Post by The Sky King on Sept 16, 2011 8:49:07 GMT -5
On the plane to Rome, Italy, Maynard Hetfield reached into the pocket of his black leather blazer, pulling out what appeared to be a small book. Placing it on the desk over his lap, upon which sat a glass of champagne, Hetfield unfolded it, admiring the scribbles he had placed.
He gave a small smile, reading through the previous entries, tracing his fingers across the words before pulling a small blue ballpoint pen out from the spine of the diary, scribbling a few notes down as he read.
---
Monday 5th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today, I received the card.
Me and Brett Cross are scheduled to lock horns in battle next Sunday. With TITAN as the special referee.
Sometimes, the Asylum feels like a complete fucking joke. Like someone wants to deliberately piss me off. Remember the times when beating a man one on one in an elongated battle of wits, strength and iron determination was enough to deem you as a king? Now, we proud wrestlers degrade ourselves in matches like this, where one wrestler stands by as the referee, almost sure to sway things in his favour, while the other two fight until the inevitable dagger plunging into the back.
It’s not even a competition or gladiatorial battle anymore, it’s a complete fucking farce. Why does TITAN have to get involved? Wow, the run up to Prestige, big fucking deal! Do I look like I care? Why do you think I cut my own promo on Monday and didn’t bother getting involved with TITAN and Cross? Why indeed? Because I am above them. I am so high above them that I can barely see them for the clouds. It disgusts me to think that, on the grandest stage the Asylum has to offer, I’ll be lowering myself into competing in a triple threat match against two opponents who are about as athletic as a walnut.
I really can’t stand this shit.
Either way, I drove down to Vegas, picked up a few bottles of SoBe, drove back home, and then proceeded to pound out a training session that would make Muhammad Ali look like Fred Rogers. Weights, cardio, stamina, a circuit…everything possible. I trained until my body literally could not go anymore, which took two hours and eight minutes. Men have their limits, but I feel mine can be delayed if I keep training like I did today. Yet I’m having trouble holding the fucking pen as I write this.
Still miss Zack and Dave. Wonder what they thought of last week? I make it no secret for my disdain of garish belts and Hall of Fame signet rings, but my guess is that it really does surprise them. I always was a materialistic guy, but that time has come and gone. I am a hunter now. A man looking for respect and looking to be feared. I go out there every fortnight, and I hear the same shit from those profligates in the back: “I will change the world!”, “I will be the best!”, or the words that usually vomit forth from the mouth of Cross: “I will be a God!”
That’s all a pile of utter fucking wank and bullshit. I’m sick of hearing it. They all say it, but they don’t ever, EVER act on it. They say they change the world, but then fade into the crowd to hop onto the background. When I say I want to change the world, I will. When I win that World Championship, I will throw it aside and instead proclaim myself as the ruler of the fucking kingdom. I don’t need a belt. I only need to point at the bodies lying at my feet.
That will signal my growth into the emperor.
I only need them to kiss my feet. Cross will be the first. Should TITAN get involved, then he will be the second.
I fucking hate my job sometimes. Cleaning blood out of lycra and from under your fingernails is difficult.
Tuesday 6th September 2012
Dear Diary,
After yesterdays training session, I didn’t do much today except reflect on my life.
Only kidding, I sat on my arse all day watching “Band of Brothers” while indulging in as many liquids as I can. Joe warns me that my lifestyle will turn my liver into a smooth pate before I’m forty, I told Joe that may be the case, but I actually want to die with a smile on my face as opposed to dying at a hundred with all my memories scrambled by Alzheimer’s.
That being said, I wonder if a good hit from Cross will knock me out and onto the mat with permanent brain damage? He’s a pretty huge guy, so that’s kind of a worry. I mean, if he hugs me, my head just might explode if he squeezes hard enough.
Fuck it, life’s too short for worrying. I can focus my attention on Cross later in the week. I’ll destroy him like Muck and Penkala just got destroyed by a German shell in the Battle of the Bulge. I’m not afraid of him. Winning a Royal Rumble? Former Lionheart Champion? Yawn. It’d be more impressive if he could lift a flatbed truck with his dick.
Not much to talk about today. I’ll train more tomorrow. Until then, it’s the usual: Answer the fanmail (1000 pieces, each one bragging about how they’ll kill me and dispose of the remains, to which I usually answer “You know where I live, how far can you get before I tear your throat out and shove it up your ass?”), drink the alcohol, and discuss merchandising with father. He loves my new attitude. He says the attitude is what got him to the top. That attitude of getting to the top by any means necessary.
Too bad he’s not my father by blood. If he did, I might have smiled at his comments.
The thought of facing Brett Cross hasn’t really given me much to dwell on. We’ve crossed paths before, but it’s never been anything remotely interesting. Each time we crossed paths, I gazed up at him fearfully. This week? I honestly don’t care. Cross is simply standing in my way. I have other things to do in this federation, and facing Cross is the last thing on my mind. That said, I have to face him at Prestige. Him and TITAN.
Called up Amos again. Discussed the possibility of purchasing the majority of shares in the Asylum and gaining ownership. He told me to wait.
Empire’s don’t wait long.
Until then, I guess I will have to beat Brett Cross. Sigh.
Thursday 8th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today saw yet more training. More phonecalls. More ‘fanmail’. More negotiations.
Being a future emperor is a busy task. If you do not keep a fist planted firmly upon your empire, then it will crumble underneath the pressure of its own foundations.
Our empire is currently lorded over by several men: Mark Rivera, Xplode, TITAN and Brett Cross. Four men completely incapable of doing anything other than making this place into a walking joke. Rivera has been long overdue for some karmic retribution, and yet he is kept around. Why? I don’t know. I personally don’t know how I’ve managed to hang on without tearing out his goddamn liars throat. He’s booking me against Brett Cross and yet he swaggers away drinking champagne while I sit here in bed, my arms pulled and stretched and feeling like they might just fall off if I stretch them so much as a centimetre.
I booked my tickets for Rome today. I won’t be doing much sight-seeing, though. I’m there for business and solely for business. Caesar never spent much time in Rome itself when he was out on conquests, and neither did the great warlords such as Scipio Africanus and Pompey. Rome was nothing more than a hub for them, as it will be for me. I will showcase my dominance, and move onto the next city we’re booked for. These constant flights are beginning to sicken me, though. First Moscow, and now Rome. I’m sick of flying. Makes me feel as if I’m being jerked about like a puppet.
