Post by hall on Jun 10, 2006 17:08:01 GMT -5
The camera opens up in an odd place. It seems incredibly dark, near pitch black. Nothing can be seen, which is exactly how it’s supposed to be. The thought running through the heads of everybody, what’s going on? The clarity of the situation is what they want, but that’s not how it always is. From your vantage, you can’t always see everything. Things aren’t always as you seem, and sometimes the things you want to be clearest are shrouded in mystery.
It’s a frusterating fact that some people can’t come to terms with. People spend their whole lives gloating about this and that, but they can’t see what’s right in front of their face. People who think they’re so high and mighty because of who they know can’t see the fate that is being set ahead of them. Always on a collision course, and these people never seem to learn.
A faint spotlight shines down in the center of the ring. On the ground, written in chalk, is a pentagram. In the center of this pentagram sits a horribly twisted throne, adorned with skulls. Some of the skulls still have black or brown hair coming down from the scalp. Black blood seems to be caked on the throne in several places, matting down the hair of the skulls. In the throne sits a figure shrouded in black.
“Do you really think you know hardcore?”
The person, male by the voice, stands up. He reaches up and takes off a black hood, revealing the face of Easton Hall. His face is contorted with ill-tempered rage. He drops the hood to the floor, the black robes still falling over his form. He looks straight into the camera with a killing intent, the determination he brings in the ring.
Easton knows that box. That’s the thing that seperates him from people. He knows that it’s shrouded in black, knows it sits before him. That box has beaten him to the point of submission before, but he has always gotten up. To face it. He sees it clearly, just not what’s inside. But another thing he knows is that he can alter what’s in the box and as it reveals to him what’s happening, he can continue to alter it.
Only a mind as disciplined but still as abstract as Easton’s could comprehend this box and accept it. Men have cried not knowing their fates. Women have wept. Easton has not. Easton has fought on, not against the box, but against everything else. He has fought to remove any other fate but his victory from the box. He can bend the box to his will, but it takes a will of steel to bend it. A will not many others have, no matter their boasts.
Easton Hall: “Do you really think that you deserve to call yourself the Punks of Hardcore? Do you think someone "hardcore" would live the lives you live, pampered up in a hotel room only pretending to be hardcore when the lights are on? Do you think that the true meaning of hardcore would belong to a bunch of piss ant cruiserweight bitches like yourselves? You want to laugh at E-Rex. You want to laugh at me being attacked these past two weeks. Let's see if Vendetta is a laughing matter.
Because at Vendetta, Punks of Hardcore, you are going up against myself and Willie Bard in a tag match. But no, not just any tag. You get us in a weapons of choice match. EZ, you want to wrap barbed wire around a guitar and call is a weapon? I call it someone who doesn't know how to string a fucking guitar. And Violent, whatever you bring down to the ring, just remember: this is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me.”
Easton reaches into his back pocket and takes out a lighter. He lights it and tosses it into the throne of skulls, setting it aflame. Easton looks at it, balling and unballing his fists as it burns. Thick smoke rises into the air, disappearing in the blackness outside the spotlight. Sweat pops out on Easton’s skin, but he doesn’t move.
False pretense has always annoyed Easton. Infuriated him. To suggest that you are something that you plainly prove not to be. He has not made a vow to stomp it out, but if he can, he will put the boots to it. It’s a fucking ridiculous notion for someone to call themselves hardcore when they are so plainly not. Something that he wishes would burn like the throne before him. A thought that has always ached him, that someone could call themselves something so akin to hell when they don’t know what it is. If it exists.
The idea of proclaiming one is from a place of extreme is also irritating to Easton. Easton can show anybody a place of torment. In the middle of the ring, knocked out from The Prime Example. Staring at the lights after an Evenflow. That’s a place of torment. And that’s proven. There is no disputing it. There is no scientific debate on the validity of the book that tells of the The Evenflow. It’s a reality that some wish did not exist. As close to hardcore as EZ and IB are ever going to get.
The chair finally finishes burning. A pile of ashes lays where it once was. The evil that the chair represented was destroyed by the hand... the hand of Easton Hall. He leans over and brushes away the ashes, revealing a small cube. Over it is draped a black cloth.
The box that many cannot face. The box that shows fate. The box that is ever-changing. The box that, through his determination, Easton has learned to master. It doesn’t come without his faults, and others can influence what is going to happen. But he can figure out what’s in that box. There are only two things that can be in it, after all. At this point, at least. Only two.
