AS71: Ramparte vs. Jonathan Hyada
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Spidey Revivey
Porn is okay here long as it ain't dudes.
The quote fades from white to a colorful airport in it's morning hours. Flight 616 has touched down and the passengers have been met at the main gate by a small faction of various members of the Wrestlezone Championship Wrestling reporting team. After some delay, the focus of their interest walks through the terminal decked out in an ivory business suit; his spider lapel reflecting light off of the skylight right above them and his gloved hands caressing the head of a mahogany cane. He stands with his legs at a parade rest and his eyes examining the reporters through orange-tinted aviators.
Mr. Ramparte, how was your flight?
Mr. Ramparte, tell us how you feel about working for WZCW!
Mr. Ramparte, did you really sell your soul?
Mr. Ramparte, tell us how you feel about working for WZCW!
Mr. Ramparte, did you really sell your soul?
Godfrey Ramparte took his attention off of the group as a whole and studied the one that asked the last question. His facial expression never changes, but there is a distinctive tone in his reply. A husky but mesmerizing rhythm that stands on the edge of almost being erotic.
We are all vessels to a higher calling. Yours is to run and jump the moment someone interesting steps out from those curtains and to ask them the most mundane questions your superiors could derive. My opponents' is to bask in the final chapter that I will write for them. And believe me, there is no greater glory than falling to me as your name makes the list of The Slain. Mine, of course, is to remind them...
The reporters stare intently at the blue-eyed man, waiting for Ramparte to finish his sentence. His gaze is still transfixed on the reporter that asked him about his soul- a young bearded man whose demeanor slowly went from jovial to jaded.
An older gentleman made his way towards WZCW's latest acquisition with numerous luggage in toe. From the look of it he had struggled to get there with how large each case was. He kept his distance from Ramparte but stayed in his peripheral vision. A few reporters could hear him gasping for breath quietly. Godfrey paid him no attention, not even to acknowledge his presence.
"I am the punishment of God. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you."
They brought me upon themselves. For every dark day they ever had in the ring, for every loss met with wrath, jealousy, and envy, for every win caked in gluttony, pride, and greed, the skies gathered the glimmers of fading hope until it couldn't. support. the weight. It poured like rain, and through the rain I came wading through, Mephisto Manifesto. I'm only a vessel carrying out a sacred task.
I am perversion incarnate. Hyada calls himself a humble fighter. I will humble him some more. It's too late for him to seek redemption. It's too late for anyone. I'm here now.
Good~night.
I am perversion incarnate. Hyada calls himself a humble fighter. I will humble him some more. It's too late for him to seek redemption. It's too late for anyone. I'm here now.
Good~night.
And with that Ramparte walked off, still getting asked several questions but ignoring each one. Morley, the elderly man carrying their belongings, picked up his pace to keep up. Morley kept his head bowed down in solemn servitude. Having worked for the Ramparte family for 30 years, Morley knew Godfrey since he first came to the estate. But just by looking at the butler's face, he knew Master Ramparte had changed drastically.
Ramparte stepped outside and gave a faint smile. His ride was waiting for them:
Come along Morley. Let us ascend.
Inside of the carriage sat a young woman in her 20s very liberally dressed for cold weather. Her thigh high boots were shining to the point of blindness; her raven hair askew but attractive. The boots were cut off by a plaid green-on-red skirt. Her torso shapely visible but covered by a black velvet jacket with the top few buttons undone, revealing a pleasing cleavage and 34D breasts.
I took the liberty of hiring you a hooker, Morley. You've been working hard and I have noticed. You may thank me after.
Morley dropped the equipment in initial shock. The carriage driver picked each one up and placed them properly underneath the vehicle. Ramparte turned his eyes from the prostitute to his butler, slightly cocking his head.
What's the matter?
Y-you know I'm a happily married man, Master Ramp-parte...
Widowed, Mr. Morley, are you not?
Joseph Morrel furrowed his eyebrows deeply. He kept his eyes from glancing at the woman in the plaid skirt. He looked sadly back up at his employer.
I can't. I loved my wife dearly, sir. But th-thank you for-
Get in, Morley. Don't let me repeat myself.
He slowly ascended the carriage, getting on the opposite side of the girl. He couldn't talk back to Ramparte for he knew his temper personally. Morley distracted himself while Ramparte climbed up with his cane tightly clenched in hand. Ramparte sat beside the escort. The lady looking the wrestler over with a glee in her eyes.
