Post by Mark Hunter on May 10, 2022 18:14:26 GMT -5
ULTIMATE POWER
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
Journal Entry. Dated: May 9th, 2022.
I've followed Markus to Philadelphia. His anger is in rare form. I haven't seen him like this in years. Perhaps he's slipping. Slipping back. We all know what that means. Regardless, it's been easier for me to hang around without him noticing. His rage gives him tunnel-vision. Everything is straight ahead. It's funny. The woman sitting next to him asked to be moved. Huntington hadn't said a word to her. He just sat there staring out the window. Seething. She'd tell the kindly old-fellow she ended up sitting next to that “that disturbed young man looked like his head was going to explode.” Markus didn't even notice she'd been moved. He didn't notice when the stewardess came by asking if he'd like a drink. He noticed nothing until rubber hit pavement on the airfields of Philadelphia International Airport.
When in this condition, following him is easy. He does his best not to bump into people as he makes his way through the airport, but it's less that he cares and more that he wants no obstacles, no hindrances between Point A and Point B. He's become predictable after all this time. Unless I miss my guess the anger will fester, but give way to quiet self-loathing and melancholy. It'd be almost pathetic if it didn't give him focus. It’s what happens after those rare occasions he loses big matches then has to refocus. He'll be in rare form against Billy. Impressive. Unflinching. Uncaring. Havoc probably hurt Bennet again. Of course, he did it by accident.
He checked into his hotel around half past eight this evening. It was a Days Inn. He's never been one for amenities. I never fully understood that myself. The road is long and hard; why not take a short stop somewhere soft? Despite his on screen persona and wealth, that's never been his 'modus operandi', though. I guess four walls and a ceiling is enough. By choice, though. He's made his living now. He's still an enigma to me sometimes...
He stopped by a liquor store on the way to that hotel. Naturally. They didn't have anything he actually wanted. Few places do. He settled for Jameson's. The bottle remained unopened on top of the standard-issue bureau next to a pack of smokes, yes away from the camera Markus occasionally smokes. Markus sat on the bed and stared at the bottle for over twenty minutes before he started blinking back tears.
It was dark outside now. Time to leave. Time to live. Time to die.
He's always seemed out of place in the daytime hours when in this mood to me. Maybe it's the general aura of darkness that seems to surround and permeate his being at times of struggle. Like he's always looking for a shadow. It's a pity, really. I thought this person died years ago. He was fine… Until Havoc outdid him… he tells the world and the camera one thing but behind it all, he feels another. I was ready to head home, but this relapse let's me know that Markus needs me more than ever before. He swore he'd do something, he didn’t, that is eating him from the inside out.
It makes me wonder how he will fare in this match versus Billy. His depth of gratitude to Project Honor is deeper than any other, even if he doesn’t broadcast that. After his injuries, it seemed unlikely that any promotion would take the risk to sign or re-clear such a liability to its roster. PH did. Markus has repaid them with a couple of match of the year candidates already. He needs this, he needs to prove himself to the world.
Markus Huntington needs to prove himself to Markus Huntington.
This small place seems like home. Project Honor can pack the world-famous Madison Square Garden in one of the world's largest and most vibrant cities, but it is here in Philadelphia that PH makes its next stop. The 2300 arena holds two thousand people. This was the type of building that for a wrestler… feels like reality.
A place where people mull around pretending that they've got somewhere important that they need to be. Pretending that if they smile enough and ask 'how was YOUR day?' that magically good things will happen to them. Like, I don't know, maybe not living in Philadelphia anymore. It's false optimism. It's fake smiles covering up shattered dreams and the sombre sense of settling. It feels like home for the wrestling community.
At the corner in front of an old theatre building, Mark Hunter reclines with his shoulder against a “No Loitering” sign. Hunter pulls an all-white cigarette from the carton, haphazardly shoved into the front-right pocket of his jeans. It doesn't matter the temperature; Mark Hunter does not wear shorts. What he does, he strikes a match against the back of a matchbook and lights the cigarette that hangs delicately between his pursed lips. A small trickle and then a stream of smoke escapes from the corner of his mouth before he replaces the matchbook and carton of smokes. 'I am killing myself, slowly,' he thinks, 'because I haven't lived long enough with the guilt to kill myself any faster.'
