Post by Trent Page on May 12, 2011 0:32:20 GMT
” When there was darkness, and the void was king, and ruled the elements. When there was silence, and the hush was almost deafening! Out of the emptiness… SALVATION!” -Spinal Tap
At first, there is only darkness, and maddening quiet. Then, from the nothing, a match is lit, the flare of which sends ominous shadows cascading over the gaunt features of an unshaven Trent Page. His smile is manic, and flickers, as unsteady as the flame he holds in his hand. Slowly, he touches the match to the wick of a virgin candle, transferring its light before shaking out the small strip of flaming cardboard. For a few minutes, all Page does is stare into the flame, allowing the reflection to dance in his dull, green eyes. Suddenly, the smile leaves him, and he begins to speak.
Frauds, charlatans, hypocrites, and morons. These are kinds of people that are found in all walks of life. You talk to them every day, they watch your children, they make your food, and they even handle your taxes. You run into them all the time, however, I seem to have to deal with these wastes of life more than most, because nowhere are these character traits more evident than in the fans of FWF. You see, at Genesis, I came back after a long hiatus, preceded by a humiliating losing streak, and I gave the performance of my life. I outlasted ten other wrestlers, and threw Timothy Vortex over the top rope, announcing to you people my triumphant return. In that glorious moment of my rebirth, I was showered with a chorus of boos. I was jeered by you worthless know nothings for having the audacity to defeat your idols.
Slowly, an almost snarling Trent Page raises a long, white cigarette, placing it gently between his dry, chapped lips. He leans forward, and uses the candle before him set the end of the stick aflame. With drooping eyelids, he inhales deeply, and holds in the smoke for a minute, savoring the flavor. Slowly, he releases the smoke through his nostrils, and glares back at the camera.
Later on in the night, when Timothy Vortex, bitter from his earlier loss, decided to stick his nose exactly where it didn’t belong, all of you brainwashed humanoids cheered, like the hand fed cattle you are. You braying morons mocked me, and celebrated with your paper heroes. I’m sure it was all quite fun for you, but your laugh is now over, while mine is just beginning. This week, I begin a reign of terror, the likes of which the FWF has never seen. Starting with your precious Timmy Vortex, I am going to systematically destroy each and every one of these men and women you lift up onto a pedestal. I am going to take your heroes away from you one by one until you ignorant drones have no one to cheer but the bad guy you all seem to despise with such passion.
The cigarette hangs, forsaken, in the right hand of the wrestler. He chuckles at one of his own thoughts, and stares off into the distance for a moment or two. The chuckle is short, and instantly forgotten as he turns his attention back to the camera.
When that day comes you’ll beg, you’ll cry out to me: “TRENT! PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GIVE US BACK OUR HEROES! Give us back our idols! We have no self-esteem, and we need to worship The Fizz! Please, don’t make us become admirable human beings for ourselves! Let us live vicariously!”… I won’t. I won’t give you back your heroes, because I’m doing this for your own good. You don’t need these false idols! You can get up off the couch for yourself, and become someone worth admiring, instead of an anonymous admirer! You can go out, get in shape, and quit your job at Pizza Hut! You can go back to school, and turn yourself from the pathetic lumps you are, into something good, and decent! You can become human!
This is going to hurt. Over the coming months, everyone is going to go through a lot of pain, but remember, no matter how much pain my actions cause, I do it all for you. I do it all, so you won’t be locked behind the bars of hero worship. Now… FWF audience… I grant you… your freedom.
With a satisfied smile, Trent douses his smoke, and blows out the candle, plunging all into darkness once more.
________________________________________
The scent of moldy concrete hangs heavily in the air of the basement beneath Blake Updegraff’s gym. The cold, gray walls are barren, and there is no equipment, save for the wrestling ring in the center of the cement floor. Alone in the ring is Trent Page. Sweat drips off of his shirtless torso as he does forward rolls, backward rolls, and runs the ropes, all in conjunction with the orders being barked at him by the stocky trainer leaning up against the ring apron. An almost sadistic smile is plastered across the face of the teacher as Page’s facial expressions mimic those of a torture victim.
