Post by Mark Hunter on Feb 24, 2021 23:43:28 GMT -5
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NO RESPECT AND NO CLASS
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“Men are respectable only as they respect.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Unaired Footage
Ryarsh, Kent, England
February 21st, 2021
Was I the one wearing the mask all along?
The thought crossed my mind as I threw a right hook into a punching bag, the echo of a thud and a groan surrounding the whole of the home gym. I began to pant, trying to catch my breath, looking at my taped up hands, then throwing another punch.
"Hrgh," I groaned again as I landed a left then a right into the punch bag.
What a time to screw up, what a time to find out Jelena was never going to take me back, almost on the eve of Proving Ground, the Proving Ground I can achieve my goals.
"Hrgh," I groaned again as another hard punch came crashing in.
"Christ, glad that wasn't me," a female voice said from behind me.
I turned around to see Lacey Monroe, her hair tied back and a variety of gym clothes over her. Matching pink t-shirt and sweatpants, a towel around her shoulders.
"Who said it wasn't," I replied.
"I should have guessed," she said, brushing her hair back over her shoulders, "Still, throwing lefts like that, I'm glad I'm not Dickie Watson. And you're not even a southpaw are you."
I look at her out of the corner of my eye before throwing five or six straight body shots into the bag, which absorbs the impact, the chain holding the bag ringing like a bell. I stop to properly look at her as she throws me a bottle of water, which I catch.
"You know what Lacey," I said, opening up the bottle of water, "you have real lousy timing you know that?"
"I've been told that on several occasions but I fucking live here dumbass, So what's wrong Markus? Even on your worst day you never abuse a punch bag, not your style."
Should I tell her? It wasn't her business, plus she would probably go running back to Drew Radar, the man who owned the home we were in, and trained us both.
"Come on now Markus," she said, "you can tell me anything. We've done it all."
"I haven’t quit on every company I’ve worked for whenever I fucking lose, I don’t run around crying about political bullshit everytime I prove not to be good enough, I sure as hell havn’t started sleeping with my coach so I can stay in the business because I’ve pissed everyone else off."
I finally looked into her eyes, realising I touched a nerve or two.
Nice.
"So," she said, her tone simple and unimpressed, "What's wrong with you. For as long as I've known you, I've only ever seen you on the punch bags twice before this. Once on the first day you turned up because your father disowned you, the other when you couldn’t cope after botching the piledriver that ended Steve Martyn’s career."
I continued with the left and rights, full blown body shots. Fuck it, I thought to myself, may as well tell her.
"Jelena..." I stumbled out, but threw another hard jab into the punch bag.
"What about her?"
"She's... uh... she's told me the relationship is over… she said she hopes I rot in hell."
Lacey, for once, actually looked genuinely apologetic.
"Sorry Mark," she said, shortening my name, which she never does, "I know you loved... love her."
"Yeah, well"
I throw another punch before removing the tape from my hands.
"Are The Scared Crow pub and library still in the village?" I ask, removing the final bits of tape from my fingers.
"Er… yeah!"
I nodded. Right now I didn't want to be sober or around people that knew me.
Unaired Footage
The Scared Crow Public Bar, West Malling, Kent, England
February 21st, 2021
Not everything in life is as black and white as many people wish to make out. It's a bitch, people let you down left right and center and just when you think they can surprise you, you still get kicked in the ass. People, life, careers, all are a bitch. Some move on and forget about everything you've ever done in the past...
However, there are occasions you can mess things up, say the wrong thing, not do enough. Especially when that person is someone you care about or love. But in this era of life, sometimes it falls on you. So when you get ready to start a new epoch, you just don't have it in you.
You blank out, miss the important things and before you know it, that person you never wanted to become, that person who is your worst nightmare, you’ve become. It can stop though, if you put in the effort and try not to become it.
That person resembling your future self.
The bar at The Scared Crow was a typical run-down biker place you would find on any back road around the countryside. The luminous blue and red neon Budweiser lights shone down upon the wooden finished bar, a burley looking biker stood behind it, his goatee too long and too white as his beer belly hung over a pair of navy blue jeans tucked into a black t-shirt inside a black leather waistcoat. He had looked at me several times in the last half-hour since I arrived, each time with a mixture of disgust and pity in his face. This time though, he looked really angry that I was there.
"You want another?" he said, his voice ruffled like sandpaper over wood, indicating to the empty glass of Jack Daniels in front of me.
"Sure," I said, not making eye contact with the biker.
I had more important things to worry about. It didn't go the way I wanted it to with Jelena, I’d screwed up big time. But sometimes it just doesn't go right and things don't play out as you run them in your head. There was no happy ending as the Prince rescued his damsel in distress this time, instead he was killed in battle.
"Here ya go son," the biker said, the whisky slamming down in front of me, some of the liquid going over the sides and spilling onto the wooden bar.
"Cheers," I said, sounding about as interested as I looked.
