Post by "The Divine Chaos" Galen Ronan on Jan 17, 2011 14:35:19 GMT -5
Euphoria
RP #2
Galen Ronen vs. Morgan Jones
"Victory belongs to the most persevering." ~ Napoleon Bonaparte
The High
Galen panted under his breath as he stumbled into the locker room, clutching his back with one hand as he swallowed what felt like gallons of saliva, tongue poking out of dry, cracked lips in a feeble attempt to moisten them, air continuing to rush through them as he planted his back upon the lockers, his rear on the carpeted floor of the locker room. He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, raising his hands to massage his temples - he had taken some hard hits in that match, crossbodied, bodyslammed and his head slammed brutally against the turnbuckle. The other boys had put up quite a fight, and he certainly was fine with that - it wasn't like he was expecting them to lay down and call it a day as soon as he stepped in the ring. He wasn't feared yet in the industry - with the exception of Eric Witz, but he didn't really count. He wasn't particularly well-known. He had heard Dusty picking fun at that in his promo before the match - but that was fine with him. It didn't bother him, that he wasn't particularly known, that he was a 'nobody' as some might say. Because first of all, to himself at least, he was somebody.
And second of all, and much more important than that, if he wasn't known at all, that would only give him an advantage in matches. Other people, famous people, you could just Google, Youtube or buy a DVD of their matches - analyze every inch of their style, seeing what points they leave open and which are not worth chasing after. But not Galen, he had only ever wrestled one match (not including the practice rounds in wrestling school, but they weren't quite matches,) and he had won. It's hard to analyze what'll make a person lose if they won, too, you'd truly have to be very attentive to figure it out - the opportunities that were missed, the moves that needed to be tighter and could be countered easily - and he doubted that he'd find anyone like that in the lower-cards where he was.
He couldn't help but mentally give himself pause, however, as he saw the other superstars. People massaging them - and not just health experts. People that were obviously close to them massaging them, rubbing their temples, kissing and hugging or at least humping - so affectionate towards eachother. So close, so warm, so loving. He did occasionally make a close, almost unnoticable stare at any of them, none in particular - just letting those vibrant, albeit shallow eyes trace about the form of the locker room, pausing on anything that caught his interest - which was very little.
It was very little because the only thing that caught his interest now, after that brief mental tirade about people being near eachother, was the fact that he had won his first ever wrestling match. Not only that, he had won his first ever wrestling match against two people, both older to the industry and considered more likely wins than him. He had proved the fact that he was a competitor and would not be held down and make worse matches simply for the fact that he was on the lower card with people that were lesser known than Christian Kane or Josh Eagles or Esix Cordero. He would put all the effort into it that he could manage, he would eat, sleep and breathe this job - for it was all he had in the world right now. He didn't have people to massage him, to care about him, to rely upon him and his winnings.
It was pleasure. It was contentment. It was happiness. It was ecstacy.
More than anything, it was the high of euphoria.
People could say whatever they wanted about him. That he was a loser, a flash in the pan in the industry - that he was no future Valiant or even Syndicate champion. That he was nothing and would stay that way. Because it didn't bother him - because he knew he could prove them all wrong, because that is what he did. He might've been a loser by some standards, but he was not a flash in the pan. He was going to be immortalized, he was going to be known forever in history for what he was going to do - put people down and pull himself up, hand over hand, fist over fist. He was going to climb the ladder no matter who or what got in his way of his goals, because there was nothing and nobody to stop him.
Oh yeah, he was going to make a mark. He was going to make sure that an indelible 'Galen' was forever marked on the history of professional wrestling as a hole. Not because he wanted to, not because he had always dreamed about it. Just the fact that he was getting paid to wrestle was in itself a fulfillment of his dream, even if he had to give up other dreams - such as being with the love of his life and his soon-to-be-born son - to perform that one in particular.
No, it was because he had to. He made a promise. And Galen Ronan never breaks a promise.
The Low
A nineteen-year-old, lanky and small Galen felt his back scrape across the canvas, his spine colliding painfully with the mat as the larger man slammed him into it. The man was clearly asian, and clearly a bodybuilder of some sort - he was very muscled, very large - one would expect a man the size of him to be raging on steroids. But even as he proceeded to lift Galen once more and slam him into the mat, he was oddly calm - zen-like, in a manner, as he repeated the motion - low grunts and yelps of pain escaping from Galen each time. Galen was tired - he couldn't struggle in the grasp anymore - all he could do was occasionally make feeble kicks with his feet or almost slaps with his hand, out of breath and out of life. Galen bit down on his lips as he was slammed once more, awaiting to be lifted up next - but it never came, the man simply stood over him now as he awkwardly shifted about on the ground, attempting to get a better view of what his sensei was up to now.