Okay! You can come down from there.
Dragging his feet, Trent slowly lowers himself onto the floor, and grabs a white towel from the apron. He wipes the sweat from his face and drops down to one knee, his chest rising, and falling rapidly.
I am quite happy with how you’re recovering. I thought we would have quite a struggle on our hands.
Thanks for having faith. It isn’t hard not to relapse when you won’t let me out of your sight.
Well, it’s for your own good. You said it yourself; this comeback is going to save your life. Now I’ll be damned if one of my friends is going to die under my watch. That, however, is not what I wanted to talk about… I saw the little promo tape you sent in. What exactly was the point of that?
Trent lets a knowing smile creep across his face, before settling into a fully seated position.
I’ve got Vortex scared, and he’s not the only one. I’m a loose cannon, and they all fuckin’ know it Blake. Right now, I’ve got the mental edge over virtually every wrestler in FWF. That’s not an advantage I’m willing to lose.
That’s all well and good, but there was absolutely zero mention of your other opponent. You know your track record with triple threat matches.
I won a battle royal at the pay per view didn’t I?
You know damn well they’re not the same thing! Vortex did all the work anyway, you just got lucky. You won’t get lucky again Trent. It’s perfectly fine to want to make a statement by taking him out, and I get that he embarrassed you, but while you’re focused on him, Matthews is going to destroy you! I’ve seen this kid, he’s like a greased bullet in the ring. He will have you on your back for three seconds, before you even know what’s happening. You can NOT go into this one half prepared, you will be eaten alive!
Trent locks eyes with his trainer, and rises to his feet.
I’m in the best shape of my life Blake! I’m ready to take on the entire roster at once if I have to! I’ll decimate Matthews, or Fizz, or anyone who grows the balls to step to me!
Trent turns on his heel, throwing a gray t-shirt on over his sweat drenched torso as he walks toward the wooden stairs.
And where is it you think you’re going?
Without breaking stride, Trent snaps at Blake over his shoulder.
I’m going for a walk. I’m a human being god dammit!
_______________________________________
For the rest of the afternoon, Trent wanders the city. His eyes pass over almost every building, but he doesn’t really see any of it. The windows, and people all seem to pass him as part of one big blur. His thoughts race through his head with such ferocity, that even he can’t understand them. As the sun slowly begins to set, Trent finds himself surrounded by tall, brick buildings that look as if no one has cared for them in years. What little grass has managed to sprout up between the cracks in the sidewalk, has remained untended, as has everything else around him. Trent quickens his pace, and turns to his left, following a sidewalk up to a house with peeling blue paint. The shutters hang haphazardly next to several cracked and missing windows. With a smirk, Page trots up the rickety, wooden stairs, and knocks lightly on the thin, plastic door. After a few minutes the door swings wide open to reveal a tall, gaunt man with pale skin and long, blond dreadlocks. His smile reveals three gold teeth among the rest of his tobacco stained ones. A silk, Hawaiian shirt hangs loosely from his spindly frame as he throws open his arms to embrace an old friend.
Trent! You militant motha fucka, what’s happenin’ brotha? You came just in time man, I was about to spark up a fat ass blunt!
Trents smiles widens as he releases his friend from the hug, and steps into the house. The smell of strong marijuana wafts over him in an almost oppressive cloud. He laughs, and coughs at the same time as he drags his feet across the orange shag carpet. Settling his thick frame into a sagging, brown couch, he tosses his head back.
You be about the last man I expected to see up in here. I ain’t seen you in a damn age man. How’s shit?
The unkempt young man sits in a lopsided chair across from Trent, and slips the end of a long, brown joint between his lips.
I’m making a comeback Drexel. Just won my first match. How’s things with you?
Trent grabs the now lit blunt from his companion, and takes a drag off of it as Drexel answers.
Same as it ever was man. There’s always gonna be business in my line of work. Speaking of which, what you need man?
