Post by Slayne on Dec 19, 2021 14:14:40 GMT -5
Footage taken from the debut episode of Project: Underground is shown on the screen, starting from the outside of the arena and casually working its way inside. While the person recording this previously unseen footage remains anonymous, the images are accompanied by the raspy voice of a middle-aged man named Gideon Marx, attorney at law and professional sports agent, as indicated by the captions on the bottom of your screen.
“The 2300 Arena in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, home to the upstart organization known as Project: Underground, where the stars of tomorrow are forged in a crucible of competition. These young men and women are being thrown into the fire, forced to fight against others whom management has deemed to be their peers. Some fight for glory or honor, others for the prestige that comes with championship gold. Fame and fortune cannot be excluded from that list of motivations, nor can the simple joy of inflicting pain on their fellow human beings. You all had the opportunity to learn about their motivations prior to the debut event two weeks ago. Yet in this wide array of talent, among all their bluster and bravado, one individual stands out from the pack. Those lofty rewards I’ve mentioned are little more than a bonus to Kurtis Slayne, if in fact, he’s taken the time to consider them at all.”
The footage suddenly cuts away, just as the camera had reached the cheering crowd, the match unfolding inside of the ring no longer the focus of the video package. Instead, we are transported just sixty miles away to the city of Allentown. As one of the fastest growing cities in Pennsylvania and one of only six communities to be credited as a ‘national success story’ by media outlets, one might expect to see aspects of the city that show off urban renewal or celebrate its historical legacy. Instead, we are treated to a simple playground during the waning hours of late afternoon.
Shadows hang heavy across the nearly vacant park on this chilly December day as a steady breeze whips past a rusted slide and wraps around a ruined merry-go-round that’s been tipped from its axis and now rests with one side buried in the earth. The biting wind reaches the swing set, which is little more than a metal frame with various lengths of chain hanging from its center post. As the chains creak and rattle with the wind's abrasive caress, we see that only one swing remains intact. It is occupied, not by a child, but by an adult man with bristling white hair to match the upcoming Winter season.
“I hate you. Each and every one of you. The sooner we get that out of the way, the better off we’ll be. I won’t even claim that it’s nothing personal, because while you may not know who I am, I know all of you. You’re professional wrestlers. Entertainers. Athletes. Perpetrators of the longest con in the history of spectator sports. You are liars, fakes, and frauds that have lived lives of carefree indulgence. Like an addict who ignores the warnings of doctors or scientists, you’ve spent your lives partaking in carcinogenic vices because deep down in your rotting cores…you are all weak. The roar of the crowd, the paper that lines your wallets, the blood on your knuckles. These are the vices you crave, and you take them without the thought of consequence.”
The man on the swing tilts his head toward the camera, and for the first time, the skeletal paint that decorates the left side of his face can be seen by the camera.
“Only now, the check has come due. The rot has already set in deep inside of you, and it’s far beyond treatable. The wrestling business has contracted a debilitating cancer, focused deep inside of Project: Honor. To be more specific, it’s forming within the very core of Project: Underground, and it cannot be cut out or burned away. Its only goal is to spread, for its influence to grow, until it corrupts every corner of this business. My name is Kurtis Slayne, and I’m professional wrestling’s terminal illness. Trafalgar Law will be the first to receive this diagnosis.”
He turns his head back to look forward without displaying a hint of emotion. There isn’t even a half-cocked smile of playfulness to accompany his declaration, which only emphasizes how thoroughly he believes in what he’s said.
“But Kurtis’, you might say, ‘it’s Christmastime. What kind of introduction is that?’ And to answer, I’m telling you that it’s an honest one. To be blinded by the false spirit of a god that was created by man, or to celebrate some solar cycle like the Pagans of old, is a distraction from reality that I refuse to partake in. The feeling of goodwill toward mankind is as much of a lie as the story of some celestial baby crawling out of a virgin womb. It’s a pathetic excuse shared by the masses to distract them from the cold, harsh reality we live in. It’s a distraction from the void of nothingness that awaits all of us.”