The only positive thing about fighting in Rome is that it won’t be on anyones home turf. Not Cross’s, not TITANs, not mine. We’ll all be on practically equal footing in this match. If anything, it’ll favour me: I’ll be in the shadow of greatness. Greatness radiating from figures such as Caligula and Nero. I’ll feel my senses heighten in this match. What better place to prove my worth for taking the throne of the Asylum than in Rome itself? Beating Cross will certainly prove it. But what’s the point when it comes to it? I beat Cross, and we’ll be doing the same bloody shit in a fortnight.
I’m getting disillusioned with the Asylum at the moment. I feel disconnected with it. I’d rather be out there drinking with Dave and Zack, but instead I’m a puppet trying to tear off his strings. An emperor waiting to be crowned, yet men like Xplode, TITAN, Brett Cross, Immanuel Taylor, Bane and James Hart are seen as more important. Why? What is the point of it all? Does the crowd honestly know what bullshit this is? I’ve worked my ass for over a year. I’ve changed my style. I’ve reached to beyond the ether and grasped my opportunities. I’ve wiped out legends with a flick of my wrist, and yet I’m second fiddle to some Viking.
I can’t wait to get my hands on him.
Gods can bleed, Cross. I’m going to prove it, my dear diary. I’m going to fucking prove it. Every single step he takes, I will be two steps ahead. Every move he attempts, I will find the counter. Every time he opens his mouth, a swift kick to his jaw will shut it.
But what about TITAN?
What about him?
A weenie dog has more bite than that stupid fuck.
World Titles are meaningless to me. They’ll learnt that when I tear them both into pieces.
Drank some more today. It’s starting to lose its buzz.
Took Jonesy out for a walk. No sign of Rex, oddly enough. Despite being huge, he’s relatively quiet. I’ll go out and search for him later. I have the feeling he went looking for Dave. I honestly can’t blame him. The house is empty without them.
Going to cry myself to sleep tonight. Makes a change from the drink.
Just a few more days. Then I can smack Cross in his mouth.
Feel happier already!
Friday 9th September 2012
Dear Diary,
For fun, I placed my laptop under my 1936 Lincoln Zephyr and drove over it repeatedly. What a pile of fucking shit that laptop was. It was very fun to hear the cracks and crunches. I imagine that’s the sound Brett Cross would make if I repeatedly ran over him. It was an incredibly satisfying thing to do. The tires didn’t even pop or get a hole in them either. Definitely money well spent on this beauty.
I’m finding myself blacking out occasionally. Like, periods of time will just erase themselves from my mind. One time, I woke up from one of these blackouts in front of a shattered bathroom mirror with blood on my hands. Today, I came to tearing the feathers out of my pillow. I don’t know what it is. My body just goes on autopilot. I feel nothing but anger during those periods. A primal rage that can’t be controlled. I feel it flowing through my body with all the heat of lava.
Luckily, I haven’t woken up actually hurting a living thing.
Honestly, sometimes I scare myself. Earlier today, I was pounding away at a punching bag for one hour while muttering obscenities about Brett Cross under my breath. This huge, fat, ugly Viking thinking he can beat me? A Roman Emperor? An Imperator? This heathen has no right standing before me. I’m sick of it, and I’m sick of him calling himself a God.
And that fucking TITAN too. What a cunt. Who capitalises every letter of their name as if they’re important? Bullshit. Walking around with that title strapped to his waist, acting as if it gives him special powers. We’ll see if it does: Maybe he can fly when I shove it up his ass and make it a part of his internal organs.
So sick of this right now. What’s the point of even wasting energy going to the arena? Show up, beat Brett Cross, TITAN goes ‘Blargh’, collect paycheck, leave, world gets to fuck off. Then in a fortnight, Cross goes “I did nae mean ta lose, cap’n! It was a fluke, laddie!”, then TITAN goes “I ARE CHAMPION.”
It’s predictable, it’s bland, and I want to gouge out my eyes and pull off my own damn ears whenever I see and hear it. It’s no wonder I was placed into the event (Aside from cashing in my briefcase, obviously), they needed to make it better, so they called on my services. When Maynard Hetfield walks into the ring, the ratings go up.
But even I cannot turn water into wine.
Speaking of wine, I might grab a quick drink before turning in.
Saturday 10th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today, I tried something different. I tried pouring rum on my cornflakes. No, it didn’t work. In fact, it tasted horrible. Like hillbilly moonshine without the kick. Jesus.
Anyway, did a little bit more research on Brett Cross, which involved me and Joe watching old matches while sharing a bottle of vodka and some microwave popped popcorn. Cross is one huge, mean son of a bitch. But you already knew that, diary. I could literally fill pages upon pages with metaphors linked to Cross’s size and strength. Of course, that’s when I realise that is all Cross has going for him: Size and strength.
When I broke down Taylor systematically last week, it drove something into my skull faster than a slug from a Colt Python: Physicality was what would drive me to the top. All Taylor had were fancy moves, technical moves, and the occasional submission. All the flips, all the dancing? When it comes down to it, a well placed kick can drop a grizzly bear if done right.
Of course, I told that to Joe..and well, Diary, his reaction was less than what I expected. Time to change pen again..
Joe – “Hetty, are you fucking nuts? Kicking people is meant for Mixed Martial Arts! You’re not meant to make yourself into the next Fedor, you’re supposed to be making yourself the single most dangerous son of the bitch IN THIS FEDERATION. Not the Octagon. Kicking won’t get you many places, you have to deal it out in different ways like you have been doing. Don’t get arrogant and believe that simple kicks and punches is what made you win against Taylor: It was technique, it was a controlled frenzy, and it certainly wasn’t the madness you’ve succumb to. You were more controlled out there than you have been in here. That’s what you should be thinking about, not kicking your opponent in the face until they don’t get up.”
Me – “Uh, Joe, isn’t that the entire point? Beating a man until they don’t get up?”
Josef – “Well, yeah, but going out there with the sole plan to kick an opponent in the teeth is going to get you bit, pardon the pun. Cross is taller and larger than Taylor, and it won’t be as easy as jumping up and slamming your kneecap into his jaw. You’ve got to fly, you’ve got to roll with the momentum, and the way to do it is to control yourself once again. A controlled frenzy can unleash hell on him.”
Me – “Controlled frenzy? The only reason I was controlled out there is because I knew Zack and Dave were watching, and because I knew Taylor was a ground-based technician with a penchant for submissions. Cross is a man who likes to keep things slow while he bats his opponent around the ring like a kitten with a ball of yawn. Controlled won’t cover it this week, bud. If Cross pisses me off, I am going to lose it, and I am going to focus on just plain hurting him. Hell, if Titan so much as tries to fuck with me, I’ll kick his fucking skull in and break his fucking eyesockets.”
