Post by Furious Julius Fairweather on May 14, 2021 16:37:10 GMT -5
I can hear what you're thinkin'
All your doubts and fears
And if you look in my eyes in time you'll find,
The reason I'm here
While video footage of a competitor training for an upcoming fight may not be an uncommon thing to see, when that person in question is Julius Fairweather there is almost a disconnect from what regular viewers have come to expect. Julius’ typical appearance in promotional material would have him in a black suit and tie, which have been shed in favor of a more non-descript gray sweat suit. The afro that would normally be glistening from the application of hair care products is gone, replaced by his clean shaven head as the result of events during the last Fallout. Even his normal entourage is oddly absent as Julius appears to be alone in a dimly lit gym somewhere within the city of Rio de Janeiro. There is no Winston Winfield to joyfully praise everything Julius says, nor are there any Swallows Twins to gyrate absent-mindedly for the pleasure of others. The elderly Chinese man who occasionally serves as Julius’ spiritual advisor is nowhere to be seen, just as his eccentric next door neighbor is blissfully absent. Even his most recent acquaintance, Nigel Half-Weather is not present, leaving Julius alone to throw a combination of punches into a speedbag as the stationary camera picks up his every movement.
Sweat stains Julius’ shirt and drips from his brow, clear indications that he’s been punishing the heavy bag in front of him for some time. Surrounding him is the kind of equipment one might expect in a modest gym, from iron weights and a medicine ball to heavy logging ropes and sparring dummies, all of which are in various states of disarray, as if to indicate that the speed bag was not Julius’ first target upon his arrival. The camera picks up the slap of flesh against the canvas bag with every fist that finds its target, along with the grunts of determination that escape him with every punch he throws.
For a moment in time, it seems as if Julius’ latest promo will include nothing more than his pummeling of the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling, when suddenly his last punch lands against it and his hands then grab the bag by its sides to halt its momentum. There is no dramatic final blow to snap the bag from the chain that holds it, no rush of sand as he punctures the canvas with a superhuman punch. There is just a man who rests his forehead against the bag, taking a few moments to catch his breath before addressing the camera. As his deep gasps for oxygen become more regular, Julius slowly turns his head away from the bag between his taped hands, looking toward the viewers, not with a bright smile or bulging eyes, but with a serious yet calm expression that one might expect from a professional fighter.
“There’s a time for laughs. There’s a time to entertain. This ain’t one of them. Right now it’s time to get serious, and it ain’t because of no haircut or some burnt up clothes. This ain’t about talking trash or playing some game of one-upmanship anymore. This shit is deadly serious to me, and it’s about time my words and actions reflect just how serious I’m taking it.”
Julius shoves the heavy bag away and takes a step toward the camera. With both hands he reaches to the back collar of his sweat shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing the well-toned upper body that lays underneath. He wipes the sweat from his face with the balled-up shirt and then tosses it aside as he takes a seat in front of the camera, his eyes focused on the tape around his hands, which he begins to unwind.
“My real name ain’t Julius Fairweather. It’s Luther Franklin. That ain’t something I’ve bothered to say on camera before, because I didn’t see much point in it. I guess it’s not a big secret. Anyone who wanted to dig hard enough could find footage of me fighting under that name. The truth is, I’ve always appreciated the dramatic flare that goes hand in hand with fighting, whether it’s boxing, MMA, or pro wrestling. There ain’t a flashier or more dramatic persona than Julius Fairweather, and I do that shit on purpose. I like to throw people off their game, make them focus on the guy who idolizes Samuel L. Jackson and says motherfucker more often than he should. I like that reaction the crowd gives me, the crazy motherfuckers who are drawn to my side, and the laughter I can get out of people. Julius Fairweather can do that in a way that Luther Franklin never could. Julius creates memorable moments. Luther just sits in the back of my brain and goes along for the ride.”
He finishes unwinding the tape from his left hand and moves on to his right, still not bothering to look up at the camera as it records his every word and movement.
“This ain’t no declaration that Pyro is going to be facing Luther instead of Julius. Trust me, that flamboyant motherfucker will be front and center when it’s time for the Fight Pit at Disputed Territory. It’s just that right now, he needs to step aside and let the man behind the myth have his moment to explain a few things. You see, lately I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I’ve been having trouble focusing on a lot of things. For some reason, in the middle of the night or during that everyday shit we all do, a certain someone takes over my thoughts. Pyro managed to get in my head, and he did it long before his little stunt on the last Fallout. Some people don’t bother to take that motherfucker seriously, and I was one of those people until recently. Now that we’ve had a few dances back and forth, I’ve started to see things just a little bit differently. I see Pyro for what he truly is, and that is one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met. Not just the most dangerous on the roster or in the business, but one of the most dangerous that a guy who grew up in the bad part of Detroit...has...ever...met.”
