Post by Michael Bishop on Apr 25, 2022 23:34:57 GMT -5
“Cause and Effect” ladies and gentlemen, that’s the science of combat sports politics. Shifting tides, rising odds… You establish yourself as someone to watch out for, you become a dangerous presence. That presence shows strength, through your victories, the blood sinked deep into the cracks of your knuckles or otherwise… Strength invites challenge, challenge invites conflict, and conflict brings about any and every slimey vulture out of the woodwork trying to knock you down.
But before all that, you have to persevere. I remember saying that when I first came here, you remember? I remember. I remember everything as 20 years of fights, wars, and lessons learned continue to steel my mind from the canvas wisdom as I was lucky enough to learn things the hard way. Most crack after the first loss…. When that bitter taste of defeat hits your lips through the copper taste of your own red iron, they give up, they lose all hope, they throw the towel in. Not me. No, the true fighters, gladiators, champions know when it’s time to hunker down, double down, put your shield up and weather the storm of shit being thrown at you. You have to fall before you can rise, you have to feel death’s blade soar past you before you can deal it. You need to taste the bombardment of Project Honor before you can reap the rewards.
The late, great, EPO abusing Rock Johnson- may he rest in summary executed peace -told me that my opening few months here would be a punch to the teeth. Shark infested waters that don’t bother waiting for weak willed running jokes like John Blayde, but seek out the strong, the capable, the killers, the legends. He wasn’t kidding. Many mocked my rocky start here, thought that a few harsh words and some middle school jabs were going to shake my faith. Hell no, motherfuckers.
You see, I think people forgot who the fuck I was, who the fuck I am. You see Project Honor didn’t make me, OWA didn’t make me, SSW didn’t make me, Kingdom Pro didn’t Make me. I am a steel willed, bloodthirsty veteran of a hundred battles, a thousand war, countless rounds spent across 2 decades in the steel linked warzone to the point where I spent five out of seven days of the week with taped knuckles, armed wrapped around a man, teaching him how to kill. I was born from the gutter, spartanistically raised to be a fighting machine, indoctrinated and inprinted to adapt, meld, and use every single discipline into the ultimate, perfected, aggressive, brutal, and precise way-to-destroy.
I KNEW I was going to be standing here, freshly conquered gold on my waist, and a mountain of skulls behind me as I systematically cut through this brand, week after week, helping to establish what I always knew… I am one of the last legitimate motherfuckers, the real fighters. I am from a dying breed of golden age warheads, still fighting well into my prime and no matter the setbacks, no matter the low blows, no matter the bum knees or demons I will not be kept down. I might share the title with Liz Karlson, but just remember who beat the storm of the Phantom Troupe, the second Phantom Troupe I have decimated in a lifetime, and pulled BFG through that five yard line to become the New and Forever World Tag Team Champions.
Me.
The Dreadknight. The Legend.
Michael Fuckin’ Bishop.
And now back in my singles setting, I think it’s time to remind all of you what the fuck that means, and who the fuck is running this brand now. From the ashes of the Tyrant Crown Battle Royale came a hellish warpath that led to this point. And now here I stand, circled by two vultures, one a demon from my past seeking to lick his-their-it’s wounds and hide behind it’s inability to win a god damn thing, by trying to cut a piece from the man it’s corpse puppet never could. The other, a fiesty hardcore specialist, hold the hardcore, who’s been on a hard losing streak after I threw her-the-fuck-out.
Let me tell you motherfuckers this once, and let me make it clear. This is BFG Territory, this is Dreadknight Country, and you are in my god damn ring. So if you want to get humbled, if you want to get flatlined… if you heard about the legend of the fighting arm of the Mafia, then look no further. You signed on that dotted line, and now you get to contend with me. So if you want to dare and try and use my career, my name, my gold for your success story- you are about to end up a fucking statistic.
