Post by Michael Bishop on Feb 17, 2022 23:10:52 GMT -5
“So…. you want to be the King of the Fighters, huh kid?”
(We find ourselves years ago. 2003. A young Michael Bishop walks into an old warehouse-style gym. The air is cold, like everything in Chicago. He walks around, red brick walls with iron furnishings line the room, with old mats and heavy bags. It’s old school, rustic. The air smells of sweat, blood, and death… he stops and approaches an older man in the back, hunched over a stool. Bishop’s old coach and the Doctor Frankenstein that created The Dreadknight: John Paylon. He slowly tapes his hands… an old stick right next to him. The man doesn’t look at Michael as his words drone out…)
Michael Bishop: What? No, I just need to-
John Paylon: To earn money, to seek gold, yeah kid. Look… this is modern Gladiatorialism. You go into a fight pit, you beat the blood out of someone’s veins for 500 buck so you can pay rent that month. The world we know is fucked, and men like us… like you, have to use the means at hand to survive. That’s okay.
Michael Bishop: “okay”, how?!
John Paylon: It’s human nature, son. Since the dawn and time we’ve been beating each other to death for blood, gold, power- anything. This is just another means but… well. You know why this gym is empty? No one in Chicago anymore wants to be a fighter, they turn to crime, they turn to- well, unsavory means to make due. You walked in so that means you don’t want to choose that option. Tell me kid. Why do you want to do this?
Michael Bishop: …My mom’s sick. She can’t really work anymore-
John Paylon: And the job market’s tough… well you’re a big fucking lad. You’ll do. I’ll be straight with you…??
Michael Bishop: Michael. Michael Bishop
John Paylon: “Michael Bishop”, heh, well that’s a name. Michael… you choose this, you walk this path and you are going to go through with it all the way. You’ll be baptized in blood, broken down, and rebuilt and whatever comes out the other end won’t just be a boy from Chicago… it’s be a demon, a monster, a war machine forged out of blood.
(We see the true cost of all of this. Bishop pushes himself to the limit at a very young age, spatranistically John Paylon punishes his mistakes. A messed up combination earns a stiff right to the jaw. A messed up takedown earns a hard knee to the skull. Bishop is made to fight under horrific conditions while in training… miles upon miles, no water, sent against sparring partners in full gear while he has nothing. If he drops, or fails… he finds out why Paylon’s stick is stained with blood).
John Paylon: -It won’t be pretty. You’re going to want to give up a thousand different times before you even start to get better. And as a result… you won’t just be an opponent in the eyes of your enemy: You’ll be an Adversary, an Antagonist… a Villain.
(We see this come to fruition in Bishop’s past… in the early years many established fighters saw him as a hungry devil, quickly fighting up the ranks and devouring whole divisions with brutality, technicality, and ruthless efficiency….).
John Paylon: You’ll become a creature born from failure, adaptation, and rising from your mistakes… “Kill. Die. Repeat”. Precise rage and Absolute Ruthlessness as your weapons of war, with nothing but hatred in your heart for those who stand against you. You see kid, there is no good enough… you are either the best, or you are mulch. You are either the King of the Fighters or you are a statistic beaten into the floor with a fucking hole in your head… You will be the King… and you will rule with an iron fist of Retribution, and all those who stand across from you will live under the Tyranny of fear… Now… is this worth it?
(Bishop remains silent for a moment. He thinks of his mother at home, having sacrificed years of her life, and her bodily health to get him this far. He thinks of his then girlfriend, Rebecca, a first generation immigrant struggling with her family to make ends meet in this world. He ponders everything… and with determined resolve in his eyes, he nods).
Michael Bishop: Yes.
John Paylon: Well then…
(John Paylon finishes wrapping his hands, the sociopath looks to his disciple, his clay sculpture ready to be molded… he grabs the stick, and cracks his knuckles).
John Paylon: All hail the King.
“Kill. Die. Repeat”.
I haven’t thought about that one in a while. My time in project honor hasn’t been perfect, but hey, when is anything ever perfect in a world ruled by violence. You spend as much time in this shit as I have, you realize that everyone falls. Everyone makes mistakes… you land on foreign shores, especially one of the most competitive companies in the world, a true hostile environment- you’re bound to have hellfire rained down upon you before you can even think. But… that being said, you don’t get anywhere in this world by sulking for your failures and being sorry for yourself.
