Post by strangler on Oct 30, 2011 7:23:58 GMT -5
"Who is Caoran Lavery?"
A gentle thud lingered in the air, the faint sound of something thick and heavy meeting something softer, more padded. The sound of glass on leather, only proven to be a bottle by the slight sound of sloshing liquid that followed, as the bottle's amber contents rocked from side to side as though waves breaking upon a crystal wall.
The waves died down, following the example left by the sound of impact, the air once more filled with heavy smoke and nothing more. A low light graced the room, but served to only make the shadows deeper and darker than they already were. This low light and heavy smoke produced a thick mist that filled the room, casting it and all within it into darkness. The room was quiet; it was still. Almost silent, the only noise was the regular, almost rhythmic breathing of the owner of the biggest shadow in the room.
He read the line again.
"Who is Caoran Lavery?"
The slightest hint of a smile appeared upon the face of the reader as he pondered the question posed to him. He couldn't help deriding some sort of twisted delight from reading the question, it was one that he had seen and heard many times before, but he was yet to see an answer that he agreed with. After all, he knew the answer; he was the only one that did, but he wasn't so inclined to reveal it. He liked to see the answers that others were giving though; those that did not know him but thought that they did for one reason or another. Some answers were more, or less, wrong than others, but none were correct. After all, Caoran Lavery was something of an enigma, little was known about him, mostly through rumours and whispers, less through facts and evidence. He was not a man that could be summed up as simply as those asking the question wanted to know.
He raised a glass to his mouth, swilling it as the waves of amber poison lapped against the cut crystal; he sipped at it, his mouth contorting into a cruel grimace as the liquid burned in the back of his throat as he held it for a moment before swallowing. He cradled the glass in his hand, holding it against his chest as he continued to stare at the screen, his steely gaze unwaivering as he scrolled through the responses.
"Caoran Lavery is a heavyweight wrestler; he made his name in the minor leagues as a no-nonsense hardcore brawler..."
A hardcore brawler? Perhaps. No-nonsense? Perhaps. Still, to think that summing up the brief wrestling history of Caoran Lavery in a few short paragraphs was ridiculous. The wrestling was only a small part of him, and it was certainly not his main focus.
"Caoran Lavery is a sadist and a bully! He enjoys hurting others and wants to end their careers in every match! He should be in a prison, not a wrestling ring!"
This was more common. General consensus was that Caoran was in wrestling to work out some anger and to hurt people, but whilst this was certainly something he enjoyed, it was not the full reason. Caoran was in wrestling to get himself known, and to allow him to speak to the people that most needed to listen to him. Those people that laid at the bottom of the barrel of society, wallowing in the filth and sleaze around them, never thinking to look up to be saved. Those that ask to be saved already know that they need to be saved, they need only be pointed in the right direction, but those that are oblivious to their failings are the ones that need to be made aware of it. These are the idiots and the scum that form the festering base of society, and these are the people that Caoran Lavery has come for. He will make examples of them, and he will make them away of their immoral lifestyles, that they might realise their failings and strive to improve.
Caoran Lavery, the Moral Vigilante, will drag them up out of the slime with his bare hands if he must. They will be redeemed, one way or another.
Caoran Lavery finished sipping at his whisky, continuing to read the comments and questions. For most, the answer that he had been wrestling in the minor leagues was enough, and a few brief YouTube clips of past matches would give many fans enough information to sate them. The questions that they should be asking, like "Why is Caoran Lavery here?" and "What does Caoran Lavery want?" were not being asked, but in time, they would be answered all the same. He would personally guarantee it.
Caoran Lavery flipped down the laptop screen and stood up, heading to the large window at the far end of the room. Reaching down, he propped the window open as a cool night breeze rolled into his hotel room, the fresh air swapping places with the smoke-laden thick air that had once filled the room. Resting against the pane, Caoran stared out at the city, his room was high up and gave him an excellent vantage point, but for him, there was no beauty to be found in the view before him.
