Post by Mark Hunter on Feb 8, 2021 15:04:33 GMT -5
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LOUD IGNORANCE
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“While it is better to be loved than hated, it is also far better to be hated than ignored.” — Viet Thanh Nguyen
Unaired Footage
Motel Room, Los Angeles
February 5th, 2021
Mark, wearing a pair of black jeans and a white shirt with small blue pin stripes running down it, is laid back on a double bed in a cheap motel he found on the side of a highway near LAX airport. It was a typical American motel in Mark's eyes. A Cheap place for some shut eye, which is all he wanted. It had a TV, just about modern enough he could watch a DVD or two, a bed and a small kitchen area i.e. a sink and a microwave. The outside was also typical, a dirty swimming pool for example. The evening was quiet, the sky setting into a nice black.
Mark had the TV on as he lay on his temporary bed. The room would have been completely dark if it hadn't been for the illumination of a lamp, placed on a bedside table. Mark was reading a book, "A Serial Killer: David Berkowitz: Son of Sam/Son of Hope," which he held almost under the lamp, the book was bent on the spine. The bed was made smartly, all the covers tucked in as Mark's body lay on top of it. The sheets were dominantly white, with small bits of black also visible, made into small patterns which made it look quite awkward. Mark glanced at the TV from his bed, it was another of his old matches, his only ever one on one loss. He smiled to himself, putting his head back in his book.
Yeah, Mark loved to get into the mood by watching some of his old matches, but there was only so much preparation he could do in that sense. What better way to remove all thoughts and pressure of the big match situation
There was then a knock at the door. Mark looked at his watch, it read "23:39." It was extremely late for visitors, but whatever. He sighed, putting a curl in the corner of the page to mark where he was. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and then his hair, before getting up, moving towards the door, and opening it.
"Amanda," he said, "what are you doing here?"
She softly smiled at him, removing the glasses from her face.
"I've had it with Frank," she said, "we're through."
Mark looked at her blank, his face as cold as stone.
"Um," he said, looking very uncomfortable, "you, uh, wanna come in?"
She smiled weakly again, her eyes with the look of a woman on the verge of shedding several tears. As she sat down on the edge of the bed, Mark gestured towards the mini bar.
"How about a drink?" he asked.
She nodded, Mark pulled out two small bottles of Jack Daniels. Mark looked at them by raising them up in the air, then decided to pull out another one for himself. He then grabbed two mugs from beside the coffee machine, checking inside to see if they were somewhat clean. He then poured one of the bottles into one mug, whilst into the other he poured two. He walked towards Amanda, switching off the TV as he walked past. He gave the mug with the one bottle in to Amanda, then sitting next to her on the edge of the bed.
"I missed you," she said softly, but Mark quickly sprung to his feet, waving his hand.
"Whoa," he breathed, "I can't do this anymore. I mean, shit, you're married."
"But with Frank, Christ, it's over."
Mark sarcastically smiled at her.
"It's never over. Look, it's going to be getting on soon, why don't you..."
"I can't ever go home."
Mark raised his eyebrows, looking at her. He moved his head backwards, trying to read the situation.
"Wh...why not?" he stuttered.
"I told Frank about us. About what we did."
"Shit."
It was all he could muster. A simple word. A simple meaning.
"Look, it's bound to have been a long night for you. You can kip here, but in the morning, I'm gone. I've got to head to England, my head has to be in one place only."
Her eyes again welled up with tears, though Mark wasn't sure if they had ever stopped.
"Thanks," she whispered.
She lay on the bed, Mark decided to slowly do the same.
"You know," he said, "when I leave tomorrow, that's it for us. I just can't handle this anymore."
"Where did this come from?" She asked, "Last time we spoke, you had feelings for me."
Mark smiled, switching off the lamp. The room was pitch black now, just the two of them, their thoughts. Themselves. He answered her.
“I love Jelena, I plan on telling her everything and asking her to marry me.”
Unaired Footage
Motel Room, Los Angeles
February 6th, 2021
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Mark opened his eyes. He was still in his clothes from earlier, white shirt with blue pin-stripes and denim jeans, his arm around Amanda which surprised him.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Someone was banging the motel door. Mark looked at his watch quickly, "01:13". Amanda was now stirring, she looked at Mark as he flicked on a side lamp.
