Post by "The Divine Chaos" Galen Ronan on Feb 1, 2011 8:32:55 GMT -5
Failure and Success, Victims And Survivors
RP #4
Chris Williams & Adam Abel vs. Stevie C. and Galen Ronan
"Once I had a halo,
But then it caught on fire,
Once I knew a good man,
But he turned into a liar..." ~ 'Atmosphere' by Shinedown
Failure
A haunting, solemn sort of loneliness was spread throughout the claustrophobia-causing area of the vehicle - a recreational vehicle or RV. The amenities were present, but there weren't many of them - a small kitchen area, bathroom cubicle, et cetera. It wasn't big or fancy, wasn't a real subsitute for a home - more like something to keep a person from going relatively insane while they went from place to place, getting paid not nearly enough for it. And in truth, that's exactly what the blond man, Galen Ronan, who laid listlessly, stretched out languidly, upon the couch did - he went from one side of the country to the other in the span of a week, wrestling on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. Occasionally Thursdays as well. It was hell on his body and mind, the near-crushing loneliness and fatigue - in truth, he hadn't slept well since the day he started wrestling professionally. Despite the accolades, despite the people saying he was doing well, he felt like a complete failure. Always tired, always sick, always having pain inching over each and every part of his body. And the facade he kept up in front of the camera didn't help matters any - the facade of strength, of confidence he had to constantly maintain in order to not be perceived as 'weak' by the people that similarly occupied the ring, be it a Josh Eagles, Christian Kane, Kid Flanagan or Nobody McLoser. If he was perceived as weak, if people saw his failures and his emotions, he would be struck down and picked apart by everyone in that ring.
Sometimes he wished he had chosen a normal life - rather than grappling, punching, and kicking, he'd taken up typing data into a computer for a career. Wouldn't have any satisfaction to it like professional wrestling did, sure, but at least he didn't have to be constantly in pain. Wouldn't have to put up a false front and be in a nonstop battle with the voices that occupied his head, telling him to do brutal and sick things to all the people that stepped around him. He wouldn't have to think about how he was going to feed his family - the paychecks may not be as big as they tended to be, but they would come more consistently. There was no winning streaks or losing streaks in office jobs - no real winning or losing. But in professional wrestling he had the only thing that could bring him solace and closure about all the issues that had happened in his life - but it was barely there. What was the point of knowing everything if you didn't have someone to share it with? What was the point of having closure if you had to be constantly worrying about something that would most likely never get any closure - how Roxy and his child born of her were doing? It was haunting, the thought that he had caused her what probably amounted to years and years of pain and loss, all for what? A career that just led to hatred, self-loathing and a certain uncertainty about all the people that occupied the same space as you?
Even worse than that was the constant inability to let yourself just have vices and flaws - let yourself gamble or drink or smoke or binge on junk food every once in awhile. That meant failure - meant you'd be just another no-name, laughing stock loser. You'd be nothing - and nobody wanted to be nothing. So you had to save your money rather than throw it away on useless things, at least when you were paying your dues - couldn't drink or smoke because it'd impair your ability to beat other people to bloody wrecks - therefore most likely making you a bloody wreck yourself. You couldn't binge on food that wasn't perfectly healthy for you because then you'd lose one of the most imporant things in a professional wrestler's career - the physical edge that would give you one-up on your opponent, skill giving you the other edge. Just about the only thing you could indulge in, and the thing that many people in the industry did so indulge in, was sticking your genitals in things or having things stuck in your genitals - and to be honest, the only person Galen had slept with was Roxy, and he was pretty damn sure - given the way the industry was treating him - that that wasn't going to change very quickly. He wasn't a chick magnet, and couldn't even pay ones to accompany him like Christian Kane.
The only thing he had, only person he had was himself - no-one else he could trust or care about, all considered. And even that he was beginning to loathe, taking care of himself - it was a chore. Finding a nearby gym, lifting weights, doing push-ups, sit-ups, running on treadmills, all to maintain a shape that no-one seemed to take notice of. There was no squealing fangirls that drooled over him - there was no lights shining down on him. Or, when there was lights, it was just a reflection of a light being shined off the direct target - never had he been the target of the spotlight. It was always 'Esix Cordero is in a match - facing Paul Sant, Galen Ronan and Obscene.' It wasn't 'Galen Ronan is in a match.' It was 'Morgan Jones is in a match,' or 'Dustin Douglas is in a match.' Though, to be fair, he had heard some things about his recent match 'Stephen Callaway and Galen Ronan are in a match.' That brought him no satisfaction - it was still about Callaway. And it was still about his opponents more than it would ever be about him. It was painful, coming into the business - doing so much work for no gratitude, being tossed about the card like you were more accesory than actual part of the wrestling. The endless politicking. It wore him out, and it wore him out fast.
