gut. The woman giggles as Mason pulls out his wallet and throws his money down on the counter, paying for his drinks while also leaving a rather generous tip. He then spins off of his stool and heads for the door.
“Good luck Mason Destruction!”
The woman from behind the counter yells out, this was a bar deep into the wrestling territory of Japan, so it was no surprise that she recognized who he was. But Mason doesn’t stop walking, instead, he just pushes one hand into his pocket and lifts the other, giving her a peace sign before pushing open the door to the bar and exiting through the threshold.
The struggles of the responsibility of the father weighed heavily on the shoulders of Mason, it’s not something you could just remove. Oh, how he wished it was just a chip, that he could knock off- but it wasn’t. It affected every part of his life, from his health to his career. How was he supposed to focus on being there for Team Fallout, when he couldn’t even be there for Team McQueen? He was failing in all departments, and all the Xanax and alcohol in the world couldn’t stop the churning feeling in his stomach.
His anxieties were through the roof, with every breath he took he could feel the walls closing in around him, so he decided to remove those walls, separate himself from the society, the social construct that he was so blatantly struggling with.
At least for a few hours.
When the cameras catch back up with Mason Destruction, he no longer looks disheveled, his beard had been trimmed and the splotches had been taken care of. The sides of his head are now shaved, and what hair remains now is tied loosely in a top knot. He was no longer in Tokyo, far gone from the grimy backstreets bars. No, instead Mason stood leaned up against one of many twisted trees in a forest as thick as an ocean with overgrowth. The sun peaked through the patchworked top as fall was on its way, and the dense underbrush glistened with the cooling freeze of morning.
Mason was now dressed in a pair of army green cargo shorts, with his black and blue wrestling boots tied to his feet. His chest was bare, besides a loose-fitting, tacky-looking Asahi beer Kimono that he had picked up at a tourist shop on his flight in. His eyes meet up with the camera, as a confident yet borderline cocky smirk curls up one side of his face. As he runs his tongue along his bottom lip, over his lip ring his eyes gaze above the camera - as a flock of birds rustle by overhead. Crows cawing echoing through the otherwise silent forest. The leaves crack underneath Mason’s weight as he crosses his arms and begins to speak.
“ Did you miss me? No… How could you? I wasn’t gone long enough. No, see I was told I was fired, then rehired all in the span of a few weeks. But I didn’t fret, not not for one fucking second. Because I knew it wasn’t going to stand. See I had made a connection with you Fallout fans, the people who pay my ticket - my salary. And I wasn’t going to let something as small as my own failure get in the way of giving those people everything that I had promised. Because I’m only human, I’m just a man, a father, I’m a person who makes mistakes in and out of that ring, but let me tell you that I always learn from them. I always take them as they are, and learn how to avoid that shit in the future.
And when I look around me, when I look at Team Fallout, I see a bunch of failures…
Just like me.
Men and women who have been given the short stick time and time again, people who weren’t born with the silver spoon in their mouths - but plucked it from the corpses of their enemies. SwitchBlxde, Charon Seede, The Killjoy Club…The only thing that the five of us have in common is that we’re all flunkies of society. Born in a place that doesn’t get the recognition it deserves, or on the streets scrappin’ for our eats.
It doesn’t matter because we all share that fucking hunger for success... Because unlike our opponents over their on Proving Grounds, Team Darling, we ain’t bred for it. Do you know what I mean? “
A slight breeze rushes through the forest, picking up leaves and opening Mason’s shirt, revealing the scars of battle that he wears so proudly along his flesh. The camera slowly pans up to his body, up his gut, and over his ironic “drug-free” tattoo. Stopping on his face, as his icy blue eyes shatter through the lens of the camera - giving it a wink as it pans out he continues.
“ This place is known for its suicides, the Forrest. Not Project Honor, no it’ll be years until any of us show the effects of the CTW we suffer here. But It’ll all be worth it, right? That’s what people like Switch, people like Lazarus, people like me… That’s what we tell ourselves as we throw ourselves into the fire, time and time again. No holding back, pedal to the fucking metal, crashing into that fucking brick wall that was laid out long before our generation. The rebelling youth, no longer so youthful, with a few nicks in our bones and bags underneath our eyes.
