Post by Michael Bishop on Dec 20, 2021 21:04:44 GMT -5
“You might have been a killer once, long ago. But not anymore…”
(Bishop stands on the roof of a tall skyscraper in Chicago, training. He prefers to train higher up, it might seem strange to some… but not him. The rushing wind of the lakeshore area necessitates him to keep balance every single time he hops back and forth, every step he takes needs to be light to avoid a strike, and yet heavy enough to endure the weight of the world…).
“The Choker..”
(Bishop throws combinations through the snow, the winter has set in fast in Chicago. Every single time… every single year, he’s always trained in the harshest conditions. Ready yourself, push through at your worst… train in hell and the fight itself seems like heaven. And yet… with recent setbacks, his thoughts wander to the words of one of his recent wars… one that he was winning, until outside interference. As always. Havoc. Him and the Nightmare King had shared the ring plenty of times, in fact despite the demon’s own rivalry’s with others taking center stage… there was a strange affinity they both had to fighting each other… and yet, with the emergence of True Society targeting Bishop… words echoed in his mind.
“-The Supporting Character. How’s it feel knowing that no matter how hard you try, you will always be just short, just out of reach, just not good enough. No matter how hard you try, how hard you fight, you will never be the man you were in the octagon. The Dreadknight we have now will always be under strength, you’re past your prime, a man out of time. Maybe that 700 day lay off did fuck you in the end, didn’t it, Mike? The worst part… you can’t catch back up for the time you lost, and you will never be able to get revenge on the man who did it because he will always be known to the world as a hero. And you… will always be the poor schmuck, in the wrong place, at the wrong time- with the perfect scapegoat weapon: A Makarov. The stepping stone and The Villain of everyone’s story…."
(Bishop tears off the gloves, tossing them on a chair nearby, as the snow sets in around them. He can barely hear anything, between the wind, the white noise of the second city… but the words still burn clear as he looks off into the distance…).
“Don’t get involved in something that you can’t handle.The world you left behind is much different now, Mike. The True Society runs things, time to know your place, and die for your cause. It’ll be a shame that your unborn child wouldn’t get the chance to meet their father. Don’t worry. I will take care of them for you out of respect, Bishop.”.
(The threats the True Society made against him were one thing… against his family, against his child. Bishop’s always been used to being the target, he’s kept Rebecca out of the way for years because of that. Now his worst fear has come to light… his face twitches slightly… he thinks of Arik Holt, he thinks of Valkyrie, Havoc, and so much more… and then he thinks to the man he met during the purge. One lucky gut punch, and collapsing on top of him… The Noble Champion, Slade Castle).
Michael Bishop: We’ll see about that, Buddeh.
…..
Rebecca: I need you to be careful.
Michael Bishop: Against who? Slade? I can take that motherfucker.
Rebecca: It’s not him I’m worried about…. It never is them.
(Bishop’s back at his home, packing his bag with all the essentials. There was a time when Rebecca would come with him, be by his side every step of the way… however with recent years, and with her entering the early stages of pregnancy. His wife, Rebecca Bishop leans against the doorway, Mike turns to her).
Rebecca: It’s about the guys you don’t see, True Society… all of their antics.
Michael Bishop: I’ve taken worse bumps and have got back up.
Rebecca: Yeah, because they know they can’t beat you fair, none of those pieces of shit do!! First, it’s a surprise punch to the gut, then it’s a low blow… what next, a pipe, a chair? Michael I just..
(Mike slings his bag over his shoulder, he walks to the door and holds his wife close. After a few moments he calms her down).
Rebecca: I’m terrified of the day…. When you take that hit and don’t get back up.
(Michael’s mind flashes back to a premonition he had, over a year ago. It’s after he left his hiatus, came back from injury, returned to a world of combat sports, of professional wrestling that got much stranger… and much more dangerous, while he was gone. The premonition, the dark future, the fate that every gladiator, every fighter like himself that refuses to back down, that refuses to quit faces… bloody fallen, his wife cradling him. He snaps back to the present, he laughs it off).
Michael Bishop: I’ll be alright, you know me. Part Zombie.
Rebecca: Not funny.
So you want to be Noble Champion, huh?