Julius puts an emphasis on those last few words as he pulls the last strand of tape from his wrist. He then falls silent, his gaze no longer on his fist or on the camera, but to some far off place that we can only assume is a memory of days long past…
The thoughts behind his long stare may remain a mystery to those watching, but in the recesses of his mind, the images are all too clear. It was a warm, Spring day in Detroit, the kind of day a young Luther would often spend doing random chores for his momma so that he could earn enough spare change to rent a video from the nearest Blockbuster, preferably something starring Samuel L. Jackson. With his copy of ‘Unbreakable’ tucked under his arm, ten-year-old Luther was on his way back to the decrepit apartment building he called home, ready to watch his hero’s latest cinematic performance. He didn’t have a care in the world, not even when he saw the group of teenage boys who reveled in tormenting the boy simply because he was a little bit different.
They took great enjoyment in mocking his childhood fantasy that saw him as the illegitimate son of a famous Hollywood actor, and the more the boys would poke at him, the more Luther would insist that someday Mr. Sam Jackson would come back for him and his momma. Despite it being well out of style, the young boy sported his Jheri Curl afro with pride, giving his tormentors even more of a target. On this day, seeing young Luther striding past the alley that they had carved out as their private den of debauchery where they could curse and smoke, the teenage boys were feeling especially malicious. They wasted no time in springing from their lair, three of the boys moving to block Luther’s path and two behind him to prevent his retreat. The largest and oldest of the five boys, a street-tough young man named James, stood front and center. He was tall and lanky with a patch of sparse hair on his chin. He was the kind of kid who couldn't stand up to his peers, but had no difficulty in targeting those who couldn't fight back. More often than not, he fought his battles with a sharp tongue, using condemning words and threats as his weapons. On this day, James acted as the ringleader of the group and was the first to speak up once Luther was cornered.
“Look what we’ve got here! If it isn’t little Luther L. Jackson, Samuel’s pride and joy! Why don’t you lay some of that Ezekiel 25:17 down on us, motherfucker?”
Having grown accustomed to their constant abuse, yet years away from an incident that would see him stabbed with a makeshift blade, Luther already knew that his best course of action was to turn the other cheek and ignore the much larger group of antagonists. He tried to sidestep and keep moving toward his apartment building, but James wasn’t ready to give up so easily that day.
“I told you to talk like Sam Jackson, motherfucker! Are you deaf or just stupid? You’ve got the dumb fucking hair, so I want to hear you talk!”
“Leave me alone, James…”
It was all the boy could manage to say, still years away from developing the defiant streak that would one day be a signature characteristic. Still refusing to take no for an answer, James shoved Luther backwards into the arms of two of the other boys, while further antagonizing the boy in a mocking tone.
“Leave me alone, James. Shit...you’re just a wannabe little bitch. If you really were Sam Jackson’s kid, it’s no wonder he left your ass here with your fat whore of a momma.”
While that defiant streak had not fully formed, the constant attacks that Luther had suffered from James and his friends was starting to take its toll. Even little Luther was surprised when he found the courage to speak up in response.
“Fuck you, James! Don’t talk about my momma like that!”
His sudden outburst was not met with further insults from the older boy, but instead a straight punch to the nose. It was more than enough to knock Luther off his feet to the hard pavement beneath him, even if he had been prepared for it. As blood trickled from his nose, Luther’s eyes immediately went to the VHS cassette case that had bounced from under his arm. He reached out for it as if Mr. Glass would serve as some kind of protection, but one of James’ friends was faster. The teenager scooped the VHS case off the ground, popped it open, and looked at the tape as if it were some kind of alien artifact.
“What the fuck is this shit? A little bitch like you is gonna watch ‘Unbreakable’? Check it out, James! Sam Junior thinks he can’t be broken!”
Luther ignored the incorrect assumptions that the boy had made about the movie, deciding it would be better to keep the weaknesses of Samuel’s character to himself in this situation.
“Can’t be broken, huh? Looks like the little fucker can bleed. Makes me wonder if he can burn too. Hold him for me and let’s find out...”
