The Sacrificial Altar: Mason Westhoff, D.C., and David Whitman
The beginning of Aftershock 25 gave us a shocking reveal when it was announced that Strikeforce would take on The Grand Mystique and The Sacrificial Altar in a 3v3 War Games Match. Now, Mikey Stormrage will have a chance to deal a heavy blow to TSA before they ever even meet at Kingdom Come V. Stormrage has been caught in an evil plot since Unscripted, but how will the final battles look leading up to the end of a War?
Deadline is Wednesday July 10, 2013 @ 11:59 P.M. (Central). Soft Extensions Only
Brother Mason Westhoff paused to scan the aftermath of his frustration. Both nightstands lie on their side next to the balcony door. One of the lamps that had sat atop them is in pieces at the base of the door, while the other is mixed in with the pieces of the television it was thrown into. Restaurant brochures were scattered around the room; they went flying when they desk they were on was flipped. The only part of the hotel suite that isnt destroyed is the bed, where Sister Jessica Malory, his former assistant at Bridge to Salvation Church, sits, cowered in fear.
Im sorry you had to see that.
Brother Westhoff turns the desk chair back upright and takes a seat. For how fired up he was moments ago, an eerie calmness now radiates from the preacher.
When The Sacrificial Altar formed, I tried to refrain from grand illusions of what we could accomplish. Instead, I focused on a single objective that influenced everything we did: Change WZCW. We didnt need lofty goals, because we found success with that. That is, until GM decided to bring DC into the fold.
Sister Malory sits up, sensing that a second violent outburst isnt imminent. It was hard for her to see Brother Westhoff in this state, but she couldnt help but to also be fascinated by seeing someone who has always been in such control so helpless.
Ive tried so hard to make it work; The Almighty and everyone else are witnesses to that. Maybe its just not meant to work. Maybe everything weve built with The Sacrificial Altar was for naught.
Stop it.
Both Sister Malory and Brother Westhoff look stunned at the fact that she spoke up. In their many years of working together, Sister Malory had never interrupted Brother Westhoff like this. After the shocked pause, she decided to continue.
Brother Westhoff, I watched you go from preaching to 10 people in a living room to a few hundred in the most beautiful building in the Midwest. You were a visionary in a land filled with doubting, cynical, and evil people. When you decided to take your message to a wider audience in WZCW, we supported you because it was impossible for any of us to doubt you.
This person that is sitting in front of me is not the man that changed countless lives as the voice of The Almighty. I have no doubts that the Brother Westhoff I knew could figure something out to not only make things work with DC, but make The Sacrificial Altar better because of him. If he doesnt come back, then, yes; everything youve done will be for naught. Its not too late, Brother Westhoff. I know you are capable of more than this.
Brother Westhoff stares a hole in the ground, unable to bring himself to look at Sister Malory. She tries to keep a brave face, but is afraid another explosion is coming at any moment. That explosion never comes as Brother Westhoff gets up and walks to the door, slamming it behind him. Sister Malory sits on the bed, tears running down her face as the hotel room fades away.
Now outside of the hotel, Brother Westhoff is still angry. Not at Sister Malory; this kind of tough love is what he was hoping to get out of seeing her. Instead, he was mad at himself for letting the issues with DC get this far. He had put off the inevitable for too long. It was time to go to The Grand Mystique.
"Tell him I will talk to him when I feel like it."
I stopped talking to allow the voice on the other end to speak.
"I know that he says he has changed. I can say the sky is yellow and that I'm the Supreme Emperor of Jupiter, but that doesn't make it true."
Again, silence on my end.
"I'm sorry I just don't trust..."
I stopped walking as the voice on the other end cut me off.
"Its whatever James. I spent our entire run as a team in your shadow. I was your sidekick, comedic relief. It took you nearly being paralyzed, by the same guy you suddenly seem so trusting of I might add, for me to step out on my own. I'm glad you are back, believe me I am brother, but I'm not a little kid anymore. I can call my own shots, and right now I think me clearing my head is more important than training."
