Post by The Sky King on Apr 14, 2011 12:17:40 GMT -5
For Mr. Luck, the days after Back2Roots were the sweetest in his life.
It wasn’t until after the event was over, when the Las Vegas Commission decided to celebrate by hitting the Vegas Strip with a limo filled with the most expensive prostitutes money could buy, washed down with litres of champagne, that they realised just what had conspired: Every single other champion had failed. Their tears flowed like cheap wine, and they tasted so, so good to Luck. Why? Was he psychotic? What pleasure could he have found in the misfortunes of his peers?
Simple: He was the only champion who retained that night.
Titan was left to weep, Diabolik was left to bleed, and Bull? Well, that was one sweet result for Luck. After all the shit Bull loved to talk, seeing him absolutely dejected when the young Danny Tenfold hauled himself up the ladder and achieved his moment of glory was sweeter than a ton of sugar, and more fulfilling than the richest feast, which coincidentally is what Luck was hosting right now, albeit with only two others present. His parents.
His mind was focused mostly on his next match in EUW: Fallen One. After the jokes that were Chance Fusion and Superbitch collapsed and crumbled before his might, his next opponent was just as equally pathetic. It was like Luck was on some sort of elongated holiday, albeit one where he had to walk into the ring, punch someone in the face, send them collapsing to the mat, pin them and walk home.
He looked up across the tables: Silver platters heaped high. Bottles of fine wine strewn across the table, sitting on the linen tablecloth. Various meats and things piled up, shared between just three people. On Lucks own plate sat two small items of food: Laurices. Cooked rabbit foetus with their entrails baked inside them. He had picked up a fondness for them, both to make Zack sick, and simply because he felt that it made him even less like a common human being, and more like the person he wanted to be: Ruthless, murderous, the hunter. Something the fans would be sure to despise.
Luck took a quick drink of Madeira. He wouldn’t be getting what he wanted this week, though, since Fallen One was almost as universally despised as he was. Every time Fallen One walked out, the crowd would always fill the arena with jeers, and this week would more likely than not be no exception. What could Luck do? Unlike Fallen One, Luck was despised because he was a callous human being, one who held an intelligence he previously locked away by a dumb playboy persona. He was the ultimate façade in many aspects, least of all being the sheer cunning and power he held behind a small frame. Fallen One? He was despised simply because he stumbled around the ring, hit people and scared little children.
Speaking of a feeling of hatred, he table was uncomfortable. It was an aura of stifling tension. Even the rich dinner couldn’t prevent his mother and father exchanging glares which could murder a weaker being. Messy divorces tend to do that. Luck raised his head slightly, cupping his wine glass and taking another quick sip, noticing that his mother had taken to stare out his father, who had taken to jabbing his fork at the laurice on his own plate in the hope that it would somehow spontaneously combust. At least Ivy had the modicum of decency, something Luck really didn’t expect from a woman who had turned from a housewife into a biker chick, something that nearly made Luck lose his nerve after Oblivion returned and he could see their similarities.
Looking at his father, however, Luck felt reminded of EUW: A place pretending it has class, that it provides competition, but it doesn’t. Ironically, that’s how it would be next week, when Luck was going to face Fallen One. Oh, Fallen One, a man whom throws around the word ‘warrior’ as if it’s going out of fashion. Luck remembered he had one match with Fallen One. The Tag Team Championships were on the line. Oh yes, how the Fallen One bragged and chortled to his partner that they would be champions! They would carry the Empire on their taut shoulders! They would the poster-children! They would be Riveras little hand-groomed adopted sons, in line for every single goddamn accolade!
Luck won that match. The last he saw of poor little Fallen One was the stupid bastard laying on his back, watching the lights flicker and dance in the rafters. Another pang of bitterness stabbed into his stomach and twisted the blade: Even though Luck put down Fallen One and took the gold, snatched it from the arrogant brute, Fallen One still got a World Championship shot. Why? He was undeserving of one! A few lucky wins, and suddenly it’s an immediate rise into the top of the league, where he would fight for the shot at the grandest prize in wrestling today!
He lost. If Luck had the opportunity, he wouldn’t squander it, and he wouldn’t let some emo kid jacked up on poetry, mascara and razorblades snatch it from under his nose. Fallen One probably thought it was a walk in the park. After all, he’s been around the federation. He knows the Staff, the coridoors, hell, he’s laid with the mat so many times that they’re on first name basis, so why shouldn’t he expect a win?