If the other boys thought that James was taking things too far, they kept those opinions to themselves as two of them grabbed Luther by his skinny arms. There was nothing Luther could do to escape the two older boys other than squirm, while James produced a cigarette lighter from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers in a threatening manner. Every time his thumb would ignite the flame, Luther would struggle a little harder, but his attempts to get away were always in vain. The laughter of his friends seemed to push James further and further, as he would ignite the lighter and hold it ever so closer to Luther’s face. Their laughter would only grow when Luther dramatically tried to blow out the flame, as if they were taking delight from the torture of a helpless animal. With blood dripping from his nose and tears welling up in his eyes, Luther struggled harder with every passing second, yet it was that desperate fight for his life that would nearly signal his own demise.
Whether or not James ever intended on setting Luther on fire became a moot point, as Luther lunged forward out of desperation, the product-soaked curls on top of his head brushing against the open flame of the lighter. What followed was the startling sound of the boy’s hair catching fire, along with the panicked retreat of his tormentors. For a brief moment, Luther felt himself free of their grip, and briefly unaware that his head was on fire, he assumed the tormentors had lost interest. It was the combination of their shocked expressions and the building heat atop his head that finally alerted him to the true danger he was in. Luther’s hands immediately went to his hair, the searing tongues of the flames licking the skin of his bare palms.
As the immediate shock of his tormentors turned into cruel laughter, Luther did the only thing he could in the situation. Diving back to the ground, he rolled into a puddle of murky water that had collected the previous night’s rain, extinguishing the flames with an audible sizzle. While his quick thinking had prevented him from suffering severe burns, a quick examination with his hand on top of his head told Luther that his cherished hairstyle had been severely marred. He looked up from the puddle of water, almost expecting some kind of sympathetic response from his harassers, only to see them delighted by his condition. As he looked up at them, emotionally broken and defenseless, he watched James rip the tape out of his ‘Unbreakable’ cassette, drop it to the ground, and then stomp on it for good measure.
“Fucking movie sucks anyway, just like everything Sam Jackson does. Better go shave that shit off, Sam Junior. Unless you like the smell of burnt hair.”
Having done their damage and gotten their kicks at Luther’s expense, the group of boys wandered away in search of other mischief. He pulled himself from the puddle of rainwater, gathered up the destroyed video in the hope that he would be able to repair it, and continued making his way home with the weight of the world on his young shoulders. He would manage to sneak in without his mother’s notice to cut away the burnt hair atop his head, which he would later claim to have done out of a sheer desire for change. The events of that day would remain his and his alone, a burden that the adult he would become continued to carry.
Still staring away from the camera, Luther imagines the singed black curls that fell into the wastebasket that afternoon, and he feels the pain of that indignity as if it had occurred days earlier instead of decades. The blinking light of the camera finally pulls him away from his daydreams, and after running his hand over the smooth surface of his head, he finally turns to give the recording device his full attention.
“Yeah, Pyro. I see you for what you really are. You’re the most dangerous type of person there is. You’re a weak and broken soul who’s given in to the darkness of this fucking world. Something broke you in life, long before your wife took off with that poor kid of yours. Something snapped deep inside of you and made you decide to give up fighting for your own self-respect. You decided to embrace the darkness instead of standing up for yourself, that it would be easier to share your pain with the world than to be a man who stands up for any kind of decency. You want to set this world on fire and watch it burn so that everyone else ends up as broken and scarred as you are. I guess that’s where Julius came in.”
“You looked at me and saw exactly what I wanted you to see. You saw a smooth-talking motherfucker who found pleasure in life, who liked nice clothes, expensive cars, and beautiful women. You bought into the package I was selling, but maybe that persona I allowed you to see backfired on me. You didn’t underestimate me or make jokes about the way I looked or talked. Well, maybe you made a few, but you didn’t stop there. You saw something bright and flashy and decided that Julius needed to experience a little bit of your darkness. That’s why it’s Luther talking to you right now. Julius may lead a charmed life, but Luther knows all about the demons that can break a man. I’ve felt pain in my life, physical and spiritual. I’ve known hard times. I’ve felt the cold steel of a blade and the hot kiss of fire. I’ve been beaten, berated, and broken. Hell, I’ve even had my heart broken. So when I say that I know about the temptation a man feels when it’s time to either give in or stand up, you’d better believe I’m not lying.”
