Post by strangler on Nov 11, 2011 13:26:55 GMT -5
Singles Match
Standard Rules
Caoran Lavery vs. Brandon Young
Caoran Lavery stared at the words printed on the paper in front of him. He had decimated Doctor Rudkilde in a match that had proven to be little more than an exhibition of strength for Caoran, and little less than a full-blown public execution for the good doctor. It had served its purpose in announcing the arrival of Caoran Lavery, and proving that he was not just a man that lurked in shadows and struck down unprepared opponents, but that he was akin to an assassin, picking his opponent apart piece by piece and dismantling them in the ring for all to see. “Rudkilde” was to be the first name on a very long list.
“Young” would be the second name.
The self-professed “Young Gun” would find himself looking down the barrel of another public execution at the hands of the Moral Vigilante, and, as Caoran had shown with his dominance of the good doctor, he was as accurate and lethal as any sharpshooter. He would strike with decisive force and rend his opponent in pieces. Young had the unfortunate distinction of being a forgotten name in the story of Caoran Lavery. At least Rudkilde would be remembered as the first, but the second name is usually the least memorable of all names.
The second name is the first follower; it comes after others. Many know the names of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson; the first and third Presidents of the United States of America, but who really knows anything about John Adams? He was the second President of America, but is he lauded as one of the greats? Is his face carved in stone for all ages? No. He was the man that came second to Washington in the first election, and the man that served as President after Washington; perennially second-best. Consider now, sports; who is the world’s second strongest man? Does anyone know?
The truth is that second place is forgettable. It is insignificant and unremarkable; it says that this person was never quite good enough to be first, that this person simply wasn’t up to the task. To lose to the newcomer, Caoran Lavery is no shame, he is a new challenge and his brutal style might surprise those watching enough to grant him a win in his first competitive match, but in the second match? Did Caoran Lavery have more tricks up his sleeve? Or would Brandon Young, a man no longer facing a “mysterious newcomer”, still succumb to the same techniques? Lavery had demonstrated all of his abilities against Rudkilde; sheer brute-force strength, a degree of surprising speed, a resistance to physical pain and a desire to maim those he opposed. He had shown off both The Revelation and The Vice Grip, along with The Lobotomiser. In effect, Caoran Lavery had revealed all of his cards.
Any gambler will tell you that revealing your cards is a fool’s move. At least one card should always be held back, to give some sort of edge.
Caoran Lavery is no gambler. He can reveal his cards because his fists are law and his strength is truth; he is already ordained the victor of all encounters. There is nothing to hide; nothing that needs to be held back; Lavery does not concern himself with the notion that his opponents will know his techniques and strategies; no, he would rather they knew. That they saw what was coming and knew that they could not overcome it.
Let the world know the techniques of Caoran Lavery; let them fear his power and brutal strength; what does it matter if they know what is coming? It does not change the fact that they cannot overcome it. By entering the ring with Caoran Lavery they have already lost; even if their hand is raised at the end of the match, Caoran Lavery will be the one to walk back to the locker room as the true victor; wins and losses are merely terminology. The real winner of any match is the man that can walk under his own power, without assistance. The loser is the one that lies in the ring; a twitching mass, struggling to breathe. Rudkilde lost twice in the match with Caoran Lavery; he should be considered one of the lucky ones because he may yet return to the squared circle in the future. He still has hope.
So too, will Brandon Young; he will hope that one encounter with the Moral Vigilante is all; he will hope that there is no rematch for his HardKore Title; he will hope that his wounds heal and that Caoran Lavery does not see fit to put an end to his wretched career once and for all.
Caoran screwed up the piece of paper, it gave no valuable information; at this stage, he cared not for the Chuck Johnsons or the Toby Hunters of this world; his focus was on his opponent and he would not find that information here in his Rivera-funded hotel room. Indeed, for Lavery, a man used to making powerful enemies, he trusted very little that Rivera said, did, or afforded to him and he knew that this hotel room was bugged. The crackle upon lifting the receiver told Caoran that the line was bugged, the unmistakable whirr of cameras amid the silence of night revealed that the room was being recorded (and if this was hotel policy as standard, it was a certainty that Rivera would be keeping tabs on the contents of such tapes) and the fact that the other EUW hotel rooms were all in the same area said that it was arranged like this for ease of control and surveillance. Caoran cared not for Rivera’s monitoring of his whereabouts whilst he was within the hotel and he knew it would extend beyond its granite walls and marble floors, but he did know that it would serve his purposes to evade such surveillance for a spell.
If only to remind Mark Rivera that he was not the omniscient God he wished he was.
Caoran gathered up his few belongings into his roll bag and made for the door, opening it for the last time with the key card he had been provided and stepping out into the hallway, letting the door close behind him with a subdued click. As he began his march down the hallway, he heard a loud, female voice from behind.