Full circle: He thought the same with Luck too. Look how that turned out. Your previous accolades mean shit here. This is the future, not some little fucking playground where you got to run free when the federation was about as prestigious as a pile of steaming dog shit. No, this federation means something. When you return, you leave your fucking history at the door, and you step in that ring and make something of yourself, you don’t just waltz in, roaring to the crowd, wearing gladiator armor that’s been mass-produced by neckbeards, and pretend that you mean something.
Maybe he did mean something. After all, he got the World Championship shot. Luck drowned his jealousy with another sip of wine. And another. And a third. Luck cleared his throat, sick of seeing his father poke at the foetus of a rabbit, and sick of seeing his mother fondle a fork with all the intention of diving over the table and sticking it into his fathers barren eyes.
“Is the meal alright?” asked Luck, clutching at straws and hoping some form of menial conversation might spur some talk about himself. He wanted to get some reassurance that he wasn’t as worthless as EUW seemed to make him out to be.
“Yes, son.” Replied Ivy. “Are you alright, though?”
“Why do you ask?” asked Luck.
“Well, this Sunday you have a challenging match—“ started Ivy.
“Challenging, mother? Challenging? I am fighting a man whose braincells have long since evaporated.” Replied Luck calmly.
“Now now, Don’t try and pretend that he won’t be a challenge—“ started Ivy.
“It’s not pretending. I know I’m better than him. Hell, it’s a matter of FACT that I’m better than him. Why do you think he is a challenge? His size? His strength? His attitude?” probed Luck.
“His size and his strength. Don’t you lie: You know he could pick you up and toss you to the mat without so much as breaking a sweat.” Replied Ivy bluntly. Luck gave a small, toothy grin, nodding and admiring her telling it like it is.
“You’re right, he can, but that’s why I trained myself to move faster than my opponents. How will he slam what he can’t possibly catch?” replied Luck. “My size is my force multiplier: With it, I can move faster, hit quicker, and avoid his moves with so much more ease. Now, if I was some bulky, nameless generic beefcake, then I MIGHT just worry about facing an opponent like Fallen One..but I’m not. I won’t even go into intelligence, a second force multiplier of mine. When Fallen One thinks my chips are cashed, I’ll pull out an Ace and force him out of the game long before my time is up.”
“Confidence…I like it!” exclaimed Amos, choosing to jam his fork into a small pile of cabbage instead. “Beating Dogs of War saw a small increase in sales of your lone t-shirt, but might I add, that we will be adding another one to the range to imitate your sudden fondness for Ancient Roman culture!”
“Thanks.” Replied Luck half-heartedly. “It has interested me, as have many other aspects of history. The Spartans, The Persian Immortals, The Huns, The Mongols. The Goths, The Visigoths..I’m studying a lot more, and I can relate it to EUW quite well.”
“How?” asked Ivy, as if she was offended at her son becoming a bookworm. “I fail to see how delivering a punch to someone like Fallen One is something you can relate to…Sparta—“
“Lacedaemons mothers gave birth to men. So did you. At Platea and Thermopylae, it was the Spartans leading the spearhead against a much tougher opponent. Guess who is being groomed as the new head of the Empire since that big dumb fatass Titan left? Me. I’m going to lead my Grecian brothers, so to say, into battle with the EUW, and we will slaughter them with so much ease that Mithras himself will be forced not to accept it as a sacrifice.” Replied Luck with a swift intensity. Ivy nodded slowly.
“..But Fallen One?” wondered Ivy.
“Tougher opponent. Opponents like the Goths, Spartans and Huns made a living carving through opponents who believed they were tougher. Those opponents usually ended up as mere footnotes on history. Such is the fate that will befall Fallen One and…another certain superstar. But for this week, mostly Fallen One.” Replied Luck. Amos raised his head slightly.
“Oh? And can we expect this other certain superstar to be of a high calibre? Someone who will increase sales? Someone who you can handle, but someone who will help you carve your name into history?” probed Amos. Luck took a quick swig of Madeira, nodding at his father.
“Yes. His name is Oblivion.” Replied Luck calmly. Amos almost choked on his cabbage, retching loudly before somehow swallowing it. Amos glared at his son with bloodshot eyes, as if such a name was out-of-bounds to be said at a dinner table.