Joe – “Hetty—“
Me – “Joe, fuck off, alright? Both these men have held titles, and I can already smell their sour breath whenever they laugh at me. They think titles mean something. They think their size means something. I KNOW something is going to go down in that match, and that is why I am going to unleash a fucking hurricane-like frenzy if they try to fuck with me. You think I care about the size of Cross? The size of TITAN? I don’t give a fuck if they’re a Rumble winner, a former World Champion, a former Lionheart Champion..Whatever. To me, they are simply a giant, fat waste of good carbon that could be used to make a second Halle Berry, but is instead wasted on two pasty fuckwits. To me, both men are viable targets. I get in that ring, and I’m no longer twitching and going “PLEASE! NOT THE FACE!” No, it’s me going in that ring, and telling me to either start swinging or start dying. I don’t care about accomplishments, and I don’t care about them. If I want to go out there and kick them so hard they die from a fucking aneurysm, THEN SO BE IT!! I WON’T LET CROSS OR TITAN LOOK DOWN ON ME FOR ANOTHER SECOND!! I’ll kick them so goddamn hard their grandchildren will come out with scraps of leather in their ass! I will do what I want, when I want, and neither you, nor Cross, nor that giant pile of shit TITAN is going to stop me. Comprende, amigo? Now shut up and let’s watch Cross. See that? Look? He moves around the ring as fast as old people fuck. You’re telling me kicking his legs repeatedly won’t do anything? Piss off!”
That’s as much as I can write without running out of ink.
After polishing off the popcorn and vodka, I gave Jonesy and Rex a bath. Rex had been missing for a few days since he had wandered out in search of Dave. I found him busy rubbing his back against an old bush out near the driveway. I imagine that’s how Cross scratches an itch as well.
By the way, doggie shampoo? Doesn’t really taste that nice. Had to get rid of the taste with some Sauvignon Blanc. So much for easy thrills, huh? Anyway, it’s eleven o clock and I’m off to bed. Probably won’t write tomorrow since I have better stuff to do. Like take Jonesy to the vet for his check-up. Can’t let my eye off Jonesy now. He’s all I have left. That and Joe, but I feel that Jonesy is a lot more hygienic and loveable. Joe’s bodyguards just irritate me. He’s only hanging around to give me company since Dave and Zack are gone.
Might visit them at the end of next week. We’ll see.
Monday 12th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today, me and Jonesy went out for a walk. A long walk. A very long walk, out into the Mojave. The sun kissed my brow and sweat clogged my pores, but I felt ALIVE! Why did I go out for a walk that lasted three entire hours with nothing more than my dog, two bottles of iced water and one bottle of Sailor Jerry and coke for company? Well, simple: Norsemen like Brett Cross train better in the cold, I train better in the heat.
Up in the far northern reaches of Scandinavia, where the Vikings dwelled, was a cold, harsh wasteland inhabited by the very few. I did my research on it today. Turns out that the whole horned helmet thing is just a joke and they never actually wore them. Odd. However, it also struck me that Cross is his size because of his genetics. See, if you were some kind of skinny little bastard, the kind you’d see hanging on street corners in Las Vegas lifting their shirt for pennies and revealing the extent of the orange stains that those profligates call a “tan”, then the Vikings probably wouldn’t give you the courtesy of death, and instead leave you to die out in the tundra where polar bears and wolves can feast upon your carcass and pick their teeth with your splintered ribcage. Yum.
Underestimating an opponent has been a common mistake in many human beings for far too long, but I don’t underestimate Cross. Genetically? I will stand up and admit he is better than me (Although only because I haven’t bothered with haplogroup testing yet. Note to self: Apply for haplogroup test) After all, if you were descended from the ferocious Vikings, the northern heathens, the Norsemen, wouldn’t you have a natural advantage? You are built to destroy and you are built to last. You may pack on more spare tires than the Michelin man, but it’s been proven countless times that Vikings have a one thousand percent better chance of picking you up and simply slamming your face against the floor until you don’t get up again.
Coincidentally, that happens to be Cross’s wrestling style.
Tomorrow, I will train my body to unleash better and faster kicks. The kicks I unleashed against Taylor certainly got the job done, while my “Divine Rage” finisher probably slammed a hole into his chest. It’s been tested and proven, so there is no point in changing the moves or tactics for Cross. The moment he grabs, it’s over. The body odour will numb me, the sour breath will knock me out, and then he’ll proceed to forcibly shove my head up my asshole before bouncing me like a basketball. As long as I can keep moving, keep kicking his head, keep bouncing off the ropes and unleashing strikes at him, then he simply won’t have time to recover.
Looked up krav maga earlier. It might be worth getting some training it, but that’s another idea for another day. I am not going to distract myself. Cross is the bear in the room and dealing with him will not be simple. Not without Dave. My own bear. Dave. Still resting in hospital. Zack, still resting in hospital.
I’m still alone. All I’ve got are Joe and Jonesy.
Kicking Taylor’s skull in felt fun, though. It felt better actually getting stuck in and kicking away at him until he collapsed, as opposed to whizzing around like a fly on methamphetamine and hitting him with exotic and flashy maneuvres. I have a feeling that kicking Cross’s head in will feel even better than it did kicking Taylor’s head in.
Mom called earlier. She’s off to a rally. Ava gets to stay until Friday! I pick her up tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I should really check out that space under my bed. I swear, if there is Nazi gold under there, then it’s goodbye Asylum and hello Tahiti!
Still alone. Miss Dave and Zack. But the thought of fighting Cross is making me very, very excited. If I manage to hurt the Viking, then the world will be forced to look up at me. A former Lionheart Champion, falling to me? That will allow me to prove that the belts mean absolutely nothing, and it is all about the fight in the dog, as opposed to his titles and distinctions.
Okay, that made no sense, but fuck it. I’m going to find out just how many kicks it takes to get the centre of a Viking pop.
Wednesday 14th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Two days until I go and visit the hospital. I’m putting it off because my mind is busy wrestling itself and trying to decide which I have to care about more: Cross or Zack and Dave. I already know what I care about more. Cross has never been anything more than a man who overcompensates for his weaknesses by bulking himself up past his genetics and for throwing his weight around. This so-called ‘Viking King’ is nothing more than a mere peasant. Much like Danelaw never lasted long in England, neither will Cross’s reign of supremacy in the Main Event scene. He believed he was some sort of God when he held that Lionheart Title, and yet he still carries that same attitude even after throwing it to the ground and pointing at the World Title.
This is what is making our federation suffer. This is the cancer eating away at the body. The belief that rewards are all we should aim for, rather than aiming to make ourselves better as the months grow on.