“Mr. Lavery! Mr. Lavery! Can we talk now?”
It was the same obnoxious blonde reporter that had been bugging him on his way home from Vengeance. Caoran Lavery neither replied nor broke his gait, opting instead to ignore this one entirely.
“I’m sorry I bothered you after your match, I should have figured you would want to celebrate after winning on your debut. I just want a chance to interview the EUW’s newest star ahead of his first PPV! Please?”
Caoran stopped in his tracks and turned to face the female reporter. She seemed exactly the type that Rivera would go for – blonde, attractive, curves in the right places and despite the cooling temperatures that came with November, she was still showing a lot of skin. It was clear why Rivera had hired her in the first place and, indeed, why she had kept the job. As her near-begging suggested, she didn’t appear to feel any shame. This was likely something that Rivera had already taken advantage of, and Caoran didn’t doubt that Rivera would be making further use of it in future.
“Please can we do an interview? I’ve got a camera man here with me. It won’t take long, I promise! I can tell you’re a busy man, but just give me a few minutes of your time and we can carry it out right here!”
Caoran narrowed his gaze, glaring straight at this incessant woman.
“We could do it in your hotel room, if you would prefer…”
Caoran waited a few seconds to see if the meaning of her words would occur to this reporter, but as her smile grew, one eyebrow rose just enough to suggest that it wasn’t some awkward faux pas, but that it was meant as it was said. No shame, indeed, this was a reporter that would do what it took to get the story she craved.
“Well?” She asked, moving towards Caoran, “What do you say?”
Caoran took a sharp intake of breath, just enough to halt the woman in her tracks, he then flashed a sadistic smile.
“Sounds good to me; this room is mine.”
“Oh,” said the blonde woman, visibly relaxing, “I know which room yours is, stud.”
Caoran nodded and swiped the door with his key card, “Of course you do,” he pushed the door, holding it open with his foot, “Ladies first.”
The blonde woman nodded and stepped into the room, turning and winking at Caoran as she made her way to the bed, sitting down seductively on it, instinctively unfastening the top button of her tight-fitting blouse.
Caoran pulled his foot away from the door, leaving the reporter’s jaw to drop open as it swung shut, a silent click followed by the sound of banging and aggravated shouting from inside the room, using some more colourful language than Caoran had expected such an innocent women to know. Tugging on the door, Caoran assured himself that it was indeed locked shut and smirked as the frantic banging continued on the other side.
Caoran turned to the camera man who had stood by the whole time, dumbstruck, no doubt used to the blonde woman’s methods by now.
“I may not have any time for that whore, but I have plans for you. Come with me.”
The camera man swallowed hard, a little intimidated by the looming presence of the Moral Vigilante as he stood over him, but he knew better than to argue, gathering his equipment and following Caoran down the hall, away from the yelling.
Stepping out of the lobby into the fresh, cool afternoon breeze, Caoran motioned for the camera man to follow him.
“Keep up; we’re going to hit the streets.”
The camera man said nothing, but he assumed that Lavery intended to hit the streets hard. However, his thoughts were interrupted by a red object passing between himself and Caoran. As it bounced off of the pavement, it became apparent that it was in fact a red leather high-heeled shoe, and turning to face the direction from whence it came revealed the hurler; it was the blonde reporter.
“You bastard! I can’t believe you did this to me!” Shouted the woman as she pulled off her remaining shoe and threw it from the window of the hotel room that had once belonged to Caoran Lavery. It missed both men and several others in the street below, which only seemed to further enrage the blonde reporter.
“I won’t forget this, you fucking psycho! I’ll get you back for this!”
Caoran smirked as he surveyed the crowd that had gathered around them, staring up at the ranting woman in the hotel room. It was quite a crowd; this sort of drama clearly caught their attention, no doubt in hope of some explosive break up or the result of some kind of secret affair or marriage.
Caoran turned to the camera man, “She must be talking to you.”
Shaking his head, the slightest hint of smirk suggesting his amusement at the scene unfolding around him, Caoran turned and set off through the crowd, followed by the camera man who was about to become his newest accomplice.
The camera man was an unattractive man, of average height and below average intelligence; he seemed to be a born follower, probably an ideal trait for a man that was paid to follow a reporter around for a living. His hair was long and greasy, loosely held in a long ponytail, the top of which was stuffed under an NY Mets baseball cap. His shirt seemed to be stained with a myriad of condiments, and his shorts showed a set of legs more akin to condoms stuffed with ricotta cheese than the muscular, powerful legs that might be expected of someone associated with the wrestling industry. As a physical specimen, he simply could not compare with Caoran Lavery. His face was as greasy as his hair and the stubble adorning his chin seemed to be more from a laziness and reluctance to shave than through any intentional facial hair growth.
