AF31: Flex Mussel & Ramparte vs. Corvus & Jonathan Hyada
- Thread starter Harthan
- Start date
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DarksideEric
Call me "Hadouken." I'm ââ fierce.
.Second Journal Entry, 7 January, 2014.
"I can't remember how this got started...
But I can tell you exactly how it will end."
Nine Inch Nails
---
Violence is a reptile.
Jonathan sat in a folding chair secluded away in a side room of the arena which hosted tonight's event. He wore naught but his most basic layer of clothing for the moment, as his introspection lay on a second journal entry that had been made, rather than his match, tagging with Corvus again against a Frenchman and… Ramparte. There was time for him later on tonight; right now he was less than important. Chin was rested on hands held up firmly by the elbows upon his knees while he was lost in thought.
She spread herself wide open to let the insects in.
Anyone can enter into violence. Man. Woman. Even children.
And violence cares not who comes, as to her, we're all playthings.
Jon's attention fell to the floor before him where his gear had been laid out. All comprised of red, black and white. In this moment his favorite colors pulled from him a slight chuckle.
"How strange that even the simplest things can evade us." His words held a bit of self-depreciation to them. He eyed the red designs for a few extra seconds, still in the back of his mind the Catalyst was screaming, flashes of atonement attempting to steal the spotlight in his head. He’d face him again tonight to be sure, but the fighter still wanted nothing more than quiet reflection.
She leaves a trail of honey to show me where she's been.
You can't mistake where violence has been. Not real violence. Bruises can be covered, sure, but true acts of fury will always leave a splatter. A stain.
He reached down, taking hold of his dragon adorned shorts before rising up out of his seat. Directly ahead of the fighter attached to the wall was a full length mirror, which now earned the man's blue eyed gaze. Hyada wasn't overly muscled, none would expect his frame to be able to hoist 180 kg above his head, but his frame was most assuredly that of a fighter. Of that there could be no question.
She has the blood of reptile just underneath her skin.
Despite the warm bath of blood violence could produce, beneath was a frigid core that lives only to drink it all in.
I don't know how, but that's how my relationship with true violence began, by watching others fall prey to it.
He studied his body in the mirror, narrowing his gaze as he shifted the left arm up and away to reveal the long surgical scar along the ribs. He had other scars to be sure but this one... this one was the real proof of his apocalypse. Inside was a repaired lung. Metal plates and screws that now held ribs together. Upwards to the shoulder and arm were additional pins and rods to hold bones secure. He stared hard at his shoulder while rotating the arm that hadn't felt 100% comfortable in three years. You showed him one of the many consequences of his folly! Jon shook the thought from his head, the living mirror of his old self needed no attention now; Ramparte hardly deserved it.
Seeds from a thousand others drip down from within.
Thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands now, partake in the violence of my former profession. And with each new person, a new seed of desire is planted for someone else to see, be intrigued by and then investigate. One could easily ask how many of the WZCW roster joined simply because they saw someone get slammed through a table or scream out in agony within the clutches of Pulling the Plug. Wherever it is that they first witness such violence, whichever world it takes place in, could be the deciding factor of whether they join in or not.
I competed in both worlds.
I fought in the ring.
I destroyed in the circle.
One foot through his tights, then the other, the skin tight material was dragged up to fit his body perfectly. He peered at the designs; the dragons and the star. The dragons were for his parents, as one of the first stories he could remember them sharing was an archaic tale of such a beast, as well as to represent their nationality; one English and one Japanese. The star was for him, a representation of his American birth.
Oh my beautiful liar.
Violence is a liar. It will coerce you into doing things that you'd naught ever think your morals could allow you to do. How many demons and skeletons has someone like say, Fallout, whom I first encountered prior to Apocalypse, how much weight has he placed upon his shoulder for a chance to replace it with a title chance to drape it in its place? What has someone like Ramparte happily done, with no question, to have the ability to even step into the ring, let alone what he can do in it.
I was an honorable fighter, a quiet kid who had been taught by his father, participating in the sanctioned ring.
Oh my precious ****e.
I would get in the ring with anyone, as often as I could. It didn't matter if it was a small upstart division in someplace like Phoenix, AZ, or on the national stage. I enjoyed the competition. I still do, but back then it was for very, very different reasons.
My disease my infection.
But somehow, I became greedy for the blood. I had drifted away from the teachings of my father. I couldn't tell you exactly when I changed, what made my heart and mind agree to start fighting underground, where honor was discarded and blood was more of a... prize.I was never the best fighter in the ring. I won more than I lost, but not by much. But every loss was an education for the winner in just how well my father had trained me. I have submitted, been found lesser by judges, faced blackness and had fights ended mid contest.
But those that won invariably remembered my fist.
If I was forced to submit, they walked out with a bloody mask. If I was knocked unconscious, they had some cracked ribs.
I am so impure.
Perhaps that's what drew the underground to notice me. Perhaps that's what made it so easy for me to say yes. That feeling that I thought I could do far better if I let loose just that much more, where I felt no one would judge me.
