Ascension 112
A curved, bending, bare hallway. Inside its pathway stands a monolith or at least thats one way to describe it. Another would be a monster who stumbles, tumbles and falls, taking a breath to collect himself and then attempt to drag himself up once more. He tries once, but slips down, burgundy, thick, partially dried blood smearing onto and into the nooks and crannies of the beige painted brickwork. Sitting there once more, he brushes his long, thick, greasy hair backward. Abel Hunnicutt, battle torn and blood born is taking stock in his mind.
The quiet contemplation is soon interrupted. WZCWs resident and chief interviewer, Leon Kensworth, softly, sweetly and with much care and consideration, makes his way over to Abel. He is not alone, bringing with him a cameraman, seeking to film content for WZCWs various social medias and on-demand services.
This is a man who has stared down the face of many a foul minded and mouthed superstar, been subject to torture and torment from so many and so he knows what care he must take to face a giant such as Hunnicutt, even in his current predicament. Slowly he raises a microphone and points it in Abels general direction.
Leon: Uh, Abel, we were hoping to get a few words with you about what happened tonight with yourself and Logan McAllister.
Silence and apathy is what meets Leon. He has rarely had the company of Abel, and even rarer is the fact that he is without his master and the man behind the curtain, Steven Holmes. He is desperate for something anything, so he presses on, creeping a little closer toward the man-mountain.
Leon: Abel, would you care to comment at all?
Still nothing. Leons getting ever so slightly frustrated at the stonewalling.
Leon: Anything at all Abel? What about how Logan McAllister drove both you and himself through the barricade at ringside and how you both spilled blood in a ferocious, if brief, battle? Nothing on that?
This time, Abel cocks his head and turns it ever so slightly toward the veteran broadcaster and journalist. Leon is eager for any answer and so puts his microphone close to the leviathans lips. The anticipation is killing him. Suddenly, Abels large paw swipes at the mic, snatching it and jerking Leon forward several inches.
Abel: Leon
Hunnicutt pauses, thinking of what comes next. With his free hand he wipes his nose and then strokes his mighty beard.
Abel: Aint no words describe where I am right now. Aint nothin that can do it justice, ya hear? I feel a loneliness, an emptiness, a nothinness right here, right goddamn here.
He jabs frantically at his heart. Now, he slowly turns his head back to stare dead at the camera.
Abel: Mastah Holmes. I beseech ye. Let me know. Give me a sign Mastah. Where ya gon mastah. Where ya gon? Come on back to me. Without you, am nothin more than a la-z-ee monster who lashes out, lashes out at im all. Am an impatient sonofabitch, an angry, irritable sonofabitch. Ah need ya to show me Mastah. I need ya ta guide me an mah hand an mah future. I need ya to stem the tide, ta help me rein it in. Or else they gonna be stackin em like cornwood.
The balance aint there. If ya dont come fo me, am gonna be swallowed up whole, eaten away like the kings o ol an absorbed and turned into a bon-a-fide animal. Hate gonna rule me without you an then they all gonna see what am capable of.
Something suddenly changes in Abels face, a creepy smile rises from what had been a look of desperation. A childlike quality erased and replaced by a being consumed only with one things; darkness.
Abel: Oh what am capable of. Heh. Yknow, Logan, you put up one hell of a fight out there. Yall even made me bleed some o my own blood. Hell, Ive lost track o whos is whats. This crimson mask I wear mine o yours? Whatever the case, you puttin me through that barricade done did two things. It done endeared yourself to me I respect you fo fightin an fo standin up, but son you wrote yerself a one way ticket to a little dity o a city I call pain.
When next our paths cross, an it could be in that squared circle, or it might be at yer home with yer little family, with ya little ones, ya chickens, all o em, wherever it is, am not just gonna cut ya, am not just gonna hurt ya, am gonna end ya. An it aint gon be pretty o fun, least not for yerself. Nah man. Am a gonna hang ya up, an like the slaughtah house, am gonna bleed ya slow, real slow.
With this disturbing visage in mind, Abel chooses to clamber to his feet. He is at first unsteady and bounces back into the wall, slipping a little bit, but remaining stood, slouched. He laughs again. Leons hand is still being gripped. Whilst maintaining his laughter, he tries again to stand tall and so he does. Now Kensworth is on his tip-toes, trying to hold the microphone to Abels mouth, the monsters clutch maintained.
Abel: Logan, whether ya like it o not, am gonna take ya, an everythin ya love, an am gonna turn it on its head. Am gonna make it hard fo ya kids to look at ya. Am gonna cut, maim and distort everythin about ya an am gonna make ya wife wish you was another man. Gonna take this--
Hunnicutt once more jabs at his chest.
Abel: --an manifest it. You aint seen nothin yet boy. The worst is yet ta come.
Here, Abel drops Leon. Shaking his wrist, Leon brings his microphone back to retort.
Leon: Regardless of that Abel, your next opponent is in fact going to be reigning Elite Openweight Champion Noah Ryder. Your thoughts?
Cautious now, Leon slowly raises the microphone to Abels lips once more. A pause as the man-beast processes this new information. Then
Abel: Men love themselves gold, don they? They fought an died fo the right to wear it, to claim it, to hold it tight to themselves, an to make love with it. They thought it was the be all, the end all. An here, it aint no different. They wear their little trinkets like it means somethin, an ah spose it does. It tells me where to point mah arrow.
Pride, its the worst sin o all. And with it comes a fall. An thats where I come in. Am the guy on the mountain, the one who aint all that bothered with getting to the summit, but more concerned with tossin as many folks as ah can off the side an watchin their corpses collectin at the bottom. Am the sick bastard whos gonna watch you an love it when you lose that glory and grandeur, that pomposity that goes with bein a champion here.
I felt it recently too. Ah know it feels good. Hell, it feels great. But I know how crushin it can be to lose it and well son, am gonna be the one who delivers that crushin blow. Ya see Noah, once am finished with you, they gon be peelin you off the canvas. Yo blood gonna be decoratin the arena floor, ya screams gonna be the thing o little kids nightmares.
They love ya man, they tan-ta-lised by yer gold and yer glory an yer mentality, an yer in-ring finesse. I aint bout that man. Am bout endin that. Am bout showin them kids what its really like out there. Am here to show em that its dark out an theres somethin in that darkness an its hungry, an its comin at ya, hard n fast.
An when am dont with mah teachin exercise, am gonna take that little trinket an jus like the injuns used ta do, am gonna wear it like a token o war, like a scalp I don claimed. An its gonna sit nice with that o McAllister an his kids. An then, maybe mah Mastah gonna come back, cause he sees it. Maybe then he help me. Maybe then
Abel abruptly turns away and starts on back down the hallway, laughing and cackling like before. Hes half dragging his beat up carcass when he bursts into something akin to song:
Abel: Ah see a bad moon arisin, ah see trouble on the way. Ah see earthquakes an lightnin, I see bad times today.
The further into the hall he gets, the louder and more obnoxious he becomes, the sounds echoing off the narrow walls. Leon is dumbstruck.
Abel: Don go round today, am bound to take yer life, theres a bad moon on the rise
