Post by Syndicate on Sept 9, 2021 21:48:41 GMT -5
THE IRVINE HOUSEHOLD - LOS ANGELES, CA
SEPTEMBER 8TH, 2021 - 11:57PM
?: "An exhausted Long tumbles back into the ring…AND SYNDICATE CHARGED IN WITH THE 'ORIGINAL SYN' TO THE BACK OF THE HEAD OF LONG!!!"
From nothing, we fade in to a shot of a nearly pitch-black kitchen within the Irvine Household in Los Angeles. The sun has long since set on the California coastline, and all the lights in the house are off, save for the light emanating from a laptop screen on the kitchen table. On it, a replay of Fallout XII is being shown - specifically, the final moments of the match between Jason Long and the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate - and based on who's sitting in front of the computer, watching everything unfold, it's easy to see why this particular match is playing. This is, of course, the Los Angeles Outlaw himself, Syndicate, who certainly looks like he could use a bit of sleep. Wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants and with his shoulder-length blonde hair frazzled all over the place, Syndicate rubs his bearded chin with his right hand as he observes his own match.
Laptop: "Syndicate then looks to make quick work of Long, as he hooks his head for the Vault...BUT LONG SHIFTS HIS BODY OVER SO SYNDICATE'S SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!!! ONE...TWO...THREE!!!"
He leans forward in his chair and taps the left arrow key on his keyboard, rewinding the video by a few seconds. Staring intently into the screen, he watches the same sequence unfold for a second time.
Laptop: "...BUT LONG SHIFTS HIS BODY OVER SO SYNDICATE'S SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!!! ONE...TWO...THREE!!!"
Syndicate rewinds the video again.
Laptop: "...SYNDICATE'S SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!!!"
?: Sweetie, are you okay?
Emerging at the bottom of the stairs behind Syndicate is his wife, Sophie. Wearing a blue tank top and volleyball shorts, Sophie pushes back her flowing brunette hair back as she realizes what's happening.
Sophie: Syd, this is the third time this week.
Syndicate: I don't care.
Sophie: You've already seen the match a million times. You know what happens at the end of it!
Syndicate: Like I said, I don't care.
Sophie sighs - this is an argument she knows she'll never win - and walks over to her husband. She pulls up a chair next to him and sits, looking directly at him while Syndicate refuses to turn his gaze from the screen.
Sophie: Look, I know you wanted to beat Jason, but it just didn't work out that night. That's okay.
Syndicate: But I should have beat him. The whole world knows that I should have beat him.
Sophie very obviously doubts that, but she continues anyway.
Sophie: You have a big match against Julius this weekend - if you're going to stay up late, you may as well watch some of his matches.
Syndicate: Yeah, but he's not the champion. He's not the guy I'm gunning for in the long run. Jason is.
Syndicate finally breaks his eye contact with the screen and turns towards his wife with a look of passionate rage on his face.
Syndicate: I want Jason's head on a platter. I want to tear that man to shreds in front of Savannah and everyone else that he loves and cares about, so that they too can feel the pain that I feel right now. I may have lost in a non-title affair, but next time? That's not happening again.
He turns back to the computer and rewinds the match back to the very beginning, leaving Sophie in silence for a moment.
Sophie: Alright, do whatever the hell you want, but make sure you get to bed at a decent time. You've got that reading gig at the school tomorrow.
Syndicate: Hmm?
Sophie: Yeah, didn't JJ tell you? The Department of Mental Health called SportsMax, you've gotta read a book to some third graders as part of your "community service".
Syndicate: Well, that's just fuckin' stupid.
Sophie: Would you rather have to go see Dr. Bennett again? I don't think so. Good night.
Frustrated with her husband, Sophie stands up and walks back upstairs to bed, leaving Syndicate alone. He looks back after her for a moment, debating on whether or not to follow, before shaking his head and turning back to his match against Jason Long.
From nothing, we fade in to a shot of a nearly pitch-black kitchen within the Irvine Household in Los Angeles. The sun has long since set on the California coastline, and all the lights in the house are off, save for the light emanating from a laptop screen on the kitchen table. On it, a replay of Fallout XII is being shown - specifically, the final moments of the match between Jason Long and the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate - and based on who's sitting in front of the computer, watching everything unfold, it's easy to see why this particular match is playing. This is, of course, the Los Angeles Outlaw himself, Syndicate, who certainly looks like he could use a bit of sleep. Wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants and with his shoulder-length blonde hair frazzled all over the place, Syndicate rubs his bearded chin with his right hand as he observes his own match.