"Amanda," the voice said from outside the door, "I know you're in there baby. Open up. Come on."
Mark looked at Amanda, who was now getting to her feet. The voice outside was quite deep, but sounded panic stricken, like he had no real tactic to his plan. She looked at Mark, her face reminiscence of a scared child. Mark shook his head stepping in front of her.
"It's Frank," she said to Mark.
He looked back and shrugged. Deep down, this was the moment he wanted, as much as he thought and said otherwise, this was going to be the end of this awful mess he created for himself. After a deep breath, he put his hand on the door knob.
"Hi," Mark said as he opened the door. He surprised himself with that greeting. Not the words he would usually use, but calm may be the key here.
He stood face to face with Frank, the husband of the woman he'd been sleeping with. Well, sort of sleeping with. They hadn't done that for a while. Comparing the two men they couldn't be more different, yet more similar. Mark was in the physical peak of his life. But this was a different situation to what he was usually in. Frank was slighter taller, maybe six-two, six-one was his minimal. He was overweight, there was no denying that, built like a stereotypical construction worker. He wore a white wife beater vest, light blue denim jeans from too many washes in the machine, and a pair of formerly white sneakers, which were now a grayish brown. The sneaker laces hung over the sides, like it was too much of an effort to actually put a small knot in them. His head was shaved with a little bit of stubble on top. The same sort of length applied to his facial hair, a beard of around three days, possibly four worth of growth.
"Who the fuck are you?" Frank asked, his voice now more confident, almost spitting venom.
"You knock on my motel door in the middle of the night and ask who the fuck I am?" Mark spat back. He wasn’t a fan of confrontation that was not umpired. Simply put in layman's terms, where anything goes, Mark didn't always excel.
"That's my wife," he argued back.
Mark bit his bottom lip. Yep, top that one. I've seen your wife naked. I've slept with your wife. Why did your wife come to me if she was with you? Take your pick, there were several responses to that.
"Oh," he said instead. Really wasn't as much fun, but it worked.
Frank seemed bored with Mark, which suited him really. He didn't want to be part of this discussion, which was the pussy's way out. But looking at Frank and how pissed he was, right now Mark didn't care. Besides, he was a good bullshitter, if nothing came of this, he could still spin the story in his favour.
"Who is this guy?" Frank asked his wife, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed. Her legs were tucked under the bed, and she didn't make eye contact. At all.
"This," she said, still not making eye contact, "is who I'm leaving you for Frank."
Mark looked at the two with wide eyed surprise. Frank turned to Mark who rather quickly began feeling very uncomfortable.
"What?" Mark said quickly, "Huh?"
Frank shook his head at Mark, then turned his attention back to Amanda.
"This is the guy, you've been screwing around with. What the hell is wrong with you. We've got kids together..."
"I can't handle our relationship anymore. It's brutal, just brutal."
Mark looked at the ground, while Amanda got to her feet.
"Brutal?" Frank asked, "Bitch you don't know what brutal is."
She began to walk away from Frank, who stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
"This isn't over," he said, calmly, but with a hint of being pissed off.
"Yes it is," she argued back.
She pushed him out of the way, but he simply stumbled backwards one step.
"It's over when I say it's over," he argued back.
She pushed him again, before Frank pushed her, Amanda falling back on the bed. Mark stirred.
"Son of a bitch," Mark said, almost muttered under his breath.
Mark quickly got behind Frank and pushed the large man in his back. Without the slightest of hesitations, Frank spun round grabbing Mark by the collar of his shirt. His strength surprised Mark and he powered him back onto a table, actually pulling Mark around. Several trays and the mugs full of whisky began falling around the place, breaking as they hit the floor. Mark pushed him away with his right boot, the Englishman then powered towards him, throwing a right punch. Frank blocked that and pushed back. Mark expected a punch, but totally fucked up. The right punch wasn't coming. Frank was a southpaw. A fucking southpaw.
WHAM!
He connected with Mark's face. He fell down. He was out.
Out cold.