Sitting back down in the chair Jon collected his boots, pulling them on and lacing them till the padding and leather fit his leg snuggly. Then the kneepads were set in place, along with the complementary shin guards. He stared at what was left: white tape, black and red marker for drawing. As he stared, he was slowly losing ground, letting the highlight reel of his dealing with Ramparte in the Fatal Four match play out. The attempted show of respect when the match was announced, the blows traded back and forth; Ramparte’s attempted display of contempt and the crashing fall Jonathan delivered to him because of it.
Jon smiled just a bit despite his discipline.
"Get it." His words were absent minded, an idle instruction spoken as an attempted distraction from his thoughts. A distraction that pushed Ramparte away and brought the thoughts of his writings back to him.
In truth, I was a liar as well, not just the reptile.
On television I remained the humble fighter... a Dr. Jekyl if you will. My parents, friends and fans were proud of me whether I came home with a victory or not. I was the same sweet kid my parents raised when I was around the general public and people I knew. I was a total good guy.
But off television, away from people, underground.
I was Mr. Hyde.
I could just, turn off, in a sense. In my prior entry I made mention of how the love of my father wiped away the burden my mother carried from taking lives in war. For whatever reason, I shared that same ‘switch’ when it came to fighting a man inside the frenzy. It wasn’t burden I was wiping away though, it was sympathy. And when I had no sympathy, I had more skill.
Skill is what made me arrogant. When you do well inside the circle you feel an exhilaration that you don’t quite get inside the ring. Arrogance fueled my greed for violence. The better I did, the better of a show I put on, the more and more I wanted to abuse it. The violence I produced made people cheer, win money, drink deeper and become savage. And when you regress down to the savage, being a fighter becomes easier and easier.
I was better in the circle than in the ring, far better, because in the circle I completely let loose. Not out of evil or malice, but because of a terrible combination; lessened empathy and the desire to push every limit. And when the match was over underground, I just walked out as if nothing had happened. And because none of the back breaking emotion was carried with me, I began to trivialize life in that circle.
White tape started wrapping round and round the fist and forearm. Tight was it now to help keep the bones together and give a bit more strength to blows. He held the newly taped arm up before him in the mirror, hand clenched solid as he drew each half of the star, one in red and the other in black, on each side, judging to see if the design was correct. Satisfied with his work, he stood before the mirror with his body taught, arms to the side to look himself over prior to leaving.
But when you climb high atop the tower of arrogance, sooner or later you're going to either slip and fall... or be pushed down to nothing.
Left hand cut the air like a knife, right hand came behind the jab with a straight just as quickly. He could still almost feel the resistance of Ramparte’s jaw against his knuckles. The Catalyst, though a distraction from both his inner reflection would be in his match tonight, and was more than helping to fuel his preparation.
I was too fleet of foot to slip.
Right hand came into left palm, upheld in front of his face before the mirror. His eyes were set on himself. On his newly trimmed hair. The stubble he was shaping into a beard. The taped hands in front of him, which represented the sign he expressed to those around him as honor. His fist clenched that much harder as the muscles in his face twitched to form the expression of anger for momentary flinches at a time. He won’t be what he was.
And I wasn't so much pushed... but rather slammed down by a piece of folding steel.
Jonathan turned slightly to the side as he lowered his hands so that he might see the folding chair in the mirror better. He stared hard at it, a part of him hating the simple piece of furniture, a hatred that was set due to how the steel had been used. After a long hard few minutes he looked back into the mirror at himself. The past was the past. Tonight was tonight. He would be teaming with Corvus again, an honorable man as far as he was concerned. Teaming to take on Mussel. And Ramparte.
"Tonight continues my test. The test of how authentic the moral set has become. The test to see if the body can continue to endure past reconstruction it has undergone. The test that I can still breathe the words of honor my family had taught me. That is why I am here in this federation, to test the man and prove there is no longer a savage.
Life itself is a test of every soul that breaths in and out. And every test has questions that need to be answered. Some questions are as trivial as what clothing you’ll wear that day to make yourself feel and look good.
Some are as important as what kind of parent you will be. What kind of moral set will you stand, live and die with.
Ramparte, I see as the moral question of my life at the moment. How well will I be able to stand up and look at a reflection of my old self? How deep has the change from who I was to who I am been? Does my honor stand like a pillar in the stone, or will he be able to shatter it like glass with a gob of flying spit? How far can I push myself now while still keeping to what I should have always been in the first place?
How well will my old self submit to the man who remembers the lessons of his father?
I know full well I have every single desire to turn that small victory prior to Apocalypse into a larger one tonight. To show him first hand exactly what I have learned, and to show him everything that is truly and completely wrong with his actions. My old actions.
But most of all, I feel he should learn these lessons and be shown the honorable way through screams of pain, rather than through the darkness of unconsciousness. I want him to know what it’s like to have a dead shoulder.”
