Post by Slayne on Jan 16, 2022 22:30:36 GMT -5
Kurtis Slayne sits alone, somewhere within the city of Philadelphia, a location that he doesn't bother identifying. He casually leans on a brick ledge, the boarded-up window behind him marred by graffiti of curse words and crude images. Judging by the angle of the sunlight hitting the alleyway, the video seems to have been recorded in late afternoon, and if the traces of snow tainted by the unclean surroundings are not evidence enough, Kurtis’ visible breath when speaking reveals the frigid temperature he’s enduring.
“Memories. People more sentimental than I might consider them to be treasures, personal valuables to be cherished. Yet the authority figures of Project: Underground feel as if they’re entitled to them. They expect us to openly share our fortunes of remembrance with them, as if they’re asking for no more than to bum a cigarette.”
He doesn’t look directly at the camera when he speaks, instead allowing his gaze to fall on something in the distance, as if it's something out of reach to anyone but him.
“Fine. I can be a good, little soldier and play along. You present us with tasks and we complete them. That’s what we signed up for, after all. I just wonder if you really understand what you’ve asked for, if you’ve prepared yourselves for the stories you’re going to hear. This business that you’re all willing to sacrifice your lives for, it attracts a certain kind of individual. I may not be one of you, but I’ve watched long enough to know that much. You’re going to hear stories that might tug at your heartstrings or echo your own experiences. Some of the memories being shared might draw you closer to the people telling them. Maybe they’ll make you empathize with them, respect them, or even hate them. My story will be a little different. My story will make you regret asking for it in the first place.”
He wears the wounds from his recent brush with the main roster openly and without fear of judgment. While his contemporaries universally agreed that he was getting in over his head by requesting a fight at Unbreakable Resolution, it doesn’t seem as if he regrets that decision or what came from it.
“So, what memory should I share with you today? I’ve already shared plenty of insight into my whore of a mother, the father who refused to acknowledge my existence, and the brother who needed to pay for daddy’s sins. Maybe instead, I’ll tell you about my friend. The only friend I’ve ever had.”
The blowing snow in the alley blends in with his white hair, but as he casually glances toward the camera, the color of his pale blue eyes stand out in stark contrast.
“Some of you may find it surprising that a man like me, who openly disregards most sentiments, would ever have a friend, but it’s true. I had a friend whose companionship I valued above all other things. To understand this, you need to know that I hadn’t even reached the age of ten by this point. Whether it was Allentown, Pittsburg, or here in Philadelphia, my mother worked her way across the state with one boyfriend after another. We had no home of our own, but whether she did this out of necessity or lust isn’t really important. The thing to take away from this, is that these men were only interested in what she could give them. The little boy she dragged along like a piece of luggage wasn’t something they cared about at all.”
He turns his head back again, his eyes falling back to that unrevealed point in the distance.
“Most of them ignored me, some resented me, and a few even took out their frustrations by torturing me without reservation. One man in particular enjoyed putting his cigarettes out on the back of my neck, and it was during this time that I desperately sought out someone…something…to confide in. One evening, after having his leather belt slapped against my bare arms and back, I retreated outside and pressed myself into a ball so that I could cry without anyone noticing. I sat there, praying to a god I had already stopped believing in, and I begged to have someone in my life that I could lean on for strength. As if by divine intervention, a stray dog wandered into the yard that night, and he pressed his head against mine before I’d even noticed his presence.”
The recollection does not bring any kind of emotion to Kurtis’ face, as if he were reciting a historical fact and not a personal memory.
“The stray was malnourished, mangy, and unwanted. In a lot of ways, he was just like me. So without thinking, without wondering about whether god had answered my prayers, I embraced that dog as if I was drowning in the ocean and he was the only thing to keep me from being pulled under. In return, he licked away my tears and wagged his tail. He looked at me with those dark brown eyes, as if he could sense my sadness, my loneliness, and he freely took on my burdens like they were his own.”
Kurtis continues to stare off into the distance, mindlessly rolling the tip of his thumb against the other cold digits of his hand.