Whilst his appearance was grotesque and his intelligence was questionable (indeed, Caoran was concerned that at this stage, the blonde woman was the brains of the unit), he seemed to be carrying the camera competently enough and given that he was still employed, he must have been capable enough of doing his job. And that was all that Caoran needed him to do.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you already, we’re hitting the street. We’re going to go and find the Brandon Youngs that litter these streets and have a little chat with them. An interview, perhaps.”
“Why do you need me for that?”
“If Mark Rivera is going to spy on me and track my movements, then I might as well do things on my own terms. All you need to do is get your podgy fingers going and start recording our activities. Or is that too difficult for you?”
The camera man grunted. At least he knew well enough when not to answer a question posed to him. It was equally possible that he wasn’t listening; he struck Caoran as being an ignorant man, so it would come as no surprise if this was the case. Greasy, ignorant and overweight, he seemed every bit the stereotypical American as far as Caoran was concerned; the closest thing this man saw to exercise would be late at night, furiously masturbating to whatever sordid images he found buried within the murky depths of the Internet.
Caoran marched on, leaving the crowds and the screams of a furious blonde woman far behind him, slowing his pace slightly to allow the waddling camera man to catch up occasionally. Having moved some way away from the hotel and found himself on a bustling street lined with coffee shops and bars, Caoran turned back to face the camera man.
“Here, get that camera rolling; these are the people we’re here to talk to.”
The camera man looked around him, these people didn’t look anything special; it just looked like any other street scene; a mix of business types on their phones, student types in coffee shops and those with more money than sense trying to fill the voids in their lives with material possessions. Why were these people the people that Caoran Lavery wanted to talk to?
“Why? Who are they?”
“They are Brandon Young.”
The camera man furrowed his brow, not understanding at all what Caoran meant, but knowing well enough not to ask the question that burned in the front of his mind. Instead, he pulled the camera up onto his shoulder and started it up, motioning for Caoran to begin.
Caoran stared into the camera, addressing it directly.
“For those of you that don’t know me yet, you will, my name is Caoran Lavery and I am your only hope of salvation in this day and age. Many of you have fallen by the wayside without even realising it, some of you were born into the gutter and have never even considered the possibility of climbing out. This is why I am here; I have come to save you.”
“Last time out, I dismantled the good doctor Rudkilde, as a forewarning to you all that vanity and narcissism have no place in the light. These notions are foolish, they are wrong and they will only lead you further into darkness. Today, we will consider my next opponent; Brandon Young. A man that literally screams exuberance; he burns with the very fire and passion of youth as is fitting for a man named ‘Young’. Cocky, laidback, goofy, determined, passionate and full of energy; it isn’t hard to see why he has such a following among the youth of today. In truth, he pretty much epitomises the youth of today.”
“So, naturally, we’ll be talking to the youth of today to get an insight into their lives and their values, so that maybe we can find out a bit more about the mindset of ‘The Young Gun’. I have studied his matches and seen his in-ring performances, but that tells me little more than I already knew; he’s fast and a high flyer that favours offence and speed. Not so unusual, which begs the question… Why are people talking about Brandon Young? What makes him so special? Let’s find out!”
Caoran surveys the street, his first port of call is two twenty-something men stood next to a hot dog cart. One is hungrily munching through a humongous chilli dog, whilst the second is engaged in a heated debate with the vendor about something. Caoran can’t help a sneer developing, both men are considerably overweight and the one talking is rather obnoxious; the camera man would fit in well with these two. However, something has caught the eye of Caoran Lavery; it’s a faded “Machine” T-shirt that one of the guys is wearing.
“Morning fellas, can I speak to you for a minute?”
Caoran approaches as the one still eating looks up and then carries back in, holding the dog in his hands and vacuuming it up, he looked every part the pig; his snout deep within his trough. The second man turns to Caoran and sees the camera, his eyes lighting up as he nods enthusiastically.
“Yes, buddy, get over now and bring that camera. You look like a news reporter, right? Or are you from consumer affairs? God, I wish you were. Just take a look at this! You see this? Get your camera stuck in there and take a look!”
The vendor immediately starts flapping his arms, trying to obstruct the camera; his shouting belies a heavy accent, suggesting that he’s from somewhere in the Mediterranean, likely Turkish or Greek.
“Hey, stop that! I give you dog now, yes? Cameras go away?”
The other man nods, “With chilli, bro. Got to have chilli on my dog.”
The vendor nods and quickly assembles a chilli dog, passing it to the man and then passing a second to his gluttonous friend before turning to face Caoran with an apologetic smile.
