Post by Michael Bishop on Dec 3, 2021 4:59:27 GMT -5
“It has been too god damn long, Michael…”
(We see not the present, but the past. February 2020. After a long lay off, Michael Bishop defied odds, physical limitations, and father time himself by returning to combat sports after 20 months out. The Dreadknight showcased old school physicality, a deadly arsenal, and got his hand raised… he walks into the back locker room, drying off sweat with a towel as Bo Maro follows him).
Bo Maro: Gotta’ say, you didn’t look one bit rusted out there. Fuckin’ phenomenal.
Michael Bishop: If you thought I was just going to come back without a plan, you’re god damn wrong.
Bo Maro: I never doubted, they did… You put on quite a show, and it seems someone’s took notice. Brass already has your next match queued up, if you’re willing to take it.
Michael Bishop: If?
Bo Maro: it’s a doozy… Well, he- They.
(Bishop turns, confused. He rests the towel on his neck as Bo grabs a tablet, and connects it to a small projector on the blank side of the locker room, and displays an image of his next opponent).
Bo Maro: Formerly a man you would know as Christopher Sabertooth, now, “The Nightmare King” Havoc….
(Bishop walks up to the wall, watching closely with his back to Bo)
Michael Bishop: This is Sabertooth? I thought he was that long haired, over charismatic shitter?
Bo Maro: Not anymore. Something awoke in him a year ago, one bad day, and the formerly suave young man has become possessed by something… Inhuman speed, strength, durability. He’s become an industry Boogeyman, no one can seem to crack the code on what it takes to stop him.
(Bishop watches the highlights…. Dead Trigger after Dead Trigger, strike after kick…. And yet, where others see an unstoppable beast… Bishop’s ruthless calculus of a mind sees something else. Something flawed, something far more grounded, something beatable…).
Michael Bishop: I’ll take it.
Bo Maro: You sure? You’re only one match in… Mike, I know your mindset, but-
Michael Bishop: He’s a scrawny little schizo with too many fuckin’ chips on his shoulder. He has yet to meet real, raw, aggression. They want to throw me to the proverbial wolves?..... Fine….
(Bishop turns back to the wall, the video is paused on an image of “Havoc”, staring dead into the camera. Bishop gets close, looking into it’s eyes).
Michael Bishop: -’ll show that little shit what it means to be a monster.
Hello Havoc, long time, no see.
By all accounts, I guess I should have been surprised to see you, to hear that you you survived. I should have been surprised to see you survived your triumphant defeat in Miami, your exorcism California, but- I wasn’t. So consumed by your own rage, Christopher, you always were the villain of everyone else’s story except your own. Willing to burn the whole fuckin’ world down and sell everything out to dark gods in order to patch that little hole in your heart after some blue haired bitch beat you clean.
It’s weird, you know. For every single motherfucker that claimed to know you, that claimed to be the one to stop you, no one every really knew you, they were just obsessed with being the folktale hero to finally stop you. And they failed, to make it stick, time and time again. No one ever seems to get you, to get to you. To be the one to have the intellect, the stones, the strength, the courage, the rage to drive the stake through your heart to permanently defeat you. To crack the visage that is the Nightmare King, to shake you in a way that makes you seem almost human. Except, me, right Havoc? Heh.
I’m not surprised, and you know what motherfucker, in fact, I’m kind of glad. I’m not just glad, I am absolutely fucking thrilled. We have unfinished business you and I, even as I met you, gatecrashed your reign of terror last winter, balled you up, wrapped you up, put my perfectly working knee through your nose, my foot through your fucking face, and ended the year off by defeating you. You survived…. And we always knew from that fateful day in February this was only ever going to end like this; A prince of darkness, and a fucking war machine. An demonic force, and a man grounded in harsh reality. A Dreadknight, a Demon. An Outlaw King, A Nightmare King.
There’s a saying; ‘Takes one, to know one’. It takes a man formerly drenched in his bitter rage to see the same god damn thing standing before him. It takes someone once weighed down by his demons, raising hell and leading a warpath because of it, a personal vendetta against the world. In order to stop a motherfucker like you, to stop hell on two legs, it was always gonna need to take walking armageddon grabbing you, slamming you, and hammerfisting your fuckin head out to truly stop you. You said you were thrilled to welcome me, and I am fucking estatic to welcome you. let’s not pussyfoot now, mothafucker. Let’s get this shit started.
“Bishop is feisty-- I will take a bite out of that?”. Well like many things, Havoc, you fuckin’ failed to do any of that, or doing it in a way that ever made it meaningful? Every single time you tried to sink your teeth in, it’s through a hail of strikes, an onslaught of offense that has baptized you, wiped off that paint, wiped off that veil of invincibility, and has made the boogeyman himself look oh so immortal. You get to the skin, you try to pierce it…. Only to learn I’m not like every half cocked, half baked, weak bitch motherfucker here. The only thing that runs through my veins is morphine, liquor, and hatred. The only thing my mind is set on is Kill.