“Son, you seem to be growing madder. Now, this isn’t good for business on the surface, especially not with the planning stages of a new t-shirt in the works, but I think that you’re recent challenge to Oblivion might just increase demand.” Said Amos. In his mind, Luck envisioned himself diving across the table and cutting his fathers tongue out. Business was the last thing on his mind. EUW wasn’t about t-shirts and pleasing the fans, it was about stepping in the ring and absolutely annihilating your pathetic opponent.
“Yes, it might, but the last thing I have on my mind is putting my face on clothing. I just extended the challenge..or rather, said it aloud to the fat brute that is Titan, in the forlorn hope that Oblivion might stick his nose in, as he does with every single event that the EUW tends to hold, and accept my challenge. Alas, I fear I may have to destroy something close to him to get his attention..or simply wipe out Fallen One, injure him, put him in an ambulance, and that will encourage that white-knight pile of shit to run out and enforce his authority.” Muttered Luck, snatching up a pigs ear on his plate and taking a ravenous bite. Amos winced as he did.
“Son, I am personally proud of you that you want to hurt people, but shouldn’t you focus on Fallen One, and not Oblivion? Hurt your opponents as they come, not as they linger in the distance.” Stated Ivy. Luck nodded slightly.
“But that’s the thing about Fallen One..” replied Luck. His eyes darted to where his father continued to jab at the laurice. Angrily, Luck slammed his fork into the table just behind his plate, lodging a giant crack in it and splintering the wood. Amos flinched backwards in his chair, glaring at his son.
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!” yelled Amos.
“During a feast I personally oversaw the making of, I’d appreciate you not to act like my fucking uncouth savage opponent, and at least show a fucking modicum of goddamn respect. Now, at least Mom has eaten hers, even if she didn’t like it. I insist that you taste it, or I will repeal my challenge to Oblivion.” Spat Luck. His words were hollow, though: He had no interest in pulling back the challenge. Amos took the bait anyway, taking up the whole laurice and shoving it into his mouth, clenching his eyes tightly and chewing. Luck gave a satisfied nod: He hoped he would extend the same humiliation to Fallen One come Sunday. Such a sight might make Luck go insane from sheer delight.
“As I was saying: The thing about Fallen One is that he isn’t a big enough target to be worth totally focusing on. In fact, once I put down that ogre-like son of a bitch, I’m going to make my target clear: Oblivion. You see, much like his current place in the federation, Fallen One is nothing more than a mere sideshow, a distraction, a..starter to the main course, someone who will fall to their knees and bow before their new emperor.” Said Luck.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Amos, as if his son had gone mad. “You cannot treat your opponents in this way! Each and every one of them are—“
“Mere targets.” Interjected Luck bitterly. “Maybe if you were both better parents, then you might have some fucking faith in me!”
“Better parents? Hold your tongue! It is my money that is funding you in such..such….outrageous feasts!” spluttered Amos.
“Money does not equal good parenting.” Retorted Luck. “Fallen One will not be slain by a stray coin, he will be slain by the merciless supremacy that I will unleash upon him.”
“And it is I who encouraged you to train hard and well.” Spoke up Ivy. Luck smirked, pushing his chair away from the table and raising to his feet, turning away from them with his hands clasped behind his back.
“No, it was Dave who did that. You merely got me started and then forgot about me when you ran off with your new beau. After all, wasn’t it you who left me with father? Besides, it doesn’t even matter, because as I said: I don’t need strength or countless weight training to fight Fallen One. I’m fighting him on my terms, with my strengths, not injecting steroids and turning into some big stupid goon.” muttered Luck.
“…Are you certain you will defeat Fallen One?” asked Amos, trying to halt the bitter tide of Lucks words. “I know that fans are still doubtful about you, especially since you only defended your titles because you were put against Chance Fusion and—“ Luck spun around, slamming his fist into the table, causing the crack embedded within it to split and widen.
“YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK WHAT THE ‘FANS’ THINK?!?!” bellowed Luck. “I AM THE MASTER OF MY OWN DESTINY! OF MY OWN FATE! AND I DON’T NEED SOME SKINNY LITTLE SERFS TO TELL ME WHAT I AM AND AM NOT DOING RIGHT BY THEM!!!”