Gazing out upon the rooftops and street lights below, all that Caoran could see was the human waste that he needed to clean up. To others the twinkling lights of passing cars and the gentle patter of rain might provide a feeling of wonderment and peace, but Caoran saw these things, and saw through them. He saw the drug addicts and prostitutes, lurking in dark alleys and on street corners, looking for clients for their various wares; he saw drunks stumbling and fumbling in the dark, shunned by the clubs that made them this way and desperate for their night not to end, that the sobriety of the following morning may be their end; the only twinkling lights that Caoran saw were the reflections off of shards of broken glass that littered the streets below him.
This was modern society. This was the malady with no remedy.
This was the mess that Caoran Lavery had come to clean up. Not a mess that he had created, but one that he was charged with sorting out nevertheless. It would be impossible to eradicate such ingrained sleaze and villainy, but Caoran would start; he would do more than any other and he would illuminate all that he could, that the fools in the dark might see the light of truth and turn to it.
He would start with an age-old foe; he would start with vanity itself.
Caoran’s first opponent could not have been better if he had hand-picked the man himself. His name was "Doctor Rudkilde", and from what little information Caoran had on this man, he was a plastic surgeon that had moulded a face of his own choosing, and he prided himself on beauty above all else. Clearly not natural beauty, or inner beauty, but on the outer beauty that can be bought by those with the money to do so. Plastic surgery was rarely a thought that crossed the mind of Caoran Lavery, it was certainly not something that he would ever consider, and as inhuman and foul a practice as it was, it paled in comparison to many of the greater evils of the modern world. Buying a new, better face, out of cowardice, or shame, or narcissism was certainly something that Caoran did not approve of, and he would be sure to make his opinions felt by his opponent.
Such an obsession with vanity and outwards appearances could only corrupt a person’s moral core beyond all recognition. It would suppress the light of truth that dwelt within them and leave on a deep, dark centre of internal darkness. Such internal darkness would only grow stronger and darker, day by day. Each further act suppresses the truth further down inside of a person, granting strength to the darkness. A bitter cycle, almost impossible to break; becoming obsessed with physical appearances was easy enough to do; it was often deemed necessary to "look the part" in order to get ahead, or just to get accepted.
It was almost a gateway; it led to further moral evils; if you would dress a certain way to belong, then why would you only stop there? Rudkilde had already mutilated his face to belong, to be accepted by society. To be loved. His attitude must have changed too, complimentary to those he wants to accept him; disparaging by those other outcasts, that he might distance himself from them in the eyes of others.
To be so obsessed with physical possessions, material wealth and outwards appearances could only be epitomised by such an act as plastic surgery. To be so concerned with how others view you as to need to change the very face that defined you speaks volumes for the character of those opting for such surgery. This is not even a man blinded by love of himself, for his own face must be truly disturbing, that he felt the need to create a new face to wear, so as to save others the hardship of gazing upon such vile countenance.
Rudkilde was a relative newcomer too, not a great deal was known about the good doctor, but from all sources, he seemed to be obsessed with the attainment of perfection. A noble aim, perhaps, in its purest form, but Rudkilde’s interpretation was far from the purest search for perfection. His "perfection" was the kind of Hollywood perfection, rolled out by celebrity A-listers and their hangers-on. For them, perfection was bleach-blonde hair, fake tan and bright white teeth, coupled with an athletic-looking body (but not actually athletic – too much muscle is disgusting) and a phoney smile to match the rest of the fakers and their fake lifestyle. Size zero models that still claimed to have weight to lose; women still the "right" side of thirty taking drastic measures to avoid any lines or grey hairs and men; men that drank and ate too much, paying for liposuction and staples to ensure that their secrets remain hidden.