Laptop: "Syndicate then looks to make quick work of Long, as he hooks his head for the Vault...BUT LONG SHIFTS HIS BODY OVER SO SYNDICATE'S SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!!! ONE...TWO...THREE!!!"
He leans forward in his chair and taps the left arrow key on his keyboard, rewinding the video by a few seconds. Staring intently into the screen, he watches the same sequence unfold for a second time.
Laptop: "...BUT LONG SHIFTS HIS BODY OVER SO SYNDICATE'S SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!!! ONE...TWO...THREE!!!"
Syndicate rewinds the video again.
Laptop: "...SYNDICATE'S SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!!!"
?: Sweetie, are you okay?
Emerging at the bottom of the stairs behind Syndicate is his wife, Sophie. Wearing a blue tank top and volleyball shorts, Sophie pushes back her flowing brunette hair back as she realizes what's happening.
Sophie: Syd, this is the third time this week.
Syndicate: I don't care.
Sophie: You've already seen the match a million times. You know what happens at the end of it!
Syndicate: Like I said, I don't care.
Sophie sighs - this is an argument she knows she'll never win - and walks over to her husband. She pulls up a chair next to him and sits, looking directly at him while Syndicate refuses to turn his gaze from the screen.
Sophie: Look, I know you wanted to beat Jason, but it just didn't work out that night. That's okay.
Syndicate: But I should have beat him. The whole world knows that I should have beat him.
Sophie very obviously doubts that, but she continues anyway.
Sophie: You have a big match against Julius this weekend - if you're going to stay up late, you may as well watch some of his matches.
Syndicate: Yeah, but he's not the champion. He's not the guy I'm gunning for in the long run. Jason is.
Syndicate finally breaks his eye contact with the screen and turns towards his wife with a look of passionate rage on his face.
Syndicate: I want Jason's head on a platter. I want to tear that man to shreds in front of Savannah and everyone else that he loves and cares about, so that they too can feel the pain that I feel right now. I may have lost in a non-title affair, but next time? That's not happening again.
He turns back to the computer and rewinds the match back to the very beginning, leaving Sophie in silence for a moment.
Sophie: Alright, do whatever the hell you want, but make sure you get to bed at a decent time. You've got that reading gig at the school tomorrow.
Syndicate: Hmm?
Sophie: Yeah, didn't JJ tell you? The Department of Mental Health called SportsMax, you've gotta read a book to some third graders as part of your "community service".
Syndicate: Well, that's just fuckin' stupid.
Sophie: Would you rather have to go see Dr. Bennett again? I don't think so. Good night.
Frustrated with her husband, Sophie stands up and walks back upstairs to bed, leaving Syndicate alone. He looks back after her for a moment, debating on whether or not to follow, before shaking his head and turning back to his match against Jason Long.
VERMONT AVENUE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL - LOS ANGELES, CA
SEPTEMBER 9TH, 2021 - 10:28AM
SEPTEMBER 9TH, 2021 - 10:28AM
The camera cuts to a classroom inside Vermont Avenue Elementary School in Los Angeles, California. In the center of the room sits a group of about twenty third graders, and around them stand a few assembled teachers to keep those third graders under control. At the front of the room stands Principal John Davis, wearing a gray polo shirt and khakis, with an excited smile on his face.
Principal: Alright, students, for this year's Celebrity Reading Day, please welcome, from the world of pro wrestling, Sydney "Syndicate" Irvine!
The assembled crowd applauds as the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, waltzes into the room with his signature self-confident demeanor. Wearing his signature black leather jacket over a white t-shirt and blue jeans, Syndicate shakes hands with Principal Davis and takes a seat in front of the kids.
Syndicate: Have a seat, boys and girls - it's story time with Uncle Sydney!
Reaching into his bag, Syndicate pulls out a large leather-bound book. He smiles out at the group of third graders, opens the book, and begins to read.