"Lets take a moment and break the ice,
So my intentions are known,
See I pity in watching you suffer,
I know the feeling of feeling of being damned alone,
I got a storybook of my own"
[-Shepard of Fire by Avenged Sevenfold]
Bishop spends some alone time in the gym. He’s a master of many, an amatuer at none, the culmination of perfecting the arts that many dare to hope to achieve. His aura has always been different than many of the supernatural entities roaming the industry nowadays. He’s never needed powers, an army, lightning or fire… just his hands. He squares up to a heavy bag, throwing quick, concise strikes. Never loading up a single punch with too much until he knows it was going for the kill. His manager, Bo Maro, once said that it was estimated a fully locked and loaded five knuckle railgun from the Second City Dreadknight was equivalent to 1400lbs. Every single opponent that has dared to dance with the him, and lived to tell the tale, comes out the otherwise bloody, beaten, and if they managed to win… well.
“You don’t beat, Michael Bishop. You survive him”.
Denzel Porter once said that people who fought Michael Bishop look like they got “hit by a freight train”. Some people claim to be hardcore, some people claim to be violent, very few every embody that. And the way Bishop manages to do it has always been from the ground up, rustic, and brutal. He stops fighting the back, and backs up… he drinks in the moment. He thinks to the first time he stood across from Yuriko Toyama. She was one of the first opponents he’d spotted heading into the shit shown Battle Royale at the crowning.
She claimed to be fast, she claim to be violent. She claimed many things,
She then had to eat those words as she sat in the outside of the ring after he eliminated her.
His phone rings, Michael quickly puts down a bottle of water, answering the phone; Liz Karlson.
“Hey Elizabeth”
“That’s Co-Champion Elizabeth, guy”, “Which one of us got eliminated first?”.
Liz laughs “Damn, bold aren’t we? Fuck you. ....You ready?”.
Liz laughs “Damn, bold aren’t we? Fuck you. ....You ready?”.
“Absolutely. All in”.
“What, you weren’t All In last time?” Liz asks, faking offense. Bishop shakes his head “No, No, it’s just…. There’s a different level of personality to this one. It’s a do or die mission, Karlson”. Liz gives an understanding sigh “One is claiming to build her future career off of carving up my back, the other-”.
Bishop thinks back to the early weeks of terror in the opening hours of this year. The Entity, formerly Jason Long, formerly a five time world champion. Now a pathetic demon that can’t win a title match running around in the skin of his former best friend. His eye twitches. He demanded Project Honor brass let him at The Entity. They refused, up until recently. He kept himself focused, but he could not deny the level of delayed bloodthirsty serotonin that was awaiting his chance to finally get his hands on that thing.
“You’ve got this, Motherfucker”.
“There’s a fine amount of surmounting odds-”, “No. Fuck That. You know what needs to be done, Michael. You’ve seen it, I’ve seen it, this world is going to shit when good people sit aside and let scavenger motherfuckers like them run rampant. I’ve stood beside and across from you, and I am one of the few people on this earth to get hit by Michael Bishop and let’s just say I don’t plan on repeating that one again unless I wanna end up a goddamn vegetable. Out of every single sorry bastard on this earth, I went to you… You were born for this. You were made to be a champion, you are a hallmark of this sport. ‘Terminator’, ‘War Machine’, ‘Champion-Double Champion-Triple Champion’, ‘Legend’.... You’ve been given many names… all warranted. So go show those motherfuckers why”.
Elizabeth “Liz” Karlson was a reigning World Heavyweight Champion, and one of the few people on this earth to rock Michael Bishop’s shit. She didn’t bullshit, and there was very few people she truly respected. He was one of them. He nods “Thanks Karlson. Go send those two bozo motherfuckers to the deep end. Drinks are on you, Co-Champion”.
“BFG Forever”.
“Fuck yes”.