We march forward, into the horde of Indy’s alliance. The men and women of Proving Ground riding in on their high horse, their prestige granted to them at birth. Wealthy in talent, and overbearing in excellence. When you look at the two groups side by side, there is no way in hell you would put your money on Fallout - but me? I’ll go all fucking in! I will bet it all on us because we have what they will never have…
A need to survive. “
Cracking his knuckles Mason chuckles underneath his breath as he lets his back slide down the tree so that he’s sitting the Indian style in the dirt and leaves. He takes a handful of dirt and lets the majority of it slip through his finger trips before smearing some across his face, like warpaint.
“ I am the King of Indiana, but that wasn’t something I was born into. It was hard-fought through buckets of blood and a need to be better than those who had more than I did. Because I was born with nothing, my parents worked and slaved away at dead-end jobs just to put the baloney and cheese sandwiches on the table for me and my younger brother. My grandfather worked in the mines until the mines dried up and then he busted his back scraping just to leave something to his children that was worth wild. A house, that now sits abandoned because I decided that the life that my forefathers lived, wasn’t going to make me the man I wanted to be. The wrestler that I knew I was since I was five years old and first watched some forgotten motherfucker suplex someone onto a table.
So I got a group of friends together and started putting on shows, started putting people through tables… But the tables weren’t enough, so it escalated to glass, to fire, to light tubes, and more. I destroyed myself, pretending to be what I am now! And the people who I have at my side at Night of Honor, I can tell they have the same kind of story, maybe some of the details are different, but what matters is that dream of being bigger than our worth. The desire to break the glass ceiling, or better yet... Put someone fucking through it.
We’re not friends, we’re not enemies. We’re brothers in arms, fighting for the place that has given us the recognition that we deserve. Fallout isn’t about the strongest, it isn’t about the most technically sound. It’s about who has the most heart, who has the most grit, the most fight! What dog can bite the hardest, and we are a team of fucking hyenas, snap your fucking bones and suck out the marrow. That’s Team Demarco.
That’s Fallout. “
Mason takes in a deep breath of air, letting the fresh breeze run through his nostrils and out of his mouth as he rolls his head around his shoulders. Stretching out his arms and hands, he lets his fingers extend towards the camera before shoving one into his pocket and pulling out a pack of Marlboro reds, flicking one up and putting it in between his lips. Lighting up the smooth cylinder of paper-wrapped tobacco, he lets the cowboy killer smoke ill his lungs. It seeps from his nostrils as he starts to speak once more.
“Swindle Sheldrake, that name alone sounds like two fucking nerds who played too much DnD while getting their masters had a child. And the old god obsession just completes that fact quite perfectly. You came here with a partner, but now you find yourself teamed up against no one with a familiar face, you find yourself alone lacking your world-ending status. And instead, you’re teamed up with the rest of the overachievers, the heartbreakers, the all-star team of Proving Ground. Swindle we both know you’re too full of yourself to even think about letting anyone else shine in this match, sure you’re a competent tag-team wrestler and you’d that would give you an advantage. But without your man by your side, I think those many tentacles of the Kraken will become filled with hubris, lashing out at anyone who tries to enter their whirlpool, shine in their spotlight. Are you willing to share your waters with the likes of Tj Thompson? Ulf? What about the Real Shogun himself, The Gajin killer Arata Asakura. “
Looking down at his Kimona, that smirk grows tenfold on the lips of Mason, his eyes peaking up as his head remains down.
“ I bet you find this pretty disrespectful, don’t you Arata? “
Another chuckle from underneath his breath, as he brings his knees into his chest and lets his arms rest on his knees - a few strands of hair coming loose from his topknot and falling in front of his eyes.
“ Arata, I don’t have anything against you personally, in fact, I love Japan… I love the culture, I love the beer, I love the way that punk rock is still alive over here. So the fact that I’m wrestling here? Well, this is something of a dream come true for me. It’s something that I could have never imagined just a few years ago, but here I am… Standing tall, and there you are, in my fucking shadow. In the shadow of Mark Hunter, of Swindle Sheldrake. Look at the Gaijin to your left, and then the one to your right. And tell me that they aren’t the exact thing that you want to get rid of. But you’re suppose to work with them? Form an alliance? Like they would give a single shit about you if they weren’t forced to have you at their backs? No, I don’t believe it. “
He shakes his head and takes another drag off his cigarette before continuing.