Cross has always been the same: Large, angry, slightly dominant and aiming for a title. TITAN is almost an exact carbon copy: Large, angry, dominant and aiming for a title. Look at me: I started off as a Kid, I grew into a man. I didn’t need titles to do it. I grew from the sweat of my brow and watching my knuckles crack into a mans jaw. I grew from flying into the air, touching the face of God and then turning my body into a weapon against my opponent. I grew by turning my back on the fans and turning to the opponents and solely the opponents, trying to win no matter what, whether through demotivation through abductions or simply hitting them until they don’t get up.
I evolved. Cross? Climbed a ladder. That’s all.
Even now, staring at Prestige, I feel NOTHING. Do you, my dear Diary, want to know why I’m going for Prestige? It’s not for the World Championship. It’s rarely ever been about the World Championship.
It’s about becoming the emperor.
It’s about hurting TITAN and Cross.
You say titles are what makes a man? What if a man makes those viewed as immortal and unstoppable BLEED? What if that man destroys the men viewed as modern-day Gods?
No, it was never about the World Championship. It was always about becoming feared and respected.
The first step begins Sunday. I will continue to evolve. Cross will climb a ladder. I don’t care if I’m SLIGHTLY dependant on alcohol. I don’t care if my mind drags itself between loving Zack and Dave and hating Cross. All I care about is getting the job done that I started when I set foot in this federation with bright eyes.
The brightness has gone. The coldness is visible.
I want to hurt Cross.
I want to hurt Cross.
I must hurt Cross.
I must hurt Cross.
I must hurt Cross.
I MUST HURT CROSS.
Thursday 15th September 2012
I want to hurt Cross.
Today, I trained harder than ever.
I want to hurt Cross.
I threw weights. I crunched my abdomen. I hit the treadmill.
I want to hurt Cross.
I can feel something growing inside of me. A ball of fire intent on escaping and wiping out all it touches.
I want to hurt Cross.
Prestige is coming. Soon, the emperor will ascend to the throne. Soon, the Asylum’s cancer will be forcibly cut out, and it can heal again.
I want to hurt Cross.
No more to men who only aim for prizes. In my world, you aim to become the best, you aim to become the deadliest, you aim to become the most dangerous. You will be in my world, Cross.
I want to hurt Cross.
My world is different. I will not stand still and let you hurt me, nor will I let that fat fucking fool get involved either. I will wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until he stops breathing.
I want to hurt Cross.
I want to prove my dominance. I want to show all those jeering sycophants that I am, quite simply, the greatest to ever set foot into a ring. I want to give them something to fear.
I want to hurt Cross.
The only way to measure a man is to measure the blood scabbed on his hands.
I want to hurt Cross.
The world’s about to get a lot colder. This federation is about to get a lot darker. This ring is about to get bloodier.
I WANT TO HURT CROSS.
Get ready. Hell rises on Sunday.
Friday 16th September 2012
Dear Diary,
I took the day off today and went down to the hospital.
Zack was asleep. It was eleven in the morning.
Sad thing is that it took me two hours of talking to him before a Nurse saw me and shunted me along, giving me the weirdest look ever. Stupid bitch. I enjoyed talking to him. Gave him a card. A box of chocolates. Made me feel better at least. Made me feel less alone. I promised him that I would beat Cross, so I can't fail now.
Although I might just break that promise if Cross pisses me off or TITAN screws me around. Beating the absolute living hell out of either man would be infinitely more fun than winning a match. You're a champion? BAM! Kick to the head. Your fucking title didn't protect you, did it?! HAHA! YEAH!
Anyway, I was shunted into Dave's room, gave him his card. He was up. Apparently responding well to treatment. The fracture is still healing, but they feel he'll be starting the more strenuous physical treatment sometime shortly. He won't be back to protect me during Prestige, but the sight of him looking much better at least gave me some hope.
Hope is a powerful thing. It's carried men countless times.
Anyway, we had a conversation. Time to change pens again.
”Hetty. I saw you beat Taylor last week. You did a brilliant job!”
”Thanks, Dave.”
”You seem…different, though. Despondent. Tired. Are you alright?”
”Been a tough fortnight, my friend. Forcing myself up to train. Forcing myself to go beyond the boundaries. Do you know how difficult it is without moral support? Do you know how difficult it is when you realise that your opponent is probably just messing about, twiddling his thumbs and doing nothing but shit-talking you? I mean, in all honesty, that’s all Cross does nowadays. That Lionheart Title reign made him nothing more than a stoic giant, content with settling for second best.”
”So that’s why you said what you said two weeks ago. I was watching and wondering why you were talking about how meaningless titles were, and how wrestlers were circus puppets. It makes a sick sort of sense now that I put more thought into it.”
”Doesn’t it just? Beating Cross and TITAN will simply reinforce more truth in my words."
"So, you believe the titles are meaningless? An interesting way to see things."
"In the past, titles were the only thing that mattered. But i've grown up. Stopped being a child. Titles are meaningless. It's about making history! Defeating the opponents seen as invincible! My feud with Oblivion simply reinforced that in my mind. There were no titles involved, but we set the world on fire! We shook the world by the throat! Yet, we were overshadowed by World Titles and Royal Rumbles for contendership. Why? It was a feud that was two of the greatest gladiators doing battle in the Coliseum, and yet all eyes weren't on us."
"The fans are fickle. They believe titles are what makes a man, as opposed to the journey he took to reach the title."
"I know, my friend. I know. But on Sunday, I can at least show how a true gladiator fights. I can at least show the fans what to expect when I take that title at Prestige and throw it away in favour of brutality, strength and discipline instead of glory-hounding, sycophancy and mediocrity. When I take Cross and snap his limbs like twigs, then I will show the world just how little those titles mean. They call me mad. They call me undisciplined....but they don't realise that I am the future of this company, and that I am going to change the very foundation of it."
It is time for change. It is time to kick out Cross and TITAN and give this place a new hope. New life. It is time to give them leaders who command fear and respect while giving them a reason to stand up and believe, giving them a reason to stand up and fight rather than waiting their turn! It is time that we stood up, threw away the titles and said “No, I will be seen as a warrior, not a patsy.” It is time that we began again, and proved that being a warrior and a gladiator is more important than being a spokesman and a politician! It is time that I took the reins and showed these youngsters that the only way to become a legend is to fight amongst the best and get blood on your hands, not just wait for the opportunity to fight for a ultimately-meaningless title.
Cross, your Lionheart reign meant nothing. TITAN, your World Championship reign means nothing.
At the end of it, both of you are still mere mortals. No amount of posturing can stop that.
No amount of talking can make either of you better gladiators.
No amount of praying will save you.
The change begins now.
---
Hetfield shut his diary, slipping it into the inside pocket of his leather blazer, laying back against his plane seat and closing his eyes, giving his beard a small, rough scratch and yawning loudly.