I hung up and slipped my phone back into my pocket. I put my headphones back on and pulled my hat down low, lowering my head as I continued to walk. By this point I had almost no idea where I was. Downtown San Francisco wasn't an area I was overly familiar with. Since I moved here full time I spent most of my time on the road with the company or locked away inside my apartment. I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket as I walked. I knew I needed a distraction so I scanned the skyline for the lights of a neon cathedral.
I stood on the street corner and did my best to hail a cab. I couldn't say I was surprised that I had trouble getting one. My cap pulled down low, my hair and beard had been growing out for months, I probably looked like my face should be on a wanted poster. After a handful of failed attempts I finally managed to secure a taxi. The driver, an elderly man, nodded at me as I climbed in the back seat. When he asked where I was headed I simply pointed to the neon sign in the distance.
"You celebrating or forgetting?"
The voice of the cabbie caught me off guard.
"I'm not really sure anymore."
The old man nodded his head softly.
"Well you picked a good spot. Round there they sing broken hymns. Their prayers flow better when they're soaked in gin. The amp's dusty and sits in the corner by a bartender that'll pickpocket your heart, and a jukebox that'll steal your quarter."
When we arrived I pulled out my wallet and inquired about my fare.
"No charge. Knowing I helped a lost soul find his way is reward enough."
I walked inside and the familiar smell hit my nostrils. I knew my salvation was close. I took a seat at the bar, and waited for the bartender. When I saw her my jaw dropped. The old man was right. She was absolutely stunning. Over the course of the last sixteen or so months I had met a lot of women who had come California in hopes of making it big, only to have their go down faster than most of them did on a backstage casting couch. She seemed different, innocent, but being in here she had to have a story.
"Hey there handsome, I'm Amanda, what can I get you?"
Her voice was reassuring, friendly, but calling me handsome was a dead give away. I knew how women like this operated.
"I'll have a rum and coke. Make it a double."
A few minutes later she came back with my drink. She asked if I needed anything else, making sure she was heavy on the flirting. I simply shook my head no. I watched some of the various patrons across the bar. The hipsters sipping their PBR, the party of women wearing Forever 21 who were celebrating a thirtieth birthday, a recently dumped man using Bushmills as a band-aid, another buying up the bar in an attempt to impress the worn out ****e he was with. All of us had come to this neon cathedral for one form of salvation or another, mine was fear. I was going to exchange my fear for courage in the form of a well drink. I hoped the problems would drown themselves, but I was dying in wait as I finished off my drink.
"Two more."
A few minutes later Amanda came back with two cold glasses. Liquid courage. I downed them as quickly as possible.
"Four more."
The room was becoming a blur.
"I think you might have had enough sweetheart."
I knew I had hit my limit, but the Almighty was close.
"You're right. No. Fuck it, a nightcap."
I stood to go to the bathroom, but I hit the floor as soon as I tried to take a step.
Sun shining through the cracks in the curtain woke me up. I found myself in an unfamiliar bed, naked. I rolled over and found my glasses, wallet, and phone on a nightstand. I checked the time, it was almost four in the afternoon. I had numerous missed calls and texts from James. I had a missed call and a voice message from a number I knew to be Derek Jacobs. Even Ricky had managed to send a half assed text expressing his worry. Most of the texts were nothing more than texts concerning my upcoming match. A gauntlet against the lackeys of Mystique, who proved to be more of a problem than the masked man himself. I had a feeling they would abandon their false prophet soon, his crown of gold would be replaced with a crown of thorns. Westhoff would grow tired of being an apostle, I could see the desire to lead in his eyes. DC was barely in the fold as it was, he had his own agenda. A relic who overvalues his own worth. Whitman was a man who could not be trusted. With no direction he seems likely to run back to the woods at the first sign of trouble in the congregation.
I noticed a note under my wallet.