“The difference between us is that you chose to be weak and give in. I chose to become something better, something capable of telling the world to go fuck itself. I became Julius Fairweather, a man who cannot be bullied, a man who refuses to be broken, and a bad motherfucker who will never back down. I didn’t pick up a book of matches and get addicted to the smell of sulfur. That’s because Julius Fairweather doesn’t need a crutch. He doesn’t need an addiction or a vice to cope with all the dark shit coming down around him. All he needs is the stubborn attitude to call motherfuckers out on their bullshit and back it up with a hard right hand.”
“Yeah, you burnt my hair and had a good laugh. I hope you enjoyed yourself, because for all of the pleasure it brought you, you’ve already put all your cards on the table. It wasn’t the first time I’ve been on fire, not even the first time in the past couple of months, and I fully expect you to find a way to bring some fire into the Fight Pit at Disputed Territory. Everyone on the roster, from that pepper-eating motherfucker to Elena DeDraca herself knows what to expect from you. That’s because you’re a one trick pony. That shit’s even in your fucking name. Ain’t no one expecting you to put on a wrestling hold or even use a steel chair at this point. We all know you’re bringing the fire, and those of us who have already felt it, more than once in my case, know what to expect. So go ahead and hit me with that shit again, motherfucker. Just be ready for me to take it like a man and knock your ass out as if Mike Tyson was cast as the Human Torch.”
“You put your cards on the table and now I’m giving you a sneak peak at the ace up my sleeve. I didn’t choose a Fight Pit because it keeps you away from the flames. I didn’t even choose it because knock-outs and submissions are my specialty. I chose it, so that when you try to set me on fire again, you won’t have anywhere to run after the deed is done. You’ll have to confront what you’ve done face-to-face, and somehow, you’re gonna have to figure out how to back up all of your bullshit before I drop you like a bad fucking habit. When this thing started between us it was business as usual, but somewhere along the way it got real personal, real quick. You went from someone I wanted to fight, to someone I need to stop.”
“I don’t even think you realize what you’re doing half the damn time. Sooner or later, you’re gonna drop that fire shit on someone and either permanently injure them or end their life completely. For you, the flames are a toy, a means to an end. They’re just a way for you to share your mental disease with the world, because you’re too fucking illiterate to put those frustrations into words. For some of us, that shit is life and death. Even if you didn’t mean to, you’ve threatened my life and my livelihood for the last fucking time. You’ve managed to take a guy who wasn’t that fond of fire or getting burnt, and you’ve turned him into Project: Honor’s goddamn fire fighter. So congratulations, motherfucker, arch-enemy level achieved. Only I ain’t no Bruce Willis stumbling along to figure out his powers or his place in this world. I’m Mr. fucking Glass, and I’ve been one step ahead of you from the very beginning.”
“Some people might think that I’m getting what I deserve, what with the way I drove James Edgebrook into becoming an alcoholic or how I walk around like my shit doesn't stink. Newsflash motherfuckers, only one man serves as my judge, and I’ll cross the bridge when I reach those pearly gates. I’m not claiming to be Pyro’s judge either, but I’m sure as hell prepared to be his motherfucking executioner. Drago won’t be able to save you, cause he’s got his hands full with another bad motherfucker named Jason Long. DeMarco ain’t even gonna bother trying to save you, cause even that twisted fuck sees what a liability you’ve turned into. As for God himself, maybe he can save you, but I can’t concern myself with that. All I’m worried about is making sure your psychotic ass has an audience with him to plead your motherfucking case.”
“At Disputed Territory, you’ll be fighting The Weatherman, The Shepherd of Lost Souls, The Bad Motherfucker, “Furious” Julius Fairweather. Just remember that somewhere behind that cocky grin and bug-eyed stare, Luther Franklin is looking right at you, Pyro. He sees you and he knows what you are. He knows you better than you know yourself. He knows that you’re a dead man walking, even if you’re too blind and stupid to see it for yourself.”
“If you’re out there feeling let down or disappointed because you were expecting the further adventures of Julius Fairweather, have no fear. There’ll be a time to entertain soon enough. When that time comes, we’ll all get in our motherfucking spaceships and dogfight with dragons over Bigfoot’s backyard. Until then, you all have Pyro to thank for this brief intermission. He woke up the scared little kid who learned how to fight for his life against all odds. He made Julius take a break so shit could get real. He made me fight for my life; a fight that I cannot and will not lose. He started the fire, and now I’m gonna put the motherfucker out.”
"Yeah, there's a time and a place for everything. At Disputed Territory, Pyro's clock will strike midnight and his time will be up. One way or another, it all comes to an end, and I'm willing to sacrifice more than my hair to make it happen."