He looked at me again and this time I made eye contact, I easily noticed he had lots of pity in his stare. He felt for me, as though he knew what pain I felt. But he knew shit and maybe it was my own paranoia that was playing tricks, maybe he wasn't staring with those cold, piercing blue eyes that Ted Bundy would be proud of.
I wanted to be left alone and I thought I could get that here. Ironically as I picked up the glass, "Bittersweet" by Bret Michaels began to play, which drew a wry smile from me. I thought I might get past this, over Jelena, but how to do it… I sucked at knowing that.
"Hey you," a woman said, sitting down beside me at the bar. I didn't look at her but simply stared away, of course she wasn't talking to me, right? With the curiosity that killed the cat, I turned and looked. She was talking to me and not just talking, but smiling too.
"Hi," I said, probably coming off more defensive than interested.
She raised her eyebrows at me, almost inviting me into her shining eyes. I looked her up and down and even in a dimly lit bar with only her silhouette clear she was breathtakingly beautiful. Her smile, warm as a summer evening, was placed perfectly in accordance with her high cheekbones. Her eyes, the colour of green and blue like an ocean, pierced my soul and her hair, straightly hung on her shoulders just above a skin tight blue dress, that clung to her revealing her perfectly athletic body. Without guessing hard, I'd say she is also older than me, but only slightly, four years, five years maximum.
"Out of everyone here," she said, still smiling as she radiated in the neon lighting bar, "You look the most depressed person. Which is saying something in a bar full of men who think tuning motorcycles is a good time."
I looked at her speechless while she on the other hand simply picked up a bottle of beer, with a straw, sucking up the liquid.
"I'm Holly," she said, dropping the drink and spinning her stool to face me.
"And I am depressed," I agreed with her.
"What do your friends call you, Depressed?" she said with a slight giggle.
"Mark. Although I have answered to many things both good and bad in the past."
In the background, the music from the jukebox changed from Bret Michaels to Motley Crue's "Your All I Need." Holly brushed her hair back and grabbed me by the arm, trying to budge me by dragging me with her.
"Um," I said, sounding startled, "what?"
"We're dancing," she explained, "I can tell what sort of person you are by dancing."
I smiled as I got to my feet, Boy, she was in for a shock.
"I can't dance," I warned.
Holly just smiled.
A lot of legends, a lot of people, have come before me. But this is my time. - Usain Bolt
Aired Footage
Library, West Malling, Kent, England
February 23rd, 2021
Mark loves the solitude of the library, being alone amongst knowledge and truth. In the age of computers and other vices of technology, there is still nothing more fulfilling than finishing and enjoying a book, even playing the latest big seller on X-Box Live hasn't the same effect. Many people find their own enjoyments one way or another, but Mark Hunter's is simple, he loves reading.
Hunter glances over the shelves of the small village library, pulling out a hardcover book of a brownish gray colour. Mark looks the book over and notices that there's still a bookmark inserted in there. Mark opens the book to the marked page and I begin to smile.
"Have you read this Dickie?" Hunter asks aloud, "It was supposed to be the final book Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote on Sherlock Holmes, entitled 'The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes'. And every time I pick up this book I have to read the final story 'The Adventure of the Final Problem,' in case you are not familiar with it, it's the one where Holmes dies.”
"There have been many interpretations of how it plays out, where Holmes goes out in a blaze of glory, pulling Professor Moiraty over the cliff with him, sacrificing himself for the greater good. He defeated the bad guy by killing himself. The fans, of course, hated it and Holmes was resurrected three years later. But I don't see it that way, as a matter of fact, I find this final book one of honesty and great work, nothing you see in any of Doyle's other literature. How is it honest? Well it's elementary my dear boy. It's what he was feeling at the time, Doyle, tired of writing that character, with the sneaking around and deception and he knew when it was time to end it.”
"Then at the end of the tale, the great Sherlock Holmes falls to his death. Doyle sees this opportunity as a chance to write more meaningful work, something he believes can impact the world at the expense of his wallet. Which interpretation is correct huh?”
"It's funny that the intended final story of Holmes written by Doyle plays so many similarities between us. As proven by the lack of attention you paid me in the build to our tag encounter a few weeks back and childishly wrong assumptions on twitter, You see me as either evil or nothing, much like Holmes saw Moriarty. Maybe I am like him, I want to be top of the Proving Ground pile and at this moment you stand in my way. But Dickie, can you do what Holmes did to Moriarty and finish me off? Holmes had to kill himself in order to defeat the first 'super villain' and you shall have to do the same.
"It's either me or the both of us."
Hunter closes the book up, returning it to its place on the shelf. “When I first read that book, I was about twelve, I never thought I'd draw similarities to it in this day and age, but amazing when the sands of time gets crossed, it still has real meaning.”