You know every single corner I round, I find another motherfucker waiting there with their scythe and cloak, acting like they’re my grim reaper. The one to finally send me to the other side. They never are. When I get my hands around their neck, when I tear that hood off… all I find is someone wanting to cash some prophetic receipt, thinking that their battle with hammerfist induced CTE was going to be enough to make correction to beat the fucking Dreadknight. And every single one of them bears a scar, a mark I gave them, after I took a piece of them with me. Something they will never forget, phantom pain that will never heal, and a sadistic reminder to not fuck around with the devil, or else you will find out.
Do you remember that beating, Yurko? I do. When that bell rings I have photographic memory, every maneuver is precise, every strike is ruthless yet efficient. Every hold is draining, yet calculated. I move ten steps ahead, five steps lateral of anyone thinking they have the blueprint or victory plan. I underestimate nothing, and I drag everyone into the deep end. I remember you coming in swinging, I remember was all it took was one elbow to your forehead to open you up.
I remember you acting scared, acting afraid. Where the fuck did all of that machismo go, kid? The Deathmatch Idol looked really bitchmade when I made her wear a mask of her own blood, and then sent her out of the ring. To you, it was a horrifying defeat, a brutal reality check in fighting a proven veteran and running 99 miles per hour into a brick wall of cruel reality. Me? It was yet another body, stacked. Yet another motherfucker, cut down, and yet another kill to my name, a clip to my highlight real, a bullet point to my resume.
You haven’t been having the best time since, have you? When does it end Yuriko?! People shit on me about setbacks here, losses there- the only hard falls I take are with the best in the world, and they’re few and far in between. There’s enough momentum in my rap sheet, enough presence in my pinky to dwarf any single motherfucker in your entire bloodline. You? You struggle with the cans, the chum, the bottom of the barrel. And yet despite everything, you never adapted. You never changed, you never learned.
Loss after loss.
Knock Out after Knock Out.
You see, that’s the thing. I’ve learned, I’ve adapted, I’ve changed. And while you have spent the past few weeks struggling against motherfuckers like Zack Cage, I’ve made former world champions die, and legends scream. I’ve established what kind of person I am here on Fallout: A creature of violence. You want proof of concept? Ask Madam Moore who the fuck dragged her into the deep end and beat her at her own game. You come back to me, when you could not live with your continued defeats and failures, Yuriko, looking to earn redemption off of pinning me.
A straight left took you out, a high kick took you out. I’m sitting here thinking of the intricacies of methodology you haven’t even heard about, while you’re sitting there, salivating over a bloodbath I can win drunk, blind, one arm, a bum knee, back in my fucking junior years. I am the master, I am the architect, I am the blacksmith of violence of action, of cage ruthlessness, nurtured by 20 years of canvas wisdom. Pay what you owe, give respect, and remember the fuckin name. There is no redemption here for you. There is no salvation, there is no victory.
And if you won’t see reason? Fine. You will fight, you will fall, and you will be buried underneath the canvas with every other hungry, glory blinded upcomer who came at the king, and got stacked like a brick. Another win to my name, a tally to my resume, and another ounce of red iron to cake my knuckles. And only when you are shoulder to shoulder, face up on that canvas next to your sickening adversary… will you realize that you had a lot of miles to go to get to me, to challenge me, to beat me.
Sadly that is a had, not a have.
Cause while you will try to cash your receipt, I’m cashing my chips….
And I’m taking everything away from you.
“You always found comfort in remaining in the background, in the shadows like the cold blooded murderer you are, and always have been”.
The words of the Entity circle throughout Bishop’s mind as he races through a forest. Cold air cutting at his eyes, he runs down a rocky trail, displaying athleticism by jumping over pitfalls and kicking off of trees. Rain pours down hard, but he doesn’t back down. It’s a test; “Train in the hardest conditions, and the seems easy. Trudge through hell, and the Octagon seems like Heaven”. Still, even through all of this… the battle ahead remains an uphill and very personal one…
He remembers the demon that haunted his nightmares, bearing the face of his dead brother in arms as it taunted him again, and again. Michael knows better, he knows what it’s trying to do… and yet, he still listens.