You go home, you shed the paint, you let Chris take control and you act like everytime you emerge it’s something… I go home, to my wife, to my family… nobody haunts me, I keep entire fucking rosters awake at night. The only thing I seek is to be more lethal, every single god damn second of every private moment is spent on that fact. How can I snap a submission specialist’s neck off- I did that last week. How can I kill a world champion- I’ve done that several times now. And, when a particular match comes up… how can I brutalize X..y...Z…. How can I make the last time me and the Nightmare King squared up look like a fucking joke. Again. For a third goddamn time.
I saw through you from the day I caught eyes of you, nothing but smoke, mirrors, and hatred for the world because you couldn’t fucking cut it!! I was a revenant, fresh crawled out of a 20 month grave and you were the fiery, confident, deadly Havoc I had heard about. And yet despite what everyone told me, I was not convinced. Everyone seemed shook when you walked down that ramp, all I saw was a scrawny little bastard that I was gonna twist the fuck up. We got our hands on each other, and like every single time we’ve met, I overwhelmed you, I put you down, and even if it took me months to hunt you afterwards I fucking buried you as a christmas present for Kenny, for the world.
You talk about taking bites out of people, out of me…. I drag motherfuckers into the deep end of the fucking ocean and I eat them whole. I sank one tooth into you and you were writhing, squirming, looking for a way out. Your unholy sense of terror quit before I could even see what the fuck there was to see, and all I was stuck in there with, was fear, and a dead little painted man. You walk in here now, and I see the same god damn thing, just more trophy belts taken by men who don’t even have an inch of the vertebrae I do.
I don’t pussyfoot, I don’t fuck around, you know this Havoc. I’ve told you so before, I’ve told you standing across from you- I said it when I had me knee on your neck, knuckles embedded in your jaw, elbow slashing at your ribcage as I tried to tear your fucking heart out. Whether you like me, or hate me, you know when I say I’m going to walk in there, singles competition, my chance to make good on the little token I received, the contract I signed, the belief some had in me… and that… I am going to beat the bricks off of you. You know I fucking mean it.
Congratulations on the belt, you fucking gremlin, I don’t give a shit what title you have here. That’s because championships are made by the motherfuckers who wear them and you always have been a cowardly little thing, Havoc. I saw that years ago, I saw that months ago, I saw that a couple of weeks ago, I smell that radiating off of you right now.
Maybe, I did leave you alive…. As punishment. Maybe I did leave you bleeding, vomiting, in a pool of your own fluids as you had to watch my hand be raised and I walked off… knowing that I did what no one has done, as definitively. I did what Arata with all his little god sugar daddies still can’t do. I did what every single motherfucker on this brand couldn’t do, every title challenger you’ve had couldn’t do, I did what the great King Jason Long has never been able to do, I beat you down at the height of your reign of terror, because like a fucked up icarus, you flew too close to the god damn sun, so I grabbed you by the neck and chokeslammed you down!! And in a couple of days, I’ll fuckin’ do it again!!
And what will you bring to the table, Havoc? Some more tricks? A sharpened Dead Trigger? The only thing I’ve seen is that you took your ball and ran, fled after you were beaten outright and went to a place to wreak havoc on mothafuckers who weren’t prepared. I have been, I am, I will be. I’ve spent the past two god damn years going to Japan, going to Africa, learning skills and disciplines locked out for me during my time in Cage Fighting. I’m not just a strong hand, I’m not just one rear naked choke, a static fighter.
I am the greatest professional fighter, I am the most complete professional fighter. Boxing, Muay Thai, Puroresu, Jujitsu, Lucha, High Flying-, not just a fighter, A True Mixed Martial Artist. Everyone says I could not adapt, and yet I did, and I have displayed it every time I pull fuckers like you into a maelstrom and rip you, literally, limb from limb. They I was a goner, I was a land to the slaughter- and I beat the fucking bricks off you, then, I crucified you. And now? A whole spring, summer, fall later, we meet again. We’ve both changed, we’ve both made gains, I’m not surprised you got right back to it, Havoc, but I’m sad to say I am also not fucking impressed.
I am the greatest professional fighter, I am the most complete professional fighter. Boxing, Muay Thai, Puroresu, Jujitsu, Lucha, High Flying-, not just a fighter, A True Mixed Martial Artist. Everyone says I could not adapt, and yet I did, and I have displayed it every time I pull fuckers like you into a maelstrom and rip you, literally, limb from limb. They I was a goner, I was a land to the slaughter- and I beat the fucking bricks off you, then, I crucified you. And now? A whole spring, summer, fall later, we meet again. We’ve both changed, we’ve both made gains, I’m not surprised you got right back to it, Havoc, but I’m sad to say I am also not fucking impressed.