Hey handsome, you blacked out at the bar last night. I brought you back to my place. There was some awkward flirting, but other than that you were a perfect gentleman. You kept mumbling something about The Almighty and the neon cathedral. I had to go to the bar to get ready to open but you should stop by. We open at 5. I hope I get to see you again.
xoxo
Amanda
I put on my glasses and got dressed. Service started at five and I didn't want to be late.
The bits of shadow that fell on his face through the trees created a distorted mask, and with this not-really-ripped-flesh facade he surveyed the area, certain he was being watched.
David Whitman stopped breathing.
He took the silent moments to gather the external information, and promptly turned his attention back towards the cabin.
Someone was there.
Despite severing all his ties to not only the wrestling world but his family and friends as well, David now felt as if somebody had found him.
As he slowly returned to the cabin, he thought back to the time he spent mastering the art of wrestling in the ring. He thought about his first world title win, and loss. The first time he got fired, and rehired. And subsequently, the first and only time he quit. Amidst all these thoughts he searched for a clue, but found none. The second he opened the creaky front door of the cabin, however, he felt the unmistakable surge of adrenaline hidden within an invisible line around wrestling rings.
There was no wrestling ring in the old, notebook-filled cabin; however, standing by the windows and peering outside was Grand Mystique.
GM: Sure doesn't feel like April, does it?
David, somewhat startled, took a moment to assess the situation.
The masked man he knew in another life had found him; after months, years. The cabin, old and creaky, suddenly felt different. The atmosphere had shifted, somehow, and it felt permanent.
David: "How-"
Grand Mystique finally turned to him.
GM: "Come on, David. This isn't some fable, or movie. You can't ever truly disappear."
David took a few steps back, pushing himself towards the wooden wall. Something was different about Mystique, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. For the first time in months, years, David felt something; a sudden, if fleeting, tinge of uneasiness.
It passed, and he crossed his arms.
The cabin had no drapes, but if they did they would probably have been gray. Which would have properly and deeply hinted at the vast gray area, that area all human beings perpetually dwell in; never purely black, never purely white. It would have conveyed the situation perfectly; David, uncertain of his position, and Grand Mystique, in David's eyes the epitome of gray area up until that point. Nothing is ever purely, simply good. Nothing is ever purely, simply evil.
But, of course, as you might remember; there were no drapes.
No sirree.
David: "Why are you here?"
Mystique stared at an envelope in his hands.
GM: "To discuss your return."
David, noticing the envelope, stared at Mystique, now with an almost inquiring look.
David: "I'm done with wrestling."
GM: "Are you?"
David: "You believe otherwise?"
GM: "It doesn't take a psychic to figure out why you left."
David: "Enlighten me."
Mystique now turned his attention from the envelope to the bearded hobo-ish wrestler in front of him.
GM: "You felt like the higher-ups didn't care about wrestling, only about money and fame and giving that to the ones they wanted to. You felt like backstage was pure politics, plain and simple, with nobody looking at the grander scheme of things. And in a way, you were right."
David almost mustered up a scoff.
David: "This little history lesson is nice and all, but... Seriously. Why are you here?"
Grand Mystique took a moment, seemingly mulling his answer over, even though both men knew he already knew where he was going with this.
GM: "I have a proposal. I know that after you stopped wrestling, you felt isolated. After giving your life to a company, only to have them use you and toss you aside, you shut down. Understandable. But..."
David: "But you can give me my spark back at some other, much better company, right?"
Mystique, not nodding or shaking his head, held his stare at David.
David: "I'm... Going through some stuff. I don't think it would be good for me. I don't think it would be good for anyone. And even if i agreed, you know how established feds are about newcomers."
Mystique took a step towards David, lifting the envelope in his hands almost imperceptibly.
GM: "You'd be with us."
Intrigued, David raised an eyebrow.
David: "Us?"
GM: "Me and... a few others. People you can trust."
David: "...A stable?"
GM: "I can't promise you the road will be easy. In fact, I can promise you the opposite. It WILL be more difficult than anything you've known. But I can promise you it is the path you should be on. That much, I can promise you."
Mystique took another step towards David, and in this motion blocked the window a bit, stunting some of the light and darkening the cabin considerably.