“Late at night, I would sneak the dog into the house to feed him what little scraps were in the kitchen. I’d let him warm his bones in that shithole apartment while I whispered all of my hopes and fears into his ears. During the day, I would use any excuse to get outside so that I could explore the city with that dog by my side. I never asked if I could keep him, because it wasn’t about ownership. It was about escaping the pain of reality. Not that my mother cared, because it meant that I was out of her hair so that she was free to indulge in her vices. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, saw that dog as another way to torture me.”
A strong gust whips Kurtis’ short hair and surely bites the bare parts of his flesh, but he makes no effort to hide from it or warm himself.
“Instead of putting his cigarettes out on me, he would put them out on the dog. He delighted in throwing his empty beer bottles in his direction or kicking him as hard as he could if the dog dared get close enough. He even took off the tips of the dog’s ears with a switchblade knife. Anything I did to piss him off was taken out on my friend tenfold. Each act of cruelty seemed to increase in intensity, and I felt helpless to do anything about it. I was too small to pose a physical threat to that man and not yet clever enough to enact my vengeance in other ways. So, I did the only thing that I could possibly do.”
He turns his head back to the camera and slowly closes his eyes, pauses briefly, and then opens them up again. Like the windows of an abandoned house, there is nothing to read from his stare.
“I wrapped an electrical cord around the dog’s neck, threw the other end over a beam of the front porch, and pulled it back with every ounce of strength I could muster. I held him there, hanging above the front porch with his legs kicking in the air, until he stopped moving completely. I did this for two reasons. One, because I knew that I was showing him more mercy than my mother’s boyfriend ever would. Two, because that dog was my only weakness, the only thing that could be used to cause me true pain. The logic behind it, the truth, was that the dog was better off dead than to live as a liability.”
No remorse. No regret. Not even a hint of sadness creeps across Kurtis’ face.
“When my mother found the dead animal with the cord wrapped around its neck, she assumed her boyfriend had taken things a step too far. Despite all of her faults, that was too much for even her to endure. She packed us up and we made our way to the next boyfriend’s house before he ever got back home. I revisited him in later years, but that’s a different memory altogether. The real point of this story is that in the end, that mangy stray really did rescue me from that place, and I’ll be forever grateful for his sacrifice.”
Kurtis slowly reaches behind his neck to pull a simple black hood over his head, not only blocking the bite of the winter wind, but also obscuring the faded scars once made by the lit end of a cigarette.
“You might be wondering why I chose this memory to share with you or what relevance it has in the here and now. That’s the simple part. I make a point of removing my weaknesses, the things that can bring me real pain. That’s why Tara Fenix and Mark Hunter, despite knocking me unconscious, couldn’t really hurt me. It’s why Andrea Cross doesn’t have a chance in hell of doing any lasting damage. It’s why Project: Underground, for all their tests, trials, and prompts, have no idea what they’ve really gotten themselves into.”
He pushes himself off the windowsill and onto his feet, the mixture of newly fallen snow and broken glass on the alley’s surface crunching underneath.
“Yes, I can be pinned. I might even reach the point of passing out. Losing a match by a disqualification for excessive force or by count-out for getting caught up in the moment are definite possibilities. But to cause me pain? To expose me as a fraud or some egomaniac addicted to the sound of his own voice? To ever truly defeat me? These are not options. They’re not potential outcomes. They’re not only improbable, but they are impossible. I’m a disease with no cure, a virus that eliminates its own vulnerabilities, and I’ve only just started my way through the veins of professional wrestling.”
He takes a step toward the camera and then another, keeping his ice-blue eyes locked on the lens as he methodically moves forward.
“So Andrea, when our match ends and I’m pulling back on that cord until your feet stop kicking and the last breath leaves your body, just know that it’s for the greater good. Losing to me serves a higher purpose that’s beyond you and me, beyond the simplicity of a one-on-one match. It brings me closer to leaving the kind of scars on this business that will never heal and can never be hidden. I will continue to kill professional wrestling one opponent at a time, and maybe, just maybe, all of you will be stronger because of it.”