“When your little girl is born, what will she see? The Legend? The Icon? The Dreadknight? Or will she see the truth. The bloody truth. The man caked in the insides of his enemies who gave no fucks as to whoever fell by his left or right, as long as he won the coming war. The demon that was hellbent, fueled by nothing but hatred and rage….”
After his race through the forest, he finds himself in an old clearing across from an old oak tree. It’s been beaten, battered. Over the course of 2 continuous decades, Bishop would return to this tree again, and again. First, when he was nothing more than a young lad, it was shadow boxing. Then, as he entered the regionals, and then debuted professionally, he began to make contact. All of his hatred for an opponent before a fight sunk into it, every single fight, every single year, a little more worn, and yet. It still stands.
Until today that is. Bishop cracks it with a hard high kick, the thing rocks more than it ever has, it wheezes. The rough straight winds attempt to knock the already exhausted man off balance. However, he keeps his footing, he keeps his composure, he pushes on.
“Rage. It’s your real mistress, isn’t it, Michael? No matter how much you may claim to love your wife, no matter how long Rebecca was there for you, your true love is the ring, the fight, the canvas; War. You will never be the husband you claim to be, the father you want to be, or the man you walk around pretending to be. All you are is a run down MMA Fighter who takes out all of his hatred on poor old Rebecca-”.
KRACK.
Bishop lock and loads a hail mary right hand, the punch cuts straight through the side of the tree. Bark and wood flies everywhere, he steps back, breathing heavy as the old oak finally falls… the white noise of the wind howls around him, as he’s left there. Pondering the fight ahead.
“He’s trying to get into your head” Rebecca Bishop, husband to the Dreadknight, now almost 6 months along says. She sits on the couch in their living room, Michael sits on the other end, staring at the wall. “Maybe he is”, “only because you let him”. He looks to her in disbelief “How could I not?! He-... It’s wearing a skin suit. Jason Long died months ago, that thing took up shop and everyone calls him Jason. That’s not Jason, that never has been Jason. What remains is the putrid, worst parts of the man once called The Maverick, it’s-”.
“His inner demons, Yes-” Rebecca rubs her forehead, she sighs; “Yeah, Yes. Jason is gone because his deepest, darkest thoughts consumed him or some shit. It’s all the same god damn bullcrap!! You know what I remember? I remember the story of The Revenant… the embodiment of the worst parts of Michael Bishop. A husk and a shell of a man that roamed combat sports, consumed by his anger, and how despite everything… despite being run into near retirement because his own bitter hatred tried to take over- It didn’t. Mike, hun’... even at that eleventh hour… you won out…”.
She scooches over to him, Mike can barely look at her after thinking of that time in his life. Only a couple of years, and yet it seems like a lifetime ago.
“Michael, look at me” his wife’s words draw his eyes, filled with grief for everything… for all of the things, for Jason… the Entity pulling at his worst downfalls seems to have had some sort of respect. Only some, however; “Jason Long had a whole support system, a brother, a fiance, a sister, and a best friend that too many motherfuckers in this world take for granted. You had nothing, you were abandoned by the world, you were cast down, spit on everyone… and you didn’t give up. I don’t care what that fucking demon says. He’s living off the fumes of a dead man and the only thing he’s got going for him is some sorry ass sob story, and the vain hope that he can cut a piece of you off in this coming match to try and build himself up… Do not. Let him. Michael. For the love of god, for the Mafia, for Cyka, For Jason… for everyone that thing has hurt. Put an end to this shit, beat down Yuriko, light that fucking thing on fire, and show everyone who you are the god damn man…”.