Jonathan reached over and took up the steel chair, blue eyes glued to it as he folded it closed with gentle care. As he moved the chair to place it against the wall, one end of a leg caught for a moment on his bag which parted it open more than it had been before. It went unnoticed to Jon as the chair was set aside, propped upon the wall, and then his leave taken from the room.
But inside, the cover of his journal that he had been writing in could be seen.
Tonight, as far as Jonathan was concerned, was about himself and Ramparte.
Corvus and Mussel would just have to have their own little dance.
"I can't remember how this got started...
But I can tell you exactly how it will end."
Nine Inch Nails
---
Violence is a reptile.
Jonathan sat in a folding chair secluded away in a side room of the arena which hosted tonight's event. He wore naught but his most basic layer of clothing for the moment, as his introspection lay on a second journal entry that had been made, rather than his match, tagging with Corvus again against a Frenchman and… Ramparte. There was time for him later on tonight; right now he was less than important. Chin was rested on hands held up firmly by the elbows upon his knees while he was lost in thought.
[YOUTUBE]sfhkXxmnYHc[/YOUTUBE]
She spread herself wide open to let the insects in.
Anyone can enter into violence. Man. Woman. Even children.
And violence cares not who comes, as to her, we're all playthings.
Jon's attention fell to the floor before him where his gear had been laid out. All comprised of red, black and white. In this moment his favorite colors pulled from him a slight chuckle.
"How strange that even the simplest things can evade us." His words held a bit of self-depreciation to them. He eyed the red designs for a few extra seconds, still in the back of his mind the Catalyst was screaming, flashes of atonement attempting to steal the spotlight in his head. He’d face him again tonight to be sure, but the fighter still wanted nothing more than quiet reflection.
She leaves a trail of honey to show me where she's been.
You can't mistake where violence has been. Not real violence. Bruises can be covered, sure, but true acts of fury will always leave a splatter. A stain.
He reached down, taking hold of his dragon adorned shorts before rising up out of his seat. Directly ahead of the fighter attached to the wall was a full length mirror, which now earned the man's blue eyed gaze. Hyada wasn't overly muscled, none would expect his frame to be able to hoist 180 kg above his head, but his frame was most assuredly that of a fighter. Of that there could be no question.
She has the blood of reptile just underneath her skin.
Despite the warm bath of blood violence could produce, beneath was a frigid core that lives only to drink it all in.
I don't know how, but that's how my relationship with true violence began, by watching others fall prey to it.
He studied his body in the mirror, narrowing his gaze as he shifted the left arm up and away to reveal the long surgical scar along the ribs. He had other scars to be sure but this one... this one was the real proof of his apocalypse. Inside was a repaired lung. Metal plates and screws that now held ribs together. Upwards to the shoulder and arm were additional pins and rods to hold bones secure. He stared hard at his shoulder while rotating the arm that hadn't felt 100% comfortable in three years. You showed him one of the many consequences of his folly! Jon shook the thought from his head, the living mirror of his old self needed no attention now; Ramparte hardly deserved it.
Seeds from a thousand others drip down from within.
Thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands now, partake in the violence of my former profession. And with each new person, a new seed of desire is planted for someone else to see, be intrigued by and then investigate. One could easily ask how many of the WZCW roster joined simply because they saw someone get slammed through a table or scream out in agony within the clutches of Pulling the Plug. Wherever it is that they first witness such violence, whichever world it takes place in, could be the deciding factor of whether they join in or not.
I competed in both worlds.
I fought in the ring.
I destroyed in the circle.
One foot through his tights, then the other, the skin tight material was dragged up to fit his body perfectly. He peered at the designs; the dragons and the star. The dragons were for his parents, as one of the first stories he could remember them sharing was an archaic tale of such a beast, as well as to represent their nationality; one English and one Japanese. The star was for him, a representation of his American birth.
Oh my beautiful liar.
Violence is a liar. It will coerce you into doing things that you'd naught ever think your morals could allow you to do. How many demons and skeletons has someone like say, Fallout, whom I first encountered prior to Apocalypse, how much weight has he placed upon his shoulder for a chance to replace it with a title chance to drape it in its place? What has someone like Ramparte happily done, with no question, to have the ability to even step into the ring, let alone what he can do in it.
I was an honorable fighter, a quiet kid who had been taught by his father, participating in the sanctioned ring.
Oh my precious ****e.
I would get in the ring with anyone, as often as I could. It didn't matter if it was a small upstart division in someplace like Phoenix, AZ, or on the national stage. I enjoyed the competition. I still do, but back then it was for very, very different reasons.
My disease my infection.
But somehow, I became greedy for the blood. I had drifted away from the teachings of my father. I couldn't tell you exactly when I changed, what made my heart and mind agree to start fighting underground, where honor was discarded and blood was more of a... prize.I was never the best fighter in the ring. I won more than I lost, but not by much. But every loss was an education for the winner in just how well my father had trained me. I have submitted, been found lesser by judges, faced blackness and had fights ended mid contest.