===
Mark came too several hours later. Birds were chirping loudly outside, the sun had already risen and the cool morning wind was blowing in the room. The door was open and Mark was flat on the floor, looking around the room.
He gingerly sat up, his head was still spinning. He crawled towards the bed and with his arms, pushed himself up. He sat there, for several minutes, head in his hands, bringing himself up to speed with the hazy events from last night, the door open the whole time.
He moved his hand to his eye.
"Fuck," he snapped, then calmly saying, "and ouch."
He took a deep exhale of breath before standing on his feet. He stumbled towards the mirror, slamming the open door closed. He looked in the mirror. God. He looked like shit.
He felt like shit as well.
He then removed his shirt, throwing it into an empty bag on the floor. The floor. Christ, what a mess. Mark stumbled around the room, towards the shower. Time to shower and get out of here, back to reality. Back to England in fact. Back home.
===
Mark took the sports bag off his shoulder and literally threw it into the back of his rented car along with the still unopened briefcase, a dark blue Dodge Charger SRT. When he traveled on the road, he always liked to take the best car the rental firm had… and that was it.
The weather was good thankfully, a near clear blue sky with a few but white thin clouds, the morning was crisp. The grass around was moist from dew and every breath could be seen from your exhaling mouth. Mark closed the rear door and went back towards the motel room. The walk back gave him time to reflect. It was perfect for Mark to get his head around last night.
Last night.
It started with Amanda, which was uncomfortable in itself. Then things went a lot worse...
Mark opened his motel room for the final time, to pick up his last bag. He passed a six-foot mirror and paused. He looked at himself, staring back. From his feet, which were plain black boots, to his pants, dark blue denim jeans with combat pockets on the side, to his T-shirt, a White, Y neck splatter number, which was under a black cardigan, the bottom two buttons done up. His head was covered by a black ski hat and an old pair of Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses over his eyes.
He shook his head, picking up his final bag from the room. Storming out of the room, the door slamming behind him, Mark picked up pace.
He wanted to get out of this place, where the consequences of his actions came into labour. He did expect it really, he just never hoped it would happen.
"Never mess with a married woman," the words he’d told himself a million times echoed again.
He threw his final bag into the rear of the car, then got in the driver's seat. The leather interior told of class and prestige and, fair play, the car had a new car smell to it. That was the good thing about rentals, expensive rentals. You get what you pay for.
Mark looked in the rear-view mirror. He sighed before taking off the sunglasses. He looked back at the shiniest black eye he'd had in some time. Usually he’d grin back at a war injury, another war story, another war honor.
But not this time. It was a dishonourable sign, one which he had coming to him.
He threw the shades back on, then kicking the motor into gear. With a little wheel spin on the cobbled ground, Mark headed away, well on the way, to be precise, to LAX Airport.
"Karma," he grinned, "Ain't it a bitch."
His phone rang and despite driving, Mark put it to his ear. With his eyes on the road, he didn't check the caller ID, so when he answered, it really was a question.
"Hello?"
"Hey you," the voice said.
"Jelena," Mark smiled, though his face hurt when doing so, "what's up?"
"Not much. Listen, I need a favour from you. Could I see you at the airport before you leave? I've got a surprise for you."
"Sure, I have to tell you something before I leave too"
"Alright. See you soon."
She hung up. Mark checked the rear view mirror again, his sunglasses still on. He hated surprises and even more after last night's gem.
And as he intended coming clean to Jelena, who knows how this was gonna go… it’s not like Mark had Shakespeare's way with words at the best of times.
Aired Footage
Maidstone, Kent, England
February 8th, 2021
Three o clock on a Monday afternoon; the wrestling gym at Mote Park was filled with all kinds of people. Children being trained for either self defense or to carry out legacies of their family fighting history. The average folk training to learn more of the discipline, and also the professionals. Mark Hunter was already on the mats chain wrestling, and clinch working with a few of the coaches to improve more on his Muay Thai. Only to add more to his striking.