“And you, friend? You like chilli dog too? Maybe extra one for camera?”
Caoran could feel his teeth grinding. He simply waved the vendor away and turned to face the two men as the camera man moved towards the vendor.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The camera man sighed and solemnly shook his head, adjusting the camera to focus on Caoran and the two men as they moved away from the vendor.
“Nice shirt,” said Caoran, nodding at the Sabora emblazoned design, “Are you a wrestling fan then?”
“Yeah, we both are, but neither of us have watched in a while.”
Damn.
“Why’s that?”
“It’s that Rivera guy. He’s been around for ages, but he’s crazier now than ever and it seems like every week someone was leaving because he chased them out; guys like Jack Bull and Jason Ambrose… Gone, without any kind of explanation.”
His friend nodded, “Rivera knows how to run a successful business, he’s done it before but if he keeps it up, it’ll just be two hours of Rivera week in, week out.”
“And Roy Viper, he must be giving the boss head or something.”
“Well, he must have stopped,” said Caoran, “He’s not even on the match card for Prestige.”
“Man, I might have quit watching, but I’m still thinking about ordering Prestige. Xplode facing Oblivion one last time… It’s like the good old days!”
“It’s giving me a proper old-school vibe, shame that the rest of the roster doesn’t do anything for me. None of those new guys could hold a candle to Meltdown or Tom Roberts.”
Caoran Lavery might have something to say about that.
“Either of you two heard of a guy called Brandon Young?”
The more talkative of the pair finished his free chilli dog and dumped the wrapper in a trash can, nodding as he did.
“Yeah, he started in the EUW when I was losing interest. He was in their Royal Rumble, he put on a good show.”
“Along with that girl, uh, Natalie something.”
“Yeah, I remember her too. Seemed like a desperate bid for viewing figures in my mind. Rivera knows he’s putting out a poor product these days, so he’s bringing in woman to try and get people interested in a few of the babes instead.”
“She seemed kind of frigid for a babe. Can’t imagine her being in Playboy.”
“Yeah, well we all knew Brandon was boning her. Has he admitted it yet?”
Caoran nodded, “They had some romantic, heart-felt conversation and now they’re an item.”
“That’s going to draw in the fans. Red-blooded American males love a good romance!”
“So,” said Caoran, “What do you guys like?”
“I watched for the wrestling. I didn’t mind if it was brawling, or high flying or submissions or hardcore or whatever. I just wanted to be entertaining. I mean, I like boxing too, but wrestling was like fantasy boxing; you got to see stuff that boxers never did. The rules just don’t allow it, man.”
“It’s called wrestling; that should be its focus. People don’t watch it for interviews with wrestlers, or to see soppy hand-holding and first kisses, they’re watching it to see two guys beat the ever-loving crap out of each other. I want to see cage matches, and ladder matches; I don’t want to listen to Rivera talk about shit just to hear the sound of his own voice.”
“Hell yeah. I just want to see two guys give it their all. I mean, Sabora has a crazy win-loss record because he fights every fight like it’s his first, or his last, or whatever. You can tell that each match matters to him, and the same went for the other EUW Legends. They all busted their asses to get to the top by putting everything they had into every match. These days you get lazy guys turning up that just see it as a pay cheque and don’t take it seriously.”
“I saw some a few weeks back, guys like Stephen Callaway and that Doctor bloke-“
“-Rudkilde”
“Yeah, him, they were just throwing lazy punches around. Neither guy seemed like he cared if he won or not, as if he got paid the same either way. If you want to be a champion you’ve got to work for it. If you don’t want to be a champion then you’re probably better off quitting and doing something else.”
Caoran nodded, these men might not be intellectual elite, but at least they appreciated that wrestling should focus on the wrestling. At least they understood that much.
“So you two want to see wrestlers that care, wrestlers that are wrestling fans themselves?”
“Yeah, just people that give a shit, you know? I don’t want romance or fake rappers or anything like that; I want two dudes whaling on each other until one guy can’t take it no more.”
I can certainly promise a beating.
“You guys should check out Prestige if you get a chance,” Caoran said with a smile, “There are some interesting characters there and I’m sure you’ll at least see some wrestling.”
“I suppose, we usually have a Prestige party – you know, invite the guys around, drink some beers, eat pizza. It’s good fun.”
“Yeah, it would be a shame not to.”
“Just think about it. This will not be a show to miss.”
Caoran shook his head, these guys weren’t so good, they barely knew Brandon Young and they certainly didn’t recognise Caoran Lavery. They would soon enough though. He was sure of that. These slobs, clearly not in any kind of serious employment, at least knew enough about wrestling to know the basics – the wrestling comes first. Romance and hand-holding take a back seat. Caoran made a mental note of this; it wasn’t anything he couldn’t have concocted, but he would be sure to interrupt any tender moments between the EUW’s latest happy couple if the chance arose. He bore neither of them any particular malice, but if Brandon Young wants to go around kissing girls and making them swoon then he’ll have to buck up his ideas in order to overcome the Moral Vigilante, “love” certainly can’t overcome truth, of this, Caoran was sure, and the divorce statistics would only further reinforce such notions.