And that is why Galen laid, stomach-down, stretched out wide and lazily upon the furniture - his head pulsing, eyes slowly opening as he turned onto his back to stare out the window at the night sky. His bloodshot orbs traced along the stars, the stars themselves providing a dim lighting for his barely-dressed body - a pair of jeans he couldn't be bothered to take off before he went to bed being the only thing visibly adorning him. He simply stared and gazed longingly up at those things so many miles above himself - his heart giving small pulsations at a steady, slow rate as his eyes begged him to let them close, to collapse back onto his couch. But for the moment, he refused to - however occasionally letting his mouth gape into a yawn as he placed his hands below him, leaning back down onto them for a moment. After a moment of this, he turned to stand - looking about in the dark for a moment before finding the sink and twisting the handle, letting the water change it's heat for a moment before leaning down to cup his hands under the spray and burying his face into cold water for just a brief moment. With that, he switched the faucet off and gripped at a spot that a small camera rested - one usually used for home productions that had been bought for him by Pride in case he ever wanted to send them a promo of his own making. And the idea had run through his head - and perhaps that is what he was about to do as he pushed open the door to the outside world, revealing the place around him.
The only sign of civilization was a long, black stretch of rough road - the area around that was a very desert-like one, long stretches of sand. No cacti were visible - fair enough, given that not all deserts were the ideal environment for growing cacti. It was a very serene, calm place - no cars did pass for plenty of time, and it was almost abandoned - something straight out of a horror movie. Absolute quiet in the darkness, the only real noise being rather easily drained out - the cold, night desert winds whipping up and about, brushing past all the beings that did so inhabit it at this time. Galen took a long look around, letting the image be burned into his mind - he couldn't even recall what state he was in, though he knew that if he kept following the road he would be alright. Desert bussing, he figured, couldn't end too terribly - worst-case scenario, he'd have to pay a bit extra to get to a show faster, be it by plane, along with having to store the RV. Never occured to him that he might miss a show entirely.
After a moment, he set out to travel into the desert, shirtless and shoeless - only letting his instinct lead himself through the cold night. He didn't quite know where he was going, or where he was going to end up before he went back to his vehicle - all he knew was that he had something to say, and he had every intent to say every bit of it. Even if - especially if, perhaps, he was alone. Some might consider it crazy, to wander into a desert with no idea of where you were going and placing nothing to give you a hint of how to get back to where you were. Galen just called it determination. Galen called it the drive for success. Galen called it all sorts of things - and above all, he did call it simply himself. It was what he was doing - and no-one was going to prevent that. He had to make a statement - and while it might work, might work even better, in a place that wasn't a blank desert area with no sign of civilization, it was what he had in mind at the moment - not like he had many choices, in any case. RV or desert - desert seemed like a better idea.
But he figured there was enough time for thoughts like this later. It was time to travel, to step infinitely in a direction that might get you lost - or might lead you somewhere you never expected. It was time to move out of step with everyone and everything else - and time to utilize all that he had to grip victory as close as he possibly could befoer the actual match. Time to put up the facade again. It was time to make your living, make sure people knew at least a small part of how you felt and thought about your 'opponents' and 'partners.'
Time to feel alive again.
Success
REC•
Galen watched as that symbol flickered towards it's red, glowing life, unintentionally giving any of those who followed Galen's promos - when this was published, most likely on Pride's website, at some point in the future - a brief, accidental view of the horizon - the 'bottom' of the moon resting just in the frame that the camera recorded. One of Galen's hands then reached out to gently twirl the camerea, revealing Galen where he was - laying on his back in the sand that absolutely covered the desert, cold night winds whipping over his bare chest and feet. He tilted his head, just barely in frame due to the darkness - slowly raising a cigarette previously hidden by his side to his lips, a low sigh escaping from his lips - causing smoke to billow upwards briefly before being brushed away in the winds that whistled about in what seemed like moments of lasting eternity. The camera, and thus the viewer, just watched a few moments as the embers provided the only real, direct light - ambience provided by the stars and moon beating coldly down upon the land. The light was not brilliant but any manner, but was enough to expose some of his features, his blonde hair that was stuck to his face mostly by sweat, his lips that were cracked and dry - the usual look of Galen. He then looked over to the camera, rolling onto his side in fact, letting one hand grip at the sand as his other kept his hair out of his face, cigarette inbetween that hand's middle and forefinger. This provided a dim, though present lighting of Galen's facial features, exposing his expression to the camera.
And his expression was one of stoicism, almost apathy as he took another slow, longing drag and puff of that cigarette - tilting his head, unintentionally brushing a bit of his hair into the sand as he did so. His tongue poked out to moisten his lips for just a brief second before he managed to speak - slow and cautious, yet determined in careless in the same breath and manner. A strange contradiction as of most things that Galen does - just one of the many ways he did things, the way he confused people, made them wonder who he really was. But it came easily for him, that - in fact, he barely knew who he was. Like a disenchanted teenager he was struggling to find identity in a world that, by all appearances, simply did not want him to be near the spotlight - wanted him down in the dumps with every other independent wrestler that could be considered a failure in some respect. He barely knew who he was, so it came naturally to confuse others - most of the time he simply didn't realize he was doing it, he was just being himself and other people couldn't quite understand the thoughts that ran in so many patterns. It wasn't that he was strange, really - his thoughts just processed in a way different than most others apparently did, given he seemed to switch emotions at a moment's notice - apparently so much as a thought of someone he disliked triggering rage and hatred.