“Michael, look at me” his wife’s words draw his eyes, filled with grief for everything… for all of the things, for Jason… the Entity pulling at his worst downfalls seems to have had some sort of respect. Only some, however; “Jason Long had a whole support system, a brother, a fiance, a sister, and a best friend that too many motherfuckers in this world take for granted. You had nothing, you were abandoned by the world, you were cast down, spit on everyone… and you didn’t give up. I don’t care what that fucking demon says. He’s living off the fumes of a dead man and the only thing he’s got going for him is some sorry ass sob story, and the vain hope that he can cut a piece of you off in this coming match to try and build himself up… Do not. Let him. Michael. For the love of god, for the Mafia, for Cyka, For Jason… for everyone that thing has hurt. Put an end to this shit, beat down Yuriko, light that fucking thing on fire, and show everyone who you are the god damn man…”.
“.... Still have faith in me, after all these years?”.
“Never lost it”.
I gave you a choice.
Walk away, fuck off, fade into the darkness and live a sorry, pathetic life, but be able to live one. A couple of short weeks ago, I was tired, I was too busy focusing on the future to look to the past. To dig up the grave of a friend I once left, and I knew too better than to try to pick a fight with someone in some psychedelic forest. It’s because of that… I walked away. Or so I did, for the time being. A couple of months ago the former Ascension’s Champion Jason Long was usurped by The Entity. A being of his inner darkness that bit off far more than it could chew by trying to take his place, and burning his whole world down. And in his attempts… he got burned with it.
Two straight losses and the creature returned to tempt me into battle, to make me stray off the path of glory and gold by challenging me to a war he said I was not worthy of being in, a battle he was too good for to wage, and to try and use the man he once called a run down motherfucker as a launch pad for his comeback. I refused. I walked away. I left that motherfucker in the woods, and I never planned on bothering with it again. Whatever happened next was your choice… because even as your memories are merging with Jason’s, Entity, as your worlds combine and you face the fact that you might no longer exist in the coming weeks… you knew damn well who I was, who I am, who I will always be.
You know what happens when a person dances with the devil in an eight sided chain linked prison, and dares to take his head. You know what happens when King after Queen, Tyrant after Savior, Hero after Villain tried and failed to take me down, to use me as a brick in their wall and learned all too quickly that I had already sunk my teeth in and was dragging them into the deep. You should have known better, and yet in your desperate attempt to make a comeback in a place you were never the King of… you come for the Heavyweight King, the Outlaw King, the King of the Fighters.
Well. You dug your shallow ass grave, now kneel and prepare to be buried in it you demonic motherfucker. You know me, Jason knew me… you know I’m bilingual, speaking english and the cold hard fuckin’ truth, truth that you can either face or bury your head in the sand and cope. Either way… Fear me, Dread Me, cruel reality arrives all the same and I am still the legend that has ran over any and all like a freight train, while you still feint reality as a puppet. So you want to duel with the Dreadknight? A battle that Jason Long, in his prime, lost twice? Well then… it’s as the old saying goes:
Fuck Around and Find Out.
Do you think I’m scared of you, motherfucker? Do you think I’m afraid? Check it. I was brought up in the gutter, the steel streels of the second city, where I fought serial killers on one day, and methed out tweakers on the other. I was born into a harsh environment, molded in murderer’s row after murderer’s row, nurtured by fighting, dying, and killing the best of the best day after day, for over 4,000 days. You like to mock and say it’s all rage and lack of intellect, motherfucker, I am a don, I am a surgeon. I spend hours upon hours laying out the blue print on how to dissect motherfuckers fight after fight, match after match. I walk into a battle royale, and four motherfuckers are out in minutes. I square up to a prodigy, and render him retired in seconds. I face a home town hero, and I drag him to the ground. I hold him down while his family screams, just meters away. And I beat him. Again, and again, and I feel the fight, breathe, and life fade as I put him down like the fucking dog he is. You claim to be evil, I deal it. Yuriko claims to wield violence, I wrote the fucking book on it. Remember the name, pay respect, because my name is Michael Bishop and I am the grim reaper of all fighters, heavyweights, and champions from Japan, to South Africa, from-sea-to-shining-fucking-sea.