But those that won invariably remembered my fist.
If I was forced to submit, they walked out with a bloody mask. If I was knocked unconscious, they had some cracked ribs.
I am so impure.
Perhaps that's what drew the underground to notice me. Perhaps that's what made it so easy for me to say yes. That feeling that I thought I could do far better if I let loose just that much more, where I felt no one would judge me.
Sitting back down in the chair Jon collected his boots, pulling them on and lacing them till the padding and leather fit his leg snuggly. Then the kneepads were set in place, along with the complementary shin guards. He stared at what was left: white tape, black and red marker for drawing. As he stared, he was slowly losing ground, letting the highlight reel of his dealing with Ramparte in the Fatal Four match play out. The attempted show of respect when the match was announced, the blows traded back and forth; Ramparte’s attempted display of contempt and the crashing fall Jonathan delivered to him because of it.
Jon smiled just a bit despite his discipline.
"Get it." His words were absent minded, an idle instruction spoken as an attempted distraction from his thoughts. A distraction that pushed Ramparte away and brought the thoughts of his writings back to him.
In truth, I was a liar as well, not just the reptile.
On television I remained the humble fighter... a Dr. Jekyl if you will. My parents, friends and fans were proud of me whether I came home with a victory or not. I was the same sweet kid my parents raised when I was around the general public and people I knew. I was a total good guy.
But off television, away from people, underground.
I was Mr. Hyde.
I could just, turn off, in a sense. In my prior entry I made mention of how the love of my father wiped away the burden my mother carried from taking lives in war. For whatever reason, I shared that same ‘switch’ when it came to fighting a man inside the frenzy. It wasn’t burden I was wiping away though, it was sympathy. And when I had no sympathy, I had more skill.
Skill is what made me arrogant. When you do well inside the circle you feel an exhilaration that you don’t quite get inside the ring. Arrogance fueled my greed for violence. The better I did, the better of a show I put on, the more and more I wanted to abuse it. The violence I produced made people cheer, win money, drink deeper and become savage. And when you regress down to the savage, being a fighter becomes easier and easier.
I was better in the circle than in the ring, far better, because in the circle I completely let loose. Not out of evil or malice, but because of a terrible combination; lessened empathy and the desire to push every limit. And when the match was over underground, I just walked out as if nothing had happened. And because none of the back breaking emotion was carried with me, I began to trivialize life in that circle.
White tape started wrapping round and round the fist and forearm. Tight was it now to help keep the bones together and give a bit more strength to blows. He held the newly taped arm up before him in the mirror, hand clenched solid as he drew each half of the star, one in red and the other in black, on each side, judging to see if the design was correct. Satisfied with his work, he stood before the mirror with his body taught, arms to the side to look himself over prior to leaving.
But when you climb high atop the tower of arrogance, sooner or later you're going to either slip and fall... or be pushed down to nothing.
Left hand cut the air like a knife, right hand came behind the jab with a straight just as quickly. He could still almost feel the resistance of Ramparte’s jaw against his knuckles. The Catalyst, though a distraction from both his inner reflection would be in his match tonight, and was more than helping to fuel his preparation.
I was too fleet of foot to slip.
Right hand came into left palm, upheld in front of his face before the mirror. His eyes were set on himself. On his newly trimmed hair. The stubble he was shaping into a beard. The taped hands in front of him, which represented the sign he expressed to those around him as honor. His fist clenched that much harder as the muscles in his face twitched to form the expression of anger for momentary flinches at a time. He won’t be what he was.
And I wasn't so much pushed... but rather slammed down by a piece of folding steel.
Jonathan turned slightly to the side as he lowered his hands so that he might see the folding chair in the mirror better. He stared hard at it, a part of him hating the simple piece of furniture, a hatred that was set due to how the steel had been used. After a long hard few minutes he looked back into the mirror at himself. The past was the past. Tonight was tonight. He would be teaming with Corvus again, an honorable man as far as he was concerned. Teaming to take on Mussel. And Ramparte.
"Tonight continues my test. The test of how authentic the moral set has become. The test to see if the body can continue to endure past reconstruction it has undergone. The test that I can still breathe the words of honor my family had taught me. That is why I am here in this federation, to test the man and prove there is no longer a savage.
Life itself is a test of every soul that breaths in and out. And every test has questions that need to be answered. Some questions are as trivial as what clothing you’ll wear that day to make yourself feel and look good.
Some are as important as what kind of parent you will be. What kind of moral set will you stand, live and die with.
Ramparte, I see as the moral question of my life at the moment. How well will I be able to stand up and look at a reflection of my old self? How deep has the change from who I was to who I am been? Does my honor stand like a pillar in the stone, or will he be able to shatter it like glass with a gob of flying spit? How far can I push myself now while still keeping to what I should have always been in the first place?
How well will my old self submit to the man who remembers the lessons of his father?