But there he laid, the sand and wind waving about - the only noise other than Galen's low, slow and deliberate breaths. His voice almost seemed to echo throughout the empty space that seemed to go for miles in any direction - though in reality it didn't, the camera loaned itself to making things seem just that much larger. "And so, here we have it. I have went, despite winning and impressing almost everyone at the match with my showing, from being in the main event, all but the main draw of the event, down to being just above a curtain-jerker. Odd, isn't it, how such a decisive upset can send a man smashing downwards rather than upwards in the apparent respect that the bookermen give him. Either that or the shit-flinging monkeys that run the Kingdom have absolutely no idea what they're doing - which is my bet, by the way. Putting the likes of Chris Williams against Stephen Callaway and I? Shit, might as well just put a giant sign saying 'I lose' above the opposing team's head. It's like booking Parker against Johnny Noble and Ed Nash, really, or Christian Kane against anything but a blow-up doll - a loss is guaranteed, and no-one's expecting otherwise. So why bother? Just mark a loss down on their record, a win on mine, and be through with it."
"Of course, we actually have to go in and have the match first - which should be okay, considering it's just a match that should be over in a couple of seconds, all considered. Stephen Callaway and Galen Ronan versus Chris Williams and Adam Abel. And you know, it's funny, because before this moment, I've never had anything against Christy. But now he's getting in my way, of both potential victory and of Adam Abel, so he's got to be taken down a notch. Little rookie thinks that he can push around Stephen Callaway and insult him for not being 'proud' of Kingdom of Pride? KoP doesn't need any more goddamn pride, Christy. It's got an entire kingdom of it. So what do you have to add, than, Williams? Let me answer that for you: nothing."
"You're not a rookie like me, high-profile, intense, and universally victorious. You're a loser - and there's nothing to say against that. You lost to John Parker. You lost to John fucking Parker. That's like losing to a loaf of bread, man, how do you do that? Now, looking at me on the other hand, I've beaten Dustin Douglas, Mikey Dega, Morgan Jones, Esix Cordero, Paul Sant, and Obscene. Some of the best names in the company are in that list - and you could never even touch them. Me, on the other hand? I simply destroyed them and took my win from their cold, dead hands. And I've lost to..." He gives a long pause, taking a sharp breath in as he mocking widens his eyes, looking about.
"Nobody, you idiot. I've lost to not a single soul in all my time here in KoP. And you? Have you even won a single match, you pathetic, miserable little fuckstick? And you expect to go against the man who has all the angles, along with the man who simply destroys any competition when he sees it. You expect to go against me in any scenario, in any setting, you're delusional. Sunday's certainly not gonna be your day, kid, I can guarantee that. All considered, let's face it... I'm the best goddamn professional wrestler in the Kingdom right now. Not that that's saying much, but still. I'm by far the best. Remember what Esix said? He beat Christian Kane and Josh Eagles, and it's pretty much guaranateed that he's going to beat Kid Flanagan. Therefore, I could beat Christian Kane and Josh Eagles, and soon enough we'll see about Kid Flanagan, within an inch of their goddamn lives if I wanted to. So what gives you, you physically retarded over-excited manchild, the idea that you could beat anyone in a match involving me?"
"Come on, Williams. Leave it alone. Stop trying to suck the bosses dicks and move onto what you actually want - you can't just walk in here, do a little cocksucking and expect to be brought up to main event level. You have to work for it and fight for it - beat a past world champion over the head if you think it might help. You can't just waltz in and have everything handed to you - because if you try that shit, I'll beat you into the ground until you're covered in your own blood - can't breathe, see or smell anything but that blood. And what's my thesis, my proof of this? Two words: Adam Abel."
Victims & Survivors
He gives a small smirk and looks down, twirling the cigarette in his fingers briefly before dropping it to the ground and tugging the pack out of his back pocket, lighting up again and taking another, slow drag. He gave a small smirk at the camera, burying the older cigarette in sand after a moment before blowing out smoke towards the sky, chuckling lowly. "Adam, Adam, Adam." Out of an apparent nowhere, his voice's tone turned to an almost jovial and playful tone, yet a mockery of that - something much more sinister below the pseudo-casual face value of his lowly spoken potential foreshadowing. His grin sent minds travelling, people wondering what he had in plans for whoever might've been on the other side of that screen, along with whatever plans he had to take down Adam Abel, Chris Williams, Esix Cordero, or anyone else he considered an opponent. Time could only tell.
