But then again, who are you to say what's supposed to be of normal human interaction? Where were these personality flaws written in to society as notoriety? You're forced in to a path, destined to follow it, plummeting to your final resting place. You constantly fight your deepest, and darkest temptations, your mind overcrowded with self-doubt.
You slowly become a zombie within your existence.
But the intelligent ones have found an alternate route to enjoying their deepest fantasies.
I live on the human temple of others; flesh and blood. Not a vampire, that bullshit isn't anything more than a holiday tradition. I take in their flesh, fighting soul drenched within its soft tissues. I drown in their blood, quenching my thirst of power with theirs. I'm not the type to have the pointed canines, transform in to a bat, or scorched by sunlight. No, i'm a different beast. I dress the same, eat the same, and talk the same. Death is a step below me, and hell isn't anything but a burden.
I'm the spitting image of you, which makes me even more terrifying.
________________________________________
"This is the finale, eh?" Ronnie said to himself, his Air Forces scuffing against the pavement with each step.
Antonino Romano wanted to be remembered as one of the greatest. But when was Romaniac ever really that good? Sure he hit a couple high spots in his career, and a strong gust of wind pushed him along even further, but he's never been respected. Maybe that's what he forgets; or he figures he can push himself past that doubt.
Who the #### knows, it's still a mystery, right along with his winning streak. Four matches, and four pinfall wins. Mind you I said "pin", because the general consensus is that he wasn't the better man. But ask him, and the egomaniac reveals his true self, he becomes the person he hates to watch. He becomes an overly confident prick, simply following within the path that others had started before him.
He'll tell you he hates me with a passion, but then whom did he grab this new swagger from? Who does he begin to act, dress, and adopt the mannerisms of? Oh ####ing right, you guessed it. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery, right?
Thanks Dick.
Antonino Romano pinned me in a non-title match. There you go, I’ll admit it. He had a great night, and ended up being the top dog in the industry. Now he's been dragging it out for the last couple months. He's earned it apparently, riding the storm that was weak talent and a dead division.
Good for him.
Ronnie's eyes struggled to remain open, the calmness of the Atlantic Ocean numbing his body and mind. His spine tingled as his pace slowed to a crawl. Everything around him began to creep at the same pace, forcing a smile across his face. He had one thought in his mind, lingering around since spawning earlier that morning.
Romano isn’t respected.
The night was dark and gloomy, leaving the shadows to roam along the ground, creating an eerie sensation of fear and curiosity. Thunder boomed above, as if shaking the earth with each crack. Lightning occasionally cracking, filling the sky with it's only sense of luminosity. Even the moon was hidden beneath the thick sheets of clouds, leaving the darkness to cast its reign of depression on all those standing beneath it.
"Perfect night for a funeral." I thought aloud.
The ground was damp from the rain, my shoes no longer the store bought white, as they continued to be caked with the mud squishing beneath, with each step taken. My coat and pants drenched, sticking to my body, and feeling as if they weighed fifty pounds more. If it weren’t such an important funeral, I would've never been out in this weather. I'd be lucky if hypothermia hadn't already started to settle in.
As I continued down the mud-covered path, I could begin to make out the rows and rows of white chairs lined up on the wet grass. The seats soaked, and covered with mud, as if they hadn’t been used at all. In fact, as I continued to get closer, I could make out that in fact, they hadn't been touched.
Poor bastard. I thought. He wasn't even getting the proper burial he deserved.
As I continued my way to the chairs, lightning cracked in the sky, giving a millisecond of light for which I could see the emptiness before me. I could make out some of the words streaking down them, written on white sheets of paper with a black marker.
Butch Parker... Eddie Phoenix... Logan Neilson... Hans von Richtoven.
All empty, never been sat on, and sitting uselessly before the casket at the head of the chairs. I walked through the middle of the thirty rows of chairs, taking a look at each name smeared on the back of the seat.
Talon Wilkinson... Senester.
Every seat empty, and casting a lonely presence among the funeral. I then took a pack of cigarettes from my inner jacket pocket, and tried lighting one up. An awful habit, I know. Finally, on the fourth match, I managed to get one lit, and took a long, relaxing drag, exhaling slowly.