I know full well I have every single desire to turn that small victory prior to Apocalypse into a larger one tonight. To show him first hand exactly what I have learned, and to show him everything that is truly and completely wrong with his actions. My old actions.
But most of all, I feel he should learn these lessons and be shown the honorable way through screams of pain, rather than through the darkness of unconsciousness. I want him to know what it’s like to have a dead shoulder.”
Jonathan reached over and took up the steel chair, blue eyes glued to it as he folded it closed with gentle care. As he moved the chair to place it against the wall, one end of a leg caught for a moment on his bag which parted it open more than it had been before. It went unnoticed to Jon as the chair was set aside, propped upon the wall, and then his leave taken from the room.
But inside, the cover of his journal that he had been writing in could be seen.
Tonight, as far as Jonathan was concerned, was about himself and Ramparte.
Corvus and Mussel would just have to have their own little dance.
FlexAmerican Dynamite
WZCW WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION
The scene pans out from the TV until it is realized the infomercial is being watched by not only Flex but the general manager of Aftershock Chuck Myles. Mussél begins a slow clap in appreciation of his own brilliance while Myles isnt so impressed as he begins reading through the newest applicants resume.
Myles: So what exactly am I watching here Mr .Muscle?
Flex: Its Mussél and what you are looking at is the man thats not only going to make WZCW a better place, but a healthier place.
Myles: And why is that?
Flex: Because I own a world famous fitness gym, Im a world renowned fitness trainer, plus as you can tell by what you have seen not only on the television screen over there but with your own eyes: Im pretty ripped. Of course the camera does add ten pounds, but Ill probably burn it off when I hit the gym today so it doesnt matter.
Myles: So why exactly would you want to risk all of that by entering the world of WZCW?
Flex: Perfect question.
Flex opens up a duffle bag he brought with him to reveal a hardcover book he hands to Myles. On the cover its a shirtless picture of Mussel wearing a football helmet, holding a baseball glove and tennis racket in opposite hands, while balancing both a soccer and basketball on one knee. All this while the title reads How to become Successful in Professional Sports.
Flex: You see I train people all the time who have aspirations of becoming athletes of the highest caliber. And while I love helping people try to obtain the same perfection that my body has there just isnt enough time in the day to train another person while running my own set of fifty miles forwards and backwards, 200 sets of pushups, 300 sets of sit-ups, and 400 pull ups while having 20 pound weights tied to my shins. Thats why I want to have it all down in one book for all my fans to get my personal secrets on how to achieve their goal of becoming a famous athlete.
Myles: But do that you need to become one yourself.
Flex: Exactly, I mean I technically am one already but I mean in the conventional sense. I grew up watching WZCW as a kid anyway so I thought why not WZCW be the first place I research.
Myles: Well that is certainly an interesting story Mr .
Flex: Mussél
Myles: Yeah, Mussél, Im not exactly sure we have anything for you here.
Flex: Come on theres got to be something, no World Champions for me to defeat? No Legends with one last match to put me over? No attractive females to bring down to the ring?
Myles: See thats the problem, I see guys like you all the time walk into this office and expect to be handed everything and asking me to make them a star. The truth is youre a guy with no real wrestling experience but because youre a body builder you think you can hack it in the wrestling world. Tell me one good reason I should let you have a match here.
Flex: Well Ive trained people to the peak of their perfection by standards the Marine core thought was harsh. Ive trained Olympic hopefuls; I even help one half of your tag team champions Amber Warren get on the track from overweight slob to world class competitor.
Myles: You trained Amber Warren?
Flex: Well she came into my gym one time; I gave her a flier and stuff. I think she might have come back. Look I cant keep track of all my gyms scattered around this country the fact is that Im very much so worthy of your time.
Myles: Even if you are a lot of talent is tied up in various things, Im not exactly sure theres a spot on the card you can even showcase your abilities.
Flex: But .Im really strong.
Just at that moment another up and coming wrestler barges into Myles office. The blonde haired, well complexioned, decently tone man goes directly to the general manager attempting an intimidating look, however Myles isnt giving in.
Myles: Im in a meeting right now Ramparte, what exactly can I do for you?
Ramparte: Apocalypse is what you can do for me. I was obviously robbed up my right into the King for a Day match by a man that should have never beaten me. Then I get robbed in the battle royal for a shot at the Elite X title after being eliminated by Jonathan Hyada. I already beat him into the ground and I shouldnt have had to do it again. Im sick of the disrespect and I deserve better.
Myles: Listen here, just like I told one of WZCWs newest hopefuls youve got to earn things around here. Long gone are the day of show up and things getting handed to someone, we have possibly the strongest roster of competition weve ever had and if you want to make a mark around here you have to beat the best.
Both Flex and Ramparte share a look of contempt towards Myles before the general manager continues.