Perfection was not something that Caoran Lavery sought, for the eternal, unobtainable value of perfection was more likely to blind a man to his own moral failings, seeking something utterly impossible. Some might say that the quest for truth was never-ending, but for Caoran, he had seen glimpses of truth, of light, he had touched upon that which he sought, more than can be said for a man far removed from the perfection that he claims to embody. Having delved into past interviews with the good doctor, Caoran found that Rudkilde kept his "perfect" body by following a strict diet and regimen; no alcohol, no tobacco, plenty of fresh vegetables and meat, but always in balance so as not to risk overindulging. Spending enough time in the gym to keep fit, but not so long as to build up any unwanted additional muscle mass. Plenty of sleep to re-energise the body, but not so much sleep as to risk becoming sluggish or lazy.
Moderation in all things; it is much the same as moderation of nothing.
It may seem a strange line of thinking, but if you moderate everything, then you moderate nothing. Where is the moderation of moderation? If you moderate your diet, your sleep, your exercise, your lifestyle; everything, then what are you really moderating? By limiting the amount of red meat you ingest, or the amount of television you watch, what do you achieve? You watch less television than average and consume less meat than most. This makes you less of a person; not more of a person as others might proclaim. By spending more time in the gym than the average person, but less time than the average athlete, you might become fitter than the average person, but you will be significantly less fit than the average athlete.
What is your aim? If you seek to be "perfect", then surely you must be better than all men in all things, but if you are better than most at many things, yet worse than some at all things, then you are a jack of all trades and nothing more.
In truth, to live a moderate life is to be a moderate person.
Moderate people are as wretched as the most corrupt and any vain notions of perfection will not save them from the coming storm. Anyone that preaches moderation has missed the point; it is not to say that vices should be unmediated; too much alcohol is clearly a problem and only a fool would deny this, but to say that a reduced intake of carbohydrate is part of the path to righteousness is as delusional as the notion that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Indeed, Caoran would be steering clear of apples for the next week or so, he hoped that the doctor would be visiting him with all he has at his disposal. Caoran has already dispatched of the good doctor once, without breaking a sweat, it is his hope that this match will prove to be challenging; it would be prudent of the doctor to test Caoran Lavery, that he might pass with flying colours in front of a full house and begin his reign with a brutal display of power.
Let the doctor become the test subject; let him become a broken man to show others the real strength of Caoran Lavery. Let the good doctor become the patient, that he might be examined by the brightest light and found to be lacking in moral health. "Physician, heal thyself!" Rudkilde may find that a difficulty. If it was up to Caoran Lavery, he would find breathing a difficulty after their match. That the light of truth may shine upon him and reveal him for the deplorable, reprehensible coward that he is; a man so deeply unhappy with his own life that he must hide behind a mask that he cannot remove! That he might be held up as an example for the rest of the world; that they might understand and repent.
Without even realising it, Caoran’s fist was clenched in anger; such was his hatred of modern vanity and its overwhelming obsession with physical appearances and outwards personas. For all the ills of society, the overwhelming obsession with hiding truth behind a thousand masks and trying to cover up a dull or detestable personality with bright clothing was easily one of the most frustrating for the Moral Vigilante, because it was so widespread and accepted. It was even considered a problem by most, not like alcoholism or drug abuse or some other form of self-destruction, which is puzzling, because what is more self-destructive than creating a new persona to hide your real self behind?
Masks. Rudkilde wore at least two of them; one more obvious than the other, but neither was sufficient to deflect Caoran Lavery’s piercing gaze. He saw through them both; he saw the real Rudkilde that lay behind them. A small man, feeble-minded and obsessed with his own stature; he was clearly someone that had not fitted in before and, feeling so alone, he created a new life for himself. A "perfect" life, with a new face and a new attitude, no doubt brought on by lingering resentment for the world that had hated him before, so much so that he now has become better than all of society. He is the ultimate being, with his perfect face and brilliant white teeth; we must all bow before him and acknowledge our betters!
Or, in the case of Caoran Lavery, an example must be made of this detestable rodent. Such cowardice has no place in the world of truth, the brightest of lights will melt away Rudkilde’s face; the face that vanity created, and reveal the real face of Rudkilde. Only then could he begin the journey to salvation; only then might he be able to begin to comprehend his failings. Only this brutal realisation; this revelation of character; only this would be enough to awaken the truth in a man that has actively sought to bury it. Only then might Rudkilde be able to start curing his own illnesses.