When he’s too close to the camera for it to capture his entire body in the frame, Kurtis kneels down so that it’s filming him at eye level. As he raises a hand to the camera, he has only one thing left to say.
“Then again, maybe you’ll be just another misty, watercolor memory.”
CLICK
“Memories. People more sentimental than I might consider them to be treasures, personal valuables to be cherished. Yet the authority figures of Project: Underground feel as if they’re entitled to them. They expect us to openly share our fortunes of remembrance with them, as if they’re asking for no more than to bum a cigarette.”
He doesn’t look directly at the camera when he speaks, instead allowing his gaze to fall on something in the distance, as if it's something out of reach to anyone but him.
“Fine. I can be a good, little soldier and play along. You present us with tasks and we complete them. That’s what we signed up for, after all. I just wonder if you really understand what you’ve asked for, if you’ve prepared yourselves for the stories you’re going to hear. This business that you’re all willing to sacrifice your lives for, it attracts a certain kind of individual. I may not be one of you, but I’ve watched long enough to know that much. You’re going to hear stories that might tug at your heartstrings or echo your own experiences. Some of the memories being shared might draw you closer to the people telling them. Maybe they’ll make you empathize with them, respect them, or even hate them. My story will be a little different. My story will make you regret asking for it in the first place.”
He wears the wounds from his recent brush with the main roster openly and without fear of judgment. While his contemporaries universally agreed that he was getting in over his head by requesting a fight at Unbreakable Resolution, it doesn’t seem as if he regrets that decision or what came from it.
“So, what memory should I share with you today? I’ve already shared plenty of insight into my whore of a mother, the father who refused to acknowledge my existence, and the brother who needed to pay for daddy’s sins. Maybe instead, I’ll tell you about my friend. The only friend I’ve ever had.”
The blowing snow in the alley blends in with his white hair, but as he casually glances toward the camera, the color of his pale blue eyes stand out in stark contrast.
“Some of you may find it surprising that a man like me, who openly disregards most sentiments, would ever have a friend, but it’s true. I had a friend whose companionship I valued above all other things. To understand this, you need to know that I hadn’t even reached the age of ten by this point. Whether it was Allentown, Pittsburg, or here in Philadelphia, my mother worked her way across the state with one boyfriend after another. We had no home of our own, but whether she did this out of necessity or lust isn’t really important. The thing to take away from this, is that these men were only interested in what she could give them. The little boy she dragged along like a piece of luggage wasn’t something they cared about at all.”
He turns his head back again, his eyes falling back to that unrevealed point in the distance.
“Most of them ignored me, some resented me, and a few even took out their frustrations by torturing me without reservation. One man in particular enjoyed putting his cigarettes out on the back of my neck, and it was during this time that I desperately sought out someone…something…to confide in. One evening, after having his leather belt slapped against my bare arms and back, I retreated outside and pressed myself into a ball so that I could cry without anyone noticing. I sat there, praying to a god I had already stopped believing in, and I begged to have someone in my life that I could lean on for strength. As if by divine intervention, a stray dog wandered into the yard that night, and he pressed his head against mine before I’d even noticed his presence.”
The recollection does not bring any kind of emotion to Kurtis’ face, as if he were reciting a historical fact and not a personal memory.
“The stray was malnourished, mangy, and unwanted. In a lot of ways, he was just like me. So without thinking, without wondering about whether god had answered my prayers, I embraced that dog as if I was drowning in the ocean and he was the only thing to keep me from being pulled under. In return, he licked away my tears and wagged his tail. He looked at me with those dark brown eyes, as if he could sense my sadness, my loneliness, and he freely took on my burdens like they were his own.”
Kurtis continues to stare off into the distance, mindlessly rolling the tip of his thumb against the other cold digits of his hand.
“Late at night, I would sneak the dog into the house to feed him what little scraps were in the kitchen. I’d let him warm his bones in that shithole apartment while I whispered all of my hopes and fears into his ears. During the day, I would use any excuse to get outside so that I could explore the city with that dog by my side. I never asked if I could keep him, because it wasn’t about ownership. It was about escaping the pain of reality. Not that my mother cared, because it meant that I was out of her hair so that she was free to indulge in her vices. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, saw that dog as another way to torture me.”