Trent expels the plume of smoke from his lungs, before sighing deeply, conflict raging behind his still eyes.
Nothing. I gotta stay clean this time Drexel. I go back on that shit, I may as well kiss my ass goodbye.
Respect man, respect. I gotta say though, I seen somma the shit you do, and I wouldn’t even think about that shit sober.
Drexel jumps to his feet as a loud knock echoes through the house. His nervous eyes tell the story as he slowly inches his way towards the door. He raises his eyes to the peep hole for a moment, before spinning around, and frantically searching through and unorganized box next to the couch.
what the fuck’s going on?!
It’ the fuckin’ cops man! There’s five of ‘em!
well, what the hell are you doing?
Trent’s questions is answered as Drexel lets out a loud “Ah-ha!” and withdraws a small, semi-automatic gun from amongst the other useless garbage.
what the fuck man!?
I ain’t goin’ back man. I got a kilo in the kitchen, and that’s my third strike. It’s about to get real bloody up in here. You might wanna take off. There’s a piece of carpet in my room you can pull up. Slip under the house, and wait ‘til it’s all done man.
Without another word, Trent sprints toward the back of the house, his racing heart matching each frantic foot step. Once he makes it to the room farthest in the back, and slams the door, and begins running his fingers over every inch of the carpet. From out in the living room, he hears the door come crashing in. the high pitched rapping on fast paced gunshots causes trent’s movement to become even more frenzied. Suddenly, his finger tips hook on a piece of disconnected carpet, and in one smooth motion, he rips upward, revealing a pitch dark crawl space. Trent quickly slides himself down into the mass of cobwebs beneath him, and slams the trap door above him. In the complete darkness he waits. He hears the shouts from the officers as the bullets stop, signifying the death of Drexel Spivey. Their deep voices boom as they stampede down the hallway.
The sound of pounding footsteps right above his head causes Page’s chest muscles to lock up, literally suffocating him with fear. Suddenly, an unintelligible shout of victory is heard, and the footsteps vanish out the door as quickly as they came. The sound of the officers’ departure is the last thing Trent hears before he vomits on the ground beneath himself, and passes out.
At first, there is only darkness, and maddening quiet. Then, from the nothing, a match is lit, the flare of which sends ominous shadows cascading over the gaunt features of an unshaven Trent Page. His smile is manic, and flickers, as unsteady as the flame he holds in his hand. Slowly, he touches the match to the wick of a virgin candle, transferring its light before shaking out the small strip of flaming cardboard. For a few minutes, all Page does is stare into the flame, allowing the reflection to dance in his dull, green eyes. Suddenly, the smile leaves him, and he begins to speak.
Frauds, charlatans, hypocrites, and morons. These are kinds of people that are found in all walks of life. You talk to them every day, they watch your children, they make your food, and they even handle your taxes. You run into them all the time, however, I seem to have to deal with these wastes of life more than most, because nowhere are these character traits more evident than in the fans of FWF. You see, at Genesis, I came back after a long hiatus, preceded by a humiliating losing streak, and I gave the performance of my life. I outlasted ten other wrestlers, and threw Timothy Vortex over the top rope, announcing to you people my triumphant return. In that glorious moment of my rebirth, I was showered with a chorus of boos. I was jeered by you worthless know nothings for having the audacity to defeat your idols.
Slowly, an almost snarling Trent Page raises a long, white cigarette, placing it gently between his dry, chapped lips. He leans forward, and uses the candle before him set the end of the stick aflame. With drooping eyelids, he inhales deeply, and holds in the smoke for a minute, savoring the flavor. Slowly, he releases the smoke through his nostrils, and glares back at the camera.
Later on in the night, when Timothy Vortex, bitter from his earlier loss, decided to stick his nose exactly where it didn’t belong, all of you brainwashed humanoids cheered, like the hand fed cattle you are. You braying morons mocked me, and celebrated with your paper heroes. I’m sure it was all quite fun for you, but your laugh is now over, while mine is just beginning. This week, I begin a reign of terror, the likes of which the FWF has never seen. Starting with your precious Timmy Vortex, I am going to systematically destroy each and every one of these men and women you lift up onto a pedestal. I am going to take your heroes away from you one by one until you ignorant drones have no one to cheer but the bad guy you all seem to despise with such passion.
