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Post by PANGAEA on Jun 3, 2015 15:07:34 GMT
[Triple Threat Match]
Armada vs. Pedro Gonzales vs. Trashcan Sam |
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Post by Pedro Gonzales on Jun 9, 2015 16:58:49 GMT
Pedro Gonzales does not sleep well.
His only half decent sleep was after Olethros. Not before and certainly not after. The screaming always woke him up. Sounds of a recent past: of his very first few days on American soil, of that brutal night in St. Louis. The images were bad enough but it was the brain splitting cries of murder that haunted him the most. Not for a moment did they ever leave. They were in there. They stayed.
As the machine gun tapping of his sewing machine started, his brain drifted to Moscow. The match against Jake Mandell should’ve made him feel good. A win is a win after all. And yet, the whole circumstance made him feel unsatisfied. Whatever fight Mandell may have had left the moment Olethros got a hold of him. It seems obvious to Pedro, even if most of the roster seemed to have blinders on.
Mandell’s too much for Pedro, Jake looks the most impressive overall. Catering must be slipping a few drugs in their water.
Glad I carry my own, then.
Even after the matches resumed, something throbbed in his brain. A true honest hunger for something...more. Just winning against those that was only mentally half in the building just wasn’t enough. Which is part of the reason why after that bell rang and Cesar was down for the count, he struck the very man that shut him down in the first place. And strangely, the Murder Machine backed off.
He could’ve done to us the same thing he did before. Yet he didn’t. Why?
I’m quite sure the Herald will give some half baked excuse to his superiors. “Oh, he’s already beaten him up once. Why bother?” From that point, they either acknowledge it or overlook it. Neither of these scenarios are good for them. Admitting that there is a threat to their machine would rot away at them. Overlooking it will prove costly. Either way, you must be cautious.
Of course.
A beat.
What would you say to them?
Who?
Your opponents. All of them think they know you anyway. So…
There is a sigh from Pedro’s mouth as he thinks it over carefully.
Señors. I can see you.
I can see you preparing for the fight and perhaps reading my mind even now. Don’t be so shocked. Everybody does that. You could’ve at least brought cheese dogs.
I used to feel so awkward about people doing this. Really. It used to be the strangest thing in the world until I met up with things that were a thousand times worse. I thought long and hard about it and I’ve decided I won’t ignore you or kick you out. Any of you. I want you to know what I know.
I know what people say about me. I know what they think about me. I know that everybody has all of these grand plans of rivaling this one or that. Let it be known that although I may not respect some of the methods of my co-workers, I do respect them. But I also tend to see things as rationally as one possibly can.
Señor Armada, you have fans. You has endorsement deals. You have fifth rate Swedish talk shows at your beck and call. So may I ask why are you wrestling in the first place? I don’t think that’s ever been a question asked towards you. If it was, please, feel free to point me in the right direction. I’m almost sure my reasoning is just as nonsensical to others as yours. Maybe the video games weren’t enough anymore? Maybe you needed a challenge? Either way, your current hot streak is to be commended.
And I haven’t forgotten about you, Señor Sammy. You have the attitude of a winner, a knack for dumpster diving, and spunk. Nobody could take that away if they tried.
First of all, whatever I do to you in order to win...you should know it’s nothing personal. All three of us have something to prove and if given the choice, we will gladly take whatever risks we need to along the way to gain a victory. I know this and so should you both. Your track records have been impressive of late. But if there was one thing Night Two had taught anybody, it was that at any point the landscape can change. Two that had dominated just a few short weeks ago were suddenly gone from the face of the earth as if they never existed. Vashta Nerada got eliminated by O’Hara. Cutter Driftwood got cut down. The supercontinent is shifting.
So am I.
I have three things that you two do not. A burden to bear, a goal to hit, and anger. The latter isn’t just about recent events either. It’s been building up for some time now and I know that something has to give. That something will not be me. It couldn’t be me even if I wanted it to be. I have to live for people that have died and I have to fight for people who can no longer do so. I don’t expect you to understand any of that.
The only thing that needs to be understood is it doesn’t matter if we’re wrestling in Paris, Munich, Rome, or Timbuktu. In that ring, I will prove that I’m not weak. I will prove that I much more that what people think. I will reach towards the greater goal. On that night and for nights afterwards, the shock will reverberate through the universe.
And they will see me.
The sewing machine stops as Pedro folds up a brand spanking new pair of wrestling tights. A moment later, the light goes out.
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Post by Armada on Jun 10, 2015 3:30:39 GMT
It's late at night, so as per usual there's a huge party at Armada's waterfront villa in Malmö. Loud music, booze, weed, hard drugs in a couple corners - it's like the former e-sports champions and their hangers-on are consciously trying to make up for how cool they weren't when they were growing up.
Armada has his arm around the shoulder of the horrendously nicknamed "CroThunda" Goran Lazic, an ex-teammate and a very close friend. Most top-level e-sports players pick their nicknames when they're irritating 14-year-olds and not irritating 20-somethings, so they're stuck with things like "Armada" and, in the worst cases, "CroThunda" for a long time. Armada's slouched over a bit, he doesn't have his trademark excellent posture - in truth, he's had a "few too many" tonight.
"Cro, man, I wish the team was back together. We were on top the world. Now? You got fat. Those Russians you're with just lose all the time! Mats is studying to be a doctor, he doesn't even hang with us anymore. The Danish tabloids are slut-shaming me."
Goran, who at first looked angry that one of his best friends would straight up call him fat for no reason, is now just confused.
"Wait, what?"
"They are!"
Armada frantically flips through the pages of a nearby newspaper.