Syndicate: "Once upon a time, there was a man that found himself in a familiar situation, one where the adversity seemed insurmountable. Up to this point, the man - try as he might - was always criminally underappreciated and constantly disrespected by his peers. He never fit in with his surroundings, he defied authority and precedence at every turn, and yet, somehow, he found himself at the precipice of becoming one of the greatest all-around fighters of all time. The man had it all: championships...an amateur pedigree...and a mouth that never knew when to stop. After years of struggle, things were finally starting to come together, but just as they did - just as Icarus once flew with Daedalus far above the Earth on wings that were destined to fail - everything soon began to fall apart as they had so many times before."
He looks a bit confused as to what he's reading, but nevertheless, he continues.
Syndicate: "In the future, generations of humans only know of him as a cautionary tale, one used to warn children about the horrors of the real world" - hold on, what the fuck is this?
GASP!!!
Principal: Mr. Irvine!
Somehow not reading the room, Syndicate glances at the cover of the book he's reading and immediately sighs in disappointment when he reads the title: "The Fable of Fairweather".
Syndicate: Sorry, kids, you'll learn what that means in a few years...well, some of you will, anyway. Now, give me a moment, I'm sure I have the right book here somewhere...
The Los Angeles Outlaw slides "The Fable of Fairweather" back into his bag and begins rifling through the rest of it, eventually pulling out a much larger book with a red cover and gold lettering on the front.
Syndicate: Ah, here it is! Boys and girls, you can go find "The Fable of Fairweather" at your local dumpster, but for now, let's read this book instead, okay? "The Story of Syndicate"!
He opens the front cover of the tome and begins reading from the first page, just as he had before.
Syndicate: "Once upon a time, there was a man that found himself in a familiar situation", blah, blah, blah. Let's just skip to the good part, shall we?
Syndicate flips through a few pages quickly before landing on his intended destination.
Syndicate: Ah, here we are. "After years of struggle, things were finally starting to come together, and after a brief period of weak resistance from his enemies, the man finally took control of his destiny, soundly defeated a rival on his sport's biggest stage, and went on to become the fabled Legacy Champion for the rest of time. The end."
Syndicate puts the book back into his backpack and looks out at a crowd of shocked children, themselves surrounded by angry adults.
Syndicate: Wow, what a story! Would anyone like to tell me what they learned from our book today?
Principal: No, no, we're all done here.
The principal bounds over to the Los Angeles Outlaw and pulls him to his feet, trying to maneuver the wrestler towards the door. He's successful in this endeavor, but not before Syndicate can get out one last quip.
Syndicate: Don't forget to watch Uncle Sydney beat up a weatherman this Sunday at Night of Honor!
Before he can say any more, Principal Davis puts a hand on his shoulder and firmly ushers him out of the classroom.
VERMONT AVENUE - LOS ANGELES, CA
SEPTEMBER 9TH, 2021 - 11:01AM
SEPTEMBER 9TH, 2021 - 11:01AM
Principal: The Department of Mental Health will be hearing from us, Mr. Irvine.
Syndicate: Ah, whatever. Have a great day!
Furious, the principal slams the doors shut, leaving Syndicate all alone on the street. Taking a moment to collect himself, he chuckles and walks out onto the school's front lawn, eventually deciding to lean against a red brick half-wall adjacent to the sidewalk.
Syndicate: You know, that right there is why you should never go into state-mandated therapy. One minute, you're on top of the world, and the next...you're getting kicked out of a third grade classroom.
Swinging his black Adidas backpack over to the front of his torso, he reaches into the side pocket and retrieves, of all things, a bottle of New Glarus Spotted Cow beer.
Syndicate: Imported from Wisconsin. I only drink the real good shit.
Popping the cap off with his car keys, the Los Angeles Outlaw takes a long swig of the alcoholic beverage before speaking again.
Syndicate: Listen, I'm all for reading to the kids and all that. I'm not a fuckin' psychopath. But, hell, you've got people coming in and reading Dr. Seuss books trying to be "inspirational" and all that, and for what? So that they can smile and feel good about themselves? Nah, that's not how things work in the real world, and the kids in our school systems need to be taught that NOW before it's too goddamn late. But I wasn't given that memo. I went through twelve years of schooling, and not one Apter Area Public School District employee decided to tell me that life isn't as rosy as what you see on TV. Cartoons like SpongeBob and Rugrats, shows like Seinfeld and Malcolm in the Middle, they all told me that even if things got tough, everything would resolve itself at the end of the day. But that's not true...that's never been true. And because the adults around me took it upon themselves to be dishonest to a child, it took me until my junior year of high school to learn how this terrible fuckin' world really felt about about ol' Sydney Irvine.