“Son..Calm down..” urged Ivy. Luck felt himself calm slightly, until:
“It’s these fans who line your wallet, son! You need to appeal to them or else you will lose money..perhaps even lose matches! How can fighting against Fallen One with the fans jeering you and putting you down even be possible? Such reactions to your being will surely demor—“started Amos.
“Stop right there.” Laughed Luck callously. “You think I give a fuck, Dad? Wow. That’s sweet of you. Really sweet of you. But the fact remains that I’m glad that they all hate me, and it will be a beautiful sound to appreciate when me and Fallen One step into that ring, because the arena will be flooded with nothing but jeers! THAT’S how warriors fight! Only cowards and sheep cannot fight without the fans cheering them on! I am beyond that, I am a warlord, an emperor! I have Lady Luck at my side, and I don’t need some fucking trollops judging me! Everything I do in that ring, everything I have done, is because of ME, DAVE and ZACK. No-one else has helped or otherwise bothered to lift a fucking finger! Maybe Fallen One needs to feed himself on negativity, but me? I couldn’t give a fuck even if they remained silent! I’m fighting because I want to start making an impact, start making a history, and do the fans matter? NO!”
The table fell silent for a few moments as Amos dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin, setting it down beside the china plate and getting to his feet.
“Thank you for the meal.” He uttered, bowing his head slightly before turning around and heading for the large maple door that beckoned towards the driveway where his Rolls Royce was parked. After a few minutes, the engine roared into life, the tires cracked the gravel, and the car left. Luck simply remained in the same position he was in when talking to Amos as Ivy rose to her feet, using her thumbnail to dig out a shred of meat before spitting it onto the plate. Luck took a glass of Madeira wine, watching as she did.
“Yeah, cheers.” She added before turning around. Luck spun around, walking after her with the wine glass still in his hand.
“What? Do you not like the truth? My aggression isn’t unfounded! I am sick of being doubted, sick of people thinking my opponents are vastly superior to me!” exclaimed Luck.
“I know..I understand..” replied Ivy blankly.
“Is that all you can say? Mother, when I destroy Fallen One, will it not make you proud? Will the tears of his family not quench your thirst? Will his sacrifice not please you?” asked Luck.
“Look, I don’t fucking like this whole..Roman attitude..thing you’ve suddenly gained! Sacrifices? Emperors? What happened to the you where you were some fun-loving kid I knew and loved? Preferring the company of prostitutes to…to…Centurions and shit!” exclaimed Ivy, throwing open the door and walking out. Luck stood in the doorway, watching her.
“It didn’t fucking work! It was a stupid time of my life! But now..now..I feel the power! I feel the supremacy! This is how I will make history! This is how I will smite my opponents! This is how I will destroy Fallen One and put his head in the foundations of the new Empire!” called out Luck.
“Alright son..” she muttered under her breath.
“By the way, Mom. I do appreciate your visit, and I do appreciate your vote of confidence, even if it is somewhat unmeant. After all, I know how tough Fallen One is, and I know he outmuscles me, and I wholeheartedly expected your reaction to my confidence, but I want you to do something for me. Something Oblivion will be doing almost to a fucking T: Sit in the bar with all your biker buddies, chomp down on peanuts and beers, and raise your head to the television on Monday night. There, you will witness Mister Luck destroying Fallen One. I hope his family is watching, so I can tear away a part of it. I want you to watch so you fucking know what I have become, what is becoming of me. When I put that son of a bitch down, and send him straight to the fucking hospital, then maybe you will open your eyes and see me as something more than the runt of the litter. His blood will stain the mat, my blood will not. When you see that happen, realise that it is the beginning of a new age, an age where I am emperor, an age where the elite take their rightful place where we stand over all. After Fallen One is destroyed, and the fans begin to both weep for their destroyed superstar and repent for the coming of the emperor, then set your eyes to one of your own: Oblivion.” Said Luck with a calm aggressiveness, his demeanour not changing from an eerie, stoic look upon his face. Ivy remained silent, the corners of her mouth twitching dangerously into a smile.
“I know son..Your talk doesn’t scare me. I know it will scare your opponents.” She muttered, climbing onto her motorcycle and firing the engine into life. Luck raised his left hand in a goodbye that he didn’t really mean. In his right hand, he clenched his fist.
“Then I hope it’s a fucking shock for you when it comes time that the gladiator is slain, the false prophet is executed, and the one true emperor stands over all.” Spat Luck, the wine glass smashing into shards in his hand.