David: "No offense, but... Why exactly would I do you this favor? Why should I walk through Hell with you?"
Silence.
GM: "Because, David."
Mystique raised his hand, and David took the envelope. In a fluid motion, Mystique patted David on the back, turned around and slowly started leaving.
GM: "This is your only way out."
Within seconds, he was gone. The door of the cabin stayed wide open, letting in a flood of sunlight onto David, almost blinding him. He stared at the envelope.
Whitman runs at Jacobs whilst he is distracted, jumping up and knocking him down with a direct elbow to the head of Jacobs that causes him to fall to the ground. Whitman quickly pounces on Jacobs, using the jacket as a way to blind the bodyguard and attack Jacobs with strike after strike as the crowd boos the display. Jacobs manages to push Whitman away and throw the jacket out of the ring, trying to recover himself but Whitman runs at Jacobs as gets up. He goes for another attack but Jacobs manages to throw Whitman over the top rope but Whitman manages to hang on to the top. Jacobs tries to take out Whitman with a big boot but Whitman lowers the top rope, causing Jacobs to get caught on the top rope. Whitman manages to get in a couple of shots but Jacobs' reach is able to push Whitman off the apron. He lands on his feet as Jacobs continues to struggle getting his foot free as it he is caught in an awkward position. Whitman slides underneath the bottom rope and grabs onto both of Jacobs' arms and tries to lock in a straight-jacket submission, being successful for a couple of seconds before Jacobs' uses his strength to throw Whitman forward, sending him to the outside one more but Whitman crashes on the ground instead of landing on his feet. Jacobs finally gets unstuck and exits to the outside, going after a recovering Whitman who pleads for Jacobs not to do anything. As Jacobs gets close, Whitman jumps up and delivers a dropkick to the knees of Jacobs, sending him to the ground. He gets behind Jacobs and hits an inverted DDT onto the outside. The referee's count continues to climb but Whitman does not care, looking to add further punishment as he grabs the arms of Jacobs once again and locks in the straight-jacket submission on the outside. Whitman refuses to let go and get in the ring whilst Jacobs refuses to tap out. Eventually, the referee hits the count of 10 and he has no choice but to signal for the bell.
David Whitman and his cousin James keep staring at the screen for what seems like minutes. James finally breaks the silence.
James: "So... That was unexpected."
David sighs.
The Whitman cousins are in a ratty motel room. It is a day before Supershow III and David's match with his fellow Sacrificial Altar members Mason Westhoff and D.C. against Mikey Stormrage.
James stares at David, waiting for an explanation. David shrugs.
David: "I don't know what happened. I don't know why I was so out of character. I..."
He stops, and looks at his cousin, as if he's going to reveal a secret. James just looks really annoyed.
James: "What."
David: "I don't .. remember all of it."
James raises an eyebrow.
James: "Excuse me?"
David takes a deep breath.
David: "That night. I... I don't know what happened."
James does not seem startled. Instead, he pats his cousin on the back lightly. David seems uneasy.
James: "Look, don't dwell on that."
The newest Sacrificial Alter member takes a moment to scan his memory before he responds.
David: "That... is possibly the worst advice anyone has ever given."
James: "Ever?"
David: "Yes."
James: "Hm."
David: "Yeah."
James: "That's a long time."
David: "It really is."
They both shrug, and turn their attention back to the TV screen. The frame stays still.
James: "Well... Is your next match going to be the same? As in... Not a match at all?"
David: "No. I think I was just... Temporarily... Not myself. But still, I don't know what to think about the match they've set up. They give us Mikey Stormrage on a platter like this? I mean, he's not a bad wrestler. Not at all. But.. Three on one? Really?"
James: "Yeah, but on the flipside..."
David now looks somewhat worried.
David: "Yeah."
James: "And are you telling me this all feels right to you?"
David: "Honestly? I think it feels like a mistake. I don't know what I'm even doing here."
The older cousin nods. He then turns to David.
James: "Mystique..."