The Prime Champion, Nightmare King, and yet here you stand playing pawn and tin soldier to a bald fuck who’s biggest accomplishment has been terrorizing Savannah Sunshine. Cute, adorable- pathetic, Christopher. You call it a second coming, I call it a major step down. You call it rising from the ashes, I call it bending the knee. Capitulating to a group so you could suckle opportunities from them to paint the illusion of immortality and invincibility, that you never had in the first place.
Oh and before you say shit you little fuckin’ imp, I can be beaten, that was always the score. A man squaring up to a being from the abyss, so different, and yet so similar. Christopher and I, The Dreadknight and Havoc. Two men so soaked in their rage, their demons, but as I said so long ago, Havoc. The difference between you and me, is you gave up, you got desperate, you realized the road was too fucking hard and you did whatever it took to win, you nearly devoured the world, and yet even with your powers, your evil, your army, you still lost!!
Me, I adapt, I persevere, I rise, I kill, I conquer. I am a man, with only my skills, my mind, my wits, and my grit. I have to make do, I have to win, because it’s all I’ve got, it’s all I can do. I’ve stood against you ever step of your evil, before everyone saw it coming, and now, after everyone thought it ended, because I am the only motherfucker to stand against you, because it must be done, because I know I can, and will, humble you once again and send you back into your little crevice to seethe and cry, like a little spooky bitch.
I’m sure you gonna stand there and flaunt the victories over anyone and everyone to show the sea of shit you say I’ve found myself in. What? Who? They bought into your shit, they caved under pressure, and we all remember what happened when I cranked that shit up high and dragged you into the deep end. You conquered the world, you had titles a dozen, A legion at your command. And yet the Old man from Chicago still walked in and beat you, and I beat you clean, and I beat you definitively. This isn’t gonna be your time, this isn’t gonna be your finest hour, this is a singles introduction to every single motherfucker on Fallout; friend, foe, young, old, familiar, or new, about what the fuck just pulled up in their shores and the kind of man who’s bringing the intensity at muzzle velocity.
You are failures stewed over, I am change and perseverance. I am potential personified, I am the imperfect great, with nothing but stubbornness and weaponized ruthlessness to carry me through the trenches you refused to lay and fight in like everyone else. This is more than just a singles match, fuckface. This is the True Society’s finest stain who stepped up to face me because he wants the pound of flesh I ripped out of his abdomen, and he couldn’t do anything about. This is me sticking it to a group that has sought to do nothing but create a veil of fear and terror over everyone’s heads, my friend’s heads, that I will not buy into, and I will wrap around your neck and choke you little the shitcan you always have been.
You can try to act like this hasn’t been on your mind, but it has been. I know it has, and this little road of ours is put to rest now. The moment I sunk that blade’s edge into your skin, I left a mark, a scar, that will never feel and you will never be able to forget. The thing that will always haunt you in your most intimate moments, the stinging defeat that will always burn you the most, that you think trying to defeat me here in a desperate play will stop. Look at me Havoc, look me in the fucking eyes, Chris. I am not afraid of you, I haven’t felt fear in decades. My blood always runs cold because when I’m in there, I am a fucking sociopath bent on doing the same thing I have done for decades now, which is wreak absolute demolition upon the motherfucker standing across from me.
And you? You’ve had this shit coming for a long time, haven’t you, Mothafucker? I’m sad to see that for every single notable dickhead who squared up to you, they couldn’t back up their talk. They fed you a false image of what the world is. Don’t worry, Nightmare King, I’m back to give you a strong taste of reality and mortality. You will meet me in the center of that ring, you will hold your little championship high, you will think that whatever aura you’ve created here transfers into that ring with me, it never has, and it never will. What I am going to do from bell to bell will shock, horrify, and will make an already bloody year look like fucking childs play . I am going to rip your mind, bend your mental capacity, and beat you until you quit, piss yourself, or cry out for Jada. The mark on you will never go away, and I am going to carve a brand of shame into you so deep, you will never come into this ring with me ever again.
It takes one, to know one. A Divisional Monster to an Industry Boogeyman. Smoke and Mirrors to blood and knuckles. Priests couldn’t do it, gods couldn’t do it, so I am going to take it upon myself to exorcise you from that little fucking vessel, and if good old Christopher dies? So be it. This shit has been a long time coming and I am sick and tired of seeing you get away, you’re trapped in there with me, and I am going to make my mission statement known when that final bell is rung, and my bloody hand is raised high…
Kill Havoc.