Hetfield: “…Time to start making changes to this fucking place..”
Revolutions never happen overnight.
But once the fires start burning, it is nigh-on impossible to put them out.
He gave a small smile, reading through the previous entries, tracing his fingers across the words before pulling a small blue ballpoint pen out from the spine of the diary, scribbling a few notes down as he read.
---
Monday 5th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today, I received the card.
Me and Brett Cross are scheduled to lock horns in battle next Sunday. With TITAN as the special referee.
Sometimes, the Asylum feels like a complete fucking joke. Like someone wants to deliberately piss me off. Remember the times when beating a man one on one in an elongated battle of wits, strength and iron determination was enough to deem you as a king? Now, we proud wrestlers degrade ourselves in matches like this, where one wrestler stands by as the referee, almost sure to sway things in his favour, while the other two fight until the inevitable dagger plunging into the back.
It’s not even a competition or gladiatorial battle anymore, it’s a complete fucking farce. Why does TITAN have to get involved? Wow, the run up to Prestige, big fucking deal! Do I look like I care? Why do you think I cut my own promo on Monday and didn’t bother getting involved with TITAN and Cross? Why indeed? Because I am above them. I am so high above them that I can barely see them for the clouds. It disgusts me to think that, on the grandest stage the Asylum has to offer, I’ll be lowering myself into competing in a triple threat match against two opponents who are about as athletic as a walnut.
I really can’t stand this shit.
Either way, I drove down to Vegas, picked up a few bottles of SoBe, drove back home, and then proceeded to pound out a training session that would make Muhammad Ali look like Fred Rogers. Weights, cardio, stamina, a circuit…everything possible. I trained until my body literally could not go anymore, which took two hours and eight minutes. Men have their limits, but I feel mine can be delayed if I keep training like I did today. Yet I’m having trouble holding the fucking pen as I write this.
Still miss Zack and Dave. Wonder what they thought of last week? I make it no secret for my disdain of garish belts and Hall of Fame signet rings, but my guess is that it really does surprise them. I always was a materialistic guy, but that time has come and gone. I am a hunter now. A man looking for respect and looking to be feared. I go out there every fortnight, and I hear the same shit from those profligates in the back: “I will change the world!”, “I will be the best!”, or the words that usually vomit forth from the mouth of Cross: “I will be a God!”
That’s all a pile of utter fucking wank and bullshit. I’m sick of hearing it. They all say it, but they don’t ever, EVER act on it. They say they change the world, but then fade into the crowd to hop onto the background. When I say I want to change the world, I will. When I win that World Championship, I will throw it aside and instead proclaim myself as the ruler of the fucking kingdom. I don’t need a belt. I only need to point at the bodies lying at my feet.
That will signal my growth into the emperor.
I only need them to kiss my feet. Cross will be the first. Should TITAN get involved, then he will be the second.
I fucking hate my job sometimes. Cleaning blood out of lycra and from under your fingernails is difficult.
Tuesday 6th September 2012
Dear Diary,
After yesterdays training session, I didn’t do much today except reflect on my life.
Only kidding, I sat on my arse all day watching “Band of Brothers” while indulging in as many liquids as I can. Joe warns me that my lifestyle will turn my liver into a smooth pate before I’m forty, I told Joe that may be the case, but I actually want to die with a smile on my face as opposed to dying at a hundred with all my memories scrambled by Alzheimer’s.
That being said, I wonder if a good hit from Cross will knock me out and onto the mat with permanent brain damage? He’s a pretty huge guy, so that’s kind of a worry. I mean, if he hugs me, my head just might explode if he squeezes hard enough.
Fuck it, life’s too short for worrying. I can focus my attention on Cross later in the week. I’ll destroy him like Muck and Penkala just got destroyed by a German shell in the Battle of the Bulge. I’m not afraid of him. Winning a Royal Rumble? Former Lionheart Champion? Yawn. It’d be more impressive if he could lift a flatbed truck with his dick.
Not much to talk about today. I’ll train more tomorrow. Until then, it’s the usual: Answer the fanmail (1000 pieces, each one bragging about how they’ll kill me and dispose of the remains, to which I usually answer “You know where I live, how far can you get before I tear your throat out and shove it up your ass?”), drink the alcohol, and discuss merchandising with father. He loves my new attitude. He says the attitude is what got him to the top. That attitude of getting to the top by any means necessary.
Too bad he’s not my father by blood. If he did, I might have smiled at his comments.
The thought of facing Brett Cross hasn’t really given me much to dwell on. We’ve crossed paths before, but it’s never been anything remotely interesting. Each time we crossed paths, I gazed up at him fearfully. This week? I honestly don’t care. Cross is simply standing in my way. I have other things to do in this federation, and facing Cross is the last thing on my mind. That said, I have to face him at Prestige. Him and TITAN.
Called up Amos again. Discussed the possibility of purchasing the majority of shares in the Asylum and gaining ownership. He told me to wait.
Empire’s don’t wait long.
Until then, I guess I will have to beat Brett Cross. Sigh.
Thursday 8th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today saw yet more training. More phonecalls. More ‘fanmail’. More negotiations.
Being a future emperor is a busy task. If you do not keep a fist planted firmly upon your empire, then it will crumble underneath the pressure of its own foundations.
Our empire is currently lorded over by several men: Mark Rivera, Xplode, TITAN and Brett Cross. Four men completely incapable of doing anything other than making this place into a walking joke. Rivera has been long overdue for some karmic retribution, and yet he is kept around. Why? I don’t know. I personally don’t know how I’ve managed to hang on without tearing out his goddamn liars throat. He’s booking me against Brett Cross and yet he swaggers away drinking champagne while I sit here in bed, my arms pulled and stretched and feeling like they might just fall off if I stretch them so much as a centimetre.
I booked my tickets for Rome today. I won’t be doing much sight-seeing, though. I’m there for business and solely for business. Caesar never spent much time in Rome itself when he was out on conquests, and neither did the great warlords such as Scipio Africanus and Pompey. Rome was nothing more than a hub for them, as it will be for me. I will showcase my dominance, and move onto the next city we’re booked for. These constant flights are beginning to sicken me, though. First Moscow, and now Rome. I’m sick of flying. Makes me feel as if I’m being jerked about like a puppet.
The only positive thing about fighting in Rome is that it won’t be on anyones home turf. Not Cross’s, not TITANs, not mine. We’ll all be on practically equal footing in this match. If anything, it’ll favour me: I’ll be in the shadow of greatness. Greatness radiating from figures such as Caligula and Nero. I’ll feel my senses heighten in this match. What better place to prove my worth for taking the throne of the Asylum than in Rome itself? Beating Cross will certainly prove it. But what’s the point when it comes to it? I beat Cross, and we’ll be doing the same bloody shit in a fortnight.