Caoran Lavery; the fan favourite. Giving them exactly what they asked for. A beating, he would make sure that Brandon Young was beaten on the grandest stage of them all that it might echo throughout the industry. Perhaps Brandon Young’s role as the second victim might not be so forgettable.
“Come on,” said Caoran turning to the camera man, “We need to find some younger fans.”
“How ‘bout those kids? Over in that coffee shop?”
Caoran turned in the direction that the camera man was indicating. A group of four guys, probably about twenty or so were drinking overpriced coffee, wearing overpriced jeans and listening to their overpriced iPods, all whilst complaining about the evils of big business. Generation Y; the “Y” stands for “why bother?” Why bother shopping at fair trade shops or actively reducing your energy usage to save the environment? After all, what difference can you make, when the evils of big business are looming over, threatening to steal the sun itself? The apathy of youth needs no exaggeration; it is well known enough already. Instead, they line the pockets of the rich whilst bemoaning the failings of Capitalism, all the while subscribing to urge to buy more and more. Buying a Che Guevara t-shirt doesn’t make you an activist, or someone with political opinions; it makes you a tool that shops at the GAP and wears the same clothes as everyone else. Che Guevara must be spinning in his grave.
Nevertheless, they were closer to Brandon Young in age and presumed mindset. These boys barely looked old enough to remember the past greats; in their lifetime, Sidney Long has only ever been a commentator. Caoran took a deep breath; this was going to be more unpleasant than the greasy slackers he had already spoken to.
“Any of you kids minding taking five minutes to talk to me?”
“Why, are you doing some kind of documentary, dude?”
“Something along those lines, yes. I’m looking to talk to young people and get their opinions on matters. The usual dross.”
“Eh… I guess, man. I’m not exactly doing much else, go for it,” said the first youth, who seemed to have taken charge. “So what do you want to shoot the breeze about?”
“Professional wrestling.”
The tallest of the group immediately perks up, sounding a little more interested than his self-appointed group leader. He turns to Caoran and squints a little.
“That’s where I’ve seen you before. You’re a wrestler, aren’t you?”
“I am. Caoran Lavery’s the name.”
“That’s it, yeah! I was at the show last week, I watched you beat Dr. Rudkilde, I guess you’re going for the HardKore title then? It seems right up your street, bro.”
Caoran grunted, “How about the rest of you? Wrestling fans?”
“I used to be more into it; I still watch it sometimes, yeah.”
Another “former” fan. Is Rivera really a master businessman and promoter if he’s driving away so many fans? Does he know this? Does he even care?
“My brother’s still into it, I watch with him sometimes. It’s Prestige in a few weeks, I’ll be watching that. I always do.”
“So, boys, any of you heard of Brandon Young? He’s supposed to be your kind of wrestler. What do you think?”
“He’s alright. Guy’s got some pretty cool tricks.”
“Yeah, I know who you mean. He’s got some skills, he really put Bane to the sword in that HardKore title match, so you can tell the guy knows his way around the ring. He’s always got this smile on his face, like he loves being there. I don’t know that he’s good enough to be the top dog though; he’s not like, Oblivion or Brett Cross or anyone.”
“So, he’s good but not great?”
“Yeah. He’s enthusiastic and you can tell he’s trying but it’s kind of hard to take the guy seriously. He walks out to the freakin’ Bloodhound Gang. He’s funny and all, but I don’t know if he’s got anything more than that.”
We’ll see soon enough. Does the funny man have a second gear? Is there anything more to him than being just a comedy character? Perhaps he’s got a few secrets hidden up his sleeves, or maybe it’s just more coloured handkerchiefs. The class clown is rarely proven to be much more than the class clown; neither Bane nor Viper’s stooges were credible opponents for the Young Gun; that much is apparent. Let Brandon Young come at the Moral Vigilante. Let him prove his worth in a real fight.
“I’m sure he’ll get tested soon enough.”
Caoran nodded to the kids and turned his back, moving away and speaking directly to the camera once more.
“I’m not sure that we’re getting much luck here. It seems that most people don’t really know or care enough to talk much about Brandon Young, that’s not to his detriment, but to their own ignorance. He’s young and new on the scene; not too different to yours truly, and people are too enamoured by their childhood heroes like Xplode and Meltdown, but I certainly won’t be speaking to any children on this matter. They might speak with open honesty, but it’s not truth; truth comes through knowledge and understanding, not through playing in mud and eating quarters.”