Of course, there was no guarantee that Rudkilde could be saved. Like many prophets before him, Caoran’s message often fell upon deaf ears; even those exposed to the truth still chose to ignore it. It was cold, unforgiving and uncomfortable; a life in the dark was often easier and less troublesome; proof that the old adages are often correct; nothing worth doing is ever easy. To turn to the light; to admit that you are wrong, it takes courage and it takes resolve, but above all, it takes willpower and desire. No-one can be turned; they can only be shown the light and given the choice. It was why Caoran was here; he could reach a bigger audience than ever before; his message could reach more people now and the more it reached, the more it might point in the right direction.
It was working, too. Caoran Lavery was a popular topic on the big search engines; he was starting to trend on some of the social networking sites and his own website was seeing more visitors than it had ever known. This was only the beginning though; he had made an impact on the EUW upon his arrival, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The story was only beginning here; each match, each win, they would all spread his name and his message further. People were only now starting to notice the Moral Vigilante, but like the mighty oak, Caoran accepted that his message must start small and grow over time, that its roots might permeate all aspects of the broken ground of society and drain them of their evils, leaving only the pure light of truth behind.
Caoran turned from the window; still deep in thought he returned to his seat and poured another drink, swirling the amber liquid in the glass before taking a mouthful, holding it long enough to feel the burn and then letting it cascade down inside his throat. For all its heat, the whisky could never hope to match the fire that raged deep within Caoran Lavery. A fire fuelled by hatred and disgust; a fire that would engulf its first victim; Rudkilde; in a little over a week. The first of many, he would be used as a warning to all others; such arrogance and vanity has no place in the world of truth.
Caoran sighed and relaxed in the chair, holding the glass against his chest. It would soon be time for the good doctor to visit the hospital not as a physician, but as a patient. Caoran closed his eyes and though back to his arrival in the EUW; he had descended upon the ring amidst confusion and mediocrity; he took care of two measly insects and asserted his dominance; he made a clear statement that there was a new power within the EUW. The word was that Caoran’s performance had impressed management. The treacherous Mark Rivera, from all accounts, a villain, had the run of things around here, and he liked what he had seen of Caoran Lavery.
This was something that Caoran would need to keep a wary mind of. The last thing he wanted was to come under the employ of Rivera, as his enforcer, or even as a bodyguard. He needed to keep his distance from Rivera for the time being, if people mistook him for Rivera’s lackey then his message would go unheeded. That and it was clear that Rivera was as despicable as any other wretch within the company; perhaps more so, and at some point, he would become the target of the piercing gaze of the Caoran Lavery.
On that day, Rivera would regret hiring the Moral Vigilante, but more than this, he would regret all of his evil deeds, of which there were surely plenty.
However, Rivera’s time would come later. Indeed, Rivera may be the very last target for Caoran Lavery, but for now, the target was the good doctor instead. Caoran had manhandled him once already, but it seemed that Rivera had a sense of humour and wished to see Caoran pick Rudkilde apart in a match, as opposed to a simple beating. It seemed an odd choice, if Rudkilde had annoyed Rivera and made himself a target, then why book a match? Why not merely have him taken out? A match has rules, it has a referee. A beating does not. However, Rivera seemed to be a man also obsessed with showing off, much like Rudkilde, so maybe this was a chance for Rivera to impress someone with his newest signing.
At least it would give Caoran a chance to show the world what happens to those obsessed with their own image; their outwards appearance; their faces. He would remind the world that the virtuous are concerned with what is inside; notions of strength, courage, wisdom; not such trivialities as hair style or designer sunglasses. People would see that compared to truth and light, such notions were wasted and insubstantial; they would see that they could not compare to something real; something meaningful.
Yes, vanity was a fine start. Bigger foes, bigger targets, they would come later, and Caoran would take care of them all in the same manner, but to start with a vice as common as vanity would help to spread the message.