The swing he sits in gently rocks back and forth, more so propelled by the wind than any movement of his body.
“But if you really want a Christmas story to warm the existential dread that lives deep in your hearts, I’m happy to give you one. Only my story is true, a story that I’ll relate from this very spot because it’s not far from where it happened. It’s the tale of an unwanted child, a bastard who was pulled into this world against his will. Much like the story of your beloved Baby Jesus, a bastard in his own right, it’s a tale of unexpected birth. And just like Mary, my mother had been knocked up by an absentee father. As for Joseph, in my story, he was little more than a pimp who only cared about my mother’s ability to continue turning tricks after going through childbirth. Not more than one hundred yards from where I’m sitting, in the back of a rusted-out Chevy sitting on blocks, my mother expelled me into this world and her pimp cut the cord with a dull switchblade.”
He looks across the empty playground to the adjoining street, the camera following his gaze to the single streetlight shining down upon a vacant parking space.
“That light was my Christmas star, and while it was early July when I was born and not the month of December, I still had no warm blanket to comfort me or a doctor to ensure my safe passage. Baby Jesus was greeted with gifts and praise from three wise men, while I was greeted by a mother who dulled the pain of my birth by injecting street drugs into her veins. A little boy with a drum trumpeted the baby’s arrival back then, while mine was greeted by the sound of thumping bass from the passing car of a gang banger in search of his next target. His birth was overseen by angels upon high, while mine was illuminated by cheap fireworks shot off in the name of misguided nationalistic pride. And if that little baby, born thousands of years ago, was meant to bring salvation to all, then the bastard born nearly twenty-four years ago under that streetlight was meant to bring damnation in return.”
The camera gradually traces back to where Kurtis had been seated, only now the swing is empty, gently rocking back and forth with the absence of its prior occupant. He continues to tell his story, his voice echoing from somewhere out of sight.
“And as that baby grew up to watch over his father’s flock from a distance, so too did I grow up to watch my father’s contemporaries from the shadows. I watched them pray to him as if he were some sort of God, as if his accomplishments were anything more than earning enough gas money to make it from one town to the next. His name was praised until he became heralded as a hard-working compass of morality, while the true stories of his inebriated escapades with street whores like my mother were omitted from history.”
Suddenly, the camera is grasped forcefully by a pair of gloved hands, and it’s ripped out of its operator’s grip. Kurtis holds the camera so that his face is the only thing on the screen, his ice-blue eyes burning with a frigid hatred, the first expression of emotion he's displayed thus far.
“I can’t help but realize, as I reach the end of my story, that I’m nothing like sweet Baby Jesus at all. Instead, that false honor should go to God's favored son, the one who was born in a hospital and raised by his father’s side. If Clive Darling is the great man all within professional wrestling should aspire to be, then clearly Indy Darling must be the Baby Jesus of that false God's story. Well...he can have the praise. He can have the glory. He can have it all.”
Kurtis’ breath is visible in the early evening air, wafting out of his mouth like smoke from burning brimstone with every word he utters.
“I’m content to be the bastard. To be cancerous. To be the Antichrist. And as he walked off into the darkness, aware that the most frightening thing within it was himself, he wished a merry Christmas to all…and to all a good night.”
There is a jostling of the camera that creates a violent shaking of the images on screen, before Kurtis Slayne’s face disappears and we once again go back to the 2300 Arena and the voiceover from Gideon Marx. The camera makes its way through the crowd, drawing closer to the ring where two preliminary competitors do their best to impress the audience.
“To say that my client is unique among those who gather to compete in this arena is not hyperbole. I do not make these claims to hype up his debut or to make him seem like more than what he is at his core. That is to say, he is a tortured young man filled with the kind of hatred capable of changing, not just this company, but the business as a whole. That is why I believe in Kurtis Slayne, and that’s why you should fear him. In a few short days, the trainers of Project: Underground will have no choice but to believe my claims. Trafalgar Law will understand this truth firsthand, as Kurtis Slayne’s first step in the nihilistic culling of professional wrestling will be taken. This has been Gideon Marx, Herald to the Sadist and Harbinger of the Bastard. I have spoken, and you’ve been warned.”