Myles: That actually gives me an idea. We have new tag team champions and with the departure of Celeste Crimson as of now there are no contenders in place. You want to get successful quick Flex? You want to show people why they should respect you Ramparte? Then lets put you two together and see if you can cut it in the tag team division. You want some revenge on Hyada? Lets have you together on the next Aftershock to take on Hyada and Corvus. If you two win who knows how close youll be to a shot at the champs. Hopefully you two can prove me wrong, now both of you out of my office.
After a quick glance of confusion towards each other the newly formed team begrudgingly leaves Chucks office. While the two currently share a mutual dislike of the general manager neither is very gung ho about greeting the other. After a couple of seconds of awkward waiting around outside Chucks door Mussél decides to give things a try.
Flex: Hi, Im Flex Mussél.
Ramparte: Ramparte
Flex: So, got any dinner plans?
Ramparte: I usually like to eat my dinner in a nice, quiet, and controlled environment. Away from people
Flex: Nonsense, its my treat. Well go to Local diner, theres not an easier way to get to know a man than through the contents of his stomach.
Ramparte: Im not a very welcoming person to people I just met.
Flex: Well youre going to need to be, we both have goals that need to be attained and step one to doing that is becoming a team. Now come on, my car is out front.
An hour or two later
The two new teammates can be seen in a local diner sitting in a both scanning their menus with a waitress hovering over them nearby. Ramparte doesnt seem to be comfortable in such a public setting and is in a rush to order while Flex doesnt seem very impressed by his options.
Flex: Do you have anything thats not fried, barbecued, or grilled?
Waitress: A salad?
Flex: Should have known, the lack of nutritional options in various establishments such as this are why this country is losing the war on obesity. Ill take a glass of water and a salad with French dressing please.
Waitress: Okay how about you sir?
Ramparte: Ill take the small cheeseburger and sprite.
The waitress takes the menus and heads to the back area of the diner.
Flex: You know cheeseburgers have a lot saturated fat, and that can cause coronary heart disease.
Ramparte: Look Ive already compromised by coming this eatery that is obviously beneath me so if you would spare me the health lecture that would be appreciated.
Flex: Fine I understand, so what exactly do you know about our opponents?
Ramparte: One is a former MMA wannabe and the other is a sad pathetic imitation of Batman.
Flex: Well thats comforting, not a lot of time to go to the gym and get ripped when youre stalking people on the streets.
Ramparte: While that may be true Corvus and Hyada already have experience as team. On the other hand youve never even had a match and if this dinner is any indication I dont have a lot of faith in our compatibility.
Flex: You just need to expand your horizons Ramparte. Ive only known you for maybe two hours and I can already tell youre not a very social person. It doesnt take a genius to realize that being in a team isnt about one individual and its about a unit working together to succeed. When Im training my client I cant do all the work for them, and they surely cannot learn the skills to make themselves healthier without my expertise. So we must work together to accomplish that goal.
Ramparte: Im not your client and youre not my trainer.
Flex: Youre right; were something more special than that: partners, which are why we need to act as such and become a well-oiled machine. It wont be easy, we will need to learn each others weaknesses and strengths and make up for the others lack thereof. For instance youve already had multiple matches and have beaten Hyada therefore are more strategically sound in the ring and are prepared for this specific match than I can ever be. On the other hand what most have to use two arms for I can usually accomplish with ease using one, my pound for pound strength more likely than not trumps yours and most likely theirs.
Ramparte: Well what are we going to do about the Mixed Martial Arts skills they both possess?
Flex: They can have all the skill they want, but if I can pick them up with ease and throw them around like ragdolls in the end it makes no difference, and with you backing me up I have little doubt in our chances of victory.
Ramparte: Youre very confident in this pairing arent you?
Flex: Confidence is the key to determination. Im going to let you in on a little secret Ramparte, hopefully in doing so it will strengthen our friendship. I used to be extremely overweight and horribly unattractive and I used to have no confidence in myself. Soon I realized instead of whining about it I needed to confidence and determination to accomplish my goal of losing weight. A couple years later, here I am the slim, sleek, and super muscular man you see today.
Ramparte: What about the horrible unattractiveness?
Flex: Turns out I was pretty handsome, just all the fat on my face at the time was making it barely visible. The point is Ramparte if more obese people started taking responsibility and gain some determination instead of whining about how Miss Beauty pageant is much slimmer than they are, the world would be a better place.
Ramparte: Interesting, we may just be what each other needs.
The waitress then returns to table to deliver Flexs salad and Rampartes burger.
Waitress: Enjoy gentlemen.
Ramparte: You mind watching this for me while I use the restroom?
Flex: Sure thing.
As Ramparte and the waitress both leave Flex alone in his booth he begins to quickly devour his salad. However he begins to develop an uncontrollable stare at Rampartes burger. After a few more seconds his face begins to become extremely sweaty, his face develops a nervous twitch. The burger is almost having a Kryptonite like effect on him. After a few more seconds hes forced to dive at the burger and swallow it up with one gulp. This of course garners a lot of attention from the diner but Flex calmly gets himself back together like it never happened. As Ramparte gets back from the restroom Flex wipes his mouth and face with a napkin to hide his indecency.