“Truth is my strength; it is my driving force. I see the truth; I know it. Does Brandon Young see the truth? Can he see the truth that this encounter will be brief, but eventful, for all the wrong reasons? His speed and trickery are well-documented and whilst I am sure that he has more secrets kept up his sleeve like the proverbial magician, I see through his strategies and deceits and find his strategy to be little more than a house of cards, waiting to be blown away.”
“I’m not going to pretend to know Brandon Young; I can’t read minds, but I have studied him. I have watched past matches, I saw his last performance live before I left the arena, based on a hunch that our paths were likely to cross soon. It’s the usual mismatch of styles; speedy high flier against power house brawler, but this isn’t David vs. Goliath; this is Brandon vs. Caoran. I fully expect Brandon to give it his all, something that seems to be his game; going in strong and hoping for a result. Do I put my body on the line and give it my all?”
“Of course I do. Caoran Lavery holds some values to be very important, among them the belief that hard work is its own reward; that the truth will always make itself known and that if something is worth doing, it was worth doing with every ounce of power, ability and determination that a person possesses.”
“I may have a reputation forming for being a harsh man, but I am not entirely unfair. I punished Rudkilde because he took me lightly and made no real effort; Brandon, if you come out strongly, I’ll give you a fair fight and let your measure yourself against me. Should you give anything less than all you have, I will dispose of you like I did the good doctor. This isn’t personal, I don’t know you, but all I’m saying is that you must get your priorities straight. I’ve checked the statistics; you’ve never been in a real fight in the EUW; you may have won the HardKore title, but ask yourself if that match really proved anything. Bane isn’t in your class; he certainly isn’t in my class. It would have been an embarrassment for you to lose to him.”
“This is a fight. People might be excited for Xplode and Oblivion squaring off, but there is always one match that surprises people and gets them talking. My showing will surprise people; they don’t expect it, but I won’t allow them to forget it. Don’t allow them to forget you, either. Focus on me, focus on wrestling. Ignore the sentimental nonsense and your precious feelings that ‘Southern Belle’ that you have taken a shine too; she can’t help you here, and this is nothing to do with her. Your goofy smile and dorky jokes won’t endear you to me, nor will your laidback approach to life. You may think that you’re some kind of cloud; drifting through life and enjoying the sights, but this is serious business. In that ring, come Prestige, it’s just you and I. No titles, no fanfares, no stipulations; just two men going toe-to-toe and fist-to-fist to determine the victor. If you slip up, you will be punished.”
Caoran moves towards the camera, staring straight into it.
“Brandon, I’m telling you this now, and I’m an advocate of truth, so you had better listen, and listen good; these aren't lies. The truth is that you’ll struggle to just survive in that ring with me if you can’t get serious about this fight.”
“Because that’s what it will be. A fight.”
“I hope you have what it takes. I don’t want to be disappointed again.”
Standard Rules
Caoran Lavery vs. Brandon Young
Caoran Lavery stared at the words printed on the paper in front of him. He had decimated Doctor Rudkilde in a match that had proven to be little more than an exhibition of strength for Caoran, and little less than a full-blown public execution for the good doctor. It had served its purpose in announcing the arrival of Caoran Lavery, and proving that he was not just a man that lurked in shadows and struck down unprepared opponents, but that he was akin to an assassin, picking his opponent apart piece by piece and dismantling them in the ring for all to see. “Rudkilde” was to be the first name on a very long list.
“Young” would be the second name.
The self-professed “Young Gun” would find himself looking down the barrel of another public execution at the hands of the Moral Vigilante, and, as Caoran had shown with his dominance of the good doctor, he was as accurate and lethal as any sharpshooter. He would strike with decisive force and rend his opponent in pieces. Young had the unfortunate distinction of being a forgotten name in the story of Caoran Lavery. At least Rudkilde would be remembered as the first, but the second name is usually the least memorable of all names.
The second name is the first follower; it comes after others. Many know the names of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson; the first and third Presidents of the United States of America, but who really knows anything about John Adams? He was the second President of America, but is he lauded as one of the greats? Is his face carved in stone for all ages? No. He was the man that came second to Washington in the first election, and the man that served as President after Washington; perennially second-best. Consider now, sports; who is the world’s second strongest man? Does anyone know?