You can’t choose to be in the shit of the world, but you can choose to be sitting there. And if there’s one god damn thing I hate, especially in combat sports, its complacency and self pity for motherfuckers who have the means to do something about it. Look around, look at your hands… you’re in an industry of motherfuckers being paid to KILL for a living, so go out and do it. This is meritocracy at it’s finest, and I tell you what motherfuckers… the time to act is here, and it is now. With the title of the Tyrant King on the line, with a crown of power up for grabs- It’s time we throw off the rust, the dust, the grind, and it is time we take what is ours, take what is mine- and tread on those who tread on you.
Sulking in failures is for guys like Logan Burgess, Nick Danger. Of which I’m sure when they go back to their McDojos and get hyped up from their five dollar an hour coaches, they tell them they can be the best… they can be great. For example, let’s take Logan, who quotes himself as being on the “top of everyone’s list to fail”, including his own. But I’m sure this greasy hair twat fresh out of his crack dumpster will be the death of a Spartan Warrior in his prime, I mean look at his marquee bouts such as Losing to the Blood Eagle Nazi. But it’s okay though, you also lost to me (You’re welcome, by the way), that should help your record look at least somewhat bearable. .Nick Danger over there doesn’t even seem to get off a punch, doing everyone the community service of being a can. Thank you Nick, Logan, we’ll be grateful for your service when you’re a braindead vegetable by the age of 39.
For now… Get the fuck out of my ring before I exorcise your soul and what’s left of your balls after Kasey-Fuckin'Winterborn beat you. If you look on the resumes of each and everyone of these guys they have literally never won a match. Never. Jesus Christ. Now I’ve taken losses, I’ve had losing streaks- but to be broken down and beaten every single fucking time. That’s rough, people make CTE comments at me, well maybe they should take the hint and get out before they can no longer even remember who their families are, their faces of their mothers, or the eyes of their loved ones. Or don’t. Either way you are going over that top rope and you will be nothing in the annals of history as one of the many stepping stones on Michael Bishop’s rise to become the Tyrant King.
What makes a Tyrant King? It’s the ability to strike out with absolute domination, control, and fear. Those are the tenants of the greatest fighter to ever live. To impose your will upon your opponents and instill a reign of absolute terror. Something only really one of you in his match knows about, and everything he got came from the bottle of body paint and schizophrenic tendencies. Johnny Levy is a man that could never live up to that. Now, to give him credit- he tries, he really does…. But you just don’t fit the bill, do you- Johnny? Always running, always hiding… I don’t know what kind of fighter, what kind of man, would willingly flee from the field of battle after you sign a contract, and claim to be here to fight. But you have, every single time… well I’m sorry to say there is no more running, there is no more hiding. To be the Tyrant King is to be a force of fucking nature… not a little rat hiding in the shadows waiting for his time. So you will strap on your fucking jockstrap, you will grow a pair, and you will face me in this ring and earn your honorable death. I’ll make a warrior and a victim out of you yet, and when your bloodline scrapes you off the floor, maybe they’ll be proud of you in your final moments.
This battle royale is the last chance for some, and the first step for others. Newcomers like Mikey Hero, Carny Sinclair are stepping in, wanting to see if they’ve got what it takes. And you know what- I don’t think they do. It’s one thing to get fed a can on your first match in, first match back, it’s a whole other god damn pool to step into, to be tossed to the sharks, torn apart in a battle royale warzone, and to be spat over the top rope. To be the Tyrant King, you must be willing to take any fight, step up to any challenge… and annihilate them on the spot because if you leave even a single motherfucker left standing, then you are weak, you are a liability to everything you are trying to do, and unless you’re willing to drag them to that five yard line and put them down in front of their families- you won’t make it a single fucking day in this industry. In the 20 years I’ve fought, I have never turned down a fight. That is a real statistic. The path I’ve led is nothing but extermination of every motherfucker, new, veteran, chump, champion, who has stepped into the corner opposite of me and has humiliated, violated, and left in a pool of their own red iron. And if you fuck with me, you and every single motherfucker will face that reality soon.
“There’s a whole spectrum of fighters against you in there-”
“Yeah, ‘Spectrum’ is right, some of them are on it”.