With that, the images within the 2300 Arena fade away, leaving nothing but a black screen and the printed copyright information provided by Gideon Marx, Attorney at Law.
“The 2300 Arena in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, home to the upstart organization known as Project: Underground, where the stars of tomorrow are forged in a crucible of competition. These young men and women are being thrown into the fire, forced to fight against others whom management has deemed to be their peers. Some fight for glory or honor, others for the prestige that comes with championship gold. Fame and fortune cannot be excluded from that list of motivations, nor can the simple joy of inflicting pain on their fellow human beings. You all had the opportunity to learn about their motivations prior to the debut event two weeks ago. Yet in this wide array of talent, among all their bluster and bravado, one individual stands out from the pack. Those lofty rewards I’ve mentioned are little more than a bonus to Kurtis Slayne, if in fact, he’s taken the time to consider them at all.”
The footage suddenly cuts away, just as the camera had reached the cheering crowd, the match unfolding inside of the ring no longer the focus of the video package. Instead, we are transported just sixty miles away to the city of Allentown. As one of the fastest growing cities in Pennsylvania and one of only six communities to be credited as a ‘national success story’ by media outlets, one might expect to see aspects of the city that show off urban renewal or celebrate its historical legacy. Instead, we are treated to a simple playground during the waning hours of late afternoon.
Shadows hang heavy across the nearly vacant park on this chilly December day as a steady breeze whips past a rusted slide and wraps around a ruined merry-go-round that’s been tipped from its axis and now rests with one side buried in the earth. The biting wind reaches the swing set, which is little more than a metal frame with various lengths of chain hanging from its center post. As the chains creak and rattle with the wind's abrasive caress, we see that only one swing remains intact. It is occupied, not by a child, but by an adult man with bristling white hair to match the upcoming Winter season.
“I hate you. Each and every one of you. The sooner we get that out of the way, the better off we’ll be. I won’t even claim that it’s nothing personal, because while you may not know who I am, I know all of you. You’re professional wrestlers. Entertainers. Athletes. Perpetrators of the longest con in the history of spectator sports. You are liars, fakes, and frauds that have lived lives of carefree indulgence. Like an addict who ignores the warnings of doctors or scientists, you’ve spent your lives partaking in carcinogenic vices because deep down in your rotting cores…you are all weak. The roar of the crowd, the paper that lines your wallets, the blood on your knuckles. These are the vices you crave, and you take them without the thought of consequence.”
The man on the swing tilts his head toward the camera, and for the first time, the skeletal paint that decorates the left side of his face can be seen by the camera.
“Only now, the check has come due. The rot has already set in deep inside of you, and it’s far beyond treatable. The wrestling business has contracted a debilitating cancer, focused deep inside of Project: Honor. To be more specific, it’s forming within the very core of Project: Underground, and it cannot be cut out or burned away. Its only goal is to spread, for its influence to grow, until it corrupts every corner of this business. My name is Kurtis Slayne, and I’m professional wrestling’s terminal illness. Trafalgar Law will be the first to receive this diagnosis.”
He turns his head back to look forward without displaying a hint of emotion. There isn’t even a half-cocked smile of playfulness to accompany his declaration, which only emphasizes how thoroughly he believes in what he’s said.
“But Kurtis’, you might say, ‘it’s Christmastime. What kind of introduction is that?’ And to answer, I’m telling you that it’s an honest one. To be blinded by the false spirit of a god that was created by man, or to celebrate some solar cycle like the Pagans of old, is a distraction from reality that I refuse to partake in. The feeling of goodwill toward mankind is as much of a lie as the story of some celestial baby crawling out of a virgin womb. It’s a pathetic excuse shared by the masses to distract them from the cold, harsh reality we live in. It’s a distraction from the void of nothingness that awaits all of us.”
The swing he sits in gently rocks back and forth, more so propelled by the wind than any movement of his body.