“ And what about you Ulf? The golden boy who has set records in his youth, literally chiseled from Ragna Lothbrooks image, the son of Odin, of thor, the blood that flows through your veins is richer than Mark Hunter’s bank account. You were bred for battle, to do war. It’s in your DNA to you, this shit? Wrestling? It comes as natural as breathing, and I understand that it’s very fucking intimidating to someone who is standing you down. You wear warpaint, make yourself look all fucking Viking and you go out there and scream until your lungs bleed because that is what you were made to do!
So how is someone like me suppose to compete with superior genetics? How is my shitty central plain state, USA blood… Suppose to break down the ultimate warmonger? With blood and violence of course, because while you were breaking records in high school, I was breaking fucking faces off steal chairs. While you were playing fucking grab-ass, trying to be Mr. MMA. I was hauling lumber, jumping off roofs, and bleeding for my dream.”
Taking one final drag off of his cigarette, Mason flicks it into the camera - it burst into flames upon collision.
“You don’t scare me Ulf, I used to fuck people like you’s Girlfriends back in high school. You may be big, but I’m bigger. You may be tough, but I’m tougher! You may be mean, but I just don’t give a shit. I think you’re a punk, and if you stand in the way of our lovely little bunch of misfits, I’ll fuckin’ blood eagle your ass. “
Mason moves his arms up and down, like an eagle taking flight as he stands back up to his feet - squawking as he does so. He knew it was humorous, and that was apparent by his laughter followed by another crack of his neck. Mason looked upon the sea of trees before him, all a bit different - not straight, but twisted in an almost haunting pattern. He could understand why people came out here to die, it was very peaceful.
Pushing the few strands of hair that had fallen earlier back up his head, he turns back to the camera, clapping his hands three times before clasping them together.
“ I’d talk about TJ Thompson, but honestly any words wasted on him are better off for people who actually perceive him as a threat. I want to talk about you Mark Hunter. “
With his fingers still clasped, he points into the camera, almost imitating as if he was holding a gun - he closes one eye and shoots.
“ Bang.”
The smirk returns to half of his face as he lets his armrest at his side - pushing his back up against the tree, much like when we first found him.
“Mark your name alone, brings so much credence to your team, so much credential to Proving Ground as a whole. You’ve been here, you’ve done that. And that is why I said that I don’t see anyone else on your team. Not because I don’t believe they are some of the cremes of the crop, the elite that Proving Ground, or no better yet, wrestling has to offer. You’ve won championship, after championship, after championship! You are the guy that not only I, but everyone else on my team wants to beat.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you Mark? You love being that guy, that everyone wants to beat. The big dick on campus, that’s why you took the head of team Indy. Because it’s not equal over there! At least in your mind… But over here? I can’t say I’m better than the man standing to my left or my right, I haven’t proven that yet… hell.. I’ve lost more matches than I’ve won, but that speaks tons on why Christian picked me to be on this team. Because I’ve been in this kind of situation before. “
In a very theatric fashion, Mason lets the kimono fly off of his body with the passing wind, giving a greater scope of the scars that made up his body. They ran along his arms, his chest, and his back and the camera spun around collecting every inch of it within its view. Before stopping directly in front of The Indiana Beach Bad Body. He crosses his arms, leaning up against the tree once again - placing a foot up against it for stability.
“ I outlasted other men to gain the Ascension Championship, I outlasted other men earning the right to do it as well. When it comes to these kinds of clusterfucks I am the go-to man, because I’ll stay standing long after the mind has gone to sleep. Like one of these lumbering trees, it’s in my nature to survive. You can hang as many bodies as you want from my branches but, I? I will stay exactly where I’ve been planted, and that’s project honor, that’s Fallout! It doesn’t matter who you put in front of me, how many times I’ve failed in the past. When you see Mason Destruction on the card you know that you are seeing a man who is willing to die inside of that ring - because I wasn’t made for this.
But it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted. And at Night of Honor… I’ll prove it to everyone. “
The scene abruptly, jarringly cuts to black.
“ Or kill myself trying. “