"There's a fundamental difference between me and you, Abel. While you're out whining to everyone you could find, be it Alex Avice, your stupid fuckin' granddad, fatass brother Greg, whore wife Melanie, or cute sister Emma, no matter where you are you're always just fucking complaining. Complaining, whining, bitching so much that someone really needs to call a wahmbulance. You just can't get over this fact, about how Adam Abel has been slighted by the world, how everything's going against Adam Abel. Poor you, your wife won't sleep with you anymore and all the fans are against you, no-one really likes you. Poor, poor you. Someone oughta get a violin for this little boy, all considered."
"Let's face it, Adam Abel. At heart, you are nothing but a complainer. Rather than trying to change things, you simply lay down and take the hand life deals you, complaining about it all the way. You settle for mediocrity and loss, you let it happen to you. You let it happen to you because all you are is an easy target. Let's face it - you're a victim. Which isn't to say you've been through bad things, like the holocaust or some shit - just that you're a victim because that's what you let yourself be. You let yourself be a target because you're weak, you're pathetic. The world runs you over because you let it - you have never tried to change things up, never tried to make a real impact. You've just laid down and expected everything handed to you on a nice, tidy silver platter."
"And that's the most important way we differ. I don't complain, I don't sit there and whine and bitch. Nothing like that, no. Instead of whining and complaining like you, I stand up and say, 'no, fuck you life, I refuse to take what you have given me' and shove it right back. Beaten to within an inch of your life every day, what would you do? You'd lie there and take it, of course, praying and begging that it'll change. Me, on the other hand? I had the power to change my own life and my own destiny by running away with my fia- ex-fiancee. Too fat to achieve your dreams? You'd just sit there and continue eating your potato chips and junk food, begging that one day you'd get the willpower to change it. Me? I worked my ass off, ate healthily, and I lost enough fat and gained enough muscle to join up with a wrestling school. I've changed so much in my own life, I've made such a difference, if not to anyone else, then to myself. So what's your excuse?"
"What's your excuse for not hitting back, for not jumping me and changing what you've been given? What's your excuse for only going out there and complaining like a little bitch about how you're going to beat me at Knighting and it's going to be so sweet, so nice and how everyone's going to celebrate it as a major moment in your life. Well, good for you Adam Abel. But let me ask you something very, very important: In what alternate universe is your mind presently in where you even have the faintest chance of touching the man who beat people like Esix Cordero and has gone undefeated in Kingdom of Pride? It's obviously not a terribly bright universe, I'll tell you that right now. And in the real universe - my universe - at The Knighting, you will be duly humilitated and dragged around the arena, a bloody wreck. Beaten down until you're begging for the mercy that you know will never, ever come."
"And all of this - all of this - simply because you have made yourself out, and have as such become, nothing but a poor little victim with nothing to add but sorrowful, pitiful attempts to lay hands on people who are not at all responsible for the plight you are currently in. All you can do is try to blame me and find anger for me for your wife bending over for any given person. Me, on the other hand? I've always grabbed life by the balls and made it change the events that I'm currently entwined in. Let's face it, Adam: our most important difference is that you are a victim, and I am a survior. Victims go to psychotherapists and whine about any small event they can find - victims are pits of self-loathing and doubt, misery. They plea to whoever they can find to be allowed to do something great. Survivors don't whine, they don't complain - they live through it and move on with their life. The major events that would probably just kill a victim don't even touch a survivor. They just move on to the next big event, conquer that and keep climbing. Survivors are confident - and for the right reasons."
"Adam Abel - you are a victim, I am a survivor. And this Sunday, you and Chris Williams get the first taste of what I - what a real, in the flesh and true survivor - can do to you. As for Stephen Callaway... well, I can trust the guy enough that I'm pretty sure he won't attack me for no reason in the middle of the match. So goodbye, Pride. The king of independent wrestling is signing out."
And with that, the camera turning off plunged the viewers into darkness - leaving them alone to contemplate what they had just heard Galen discuss with himself. The only thing that could really be said for sure - the one thing that could be known - was that Galen meant what he said, just from the way he said it. Just from his tone and attitude, his body language, one could tell it was truly what he thought about Adam Abel and his ilk, that he thought Chris Williams stood no chance and that this was simply something to blow away in the wind. It was all nothing, to him.
None of it was his concern - it was about him, but it wasn't his concern. He found himself almost incapable of caring about this match - the outcome was all but predetermined. It was all just too damn easy for him - and unsatisfying, too. The bookers weren't making him wait for his fight with Adam Abel - they weren't waiting for him to let him bloody him up with just enough anticipation stored up. Above all, he just wished that the bookers had let him choose a stipulation for their Knighting match - but he knew it was probably going to be a regular match. Fine by him - didn't take barbed wire or bats to bloody Adam Abel. It'd be even more satisfying to break him open with bare hands, too. But how much more satisfying it would be to cause Adam Abel to become tangled into barbed wire and beating him to near-death with lighttubes or punching him out with a hand covered in glass.