Even if that message was nothing more profound than:
"Do not get in the ring with Caoran Lavery."
A gentle thud lingered in the air, the faint sound of something thick and heavy meeting something softer, more padded. The sound of glass on leather, only proven to be a bottle by the slight sound of sloshing liquid that followed, as the bottle's amber contents rocked from side to side as though waves breaking upon a crystal wall.
The waves died down, following the example left by the sound of impact, the air once more filled with heavy smoke and nothing more. A low light graced the room, but served to only make the shadows deeper and darker than they already were. This low light and heavy smoke produced a thick mist that filled the room, casting it and all within it into darkness. The room was quiet; it was still. Almost silent, the only noise was the regular, almost rhythmic breathing of the owner of the biggest shadow in the room.
He read the line again.
"Who is Caoran Lavery?"
The slightest hint of a smile appeared upon the face of the reader as he pondered the question posed to him. He couldn't help deriding some sort of twisted delight from reading the question, it was one that he had seen and heard many times before, but he was yet to see an answer that he agreed with. After all, he knew the answer; he was the only one that did, but he wasn't so inclined to reveal it. He liked to see the answers that others were giving though; those that did not know him but thought that they did for one reason or another. Some answers were more, or less, wrong than others, but none were correct. After all, Caoran Lavery was something of an enigma, little was known about him, mostly through rumours and whispers, less through facts and evidence. He was not a man that could be summed up as simply as those asking the question wanted to know.
He raised a glass to his mouth, swilling it as the waves of amber poison lapped against the cut crystal; he sipped at it, his mouth contorting into a cruel grimace as the liquid burned in the back of his throat as he held it for a moment before swallowing. He cradled the glass in his hand, holding it against his chest as he continued to stare at the screen, his steely gaze unwaivering as he scrolled through the responses.
"Caoran Lavery is a heavyweight wrestler; he made his name in the minor leagues as a no-nonsense hardcore brawler..."
A hardcore brawler? Perhaps. No-nonsense? Perhaps. Still, to think that summing up the brief wrestling history of Caoran Lavery in a few short paragraphs was ridiculous. The wrestling was only a small part of him, and it was certainly not his main focus.
"Caoran Lavery is a sadist and a bully! He enjoys hurting others and wants to end their careers in every match! He should be in a prison, not a wrestling ring!"
This was more common. General consensus was that Caoran was in wrestling to work out some anger and to hurt people, but whilst this was certainly something he enjoyed, it was not the full reason. Caoran was in wrestling to get himself known, and to allow him to speak to the people that most needed to listen to him. Those people that laid at the bottom of the barrel of society, wallowing in the filth and sleaze around them, never thinking to look up to be saved. Those that ask to be saved already know that they need to be saved, they need only be pointed in the right direction, but those that are oblivious to their failings are the ones that need to be made aware of it. These are the idiots and the scum that form the festering base of society, and these are the people that Caoran Lavery has come for. He will make examples of them, and he will make them away of their immoral lifestyles, that they might realise their failings and strive to improve.
Caoran Lavery, the Moral Vigilante, will drag them up out of the slime with his bare hands if he must. They will be redeemed, one way or another.
Caoran Lavery finished sipping at his whisky, continuing to read the comments and questions. For most, the answer that he had been wrestling in the minor leagues was enough, and a few brief YouTube clips of past matches would give many fans enough information to sate them. The questions that they should be asking, like "Why is Caoran Lavery here?" and "What does Caoran Lavery want?" were not being asked, but in time, they would be answered all the same. He would personally guarantee it.
Caoran Lavery flipped down the laptop screen and stood up, heading to the large window at the far end of the room. Reaching down, he propped the window open as a cool night breeze rolled into his hotel room, the fresh air swapping places with the smoke-laden thick air that had once filled the room. Resting against the pane, Caoran stared out at the city, his room was high up and gave him an excellent vantage point, but for him, there was no beauty to be found in the view before him.