As I finally made my way to the lonely podium, near the casket, I rummaged throughout my inner coat pockets yet again, looking for the folded notepad paper I had place din their earlier.
Finally finding it, I pulled it out, and tried to mask it from the rain with the hood of my coat.
Stepping up to the podium, I looked at the empty chairs and smiled. I then began my eulogy for whomever was listening.
"Antonino “Maniac” Romano. Gone too soon, yet not soon enough. An underachiever, yet arrogant enough to think he had some sort of special talent. Simply a fool whom masked himself with false aspirations and promises. He was the type of man to say one thing, and do another. Give his word, and break it within the same sentence. He consistently represented every scumbag walking the streets today. He wasn't the greatest, merely a spot holder for a dying corporation. He should've strongly considered his retirement."
I took another drag as the sky cracked, once again illuminating the cemetery, still showing the emptiness before me. I'm sure had someone come out and seen me, they'd thought I was nuts. If they only knew. Exhaling, I continued.
"F*ck you. Au Revoir." I finished as I folded the paper back up, and tossed it carelessly on the grass.
Almost done. I thought.
Bending over to pick up the shovel laying beside the casket, I spit on to the chest of the man laying within the wooden box, still smiling given the conditions of this shitty night.
"Now he had the proper burial." I said, as I kicked out the pulleys holding the casket above the earth. With an echoing crack, the coffin tumbled to its side, dumping the face of the man that once was. His face smashed into the cement floor, as it stuck to the surface, his skull breaking into numerous pieces. Then grabbing the shovel, I began covering the casket, water dripping from my hair, allowing me to taste the salty sweat dripping from my head.
F*ck him. Bury him.
________________________________________
So this is it, eh? The match that is going to decide who is better than the other; I'm looking forward to it Romano, I can't remember the last time I came hard at an opponent. I can't remember the last time I gave a ####. But watching you ride your one damn win over me into the ground like a b*tch rides her favorite dress every weekend has made me sick to my stomach. If Antonino Romano is walking out with the World title, you know something isn't right.
But you can all relax; I think I've got it figured out. I can see where you got this tremendous push from. You made that HUGE comeback, losing like usual, then you hit your stride. Starting taking ideas from the mainstreamers, started to turn yourself in to a carbon copy of Ronnie McNeil. You'd take my style and run with it, butchering it, yet catching the eye of the ultimate half-wit, Senester.
It's straight, you're just suffering from a man crush.
But what I haven't figured out, is what ever made you think you were so f*cking good? You've never established yourself with the big players. You've been robbing people of wins, and its been tough to figure out how.
You're still bush league, b*tch.
You want edgy? You should check out the bullshit you toss out week in and week out. Basically thirty minutes of the same idea refurbished with different words. You're not saying anything new, Dick. You've just managed to turn a sentence in to a drawn out, choppy piece of shit. But apparently that's what they look for.
No talent necessary.
Ronnie McNeil, YOUR World Heavyweight Champion, never fell off.
He just stopped giving a f*ck.
But thank you Romano...because you finally managed to get a rise out of me.
You don’t think Romano...Senester does your thinking for you.
You want to be a corporate champion, and that’s your first f*ckup. The second was thinking that one damn win was enough for you to believe that you could REALLY have a chance of taking this title from around my waist.
Since you’re already on your knees Romano, lemme shoot the shit to you while you’re down there...because that’s exactly where you will be at the end of our match...
On your knees, begging me to spare your career and reputation. And I’m just gonna knock you the f*ck out with my Flashing Lights.
You wanna talk about consequences? There are none for me, because I’m not the one that has to answer to a master when I fail. That’s your cross to bear. You’re the one who has to walk back into Dark Horse Towers and face little boy blue Talon and your “lord” Senester, explaining to them why you stand before them empty handed, broken and beaten. There will be no concubines like Talon has for you Romano, no corporate dinners with the legends of this business, no limousine riding, no G-5 jet flying, no bonus checks or perks for you, Romano.
Nobody likes a corporate kiss ass Romano…and I’m going to put you out of your misery.
I’m the best damn wrestler in the world, and you’re not even the best copy.
#verbalslaughter
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