As he rolled onto his front in an attempt to aid himself standing up, the sensei sprung into action and gripped Galen's ankle, raising and twisting it in a lock - causing Galen to practically scream, growling out in pain as he placed both of his hands on his head, shaking it frantically as air rushed from his mouth, the submission causing plenty of pain for Galen. But he was used to more, he was used to the vicious beatings of his father - that was true pain. This was momentary, this was fleeting. He could take it, he knew damn well he could take it and that he wasn't going to tap out any time soon. He wasn't going to lose, not like this. Not like this.
Galen let out one final yelp as he twisted his ankle back into the grip, pushing back just enough so that he was at a less painful angle - slowly raising himself up on his hands, all the way into a handstand - forcing the sensei to let go of the grip as he rolled forward, quickly twirling to look at his sensei - who was indeed, quite surprised at his resilience. This practice match had gone on for over thirty minutes, but Galen's insatiable thirst for victory refused to let him give up despite his low endurance constantly racking his body, making him pant and writhe at the simplest moves. How could he do it, how could he take so much pain?
Slowly, his sensei drew a rag from his pocket and chucked it into the center of the ring, leaning up against the turnbuckle and staring across at Galen, who soon similarly pulled a rag and tossed it there. Galen, in the typical wrestling attire of pitch-black shorts, kneepads, and boots, slowly drew himself forward - one hand resting over his stomach as breaths tore ragged from his lips. He coughed and hacked as he approached his sensei, leaning on the ropes next to him, causing them to bend and twitch under the pressure - not due to his weight, simply due to the fact that they were feeble, almost broken ropes. It was obvious that they hadn't been replaced in quite awhile, in any case. Galen tilted his head and leaned it against those bending ropes, looking at his sensei curiously.
His sensei slowly reached out and patted his shoulder, a half-comforting and half-'you can do better' gesture. He shook his head a little bit as his voice rang out - it was a sweet, melodic though oddly gruff tone - it was one you would hear from a father who was disciplining his child for something wrong they had done, though they still loved him or her very much. It was fatherly without being patronizing, and it always comforted Galen whenever he heard it - if only because the sensei was the closest thing to a real father figure Galen had ever had. "Not bad, Galen... not bad."
A cool, friendly smile raised from Galen's own lips at that, the asian man ruffling his hair a bit as he shifted about, sliding an arm around Galen's shoulders and side-hugging him, then releasing him to place both hands on the ring-ropes. He clearly had something very important on his mind - something that would haunt him forever if he didn't say it. As he turned back to Galen - who simply gave him a questioning, yet almost reverent gaze - a low, depressed sigh escaped from those lips of his, his teeth raking down on his lower lip as a hand brushed his hair back.
"Galen... I need you to be my legacy." Obviously not understanding, Galen tilted his head further - to the point that it hit the turnbuckle - his sensei reaching down to grip his shoulder, a comforting hold on it. The asian man was near tears as he said the next words, managing to hold back the flow of water for now as he shook his head, as if convincing himself that he wasn't going to cry in front of his student. He wasn't going to let himself be seen as weak, not until the news was heard and finalized.
"...I have cancer." Galen recoiled a bit, into the edge of one of the ring-ropes - knocking it free of it's bindings and causing one end of it to tumble to the floor, clattering about there as Galen shook his head - raising his hands to cover his nose and mouth in surprise, covering a gasp. The sensei simply looked at him - defeat and loss in his eyes, his unsure future flashing right before him in the reflection of Galen's eyes. A shake of Galen's head was all he could do for a moment, as if refusing to accept it - and then he leaned his head down.
"Wh-what about the money from the school... you could get an operation done, right?" The sensei's flesh paled a bit as Galen's head rose at those words, a pleading tone to them - begging his sensei to not leave him all alone in the world, no-one but Roxy and himself to rely on. Galen shuddered and shivered as the sensei shook his head once more, then gesturing to the broken ring rope before sliding out of the ring, limping away in defeat and hopelessness. And it was only then that Galen realized the truth.
His sensei was making almost no money off of this, he did it because he enjoyed it. He barely had enough money to put food on the table or repair the ring that was one of his few worldly belongings, much less put money down on an experimental operation that may or may not cure the cancer that now wore down and pulled at his once-strong body. He didn't have a wife, or kids - he had spent too much time in the limelight, enjoying what it was like being a wrestler in Japan, respected - money and love constantly flowing his way, along with plenty of women. Galen dropped to his knees and buried his head in his hands - but he couldn't cry. And it was at that moment that Galen realized that the gym was pretty damn cold.