In due time, he would find all he needed to. But for right now his only concern was finding his way to his RV and moving on from this strange desert.
RP #4
Chris Williams & Adam Abel vs. Stevie C. and Galen Ronan
"Once I had a halo,
But then it caught on fire,
Once I knew a good man,
But he turned into a liar..." ~ 'Atmosphere' by Shinedown
Failure
A haunting, solemn sort of loneliness was spread throughout the claustrophobia-causing area of the vehicle - a recreational vehicle or RV. The amenities were present, but there weren't many of them - a small kitchen area, bathroom cubicle, et cetera. It wasn't big or fancy, wasn't a real subsitute for a home - more like something to keep a person from going relatively insane while they went from place to place, getting paid not nearly enough for it. And in truth, that's exactly what the blond man, Galen Ronan, who laid listlessly, stretched out languidly, upon the couch did - he went from one side of the country to the other in the span of a week, wrestling on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. Occasionally Thursdays as well. It was hell on his body and mind, the near-crushing loneliness and fatigue - in truth, he hadn't slept well since the day he started wrestling professionally. Despite the accolades, despite the people saying he was doing well, he felt like a complete failure. Always tired, always sick, always having pain inching over each and every part of his body. And the facade he kept up in front of the camera didn't help matters any - the facade of strength, of confidence he had to constantly maintain in order to not be perceived as 'weak' by the people that similarly occupied the ring, be it a Josh Eagles, Christian Kane, Kid Flanagan or Nobody McLoser. If he was perceived as weak, if people saw his failures and his emotions, he would be struck down and picked apart by everyone in that ring.
Sometimes he wished he had chosen a normal life - rather than grappling, punching, and kicking, he'd taken up typing data into a computer for a career. Wouldn't have any satisfaction to it like professional wrestling did, sure, but at least he didn't have to be constantly in pain. Wouldn't have to put up a false front and be in a nonstop battle with the voices that occupied his head, telling him to do brutal and sick things to all the people that stepped around him. He wouldn't have to think about how he was going to feed his family - the paychecks may not be as big as they tended to be, but they would come more consistently. There was no winning streaks or losing streaks in office jobs - no real winning or losing. But in professional wrestling he had the only thing that could bring him solace and closure about all the issues that had happened in his life - but it was barely there. What was the point of knowing everything if you didn't have someone to share it with? What was the point of having closure if you had to be constantly worrying about something that would most likely never get any closure - how Roxy and his child born of her were doing? It was haunting, the thought that he had caused her what probably amounted to years and years of pain and loss, all for what? A career that just led to hatred, self-loathing and a certain uncertainty about all the people that occupied the same space as you?
Even worse than that was the constant inability to let yourself just have vices and flaws - let yourself gamble or drink or smoke or binge on junk food every once in awhile. That meant failure - meant you'd be just another no-name, laughing stock loser. You'd be nothing - and nobody wanted to be nothing. So you had to save your money rather than throw it away on useless things, at least when you were paying your dues - couldn't drink or smoke because it'd impair your ability to beat other people to bloody wrecks - therefore most likely making you a bloody wreck yourself. You couldn't binge on food that wasn't perfectly healthy for you because then you'd lose one of the most imporant things in a professional wrestler's career - the physical edge that would give you one-up on your opponent, skill giving you the other edge. Just about the only thing you could indulge in, and the thing that many people in the industry did so indulge in, was sticking your genitals in things or having things stuck in your genitals - and to be honest, the only person Galen had slept with was Roxy, and he was pretty damn sure - given the way the industry was treating him - that that wasn't going to change very quickly. He wasn't a chick magnet, and couldn't even pay ones to accompany him like Christian Kane.
The only thing he had, only person he had was himself - no-one else he could trust or care about, all considered. And even that he was beginning to loathe, taking care of himself - it was a chore. Finding a nearby gym, lifting weights, doing push-ups, sit-ups, running on treadmills, all to maintain a shape that no-one seemed to take notice of. There was no squealing fangirls that drooled over him - there was no lights shining down on him. Or, when there was lights, it was just a reflection of a light being shined off the direct target - never had he been the target of the spotlight. It was always 'Esix Cordero is in a match - facing Paul Sant, Galen Ronan and Obscene.' It wasn't 'Galen Ronan is in a match.' It was 'Morgan Jones is in a match,' or 'Dustin Douglas is in a match.' Though, to be fair, he had heard some things about his recent match 'Stephen Callaway and Galen Ronan are in a match.' That brought him no satisfaction - it was still about Callaway. And it was still about his opponents more than it would ever be about him. It was painful, coming into the business - doing so much work for no gratitude, being tossed about the card like you were more accesory than actual part of the wrestling. The endless politicking. It wore him out, and it wore him out fast.