It wasn’t until after the event was over, when the Las Vegas Commission decided to celebrate by hitting the Vegas Strip with a limo filled with the most expensive prostitutes money could buy, washed down with litres of champagne, that they realised just what had conspired: Every single other champion had failed. Their tears flowed like cheap wine, and they tasted so, so good to Luck. Why? Was he psychotic? What pleasure could he have found in the misfortunes of his peers?
Simple: He was the only champion who retained that night.
Titan was left to weep, Diabolik was left to bleed, and Bull? Well, that was one sweet result for Luck. After all the shit Bull loved to talk, seeing him absolutely dejected when the young Danny Tenfold hauled himself up the ladder and achieved his moment of glory was sweeter than a ton of sugar, and more fulfilling than the richest feast, which coincidentally is what Luck was hosting right now, albeit with only two others present. His parents.
His mind was focused mostly on his next match in EUW: Fallen One. After the jokes that were Chance Fusion and Superbitch collapsed and crumbled before his might, his next opponent was just as equally pathetic. It was like Luck was on some sort of elongated holiday, albeit one where he had to walk into the ring, punch someone in the face, send them collapsing to the mat, pin them and walk home.
He looked up across the tables: Silver platters heaped high. Bottles of fine wine strewn across the table, sitting on the linen tablecloth. Various meats and things piled up, shared between just three people. On Lucks own plate sat two small items of food: Laurices. Cooked rabbit foetus with their entrails baked inside them. He had picked up a fondness for them, both to make Zack sick, and simply because he felt that it made him even less like a common human being, and more like the person he wanted to be: Ruthless, murderous, the hunter. Something the fans would be sure to despise.
Luck took a quick drink of Madeira. He wouldn’t be getting what he wanted this week, though, since Fallen One was almost as universally despised as he was. Every time Fallen One walked out, the crowd would always fill the arena with jeers, and this week would more likely than not be no exception. What could Luck do? Unlike Fallen One, Luck was despised because he was a callous human being, one who held an intelligence he previously locked away by a dumb playboy persona. He was the ultimate façade in many aspects, least of all being the sheer cunning and power he held behind a small frame. Fallen One? He was despised simply because he stumbled around the ring, hit people and scared little children.
Speaking of a feeling of hatred, he table was uncomfortable. It was an aura of stifling tension. Even the rich dinner couldn’t prevent his mother and father exchanging glares which could murder a weaker being. Messy divorces tend to do that. Luck raised his head slightly, cupping his wine glass and taking another quick sip, noticing that his mother had taken to stare out his father, who had taken to jabbing his fork at the laurice on his own plate in the hope that it would somehow spontaneously combust. At least Ivy had the modicum of decency, something Luck really didn’t expect from a woman who had turned from a housewife into a biker chick, something that nearly made Luck lose his nerve after Oblivion returned and he could see their similarities.
Looking at his father, however, Luck felt reminded of EUW: A place pretending it has class, that it provides competition, but it doesn’t. Ironically, that’s how it would be next week, when Luck was going to face Fallen One. Oh, Fallen One, a man whom throws around the word ‘warrior’ as if it’s going out of fashion. Luck remembered he had one match with Fallen One. The Tag Team Championships were on the line. Oh yes, how the Fallen One bragged and chortled to his partner that they would be champions! They would carry the Empire on their taut shoulders! They would the poster-children! They would be Riveras little hand-groomed adopted sons, in line for every single goddamn accolade!
Luck won that match. The last he saw of poor little Fallen One was the stupid bastard laying on his back, watching the lights flicker and dance in the rafters. Another pang of bitterness stabbed into his stomach and twisted the blade: Even though Luck put down Fallen One and took the gold, snatched it from the arrogant brute, Fallen One still got a World Championship shot. Why? He was undeserving of one! A few lucky wins, and suddenly it’s an immediate rise into the top of the league, where he would fight for the shot at the grandest prize in wrestling today!
He lost. If Luck had the opportunity, he wouldn’t squander it, and he wouldn’t let some emo kid jacked up on poetry, mascara and razorblades snatch it from under his nose. Fallen One probably thought it was a walk in the park. After all, he’s been around the federation. He knows the Staff, the coridoors, hell, he’s laid with the mat so many times that they’re on first name basis, so why shouldn’t he expect a win?