I’m getting disillusioned with the Asylum at the moment. I feel disconnected with it. I’d rather be out there drinking with Dave and Zack, but instead I’m a puppet trying to tear off his strings. An emperor waiting to be crowned, yet men like Xplode, TITAN, Brett Cross, Immanuel Taylor, Bane and James Hart are seen as more important. Why? What is the point of it all? Does the crowd honestly know what bullshit this is? I’ve worked my ass for over a year. I’ve changed my style. I’ve reached to beyond the ether and grasped my opportunities. I’ve wiped out legends with a flick of my wrist, and yet I’m second fiddle to some Viking.
I can’t wait to get my hands on him.
Gods can bleed, Cross. I’m going to prove it, my dear diary. I’m going to fucking prove it. Every single step he takes, I will be two steps ahead. Every move he attempts, I will find the counter. Every time he opens his mouth, a swift kick to his jaw will shut it.
But what about TITAN?
What about him?
A weenie dog has more bite than that stupid fuck.
World Titles are meaningless to me. They’ll learnt that when I tear them both into pieces.
Drank some more today. It’s starting to lose its buzz.
Took Jonesy out for a walk. No sign of Rex, oddly enough. Despite being huge, he’s relatively quiet. I’ll go out and search for him later. I have the feeling he went looking for Dave. I honestly can’t blame him. The house is empty without them.
Going to cry myself to sleep tonight. Makes a change from the drink.
Just a few more days. Then I can smack Cross in his mouth.
Feel happier already!
Friday 9th September 2012
Dear Diary,
For fun, I placed my laptop under my 1936 Lincoln Zephyr and drove over it repeatedly. What a pile of fucking shit that laptop was. It was very fun to hear the cracks and crunches. I imagine that’s the sound Brett Cross would make if I repeatedly ran over him. It was an incredibly satisfying thing to do. The tires didn’t even pop or get a hole in them either. Definitely money well spent on this beauty.
I’m finding myself blacking out occasionally. Like, periods of time will just erase themselves from my mind. One time, I woke up from one of these blackouts in front of a shattered bathroom mirror with blood on my hands. Today, I came to tearing the feathers out of my pillow. I don’t know what it is. My body just goes on autopilot. I feel nothing but anger during those periods. A primal rage that can’t be controlled. I feel it flowing through my body with all the heat of lava.
Luckily, I haven’t woken up actually hurting a living thing.
Honestly, sometimes I scare myself. Earlier today, I was pounding away at a punching bag for one hour while muttering obscenities about Brett Cross under my breath. This huge, fat, ugly Viking thinking he can beat me? A Roman Emperor? An Imperator? This heathen has no right standing before me. I’m sick of it, and I’m sick of him calling himself a God.
And that fucking TITAN too. What a cunt. Who capitalises every letter of their name as if they’re important? Bullshit. Walking around with that title strapped to his waist, acting as if it gives him special powers. We’ll see if it does: Maybe he can fly when I shove it up his ass and make it a part of his internal organs.
So sick of this right now. What’s the point of even wasting energy going to the arena? Show up, beat Brett Cross, TITAN goes ‘Blargh’, collect paycheck, leave, world gets to fuck off. Then in a fortnight, Cross goes “I did nae mean ta lose, cap’n! It was a fluke, laddie!”, then TITAN goes “I ARE CHAMPION.”
It’s predictable, it’s bland, and I want to gouge out my eyes and pull off my own damn ears whenever I see and hear it. It’s no wonder I was placed into the event (Aside from cashing in my briefcase, obviously), they needed to make it better, so they called on my services. When Maynard Hetfield walks into the ring, the ratings go up.
But even I cannot turn water into wine.
Speaking of wine, I might grab a quick drink before turning in.
Saturday 10th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today, I tried something different. I tried pouring rum on my cornflakes. No, it didn’t work. In fact, it tasted horrible. Like hillbilly moonshine without the kick. Jesus.
Anyway, did a little bit more research on Brett Cross, which involved me and Joe watching old matches while sharing a bottle of vodka and some microwave popped popcorn. Cross is one huge, mean son of a bitch. But you already knew that, diary. I could literally fill pages upon pages with metaphors linked to Cross’s size and strength. Of course, that’s when I realise that is all Cross has going for him: Size and strength.
When I broke down Taylor systematically last week, it drove something into my skull faster than a slug from a Colt Python: Physicality was what would drive me to the top. All Taylor had were fancy moves, technical moves, and the occasional submission. All the flips, all the dancing? When it comes down to it, a well placed kick can drop a grizzly bear if done right.
Of course, I told that to Joe..and well, Diary, his reaction was less than what I expected. Time to change pen again..
Joe – “Hetty, are you fucking nuts? Kicking people is meant for Mixed Martial Arts! You’re not meant to make yourself into the next Fedor, you’re supposed to be making yourself the single most dangerous son of the bitch IN THIS FEDERATION. Not the Octagon. Kicking won’t get you many places, you have to deal it out in different ways like you have been doing. Don’t get arrogant and believe that simple kicks and punches is what made you win against Taylor: It was technique, it was a controlled frenzy, and it certainly wasn’t the madness you’ve succumb to. You were more controlled out there than you have been in here. That’s what you should be thinking about, not kicking your opponent in the face until they don’t get up.”
Me – “Uh, Joe, isn’t that the entire point? Beating a man until they don’t get up?”
Josef – “Well, yeah, but going out there with the sole plan to kick an opponent in the teeth is going to get you bit, pardon the pun. Cross is taller and larger than Taylor, and it won’t be as easy as jumping up and slamming your kneecap into his jaw. You’ve got to fly, you’ve got to roll with the momentum, and the way to do it is to control yourself once again. A controlled frenzy can unleash hell on him.”
Me – “Controlled frenzy? The only reason I was controlled out there is because I knew Zack and Dave were watching, and because I knew Taylor was a ground-based technician with a penchant for submissions. Cross is a man who likes to keep things slow while he bats his opponent around the ring like a kitten with a ball of yawn. Controlled won’t cover it this week, bud. If Cross pisses me off, I am going to lose it, and I am going to focus on just plain hurting him. Hell, if Titan so much as tries to fuck with me, I’ll kick his fucking skull in and break his fucking eyesockets.”