And that is why Galen laid, stomach-down, stretched out wide and lazily upon the furniture - his head pulsing, eyes slowly opening as he turned onto his back to stare out the window at the night sky. His bloodshot orbs traced along the stars, the stars themselves providing a dim lighting for his barely-dressed body - a pair of jeans he couldn't be bothered to take off before he went to bed being the only thing visibly adorning him. He simply stared and gazed longingly up at those things so many miles above himself - his heart giving small pulsations at a steady, slow rate as his eyes begged him to let them close, to collapse back onto his couch. But for the moment, he refused to - however occasionally letting his mouth gape into a yawn as he placed his hands below him, leaning back down onto them for a moment. After a moment of this, he turned to stand - looking about in the dark for a moment before finding the sink and twisting the handle, letting the water change it's heat for a moment before leaning down to cup his hands under the spray and burying his face into cold water for just a brief moment. With that, he switched the faucet off and gripped at a spot that a small camera rested - one usually used for home productions that had been bought for him by Pride in case he ever wanted to send them a promo of his own making. And the idea had run through his head - and perhaps that is what he was about to do as he pushed open the door to the outside world, revealing the place around him.
The only sign of civilization was a long, black stretch of rough road - the area around that was a very desert-like one, long stretches of sand. No cacti were visible - fair enough, given that not all deserts were the ideal environment for growing cacti. It was a very serene, calm place - no cars did pass for plenty of time, and it was almost abandoned - something straight out of a horror movie. Absolute quiet in the darkness, the only real noise being rather easily drained out - the cold, night desert winds whipping up and about, brushing past all the beings that did so inhabit it at this time. Galen took a long look around, letting the image be burned into his mind - he couldn't even recall what state he was in, though he knew that if he kept following the road he would be alright. Desert bussing, he figured, couldn't end too terribly - worst-case scenario, he'd have to pay a bit extra to get to a show faster, be it by plane, along with having to store the RV. Never occured to him that he might miss a show entirely.
After a moment, he set out to travel into the desert, shirtless and shoeless - only letting his instinct lead himself through the cold night. He didn't quite know where he was going, or where he was going to end up before he went back to his vehicle - all he knew was that he had something to say, and he had every intent to say every bit of it. Even if - especially if, perhaps, he was alone. Some might consider it crazy, to wander into a desert with no idea of where you were going and placing nothing to give you a hint of how to get back to where you were. Galen just called it determination. Galen called it the drive for success. Galen called it all sorts of things - and above all, he did call it simply himself. It was what he was doing - and no-one was going to prevent that. He had to make a statement - and while it might work, might work even better, in a place that wasn't a blank desert area with no sign of civilization, it was what he had in mind at the moment - not like he had many choices, in any case. RV or desert - desert seemed like a better idea.
But he figured there was enough time for thoughts like this later. It was time to travel, to step infinitely in a direction that might get you lost - or might lead you somewhere you never expected. It was time to move out of step with everyone and everything else - and time to utilize all that he had to grip victory as close as he possibly could befoer the actual match. Time to put up the facade again. It was time to make your living, make sure people knew at least a small part of how you felt and thought about your 'opponents' and 'partners.'
Time to feel alive again.
Success
REC•
Galen watched as that symbol flickered towards it's red, glowing life, unintentionally giving any of those who followed Galen's promos - when this was published, most likely on Pride's website, at some point in the future - a brief, accidental view of the horizon - the 'bottom' of the moon resting just in the frame that the camera recorded. One of Galen's hands then reached out to gently twirl the camerea, revealing Galen where he was - laying on his back in the sand that absolutely covered the desert, cold night winds whipping over his bare chest and feet. He tilted his head, just barely in frame due to the darkness - slowly raising a cigarette previously hidden by his side to his lips, a low sigh escaping from his lips - causing smoke to billow upwards briefly before being brushed away in the winds that whistled about in what seemed like moments of lasting eternity. The camera, and thus the viewer, just watched a few moments as the embers provided the only real, direct light - ambience provided by the stars and moon beating coldly down upon the land. The light was not brilliant but any manner, but was enough to expose some of his features, his blonde hair that was stuck to his face mostly by sweat, his lips that were cracked and dry - the usual look of Galen. He then looked over to the camera, rolling onto his side in fact, letting one hand grip at the sand as his other kept his hair out of his face, cigarette inbetween that hand's middle and forefinger. This provided a dim, though present lighting of Galen's facial features, exposing his expression to the camera.
And his expression was one of stoicism, almost apathy as he took another slow, longing drag and puff of that cigarette - tilting his head, unintentionally brushing a bit of his hair into the sand as he did so. His tongue poked out to moisten his lips for just a brief second before he managed to speak - slow and cautious, yet determined in careless in the same breath and manner. A strange contradiction as of most things that Galen does - just one of the many ways he did things, the way he confused people, made them wonder who he really was. But it came easily for him, that - in fact, he barely knew who he was. Like a disenchanted teenager he was struggling to find identity in a world that, by all appearances, simply did not want him to be near the spotlight - wanted him down in the dumps with every other independent wrestler that could be considered a failure in some respect. He barely knew who he was, so it came naturally to confuse others - most of the time he simply didn't realize he was doing it, he was just being himself and other people couldn't quite understand the thoughts that ran in so many patterns. It wasn't that he was strange, really - his thoughts just processed in a way different than most others apparently did, given he seemed to switch emotions at a moment's notice - apparently so much as a thought of someone he disliked triggering rage and hatred.
