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Post by Deleted on Jan 31, 2021 14:29:39 GMT -6
Gambling With One's Soul, Part II: Accepting
”I had thought that, perhaps, I might see people talking sense. Maybe hear some thought-provoking comments, some anecdotes and history lessons that would truly make myself and others participating in the Wartime Rumble… you know… think. When I spoke to Eric a few days ago, relating what had come to pass since I first addressed the ECWF fans and my fellow participants, do you know what he did?”
The question is left hanging in the air, the first words of Damon Cross coming through clearly in the darkness with no other distraction to keep one from getting the full weight of his message. When the scene forms properly, clearly taken through some kind of mobile device but no less crisp or clear for it, a suited-and-sunglassed Damon Cross is sitting before the device. His mad mop of curly black hair is as wild as ever, his neatly-trimmed facial hair fitting well on his boyish face. And his accent is just pointed enough to add a little charm to the otherwise-sharp words about to come.
From the low rumble beneath it all, we can guess that he’s in the midst of travel. Flying most likely. Certainly not driving. Otherwise the view would be twisting and turning from the motion fo the wheel. For the moment, he looks amused. Then he answers his own question.
”He laughed.”
Wrinkling up his nose a little bit, the response to his own query agitates Damon just a bit.
”Plus les choses changent, plus elles restent les mêmes.”
His natural French comes out even more smoothly than his English. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” Something about his mentor’s response to Damon’s point of conversation had the young man irritated. He rests his chin in his hand. Just beneath the camera, a faint gleam is caught… no doubt from his NFW World Heavyweight Championship. No, this message does not have anything to do with Damon’s home promotion. But the belt means a lot to him, as a title should to any champion. It isn’t leaving his sight.
”The same group of misfits and malcontents, half of them not even part of the ECWF, spouting off the same tired catchphrases, talking about people and places and things that mean nothing to the match at hand. As to the portion that are ECWF through and throug? They love banking on their past glories. I subscribe to the beliefs of the people who brought me in. As such, where it concerns people like TJ Alexander, Razor Blade, David DeSean, Dan Dream, et al? I pose this question:”
He reaches up and slides his shades off, slowly, meaningfully, finally turning his usually-warm eyes on the camera, nothing but chill emanating from them.
”What have you done for me lately?”
The environment is familiar. The casino from the last time around, most likely. Or more accurately, the restaurant within. Sitting at a table are a likewise familiar couple: Cecilia and Michael. They’re facing someone, speaking to them, though we cannot yet see who ‘they’ are… even if we have a pretty good idea.
”So… first off, let me apologize to you, Mr. Cross-”
”Damon is fine, Michael.”
Surprised a little by the gentle correction, Michael nods. He seems a fair bit calmer than last time. Cecilia, as vibrant as ever though in a more subdued outfit than her devilish red dress of the previous installment, looks to Michael with a small smile. Her arms are wrapped around one of his, her hand clasping the one attached to said arm.
”Why I acted like I did isn’t important. What matters is that,” he gives a meaningful look to Cecilia, ”CeCe and I had a long talk and worked things out. I was stressed and acted stupid. I was wrong and I apologized and she found it in her heart to forgive me.”
”I certainly did,” she replies, kissing his cheek before sitting back and letting Michael continue, her attention dropping to the sparkling ring on her left ring finger.
”I’m glad to hear that. If you want the utter truth?”
Michael nods quickly, and Cecilia follows suit. The view pans around to show Damon Cross sitting across from the pair. He looks at ease, but when he starts to speak again, he tenses up.
”I was getting a flashback when that happened. The last time something like that went down that close to me, I ended up knocking a guy out and leaving with his girlfriend. Now,” he quickly holds up a hand to stave off any sort of retort before he’s finished with his tale. ”that wouldn’t have happened in this case. I bring that up because I was stupid once too, Michael. I thought that was the end of things. That entire situation came to a head a little while later and I spent time in jail. That cost me a lot. Almost cost me everything. You get where I’m coming from?”
Michael nods and Cecilia is just riveted to the conversation. Damon lowers his head slightly.