(Snow is falling heavy, in the present day we see Michael Bishop sprinting through the woods in a black track suit. His breath comes out in plumes of smoke in the air, as the biting cold gnaws at his skin. Bishop stops periodically, with padded gloves he lands precision strikes on several trees. He practices accuracy and pressure, creating deep craters in single points after combinations, as bark goes flying).
“-And then they are others not to be trifled with, Michael”.
“I’m not to be fucking trifled with-”.
(Bishop roars as he hits a spinning back kick on one of the trees with his supposedly bum leg. His boot impacts directly on one of the spits- SNAPPING the tree bark in half, and causing it to completely topple over…. As it falls, impacting on the ground and kicking up a whole cloud of snow… Bishop stands in the fod, cooling down, calm… precise, ruthlessly calculating the battle to come).
Bo Maro: Well… something interesting.
Michael Bishop: What?
(Bishop is back at his gym, years in the future Paylon is long gone and Bishop has converted it into a full fledged arsenal to which he keeps his skills, mind, and body sharpened and primed even with 2 decades in the sport. His manager, Bo Maro, flips around a tablet to show him a woman).
Bo Maro: Know who this is?
Michael Bishop: No clue.
Bo Maro: Stella Jade Rose. Twenty One years old, she’s barely a year into her professional wrestling career and training. She’s notably a big fan of many of the names of this sport… combat sports in general, she’s also a fan of Muay Thai, Jujitsu, and MMA… her favorite Mixed Martial Artist: The “Heavyweight GOAT” Michael Bishop.
(Bo flips his tablet around, and takes a puff of his cigar. Bishop gets a distant look in his eye. Bo Maro continues).
Bo Maro: You’ve been fighting for a long time… you were young when you came up in this, and I swear father time tears his eyes out everyday to see you moving faster and stronger than you did ten years ago. But… you love a long time… many of the fans who grew up seeing you, will eventually grow up to fight you. Stella is the embodiment of that-
Michael Bishop: Then I’m going to put her down like a fuckin’ dog. This is war, Bo. This is for the title of Tyrant King, and I don’t give a shit who the fuck step in there against me, they’re getting put down and thrown out. If she’s really as big of a fan as she says, she knows what I do to people, she knows how I murder heavyweights- Hell, she probably saw the old fight in Guana where I walked in against a straight prodigy in his home country, and beat his grey matter out of his head. I am an invasive force, I am the final boss that takes the fight to you, I am the Alpha-Omega of this fucking shit. Hopefully when gets sent back to her little master Syndicate in pieces, they’ll cradle her and she can have some rocky style comeback story. But in that story, she will always remember the reality of what happened when she got ran up on by the fucking Dreadknight.
Bo Maro: Fair enough. Two more… you might recognize the name, “Phantom Troupe”...
Phantom Troupe… heh. That reminds me of another group, except you don’t have the veterancy, accomplishments, skill. In fact, I’d say it’s more the leftover carcass from the legacy that once was the Phantom Troupe, rolling around as two cocky motherfuckers looking to make their way in the world. Kyle and DJ…. Fun fact: I’m the reason the Phantom Troupe is no longer around. I gutted their leader, Jacob Senn, and I put their best bitch Aria Jaxon in the fucking ground in Blood Sports territory, my territory that she tried to invade, and failed, just like you are now. And I don’t want to hear it, the regurgitated stories of “teamwork” and “viability”. You can sing all the songs you want, you can bet on the odds of two versus one to help you… It won’t matter. I have eaten legions like you alive, I am going to become Tyrant King, I am going to finish off the Phantom troupe. Permanently. Those are soon to be reality.
And it’s when we start getting to the ending stretch of a Battle Royale, we encounter the real meat and potatoes, the best of the best left standing. Archimedes, a young man painted in humor, who can still hold his own. You were once called “The one who knocks”... tell me, kid. When I come knocking at your door, will you hold the line? When I come like a barbarian at your gate, will you be able to fend yourself off like a true Tyrant King? I don’t think so. I’ve seen you fight, you crack under pressure and your silliness is merely a coat of paint you use to hide your flaws, and give yourself a safety net that you aren’t really trying. So, what? That it will be any different if you were? Fuck no. We all know deep down inside what you show in there is all you’ve got. You’re good, hell you might even be great- but compared to me and the fire in my eyes you are nothing but another victim among many in this. You are going to be melted down into a brick, on my road to the Tyrant Crown and you will be a skull amongst many others in the pyramid throne I will sit on.