Joe – “Hetty—“
Me – “Joe, fuck off, alright? Both these men have held titles, and I can already smell their sour breath whenever they laugh at me. They think titles mean something. They think their size means something. I KNOW something is going to go down in that match, and that is why I am going to unleash a fucking hurricane-like frenzy if they try to fuck with me. You think I care about the size of Cross? The size of TITAN? I don’t give a fuck if they’re a Rumble winner, a former World Champion, a former Lionheart Champion..Whatever. To me, they are simply a giant, fat waste of good carbon that could be used to make a second Halle Berry, but is instead wasted on two pasty fuckwits. To me, both men are viable targets. I get in that ring, and I’m no longer twitching and going “PLEASE! NOT THE FACE!” No, it’s me going in that ring, and telling me to either start swinging or start dying. I don’t care about accomplishments, and I don’t care about them. If I want to go out there and kick them so hard they die from a fucking aneurysm, THEN SO BE IT!! I WON’T LET CROSS OR TITAN LOOK DOWN ON ME FOR ANOTHER SECOND!! I’ll kick them so goddamn hard their grandchildren will come out with scraps of leather in their ass! I will do what I want, when I want, and neither you, nor Cross, nor that giant pile of shit TITAN is going to stop me. Comprende, amigo? Now shut up and let’s watch Cross. See that? Look? He moves around the ring as fast as old people fuck. You’re telling me kicking his legs repeatedly won’t do anything? Piss off!”
That’s as much as I can write without running out of ink.
After polishing off the popcorn and vodka, I gave Jonesy and Rex a bath. Rex had been missing for a few days since he had wandered out in search of Dave. I found him busy rubbing his back against an old bush out near the driveway. I imagine that’s how Cross scratches an itch as well.
By the way, doggie shampoo? Doesn’t really taste that nice. Had to get rid of the taste with some Sauvignon Blanc. So much for easy thrills, huh? Anyway, it’s eleven o clock and I’m off to bed. Probably won’t write tomorrow since I have better stuff to do. Like take Jonesy to the vet for his check-up. Can’t let my eye off Jonesy now. He’s all I have left. That and Joe, but I feel that Jonesy is a lot more hygienic and loveable. Joe’s bodyguards just irritate me. He’s only hanging around to give me company since Dave and Zack are gone.
Might visit them at the end of next week. We’ll see.
Monday 12th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Today, me and Jonesy went out for a walk. A long walk. A very long walk, out into the Mojave. The sun kissed my brow and sweat clogged my pores, but I felt ALIVE! Why did I go out for a walk that lasted three entire hours with nothing more than my dog, two bottles of iced water and one bottle of Sailor Jerry and coke for company? Well, simple: Norsemen like Brett Cross train better in the cold, I train better in the heat.
Up in the far northern reaches of Scandinavia, where the Vikings dwelled, was a cold, harsh wasteland inhabited by the very few. I did my research on it today. Turns out that the whole horned helmet thing is just a joke and they never actually wore them. Odd. However, it also struck me that Cross is his size because of his genetics. See, if you were some kind of skinny little bastard, the kind you’d see hanging on street corners in Las Vegas lifting their shirt for pennies and revealing the extent of the orange stains that those profligates call a “tan”, then the Vikings probably wouldn’t give you the courtesy of death, and instead leave you to die out in the tundra where polar bears and wolves can feast upon your carcass and pick their teeth with your splintered ribcage. Yum.
Underestimating an opponent has been a common mistake in many human beings for far too long, but I don’t underestimate Cross. Genetically? I will stand up and admit he is better than me (Although only because I haven’t bothered with haplogroup testing yet. Note to self: Apply for haplogroup test) After all, if you were descended from the ferocious Vikings, the northern heathens, the Norsemen, wouldn’t you have a natural advantage? You are built to destroy and you are built to last. You may pack on more spare tires than the Michelin man, but it’s been proven countless times that Vikings have a one thousand percent better chance of picking you up and simply slamming your face against the floor until you don’t get up again.
Coincidentally, that happens to be Cross’s wrestling style.
Tomorrow, I will train my body to unleash better and faster kicks. The kicks I unleashed against Taylor certainly got the job done, while my “Divine Rage” finisher probably slammed a hole into his chest. It’s been tested and proven, so there is no point in changing the moves or tactics for Cross. The moment he grabs, it’s over. The body odour will numb me, the sour breath will knock me out, and then he’ll proceed to forcibly shove my head up my asshole before bouncing me like a basketball. As long as I can keep moving, keep kicking his head, keep bouncing off the ropes and unleashing strikes at him, then he simply won’t have time to recover.
Looked up krav maga earlier. It might be worth getting some training it, but that’s another idea for another day. I am not going to distract myself. Cross is the bear in the room and dealing with him will not be simple. Not without Dave. My own bear. Dave. Still resting in hospital. Zack, still resting in hospital.
I’m still alone. All I’ve got are Joe and Jonesy.
Kicking Taylor’s skull in felt fun, though. It felt better actually getting stuck in and kicking away at him until he collapsed, as opposed to whizzing around like a fly on methamphetamine and hitting him with exotic and flashy maneuvres. I have a feeling that kicking Cross’s head in will feel even better than it did kicking Taylor’s head in.
Mom called earlier. She’s off to a rally. Ava gets to stay until Friday! I pick her up tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I should really check out that space under my bed. I swear, if there is Nazi gold under there, then it’s goodbye Asylum and hello Tahiti!
Still alone. Miss Dave and Zack. But the thought of fighting Cross is making me very, very excited. If I manage to hurt the Viking, then the world will be forced to look up at me. A former Lionheart Champion, falling to me? That will allow me to prove that the belts mean absolutely nothing, and it is all about the fight in the dog, as opposed to his titles and distinctions.
Okay, that made no sense, but fuck it. I’m going to find out just how many kicks it takes to get the centre of a Viking pop.
Wednesday 14th September 2012
Dear Diary,
Two days until I go and visit the hospital. I’m putting it off because my mind is busy wrestling itself and trying to decide which I have to care about more: Cross or Zack and Dave. I already know what I care about more. Cross has never been anything more than a man who overcompensates for his weaknesses by bulking himself up past his genetics and for throwing his weight around. This so-called ‘Viking King’ is nothing more than a mere peasant. Much like Danelaw never lasted long in England, neither will Cross’s reign of supremacy in the Main Event scene. He believed he was some sort of God when he held that Lionheart Title, and yet he still carries that same attitude even after throwing it to the ground and pointing at the World Title.
This is what is making our federation suffer. This is the cancer eating away at the body. The belief that rewards are all we should aim for, rather than aiming to make ourselves better as the months grow on.
Cross has always been the same: Large, angry, slightly dominant and aiming for a title. TITAN is almost an exact carbon copy: Large, angry, dominant and aiming for a title. Look at me: I started off as a Kid, I grew into a man. I didn’t need titles to do it. I grew from the sweat of my brow and watching my knuckles crack into a mans jaw. I grew from flying into the air, touching the face of God and then turning my body into a weapon against my opponent. I grew by turning my back on the fans and turning to the opponents and solely the opponents, trying to win no matter what, whether through demotivation through abductions or simply hitting them until they don’t get up.