”When things get bad, no matter how hard it is, you have to take a moment to think things through. I thought I was defending a girl against an abusive boyfriend and I was. When the situation came up again, things got even more heated. Except what I did… ended up going further than it was meant to. For the rest of my life, I have to live with the fact that someone is dead because of me,” Damon relates this to a silent audience; they don’t reply either out of respect or fear. It is hard to tell. ”Involuntary manslaughter. If I had done nothing, that girl would have been dead or worse. I did something, but someone still lost their life, whether I intended it or not. I swore after the fact that I wouldn’t invite such a situation ever again.”
The three sit in silence as drinks are brought to the table. Michael sips on a whiskey-and-coke with a cherry in it, mulling over this personal tale he’s being made privy to. Cecilia and her chardonnay? She just holds closer to her fiancee, trying to comfort him, knowing he must be thinking that things could actually have been MUCH worse. Damon, sipping tea with lemon, sighs quietly. A few moments later, someone in the shadows walks up to the table, speaking in a bright voice.
”THERE you are! May I join you?”
Back on the plane, Damon is chewing lightly on the arm of his shades, chuckling wryly as he turns his eyes back to the camera from the window showing the 30,000-foot view.
”Some of you claim you know me. Some of you didn’t know I existed until my first message hit the airwaves and still don’t care. If I had more of an ego, some of that might bother me. But it doesn’t. What any of you think of me, what I’ve done or how I’ve done it? It doesn’t matter. Because not a bit of it is going to affect how the Rumble pans out. Only one man in this match worries me, and that man? Well… he should worry all of you, too. That’s Tren Descarrilado. The Runaway Train. He tears through bodies in a wrestling ring like a Mack truck through paiper-mache. And before it comes to blows between him and I, and it WILL, Damon says, pausing to ensure that the tone of his message is proper, ”I’m going to enjoy him tossing some of the louder mouths milling in that ring like garbage. Because based on how you have addressed, or not addressed, this match and its importance? That’s what you equate to where someone like him is concerned. I’m not so mean-spirited, but if I have the chance I’ll toss you just the same. Perhaps… a little less violently.”
He winks slightly as someone sits down next to him, placing a glass of clear, bubbly liquid on the tray next to his camera. Damon sips somewhat loudly from the straw, pinky extended, as if to emphasize his somewhat tongue-in-cheek, “just saying” method of delivery about the match.
”TJ, I said it before and I’ll say it again: you should think before you speak. You’ll look less foolish. Should I elaborate on that, perhaps? Maybe, but it isn’t my job to teach you. Your trainer should have done that. You should have paid attention to matters of respect and veracity as much as you did preening in front of the mirror and practicing your wristlocks. If we clash in the Rumble, I will make you fly like my name was Robert Arryn.”
They might get that reference. They might not. Damon doesn’t pause to give a care.
”Razor doesn’t seem to know that I exist. Considering someone else has to do his talking for him, that isn’t surprising. He’ll tumble like twenty-nine others when push comes to shove. And I will be doing the shoving.”
Getting worked up a little? Maybe. Or maybe Damon is just having fun. Another sip is taken… and someone else has to be told. Meanwhile, his drink is shifted to his other hand to someone can take his right.
”Dan Dream. Oh, I was warned about you,” Damon says saucily, lifting his glass and gesturing to the camera with it. ”A mouth that roars and… that’s about it. When someone as verbose as the Irish Dragon has so little to say about someone, it means their substance is horribly lacking. Yes, you won a Rumble. Yes, you faced my mentor. And he stomped the life out of you the same as he did to 99.6% of his opponents here. And no, I am not on Eric’s level. Never claimed to be. A half-dozen world championships, two Hall of Fame rings and more? I just won my first world title not two weeks ago and it took me a decade. It took Eric literally four months to win his first. See the difference?” Damon speaks almost coldly, perhaps jealous of Eric… or agitated that Dream is such a pants-on-head moron as to speak, like TJ, without thinking first. ”You’re a threat, Dream, but not a big one. And if I can get through Eric myself? I can damn sure put YOU down like a dog. And speaking of mongrels?”
He laughs lightly.