The truth is that second place is forgettable. It is insignificant and unremarkable; it says that this person was never quite good enough to be first, that this person simply wasn’t up to the task. To lose to the newcomer, Caoran Lavery is no shame, he is a new challenge and his brutal style might surprise those watching enough to grant him a win in his first competitive match, but in the second match? Did Caoran Lavery have more tricks up his sleeve? Or would Brandon Young, a man no longer facing a “mysterious newcomer”, still succumb to the same techniques? Lavery had demonstrated all of his abilities against Rudkilde; sheer brute-force strength, a degree of surprising speed, a resistance to physical pain and a desire to maim those he opposed. He had shown off both The Revelation and The Vice Grip, along with The Lobotomiser. In effect, Caoran Lavery had revealed all of his cards.
Any gambler will tell you that revealing your cards is a fool’s move. At least one card should always be held back, to give some sort of edge.
Caoran Lavery is no gambler. He can reveal his cards because his fists are law and his strength is truth; he is already ordained the victor of all encounters. There is nothing to hide; nothing that needs to be held back; Lavery does not concern himself with the notion that his opponents will know his techniques and strategies; no, he would rather they knew. That they saw what was coming and knew that they could not overcome it.
Let the world know the techniques of Caoran Lavery; let them fear his power and brutal strength; what does it matter if they know what is coming? It does not change the fact that they cannot overcome it. By entering the ring with Caoran Lavery they have already lost; even if their hand is raised at the end of the match, Caoran Lavery will be the one to walk back to the locker room as the true victor; wins and losses are merely terminology. The real winner of any match is the man that can walk under his own power, without assistance. The loser is the one that lies in the ring; a twitching mass, struggling to breathe. Rudkilde lost twice in the match with Caoran Lavery; he should be considered one of the lucky ones because he may yet return to the squared circle in the future. He still has hope.
So too, will Brandon Young; he will hope that one encounter with the Moral Vigilante is all; he will hope that there is no rematch for his HardKore Title; he will hope that his wounds heal and that Caoran Lavery does not see fit to put an end to his wretched career once and for all.
Caoran screwed up the piece of paper, it gave no valuable information; at this stage, he cared not for the Chuck Johnsons or the Toby Hunters of this world; his focus was on his opponent and he would not find that information here in his Rivera-funded hotel room. Indeed, for Lavery, a man used to making powerful enemies, he trusted very little that Rivera said, did, or afforded to him and he knew that this hotel room was bugged. The crackle upon lifting the receiver told Caoran that the line was bugged, the unmistakable whirr of cameras amid the silence of night revealed that the room was being recorded (and if this was hotel policy as standard, it was a certainty that Rivera would be keeping tabs on the contents of such tapes) and the fact that the other EUW hotel rooms were all in the same area said that it was arranged like this for ease of control and surveillance. Caoran cared not for Rivera’s monitoring of his whereabouts whilst he was within the hotel and he knew it would extend beyond its granite walls and marble floors, but he did know that it would serve his purposes to evade such surveillance for a spell.
If only to remind Mark Rivera that he was not the omniscient God he wished he was.
Caoran gathered up his few belongings into his roll bag and made for the door, opening it for the last time with the key card he had been provided and stepping out into the hallway, letting the door close behind him with a subdued click. As he began his march down the hallway, he heard a loud, female voice from behind.
“Mr. Lavery! Mr. Lavery! Can we talk now?”
It was the same obnoxious blonde reporter that had been bugging him on his way home from Vengeance. Caoran Lavery neither replied nor broke his gait, opting instead to ignore this one entirely.
“I’m sorry I bothered you after your match, I should have figured you would want to celebrate after winning on your debut. I just want a chance to interview the EUW’s newest star ahead of his first PPV! Please?”
Caoran stopped in his tracks and turned to face the female reporter. She seemed exactly the type that Rivera would go for – blonde, attractive, curves in the right places and despite the cooling temperatures that came with November, she was still showing a lot of skin. It was clear why Rivera had hired her in the first place and, indeed, why she had kept the job. As her near-begging suggested, she didn’t appear to feel any shame. This was likely something that Rivera had already taken advantage of, and Caoran didn’t doubt that Rivera would be making further use of it in future.
“Please can we do an interview? I’ve got a camera man here with me. It won’t take long, I promise! I can tell you’re a busy man, but just give me a few minutes of your time and we can carry it out right here!”
Caoran narrowed his gaze, glaring straight at this incessant woman.
“We could do it in your hotel room, if you would prefer…”
Caoran waited a few seconds to see if the meaning of her words would occur to this reporter, but as her smile grew, one eyebrow rose just enough to suggest that it wasn’t some awkward faux pas, but that it was meant as it was said. No shame, indeed, this was a reporter that would do what it took to get the story she craved.
“Well?” She asked, moving towards Caoran, “What do you say?”
Caoran took a sharp intake of breath, just enough to halt the woman in her tracks, he then flashed a sadistic smile.
“Sounds good to me; this room is mine.”
“Oh,” said the blonde woman, visibly relaxing, “I know which room yours is, stud.”