I evolved. Cross? Climbed a ladder. That’s all.
Even now, staring at Prestige, I feel NOTHING. Do you, my dear Diary, want to know why I’m going for Prestige? It’s not for the World Championship. It’s rarely ever been about the World Championship.
It’s about becoming the emperor.
It’s about hurting TITAN and Cross.
You say titles are what makes a man? What if a man makes those viewed as immortal and unstoppable BLEED? What if that man destroys the men viewed as modern-day Gods?
No, it was never about the World Championship. It was always about becoming feared and respected.
The first step begins Sunday. I will continue to evolve. Cross will climb a ladder. I don’t care if I’m SLIGHTLY dependant on alcohol. I don’t care if my mind drags itself between loving Zack and Dave and hating Cross. All I care about is getting the job done that I started when I set foot in this federation with bright eyes.
The brightness has gone. The coldness is visible.
I want to hurt Cross.
I want to hurt Cross.
I must hurt Cross.
I must hurt Cross.
I must hurt Cross.
I MUST HURT CROSS.
Thursday 15th September 2012
I want to hurt Cross.
Today, I trained harder than ever.
I want to hurt Cross.
I threw weights. I crunched my abdomen. I hit the treadmill.
I want to hurt Cross.
I can feel something growing inside of me. A ball of fire intent on escaping and wiping out all it touches.
I want to hurt Cross.
Prestige is coming. Soon, the emperor will ascend to the throne. Soon, the Asylum’s cancer will be forcibly cut out, and it can heal again.
I want to hurt Cross.
No more to men who only aim for prizes. In my world, you aim to become the best, you aim to become the deadliest, you aim to become the most dangerous. You will be in my world, Cross.
I want to hurt Cross.
My world is different. I will not stand still and let you hurt me, nor will I let that fat fucking fool get involved either. I will wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until he stops breathing.
I want to hurt Cross.
I want to prove my dominance. I want to show all those jeering sycophants that I am, quite simply, the greatest to ever set foot into a ring. I want to give them something to fear.
I want to hurt Cross.
The only way to measure a man is to measure the blood scabbed on his hands.
I want to hurt Cross.
The world’s about to get a lot colder. This federation is about to get a lot darker. This ring is about to get bloodier.
I WANT TO HURT CROSS.
Get ready. Hell rises on Sunday.
Friday 16th September 2012
Dear Diary,
I took the day off today and went down to the hospital.
Zack was asleep. It was eleven in the morning.
Sad thing is that it took me two hours of talking to him before a Nurse saw me and shunted me along, giving me the weirdest look ever. Stupid bitch. I enjoyed talking to him. Gave him a card. A box of chocolates. Made me feel better at least. Made me feel less alone. I promised him that I would beat Cross, so I can't fail now.
Although I might just break that promise if Cross pisses me off or TITAN screws me around. Beating the absolute living hell out of either man would be infinitely more fun than winning a match. You're a champion? BAM! Kick to the head. Your fucking title didn't protect you, did it?! HAHA! YEAH!
Anyway, I was shunted into Dave's room, gave him his card. He was up. Apparently responding well to treatment. The fracture is still healing, but they feel he'll be starting the more strenuous physical treatment sometime shortly. He won't be back to protect me during Prestige, but the sight of him looking much better at least gave me some hope.
Hope is a powerful thing. It's carried men countless times.
Anyway, we had a conversation. Time to change pens again.
”Hetty. I saw you beat Taylor last week. You did a brilliant job!”
”Thanks, Dave.”
”You seem…different, though. Despondent. Tired. Are you alright?”
”Been a tough fortnight, my friend. Forcing myself up to train. Forcing myself to go beyond the boundaries. Do you know how difficult it is without moral support? Do you know how difficult it is when you realise that your opponent is probably just messing about, twiddling his thumbs and doing nothing but shit-talking you? I mean, in all honesty, that’s all Cross does nowadays. That Lionheart Title reign made him nothing more than a stoic giant, content with settling for second best.”
”So that’s why you said what you said two weeks ago. I was watching and wondering why you were talking about how meaningless titles were, and how wrestlers were circus puppets. It makes a sick sort of sense now that I put more thought into it.”
”Doesn’t it just? Beating Cross and TITAN will simply reinforce more truth in my words."
"So, you believe the titles are meaningless? An interesting way to see things."
"In the past, titles were the only thing that mattered. But i've grown up. Stopped being a child. Titles are meaningless. It's about making history! Defeating the opponents seen as invincible! My feud with Oblivion simply reinforced that in my mind. There were no titles involved, but we set the world on fire! We shook the world by the throat! Yet, we were overshadowed by World Titles and Royal Rumbles for contendership. Why? It was a feud that was two of the greatest gladiators doing battle in the Coliseum, and yet all eyes weren't on us."
"The fans are fickle. They believe titles are what makes a man, as opposed to the journey he took to reach the title."
"I know, my friend. I know. But on Sunday, I can at least show how a true gladiator fights. I can at least show the fans what to expect when I take that title at Prestige and throw it away in favour of brutality, strength and discipline instead of glory-hounding, sycophancy and mediocrity. When I take Cross and snap his limbs like twigs, then I will show the world just how little those titles mean. They call me mad. They call me undisciplined....but they don't realise that I am the future of this company, and that I am going to change the very foundation of it."
It is time for change. It is time to kick out Cross and TITAN and give this place a new hope. New life. It is time to give them leaders who command fear and respect while giving them a reason to stand up and believe, giving them a reason to stand up and fight rather than waiting their turn! It is time that we stood up, threw away the titles and said “No, I will be seen as a warrior, not a patsy.” It is time that we began again, and proved that being a warrior and a gladiator is more important than being a spokesman and a politician! It is time that I took the reins and showed these youngsters that the only way to become a legend is to fight amongst the best and get blood on your hands, not just wait for the opportunity to fight for a ultimately-meaningless title.
Cross, your Lionheart reign meant nothing. TITAN, your World Championship reign means nothing.
At the end of it, both of you are still mere mortals. No amount of posturing can stop that.
No amount of talking can make either of you better gladiators.
No amount of praying will save you.
The change begins now.
---
Hetfield shut his diary, slipping it into the inside pocket of his leather blazer, laying back against his plane seat and closing his eyes, giving his beard a small, rough scratch and yawning loudly.
Hetfield: “…Time to start making changes to this fucking place..”
Revolutions never happen overnight.
But once the fires start burning, it is nigh-on impossible to put them out.
