It was on one of the biggest pay-per-views of the year. The biggest challenge of Gabriel Kirkshaw's life lay before him--standing tall and face-to-face with the reigning and defending World Heavyweight Champion, Andersen Vega. Heat had built between the two for weeks up until the match and despite neither one of them laying a hand on each other before the bell that Sunday night, they didn't hold back exactly how much they hated each other, and in the end, the belt was contested for in the one match where they'd fully be able to take out their aggressions on each other--within the four-sided confines of a steel cage. The match went on for what felt like a half an hour. Vega had busted Kirkshaw open, and Kirkshaw later did the same to Vega. The both of them each, on separate occasions, nearly escaped over the cage but the other would find a way to keep their opponent from taking advantage.
Kirkshaw was hit with the Avalanche Pedigree from the uppermost rope, but started to crawl towards the door, but as he crawled out onto the floor...it was over. Vega had escaped, with his health AND with the World Heavyweight Championship.
Six days later, however, Kirkshaw would have a word with the world, as he proclaimed that Sunday night "was his right".
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Six suns rose in the morning, and five had fallen. The sixth was rapidly approaching. And in the arena that afternoon...
There lay a wooden coffin next to the entrance ramp with "Kirkshaw" spray-painted on top of the lid, sitting on its wheeled cart, as if the only remnants of Kirkshaw from the previous weekend. And yet it wasn't all.
As the music hit, Kirkshaw stormed through the curtain and about, say, five to seven seconds into the song blaring over the loudspeakers, he yelled into the mic he carried--
KIRKSHAW: ENOUGH! KILL THE MUSIC! KILL IT!
--and the former #1 Contender for the World Heavyweight Championship was absolutely furious, it seemed. His expression dripped with rage as his forehead was beaded with sweat, his pearly white teeth were bared and gritted, and his eyes were wide, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as he inhaled and exhaled sharper than a hunting knife in hog hunting season. He slowly raised the microphone to his mouth once more as his gaze fell upon the casket. Boos and jeers, chants of "Vega" rang out.
KIRKSHAW: Who was it that brought this...thing, this piece of shit back in here? --no, no no. This! This is your doing isn't it?
He pointed at members of the audience, his breathing getting heavier--angrier--as if breathing pure sulfur dioxide (having a similar terrible odor).
KIRKSHAW: ...no, no wait...this...this casket is a great representation of what happened on Sunday. It--like this casket--was a farce!
Chants of "Bullshit" rang out.
KIRKSHAW: People say you only get a chance like this in a lifetime... Kirkshaw grins. ...not me. This may sound a bit cliche but this won't be the only chance I have at winning a world title. I may have lost, I'll give you that...but I'm not going to stand here and cry, whine and complain that that was my one chance.
Unfazed, the Arizona native walked down the ramp and went under the ring, next to the corner post aside the casket, going for something he seemingly had put there sometime over the past week...and he pulled out lighter fluid. Kirkshaw grinned wider, more devilishly. It seemed an idea had come to his mind, and his eyes settled on the casket once again.
KIRKSHAW: You all love my casket, don't you? Huh? You all want to see me buried in this hunk of wood? Huh? Don't you?!
Gabe began to pour fluid over the casket, frantically coating it in lighter fluid from end to end. Then he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small, silvery lighter.
KIRKSHAW: I'm not going to give you the satisfaction. I may have lost in the cage, but I don't need the world title to prove that I'm one of the best wrestlers in the world. I proved last Sunday that he may have bloodied me, but that I was gonna expose him as simply another human being, with weaknesses, and I did. His forehead was bloodied. The champion is flesh and bone, and where I failed to succeed, one day someone will take him out. And I will have won other belts, other numerous titles--Intercontinental titles and Survival titles. And--hey you! Camera guy! Front and center!
Fearing for his health, the cameraman rushed over to get a shot of Kirkshaw as his eyes transfixed on the device, the smile still plastered across the bottom of his face.
KIRKSHAW: Mark my words, Vega...if you continue to mess with bastards like me...then your career will go up like this casket!
With that said, Gabriel lowered the flame to the fluid and the casket lit up like my grandfather during post-surgery recovery. The wood was aflame, the spray-painted letters atop the wood seemingly burnt off in seconds. Gabriel watched the display in sadistic awe, laughing as what had formally proclaimed his downfall over a week ago went up in smoke.
In the end, despite losing the match, Kirkshaw had prevailed in his own way, standing tall amongst much adversity.
