Post by Eli Martin on Jun 14, 2020 15:57:56 GMT -5
THEN..
Realizing the designated floor, the elevator chimes and peels open revealing a casually dressed Eli Martin; a heather gray cotton jacket zipped to his lower abdomen partially concealed the white tank beneath, satin-esque crimson athletic shorts clung to his waist, white tube socks with dual red horizontal stripes crawled up his deep calves, and Nike emblem flip-flops maintained his more relaxed posture.
He rounds the corner, scuffing down the fluorescent hallway until he reaches the room of his Father, John Thomas. A significantly older gentleman who, albeit, kept in great conditioning -- all things considered. Today marked his long anticipated release from the hospital; and it couldn’t have come sooner for the staff. John, as they had to discover the hard way, was stubborn and considerably strong; efforts to provide his medication were difficult and rarely without use of restraints or a sedative.
John Thomas:
“My boy..” His sights settle on his son, who barely pierces the threshold. He rises, pushing himself off the bedside to stand and properly greet him with a hug. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.” He periods with a low chuckle.
Eli Martin:
“Never Pop, never.” He broadcasts a partially assuring smile.
John Thomas:
“How’re you feeling?”
Eli Martin:
“I should be asking you that. You’re the one who’s recovering from a bullet wound.”
John Thomas:
“I’m doing as well as you’d expect for someone who has cheated death..fucking peachy! Especially now that I’m getting out of this shithole -- but I want to know about you. I could sense something was ‘amiss’ when we talked on the phone; it’s even more obvious now that you’re in front of me.”
Eli drew a sigh. His attempts at convincing him that he were worry free, futile.
Eli Martin:
“As you know, I recently acquired the SFT Hardcore Championship...notice I’m not wearing it. Truthfully, I don’t think I’m deserving of it.” John gives a perplexed look. “The week prior I fought and won the top contention, but I didn’t accomplish such a feat honorably. At the most opportune time, our match was impeded, after mercilessly beating on my opponent the attacker insisted on draping my arm over his chest therefore handing me the victory. An act that has haunted me ever since. It stings to wear it. I couldn’t so much as stomach the sight of it the night I won it, it just sat at my bedside, mocking me. So I stuffed it in a pillowcase where it will remain until I feel I’ve proven myself worthy.”
John Thomas:
“Eli, you possess a talent that is unlike anything I have ever seen. You fight with such fervor and ambition -- which is only heightened by your urge to learn, to never stop growing as a competitor. That is something I could never teach you. You either have it or you don’t. It’s why you’ve adapted to being a Pro Wrestler so effortlessly. Which is why I have no convictions about you being Hardcore Champion.”
Eli Martin:
“Thank you for saying that, but I’m afraid it isn’t entirely true. I don’t think I was going to beat The Accountant the second time around, in fact, I know I wasn’t. I’ve been on the winning side of nearly two hundred victories in my career, you don’t think I know when I’m on the verge of a loss? He had me right where he wanted me, and if Jack Jones hadn’t come out I wouldn’t be Champion right now. I’m still pissed at him, but I’d be lying if I ignored the true source of my frustration: myself.”
John Thomas:
“So, what, you’re going to punish yourself until you feel you’ve atoned for acts that were beyond your control? Son, you're not the one who is at fault here. But I know you. There’s no sense in me trying to convince you when your mind has been made up, stubborn fucker.” He softly chuckles. “On another note, I can’t wait till I’m cleared to return to work as your manager.”
Eli Martin:
“Take your time, the business isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
The scene concludes.
NOW..
Lethal Lottery. A tournament compiled of a number of teams that have been united by the sheer stroke of fate. Each individual fighting for the hopeful long shot they’ll see it to the end and cash in the opportunity to challenge an adversary of their choosing. Most, I’m fairly certain, will be staking their claim and making a beeline for the World Championship. I however, do not share the cliche’ desires of my professional peers as I believe a champion without his pride isn’t much of a champion at all. That being said, if I were to win the Lethal Lottery, there’s only one match I’d be interested in:
Eli Martin versus Jack Jones versus The Accountant for the Hardcore Championship in a Three-way Submission Only match inside the octagon.