It’s one thing to be a fighter, it’s another to break through the see through yet bulletproof ceiling that is the journeyman barrier. To smash through the impermeable layer that separates good enough with great, the almosts, to the was, did that. The mediocre to the legends. The Challengers and the Champions. The Noble Champion is one of several titles in Project Honor, and on Fallout, the most competitive brand, of one of the most competitive companies in the world… this strap of metal and leather transcends just another championship and becomes the championship. The prize, the target, the goal for any motherfucker willing to strut their stuff, put their cards on the table, their foot on the line, and make the other person die for their championship cause.
I came to project honor to do one thing, one goal; Destroy, Dominate, close the distance and erase whatever the fuck was in front of me. Beyond that, to cut a war path, to raise hell, to cut the fucking trail to my first shot at goal and carve a trench that would remain there. Everyone sees these things as personal gain, I see it as something more, something greater. An opportunity, a chance… to set things right, to get some redemption, and to get some motherfucking revenge on the New World Order as group that has been terrorizing motherfuckers for the last seventeen god damn months. Slade Castle once said that we aren’t ready for the new him, that he the fire he is bringing will consume us all. And yet what I saw first hand out there showed me there will be no new him, there will just be the motherfucker that had to fall unconscious on top of me, in order to eliminate me. All the talk of dominance dies from a group, who’s champion relies on fate and luck, low blows and cheating.
But it’s okay, because I’m not going to let anyone else get it, I’m not going to let anyone else succeed. What people seem to forget is that I’m a fucking force of nature on two perfectly good working legs. I’m going to set the pace, I’m going to drag you all into my environment, I’m going to make it mine by flipping the whole god damn script on your head, on it’s head. People forget that as much as I like striking, that’s not all I am. I am a world class motherfucker, a tier one killing machine that has been doing this shit for 20 years. I’ve made a living off of killing great, grinding legends into dust, and with hundreds of hours spent in matches, in fights, with thousands of wars under my belt I know what to expect, what variable to expect. Call me a surgeon because I can cut motherfuckers up, disect them, watch them struggle, and know just where to put them to get my victory. Call me alexander the great because I roll up in there, with the shit, with the fire, and I make the entire god damn world mine before you know it and before you know it, seventeen generations are calling me Sir, Mister, Legend.
I’m going in there against the best, and I’m going to show all of Fallout, this entire company- the entire fucking world why I am the next Noble Champion, why I’m the uncrowned Noble Champion right now- all I need to do is wait for that bell to ring and pick a victim. Why I’m going to walk out of Wired Consequences with my hand raised and the belt around my waist. Why I’m the best, by breaking, by beating the best- definitively.
I don’t say that cockily, like I said, two decades worth of experiences grounds that in harsh reality. I’m going in there against the world’s elite, some of whom I have the upmost respect for: Alyssa Grace. And I mean it. Alyssa came onto the scene not just like a bat out of hell, but a force of fucking nature. She’s strong, she’s spirited, she’s skilled, she’s confident. I heard your statements Alyssa, I’ve gotten a taste of your confident. “I will beat him”, “I will defeat him”, “I will simply defeat Michael Bishop”. One does not ride the fucking lightning that is Blood Sport Bishop, and wins, Alyssa. Just a month ago a young, shining Outlaw thought they had what it takes to beat me. In an all too similar echo to you. They were going to match my ruthlessness, match the mastery of 27 disciplines, martial arts, with youth, cunningness, and adaptability- they got fucking stacked. In fact, I can still feel them squirm as I cranked their neck off their head.
And that isn’t the first time. Every single prodigy that has come up against me, has died on the sword I drove into their back, through their chest, stomach, and soul. Everyone thinks that all age brings is wear and tear, slowness, and weariness. The only thing age has brought me is the ability to kill and conquer three generations worth of fighters over and over. You think you’re the first person to say; “I’m going to just beat him”? Another mothafucker said that too, and when I had them in a crucifix, and I was driving my elbow down into their fuckin’ skull, I asked: “What happened? Where is it? Where is your fucking fire now?”.
Don’t be so confident you can ride the blade’s edge and win, Alyssa, because you have seen what it takes, first hand, and you know it charges a heavy toll and a price. Many look at the times I have lost and say they have cracked the code, right before I lock in a choke, twist their head off, and raise it to a roaring crowd. Or have them on the ground, and beat the grey matter that contained the blueprint to defeating Bishop, onto the canvas. Many look at a loss and think it’s the end, is that because no one has cracked your code yet, have they Alyssa. No one has shown they have what it takes to beat Alyssa grace… Oh wait.