Full circle: He thought the same with Luck too. Look how that turned out. Your previous accolades mean shit here. This is the future, not some little fucking playground where you got to run free when the federation was about as prestigious as a pile of steaming dog shit. No, this federation means something. When you return, you leave your fucking history at the door, and you step in that ring and make something of yourself, you don’t just waltz in, roaring to the crowd, wearing gladiator armor that’s been mass-produced by neckbeards, and pretend that you mean something.
Maybe he did mean something. After all, he got the World Championship shot. Luck drowned his jealousy with another sip of wine. And another. And a third. Luck cleared his throat, sick of seeing his father poke at the foetus of a rabbit, and sick of seeing his mother fondle a fork with all the intention of diving over the table and sticking it into his fathers barren eyes.
“Is the meal alright?” asked Luck, clutching at straws and hoping some form of menial conversation might spur some talk about himself. He wanted to get some reassurance that he wasn’t as worthless as EUW seemed to make him out to be.
“Yes, son.” Replied Ivy. “Are you alright, though?”
“Why do you ask?” asked Luck.
“Well, this Sunday you have a challenging match—“ started Ivy.
“Challenging, mother? Challenging? I am fighting a man whose braincells have long since evaporated.” Replied Luck calmly.
“Now now, Don’t try and pretend that he won’t be a challenge—“ started Ivy.
“It’s not pretending. I know I’m better than him. Hell, it’s a matter of FACT that I’m better than him. Why do you think he is a challenge? His size? His strength? His attitude?” probed Luck.
“His size and his strength. Don’t you lie: You know he could pick you up and toss you to the mat without so much as breaking a sweat.” Replied Ivy bluntly. Luck gave a small, toothy grin, nodding and admiring her telling it like it is.
“You’re right, he can, but that’s why I trained myself to move faster than my opponents. How will he slam what he can’t possibly catch?” replied Luck. “My size is my force multiplier: With it, I can move faster, hit quicker, and avoid his moves with so much more ease. Now, if I was some bulky, nameless generic beefcake, then I MIGHT just worry about facing an opponent like Fallen One..but I’m not. I won’t even go into intelligence, a second force multiplier of mine. When Fallen One thinks my chips are cashed, I’ll pull out an Ace and force him out of the game long before my time is up.”
“Confidence…I like it!” exclaimed Amos, choosing to jam his fork into a small pile of cabbage instead. “Beating Dogs of War saw a small increase in sales of your lone t-shirt, but might I add, that we will be adding another one to the range to imitate your sudden fondness for Ancient Roman culture!”
“Thanks.” Replied Luck half-heartedly. “It has interested me, as have many other aspects of history. The Spartans, The Persian Immortals, The Huns, The Mongols. The Goths, The Visigoths..I’m studying a lot more, and I can relate it to EUW quite well.”
“How?” asked Ivy, as if she was offended at her son becoming a bookworm. “I fail to see how delivering a punch to someone like Fallen One is something you can relate to…Sparta—“
“Lacedaemons mothers gave birth to men. So did you. At Platea and Thermopylae, it was the Spartans leading the spearhead against a much tougher opponent. Guess who is being groomed as the new head of the Empire since that big dumb fatass Titan left? Me. I’m going to lead my Grecian brothers, so to say, into battle with the EUW, and we will slaughter them with so much ease that Mithras himself will be forced not to accept it as a sacrifice.” Replied Luck with a swift intensity. Ivy nodded slowly.
“..But Fallen One?” wondered Ivy.
“Tougher opponent. Opponents like the Goths, Spartans and Huns made a living carving through opponents who believed they were tougher. Those opponents usually ended up as mere footnotes on history. Such is the fate that will befall Fallen One and…another certain superstar. But for this week, mostly Fallen One.” Replied Luck. Amos raised his head slightly.
“Oh? And can we expect this other certain superstar to be of a high calibre? Someone who will increase sales? Someone who you can handle, but someone who will help you carve your name into history?” probed Amos. Luck took a quick swig of Madeira, nodding at his father.
“Yes. His name is Oblivion.” Replied Luck calmly. Amos almost choked on his cabbage, retching loudly before somehow swallowing it. Amos glared at his son with bloodshot eyes, as if such a name was out-of-bounds to be said at a dinner table.