Gazing out upon the rooftops and street lights below, all that Caoran could see was the human waste that he needed to clean up. To others the twinkling lights of passing cars and the gentle patter of rain might provide a feeling of wonderment and peace, but Caoran saw these things, and saw through them. He saw the drug addicts and prostitutes, lurking in dark alleys and on street corners, looking for clients for their various wares; he saw drunks stumbling and fumbling in the dark, shunned by the clubs that made them this way and desperate for their night not to end, that the sobriety of the following morning may be their end; the only twinkling lights that Caoran saw were the reflections off of shards of broken glass that littered the streets below him.
This was modern society. This was the malady with no remedy.
This was the mess that Caoran Lavery had come to clean up. Not a mess that he had created, but one that he was charged with sorting out nevertheless. It would be impossible to eradicate such ingrained sleaze and villainy, but Caoran would start; he would do more than any other and he would illuminate all that he could, that the fools in the dark might see the light of truth and turn to it.
He would start with an age-old foe; he would start with vanity itself.
Caoran’s first opponent could not have been better if he had hand-picked the man himself. His name was "Doctor Rudkilde", and from what little information Caoran had on this man, he was a plastic surgeon that had moulded a face of his own choosing, and he prided himself on beauty above all else. Clearly not natural beauty, or inner beauty, but on the outer beauty that can be bought by those with the money to do so. Plastic surgery was rarely a thought that crossed the mind of Caoran Lavery, it was certainly not something that he would ever consider, and as inhuman and foul a practice as it was, it paled in comparison to many of the greater evils of the modern world. Buying a new, better face, out of cowardice, or shame, or narcissism was certainly something that Caoran did not approve of, and he would be sure to make his opinions felt by his opponent.
Such an obsession with vanity and outwards appearances could only corrupt a person’s moral core beyond all recognition. It would suppress the light of truth that dwelt within them and leave on a deep, dark centre of internal darkness. Such internal darkness would only grow stronger and darker, day by day. Each further act suppresses the truth further down inside of a person, granting strength to the darkness. A bitter cycle, almost impossible to break; becoming obsessed with physical appearances was easy enough to do; it was often deemed necessary to "look the part" in order to get ahead, or just to get accepted.
It was almost a gateway; it led to further moral evils; if you would dress a certain way to belong, then why would you only stop there? Rudkilde had already mutilated his face to belong, to be accepted by society. To be loved. His attitude must have changed too, complimentary to those he wants to accept him; disparaging by those other outcasts, that he might distance himself from them in the eyes of others.
To be so obsessed with physical possessions, material wealth and outwards appearances could only be epitomised by such an act as plastic surgery. To be so concerned with how others view you as to need to change the very face that defined you speaks volumes for the character of those opting for such surgery. This is not even a man blinded by love of himself, for his own face must be truly disturbing, that he felt the need to create a new face to wear, so as to save others the hardship of gazing upon such vile countenance.
Rudkilde was a relative newcomer too, not a great deal was known about the good doctor, but from all sources, he seemed to be obsessed with the attainment of perfection. A noble aim, perhaps, in its purest form, but Rudkilde’s interpretation was far from the purest search for perfection. His "perfection" was the kind of Hollywood perfection, rolled out by celebrity A-listers and their hangers-on. For them, perfection was bleach-blonde hair, fake tan and bright white teeth, coupled with an athletic-looking body (but not actually athletic – too much muscle is disgusting) and a phoney smile to match the rest of the fakers and their fake lifestyle. Size zero models that still claimed to have weight to lose; women still the "right" side of thirty taking drastic measures to avoid any lines or grey hairs and men; men that drank and ate too much, paying for liposuction and staples to ensure that their secrets remain hidden.
Perfection was not something that Caoran Lavery sought, for the eternal, unobtainable value of perfection was more likely to blind a man to his own moral failings, seeking something utterly impossible. Some might say that the quest for truth was never-ending, but for Caoran, he had seen glimpses of truth, of light, he had touched upon that which he sought, more than can be said for a man far removed from the perfection that he claims to embody. Having delved into past interviews with the good doctor, Caoran found that Rudkilde kept his "perfect" body by following a strict diet and regimen; no alcohol, no tobacco, plenty of fresh vegetables and meat, but always in balance so as not to risk overindulging. Spending enough time in the gym to keep fit, but not so long as to build up any unwanted additional muscle mass. Plenty of sleep to re-energise the body, but not so much sleep as to risk becoming sluggish or lazy.