It was at that moment Galen realized that he had to make a promise. And he did. He promised himself that he would not let his sensei be forgotten, that he would never let his sensei go without a legacy to carry into the world. He would take on his last name - Ronan - and go out there and fight like hell, every day, every night. He made a promise that victory and adoration would be his, and he wouldn't squander it and waste his life away. He was passing on the philosophy and dreams of his sensei as his own - and he knew that he was the only person that could do that job.
It was that day, two years later, Galen graduated.
And it was that day, two years later, that Galen's sensei died.
Galen didn't cry then, either.
Thoughts
The next thing Galen could remember, he was at his apartment from the community center - his rear firmly planted in the chair he had always found comforted him - he had it since he first moved to Orange County, and took it with him to Cookeville once he realized that his fiancee would not and would never be coming with him again. But now it didn't bring him comfort. It brought him memories, painful ones - the ones of his sensei up to his death, the ones where he saw him silently sobbing in the bathroom. The ones about Roxy, when he heard she didn't want to come with him. When he said he wanted to end it with her. It brought him haunting and hateful memories that he hoped he never had to experience again.
He just wanted it all to be over - he wanted for it to be the end of the week so he could celebrate once more in the arms of a decisive and proving victory - if only for that little spark of euphoria to drive through him, to clear the ever-present mist of loneliness and spite that raised constantly through him if only for a moment. He wanted to find himself on top of the world once more no matter how short the time the ride lasted was. He wanted - no - he needed victory to keep himself moving in the world. He wanted to clutch a title, he wanted to hang on to every victory he could ever take. He needed that, if anything, to make it through the memories that were constantly presented to him in his line of work.
Despite the memories that were brought back, he still found comfort in the apartment - it wasn't quite a home yet, but he made due. It was a warm, confined space that belonged to him and only him - it was his decision who went in and out and his only. That did content him, a bit - previously, he was always living with someone, having help paying the bills and such. But this time, he was in complete control of his own place - and while that meant he had to pay all the bills himself, it meant he could do or have whatever practical layout he wanted without the constant complaining and nagging of a girlfriend. Perhaps that was just his brain grasping at straws to find a reason why not being with his fiancee was a good thing, but in whatever case, it worked well for Galen. He moved about to lean on a couch, legs kicked out and arms behind his head - and he felt like a king, the euphoria of his victory now replacing those sad tales of memories that had haunted him elsewhere. Perhaps a change of scenery was what he needed, truthfully.
Eventually, after a moment of silence and resting, his hands found their way to the laptop provided to him by Pride, flipping it open and letting light fill his eyes, wallpaper filling the screen - and he had found a good wallpaper. One of Emma Abel. Which is rather odd, if you stop to think about it for a moment.
"What? She's cute." Galen rather casually adressed the narrator before tapping away, opening up his internet browser of choice to let the Pride website fill the screen - and he laid eyes upon the recently posted card.
Morgan Jones. He had heard that name before, he had heard it whispered and spoken by the various people occupying the halls of Pride. A crazy-ass religious fanatic who made his living off of calling other people sinners and beating them down, or attempting to, to a pulp. He wanted to be threatened, he wanted to take this seriously in the knowledge that egotism would crush him later on. He wanted to take him as a threat and look up matches, analyze movements and watch for weak spots. That's what he wanted to do, but he had no motivation to do that at the moment. In either case, he had all week to do so - it was time to lean back, lay back and simply...
Bask in the euphoria.
A Working Mind
The camera slowly and gingerly panned across the skyline of Cookeville, various buildings displayed in the background - gradually coming to reveal Galen Ronan leaning back against the small, concrete divider that rested all around the perimeter of the roof - cigarette between forefinger and thumb, brought up to his lips as he took a long drag, letting the smoke billow back through his lips - one elbow resting upon the divider, the other arm limply hanging over the edge of it, the wind brushing and flowing against his skin. His black work-out sweater flowed over the edge of his blue jeans, below which rested a pair of generic sneakers - the man clearly was not one of fancy living or looking, his head slowly tilting to view the camera - long, flowing blonde hair moving this way and that at the urges of the wind. His pale flesh slowly reached up to stroke a few straying locks away from his eyes, leaning his head back to stare up at the sky as he took another drag of the cig, smoke billowing like a chimney.
"Galen Ronan would never make it, he's a loser and if he does make it he's just gonna be laid down for the three count to make sure some other guy gets big and famous." Galen smirks faintly as he lets the smoke trail from his mouth hauntingly, small rings and circles forming as he takes swift drags during pausese in his speech. He seems rather smug, smarmy and superior regarding his recent win - and one might make the case that he has a right to be. He did, after all, beat two people that were considered much bigger stars than him, and the people that everyone were betting on. No-one bet on Galen, but he made it - he won.