Finally, training was over. He receives all his stuff from the locker room, and walks out of the gym with the Reebok bag strapped over his left shoulder. Hood garments over his head; hands sweaty from punching bags, and all of him smelling like ball sweat. The day was surprisingly warm for February in England. Thankfully, he was staying at The Chilston Park hotel which was five or so miles away from the gym. In the parking lot, he stops before entering his rented BMW 7 Series to watch some kids run into their parents arms. It sucked so much to see that. It’s something Mark Hunter wanted in life. Hands pressed against the edge of the roof, he leaned forward to press his forehead into the glass. It was hard to look at the family two parking lot spaces down in all of their glory, and their comfort. He wanted that, yet he’d likely just destroyed his best chance of ever having it.
As Mark got into the front seat of the BMW, he strapped the seat belt across his chest, and pressed the start button for the engine to come on. Air conditioning automatically adjusting to cool the interior, seat moving back to make him comfortable, hands firmly grasped around the steering wheel. He didn't drive yet, he was still watching the family take off as one big unit.
He couldn't hold it in any longer, he needed someone to talk to so he quickly jammed his thumb against the call button on the right side of the driver's wheel. Jelena came up on the dashboard, and he really wanted her to answer but after a couple of rings. The same exact result; sent to her voicemail. Mark slammed his head back on the driver's cushion; hands clenched tightly around the wheel.
“Hey. Before you say anything, I just need to tell you that I am TRULY sorry for EVERYTHING that has happened. I am sorry for how I've treated you, treated this relationship. I should have been better. A better boyfriend, I should have told you the truth from the get go. I don't want to experience this pain forever. Jelena, please talk to me, I love you.”
Beep. The message was sent to Jelena’s phone. It's been a couple of days since he told her and she had broken off contact. Can you blame her? After finding out he was cheating, Jelena has been very silent.
Mark looks around, sets the phone to record, and places it on the dash.
“Why oh why is this happening? Why? This is some amazing bullshit. The biggest bullshit in the history of bullshit. Bullshit combined with bullshit multiplied by bullshit divided by bullshit square rooted by bullshit diameter is bullshit infused with the radius of bullshit carried over the bullshit sign that results into COMPLETE bullshit. War Games matches, Purge Matches, and tag partners that can’t even last two minutes?! Seventeen years in this fucking business; only one defeat in a one on one match in my whole damn career. Massive matches under my belt, more talent, more skill, and more everything than the rest of the War Games competitors. It’s disrespectful and insulting for me to breathe in the same environment as wrestlers not on my level.”
“Also, let's get this shit out of the way as well while I think of it. There isn't any fucking point in Mark Hunter being in any tag team match like the one that happened at Proving Ground, I’m an ESTABLISHED singles competitor. If you want the definition of tag team wrestling, go on the Internet, research UCWA and see all the information on how Mark Hunter dominated the tag team division with Lance Williams.”
“With everything going on in my life, why must I continue to be ignored? Why do I have to deal with little whiny, mid-card and enhancement talent bitches in a damn War Games match?”
Mark sighs.
“I know it's nice to help the future stars of Project Honor, and I know we've been having a massive influx of new talent from around the world who are either new to pro wrestling or have been dominating in other promotions. I’m just seriously not in the mood to move backwards simply to save the rest of the War Games competitors from being in a match no one gives a flying fuck about. The only thing I need is a chance, and I'll take it.”
Mark shrugs his shoulders.
“We have a Legacy Chamber match with four people less deserving than me, yet was I even given a chance to earn a spot in there like the rest of the roster? Of course not!”
Mark shifts in his seat.
“But you wanna know what grates on me more than that? Dickie Fucking Watson, what dip shit deemed it a good idea to give that sneaky little bastard the night off when the match everyone is crying out for is Mark Hunter versus Dickie Watson? A champion not working on pay per view is disgraceful and disrespectful towards all of us busting our asses on the show, not to mention how little care it shows the prick himself has for the fans.”
“Shit really is not working in my favour right now. I’m receiving all the bullshit, others the credit. This shit will stop at The Crowning.”
A clearly angry Mark takes a swig of water from the bottle he’d left in the car.
“I guess I should be watching my back, I’m the biggest scalp anyone could possibly take in the war games match, I’m the star everyone will want to put out. But NONE of you have the talent, I am above you all.”
“Remember now, and always… The Hunt is On……. You can’t fuckin stop me!”