“But if you really want a Christmas story to warm the existential dread that lives deep in your hearts, I’m happy to give you one. Only my story is true, a story that I’ll relate from this very spot because it’s not far from where it happened. It’s the tale of an unwanted child, a bastard who was pulled into this world against his will. Much like the story of your beloved Baby Jesus, a bastard in his own right, it’s a tale of unexpected birth. And just like Mary, my mother had been knocked up by an absentee father. As for Joseph, in my story, he was little more than a pimp who only cared about my mother’s ability to continue turning tricks after going through childbirth. Not more than one hundred yards from where I’m sitting, in the back of a rusted-out Chevy sitting on blocks, my mother expelled me into this world and her pimp cut the cord with a dull switchblade.”
He looks across the empty playground to the adjoining street, the camera following his gaze to the single streetlight shining down upon a vacant parking space.
“That light was my Christmas star, and while it was early July when I was born and not the month of December, I still had no warm blanket to comfort me or a doctor to ensure my safe passage. Baby Jesus was greeted with gifts and praise from three wise men, while I was greeted by a mother who dulled the pain of my birth by injecting street drugs into her veins. A little boy with a drum trumpeted the baby’s arrival back then, while mine was greeted by the sound of thumping bass from the passing car of a gang banger in search of his next target. His birth was overseen by angels upon high, while mine was illuminated by cheap fireworks shot off in the name of misguided nationalistic pride. And if that little baby, born thousands of years ago, was meant to bring salvation to all, then the bastard born nearly twenty-four years ago under that streetlight was meant to bring damnation in return.”
The camera gradually traces back to where Kurtis had been seated, only now the swing is empty, gently rocking back and forth with the absence of its prior occupant. He continues to tell his story, his voice echoing from somewhere out of sight.
“And as that baby grew up to watch over his father’s flock from a distance, so too did I grow up to watch my father’s contemporaries from the shadows. I watched them pray to him as if he were some sort of God, as if his accomplishments were anything more than earning enough gas money to make it from one town to the next. His name was praised until he became heralded as a hard-working compass of morality, while the true stories of his inebriated escapades with street whores like my mother were omitted from history.”
Suddenly, the camera is grasped forcefully by a pair of gloved hands, and it’s ripped out of its operator’s grip. Kurtis holds the camera so that his face is the only thing on the screen, his ice-blue eyes burning with a frigid hatred, the first expression of emotion he's displayed thus far.
“I can’t help but realize, as I reach the end of my story, that I’m nothing like sweet Baby Jesus at all. Instead, that false honor should go to God's favored son, the one who was born in a hospital and raised by his father’s side. If Clive Darling is the great man all within professional wrestling should aspire to be, then clearly Indy Darling must be the Baby Jesus of that false God's story. Well...he can have the praise. He can have the glory. He can have it all.”
Kurtis’ breath is visible in the early evening air, wafting out of his mouth like smoke from burning brimstone with every word he utters.
“I’m content to be the bastard. To be cancerous. To be the Antichrist. And as he walked off into the darkness, aware that the most frightening thing within it was himself, he wished a merry Christmas to all…and to all a good night.”
There is a jostling of the camera that creates a violent shaking of the images on screen, before Kurtis Slayne’s face disappears and we once again go back to the 2300 Arena and the voiceover from Gideon Marx. The camera makes its way through the crowd, drawing closer to the ring where two preliminary competitors do their best to impress the audience.
“To say that my client is unique among those who gather to compete in this arena is not hyperbole. I do not make these claims to hype up his debut or to make him seem like more than what he is at his core. That is to say, he is a tortured young man filled with the kind of hatred capable of changing, not just this company, but the business as a whole. That is why I believe in Kurtis Slayne, and that’s why you should fear him. In a few short days, the trainers of Project: Underground will have no choice but to believe my claims. Trafalgar Law will understand this truth firsthand, as Kurtis Slayne’s first step in the nihilistic culling of professional wrestling will be taken. This has been Gideon Marx, Herald to the Sadist and Harbinger of the Bastard. I have spoken, and you’ve been warned.”
With that, the images within the 2300 Arena fade away, leaving nothing but a black screen and the printed copyright information provided by Gideon Marx, Attorney at Law.