You are just too cute to pay for little old me.
Yes, you're right. I'm paying for him.
She gave Morley a head-to-toe look over and sighed. Morley tensed.
Fine. It's $300 for the deal. $350 if you're going to watch.
Ramparte revealed four 100 dollar bills. She lit up.
200 now. 200 later. Make it good. I want you on your knees.
But Master Ramparte! I loved-
DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME, MORLEY.
No one can see from this angle if the ****e is on her knees. Except me.
No one can see from this angle if the ****e is on her knees. Except me.
The girl gave Ramparte a dirty look. He gave her a look back that made her drop her gaze to the floor of the carriage. She started feeling a little sorry for the old man.
Tears started forming from Joseph's eyes. Memories of the last few hours of his wife's life came barreling through his mind. This is not where he wanted to be. He had always led a good, morally-driven life. But he knew what The Catalyst that sat opposite of him was. He knew what would happen if he didn't obey.
He kept his eyes closed as the woman carried out her intended job.
Ramparte watched on; the scene mirrored through his sunglasses. Not another word he said. No gesture or facial expression hinted at how he felt about what was unfolding in front of him. He just sat there with his cane held in his gloved hands as his servant experienced the worst moment in his long life.
Fade to white.
DarksideEric
Call me "Hadouken." I'm ââ fierce.
DING! DING!
The picture is still black, much like it was back on the bus not too long ago. The picture's darkness however did nothing to stop sound from coming through quite clearly.
DING! DING!
Deep breath. Small cough to clear the throat and a faint spitting sound afterward.
DING! DING!
Clearly the sound behind the darkness was a ring bell, even those who have never participated or spectated a combat event would place the sound.
It's uh... it's a bit odd how some sounds can create silence immediately after they are heard.
Jonathan's voice was low and faintly muffled, another cough and spit would clear out the pipes to make him sound a bit clearer.
Y'know those sounds I'm talking about. Someone hears a gun and a lot of the time drop to the floor in silence for fear of being found. When a baby cries for the first time, a friend of mine described that when she heard her baby for the very first time all sound stopped for her, just... Snap of the fingers is heard. Like that... y'know, just nothing else was as important as that previous sound, and so no other sound was allowed in.
DING! DING!
The picture finally comes into frame, as if someone had just turned on the television. There sat Jonathan Hyada, center ring of a local and currently sparsely populated boxing gym. Faint sounds of people lifting weights or hitting bags was heard off in the distance, but nothing that really interrupted the man sitting center stage, if you will. He was donned in the same Black Venom hoodie as he had worn on the bus earlier, clean shaven now, blue eyes staring up at the camcorder perched on the top turnbuckle in front of him. He wasn't quite fully in ring gear, sporting just the shorts and knee pads, boots off to the side. Upon his lap was the source of the "ding! ding!" sound; a ring bell. Common place in gyms like this, simple brass bell attached to a wooden plank with a small hammer linked to it by a chain.
That... DING! DING! Jonathan tapped the bell again with the hammer, is one of those such sounds for me. I've heard it... dozens upon dozens upon dozens of times. I've heard it in victory and in defeat, had my eyes glued to the time keeper as he's rung it as well as when I've slipped in and out of consciousness. But... no matter what... no matter when...
DING! DING!
That sound shuts the world off to me for a moment. I don't even hear myself breath for a few moments after the sound of the bell. No thump, thump, thump of the heart. No referee giving instruction. No ring announcer spouting information about the winner or loser. Just, silence.
Jonathan pulled the hood from his head and let it settle in a bit of a clump behind his shoulders. Off in the distance a weight clanged against the floor which drew Jon's attention for a moment before returning to look at the camcorder.
We as fighters, at least in my experience and point of view, aren't afforded many moments such as that. We don't get a lot of silence. If it's not trainers barking out orders, it's the referees telling you to get your hand off the cage or something. If it's not the referees, it's the crowd shouting cheers for whomever they like the best that night. If it's not the crowd then it's the sound of the actual combat, punches landing, feet moving. And last but not least, if it's not that... then it's your breath, your own thoughts that you hear.
Jonathan coughed and spit a third time off to the side.
I fight for the silence. Even years ago, that's what I fought for.
