A solitary figure, Stu-E stood with a quiet reverence, as if he were a guardian of the bridge's secrets. His silhouette was cast upon the weathered stones, a mosaic of uncertainty and purpose. The soft glow of a flickering streetlamp nearby danced upon his features, painting chiaroscuro patterns that wove tales of both strength and vulnerability.
The air held a tangible stillness, broken only by the intermittent whispers of the breeze as it brushed against the bridge's rusted girders. The scent of damp earth and forgotten dreams mingled, creating an atmosphere that was both heavy and enchanting. It was as though time itself had found a haven beneath this bridge, a place where it could slow its relentless march and linger.
Stu-E's gaze was fixed on the ebb and flow of the river that flowed beneath, its surface a canvas of liquid ebony, mirroring the stars above like fractured jewels. In those depths, it was as if he saw his own reflection intertwined with the river's secrets, a silent communion between the man and the water that carried the weight of countless stories.
The bridge's arches, adorned with graffiti that seemed to blossom like wildflowers in the moonlight, bore witness to the countless souls who had sought solace in its shadows. Stu-E's presence was a continuation of that legacy—a moment suspended in time, where the weight of the world could be set aside, if only for a breath.
“I said what happens next is on you and Draconis, didn’t I, Finn? I gave you both props for giving an old man like me a hell of a match, even said thank you. And this is what comes back to me?”
As the night slowly surrendered to the pale fingers of dawn, the dimness began to relent, allowing the bridge to emerge from obscurity. Stu-E's silhouette wavered as the first rays of light brushed against his form, as if the bridge itself was reluctant to release its grasp on him. And yet, in that juncture between darkness and light, Stu-E remained, an enigma woven into the tapestry of the bridge's whispered tales—a sentinel of the early hours, a witness to the city's secrets.
“Are you really that dumb? I didn’t get fined or suspended because it was planned all along. Go ahead and rewind the tape, no jukebox is going to have my theme music on it, is it? It’s a bloody part of a soundtrack from a movie in 1986. It’s never been in the charts, never released as a single; you bloody idiot.
Once you’re done watching the hired actors in the bar, fast forward a bit and watch me walk into that arena again. Listen to the reception, look at the faces of the people. They loved it. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what your interpretation of it is. Dumb bastard like you is just not on my level. You wrestle for the next twenty five years and you’ll never get a reaction like that, because you just don’t get it.”
Stu-E's steps were a study in contemplation, each footfall a deliberate connection between himself and the world around him. As he moved away from the dimly lit bridge, his presence seemed to carve a path through the dawn-kissed mist that clung to the streets. The world awakened with a gentle sigh, the city's heartbeat gradually syncing with the rhythm of his strides.
“Maybe I should leave Laney at home more often, it was a bit refreshing to carry on like I was in the run up to the pay-per-view. The worrying thing for a bitch like you is, you’re getting your knickers in a twist and I was just on a wind up. You’ve just shown the World that if I did decide to be a proper bastard, you’d be screwed.”
His posture held a quiet confidence, a subtle assertion of his place in the tapestry of existence. The faint light revealed the contours of his face, chiselled by life's experiences—a map of stories etched upon skin and bone. His eyes, though focused on the path ahead, held a glimmer of curiosity, as if he were perpetually attuned to the hidden narratives woven into the city's fabric.
“I do wonder, however, that you’ve come out saying I’m supposed to be the good guy in a vain attempt to cover up your own arse. It doesn’t matter what I do in an entrance or in a match, you’ll always be the piece of shit that locks an 8-year-old girl in a locker room and allows a sexual assault to take place in front of him. So go and compare the two videos. One video clearly shows an arena of thousands having a good time, and one is absolutely disgusting, I know which video I’d like to be remembered for.”
With each step, the soft rustling of his clothing created a counterpoint to the hushed symphony of distant traffic. His feet met the ground with a gentleness that belied the weight of his thoughts, as if he were treading upon fragile dreams, careful not to shatter them.
As he walked, his surroundings seemed to reshape themselves around him. The city unfolded like a scroll of possibilities, each corner turned revealing a new vista, a fresh vignette of life. He was both a participant and an observer, a silent wanderer who absorbed the world's details—the graffiti that adorned forgotten corners, the steam that rose from a street vendor's cart far away, the whispered conversations of strangers sharing morning secrets.
“Taking about being remembered, thanks for insinuating I’m so memorable and priceless I deserve to be in a museum, it almost brought a tear to my eye. Shame the best you can hope for is an episode of Dark Side of the Ring, because you’ll die a bastard and only sex offenders will mourn you.”
Stu-E's pace might have been measured, but it held a purpose that extended beyond mere locomotion. With each step, he added another layer to the city's ongoing narrative, his footprints mingling with those of countless others who had walked these same streets.
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