"But I did make it, and I didn't go down for the three count. I put two people down and forced the man that was bigger than me to tap right out, to submit, to say, 'I give up, you're the superior man and I won't ever come near your immense skill level.' I humiliated Dustin Douglas in front of wrestling fans world-wide to prove a point - and that point is that I will not be held down. I will not be played with and tossed around by some jokes. And I guess the bookers thought that was some kind of fluke, because who do they put me up with? Not an Esix Cordero or a Josh Eagles, not even an Obscene, but Morgan Jones. Some nobody who gets his ass laid out for the three count all the fucking time." Galen spat the last word out and shook his head, flicking some ash off of the edge of the roof and absently watching it tumble all the way down to the ground before being swept away in city winds, brushed past various people on the street below - a small chuckle escaping from his lips before he resumed a stony expression and leaned forward to face the camera.
"Not only some nobody but a religious fuckin' nut of a nobody, too. Always going around preaching how people need to be purified for their sins and how everyone except him is a terrible person. Which is odd, because considering he's a priest I'm about ninety percent sure he's touched many, many children at this point." Galen gave a stony little expression of snarkiness at that, moving to flick his fingers in a manner to send the burnt-out cigarette towards the street, allowing him to, with free hands, continue his speech.
"Needless to say, he's going to preach about how he's the holy man in this match and how I'm going to get pounded into canvas for being some kind of sinner and how I need to be purified and some shit. So allow me to make a pre-emptive verbal strike, if you would. Some people know me as The Divine Chaos. And maybe I should explain why." He tapped his hands along the cement, then bringing his hands up to his head - stroking his hair back with both hands, quickly moving to tie it into a pony-tail in a gesture seemingly mostly out of habit. His voice was low, whispery, with a touch of enigma in it as he spoke - the camera panning under him a bit to work on that 'ominous' look.
"Kamikaze does not mean jumping into a plane and ramming it into a target while praying to your god that you will go to heaven. Kamikaze, or a Kamikaze, is a 'Divine Wind.' And the original Divine Wind was a tsunami that repelled people that were attempting to invade the Japanese Isles. It was a last-minute savior for them, because they might've lost everything in that invasion - but they were saved by a Divine Wind, or a Kamikaze, that changed everything for them. The Divine Wind became a figure of myth and godly worship for millenia to come. And me? I'm not a Divine Wind." Galen straightened a bit and stared up at the star-laden inky sky, his hands raising up and reaching behind his head, allowing him to lean back and rest for a moment as a cough raised from his lungs and into the air, a mist of cold air rising into the night sky. His face formed into a bit of a smirk as his darkened features turned back to that camera, his vivid yet shallow eyes staring holes into the soul of whoever was watching.
"First of all, because I'm not a tsunami. Second of all, because you can feel the wind coming - it's there, you can see it before it happens. There's warning, there's signs. But me? You'll never see me coming. I'm like a silent train, running you over as you try to cross the tracks - like a force of pure destructive energy, ready to strike you down at any moment. And just when you think you've won, you've beat me - just as soon as everyone starts to leave the building, because they think Galen's dropped for the three-count or he's going to tap out, the Divine Chaos inside of me makes itself known. And I will come right back and kick the living shit out of you until you're nothing but a bloody mess lying on the floor." Galen suddenly stood, almost knocking the cameraman back as he stretched his arms and stood on the edge of the roof, still facing the camera - the wind whipping incessantly all over his body as he shouted above the noise of it.
"So come this Sunday, I hope you're ready, Morgan Jones. Because you may be able to call me a sinner, you may be able to say that I'm not holy, you can say whatever the hell you want. Because when it comes down to you, and me, in a twenty-by-twenty ring, there's only one thing that's gonna happen, and it isn't that the little-kid-toucher that you are gets to beat down Galen Ronan. It isn't that some little religious fuck stops Galen Ronan's momentum and rise through the ranks in Kingdom of Pride. It isn't and it won't be any of that. When this Sunday comes, when it comes down to you and me in the ring, the only thing that's gonna happen is The Divine Chaos runs down the Divine Man and leaves him a mess. So I hope you're ready, because you're gonna be shown what really being divine means. I hope you're ready to get the realization that the only god that exists, the only god in this whole damn universe, is me. Because come this Sunday, you're gonna be on your knees, prayin' to me to not curb-stomp your ass."
Galen smirked as he stepped down from the divider dramatically, the camera slowly fading out as Galen slowly stepped away from the roof, placing his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he descended the stairs.
He used to question whether or not leaving his girl to do any of this was the right decision. But he figured it out, right after his first victory. He figured it out when he made Dustin Douglas tap out in front of the whole world. He figured it out when he proved that he was the future of Pride.