Division monsters have fell to my blade, Heavyweight Champions have screamed, as legends have died. And yet… Sonya Benson thinks she stacks up. You did this on a dare, Sonya, you aren’t even a wrestler. Do you even know how to throw a punch? A kick? Hell- have you even ran on a treadmill? All of that matters. Because when we start getting down to the end of the line, when the heat kicks on and the exhaustion sets in… That will overwrite any download you have, any predetermined study. You know what the problem is with learning a moveset? The best fighters adapt, they change… You do this for long enough you realize the best laid plans die on contact, and it’s all on the fly from there. You won’t survive past the opening salvo and if you do, you won’t survive me. I’ll put my fist in your face and embed it so deep into your orbital bone, you’ll need to call up your hawaiian plastic surgeons to surgically repair your face, your soul, and then you’ll creep back into irrelevancy after I took a piece of you with me. Because to walk in here thinking you can bypass decades of training, study, and commitment is the most vile sin to a fighter, and as a disciple of this game I will send you out and proceed on my way to the Tyrant Crown, and you can bend the fucking knee afterwards. Download that shit, motherfucker.
And then who’s left at the end? Big Match John? Give me a fucking break. You know when I heard of John Blayde I expected someone, something. But the second I took a look for even longer than a minute, I realized what John Blayde is: A joke masquerading in the body of a full grown man. You’re a journeyman, John. You’re like every naive kid in school who never got the hint he was being laughed at, and you think you’re going to make it to the battle royale. The day John Blayde beats me and becomes Tyrant King is the day I gladly do a Jason Long and slit my throat from ear to ear, because the day a past his prime 40-something man high on back alley tren and steroids becomes the King of Tyranny, the King of the Fighters, is the day I really should just quit.
And then, past him? What? Brandon Hendrix, the glorified fucking jobber? What? Did I hurt your fucking feelings. It’s hilarious to me you ride the high of being on company ads, even as they advertise you as nothing more than their finest crash test dummy. Brandon’s a good lad, he really is. He means well … but you mean to tell me the man campaigning so hard to become the King of Fighters, the Tyrant King- couldn’t even put an over the hill Mark Hunter into retirement. You’ve got a stacked record of losing to Cadillac Johnson, losing to Tj Thompsom, losing to Young Sauce, Losing to Emmanuelle, Losing to Tara Fenix. You got outright annihilated in a tournament, and when they decided to let you back in for a “least loser” spot… You got fucking lost there too. The list goes on, the weeks go by, another episode of Proving Ground where you can watch Brandon Hendrix getting the brick shit kicked out of him in 1080p.
In fact, Mr. Hendrix, when is the last time you got a finish? 'cause it seems the only fucking thing you can do is watch a motherfucker be counted out for your victories, while you sit in the ring grabbing your bleeding scalp… Hoping they stay down, hoping they stay away. That isn’t what a fighter is, that isn’t what the Tyrant King is. That isn’t domination, supremacy, or ruthless absolution that is a fucking victim trying to get a paycheck.
Check it out, motherfucker.… I have retired many fucking legends at muzzle velocity, I have put so many god damn names in the ground it all becomes a blur to me. My right to the Tyrant Crown is that of conquest, of violence, of combat. I have journeyed from mountain, to temple. From Japan, to poland, from Brazil, to Bhutan learning all I could to become the greatest fighter of all time and the results have proven thus far. Heavyweight Champion, thrice. Hell, you think I give a shit if you put down a deroided Scott Oasis just trying to make a few bucks off a preshow?! I put that bastard down twice in his prime, and hell, at least when I did it the second time I beat his head into oblivion and I took his American Heavyweight Championship, and to this day, It is still around my waist. I’m a fucking don, I’m a psychotic bastard, I’m hunger let lose. It took you one year to fail to be something four times in this company, meanwhile in less than a year I’ve taken seven belts across five continents, and that’s with the bum knee that everyone likes to quote.