Moderation in all things; it is much the same as moderation of nothing.
It may seem a strange line of thinking, but if you moderate everything, then you moderate nothing. Where is the moderation of moderation? If you moderate your diet, your sleep, your exercise, your lifestyle; everything, then what are you really moderating? By limiting the amount of red meat you ingest, or the amount of television you watch, what do you achieve? You watch less television than average and consume less meat than most. This makes you less of a person; not more of a person as others might proclaim. By spending more time in the gym than the average person, but less time than the average athlete, you might become fitter than the average person, but you will be significantly less fit than the average athlete.
What is your aim? If you seek to be "perfect", then surely you must be better than all men in all things, but if you are better than most at many things, yet worse than some at all things, then you are a jack of all trades and nothing more.
In truth, to live a moderate life is to be a moderate person.
Moderate people are as wretched as the most corrupt and any vain notions of perfection will not save them from the coming storm. Anyone that preaches moderation has missed the point; it is not to say that vices should be unmediated; too much alcohol is clearly a problem and only a fool would deny this, but to say that a reduced intake of carbohydrate is part of the path to righteousness is as delusional as the notion that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Indeed, Caoran would be steering clear of apples for the next week or so, he hoped that the doctor would be visiting him with all he has at his disposal. Caoran has already dispatched of the good doctor once, without breaking a sweat, it is his hope that this match will prove to be challenging; it would be prudent of the doctor to test Caoran Lavery, that he might pass with flying colours in front of a full house and begin his reign with a brutal display of power.
Let the doctor become the test subject; let him become a broken man to show others the real strength of Caoran Lavery. Let the good doctor become the patient, that he might be examined by the brightest light and found to be lacking in moral health. "Physician, heal thyself!" Rudkilde may find that a difficulty. If it was up to Caoran Lavery, he would find breathing a difficulty after their match. That the light of truth may shine upon him and reveal him for the deplorable, reprehensible coward that he is; a man so deeply unhappy with his own life that he must hide behind a mask that he cannot remove! That he might be held up as an example for the rest of the world; that they might understand and repent.
Without even realising it, Caoran’s fist was clenched in anger; such was his hatred of modern vanity and its overwhelming obsession with physical appearances and outwards personas. For all the ills of society, the overwhelming obsession with hiding truth behind a thousand masks and trying to cover up a dull or detestable personality with bright clothing was easily one of the most frustrating for the Moral Vigilante, because it was so widespread and accepted. It was even considered a problem by most, not like alcoholism or drug abuse or some other form of self-destruction, which is puzzling, because what is more self-destructive than creating a new persona to hide your real self behind?
Masks. Rudkilde wore at least two of them; one more obvious than the other, but neither was sufficient to deflect Caoran Lavery’s piercing gaze. He saw through them both; he saw the real Rudkilde that lay behind them. A small man, feeble-minded and obsessed with his own stature; he was clearly someone that had not fitted in before and, feeling so alone, he created a new life for himself. A "perfect" life, with a new face and a new attitude, no doubt brought on by lingering resentment for the world that had hated him before, so much so that he now has become better than all of society. He is the ultimate being, with his perfect face and brilliant white teeth; we must all bow before him and acknowledge our betters!
Or, in the case of Caoran Lavery, an example must be made of this detestable rodent. Such cowardice has no place in the world of truth, the brightest of lights will melt away Rudkilde’s face; the face that vanity created, and reveal the real face of Rudkilde. Only then could he begin the journey to salvation; only then might he be able to begin to comprehend his failings. Only this brutal realisation; this revelation of character; only this would be enough to awaken the truth in a man that has actively sought to bury it. Only then might Rudkilde be able to start curing his own illnesses.