Jon scratched his left side ribs with his right hand a moment.
That moment after the bell is like a euphoria, at least for me. A time in my present life where I can reflect, quietly and by myself... in a way, about the goings on. In victory, that small moment flashes the ending of the match over and over and over again, reminding myself how I won so I may reflect on the fruit of my training. In defeat, it's ten fold really... allowing me to learn how I lost. It's like... a photo finish at the end of the race.
When I face this... Ramparte, in my first match...
DING! DING!
I aim to reflect.
DING! DING!
Rather than to learn.
Jonathan reached down and pressed a button on a small remote beside him, causing the screen to shut off to blackness. Sound would still come through for a moment, just long enough for...
DING! DING!
DING! DING!
DING! DI--
The picture is still black, much like it was back on the bus not too long ago. The picture's darkness however did nothing to stop sound from coming through quite clearly.
DING! DING!
Deep breath. Small cough to clear the throat and a faint spitting sound afterward.
DING! DING!
Clearly the sound behind the darkness was a ring bell, even those who have never participated or spectated a combat event would place the sound.
It's uh... it's a bit odd how some sounds can create silence immediately after they are heard.
Jonathan's voice was low and faintly muffled, another cough and spit would clear out the pipes to make him sound a bit clearer.
Y'know those sounds I'm talking about. Someone hears a gun and a lot of the time drop to the floor in silence for fear of being found. When a baby cries for the first time, a friend of mine described that when she heard her baby for the very first time all sound stopped for her, just... Snap of the fingers is heard. Like that... y'know, just nothing else was as important as that previous sound, and so no other sound was allowed in.
DING! DING!
The picture finally comes into frame, as if someone had just turned on the television. There sat Jonathan Hyada, center ring of a local and currently sparsely populated boxing gym. Faint sounds of people lifting weights or hitting bags was heard off in the distance, but nothing that really interrupted the man sitting center stage, if you will. He was donned in the same Black Venom hoodie as he had worn on the bus earlier, clean shaven now, blue eyes staring up at the camcorder perched on the top turnbuckle in front of him. He wasn't quite fully in ring gear, sporting just the shorts and knee pads, boots off to the side. Upon his lap was the source of the "ding! ding!" sound; a ring bell. Common place in gyms like this, simple brass bell attached to a wooden plank with a small hammer linked to it by a chain.
That... DING! DING! Jonathan tapped the bell again with the hammer, is one of those such sounds for me. I've heard it... dozens upon dozens upon dozens of times. I've heard it in victory and in defeat, had my eyes glued to the time keeper as he's rung it as well as when I've slipped in and out of consciousness. But... no matter what... no matter when...
DING! DING!
That sound shuts the world off to me for a moment. I don't even hear myself breath for a few moments after the sound of the bell. No thump, thump, thump of the heart. No referee giving instruction. No ring announcer spouting information about the winner or loser. Just, silence.
Jonathan pulled the hood from his head and let it settle in a bit of a clump behind his shoulders. Off in the distance a weight clanged against the floor which drew Jon's attention for a moment before returning to look at the camcorder.
We as fighters, at least in my experience and point of view, aren't afforded many moments such as that. We don't get a lot of silence. If it's not trainers barking out orders, it's the referees telling you to get your hand off the cage or something. If it's not the referees, it's the crowd shouting cheers for whomever they like the best that night. If it's not the crowd then it's the sound of the actual combat, punches landing, feet moving. And last but not least, if it's not that... then it's your breath, your own thoughts that you hear.
Jonathan coughed and spit a third time off to the side.
I fight for the silence. Even years ago, that's what I fought for.
Jon scratched his left side ribs with his right hand a moment.
That moment after the bell is like a euphoria, at least for me. A time in my present life where I can reflect, quietly and by myself... in a way, about the goings on. In victory, that small moment flashes the ending of the match over and over and over again, reminding myself how I won so I may reflect on the fruit of my training. In defeat, it's ten fold really... allowing me to learn how I lost. It's like... a photo finish at the end of the race.
When I face this... Ramparte, in my first match...
DING! DING!
I aim to reflect.
DING! DING!
Rather than to learn.
Jonathan reached down and pressed a button on a small remote beside him, causing the screen to shut off to blackness. Sound would still come through for a moment, just long enough for...
DING! DING!
DING! DING!
DING! DI--
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