He takes another drink of his Spotted Cow, watching the road behind the camera as a bevy of vehicles can be heard speeding by on a busy midday Vermont Avenue.
Syndicate: Not good enough to be the captain. Not healthy enough to make the team. Not respected enough to be trusted regarding my own body. Nobody believed that I could handle the pressure of greatness...not even my own brother, my own flesh and blood. And when the moment presented itself, what did my brother do? Allow me safe passage into the future, with the wind at my back? Give me the opportunity to become better than he EVER could be? No...no, that just wouldn't do. In one fell swoop, he took away the control that I had over my own life and ruined everything I had ever done. And just like that...
Suddenly, Syndicate turns around and forcefully throws his empty bottle of beer against the school wall behind him.
CRASHHHHHHHHHHH
The bottle breaks apart on impact, spreading shards of glass all across the sidewalk. Luckily, no one was around the bottle when it struck cement, but even so, it's not exactly a normal occurrence to see a beer bottle being thrown outside of an elementary school.
Syndicate: ...everything shattered into pieces. I left Apter, I left my friends, and I left my traitorous family behind for the bright lights of Hollywood. And what happened when I walked through the gates and became a citizen of the City of Angels? I was welcomed and accepted, not for who I was, but for who I wasn't. I wasn't a phony. I wasn't a pretender. The people of Los Angeles are exposed to those kinds of people each and every day, and they're absolutely sick of it, just like I am. For once in my life, I felt as though I belonged in this cruel, cruel world. Once I found a place to sleep and hang my coat, I got into professional wrestling, the one thing that I was truly good at, because I knew that if I did anything else, it simply wouldn't be as poetic. My brother, my friends, and my family ripped the dream of another state wrestling championship straight out of my hands, and man, would I love to see their faces when I waltzed onto their television screens and proved to them that I DO belong at the top of this industry. And ever since I hopped on that Greyhound bus and skipped town, I have kept that idea firmly planted at the front of my subconscious, because THAT is what I truly desire. Championships and victories are great, sure, but at the end of the day, they are nothing more than means to an end. Because I WILL earn the respect of my peers, I WILL take down all comers, and I WILL cement myself as the greatest to ever fuckin' do it. And afterwards? Well, I suppose I’ll turn my attention to the unjust systems and corrupt institutions that tried to hold me down in the first place.
Syndicate: So why do I bring this all up? Because Julius Fairweather is the only other person in this company that knows what the hell I'm talking about. Julius, I know you've had a rough go of things. Grew up without a father in the steaming pile of fresh donkey shit that is Detroit, being rejected by the University of Michigan for not fitting their view of what an "amateur wrestler" should be, moving elsewhere to continue furthering your career, yada, yada, yada. The whole nine yards. The rest of the peanut gallery here in Project: Honor is simply too incompetent to understand what we have gone through, Julius, but I'm not like them. Believe it or not, I actually respect you for being able to survive it all and make it here, to the pinnacle of professional wrestling. And when I saw your name opposite mine on the Night of Honor card, I couldn't help but feel excited to come face-to-face with you once again.
The former Tennessee state wrestling champion taps a finger on the side of his temple, smiling into the camera lens.
Syndicate: But remember earlier, when I was reading those books to the kids that would very clearly rather be playing video games than listening to their elders? I had two stories with me. In one, the hero prevailed, overcoming his demons to finally fulfill his destiny. But in the other? Well, I don't know about you, but from my point of view, being compared to the myth of Icarus isn't exactly favorable. And yet, that's exactly who you are, Julius - you're Icarus! You've survived so much hardship, you’ve gone on this seven-match win streak, and you've deluded yourself into believing that you belong in the upper echelon of Project: Honor, but anyone with a brain can see the truth. They see the same man that I see, a man with blatant character issues, a man that has never accomplished anything of note in professional wrestling, and a man...that has simply flown too close to the sun. You’ve been kicked out of every single place you’ve been, and sure, they’ll say it’s because of “disciplinary reasons” or whatever, but that’s not true. Nah, you got booted from boxing and MMA and everything else because you just couldn’t cut it in those sports, and you’re sure as hell not doing enough to survive in professional wrestling either. Difference is, the peers of your past gently pushed you out the door, but this time, at Night of Honor? I’m gonna shove you off the edge of a fuckin’ cliff.