I have torn down enough false monarchs in my day and the only reason I wear a crown is because mine is soaked in blood and fire. I am a warlord, I am a demon, I am an enigma. I am a force of fucking nature. Every single thing I have done trumps every step you have taken in this industry, and it burns you alive to realize even at my lowest point, at my lowest hour, even in one of the roughest spots I am in right now I still have more momentum, weight, and accomplishment in me than you can manifest. You at your strongest, could never do a god damn thing, and you’ll sit there for hours marveling at my wikipedia page wishing you were me, wishing you could beat me, while I look to the horizon of world titles, main events, conquest, this company’s quickest finish ever, and taking my place as the King of the Fighters. You go home, stay awake at night, and cry into Stella’s shoulder because I will always be the better man, and you will always be a stepping stone I didn’t think twice about on my way to become Tyrant King.
It’s going to be over your dead body, at your expense, and I don’t give a shit if you go out fresh, or get sent home in a fucking casket. You can make all the knee jokes, old age jokes, and bottom barrel bullshit, but you know it’s only white noise distracting you from the reality rocketing towards you at The Crowning. You will get sent out of this ring with a folded flag, as the last stand of Brandon Hendrix’ fifty third attempt at being fucking relevant. I would pity you, but I really don’t.
And then… Finally… the last man to stand in my way of becoming Tyrant King. Well, I really shouldn’t call you a man, should I... Havoc? We’ve been a long way you and I, and our war might not be as popular as the one between you and Jeff, you and Jason, but it has been just as violent, hasn’t it. Too men, so different, yet the ferocity so the same. I actually respect you, Havoc. I know somewhere deep down inside, despite the fact you may despise me… you respect the only real man able to put you down at the height of your power, cleanly. Everyone else…. They needed an army, they needed gods, they needed demon powers or every single weapon imaginable. Me? All i needed was my hands around your throat, my knee to your skull, and my boot to your neck. And by the end of the night I could, in fact, beat you. And I am very fucking disappointed… Really? A low blow by some jobber? I actually expected fucking better from the man who calls himself the Nightmare King. All of those titles filling the void in your heart, creating the cult of personality that drives Hana insane every single night, all of those people you beat clean and yet you still needed an edge to beat me, huh? Demonic powers, all the anger in the world, and I was still too much of a man for you. You can try to shut it out, or ignore it, but that little bit there… living rent free in your mind. Haunting you, possessing you.
We could do this dance forever, but it needs to end. I need it to end… I need to end you. On the back of losing your title so soon after you held it above my hand, a victory you could not win on your own, it was stripped away from you. As the True Society crumbles, and Havoc’s worlds seems to shift and change… I am here to take from you one of the last hopes you have of breaking the air of this plummet. I am going to be Tyrant King, Havoc. You can stand there all day claiming to destroy me, but you never came close. Not two years ago, not a year ago, hell not a couple of months ago when You fled the ring with your little friends. But they aren’t here now, are they? Just you, me, the rest of the cattle. There’s a lot that can go on, a lot of people that can end up in those final few of this battle royale for the crown. But when it comes down to it… Whether I see you first, or see you last…. I will send you out of this ring and put yet another blemish on your fucking record. You stole a good fight and a good death from me last time and for that, I’m going to take a piece of you on your way out. Again, because we all know the true reason you dawn that body paint is to hide the scars I’ve given you on war after war, after the Dreadknight has taken chunk upon chunk from you.
I’m going to break you, again. And for all the evil you have stewed on this earth, I am going to make you pay what you owe, to me, to everyone you have harmed, to my wife and child that you promised death and harm to the last time we locked eyes. You fucked around, time to find out. The Nightmare King dies, and the Tyrant King rises from the ashes. See you soon.
The crown itself, means nothing to some, yet to the initiated we know the thrill and punch of winning the battle royale against 20 others is the real prize. Survival of the fittest, One versus all, and in a month that holds my greatest gamble, my all out Total War- I will take the title of Tyrant King, by force, by right, by blood. You can stack up the odds and talk about who deserves the right all day- but the Tyrant King is about the one who wins the war, the best of the best, the Last Fighter Standing. And we all know in a war to end all wars, it’s not about who is right, but who is left.
I am going to take my crown, take my redemption, and take my place in project honor as a worldbeater, a monster, and a fucking heavyweight. The heavyweight, The fighter, The Tyrant King.