“So Dickie Watson, it comes down to this. The moment that you and I have both been waiting for, one on one where only one of us will walk out victorious. You have thrown a lot of words out there at the roster, insults, lies but there is one thing you don't have or certainly haven't shown the roster. As a matter of fact, it's the thing that started this whole thing off in the first place.”
“You show no respect and a real lack of class. Hell, only a few weeks back you said, and I quote “I don’t much like people who don’t put in their fair share. And you, mate, aren’t doing so well.” You followed that quote by not working the next fucking pay per view, you are the champion, you also said you want “To prove to this company I’m still the man to watch, the man to celebrate for what he’s done in Project: Honor.” Do you really expect us to believe bullshit like that? The next event you sat on your ass and did nothing but talk more about you and how great YOU think you are. All the while you were doing nothing and not contributing to the show or company in any meaningful way, you had the damn nerve to brag about the length of your title reign in your address. Having a half assed reign with hardly any defenses and going months without a threat to the belt is fucking disgraceful… it is not a reason to brag!”
Mark takes a deep breath.
“Also when someone talks a lot, you kinda assume something meaningful will come out. Instead you just ramble on and on and on. Your promos sound like you just gathered a bunch of catchphrases and snippets from generic verbal attacks, loaded them into a shotgun, fired the shotgun against a wall, gathered the pieces, had some drunk Australian rearrange all the words into a script and just started reading the resulting crap. Scratch that, because something that malformed would be infinitely more comprehensible than whatever the hell it is that you do.”
“Respect is a simple word, but every time you have spoken, where has it been for me or the rest of us in Project Honor? I've done a lot in this business and set many standards, but still, it eludes you to show me any sort of respect and honor. You are about as generic as is possible to be in this business, that in itself is insulting.”
Hunter smirks.
“Some of us need a reminder, a reminder that no matter how high we climb, we're never, ever out of reach.”
“And that is the lesson that you Dickie need to learn, Dickie, do you think you’re above reproach? Do you think you’re untouchable? Do you think you’re out of my reach? No matter how high you can climb, I can spread my wings and catch you in my talons. Your pride and your hubris let you believe your own hype. You believed that no one wanted to fuck with Dickie Watson.”
“Well, I want to fuck with you. To use some colorful language: I want to fuck your shit up, and I have since day one when I walked into Project Honor. But unlike you, I’m a patient man. I bided my time and waited. So I waited… And now... I’ll strike.”
Mark’s smirk is unmoved.
“Your mystique is gone, people know better now. All you are is another nobody with an ego you’re body of work can’t match. And what does that get you when you face someone who isn't intimidated by you? When you come up against someone who isn't afraid of you? When you look me dead in the eyes on Friday night at AccorHotels Arena, in the center of the ring, in the Main Event, under the brightest lights... and see that as great and special as you in your deluded mind think you are, you’ll know at that point... deep down... that Mark Hunter is better!”
“After everything I’ve said, You'll come in with all your anger, that anger will make you reckless, and you'll make a mistake. That's when I'll strike. And when I do it'll make you angrier, and you'll get more reckless and you'll make more mistakes. You're a simple creature, Dickie. An animal of sorts. Animals are stupid, instinctive beasts. Dangerous... occasionaly... but stupid. You can thump your chest and talk about how good you believe you are. You can run your clap-trap and try to belittle me. You can call me a failure, a disappointment, a nothing... but it's only words in the wind. Compared to me... you're the one who is nothing. Think about this: Does the Proving Ground roster give a shit about Dickie Watson? No... but they FEAR facing Mark Hunter.”
Mark runs his hands through his short hair, then over his unshaven face.
“You think you're some god-like figure around Project Honor, but really... you're like the rest of them. You're playing checkers while I'm playing chess. You assume I have the same goals as the rest of the lemmings on the roster. I may not hold the title yet, but I hold all the power. Oh... but you think that's a foolish thing to say, don't you? You think that's a played-out cliché? Clichés don't become clichés without being true. Why else do YOU want the championship so badly? Why have you cried about the Legacy championship? To prove that you're the best? I thought you already believed that about yourself. You say it often enough. You think you can end me, you think this is all about Dickie Watson, you talk about this being your era.”
Mark's face twists from a smirk into a scowl.
“THEN FUCKING DO SOMETHING. Stop beating your chest. Stop treating everyone like shit. Stop throwing your little temper tantrums like a BITCH... and do something. Come at me with all you've got and we'll see which one of us is all talk. Unless... you're afraid of another loss on your precious record. Unless you're afraid of dropping another rung on the ladder and further away from the top of the card. Unless your ego can’t take that hit. Unless you're afraid that MARK FUCKING HUNTER is going to show everyone that Dickie Watson is completely irrelevant.”
“I’ve said it before and it seems only right to remind you all again, the time that Mark Hunter is recognised as the standard bearer in Project Honor is here, fight it at your peril!”
The scene drifts away and is replaced by the image of Dickie Watson and Mark Hunter being used to promote the match.