Like I said, everyone loses, Alyssa. You and I both know the bitter sting of defeat is where it’s won, where we are made, it’s where we decide if we were a fluke or a legend, and one thing is for certain. We are both just humans, aren’t we, in a world where gods throw lightning bolts we do battle with our fists, our kicks, our strikes, and our skills. I am more than just a single set of skills, a two dimensional fighter. When it comes to collecting information my career has taken me across the goddamn world, I am the culmination of disciplines, assimilation, and adaptation. I am not just some fighter, some striker, I am the fighter. I am the legend, I am a mixed martial artist personified. So you ask me? Do I have what it takes to beat Alyssa grace? I point to every single top of the line motherfucker I gutted like a fish. I instead ask- does Alyssa grace have what it takes to dance with a boogeyman and win? I don’t think so.
Who next? Savannah Sunshine, the bitch no one seems to give a break, or give due credit. I’ll say it, and I don’t fucking care. Despite everything Savannah has been through she has earned her spot in all of this, same as us. Whether it’s via token, or via blood, we’re all here for a reason, especially her. There’s a deep part he relates to Savannah on in this, in her life. No one has ever given her a break since the day she was born. And yet, here she is. Through hell, or highwater, through demonic possession, or betrayal, she has carried on, she’s earned herself a shot at the Noble Championship, she’s beaten Alyssa grace. Savannah if there’s anyone who deserves a shot, it’s you. You may have thought you were alone all those months, struggling under the pressure of the True Society, of Arik Holt, and yet I watched. You’re resilient, Savannah, you’re brave. You don’t give up. That’s okay… because your cooperation will not be needed when I sink my teeth into you, and shake you like a fucking animal when we’re in deep waters.
Savannah I’m sorry- well, actually, I’m not. Not at all. I’m going to rip that belt from you with every ounce of hope and dreams that went with it. I know, you have worked hard, as I said I watched you get here every step of the way and I realize how coming in and fighting for thet title on my third match in looks… but Savannah… with all of the people I have put down, for all of the brave young men and women who eventually worked their way up to face me, put their fate on the line- and got their fucking soul ripped out, do you honestly think at the end of the day, when that bell rings, that I give a fuck?
This is combat sports, this is war… Sav, and I don’t care if you tried one time or one thousand times… so have I. You can cry about how long you’ve slogged in Project Honor for a shot, for a reign, for that big break, but I’ve been around long enough to know if you let someone take everything, they will. I will take this belt from you every single time, because you are standing in my way, you are an obstacle, you are my opponent. This is more than just a belt to me, it’s opportunity, it’s money, it’s food on the table for my wife and my family, it’s money in the bank for my kid to go to college some day, to have the life I didn’t that they will get. I will not let you take that from me, and I don’t care what it takes, whatever it takes, even if it means burying you, I will win this belt off your back even if it means lashing you to a fucking cross.
And then we’ve got Billy Bennett… “Corward”... You should have at least done your research before you swaggered up to a man who’s stepped into the ring with nothing but killers over the past several millennia and decided to drop that one, Billy. I really don’t care, you get to where I’m at in life, you start to think on a bigger scale.
The Dichotomy between you and me Bennett, is very, very broad. The young woman who lost her way, lost her mind, all because of the violent, chickenSHITworld you say I’m too afraid to face. The thing is, Billy, I’m not afraid of the True Society, I’m not afraid of Alyssa, Savannah, The Noble Champion, The Prime Champion, or any single god damn person facing this earth. I am a Heavyweight War Machine, the Heavyweight War Machine. I dug the trench, paved the way, and wrote the god damn book on fighting in blood- the blood of every single motherfucker who stepped in there against me in the early years, the bloodening years of fighting, The Golden Age. And now, I’m the last one left… not because I refused to retire or didn’t know when to quiet, but because I killed every single last stupid son of a bitch who carried on trying to face me.
And then there’s the whole gun shit, Billy. Yeah… I brought a gun to the Purge, an event where kill or be killed is the way of life. I was shot plenty of motherfuckers in the mouth, I would have shot more, I would have buried a 9x18 round deep in the skull of every single person including you. Why? This war, Billy. I don’t need a gun, it just made things easier, when I really want to get feisty, when I want to get close, down and dirty, intimate, I throw away all the bullshit and spit on my hands, wrap my knuckles, and raise that ol’ black flag, cause it’s time to start slitting through and peeling gold off of dead champions. The ring you fight in now, the foundation of the arena was stacked, paved, and built by me. Every single night I go to bed, I hear the last dying breaths, screams, and pleas of every single person I stomped, struck, choked- held down on this red canvas and beat to a fucking pulp. I go to bed, I hold my wife, and I sleep like a baby cause that’s the score. Every single person roaming around thinks they’re with the shit, they’e not. Everyone gets down to that five yard line, they see the true horrors they have to commit and they get chickenSHIT. They crumble, they cry- I march through fire and my blood is ice cold.