Behind this box is the weapon Easton Hall will bring to the ring at Vendetta. The only question is, which weapon will it be.
Easton whips off the shroud and the picture cuts to black.
It’s a frusterating fact that some people can’t come to terms with. People spend their whole lives gloating about this and that, but they can’t see what’s right in front of their face. People who think they’re so high and mighty because of who they know can’t see the fate that is being set ahead of them. Always on a collision course, and these people never seem to learn.
A faint spotlight shines down in the center of the ring. On the ground, written in chalk, is a pentagram. In the center of this pentagram sits a horribly twisted throne, adorned with skulls. Some of the skulls still have black or brown hair coming down from the scalp. Black blood seems to be caked on the throne in several places, matting down the hair of the skulls. In the throne sits a figure shrouded in black.
“Do you really think you know hardcore?”
The person, male by the voice, stands up. He reaches up and takes off a black hood, revealing the face of Easton Hall. His face is contorted with ill-tempered rage. He drops the hood to the floor, the black robes still falling over his form. He looks straight into the camera with a killing intent, the determination he brings in the ring.
Easton knows that box. That’s the thing that seperates him from people. He knows that it’s shrouded in black, knows it sits before him. That box has beaten him to the point of submission before, but he has always gotten up. To face it. He sees it clearly, just not what’s inside. But another thing he knows is that he can alter what’s in the box and as it reveals to him what’s happening, he can continue to alter it.
Only a mind as disciplined but still as abstract as Easton’s could comprehend this box and accept it. Men have cried not knowing their fates. Women have wept. Easton has not. Easton has fought on, not against the box, but against everything else. He has fought to remove any other fate but his victory from the box. He can bend the box to his will, but it takes a will of steel to bend it. A will not many others have, no matter their boasts.
Easton Hall: “Do you really think that you deserve to call yourself the Punks of Hardcore? Do you think someone "hardcore" would live the lives you live, pampered up in a hotel room only pretending to be hardcore when the lights are on? Do you think that the true meaning of hardcore would belong to a bunch of piss ant cruiserweight bitches like yourselves? You want to laugh at E-Rex. You want to laugh at me being attacked these past two weeks. Let's see if Vendetta is a laughing matter.
Because at Vendetta, Punks of Hardcore, you are going up against myself and Willie Bard in a tag match. But no, not just any tag. You get us in a weapons of choice match. EZ, you want to wrap barbed wire around a guitar and call is a weapon? I call it someone who doesn't know how to string a fucking guitar. And Violent, whatever you bring down to the ring, just remember: this is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me.”
Easton reaches into his back pocket and takes out a lighter. He lights it and tosses it into the throne of skulls, setting it aflame. Easton looks at it, balling and unballing his fists as it burns. Thick smoke rises into the air, disappearing in the blackness outside the spotlight. Sweat pops out on Easton’s skin, but he doesn’t move.
False pretense has always annoyed Easton. Infuriated him. To suggest that you are something that you plainly prove not to be. He has not made a vow to stomp it out, but if he can, he will put the boots to it. It’s a fucking ridiculous notion for someone to call themselves hardcore when they are so plainly not. Something that he wishes would burn like the throne before him. A thought that has always ached him, that someone could call themselves something so akin to hell when they don’t know what it is. If it exists.
The idea of proclaiming one is from a place of extreme is also irritating to Easton. Easton can show anybody a place of torment. In the middle of the ring, knocked out from The Prime Example. Staring at the lights after an Evenflow. That’s a place of torment. And that’s proven. There is no disputing it. There is no scientific debate on the validity of the book that tells of the The Evenflow. It’s a reality that some wish did not exist. As close to hardcore as EZ and IB are ever going to get.
The chair finally finishes burning. A pile of ashes lays where it once was. The evil that the chair represented was destroyed by the hand... the hand of Easton Hall. He leans over and brushes away the ashes, revealing a small cube. Over it is draped a black cloth.
The box that many cannot face. The box that shows fate. The box that is ever-changing. The box that, through his determination, Easton has learned to master. It doesn’t come without his faults, and others can influence what is going to happen. But he can figure out what’s in that box. There are only two things that can be in it, after all. At this point, at least. Only two.
Behind this box is the weapon Easton Hall will bring to the ring at Vendetta. The only question is, which weapon will it be.
Easton whips off the shroud and the picture cuts to black.