Ramparte: What happen to my burger?
Flex: Oh, the waitress there was something wrong with it. She took it back, gave us a refund, time to go.
Ramparte: But what am I going to eat?
Flex: Ive got some protein shakes in the car, you can chug them on the way to the gym.
Ramparte: The gym? Its like nine at night.
Flex: Best time to go is when theres nobody there to hog the good machines, plus how else am I suppose to burn off the weight I just gained?
Ramparte: The weight you gained off a salad?
Flex: Yeah, those croissants have a lot of calories now a days....
Spidey Revivey
Porn is okay here long as it ain't dudes.
Quote fades away in a burning white light and slowly brings clarity to the parking lot of a Flex Fitness Gym in Columbus, Georgia. Ramparte steps out of his new acquaintance's car cane-first and examines the building. A thousand thoughts clutch his mind as he takes a long pause to make sense of his situation. He stepped into Myles's office to demand another match with Jonathan Hyada while putting his List of The Slain on hold, but instead was thrown into a tag team with a partner whose name he will wind up mispronouncing.
His partner's gym was a grand sight, though; FLEX FITNESS shined brightly into Ramparte's and Mussél's faces, it's name in a bold and trendy font. Even from outside, 80's rock ballad "Rock You Like A Hurricane" by Scorpions could be heard reverberating from within. Ramparte grimaced.
Flex: Here you have it. Flex Fitness Gym, one of many outlets on the road to Unscripted. Beautiful, yes?
Ramparte: It's interesting.
You know it. Gonna work on triceps tonight, Ramparte. Gonna get that heart going, feel me?
Yeah...
You gotta be positive, dude. If you take some time to read my book, I'm sure it will ins-WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD!!??
The Catalyst set his sights on the source of Flex Mussél's disdain- a black vending machine in front of the main entrance of his gym. Mussél dropped his sports bag in shock. His face red, he slowly picks it back up and walks over to the contraption. A train of french curses came rushing out of Mussél's mouth while Ramparte watched on stoically.
Flex: This is unacceptable! Gluttonous Georgians and their backwoods ways!
Flex Mussél stormed into the building without another word to Ramparte. Left alone, he felt his stomach rumble; reminding him that he had not eaten a bite for the majority of the day. Convinced there may be meat in the machine, he went up to it.
The thing was jam packed with an assortment of fatty foods. Ramparte sneered and pulled out a dollar bill. There was a sausage/cheese stick duo wrapped together that looked somewhat appetizing. The vending machine ate the dollar bill and replied back with two mechanical groans of acceptance and the dropping of change. Ramparte punched in the letter and number combination. The springs revolved to release the packaged treat, but didn't.
He slapped the side of it to unhinge the food. It didn't give out.
Godfrey Ramparte sighed, and gave Flex's bane another bill. The coil moved again, and gave him two. He pocketed one in his white jacket pocket, and tore into the other; ravishing the small piece of meat and tossing the cheese stick to the ground indifferently. Turning to go into the gym, a middle aged woman exiting watched what he did and gave him a reproachful look. He met her gaze with the same expression.
Ramparte: Yeah bitch, I'm evil.
The woman briskly walked away in a huff, not wanting to challenge him. Grinning from ear to ear, he mocked her just as she was close to her car.
Good~night!
A Moment Later...
The exercise center was flooded with New Years Resolutionists and buff regulars. Van Halen's "Jump" was now playing on unseen speakers. In Ramparte's mind, the music faded and the equipment was warped and replaced with the torture devices of the middle ages; each piece of machinery exhausting its users to the point of ruin. Each person struggling to escape the pains of trying to look good, but cannot due to that same vanity.
Tucking his cane underneath his arm, he walked over to Flex, who was setting up for bench presses.
Flex: Let's see...you're a guy that looks like he puts a little time in places like this one. Think you can bench 400? One rep?
Ramparte: (shrugs) Shouldn't be a problem for me.
Taking off his jacket, Mussél spotted the cheese and meat protruding from a pocket. Shaking off impulsive whims, he placed the set in front of him and stood in a spotting position, waiting on his broody partner. Ramparte adjusted his gloves but kept them on; his chest bare as Flex looked on questionably but silent. He lied down and picked up the bar above him.
Here we go...
Mussél lifted the 400 for support and eased Ramparte into his rep. Gripping the set confidently, The Catalyst lowered the plates a breath away from his torso and raised it back up, but midway through the weight gave out and Ramparte's arms burned and shook. The bar descended like a blunt guillotine against his skin.
Get it off me! GET IT NOW!!
Flex took the bar off of his chest and placed it back in place of the rack. The pissed off American leapt from the bench and looked wide eyed at The World's Healthiest Man. A red streak marking his otherwise perfect body.