David: "Yeah. The Altar."
James throws his hands up, like he's asking for an explanation. David sighs, not looking forward to explaining what's on his mind.
David: "Okay, I listened to him. I came back to the world of wrestling. He told me my debut could possibly bring me back. Instead, I lost control. None of this is making any sense. It's random, chaotic."
James: "And that's you're reason for not quitting?"
David: "It's been what, three months since GM showed up and turned my life upside down."
James: fresh prince of Belair much
David ignores his immature older cousin.
David: "And ever since I've been connected to TSA, things have been weird. But even if right now I feel like I don't belong here, I know I need to stay. I know what I have to do. Right now, I just have to focus, and destroy Mikey Stormrage. Be a cohesive unit with D.C. And Mason. There's no way the three of us can't decimate Stormrage, but I just have to make sure I don't... Get weird. Like last time. Once we have that done. we just need to make sure Mystique makes it through, and-"
James: "And then what?"
David: "And then we see what happens."
James shakes his head, but David isn't aware; he just thinks back to the day a masked man from his past showed up and gave him an envelope containing a single piece of paper.
On it, written in David Whitman's own handwriting, was a single word.
*As the scene comes into picture DC is seen talking on his phone. He is inside of his white Nissan GT-R. His left arm resting on top of the rolled down window, and his right arm holding the phone to his ear. We can hear the other person on the phone for sake of avoiding dueling descriptions. It is Lindsey, whom DC recently reached out to almost a week ago. DC peers out to the sky behind white rimmed sunglasses, the reflecting view illuminates the sky above in the lenses.*
When did you say you're coming back to L.A.?
Round the twenty third or so. There's a show in Sacramento and I'll drive down fro-
Cause I was thinking maybe we could take our daughter to Disneyland...
*DC pauses, although you can't see his eyes he did roll them. He looks around, scratching the back of his head.*
Yeah, we'll see. Look, I gotta get going I have... Stuff.
Okay. I get it.
*The stern tone of Lindsey's voice burns a hole through the phone, figuratively speaking of course.*
You do remember it's her birthday on the twen-
*A big dump truck barrels down the road beside DC's car. The noise blocks out all other audible noises. DC flips off the truck. He removes his glasses, rubs his eyes, and checks his image in the rearview mirror.*
Yeah I remembered, of course I remembered. Why wouldn't I?
What's her name?
*There is a bit of a pause as DC jolts in his seat. Of course he remembers her name, right! It's a not brainer... Right? ...right?*
You don't think I know her name? Now whose being impossible?
You didn't answ-
I gotta go, I'll see you in a few weeks.
*D hangs up the phone. He flops the phone in his hand by the bottom of it, and flips it over to the passenger seat. He watches it flip around in the air and lets out a hefty sigh.*
Boring conversation anyway...
*With that DC opens his car door and climbs out. As he passes by the camera, the view turns around to show DC walking towards a hotel. The camera pans up towards the top of the building, eventually fading to black.
The scene opens back up once again as DC is shown walking down a hallway, safe to assume he is walking down a hallway in the aforementioned hotel. As he wanders towards a door a solemn feeling fills the air around him. For DC this seems to be an unpleasant place to be. Ironic, seeing as how most of his life is rapidly becoming an awkward moment in space and time. He drudges on, and finally comes to a stop in front of a door to his right. He slowly pushes the door open.
DC sits with the look of a bored teenager in a science class. Next to him is David Whitman. These two men have traveled all over the world, fought and teamed together in countless companies. They have had the adulation of millions because they were the best. But their destinies are linked beyond what they have known to this point. Theres no way that they could have pictured themselves here together at this point in time. Not with this man in front of them.
War is coming gentlemen and the time for games will soon be over. We have bent to the rules of WZCW for long enough and the time has come to impose our own will on the company. It will follow our destiny as we demonstrate what will be in the future.
DC grimaces, his couldnt-care-less mannerisms shine. He glances at Whitman but his friend is statuesque. Davids eyes are glazed over, he looks bored.