He exhales a long pillar of white smoke from his mouth and nostrils. His usually vibrant eyes appear sunken, deadened. His eye sockets look like they've been punched out. The bags are heavy; too much skin, hanging dead like off the bodies of old men. His head is drooping down against his chest like its several sizes too big; like a prize fighter scratching to re-find his prime. He raises it just high enough to gaze up from under the shadow of his brow.
“Why?”
“It's the ultimate question, isn't it? The 'how' is never all that important, nor is the 'who' or even the 'what'. But everyone always wants to know 'why?'.”
“No, don't pull that trigger!”
“Why?”
“See everyone wants to know why I want all the things I do. Everyone wants to know why I want to hand select my opponents and only face the elite, why I want a say in stipulations, why I want to defeat the Legacy champion even without the championship becoming mine. I guess now is as good of a time as any to answer that, right?”
Mark takes another drag off his cigarette, and holds it for a moment before breathing the fire out of lungs.
“It's pretty simple, isn't it?”
“It's about power. It's always about power. Everything is about power, and will always be about power. Everyone knows and remembers my promotional material because I cut through the B.S., because let's face it. Let's put humility and arrogance on the shelf and look at the cold, hard facts. Mark Hunter against Billy Bennett is a gold mine.”
“People talk about glass ceilings, well I was put in the proverbial glass box, a new guy being fed to the X-Factor champion, smashed out. Purge match built for the other show, smashed out. Grand title match versus the unbeatable Dickie Watson, smashed it out so bad he never won another big match in Project Honor before fucking off.”
“They didn't reinforce or sound-proof it. They gave me a microphone and a camera every week then said “Talk.” So I talked and wrestled my way to the Grand Title in just my second one one one match in Project Honor whether the World liked it or not.”
A slow smirk crosses Mark's weathered features. After a small puff on the cigarette he continues.
“Instantly upon return, I swindled, manipulated and finagled my way back into the title picture I wanted to be in, not the Legacy title, the Ascended Prime title. By hook and crook, I was finally back where I belonged... only to have it spoiled. You see, I didn't wait for an opportunity to be handed to me, I went out and made an opportunity for myself. It involved letting Billy win the Legacy, but that was MY POWER move.”
“Billy can sleep soundly at night because I'm not coming for her title.”
“Why?”
“Because without someone like me, without an antagonist, without a chaser or pursuer, the Legacy title is just a shiny way to keep Billy’s skanky old jeans on. Havoc is better than Billy, I’m about to prove both the Ascended Prime Champion and Proving Ground general manager are better than the Legacy holder. There is no pull, no honor, and soon to be no power related to the Legacy championship.”
Mark pauses.
“Another reason I want to be able to hand-select my opponents? I want the elite. The cream of the crop. I'm not going to sit back and waste my time on people like Hendrix and Blade.”
A cool smile adorns his face as Mark crushes the cigarette butt against the pavement with the heel of his shoe.
“NO ONE in Project Honor wants the Legacy Championship more than Billy does. The bitch has forsaken family and friends in a mad pursuit of the belt I could hold if I wanted. I don’t need it though, all I want right now is to devalue what she holds dear, I can make myself bigger than that title, in doing so I make Havoc and the Ascended Prime title bigger than that title… That is power.”
Hunter pushes off the sign he's been leaning on with his shoulder, uncrossing his legs and getting his feet under him.
“If I made this a title match, I’d be walking away with the belt and that defeats my ultimate plan. I can either take the title OR I can take away its value whilst making Billy carry the permanent reminder that she is nothing… she carries something meaningless… and MARK HUNTER FUCKING OWNS HER!!!”
Mark actually grins and almost mumbles the last line, as if saying it just to himself.
“The ultimate power.”
I often wonder about atheists. I think about what must go through their minds as Death creeps in on them. I picture a normally stoic, curmudgeonly old man with dark blue covers pulled close to his chest in one of those old four-post beds with the heavy curtains around it. A death bed. I picture his granite face cracking as the sickle hangs menacingly over him.
Who does the atheist ask to save him? Who does he ask to deliver himself from evil? If there is no one greater than himself, and he is not impervious to this end... is he really as great as he believed?
No one is a hero on their deathbed. So when the atheist cries out for “God” on his deathbed... is it repentance or a reflex driven by society? More importantly... is it enough to save him?