”Ace Reigns? Muzzle yourself. You’ve about as much chance of winning this match as a snail does of crossing the highway at rush hour. Pray that I’m the one to take you out of this fight and not Tren, because if I do it, you’ll just be sore for a few days, in body and pride,” Damon says with a shake of his head. ”But Tren? He eats your type for breakfast and buries the rest in the yard to make room for lunch. Keep that in mind before you poke your face in front of a camera again, hm? Call it friendly advice from a man who knows.”
The scene cuts away again, this time back to the casino restaurant, where a young lady in a purple dress, white stockings and glittery purple heels takes a seat at the table next to Damon, kissing his cheek with a bright smile. Michael and Cecilia exchange glances, then pleasantries with the woman.
”Danni Anderson! Pleasure! Damon told me about you two!”
Um, likewise. You two…?”
”Yes, Michael, they are. Like us. I told you that you had nothing to worry about.”
Upon Michael it seems as though a weight has been lifted and he is clearly more relaxed once Danni is there. The young beauty, from her fashion sense to her British accent to her general glow just lights up a room. Heaven-sent, Damon might say if he wished her to blush. He smiles when she sits down, kissing her cheek. The server comes back around and sets a glass of tea down before Danni as well, prompting a sweet thank you.
”You still have the envelope, Michael?”
”Um, sure. Right here,” he takes it out of his jacket pocket, prompting a nod from Damon. ”Should I open it now?”
”Go right ahead. It wouldn’t have worked if you two hadn’t worked things out, but seeing as how you’re back where you should be, or on your way, it should be fine.”
And so Michael does so, tearing the paper and dipping his fingers within to pluck out the contents…
Back on the plane, Danni leans in against Damon, curled up half on her seat, half on his. With the armrests lifted (thank goodness for first-class), she can nap right on her fiancee’s lap. Damon, contently stroking his wife-to-be’s hair, gazes at the camera again. With the acid spewed at his more vocal opponents and the stress of having to put them to rights over with? He’s actually quite relaxed.
”If you’re expecting poetry to end things here, stop holding your breath. You’ll suffocate. I’m not Eric Donavan.”
A faint smile forms, Danni giggling as his fingertips dance down her bare arm.
”What you should be expecting is to face a man with nothing to lose. You see, shortly after entering this Rumble, I signed on the dotted line with the ECWF as a full-time roster member. So for those of you thinking I’d just be taking up space, maybe added in to either pad the participant numbers or get a little ratings? Seems like you’re wrong. Go on and feel silly. It’s all right. I would, too,” he says consolingly, though there’s mischief in his eyes. ”One way or another, be it through the Rumble or less direct means, I will one day find my place atop this roster as champion. Perhaps with more than one title to my name. It is the duty of a student to surpass their teacher, after all. Why should my own goals be anything less? And starting off by going through twenty-nine others for a crack at the big belt held currently by Dan Anderson? That would be most… auspicious.”
”Wow… y-you’re sure?”
Michael held what looked like tickets in his hand. Damon, half-smiling, nodded. Danni, still leaned up against him, also nodded her agreement.
”Clearly you’re both fans, so why not? My blackguard is quite generous. Perhaps he sees some of us in you two.”
She might seem flighty, but Danni could be quite insightful. That’s exactly how Damon felt. But he let his fiancee’s words sink in. No need to reinforce when it was so obvious.
”Just make sure you cheer him on in the Rumble! That’s the only requirement!”
She speaks with a giggle, index finger extended to emphasize this before taking a sip of her tea. Cecilia and Michael are a bit, well… flabbergasted. But they accept with grace. Damon, silent, simply nods and smiles, content that things will be okay.
”The Wartime Rumble. War is nothing new to me. I’ve actually come to enjoy it, actually. It gives me focus, purpose. Something to fight for and something to defend in equal measure. But as I said… there’s nothing to lose for me in this match but time, should I sail over the top. Patience is a virtue I possess, though, so an elimination is only a setback… not a stop. But do not be surprised for a moment if you look up at the lights and see my shadow within them as my name is announced as the winner when all is said and done. Just… don’t It would be gauche. After all,” Damon winks at the camera, Danni gazing up at him lovingly from his thigh. ”This is my destiny.”
He reaches forward and shuts off the camera, putting an end to his short, to-the-point message.