"Look, look, page 18. Page 18 is like, vintage slut-shaming!"
Armada points to the article and Goran mumbles it aloud. The headline is simply the word "unfaithful," in large red letters.
"Retired e-sports athlete and current pro wrestler Erik "Armada" Modin was taking in the Champions League final in Berlin this week - and awfully close by his side was talk show host Alina Wahlström! The Live Styles host was wearing a baseball cap and large sunglasses in an attempt to conceal her true identity, but the eyes of journalism are all-seeing! We hope someone already told Armada's girlfriend in Malmö!"
He looks up from the article and shakes his head.
"Dude, you have a girlfriend?"
"Kind of? Daniela."
Goran remembers the name and when he thinks about it, he remembers seeing the girl at these kinds of parties.
"But it's an on-off kind of thing! And we're off now! This is yellow journalism! Dani doesn't care, she's probably banging some hockey player!"
"They're trying to make you look bad!"
"It's bullshit, man. The eyes of journalism are blind and gay. I need some Armada time!"
He shoos Goran away and takes a little walk down the courtyard, where he desperately hopes that no one will bother him.
"I fight and I fight and I fight and I fight. All I do is fight; all I do is win. And I'm still not happy! I have money in my savings account, I have a beautiful house,Beautiful women crawling all over me - and it's still just total horseshit."
He lets loose an extremely loud groan, before pausing midway to once again make sure that none of the esteemed party guests are behind his shoulder.
"Next week in PANGAEA I go to Paris, which everyone thinks is romantic and special but is, in fact, dirty and sad and rainy and lonely. And I go there, I've been there a lot so it's not even novel anymore, and you know what I do? I fight some skinny Mexican kid and a hobo! Eh, throw 'em all at me, send in the clowns! They probably think I'm a clown too. Video game guy versus plucky little Mexican guy versus poverty guy, it's a clowns match!"
He kicks a stone into the river and puts on the bravest face he can when he realizes he hurt his toe.
"See, there's a championship match in PANGAEA, and of course none of us are anywhere near it. I might dress up nice and know how to do my hair, but I'm right where they are. Why? Because I used to play video games for a living! They don't know anything about the passion, they don't know anything about the determination, we gave everything we had to win!"
He kept the Danish tabloid rolled up in his hand - just now, he throws it on the ground and steps on it.
"Even when they talk about me in the press, it's like I'm some kind of joke. Look at the video game guy, he's talking to girls! When the wrestling company talks about me - he beat the whole Blake family, he'd dig up their great-grandpa and beat him, too! But he's not a champion. Shaelin and Olethros get to fight for that big pretty belt, but Armada's the only champion in this company! And I'll be a champion again, if they know what's good for them. I hope that when those two are fighting for that belt, they're thinking about me."
He starts to pace around, still mindful of potential onlookers.
"I know Pablo has a lot of heart. I know he's taking the match seriously; I know people have overlooked him all his life. But people have overlooked me all my life! I know Trashcan Sam has it hard, he's literally homeless. And I think he's American, too, no one in that country cares about the poor. But I have it hard! No one thinks about how hard I have it!"
Suddenly, out of the ivy emerges a solitary dark-clad figure - eventually, Armada is able to recognize him as a high school classmate named Jens. He shudders and takes a step back. It looks like Jens is holding a handful of balloons.
"Want some hippy crack?"
"Want some what?"
"Hippy crack. Laughing gas, nitrous oxide. Maybe chill you out a bit. Put you on cloud nine."
"This is a new low."
He pauses and smiles, but not too broadly.
"Sure. I, Erik 'Armada' Modin, would like some 'hippy crack.'"
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Post by Trashcan Sam on Jun 10, 2015 3:58:43 GMT
Ol'Sammy sits cross legged on a bench in one of Paris' many beautiful parks. His ratty jeans recently washed thanks to a small boost in his paychecks lately, and finding a charitable soul who let him use their washing machine. Parisians get a bad rap in Sam's estimation, they generally seem to be a kind sort, as long as you aren't trying to force them to speak anything but French.
Je suis malade, Sam utters under his breath. The late spring air warm, hinting at the impending summer.
He ain't sick, but it's all the French he knows, a couple pause as they pass by him and he gives them a friendly wave, showing off his Mr. Blackout Blackest Daze T-shirt from the WWO. The bald headed man staring out from his chest has a nasty scowl. a contrast to Sam's warm one.
Trashcan Sam: Now this here is some good livin' know what I mean folks? Fresh air, pasteries, and classical arts all over the place. I ain't seen so much pretty paintin' nor heard so many orchestras for free in my life. Course, I usually wind up sneakin' in the backdoor of the places, but I keep mah head down, and pay my respects. and the Gods of art bless me.
It's a funny thing wrasslin', I figured it just be a quick way to get me on my feet, ya know? Stop living in a box, dream big dreams of a van down by a river, but now I'm travellin' the world. Seein' sights. Livin' life to the fullest that I can.
Hyep, ain't nothin' can take me off the rainbow vomitin' unicorn ride that is my life at this moment. Nothin' but two guys who ain't got nothing better to do than just that. Armada and Pedro, you fellas are competitors, I know yah are, and I'm lookin' forward to meetin' y'all in that ring. Bring your skills, your baggage and whatever else ya think ya might need, I'll bring my fists and boots.
We can do that song I heard last night... what was it called again?
Oh... right... a Bolero.
I'm gonna Spanish waltz all over your collective faces, gents.
And then I'm eatin' Mac and Cheese, the fanciest French Mac and Cheese in this city.
And there's three things you can do about it, Like it, Love it, and Nothing.
Fade
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