“Son, you seem to be growing madder. Now, this isn’t good for business on the surface, especially not with the planning stages of a new t-shirt in the works, but I think that you’re recent challenge to Oblivion might just increase demand.” Said Amos. In his mind, Luck envisioned himself diving across the table and cutting his fathers tongue out. Business was the last thing on his mind. EUW wasn’t about t-shirts and pleasing the fans, it was about stepping in the ring and absolutely annihilating your pathetic opponent.
“Yes, it might, but the last thing I have on my mind is putting my face on clothing. I just extended the challenge..or rather, said it aloud to the fat brute that is Titan, in the forlorn hope that Oblivion might stick his nose in, as he does with every single event that the EUW tends to hold, and accept my challenge. Alas, I fear I may have to destroy something close to him to get his attention..or simply wipe out Fallen One, injure him, put him in an ambulance, and that will encourage that white-knight pile of shit to run out and enforce his authority.” Muttered Luck, snatching up a pigs ear on his plate and taking a ravenous bite. Amos winced as he did.
“Son, I am personally proud of you that you want to hurt people, but shouldn’t you focus on Fallen One, and not Oblivion? Hurt your opponents as they come, not as they linger in the distance.” Stated Ivy. Luck nodded slightly.
“But that’s the thing about Fallen One..” replied Luck. His eyes darted to where his father continued to jab at the laurice. Angrily, Luck slammed his fork into the table just behind his plate, lodging a giant crack in it and splintering the wood. Amos flinched backwards in his chair, glaring at his son.
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!” yelled Amos.
“During a feast I personally oversaw the making of, I’d appreciate you not to act like my fucking uncouth savage opponent, and at least show a fucking modicum of goddamn respect. Now, at least Mom has eaten hers, even if she didn’t like it. I insist that you taste it, or I will repeal my challenge to Oblivion.” Spat Luck. His words were hollow, though: He had no interest in pulling back the challenge. Amos took the bait anyway, taking up the whole laurice and shoving it into his mouth, clenching his eyes tightly and chewing. Luck gave a satisfied nod: He hoped he would extend the same humiliation to Fallen One come Sunday. Such a sight might make Luck go insane from sheer delight.
“As I was saying: The thing about Fallen One is that he isn’t a big enough target to be worth totally focusing on. In fact, once I put down that ogre-like son of a bitch, I’m going to make my target clear: Oblivion. You see, much like his current place in the federation, Fallen One is nothing more than a mere sideshow, a distraction, a..starter to the main course, someone who will fall to their knees and bow before their new emperor.” Said Luck.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Amos, as if his son had gone mad. “You cannot treat your opponents in this way! Each and every one of them are—“
“Mere targets.” Interjected Luck bitterly. “Maybe if you were both better parents, then you might have some fucking faith in me!”
“Better parents? Hold your tongue! It is my money that is funding you in such..such….outrageous feasts!” spluttered Amos.
“Money does not equal good parenting.” Retorted Luck. “Fallen One will not be slain by a stray coin, he will be slain by the merciless supremacy that I will unleash upon him.”
“And it is I who encouraged you to train hard and well.” Spoke up Ivy. Luck smirked, pushing his chair away from the table and raising to his feet, turning away from them with his hands clasped behind his back.
“No, it was Dave who did that. You merely got me started and then forgot about me when you ran off with your new beau. After all, wasn’t it you who left me with father? Besides, it doesn’t even matter, because as I said: I don’t need strength or countless weight training to fight Fallen One. I’m fighting him on my terms, with my strengths, not injecting steroids and turning into some big stupid goon.” muttered Luck.
“…Are you certain you will defeat Fallen One?” asked Amos, trying to halt the bitter tide of Lucks words. “I know that fans are still doubtful about you, especially since you only defended your titles because you were put against Chance Fusion and—“ Luck spun around, slamming his fist into the table, causing the crack embedded within it to split and widen.
“YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK WHAT THE ‘FANS’ THINK?!?!” bellowed Luck. “I AM THE MASTER OF MY OWN DESTINY! OF MY OWN FATE! AND I DON’T NEED SOME SKINNY LITTLE SERFS TO TELL ME WHAT I AM AND AM NOT DOING RIGHT BY THEM!!!”