Hell yeah, it was worth it.
It was goddamn euphoria.
RP #2
Galen Ronen vs. Morgan Jones
"Victory belongs to the most persevering." ~ Napoleon Bonaparte
The High
Galen panted under his breath as he stumbled into the locker room, clutching his back with one hand as he swallowed what felt like gallons of saliva, tongue poking out of dry, cracked lips in a feeble attempt to moisten them, air continuing to rush through them as he planted his back upon the lockers, his rear on the carpeted floor of the locker room. He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, raising his hands to massage his temples - he had taken some hard hits in that match, crossbodied, bodyslammed and his head slammed brutally against the turnbuckle. The other boys had put up quite a fight, and he certainly was fine with that - it wasn't like he was expecting them to lay down and call it a day as soon as he stepped in the ring. He wasn't feared yet in the industry - with the exception of Eric Witz, but he didn't really count. He wasn't particularly well-known. He had heard Dusty picking fun at that in his promo before the match - but that was fine with him. It didn't bother him, that he wasn't particularly known, that he was a 'nobody' as some might say. Because first of all, to himself at least, he was somebody.
And second of all, and much more important than that, if he wasn't known at all, that would only give him an advantage in matches. Other people, famous people, you could just Google, Youtube or buy a DVD of their matches - analyze every inch of their style, seeing what points they leave open and which are not worth chasing after. But not Galen, he had only ever wrestled one match (not including the practice rounds in wrestling school, but they weren't quite matches,) and he had won. It's hard to analyze what'll make a person lose if they won, too, you'd truly have to be very attentive to figure it out - the opportunities that were missed, the moves that needed to be tighter and could be countered easily - and he doubted that he'd find anyone like that in the lower-cards where he was.
He couldn't help but mentally give himself pause, however, as he saw the other superstars. People massaging them - and not just health experts. People that were obviously close to them massaging them, rubbing their temples, kissing and hugging or at least humping - so affectionate towards eachother. So close, so warm, so loving. He did occasionally make a close, almost unnoticable stare at any of them, none in particular - just letting those vibrant, albeit shallow eyes trace about the form of the locker room, pausing on anything that caught his interest - which was very little.
It was very little because the only thing that caught his interest now, after that brief mental tirade about people being near eachother, was the fact that he had won his first ever wrestling match. Not only that, he had won his first ever wrestling match against two people, both older to the industry and considered more likely wins than him. He had proved the fact that he was a competitor and would not be held down and make worse matches simply for the fact that he was on the lower card with people that were lesser known than Christian Kane or Josh Eagles or Esix Cordero. He would put all the effort into it that he could manage, he would eat, sleep and breathe this job - for it was all he had in the world right now. He didn't have people to massage him, to care about him, to rely upon him and his winnings.
It was pleasure. It was contentment. It was happiness. It was ecstacy.
More than anything, it was the high of euphoria.
People could say whatever they wanted about him. That he was a loser, a flash in the pan in the industry - that he was no future Valiant or even Syndicate champion. That he was nothing and would stay that way. Because it didn't bother him - because he knew he could prove them all wrong, because that is what he did. He might've been a loser by some standards, but he was not a flash in the pan. He was going to be immortalized, he was going to be known forever in history for what he was going to do - put people down and pull himself up, hand over hand, fist over fist. He was going to climb the ladder no matter who or what got in his way of his goals, because there was nothing and nobody to stop him.
Oh yeah, he was going to make a mark. He was going to make sure that an indelible 'Galen' was forever marked on the history of professional wrestling as a hole. Not because he wanted to, not because he had always dreamed about it. Just the fact that he was getting paid to wrestle was in itself a fulfillment of his dream, even if he had to give up other dreams - such as being with the love of his life and his soon-to-be-born son - to perform that one in particular.
No, it was because he had to. He made a promise. And Galen Ronan never breaks a promise.
The Low
A nineteen-year-old, lanky and small Galen felt his back scrape across the canvas, his spine colliding painfully with the mat as the larger man slammed him into it. The man was clearly asian, and clearly a bodybuilder of some sort - he was very muscled, very large - one would expect a man the size of him to be raging on steroids. But even as he proceeded to lift Galen once more and slam him into the mat, he was oddly calm - zen-like, in a manner, as he repeated the motion - low grunts and yelps of pain escaping from Galen each time. Galen was tired - he couldn't struggle in the grasp anymore - all he could do was occasionally make feeble kicks with his feet or almost slaps with his hand, out of breath and out of life. Galen bit down on his lips as he was slammed once more, awaiting to be lifted up next - but it never came, the man simply stood over him now as he awkwardly shifted about on the ground, attempting to get a better view of what his sensei was up to now.