The cigarette hangs, forsaken, in the right hand of the wrestler. He chuckles at one of his own thoughts, and stares off into the distance for a moment or two. The chuckle is short, and instantly forgotten as he turns his attention back to the camera.
When that day comes you’ll beg, you’ll cry out to me: “TRENT! PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GIVE US BACK OUR HEROES! Give us back our idols! We have no self-esteem, and we need to worship The Fizz! Please, don’t make us become admirable human beings for ourselves! Let us live vicariously!”… I won’t. I won’t give you back your heroes, because I’m doing this for your own good. You don’t need these false idols! You can get up off the couch for yourself, and become someone worth admiring, instead of an anonymous admirer! You can go out, get in shape, and quit your job at Pizza Hut! You can go back to school, and turn yourself from the pathetic lumps you are, into something good, and decent! You can become human!
This is going to hurt. Over the coming months, everyone is going to go through a lot of pain, but remember, no matter how much pain my actions cause, I do it all for you. I do it all, so you won’t be locked behind the bars of hero worship. Now… FWF audience… I grant you… your freedom.
With a satisfied smile, Trent douses his smoke, and blows out the candle, plunging all into darkness once more.
________________________________________
The scent of moldy concrete hangs heavily in the air of the basement beneath Blake Updegraff’s gym. The cold, gray walls are barren, and there is no equipment, save for the wrestling ring in the center of the cement floor. Alone in the ring is Trent Page. Sweat drips off of his shirtless torso as he does forward rolls, backward rolls, and runs the ropes, all in conjunction with the orders being barked at him by the stocky trainer leaning up against the ring apron. An almost sadistic smile is plastered across the face of the teacher as Page’s facial expressions mimic those of a torture victim.
Okay! You can come down from there.
Dragging his feet, Trent slowly lowers himself onto the floor, and grabs a white towel from the apron. He wipes the sweat from his face and drops down to one knee, his chest rising, and falling rapidly.
I am quite happy with how you’re recovering. I thought we would have quite a struggle on our hands.
Thanks for having faith. It isn’t hard not to relapse when you won’t let me out of your sight.
Well, it’s for your own good. You said it yourself; this comeback is going to save your life. Now I’ll be damned if one of my friends is going to die under my watch. That, however, is not what I wanted to talk about… I saw the little promo tape you sent in. What exactly was the point of that?
Trent lets a knowing smile creep across his face, before settling into a fully seated position.
I’ve got Vortex scared, and he’s not the only one. I’m a loose cannon, and they all fuckin’ know it Blake. Right now, I’ve got the mental edge over virtually every wrestler in FWF. That’s not an advantage I’m willing to lose.
That’s all well and good, but there was absolutely zero mention of your other opponent. You know your track record with triple threat matches.
I won a battle royal at the pay per view didn’t I?
You know damn well they’re not the same thing! Vortex did all the work anyway, you just got lucky. You won’t get lucky again Trent. It’s perfectly fine to want to make a statement by taking him out, and I get that he embarrassed you, but while you’re focused on him, Matthews is going to destroy you! I’ve seen this kid, he’s like a greased bullet in the ring. He will have you on your back for three seconds, before you even know what’s happening. You can NOT go into this one half prepared, you will be eaten alive!
Trent locks eyes with his trainer, and rises to his feet.
I’m in the best shape of my life Blake! I’m ready to take on the entire roster at once if I have to! I’ll decimate Matthews, or Fizz, or anyone who grows the balls to step to me!
Trent turns on his heel, throwing a gray t-shirt on over his sweat drenched torso as he walks toward the wooden stairs.
And where is it you think you’re going?
Without breaking stride, Trent snaps at Blake over his shoulder.
I’m going for a walk. I’m a human being god dammit!