“Son..Calm down..” urged Ivy. Luck felt himself calm slightly, until:
“It’s these fans who line your wallet, son! You need to appeal to them or else you will lose money..perhaps even lose matches! How can fighting against Fallen One with the fans jeering you and putting you down even be possible? Such reactions to your being will surely demor—“started Amos.
“Stop right there.” Laughed Luck callously. “You think I give a fuck, Dad? Wow. That’s sweet of you. Really sweet of you. But the fact remains that I’m glad that they all hate me, and it will be a beautiful sound to appreciate when me and Fallen One step into that ring, because the arena will be flooded with nothing but jeers! THAT’S how warriors fight! Only cowards and sheep cannot fight without the fans cheering them on! I am beyond that, I am a warlord, an emperor! I have Lady Luck at my side, and I don’t need some fucking trollops judging me! Everything I do in that ring, everything I have done, is because of ME, DAVE and ZACK. No-one else has helped or otherwise bothered to lift a fucking finger! Maybe Fallen One needs to feed himself on negativity, but me? I couldn’t give a fuck even if they remained silent! I’m fighting because I want to start making an impact, start making a history, and do the fans matter? NO!”
The table fell silent for a few moments as Amos dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin, setting it down beside the china plate and getting to his feet.
“Thank you for the meal.” He uttered, bowing his head slightly before turning around and heading for the large maple door that beckoned towards the driveway where his Rolls Royce was parked. After a few minutes, the engine roared into life, the tires cracked the gravel, and the car left. Luck simply remained in the same position he was in when talking to Amos as Ivy rose to her feet, using her thumbnail to dig out a shred of meat before spitting it onto the plate. Luck took a glass of Madeira wine, watching as she did.
“Yeah, cheers.” She added before turning around. Luck spun around, walking after her with the wine glass still in his hand.
“What? Do you not like the truth? My aggression isn’t unfounded! I am sick of being doubted, sick of people thinking my opponents are vastly superior to me!” exclaimed Luck.
“I know..I understand..” replied Ivy blankly.
“Is that all you can say? Mother, when I destroy Fallen One, will it not make you proud? Will the tears of his family not quench your thirst? Will his sacrifice not please you?” asked Luck.
“Look, I don’t fucking like this whole..Roman attitude..thing you’ve suddenly gained! Sacrifices? Emperors? What happened to the you where you were some fun-loving kid I knew and loved? Preferring the company of prostitutes to…to…Centurions and shit!” exclaimed Ivy, throwing open the door and walking out. Luck stood in the doorway, watching her.
“It didn’t fucking work! It was a stupid time of my life! But now..now..I feel the power! I feel the supremacy! This is how I will make history! This is how I will smite my opponents! This is how I will destroy Fallen One and put his head in the foundations of the new Empire!” called out Luck.
“Alright son..” she muttered under her breath.
“By the way, Mom. I do appreciate your visit, and I do appreciate your vote of confidence, even if it is somewhat unmeant. After all, I know how tough Fallen One is, and I know he outmuscles me, and I wholeheartedly expected your reaction to my confidence, but I want you to do something for me. Something Oblivion will be doing almost to a fucking T: Sit in the bar with all your biker buddies, chomp down on peanuts and beers, and raise your head to the television on Monday night. There, you will witness Mister Luck destroying Fallen One. I hope his family is watching, so I can tear away a part of it. I want you to watch so you fucking know what I have become, what is becoming of me. When I put that son of a bitch down, and send him straight to the fucking hospital, then maybe you will open your eyes and see me as something more than the runt of the litter. His blood will stain the mat, my blood will not. When you see that happen, realise that it is the beginning of a new age, an age where I am emperor, an age where the elite take their rightful place where we stand over all. After Fallen One is destroyed, and the fans begin to both weep for their destroyed superstar and repent for the coming of the emperor, then set your eyes to one of your own: Oblivion.” Said Luck with a calm aggressiveness, his demeanour not changing from an eerie, stoic look upon his face. Ivy remained silent, the corners of her mouth twitching dangerously into a smile.
“I know son..Your talk doesn’t scare me. I know it will scare your opponents.” She muttered, climbing onto her motorcycle and firing the engine into life. Luck raised his left hand in a goodbye that he didn’t really mean. In his right hand, he clenched his fist.
“Then I hope it’s a fucking shock for you when it comes time that the gladiator is slain, the false prophet is executed, and the one true emperor stands over all.” Spat Luck, the wine glass smashing into shards in his hand.
