|
Post by The Age of Fall on Dec 24, 2023 12:11:58 GMT -6
|
|
|
Post by Victor Kall on Jan 1, 2024 0:33:28 GMT -6
He was somewhere in a town of Mesquite, along the fringes of the Virgin Mountains in eastern Nevada. More people had probably heard of the type of barbecue sauce than they had this place. It was a nothing town with a couple of casinos to attract people who thought they were too cool for Las Vegas. The type of town that people visited and thought to themselves, 'a new happening scene could rise up from the sands of the desert, if only the riff raff that lived here could be relocated somewhere unseen'. If Victor Kall had been born in Mesquite, he'd have been named amongst that riff raff.
But he was born in northern Vermont, not too far away from the Canadian border. He spent some time in Canada, on and off, unbeknownst to most people whose ships passed his in the night. Some of those had tried to interview him, formally, of course. People who were referred to as doctors but couldn't help themselves, much less anyone with intangible troubles. Victor had been diagnosed with a litany of ailments over the course of his life: depression, anxiety, hysteria, attention deficit disorder, now ADHD, oppositional defiance disorder, which he liked because the initials spelled out ODD. Also anorexia, split personality disorder, although his personal favorite was when a rather impressionable hospital chaplain said that he suffered from demonic possession. All he had to do was speak the ten words he knew in German backwards, stick a needle through his eyebrow and paint his face white with black across his eyes, kind of like the blink and you'll miss it close-up of Pazuzu in the Exorcist movie.
The face paint stayed for the most part. He was wearing it tonight, but obscured by a black hoodie that was tightly pulled over, and the shadows that he found solace in. Victor wasn't very comfortable anywhere, and when his discomfort became too much for him to handle, it turned into agitation. When that agitation was too much for him to handle, it often turned what some would call 'criminal activity'. He had to get it out though; he had to express himself. Graffiti was the most non-violent way that he could think of, but they always took away his spray cans. And if something got taken away, something even as innocuous and often stolen as spray paint, then everything was white. Visually and audibly; white noise rang through his brain like the worst case of tinnitus.
you're gone, but I'm there…
On the very few occasions he actually tried to be on the level about what went on inside his head, it was met with pop culture references. 'Do you mean like Dexter's Dark Passenger? What do you just want to see the world burn like the Joker?' Their lack of empathy or understanding sometimes made him feel as if he were a fictional character along those lines. Whenever that thought came up, it stuck for days, consuming hours of his time. What if nothing that he did mattered? Could it be that people that he knew, experiences that he had just came from the fingertips of some grand puppeteer?
you're gone, but I'm there…
When he was a child, the answer was always medication. Made him feel like a zombie, which was great for the rest of the world, but to Victor, every day was a slog through quicksand. Then an increase in dosage, then another, and then the dosages were too high. Another drug must be needed. He'd take these drugs and sometimes sell them to kids with money who wanted to get stoned without having to go to the bad part of town to score. The drugs weren't for him. Disorder, mania, violence…those seemed to calm him. Until by luck or kismet or whatever people would like to call it, he found professional wrestling. In that ring, the white noise was gone, replaced by inner music from a variety of sources. Sometimes it'd be Mozart, or Brahms, or Brendel if he needed to reach down into the dark recesses of his mind. Sometimes speed metal, sometimes Tiny Tim would sneak in there, and sometimes it would be a Mike Patton driven soundtrack. That seemed to work best for him.
The whole reason that he was in Mesquite was that he was traveling from Vermont to what would be his new home, at least temporarily. ECWF. He got a call, still not quite understanding why, or how it was that someone heard of him. Most of the shows he worked were in front of less than a hundred. Sometimes less than twenty, and in Vermont of all places. Ask the average person to pick out Vermont on the map, they'll probably point to Maine. But he got the call, and he had to make his way across the country to West Hollywood by January 5th. Unfortunately, he ran out of money and Mesquite was as far as he could make it. That was fine with him. He was resourceful. He needed to be to have made it this far.
Victor would also need it for his first match. He was facing a guy named John Blade. He looked up Blade online at the library a few days before setting out. The guy had just fought for a major title, and now he was wrestling against unknown, unlikely and unusual Victor Kall. The guy was bigger than him, stronger, way more athletic, and he rapped. Victor disliked him immediately. He reminded Victor of the kids who used to beat the crap out of him up until sixth grade. Up until he grew a couple of inches and got tired of the bullshit. Tired, tired enough to bring a tire iron to school and to rupture the ear drum of a kid named Marcos Rosales. Let Marcos hear the white noise for a change. Whoopsie, probably shouldn't have done that in front of so many people, Victor. There goes Victor (see how he runs), stay away from him, he's crazy, he tried to kill Marcos, he…
you're gone, but I'm there…
Stop! Focus. Victor needed money, and luckily Mesquite, as previously mentioned, was a microscopic wannabe Vegas. Plenty of people wandering out of casinos with their winnings. Men who had beautiful women on their arms, men who looked like adult version of Marcos Rosales. Men who looked like John Blade.
It was enough to make Victor nervous smile.
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Jan 1, 2024 18:02:23 GMT -6
[when time is now hit's John Blade comes out behind the curtains and starts talking through a Microphone while staring at twenty nine men in the ring]
John|Blade: Yo yo yo yo yo yo yo Friday nights from the second I hit the red screen to wearing thongs and phony afros on Victor Kall with . Hospitals are packed with wrestling fans they're getting Friday night Fever I'm scared of getting Sad Cow that's why all I eat is beaver And yo, I'm the best thing you can see on weekends Victor Kall, you were scaring me backstage doing those weird deep knee bends yo, yo, yo you stole my still last year that's the reason I got hot, bro I'm the best poetic genius since Victor Kall Yo, I'm so - I'm over the top I'm giving Kall fits Forget the match, let's go to The Bar so we can grab some []
John|Blade: I can't beat you, [ my sound goes out] he just like Muhammad Ali, he ain't no competition! and the fact that he got a contract is completely pathetic forget about his leg, this whole career is prosthetic Yo, this man is crazy, he's a freak, The body is plastic he should do both of us a favor, hop his ass into traffic Now, I guess, I guess we got Singles matches at Revolution, it seems I'm fighting a bunch of Hooligan, you're fighting Man of Steel Yo, yo, this man is half- assed, you're gonna knock off his block what's better than a one legged wrestler? Being able to walk! That's right, you do your thing bro, you do your thing
John|Blade: Yo Yo Yo Oh ho. [Blade chant distracts him] Yo. You forgetting John Blade You got rocks in brain Your gold was out in '96 You need sport a steel chain Now, now, you and Kevin are close friends And Heather Haze, she needs a bra that's not a match Kall, that's a menage a And when you all wrestle they'll be a full arena the match at Revolution Is Victor Hall/ John Blade Yo, you're not better than me Mike Dimter You're not even my equal. I'm like Terminator 2 You're like Legally Blonde sequel it makes me sick when you come out here and run your mouth We in the Big White North but you can bite white south
John|Blade: You can't see me, dawg Yo, you couldn't find one lines to rhyme if your brain had Lowjack How am I gonna get out battled by a wannabe Kojack.
|
|