I failed to get the ascensions championship, and all that meant was I ripped my way into 3 different title opportunities in weeks. How long did it take the late, great, Jason Long? Oh yeah, months. You lose the ascension championship, you become an laughing stock and the exclamation point for a dead man’s ex girlfriend’s resume.
Speaking of ex girlfriends… you talk a lot of wife beating shit for a motherfucker who uses, abuses, and throws women to the side left and right, gaslighting them, manipulating them, torturing them. Be honest with me, Entity, you look at my marriage and you are jealous. All you have ever had was two month flings in which they moved onto bigger and better things… just like everyone who’s ever faced you in a match. Maybe you do it because you’re evil, maybe you do it because beating on a bunch of twenty year old women are the only fights you’re ever going to win. But that's okay... you painted a good little perception when you shoved me off that ladder, made everyone forget I beat The Maverick, The King, Jason Long, in his prime run. Twice. So you get the chance to run it back, against the fighting arm of the Mafia, against the man he could never beat. Out of the ashes, came you; Jason "The Entity" Long, the sum of all his fears, failures, and drawbacks, and now you get to fight Michael "The Revenant" Bishop, your superior, your better, your champion, someone who can fight back.
Speaking of ex girlfriends… you talk a lot of wife beating shit for a motherfucker who uses, abuses, and throws women to the side left and right, gaslighting them, manipulating them, torturing them. Be honest with me, Entity, you look at my marriage and you are jealous. All you have ever had was two month flings in which they moved onto bigger and better things… just like everyone who’s ever faced you in a match. Maybe you do it because you’re evil, maybe you do it because beating on a bunch of twenty year old women are the only fights you’re ever going to win. But that's okay... you painted a good little perception when you shoved me off that ladder, made everyone forget I beat The Maverick, The King, Jason Long, in his prime run. Twice. So you get the chance to run it back, against the fighting arm of the Mafia, against the man he could never beat. Out of the ashes, came you; Jason "The Entity" Long, the sum of all his fears, failures, and drawbacks, and now you get to fight Michael "The Revenant" Bishop, your superior, your better, your champion, someone who can fight back.
You can’t see the reason? You want me to be your end? Fine. Whatever happens to your demented little mind in the coming weeks won’t matter, because no matter what happens… YOU WILL REMEMBER ME, YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!!! Yuriko will get a crucifixion, you’re getting a fucking BURIAL!!! For everyone your tainted evil has touched; For Savannah, For Nathan, For Alyssa, For Kit, For Viktor- For Jason Long.
I. WILL. BE. YOUR. END!!!
So listen up. You too, Yuriko. Both of you vultures shut your fuckin' mouths, because the only adult in the ring is speaking. The statement Liz Karlson and I made at Public Execution was only the fuckin’ start. There is a new era on Fallout, there is a new regime, and it is time to pay respect and pay attention. I am not your accolade, I am not your friend, your stepping stone. I am the American Heavyweight Champion, I am one half of the World Tag Team Champions here on Fallout: My brand, your prison. I hold the fastest knock out in the company for a reason, I shellshocked the world at the second annual purge for a reason. And in this coming triple threat, there will be no redemption or comebacks for either of you. You are going to get a frontrow seat at what happens when I am fully armed, fully pissed-the-hell-off, and when I am give no choice but to do what I have done for the past 20 years: Rock you, drop you, cut you down, and stack you. You will be shoulder to shoulder in the same grave, as I send you out with a miserable, yet expected, defeat.
Both of you may hate me, for jealousy, for bitterness…. Because even at your highest, you could not get past the War Machine in his prime that you mocked and got your shit rocked by. But by the end of this war?
Remember the why,
Remember my name,
And don’t forget to Hail the fuckin’ King.