Of course, there was no guarantee that Rudkilde could be saved. Like many prophets before him, Caoran’s message often fell upon deaf ears; even those exposed to the truth still chose to ignore it. It was cold, unforgiving and uncomfortable; a life in the dark was often easier and less troublesome; proof that the old adages are often correct; nothing worth doing is ever easy. To turn to the light; to admit that you are wrong, it takes courage and it takes resolve, but above all, it takes willpower and desire. No-one can be turned; they can only be shown the light and given the choice. It was why Caoran was here; he could reach a bigger audience than ever before; his message could reach more people now and the more it reached, the more it might point in the right direction.
It was working, too. Caoran Lavery was a popular topic on the big search engines; he was starting to trend on some of the social networking sites and his own website was seeing more visitors than it had ever known. This was only the beginning though; he had made an impact on the EUW upon his arrival, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The story was only beginning here; each match, each win, they would all spread his name and his message further. People were only now starting to notice the Moral Vigilante, but like the mighty oak, Caoran accepted that his message must start small and grow over time, that its roots might permeate all aspects of the broken ground of society and drain them of their evils, leaving only the pure light of truth behind.
Caoran turned from the window; still deep in thought he returned to his seat and poured another drink, swirling the amber liquid in the glass before taking a mouthful, holding it long enough to feel the burn and then letting it cascade down inside his throat. For all its heat, the whisky could never hope to match the fire that raged deep within Caoran Lavery. A fire fuelled by hatred and disgust; a fire that would engulf its first victim; Rudkilde; in a little over a week. The first of many, he would be used as a warning to all others; such arrogance and vanity has no place in the world of truth.
Caoran sighed and relaxed in the chair, holding the glass against his chest. It would soon be time for the good doctor to visit the hospital not as a physician, but as a patient. Caoran closed his eyes and though back to his arrival in the EUW; he had descended upon the ring amidst confusion and mediocrity; he took care of two measly insects and asserted his dominance; he made a clear statement that there was a new power within the EUW. The word was that Caoran’s performance had impressed management. The treacherous Mark Rivera, from all accounts, a villain, had the run of things around here, and he liked what he had seen of Caoran Lavery.
This was something that Caoran would need to keep a wary mind of. The last thing he wanted was to come under the employ of Rivera, as his enforcer, or even as a bodyguard. He needed to keep his distance from Rivera for the time being, if people mistook him for Rivera’s lackey then his message would go unheeded. That and it was clear that Rivera was as despicable as any other wretch within the company; perhaps more so, and at some point, he would become the target of the piercing gaze of the Caoran Lavery.
On that day, Rivera would regret hiring the Moral Vigilante, but more than this, he would regret all of his evil deeds, of which there were surely plenty.
However, Rivera’s time would come later. Indeed, Rivera may be the very last target for Caoran Lavery, but for now, the target was the good doctor instead. Caoran had manhandled him once already, but it seemed that Rivera had a sense of humour and wished to see Caoran pick Rudkilde apart in a match, as opposed to a simple beating. It seemed an odd choice, if Rudkilde had annoyed Rivera and made himself a target, then why book a match? Why not merely have him taken out? A match has rules, it has a referee. A beating does not. However, Rivera seemed to be a man also obsessed with showing off, much like Rudkilde, so maybe this was a chance for Rivera to impress someone with his newest signing.
At least it would give Caoran a chance to show the world what happens to those obsessed with their own image; their outwards appearance; their faces. He would remind the world that the virtuous are concerned with what is inside; notions of strength, courage, wisdom; not such trivialities as hair style or designer sunglasses. People would see that compared to truth and light, such notions were wasted and insubstantial; they would see that they could not compare to something real; something meaningful.
Yes, vanity was a fine start. Bigger foes, bigger targets, they would come later, and Caoran would take care of them all in the same manner, but to start with a vice as common as vanity would help to spread the message.
Even if that message was nothing more profound than:
"Do not get in the ring with Caoran Lavery."