We need to show some substance.
We need you to get your finger out G. The biting comment draws no reaction from the masked leader. You said we would destroy them. You said they were falling apart, had nothing left.
And -
And nothing! Im sick of your bullsh*t! What was the point of agreeing to be in whatever this is supposed to be if we are not the best? You may not know what it is to be the best but we are used to being the best in the damn world. You have no idea what you are doing and we are wasted.
I understand you are feeling hard done by, let down. You didnt expect your journeys within the Altar to be smooth did you? DC raises his hands as he openly questions the Grand Mystique once more. You are being tested. Your paths to this point have been laden with obstacles and pitfalls that have brought you down to all time lows, personally and professionally. Have faith that we will see you rise to the pinnacle of this company. But believe me when I say that your return must be alongside us because you cannot do this alone. And you were alone, more than you ever had been and you hated it. You couldnt run with Michaels or Cannon, hell, even Sharpman and Bridges rejected you like a piece of trash. But with no family, you were beyond vulnerable.
The names that GM mentions gets a reaction from both men but their lacklustre energies mean that their responses are low-key, barely noticeable.
You and David have that in common. You have been left to rot in hell and we are picked up the pieces. I can tell you why you struggle so much, why you have nothing left and I can tell you why that struggle will end.
Oh this will be good. Whitman glances at him. Im intrigued. Both men smirk but its an empty gesture.
Because Destiny has been kind enough to lay Mikey Stormrage at our feet a little early and I expect you to take what has been given to you in the manner that it is intended.
Youre crazy. You are clueless! For all the good it does us being able to destroy Stormrage, you get isolated in the same way?
You dont understand -
Please, dont you dare say What the Lord giveth, he taketh away, Im not in the mood for that sh*t right now. His normal arrogance replaced by a worn-down frustration.
You feel the same David?
Heh. His ironic chuckle is muted and muffled. Im in but I dont like your odds.
Fear is something for them to dwell on. Let them mull it over in the days leading to come. Mikey Stormrage should be petrified about what faces him in your match. Howard, Runn and Jacobs will look in my eyes and see their own fear reflected back at them. I will torture them with their weaknesses and what I do in the ring will break their spirits and echo in eternity at Kingdom Come when they are ready to be sacrificed in front of the world.
So you want us to break the spirit of Mikey Stormrage? D sounds fed up and he doesnt even try to hide it.
You think that is going to be simple?
Nothing is simple but I have had him on the edge of sanity for too long.
I would have believed you before the Lethal Lottery but he seems to have found his way again.
Every single superstar in WZCW wears a facade. My mask is more honest than most. Mikeys is most fragile and he is ready to crack. He simply believes he is better because he has a semblance of normality back in his life. Howard is all he knows and we have crushed that aspect of his life, he will never have that crutch to support him and that is all down to the work Mason and I have put in. Stormrage is the physical and mental representation of everything that we are aiming to crush and it is nearly time for our project to come to fruition.
Really, what is that then?
You havent realised yet?
No, brain-ache, Im not Sherlock Holmes and I cannot read your mind. I have no idea what your end game is. D is tired and becoming stressed with the cryptic talk of the Altars leader but its the most energy either man has shown yet..
Your final lesson will come in time and then all will become clear.
DC stands, pointing a stern finger at GM. Wanting to utter something but not finding the words. Instead he clinches his fist at GM. The moment is still as DC glances around the room in a daze. The world seems to be spinning around at light-speed inside of his mind. He shuts his eyes and puts his hands behind his head. Leaning back and taking a few steps away from the table in one motion he unintentionally bumping into the chair Whitman is sitting in. In a fit of rage that would make Nicolas Cage jealous DC out right loses it. He grabs the chair in which he was siting and heaves it across the room. It shatters somewhere against an unlit wall. No one budges or reacts to it as DC can basically do nothing but scream in his tantrum. Once he stops he locks eyes with GM. Then promptly marches right up to him. Mason tries to step in front but GM holds a confident hand out as DC gets in GM's face. Mason stands with fists clinched.*
You can sit here and make it sound so easy. That life is just a riddle that you have figured out and everyone else is still running around guessing. Well let me tell you something. Since I've been here, I've been a part of a scheme with no payoff. A plan with no cause. A movement with no working parts. In a fed where I don't belong...