As he rolled onto his front in an attempt to aid himself standing up, the sensei sprung into action and gripped Galen's ankle, raising and twisting it in a lock - causing Galen to practically scream, growling out in pain as he placed both of his hands on his head, shaking it frantically as air rushed from his mouth, the submission causing plenty of pain for Galen. But he was used to more, he was used to the vicious beatings of his father - that was true pain. This was momentary, this was fleeting. He could take it, he knew damn well he could take it and that he wasn't going to tap out any time soon. He wasn't going to lose, not like this. Not like this.
Galen let out one final yelp as he twisted his ankle back into the grip, pushing back just enough so that he was at a less painful angle - slowly raising himself up on his hands, all the way into a handstand - forcing the sensei to let go of the grip as he rolled forward, quickly twirling to look at his sensei - who was indeed, quite surprised at his resilience. This practice match had gone on for over thirty minutes, but Galen's insatiable thirst for victory refused to let him give up despite his low endurance constantly racking his body, making him pant and writhe at the simplest moves. How could he do it, how could he take so much pain?
Slowly, his sensei drew a rag from his pocket and chucked it into the center of the ring, leaning up against the turnbuckle and staring across at Galen, who soon similarly pulled a rag and tossed it there. Galen, in the typical wrestling attire of pitch-black shorts, kneepads, and boots, slowly drew himself forward - one hand resting over his stomach as breaths tore ragged from his lips. He coughed and hacked as he approached his sensei, leaning on the ropes next to him, causing them to bend and twitch under the pressure - not due to his weight, simply due to the fact that they were feeble, almost broken ropes. It was obvious that they hadn't been replaced in quite awhile, in any case. Galen tilted his head and leaned it against those bending ropes, looking at his sensei curiously.
His sensei slowly reached out and patted his shoulder, a half-comforting and half-'you can do better' gesture. He shook his head a little bit as his voice rang out - it was a sweet, melodic though oddly gruff tone - it was one you would hear from a father who was disciplining his child for something wrong they had done, though they still loved him or her very much. It was fatherly without being patronizing, and it always comforted Galen whenever he heard it - if only because the sensei was the closest thing to a real father figure Galen had ever had. "Not bad, Galen... not bad."
A cool, friendly smile raised from Galen's own lips at that, the asian man ruffling his hair a bit as he shifted about, sliding an arm around Galen's shoulders and side-hugging him, then releasing him to place both hands on the ring-ropes. He clearly had something very important on his mind - something that would haunt him forever if he didn't say it. As he turned back to Galen - who simply gave him a questioning, yet almost reverent gaze - a low, depressed sigh escaped from those lips of his, his teeth raking down on his lower lip as a hand brushed his hair back.
"Galen... I need you to be my legacy." Obviously not understanding, Galen tilted his head further - to the point that it hit the turnbuckle - his sensei reaching down to grip his shoulder, a comforting hold on it. The asian man was near tears as he said the next words, managing to hold back the flow of water for now as he shook his head, as if convincing himself that he wasn't going to cry in front of his student. He wasn't going to let himself be seen as weak, not until the news was heard and finalized.
"...I have cancer." Galen recoiled a bit, into the edge of one of the ring-ropes - knocking it free of it's bindings and causing one end of it to tumble to the floor, clattering about there as Galen shook his head - raising his hands to cover his nose and mouth in surprise, covering a gasp. The sensei simply looked at him - defeat and loss in his eyes, his unsure future flashing right before him in the reflection of Galen's eyes. A shake of Galen's head was all he could do for a moment, as if refusing to accept it - and then he leaned his head down.
"Wh-what about the money from the school... you could get an operation done, right?" The sensei's flesh paled a bit as Galen's head rose at those words, a pleading tone to them - begging his sensei to not leave him all alone in the world, no-one but Roxy and himself to rely on. Galen shuddered and shivered as the sensei shook his head once more, then gesturing to the broken ring rope before sliding out of the ring, limping away in defeat and hopelessness. And it was only then that Galen realized the truth.
His sensei was making almost no money off of this, he did it because he enjoyed it. He barely had enough money to put food on the table or repair the ring that was one of his few worldly belongings, much less put money down on an experimental operation that may or may not cure the cancer that now wore down and pulled at his once-strong body. He didn't have a wife, or kids - he had spent too much time in the limelight, enjoying what it was like being a wrestler in Japan, respected - money and love constantly flowing his way, along with plenty of women. Galen dropped to his knees and buried his head in his hands - but he couldn't cry. And it was at that moment that Galen realized that the gym was pretty damn cold.
