Post by Roman Cripate on Jun 10, 2011 22:34:09 GMT -5
The haunting opening tones of Andrew Lloyd Websters Phantom of the Opera open the scene in addition to the EUW logo in the bottom right corner. Much rests in darkness, the dim lighting illuminating very little save for a battered wrestling ring. Portions of the canvas are torn off revealing the wood panels below, the middle ring rope on the left hand side is snapped in two and the far right corner has all three turnbuckles exposed, the pads long since forgotten. Standing in the middle of the ring is a moderate sized individual, a light green travelling cloak thrown over his shoulders and The Phantom's mask hiding his face. He remains still as the music continues to play and the brass section comes in causing a subtle reverberation around the room.
Phantom: “For far too long I wore the same moniker as the Sombre Negra. I was a vigilante set on bringing forth my own brand of justice. I was vindictive towards this business, filled with despair at what it had become. It's evolution had no reason to trouble me though; were it not for the process of natural selection I would not have achieved the heights that I did and the life I enjoyed would not have been possible. My rebellion lead to me becoming an outcast, the same fate as endured by all the great thinkers. Our ideas initially regarded as nothing but as they grow from ideas to ideals they pose a threat to the established oligarchy. Soon the roots begin to encroach upon theirs and it is at that time they step forth, bringing their collective might down to dispel the uprising. Their reliance upon the conservatism of human nature, their fondness for the status quo, once more serving them well as the proletariat fight their war in fear of the wrath that follows change.
Were it not for men such as Robespierre, Cromwell and Trotsky then change would be possible. As such, the horrors that followed their ideals have lead to the present polluted view on reform. Instead of these erstwhile leaders being viewed as paladins, they are instead a lesson to be learned, a lesson that is further reinforced by those in power day after day. “Change benefits no one save for those who lead it” they charge “and ultimately they too end as Robespierre slaughtered at the guillotine, like Cromwell's corpse defiled, or Trotsky removed from history.” As this message becomes clearer in our minds, repetition breeding familiarity, our ingenuity dissipates. Our individual identity slowly withers away until we are nothing but the collective mold, identical to those around us crafted in the likeness of those in power. We do not become mindless clones, instead we become power for their ideals and the truth becomes clearer that they too are the same as us, their forefathers the same too until ultimately we trace back to the one successful revolution. This truth however is masked by the fact that the revolution was suppressed, outside of our thought and thus we have no knowledge of it exposing the paradox of revolution, the power of indoctrination.”
The phantom shows the first sign of life as he looks around the room while walking towards the corner, his torso relaxed and his breathing controlled. Methodical in their delivery, his words linger in the air like the putrid stench of sweat. Looking down at the exposed turnbuckles he touches them momentarily before running his hands along the ropes, seemingly soaking in the essence of the wrestling ring. Getting to the other corner he looks down at the steel ring steps, the top half dented in the shape of a human face, scars of the years of abuse they appear to have endured. Looking up into the illuminated corner and the rows of wooden bleachers, the phantom begins again.
Phantom: “My revolution suppressed, I vanished from the face of the earth as I entered into exile. Serving my sentence I returned with a new focus, not on revolution but simply living up to the dreams I had held as a kid. Where as I was once called 'the best' I embraced riding shotgun to others. The self-promotion, the magnanimous actions, the glamorization of difference and subtle aloofness were replaced by the three founding principles that had guided me to the top of the wrestling world and had given me a platform to promulgate my believed abstractions; desire, dedication and determination. I was no longer that which had caused me to be branded a renegade, regarded as a reprobate, a fascimile of my true self and yet I was still seen as a threat.
My maverick past had left me with no future, my best attempts at reconciliation met by thousands of doubting Thomas'. I was forced to confront the fact that no matter how much I did to set myself apart from past, I was always going to be that man who had so nearly brought us to ruin. I was always going to be seen as David Koresh or Fred Phelps, a man who's perverted notions of the truth had nearly brought ruin to the establishment, had brought unwanted notoriety to that which so many held dear. No matter what I did I was never going to be truly embraced as I hoped to be. Though I was cheered, the truth was always there. That I was seen as the lesser of two evils, a charity case, or someone they sought to exalt for overcoming self-imposed obstacles. I was never going to be revered for my accomplishments. My return, an attempt to achieve my seemingly long forgotten dreams, was not going to work.”
Ducking out of the ring the phantom walks down the steps, his cloak flowing behind him as he walks into the shadows. Still following him, he ducks past a curtain hanging by a few solemn threads from the rod into the depths of the building. It appears to be in as much disrepair as the ring area; the occasional exposed water pipe dripping water which puddles on the dusty floor, cracked and broken dry wall exposing asbestos laced insulation and the occasional crackle of the long broken heating unit attempting to maintain an inhabitable temperature.