*GM puts his hands behind his back, gentlemanly like. He lowers his head to simply imply that he is paying attention closely.*
And so, you see fit to blame me? Blame Brother Westhoff? Will you blame Whitman next?
*As GM lifts himself to an upright position once again you can see the smile behind his mask. DC can't help but smile back, even though he's reaching a meltdown.*
Blame them? No. Just you!
*Mason takes a step towards DC when he hears those words. DC looks over his shoulder at Mason, then faces GM again.*
I'm not losing grip on reality. I'm not going crazy because my life, for all intents and purposes, is s***. I'm not even going crazy at the fact that I have had exactly three matches and lost every single one of them. NO! What I am pissed off about is that somehow YOU, think WE, are a danger. That we're some kind of threat to this federation.
*DC holds his arms out.*
Please, oh powerful mystical being of the universe! Tell me how in the hell, three stooges behind a masked fortune teller are going to reign terror over people when we seem more like a comedy act, who accidentally manages to make the good guys look bad once in a while!
I'm not making the mistake of pretending I'm doing something good for this group. I'm done caring if we are on a mission! You're plan, isn't working for me. Mikey Stormrage against three of us... If we don't win, you're plan is f***ing void! I'm not making the mistake and believing you have him on the ropes...
*DC and GM stand face to face, neither one backing down from the other. From behind DC a simple hand is placed on his shoulder. The hand belonging to Mason Westhoff.*
Then please, indulge me once again. What would DC do?
*DC looks at the hand with a slightly turned head in its direction. He glances back and GM before turning around showing his back to GM. Whitman sits stoic to all of this happening. But does glance up at DC, then at Mason, and fighting a small smile. DC locks eyes with Mason, removing his hand from his shoulder.*
He would sin... He would stop pretending to be part of an unstoppable force and actually bring a fire back to this group. Get it through your head... If Mikey Stormrage beats three of us, we are done. We may as well not even show up to Kingdom Come. Hell, we may as well all retire. Because NO ONE can beat three people! This isn't a fairy tale and we are not the Disney villains people think we are...
But I can't help but get the feeling that I'm the only one wondering what happens if we fail. No matter how you want to face the music Mason, the fact remains that there are people out there who believe Mikey can do the impossible. Right now, there are people that believe he can beat Whitman, DC, and Westhoff in one night. And we're ignorant to not acknowledge that. You can't shake that realization. I'm not going to walk through that curtain, pretending to be a devoted follower. I'm going to walk through that curtain hellbent on reminding people why they should be afraid of me...
*DC turns around once again to look at GM, who has crossed his arms listening to DC's speech.*
I'm going to go into that ring, and destroy Mikey Stormrage, for me... And when he's laid out on the mat and I'm getting my hand raised, I want you to remember that image. Because in that moment you will see that a message was sent. Not because some magic eight ball predicted it. A message was sent because somebody actually wanted to send it...
*GM slowly claps his hands at DC's speech. GM doesn't mock it either, he seems pretty impressed by the show. GM looks as if he is about to speak when DC chimes in.*
You don't get the last words...
*DC turns around to face Mason and Whitman, who is still sitting motionless, albeit a little more intrigued.*
This week, I'm doing things my way. I don't give a damn if any of you want to do the same. If I fail... then you can ridicule me and tell me how wrong I am.
*He takes one last look at GM, eyeing him from toe to head. His brow sinks into a look of anger.*
And if you don't like it... Well...
*DC then turns and quietly walks towards the door. Leaving Mason to look at GM with a questioning look. GM simply nods. DC glances at Whitman before reaching the door. The two don't need to speak to know what the other is thinking as DC exits the room and into the hallway. The scene slowly fades to black as D shuts the door.*
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