Many will tilt their heads in confusion, baffled why I would settle for a match in which I’d have to DEFEND my own title over a shot at the World Heavyweight Championship; but it’s just as I suggested, the pride of a champion is everything! It’s the horns on a bull. The roar of a lion. The venom of a cobra. The talons of an eagle. Without it, he won’t survive. He’ll be easy pickings, an afternoon snack for the next predator who skulks from a nearby shrub. I refuse for that to be my fate, my legacy, the Lethal Lottery may be my sole chance to correct the oversight that was Titans 84.
Suffice it to say, I have been nothing short of vocal in my stance to acquire a rematch with the likes of The Accountant and Jack Jones for the sake of my pride. The Accountant too, has ceased rambling on about that night, claiming to share in my outrage and disgust, but not once do I recall him ever requesting another shot. Granted he’s made clear his stance on the Hardcore division; but this isn’t about that. This is about proving without a shadow of doubt that he is what he claimed to be: the better man between the two of us. Alas, all he’s managed to do leading to this moment, is prove he isn’t a man at all.
I would open the floor for dialogue by asking why, but I think we both know the truth. His ability as a technician was never questioned until the day he climbed into the ring with yours truly. My knowledge of holds greatly exceeded that of his own. Not to mention I was faster, tougher, etc.
It’s a no-brainer. Titans 84 was as close as he would ever get to a singles victory over me. The fact that he believes otherwise, I accept responsibility entirely. Jack Jones may have driven the nail into the coffin, but it was I who held it in place. I gave this egomaniacal windbag the impression that he could be my equal, even more ridiculous, my physical superior. For that I will endure the taunts of fellow competitors and uncertainty of the fans...that is until I can restore what was stolen from me. The upcoming match will serve as the latest chapter in our saga, nothing more nothing less. Even upon the match’s conclusion our business remains unresolved.
Staying on topic with this match, let's discuss the partners, shall we? I don’t know his partner personally, but his reputation precedes him. Rumpke has accomplished just about all there is to do in this business. I admire that. But more importantly, I respect it. My admiration and respect for him, however...that’s another story. I caught his last match with Apocalypse, it was monstrous, beyond words of measure. By the end, I was convinced that it wasn’t a wrestling match I’d just witnessed, as the two appeared to eliminate technique and implement brute force. It wasn’t about winning, it was about surviving. Leaving the ring under your own power. It left many to speculate just how much Rumpke has left in the tank after a performance like that..
I would go as far as to say, he’s got ‘enough’.
I’ve encountered men like Rumpke in my past. It isn’t glory or passion that drives them to accomplish the unfathomable, it’s the arousal of a good back and forth. The hopes of a formidable challenge, for lack of a better phrase, gives them a boner. Like a junkie needs his next fix or an alcoholic needs his next drink, they require that surge of adrenaline from a good struggle as it is in the moments of possible death where they truly feel alive. He’s tough and resourceful when need be, that much is certain. It makes him difficult to beat, but not impossible. The power in his attacks are evoked by rage, though it acts as resourceful fuel, it is limited. In addition to the fact that it takes twice as much energy for an individual to swing and miss as it does to make contact, I’m confident that by keeping my temperament in control and utilizing my teachings, I’ll be provided an opening in which I can turn his own power against him and he won’t see it coming. The brain becomes clouded in the midst of stressful situations where anger is summoned, even more so when alcohol is introduced, all of which played into his strengths when measuring up against Apocalypse. Both drink from the same well, so to speak. Fire can’t fight fire. And a minion of Hell couldn’t possibly exorcise a demon, and it was nonsensical for him to even attempt, but an upstanding, morally just, righteous human being would stand a better chance.
Then there’s my partner, who I would like to settle the nerves of, you can trust me to uphold my end of the bargain. Your focus would be better suited on establishing such a pivotal victory than me...I mean I'm pretty good, but that kind of attention would only embarrass me.
