*Unknown Location*
The scene opens with the echo of a voice down the hall. It's an older building, the walls cracking with the stink of age and degradation, and pieces of brick underlay showing through the plaster. At the end of this liminal hallway, next to a phone booth, is our dearest friend of this story, this narrative of winding bleakness: Brian Zewbowski. The phone is pressed against his ear and he talks into it with momentary lapses of silence in between. His face is beaded with sweat, and his hand grips the corridor of the phone tightly.
Brian: I'm glad to hear you guys are doing alright- Don't worry, I can take care of myself, Sarah. I'm staying away from the alcohol, I promise. I'd rather be dead than drinking again, you know this. I'm more than focused on Max, don't worry. Yeah, he's not gonna be a problem. This is Max Maverick we're talking about, Sarah! He's a great wrestler but I'm sick to death of just dealing with him time after time. I don't want Maverick, and while the tag titles are a nice consolation, I want the Grand Championship... Yes, Aka Yurei's learned all she can from me. We're going to continue to kick ass in the tag team tournament, but you and I both know her life can't always keep being intertwined with mine, and it's better if it isn't... I don't know what I'd do if that thing got a hold of her. It's why I had Aka disappear for a time, for her protection... Is that so? She left in a big hurry, huh? Alright, I'm sure she's fine-
Brian takes his left arm and raises it up to check his watch... it's time. Brian sighs and nods his head. Something is up with Brian, and there's something going on here. His mind turns to Aka Yurei, and what may be going on with her. He thinks about Mortis, and what their possible intentions are for Yurei... he shakes those thoughts away because thinking about them scares him; it's clear he cares for Aka Yurei, and he wants to protect her... but she needs to protect herself. Especially from something like Mortis.
Brian: Listen, I gotta go, I'll call you later. Love ya. Bye.
Brian hangs up the phone and begins to walk down the hallway. He gets to a pair of steel doors caked in rust. When he applies pressure to get them open, there's an audible screech that pierces the air and the now ajar doors reveal nothingness. Just what the hell is this place? This isn't some pitch-black hellscape, as upon flipping a nearby switch, the fluorescent lights flicker and brighten up this empty dance hall. It's one of those places you'd find in those old 1940s noir films, a whimsical era of what once was, with fanciful wallpaper and marble flooring. There's a small chair in the center of the room, made of oak and definitely just as old as this place. Across from the chair is an old video camera, perhaps from the 80s or so, quite anachronistic for the room it lays inside. He strides on in and promptly sits down, checking his watch and patiently waiting.
Inside his mind, Brian is not thinking about this happening, or what is to come. His mind is wandering away, towards dreams of championships and how it all was robbed from him. It still bothers him; then his mind flashes to Max Maverick. Why is it that every time there's a misstep, it's always back to this motherfucker? Brian has kicked his ass time and time again, and yet he's there like a leech. Inside that head of his, Brian understands that Maverick's good, damn good, but he's tired of Maverick. He's not going to take Max lightly, everyone knows this, but there's a sense of tired repetition written on his face. Brian yearns for something new, to break free from these shackles that the AMA has seemingly placed on him. Never good enough, he's called; a contender, he's claimed to be, but when push comes to shove, he's thrown in the background for lesser stars. He's a company man though, loyal to the end, to his purpose, entertaining the fans. So contentedly, Brian will chug on and face Maverick like a good soldier. After all, these questions surrounding his mind will just poison him, right? A soldier obeys and stays true. He stands up a little and pushes the camera into recording, before sitting back down. He stares into the camera with a pale and cold neutral expression.
Brian: Hello AMA fans. It's me, Brian Zewbowski. You don't need me to announce that though; I imagine everyone already knows who I am. The question is where am I? Well, if you fans must know, I'm where all good things go to die: the annals of the past. Though this insignificant dance hall was once the site of wonder and merriment, as the time came and went, it died and fell into obscurity. It's a pitiable way to go, isn't it? To become nothing? Max Maverick, what is the path that you will end up in? Will you be remembered in the halls of greatness with pride and awe, or will you be relegated to a mere footnote of obscurity and trivia? Have you ever wondered what your reputation and legacy will be? I've thought about it myself, many times. Well, in order to transpose yourself into remembrance, reverence, and ultimately, to be remembered, one has to etch for themself a memorable idea. A great story, a legendary moment... or a championship title. My long history has been long made of moments I thought would make me truly memorable; what have you been able to do to make a name for yourself, Max? Ultimately, it's entirely seemly that there is nothing in the cards for you.
Brian taps his feet and sighs, leaning forward with a glint of a smirk on his face.
Brian: If I may be so bold, Max... you have no killer instinct. You're a good wrestler, but good wrestling can only get you so far without the desire and drive to push yourself to your physical limits. I'm no saint, and I'm no great warrior, but I can determine that I have one great grace over every single wrestler in that locker room, including the AMA Grand Champion Shinzo... I am not afraid to literally die in that ring. To drop to the mat with my last breath, having given everything I had to this business until the burning flames of passion turn everything... and I mean everything... into white ash. Wouldn't it be fitting to die in the middle of a match, swallowed by the canvas itself, and sink into immortality? There are three kinds of death, as far as philosophy dictates. The first is when the body ceases to function, and life has ended. The second is when the body is buried and consigned to a plot of land under the earth. The final death, and perhaps the saddest fate that we all may one day suffer, is when your name is uttered for the last time in history. To prevent this final death is to become a legend, a story told through the ages, more romantic than realistic. Max Maverick, do you have what it takes to drag yourself out from a future of obscurity, and make yourself a legend? I defy you to do so because my challenge is laid bare for all to see, not just the AMA audience, not just the wrestling community as a whole, but for society at large. Defeat me, Max Maverick, and your step towards immortality will be in your hands. Those who are uttered through millennia are never truly dead; they will be immortal as long as they are revered and mentioned with awe or disgust.
Brian stands tall and reaches out his arms. Like that of Christ the Redeemer. This intense aura of immortality, juxtaposed with decrepit and obscure bleakness, is a sign of the times. The past cannot determine the future, but only the present can. In Brian's mind, it is fitting, a challenge to make others rise and defeat him. He may not be the AMA Grand Champion, but there is nobody better than Brian Zewbowski, the King of Crucifix. A god of wrestling and a man with a chip on his shoulder, he must prove that he should have won that title, whether it means making others great, or bringing them into obscurity. A mission path is made for Brian: he will make others see how he views the world, and how his betrayal will bring about a new era. His mind flashes with the AMA Grand Championship, and what could have been... but not just that... what will be.
Brian: I will await your answer to my call at Under Attack, and we shall see what kind of man you are, Maxwell. Until then, au revoir. |