It was at that moment Galen realized that he had to make a promise. And he did. He promised himself that he would not let his sensei be forgotten, that he would never let his sensei go without a legacy to carry into the world. He would take on his last name - Ronan - and go out there and fight like hell, every day, every night. He made a promise that victory and adoration would be his, and he wouldn't squander it and waste his life away. He was passing on the philosophy and dreams of his sensei as his own - and he knew that he was the only person that could do that job.
It was that day, two years later, Galen graduated.
And it was that day, two years later, that Galen's sensei died.
Galen didn't cry then, either.
Thoughts
The next thing Galen could remember, he was at his apartment from the community center - his rear firmly planted in the chair he had always found comforted him - he had it since he first moved to Orange County, and took it with him to Cookeville once he realized that his fiancee would not and would never be coming with him again. But now it didn't bring him comfort. It brought him memories, painful ones - the ones of his sensei up to his death, the ones where he saw him silently sobbing in the bathroom. The ones about Roxy, when he heard she didn't want to come with him. When he said he wanted to end it with her. It brought him haunting and hateful memories that he hoped he never had to experience again.
He just wanted it all to be over - he wanted for it to be the end of the week so he could celebrate once more in the arms of a decisive and proving victory - if only for that little spark of euphoria to drive through him, to clear the ever-present mist of loneliness and spite that raised constantly through him if only for a moment. He wanted to find himself on top of the world once more no matter how short the time the ride lasted was. He wanted - no - he needed victory to keep himself moving in the world. He wanted to clutch a title, he wanted to hang on to every victory he could ever take. He needed that, if anything, to make it through the memories that were constantly presented to him in his line of work.
Despite the memories that were brought back, he still found comfort in the apartment - it wasn't quite a home yet, but he made due. It was a warm, confined space that belonged to him and only him - it was his decision who went in and out and his only. That did content him, a bit - previously, he was always living with someone, having help paying the bills and such. But this time, he was in complete control of his own place - and while that meant he had to pay all the bills himself, it meant he could do or have whatever practical layout he wanted without the constant complaining and nagging of a girlfriend. Perhaps that was just his brain grasping at straws to find a reason why not being with his fiancee was a good thing, but in whatever case, it worked well for Galen. He moved about to lean on a couch, legs kicked out and arms behind his head - and he felt like a king, the euphoria of his victory now replacing those sad tales of memories that had haunted him elsewhere. Perhaps a change of scenery was what he needed, truthfully.
Eventually, after a moment of silence and resting, his hands found their way to the laptop provided to him by Pride, flipping it open and letting light fill his eyes, wallpaper filling the screen - and he had found a good wallpaper. One of Emma Abel. Which is rather odd, if you stop to think about it for a moment.
"What? She's cute." Galen rather casually adressed the narrator before tapping away, opening up his internet browser of choice to let the Pride website fill the screen - and he laid eyes upon the recently posted card.
Morgan Jones. He had heard that name before, he had heard it whispered and spoken by the various people occupying the halls of Pride. A crazy-ass religious fanatic who made his living off of calling other people sinners and beating them down, or attempting to, to a pulp. He wanted to be threatened, he wanted to take this seriously in the knowledge that egotism would crush him later on. He wanted to take him as a threat and look up matches, analyze movements and watch for weak spots. That's what he wanted to do, but he had no motivation to do that at the moment. In either case, he had all week to do so - it was time to lean back, lay back and simply...
Bask in the euphoria.
A Working Mind
The camera slowly and gingerly panned across the skyline of Cookeville, various buildings displayed in the background - gradually coming to reveal Galen Ronan leaning back against the small, concrete divider that rested all around the perimeter of the roof - cigarette between forefinger and thumb, brought up to his lips as he took a long drag, letting the smoke billow back through his lips - one elbow resting upon the divider, the other arm limply hanging over the edge of it, the wind brushing and flowing against his skin. His black work-out sweater flowed over the edge of his blue jeans, below which rested a pair of generic sneakers - the man clearly was not one of fancy living or looking, his head slowly tilting to view the camera - long, flowing blonde hair moving this way and that at the urges of the wind. His pale flesh slowly reached up to stroke a few straying locks away from his eyes, leaning his head back to stare up at the sky as he took another drag of the cig, smoke billowing like a chimney.
"Galen Ronan would never make it, he's a loser and if he does make it he's just gonna be laid down for the three count to make sure some other guy gets big and famous." Galen smirks faintly as he lets the smoke trail from his mouth hauntingly, small rings and circles forming as he takes swift drags during pausese in his speech. He seems rather smug, smarmy and superior regarding his recent win - and one might make the case that he has a right to be. He did, after all, beat two people that were considered much bigger stars than him, and the people that everyone were betting on. No-one bet on Galen, but he made it - he won.