But there he laid, the sand and wind waving about - the only noise other than Galen's low, slow and deliberate breaths. His voice almost seemed to echo throughout the empty space that seemed to go for miles in any direction - though in reality it didn't, the camera loaned itself to making things seem just that much larger. "And so, here we have it. I have went, despite winning and impressing almost everyone at the match with my showing, from being in the main event, all but the main draw of the event, down to being just above a curtain-jerker. Odd, isn't it, how such a decisive upset can send a man smashing downwards rather than upwards in the apparent respect that the bookermen give him. Either that or the shit-flinging monkeys that run the Kingdom have absolutely no idea what they're doing - which is my bet, by the way. Putting the likes of Chris Williams against Stephen Callaway and I? Shit, might as well just put a giant sign saying 'I lose' above the opposing team's head. It's like booking Parker against Johnny Noble and Ed Nash, really, or Christian Kane against anything but a blow-up doll - a loss is guaranteed, and no-one's expecting otherwise. So why bother? Just mark a loss down on their record, a win on mine, and be through with it."
"Of course, we actually have to go in and have the match first - which should be okay, considering it's just a match that should be over in a couple of seconds, all considered. Stephen Callaway and Galen Ronan versus Chris Williams and Adam Abel. And you know, it's funny, because before this moment, I've never had anything against Christy. But now he's getting in my way, of both potential victory and of Adam Abel, so he's got to be taken down a notch. Little rookie thinks that he can push around Stephen Callaway and insult him for not being 'proud' of Kingdom of Pride? KoP doesn't need any more goddamn pride, Christy. It's got an entire kingdom of it. So what do you have to add, than, Williams? Let me answer that for you: nothing."
"You're not a rookie like me, high-profile, intense, and universally victorious. You're a loser - and there's nothing to say against that. You lost to John Parker. You lost to John fucking Parker. That's like losing to a loaf of bread, man, how do you do that? Now, looking at me on the other hand, I've beaten Dustin Douglas, Mikey Dega, Morgan Jones, Esix Cordero, Paul Sant, and Obscene. Some of the best names in the company are in that list - and you could never even touch them. Me, on the other hand? I simply destroyed them and took my win from their cold, dead hands. And I've lost to..." He gives a long pause, taking a sharp breath in as he mocking widens his eyes, looking about.
"Nobody, you idiot. I've lost to not a single soul in all my time here in KoP. And you? Have you even won a single match, you pathetic, miserable little fuckstick? And you expect to go against the man who has all the angles, along with the man who simply destroys any competition when he sees it. You expect to go against me in any scenario, in any setting, you're delusional. Sunday's certainly not gonna be your day, kid, I can guarantee that. All considered, let's face it... I'm the best goddamn professional wrestler in the Kingdom right now. Not that that's saying much, but still. I'm by far the best. Remember what Esix said? He beat Christian Kane and Josh Eagles, and it's pretty much guaranateed that he's going to beat Kid Flanagan. Therefore, I could beat Christian Kane and Josh Eagles, and soon enough we'll see about Kid Flanagan, within an inch of their goddamn lives if I wanted to. So what gives you, you physically retarded over-excited manchild, the idea that you could beat anyone in a match involving me?"
"Come on, Williams. Leave it alone. Stop trying to suck the bosses dicks and move onto what you actually want - you can't just walk in here, do a little cocksucking and expect to be brought up to main event level. You have to work for it and fight for it - beat a past world champion over the head if you think it might help. You can't just waltz in and have everything handed to you - because if you try that shit, I'll beat you into the ground until you're covered in your own blood - can't breathe, see or smell anything but that blood. And what's my thesis, my proof of this? Two words: Adam Abel."
Victims & Survivors
He gives a small smirk and looks down, twirling the cigarette in his fingers briefly before dropping it to the ground and tugging the pack out of his back pocket, lighting up again and taking another, slow drag. He gave a small smirk at the camera, burying the older cigarette in sand after a moment before blowing out smoke towards the sky, chuckling lowly. "Adam, Adam, Adam." Out of an apparent nowhere, his voice's tone turned to an almost jovial and playful tone, yet a mockery of that - something much more sinister below the pseudo-casual face value of his lowly spoken potential foreshadowing. His grin sent minds travelling, people wondering what he had in plans for whoever might've been on the other side of that screen, along with whatever plans he had to take down Adam Abel, Chris Williams, Esix Cordero, or anyone else he considered an opponent. Time could only tell.