Syndicate: You know, a few weeks ago, you and I collided in that Barbed Wire Heaven match, and a lot of the same points I made there still apply. Your win streak is a fuckin' joke - you won the Dead by Daylight trial because Jason Long almost died, and then you parlayed that into a match that they say you won, but we all know who really came out ahead. You've got an anger problem that's followed you your entire life, and every time you come so very close to success, you piss it all away because you get a little upset about something or other. But none of that's new. I could stand out here and replay my words from a month ago, and you'd see that nothing has changed...except for one thing. Last time we talked, you told me that you were going to make me second-guess my career path, that you were going to turn "chicken shit into chicken salad" and take me out. But you failed, and not only did you fail, but you instead managed to launch me into another stratosphere. You've had it all wrong from the start, Julius: you've only spent a few months jumping around in your underwear, while I've been perfecting that shit for eight whole years.
Syndicate takes a step back from the camera as a couple - comprised of a young man with slicked-back hair and a woman wearing a tank top and shorts - walks in between the Outlaw and the camera set up in front of him. However, this doesn't seem to phase Syndicate, as he keeps on ranting directly to Julius Fairweather as if nothing had happened at all.
Syndicate: You’ve spent all this time here in Project: Honor running around with your buds and watching Sam Jackson movies, and as a result, you’ve neglected to really nail down why you’re here in the first place. Sure, you’re not one to take any bullshit, and sure, you may be a good wrestler, but what’s your end goal here? Fame? Fortune? Or is it to show the world that you’re nothing more than a wannabe that doesn’t belong? I’ve got my bet on the latter, because unlike what you may have foolishly learned from your hero, you’re not special, Julius. You’re not a star, you’re not a hero, and you’re most certainly not the guy that all those kids in there are looking up to. And although you’ve certainly been the talk of the town as of late, you’re gonna find that at Night of Honor, your flame is about to go out. Because you’ve already lost your friend, you’ve already lost your little excuse for a show, and once you lose to the Los Angeles Outlaw, there’s not going to be anything left for people to give a shit about.
Syndicate: I'm gonna be real with you for a moment, Julius. My time here on Fallout hasn't exactly gone according to plan. Sure, I've got myself a Legacy title shot lined up, but outside of that? I mean, it doesn't take a Bears fan to count the number of L's on my record. That right there is the problem: nobody around here has seen the true potential of the Los Angeles Outlaw, and I'm going to make sure that changes at Night of Honor. That's what I need you to understand, Julius. I need you to understand why I won't stop punching you, why I won't stop kicking you, and why I won't stop beating the absolute shit out of you on pay-per-view. Because I need this...I need this win to show you and all of the other idiots at home EXACTLY who they're dealing with, to put to bed the belief that I don't deserve to be here. And so, yeah, there may be nothing concrete on the line here, but for me, EVERYTHING is at stake, and I'm not going to let eight years of pain, blood, and broken bones go down the toilet just because a whack-ass Pulp Fiction fan thinks the spotlight is theirs. To put it simply, Julius, your time is up. Your story may soon be reaching its final chapter, but mine...mine will never end.
The Los Angeles Outlaw reaches down to his backpack and unzips the main compartment. Reaching in, he pulls out the same thick red book from earlier, with "The Story of Syndicate" emblazoned in gold across its cover. Syndicate hastily opens the tome and rifles through to the back, flipping through to show a sequence of blank page after blank page.
Syndicate: See? Nothing but empty pages waiting to be filled. This book doesn’t need an ending because y'all are gonna be stuck with me for a long, long time, and at Night of Honor? The next episode of "The Story of Syndicate" will be told in glorious high definition. But since this world demands definitive conclusions with easy-to-understand takeaways, let me spell it out for you and all your fans. Let me tell you EXACTLY what's gonna happen at Night of Honor, at Bloodbath, and for the rest of time!
Syndicate turns to the final page of the book, one that contained no content whatsoever. Pulling a red Pilot G-2 pen out of his pocket, Syndicate clicks its end and furiously scribbles three words onto the page.
SYNDICATE...ALWAYS...WINS.
He slams the book shut and looks back up at the camera.
Syndicate: See you Sunday, motherfucker. Welcome...to the Syndicate.
Picking his backpack up off the concrete, Syndicate slings it over his right shoulder, slips his black Aviators back on, and walks off. As he does, the shot is consumed by static.