A strong gust whips Kurtis’ short hair and surely bites the bare parts of his flesh, but he makes no effort to hide from it or warm himself.
“Instead of putting his cigarettes out on me, he would put them out on the dog. He delighted in throwing his empty beer bottles in his direction or kicking him as hard as he could if the dog dared get close enough. He even took off the tips of the dog’s ears with a switchblade knife. Anything I did to piss him off was taken out on my friend tenfold. Each act of cruelty seemed to increase in intensity, and I felt helpless to do anything about it. I was too small to pose a physical threat to that man and not yet clever enough to enact my vengeance in other ways. So, I did the only thing that I could possibly do.”
He turns his head back to the camera and slowly closes his eyes, pauses briefly, and then opens them up again. Like the windows of an abandoned house, there is nothing to read from his stare.
“I wrapped an electrical cord around the dog’s neck, threw the other end over a beam of the front porch, and pulled it back with every ounce of strength I could muster. I held him there, hanging above the front porch with his legs kicking in the air, until he stopped moving completely. I did this for two reasons. One, because I knew that I was showing him more mercy than my mother’s boyfriend ever would. Two, because that dog was my only weakness, the only thing that could be used to cause me true pain. The logic behind it, the truth, was that the dog was better off dead than to live as a liability.”
No remorse. No regret. Not even a hint of sadness creeps across Kurtis’ face.
“When my mother found the dead animal with the cord wrapped around its neck, she assumed her boyfriend had taken things a step too far. Despite all of her faults, that was too much for even her to endure. She packed us up and we made our way to the next boyfriend’s house before he ever got back home. I revisited him in later years, but that’s a different memory altogether. The real point of this story is that in the end, that mangy stray really did rescue me from that place, and I’ll be forever grateful for his sacrifice.”
Kurtis slowly reaches behind his neck to pull a simple black hood over his head, not only blocking the bite of the winter wind, but also obscuring the faded scars once made by the lit end of a cigarette.
“You might be wondering why I chose this memory to share with you or what relevance it has in the here and now. That’s the simple part. I make a point of removing my weaknesses, the things that can bring me real pain. That’s why Tara Fenix and Mark Hunter, despite knocking me unconscious, couldn’t really hurt me. It’s why Andrea Cross doesn’t have a chance in hell of doing any lasting damage. It’s why Project: Underground, for all their tests, trials, and prompts, have no idea what they’ve really gotten themselves into.”
He pushes himself off the windowsill and onto his feet, the mixture of newly fallen snow and broken glass on the alley’s surface crunching underneath.
“Yes, I can be pinned. I might even reach the point of passing out. Losing a match by a disqualification for excessive force or by count-out for getting caught up in the moment are definite possibilities. But to cause me pain? To expose me as a fraud or some egomaniac addicted to the sound of his own voice? To ever truly defeat me? These are not options. They’re not potential outcomes. They’re not only improbable, but they are impossible. I’m a disease with no cure, a virus that eliminates its own vulnerabilities, and I’ve only just started my way through the veins of professional wrestling.”
He takes a step toward the camera and then another, keeping his ice-blue eyes locked on the lens as he methodically moves forward.
“So Andrea, when our match ends and I’m pulling back on that cord until your feet stop kicking and the last breath leaves your body, just know that it’s for the greater good. Losing to me serves a higher purpose that’s beyond you and me, beyond the simplicity of a one-on-one match. It brings me closer to leaving the kind of scars on this business that will never heal and can never be hidden. I will continue to kill professional wrestling one opponent at a time, and maybe, just maybe, all of you will be stronger because of it.”
When he’s too close to the camera for it to capture his entire body in the frame, Kurtis kneels down so that it’s filming him at eye level. As he raises a hand to the camera, he has only one thing left to say.
“Then again, maybe you’ll be just another misty, watercolor memory.”
CLICK