"There's a fundamental difference between me and you, Abel. While you're out whining to everyone you could find, be it Alex Avice, your stupid fuckin' granddad, fatass brother Greg, whore wife Melanie, or cute sister Emma, no matter where you are you're always just fucking complaining. Complaining, whining, bitching so much that someone really needs to call a wahmbulance. You just can't get over this fact, about how Adam Abel has been slighted by the world, how everything's going against Adam Abel. Poor you, your wife won't sleep with you anymore and all the fans are against you, no-one really likes you. Poor, poor you. Someone oughta get a violin for this little boy, all considered."
"Let's face it, Adam Abel. At heart, you are nothing but a complainer. Rather than trying to change things, you simply lay down and take the hand life deals you, complaining about it all the way. You settle for mediocrity and loss, you let it happen to you. You let it happen to you because all you are is an easy target. Let's face it - you're a victim. Which isn't to say you've been through bad things, like the holocaust or some shit - just that you're a victim because that's what you let yourself be. You let yourself be a target because you're weak, you're pathetic. The world runs you over because you let it - you have never tried to change things up, never tried to make a real impact. You've just laid down and expected everything handed to you on a nice, tidy silver platter."
"And that's the most important way we differ. I don't complain, I don't sit there and whine and bitch. Nothing like that, no. Instead of whining and complaining like you, I stand up and say, 'no, fuck you life, I refuse to take what you have given me' and shove it right back. Beaten to within an inch of your life every day, what would you do? You'd lie there and take it, of course, praying and begging that it'll change. Me, on the other hand? I had the power to change my own life and my own destiny by running away with my fia- ex-fiancee. Too fat to achieve your dreams? You'd just sit there and continue eating your potato chips and junk food, begging that one day you'd get the willpower to change it. Me? I worked my ass off, ate healthily, and I lost enough fat and gained enough muscle to join up with a wrestling school. I've changed so much in my own life, I've made such a difference, if not to anyone else, then to myself. So what's your excuse?"
"What's your excuse for not hitting back, for not jumping me and changing what you've been given? What's your excuse for only going out there and complaining like a little bitch about how you're going to beat me at Knighting and it's going to be so sweet, so nice and how everyone's going to celebrate it as a major moment in your life. Well, good for you Adam Abel. But let me ask you something very, very important: In what alternate universe is your mind presently in where you even have the faintest chance of touching the man who beat people like Esix Cordero and has gone undefeated in Kingdom of Pride? It's obviously not a terribly bright universe, I'll tell you that right now. And in the real universe - my universe - at The Knighting, you will be duly humilitated and dragged around the arena, a bloody wreck. Beaten down until you're begging for the mercy that you know will never, ever come."
"And all of this - all of this - simply because you have made yourself out, and have as such become, nothing but a poor little victim with nothing to add but sorrowful, pitiful attempts to lay hands on people who are not at all responsible for the plight you are currently in. All you can do is try to blame me and find anger for me for your wife bending over for any given person. Me, on the other hand? I've always grabbed life by the balls and made it change the events that I'm currently entwined in. Let's face it, Adam: our most important difference is that you are a victim, and I am a survior. Victims go to psychotherapists and whine about any small event they can find - victims are pits of self-loathing and doubt, misery. They plea to whoever they can find to be allowed to do something great. Survivors don't whine, they don't complain - they live through it and move on with their life. The major events that would probably just kill a victim don't even touch a survivor. They just move on to the next big event, conquer that and keep climbing. Survivors are confident - and for the right reasons."
"Adam Abel - you are a victim, I am a survivor. And this Sunday, you and Chris Williams get the first taste of what I - what a real, in the flesh and true survivor - can do to you. As for Stephen Callaway... well, I can trust the guy enough that I'm pretty sure he won't attack me for no reason in the middle of the match. So goodbye, Pride. The king of independent wrestling is signing out."
And with that, the camera turning off plunged the viewers into darkness - leaving them alone to contemplate what they had just heard Galen discuss with himself. The only thing that could really be said for sure - the one thing that could be known - was that Galen meant what he said, just from the way he said it. Just from his tone and attitude, his body language, one could tell it was truly what he thought about Adam Abel and his ilk, that he thought Chris Williams stood no chance and that this was simply something to blow away in the wind. It was all nothing, to him.
None of it was his concern - it was about him, but it wasn't his concern. He found himself almost incapable of caring about this match - the outcome was all but predetermined. It was all just too damn easy for him - and unsatisfying, too. The bookers weren't making him wait for his fight with Adam Abel - they weren't waiting for him to let him bloody him up with just enough anticipation stored up. Above all, he just wished that the bookers had let him choose a stipulation for their Knighting match - but he knew it was probably going to be a regular match. Fine by him - didn't take barbed wire or bats to bloody Adam Abel. It'd be even more satisfying to break him open with bare hands, too. But how much more satisfying it would be to cause Adam Abel to become tangled into barbed wire and beating him to near-death with lighttubes or punching him out with a hand covered in glass.
In due time, he would find all he needed to. But for right now his only concern was finding his way to his RV and moving on from this strange desert.