Phantom: “So I walked away. I vanished into the same abyss which I had come from to resurrect my career. The titles that I pursued and the fame I sought meant nothing if I was an embarrassment to myself. I had no inclination to continue along the path I had forged in wrestling so I stepped off of it and entered the uncharted world that was the rests of my life. I turned my back on the squared circle. Without looking back I ventured forth to a place where no one could find me, where my past was not an indictment on the person I truly was, where I was not adjudicated on preconceived notions.
Yet as I sat on the sideline slowly the addiction returned. As the addiction returned I became unable to face myself. When I was forced out of wrestling I swore that wouldn't be the end of me, that when I ultimately decided to call it a day it would be on my terms. I hadn't done that, not by a long shot. When I looked in the mirror I didn't see anything other than a failure, a coward who had given up the fight against his personal demons. I knew that I had to return to the wrestling ring. I knew that the dreams I had held as a kid of being a champion and the best in the world were still alive. I had tried to shove them into the darkest recesses of my soul and yet they refused to be contained. I knew that I had no choice but to come back.
To where was the question? Japan had long coveted my services, the one place that had accepted me when no one else would. The land of the rising sun was tempting but to accomplish my goals there was only one way to do so. I needed the world over to see me not a segment of it's population. I needed the largest wrestling company in the world, I needed Extreme United Wrestling.”
The phantom takes an abrupt right turn behind some scattered wooden crates and disappears into a locker room in shambles. He removes his cloak and drapes it over a folding chair without a seat before heading towards the one bench that is not broken or rotted through.
Phantom: “Yet there would always be me. No matter what I did, I would always hold myself back. I was the Phantom of the Opera... no, I was Erik. My genius was hidden because of an otherwise grotesque quality. It was not my face that caused the fans who saw me to turn back in fear but my past. It haunted me, stalked me like a scorned lover. No matter where I went I was going to be haunted by it unless I could put it behind me... or a veil in front. Was this cowardice though? In hiding from my past it was not only the bad that wouldn't be seen but the good. I had to ask myself whether the respect of my peers was worth trading for a fresh start.”
Now seated the phantom reaches up and slowly lifts off the black and white mask as he bows his head. Casting it aside, he looks up revealing another partial mask on his face, green across the eyes matching his attire.
Phantom: “Moving forward my past will stay there. For good or bad my path is not going to be altered by my prior transgressions. Nothing exists prior to Roman Cripate entering Extreme United Wrestling. No record exists of who or what he was prior to arriving. Nothing will affect his ... no my legacy. This mask does not define me as a person as a wrestler. It is merely a means to an end; a fresh start, a new beginning...”
Roman Cripate looks up at the camera and a small smile comes across his lips.
Roman Cripate: “A chance at retribution.”
Phantom: “For far too long I wore the same moniker as the Sombre Negra. I was a vigilante set on bringing forth my own brand of justice. I was vindictive towards this business, filled with despair at what it had become. It's evolution had no reason to trouble me though; were it not for the process of natural selection I would not have achieved the heights that I did and the life I enjoyed would not have been possible. My rebellion lead to me becoming an outcast, the same fate as endured by all the great thinkers. Our ideas initially regarded as nothing but as they grow from ideas to ideals they pose a threat to the established oligarchy. Soon the roots begin to encroach upon theirs and it is at that time they step forth, bringing their collective might down to dispel the uprising. Their reliance upon the conservatism of human nature, their fondness for the status quo, once more serving them well as the proletariat fight their war in fear of the wrath that follows change.
Were it not for men such as Robespierre, Cromwell and Trotsky then change would be possible. As such, the horrors that followed their ideals have lead to the present polluted view on reform. Instead of these erstwhile leaders being viewed as paladins, they are instead a lesson to be learned, a lesson that is further reinforced by those in power day after day. “Change benefits no one save for those who lead it” they charge “and ultimately they too end as Robespierre slaughtered at the guillotine, like Cromwell's corpse defiled, or Trotsky removed from history.” As this message becomes clearer in our minds, repetition breeding familiarity, our ingenuity dissipates. Our individual identity slowly withers away until we are nothing but the collective mold, identical to those around us crafted in the likeness of those in power. We do not become mindless clones, instead we become power for their ideals and the truth becomes clearer that they too are the same as us, their forefathers the same too until ultimately we trace back to the one successful revolution. This truth however is masked by the fact that the revolution was suppressed, outside of our thought and thus we have no knowledge of it exposing the paradox of revolution, the power of indoctrination.”
The phantom shows the first sign of life as he looks around the room while walking towards the corner, his torso relaxed and his breathing controlled. Methodical in their delivery, his words linger in the air like the putrid stench of sweat. Looking down at the exposed turnbuckles he touches them momentarily before running his hands along the ropes, seemingly soaking in the essence of the wrestling ring. Getting to the other corner he looks down at the steel ring steps, the top half dented in the shape of a human face, scars of the years of abuse they appear to have endured. Looking up into the illuminated corner and the rows of wooden bleachers, the phantom begins again.