I won’t slip, I will finish the job as I have a thousand times, and Billy it won’t be me hanging up my hat because I will send you back to your brother in a fucking box and he can thank me for putting on yet another classic war like the ones he rewatches. You can scream, you can cry, I won’t listen, I won’t answer. I will rough you up, I will fuck you up, and I will bury you underneath this canvas like the rest of them because this is your swan song, your retirement match, your final hour.
A final hour not just for you, but for the Noble Champion himself.
Slade Castle, about time you reared your god damn head. Go ahead, Slade. Sit in a cave, shine a red spot light, load some mags whilst Valkyrie whispers you sweet nothings into your ear hyping you up. You seem content with all of the opportunities the True Society has given you, a pitbull juiced up on organizational roids, whilst masquerading you’re a self built motherfucker. When I came and I heard about Slade Castle, I expected a man cut from an all too similar mold, when I stepped into the purge, I expected to come face to face with a killer, a lethal force, and a dominant champion. The only thing I met out there was a bum and a mediocre motherfucker, who like the rest of your little society, relies on the bullshit support on others to pull your ass from the flames you stemmed.
Slade Castle, about time you reared your god damn head. Go ahead, Slade. Sit in a cave, shine a red spot light, load some mags whilst Valkyrie whispers you sweet nothings into your ear hyping you up. You seem content with all of the opportunities the True Society has given you, a pitbull juiced up on organizational roids, whilst masquerading you’re a self built motherfucker. When I came and I heard about Slade Castle, I expected a man cut from an all too similar mold, when I stepped into the purge, I expected to come face to face with a killer, a lethal force, and a dominant champion. The only thing I met out there was a bum and a mediocre motherfucker, who like the rest of your little society, relies on the bullshit support on others to pull your ass from the flames you stemmed.
Tell me, Castle. You and me down there, on the line, are things going to be any different? Will you repeat history? The Purge was a chaotic mess, a hostile environment, but here? In the ring? Sure there’s five men and women throwing down, all of us putting our ass on the line… and you might excell in clusterfucks where your brothers and sisters can’t save you, but the only thing you’re going to get is being drowned in opponents, overwhelmed against five just like you were against two, and buried after your belt has been stripped from your undeserving god damn waist. Champions are supposed to be the best, Castle. And for a man who act hard as nails, all of the tough shit never seems to be here because the only fucking thing I saw out of you was a stable belt holding puppet. Where’s your fucking fire?! Where’s your god damn rage?! I beat the brick piss out of you and all I got was a man gasping for air.
You got me good, once. Out of the corner of my eye, straight in the sternum. Cute, but history has shown castle… adaptation, recocking- fool me once? Fine. Fool me twice? Not a god damn chance. I am cashing in this token, I writing a new legacy, a new reign, and a new era in the skin of your back. You are going to join a graveyard of motherfuckers who fucked around and found out. You owe me a pound of flesh, you owe me a good fight, and for the tax I will cash in by making myself the Noble Champion.
One thing I’ve learned from Fallout thus far: This place is corrupted to it’s core. Syndicate assholes playing shadow government over a roster, sending minions and paper champions to die for it’s cause. If Alyssa Grace wants to try and tread on the Dread, if Savannah wants to try and build her legacy off my neck, if Billy Bennett wants to try and grab a bull by the horns- if Slade Castle wants to get in there with a shark that has smelt his blood for over a month now? Fine by me. I will give this brand a champion it deserves, a fighting champion, a ruthless champion, a committed champion.
Not held down or pupeteered by some group, but a motherfucker, forged in fire, elbows sharpened like Gladius’ ready to put any challenger, anyman to the fucking sword-
Anyone, Anytime, Anyplace.
Not held down or pupeteered by some group, but a motherfucker, forged in fire, elbows sharpened like Gladius’ ready to put any challenger, anyman to the fucking sword-
Anyone, Anytime, Anyplace.