Ramparte: This is absurd! Why did I let myself get talked into this pairing? I am The Catalyst of WZCW, not some low grade wrestler. I am more deserving of this! Darkness is descending, Mussél, and I'm to ride its waves. Not you, not anyone else. I answer to a higher calling- one that gave me the power to take on the hypocritical heroes here. As we speak, Hyada grows envious of my position. He had to eliminate me from that X Title Contendership at Apocalypse and he knew it. He is Envy and will fall again to his own demons in time. You-
Flex: (interrupting) And what about Corvus, Ramparte? Forget him? From what I gather, he's been chomping at the bits to face someone just like you. A vigilante up in arms against the evilest WZCW has to offer. No offense since we just met and all, but you don't seem to be WHAT. THE. EVER. LOVING. WHAT!!??
The Catalyst jerked his head at where Flex was looking in alarm. On the treadmills and stairmasters were small television screens. The occupants had headphones in, watching intently as they went through the motions of exercise. Flex Mussél was redfaced about the vending machine outside, which from the floor to ceiling windows appears to be getting towed, but now his whole body was scarlet. A sudden impulse in Ramparte told him to step aside and give him room.
Flex: OH NO! No, this will NOT do. Not in my Flex Fitness, you pencil-necked geeks. Not in MY center...
Mussél stormed over to one attendant in particular, a husky man on a workout bike, and ripped his headphones from the television monitor. Too shocked to react, the overweight man stared at Flex and it dawned on him this was the guy whose likeness was plastered all over the walls of the gym.
Get out. All of you, get out! As of this moment we are closing! Look at yourselves. Look at how pathetic each one of you are, coming in here a few days after New Years Eve. Where were you in 2013, huh? On your potato chip crumb-infested couches, that's where! Watching television just like you're doing now! Slobs have no place on these premises. I own this gym and am telling you to beat it!
Every person in the center looked on in bewilderment, even Ramparte. Flex caught his breath and went around the room unplugging workout machines. Slowly people started to leave, cussing out Flex but Flex ignored them. The vending machine and then the television. It was enough to make any reflection of world class perfection snap.
The music changed from "Jump" to "Hair of The Dog" by Nazareth before that too was cut off by Mussél. The Catalyst looked on at his new tag team partner in a different light.
I may have judged you too soon, Flex Mussél. You may be an ally that can benefit me, and I benefit you. Corvus is an angst angel riding on the coattails of damnation. Wrath has consumed him, and all he really needs is a catalyst to have it come full circle. I've been waiting for someone like him, to be honest. He just doesn't know it yet. But I cannot face him alone, especially with Hyada, who has everything to prove in our match.
Let's truly join forces, Ramparte. With your keen insight and my superior strength, we can become unstoppable. Weapons of mass destruction, even..
Ramparte: (turning to fill a paper cone with water) We will need a name. A name that imposes fear. Weapons of Mass Destruction is good, but it's not us. Not completely. We need a name that defines that we are two wayward savage dogs hungry in this division, and come hell or high water...we will take the gold and guard it with our lives.
Flex: Two dogs, one driven body. The tag team champions call themselves dragons, right? I have another mythical name that might be up your alley. Cerberus.
The Catalyst stared at himself through the reflection of the water cooler. His mind absorbing the name.
Cerberus?
Cerberus.
A grin escaped him and he couldn't help it. It was the perfect name, and Flex may just be the perfect partner.
Ramparte: "Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born..."
Flex: (mouth full) "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven", right?
Ramparte uncharacteristically dropped his cup. He never met anyone else who could quote Milton right back at him. Flex was not only a monster of a man, but a well taught one as well. Turning to give him praise, he caught Flex taking a bite out of the cheese and sausage snack he had left in his jacket pocket. Ramparte's smile instantly fades and he became speechless; gesturing at Flex's hand that held his food.
Flex: Umm, yeah...I kinda have a small problem with junkfood. Hope that doesn't change anything between us...
Ramparte stood ominously still.
I've never told anyone this, but I'm afraid my childhood addiction to junk has come back again. I've already indulged myself in filth twice tonight, and these machines aren't making me feel any better. You have to help me on my path to redemption Ramparte, and it starts with Corvus and Hyada. Will you be my ally?
Thinking it over and weighing his options, Ramparte shrugged it off completely.
I will purge you of your habit like I will purge WZCW of that "humble" MMA fighter once and for all. And unlike that stalker Corvus, you will sleep peacefully at night knowing I am here. We can do this. We can become Cerberus. They better be ready, for here comes a new alliance.
Here comes the hounds.
Meanwhile outside...
Isaiah Israel watched on with his arms crossed as his friend talked to a newcomer about becoming a team; his crevatte still dirty from last time he talked to The Catalyst. Isis recalled what he had told David Cohen in his mind.
Isis's lips curled remembering his conversation with a soon to be dead man.
In his mind, chess pieces were coming out of the box and placed in their respective positions. Now it was time for Cohen to start the game. Isis had bets going on this, and Ramparte needs to prove he can handle what is coming to him.
Scene fades to white.
- Status