Phantom: “My revolution suppressed, I vanished from the face of the earth as I entered into exile. Serving my sentence I returned with a new focus, not on revolution but simply living up to the dreams I had held as a kid. Where as I was once called 'the best' I embraced riding shotgun to others. The self-promotion, the magnanimous actions, the glamorization of difference and subtle aloofness were replaced by the three founding principles that had guided me to the top of the wrestling world and had given me a platform to promulgate my believed abstractions; desire, dedication and determination. I was no longer that which had caused me to be branded a renegade, regarded as a reprobate, a fascimile of my true self and yet I was still seen as a threat.
My maverick past had left me with no future, my best attempts at reconciliation met by thousands of doubting Thomas'. I was forced to confront the fact that no matter how much I did to set myself apart from past, I was always going to be that man who had so nearly brought us to ruin. I was always going to be seen as David Koresh or Fred Phelps, a man who's perverted notions of the truth had nearly brought ruin to the establishment, had brought unwanted notoriety to that which so many held dear. No matter what I did I was never going to be truly embraced as I hoped to be. Though I was cheered, the truth was always there. That I was seen as the lesser of two evils, a charity case, or someone they sought to exalt for overcoming self-imposed obstacles. I was never going to be revered for my accomplishments. My return, an attempt to achieve my seemingly long forgotten dreams, was not going to work.”
Ducking out of the ring the phantom walks down the steps, his cloak flowing behind him as he walks into the shadows. Still following him, he ducks past a curtain hanging by a few solemn threads from the rod into the depths of the building. It appears to be in as much disrepair as the ring area; the occasional exposed water pipe dripping water which puddles on the dusty floor, cracked and broken dry wall exposing asbestos laced insulation and the occasional crackle of the long broken heating unit attempting to maintain an inhabitable temperature.
Phantom: “So I walked away. I vanished into the same abyss which I had come from to resurrect my career. The titles that I pursued and the fame I sought meant nothing if I was an embarrassment to myself. I had no inclination to continue along the path I had forged in wrestling so I stepped off of it and entered the uncharted world that was the rests of my life. I turned my back on the squared circle. Without looking back I ventured forth to a place where no one could find me, where my past was not an indictment on the person I truly was, where I was not adjudicated on preconceived notions.
Yet as I sat on the sideline slowly the addiction returned. As the addiction returned I became unable to face myself. When I was forced out of wrestling I swore that wouldn't be the end of me, that when I ultimately decided to call it a day it would be on my terms. I hadn't done that, not by a long shot. When I looked in the mirror I didn't see anything other than a failure, a coward who had given up the fight against his personal demons. I knew that I had to return to the wrestling ring. I knew that the dreams I had held as a kid of being a champion and the best in the world were still alive. I had tried to shove them into the darkest recesses of my soul and yet they refused to be contained. I knew that I had no choice but to come back.
To where was the question? Japan had long coveted my services, the one place that had accepted me when no one else would. The land of the rising sun was tempting but to accomplish my goals there was only one way to do so. I needed the world over to see me not a segment of it's population. I needed the largest wrestling company in the world, I needed Extreme United Wrestling.”
The phantom takes an abrupt right turn behind some scattered wooden crates and disappears into a locker room in shambles. He removes his cloak and drapes it over a folding chair without a seat before heading towards the one bench that is not broken or rotted through.
Phantom: “Yet there would always be me. No matter what I did, I would always hold myself back. I was the Phantom of the Opera... no, I was Erik. My genius was hidden because of an otherwise grotesque quality. It was not my face that caused the fans who saw me to turn back in fear but my past. It haunted me, stalked me like a scorned lover. No matter where I went I was going to be haunted by it unless I could put it behind me... or a veil in front. Was this cowardice though? In hiding from my past it was not only the bad that wouldn't be seen but the good. I had to ask myself whether the respect of my peers was worth trading for a fresh start.”
Now seated the phantom reaches up and slowly lifts off the black and white mask as he bows his head. Casting it aside, he looks up revealing another partial mask on his face, green across the eyes matching his attire.
Phantom: “Moving forward my past will stay there. For good or bad my path is not going to be altered by my prior transgressions. Nothing exists prior to Roman Cripate entering Extreme United Wrestling. No record exists of who or what he was prior to arriving. Nothing will affect his ... no my legacy. This mask does not define me as a person as a wrestler. It is merely a means to an end; a fresh start, a new beginning...”
Roman Cripate looks up at the camera and a small smile comes across his lips.
Roman Cripate: “A chance at retribution.”