_______________________________________
For the rest of the afternoon, Trent wanders the city. His eyes pass over almost every building, but he doesn’t really see any of it. The windows, and people all seem to pass him as part of one big blur. His thoughts race through his head with such ferocity, that even he can’t understand them. As the sun slowly begins to set, Trent finds himself surrounded by tall, brick buildings that look as if no one has cared for them in years. What little grass has managed to sprout up between the cracks in the sidewalk, has remained untended, as has everything else around him. Trent quickens his pace, and turns to his left, following a sidewalk up to a house with peeling blue paint. The shutters hang haphazardly next to several cracked and missing windows. With a smirk, Page trots up the rickety, wooden stairs, and knocks lightly on the thin, plastic door. After a few minutes the door swings wide open to reveal a tall, gaunt man with pale skin and long, blond dreadlocks. His smile reveals three gold teeth among the rest of his tobacco stained ones. A silk, Hawaiian shirt hangs loosely from his spindly frame as he throws open his arms to embrace an old friend.
Trent! You militant motha fucka, what’s happenin’ brotha? You came just in time man, I was about to spark up a fat ass blunt!
Trents smiles widens as he releases his friend from the hug, and steps into the house. The smell of strong marijuana wafts over him in an almost oppressive cloud. He laughs, and coughs at the same time as he drags his feet across the orange shag carpet. Settling his thick frame into a sagging, brown couch, he tosses his head back.
You be about the last man I expected to see up in here. I ain’t seen you in a damn age man. How’s shit?
The unkempt young man sits in a lopsided chair across from Trent, and slips the end of a long, brown joint between his lips.
I’m making a comeback Drexel. Just won my first match. How’s things with you?
Trent grabs the now lit blunt from his companion, and takes a drag off of it as Drexel answers.
Same as it ever was man. There’s always gonna be business in my line of work. Speaking of which, what you need man?
Trent expels the plume of smoke from his lungs, before sighing deeply, conflict raging behind his still eyes.
Nothing. I gotta stay clean this time Drexel. I go back on that shit, I may as well kiss my ass goodbye.
Respect man, respect. I gotta say though, I seen somma the shit you do, and I wouldn’t even think about that shit sober.
Drexel jumps to his feet as a loud knock echoes through the house. His nervous eyes tell the story as he slowly inches his way towards the door. He raises his eyes to the peep hole for a moment, before spinning around, and frantically searching through and unorganized box next to the couch.
what the fuck’s going on?!
It’ the fuckin’ cops man! There’s five of ‘em!
well, what the hell are you doing?
Trent’s questions is answered as Drexel lets out a loud “Ah-ha!” and withdraws a small, semi-automatic gun from amongst the other useless garbage.
what the fuck man!?
I ain’t goin’ back man. I got a kilo in the kitchen, and that’s my third strike. It’s about to get real bloody up in here. You might wanna take off. There’s a piece of carpet in my room you can pull up. Slip under the house, and wait ‘til it’s all done man.
Without another word, Trent sprints toward the back of the house, his racing heart matching each frantic foot step. Once he makes it to the room farthest in the back, and slams the door, and begins running his fingers over every inch of the carpet. From out in the living room, he hears the door come crashing in. the high pitched rapping on fast paced gunshots causes trent’s movement to become even more frenzied. Suddenly, his finger tips hook on a piece of disconnected carpet, and in one smooth motion, he rips upward, revealing a pitch dark crawl space. Trent quickly slides himself down into the mass of cobwebs beneath him, and slams the trap door above him. In the complete darkness he waits. He hears the shouts from the officers as the bullets stop, signifying the death of Drexel Spivey. Their deep voices boom as they stampede down the hallway.
The sound of pounding footsteps right above his head causes Page’s chest muscles to lock up, literally suffocating him with fear. Suddenly, an unintelligible shout of victory is heard, and the footsteps vanish out the door as quickly as they came. The sound of the officers’ departure is the last thing Trent hears before he vomits on the ground beneath himself, and passes out.