"But I did make it, and I didn't go down for the three count. I put two people down and forced the man that was bigger than me to tap right out, to submit, to say, 'I give up, you're the superior man and I won't ever come near your immense skill level.' I humiliated Dustin Douglas in front of wrestling fans world-wide to prove a point - and that point is that I will not be held down. I will not be played with and tossed around by some jokes. And I guess the bookers thought that was some kind of fluke, because who do they put me up with? Not an Esix Cordero or a Josh Eagles, not even an Obscene, but Morgan Jones. Some nobody who gets his ass laid out for the three count all the fucking time." Galen spat the last word out and shook his head, flicking some ash off of the edge of the roof and absently watching it tumble all the way down to the ground before being swept away in city winds, brushed past various people on the street below - a small chuckle escaping from his lips before he resumed a stony expression and leaned forward to face the camera.
"Not only some nobody but a religious fuckin' nut of a nobody, too. Always going around preaching how people need to be purified for their sins and how everyone except him is a terrible person. Which is odd, because considering he's a priest I'm about ninety percent sure he's touched many, many children at this point." Galen gave a stony little expression of snarkiness at that, moving to flick his fingers in a manner to send the burnt-out cigarette towards the street, allowing him to, with free hands, continue his speech.
"Needless to say, he's going to preach about how he's the holy man in this match and how I'm going to get pounded into canvas for being some kind of sinner and how I need to be purified and some shit. So allow me to make a pre-emptive verbal strike, if you would. Some people know me as The Divine Chaos. And maybe I should explain why." He tapped his hands along the cement, then bringing his hands up to his head - stroking his hair back with both hands, quickly moving to tie it into a pony-tail in a gesture seemingly mostly out of habit. His voice was low, whispery, with a touch of enigma in it as he spoke - the camera panning under him a bit to work on that 'ominous' look.
"Kamikaze does not mean jumping into a plane and ramming it into a target while praying to your god that you will go to heaven. Kamikaze, or a Kamikaze, is a 'Divine Wind.' And the original Divine Wind was a tsunami that repelled people that were attempting to invade the Japanese Isles. It was a last-minute savior for them, because they might've lost everything in that invasion - but they were saved by a Divine Wind, or a Kamikaze, that changed everything for them. The Divine Wind became a figure of myth and godly worship for millenia to come. And me? I'm not a Divine Wind." Galen straightened a bit and stared up at the star-laden inky sky, his hands raising up and reaching behind his head, allowing him to lean back and rest for a moment as a cough raised from his lungs and into the air, a mist of cold air rising into the night sky. His face formed into a bit of a smirk as his darkened features turned back to that camera, his vivid yet shallow eyes staring holes into the soul of whoever was watching.
"First of all, because I'm not a tsunami. Second of all, because you can feel the wind coming - it's there, you can see it before it happens. There's warning, there's signs. But me? You'll never see me coming. I'm like a silent train, running you over as you try to cross the tracks - like a force of pure destructive energy, ready to strike you down at any moment. And just when you think you've won, you've beat me - just as soon as everyone starts to leave the building, because they think Galen's dropped for the three-count or he's going to tap out, the Divine Chaos inside of me makes itself known. And I will come right back and kick the living shit out of you until you're nothing but a bloody mess lying on the floor." Galen suddenly stood, almost knocking the cameraman back as he stretched his arms and stood on the edge of the roof, still facing the camera - the wind whipping incessantly all over his body as he shouted above the noise of it.
"So come this Sunday, I hope you're ready, Morgan Jones. Because you may be able to call me a sinner, you may be able to say that I'm not holy, you can say whatever the hell you want. Because when it comes down to you, and me, in a twenty-by-twenty ring, there's only one thing that's gonna happen, and it isn't that the little-kid-toucher that you are gets to beat down Galen Ronan. It isn't that some little religious fuck stops Galen Ronan's momentum and rise through the ranks in Kingdom of Pride. It isn't and it won't be any of that. When this Sunday comes, when it comes down to you and me in the ring, the only thing that's gonna happen is The Divine Chaos runs down the Divine Man and leaves him a mess. So I hope you're ready, because you're gonna be shown what really being divine means. I hope you're ready to get the realization that the only god that exists, the only god in this whole damn universe, is me. Because come this Sunday, you're gonna be on your knees, prayin' to me to not curb-stomp your ass."
Galen smirked as he stepped down from the divider dramatically, the camera slowly fading out as Galen slowly stepped away from the roof, placing his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he descended the stairs.
He used to question whether or not leaving his girl to do any of this was the right decision. But he figured it out, right after his first victory. He figured it out when he made Dustin Douglas tap out in front of the whole world. He figured it out when he proved that he was the future of Pride.
Hell yeah, it was worth it.
It was goddamn euphoria.