Caoran nodded and swiped the door with his key card, “Of course you do,” he pushed the door, holding it open with his foot, “Ladies first.”
The blonde woman nodded and stepped into the room, turning and winking at Caoran as she made her way to the bed, sitting down seductively on it, instinctively unfastening the top button of her tight-fitting blouse.
Caoran pulled his foot away from the door, leaving the reporter’s jaw to drop open as it swung shut, a silent click followed by the sound of banging and aggravated shouting from inside the room, using some more colourful language than Caoran had expected such an innocent women to know. Tugging on the door, Caoran assured himself that it was indeed locked shut and smirked as the frantic banging continued on the other side.
Caoran turned to the camera man who had stood by the whole time, dumbstruck, no doubt used to the blonde woman’s methods by now.
“I may not have any time for that whore, but I have plans for you. Come with me.”
The camera man swallowed hard, a little intimidated by the looming presence of the Moral Vigilante as he stood over him, but he knew better than to argue, gathering his equipment and following Caoran down the hall, away from the yelling.
Stepping out of the lobby into the fresh, cool afternoon breeze, Caoran motioned for the camera man to follow him.
“Keep up; we’re going to hit the streets.”
The camera man said nothing, but he assumed that Lavery intended to hit the streets hard. However, his thoughts were interrupted by a red object passing between himself and Caoran. As it bounced off of the pavement, it became apparent that it was in fact a red leather high-heeled shoe, and turning to face the direction from whence it came revealed the hurler; it was the blonde reporter.
“You bastard! I can’t believe you did this to me!” Shouted the woman as she pulled off her remaining shoe and threw it from the window of the hotel room that had once belonged to Caoran Lavery. It missed both men and several others in the street below, which only seemed to further enrage the blonde reporter.
“I won’t forget this, you fucking psycho! I’ll get you back for this!”
Caoran smirked as he surveyed the crowd that had gathered around them, staring up at the ranting woman in the hotel room. It was quite a crowd; this sort of drama clearly caught their attention, no doubt in hope of some explosive break up or the result of some kind of secret affair or marriage.
Caoran turned to the camera man, “She must be talking to you.”
Shaking his head, the slightest hint of smirk suggesting his amusement at the scene unfolding around him, Caoran turned and set off through the crowd, followed by the camera man who was about to become his newest accomplice.
The camera man was an unattractive man, of average height and below average intelligence; he seemed to be a born follower, probably an ideal trait for a man that was paid to follow a reporter around for a living. His hair was long and greasy, loosely held in a long ponytail, the top of which was stuffed under an NY Mets baseball cap. His shirt seemed to be stained with a myriad of condiments, and his shorts showed a set of legs more akin to condoms stuffed with ricotta cheese than the muscular, powerful legs that might be expected of someone associated with the wrestling industry. As a physical specimen, he simply could not compare with Caoran Lavery. His face was as greasy as his hair and the stubble adorning his chin seemed to be more from a laziness and reluctance to shave than through any intentional facial hair growth.
Whilst his appearance was grotesque and his intelligence was questionable (indeed, Caoran was concerned that at this stage, the blonde woman was the brains of the unit), he seemed to be carrying the camera competently enough and given that he was still employed, he must have been capable enough of doing his job. And that was all that Caoran needed him to do.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you already, we’re hitting the street. We’re going to go and find the Brandon Youngs that litter these streets and have a little chat with them. An interview, perhaps.”
“Why do you need me for that?”
“If Mark Rivera is going to spy on me and track my movements, then I might as well do things on my own terms. All you need to do is get your podgy fingers going and start recording our activities. Or is that too difficult for you?”
The camera man grunted. At least he knew well enough when not to answer a question posed to him. It was equally possible that he wasn’t listening; he struck Caoran as being an ignorant man, so it would come as no surprise if this was the case. Greasy, ignorant and overweight, he seemed every bit the stereotypical American as far as Caoran was concerned; the closest thing this man saw to exercise would be late at night, furiously masturbating to whatever sordid images he found buried within the murky depths of the Internet.
Caoran marched on, leaving the crowds and the screams of a furious blonde woman far behind him, slowing his pace slightly to allow the waddling camera man to catch up occasionally. Having moved some way away from the hotel and found himself on a bustling street lined with coffee shops and bars, Caoran turned back to face the camera man.
“Here, get that camera rolling; these are the people we’re here to talk to.”
The camera man looked around him, these people didn’t look anything special; it just looked like any other street scene; a mix of business types on their phones, student types in coffee shops and those with more money than sense trying to fill the voids in their lives with material possessions. Why were these people the people that Caoran Lavery wanted to talk to?
“Why? Who are they?”
“They are Brandon Young.”
The camera man furrowed his brow, not understanding at all what Caoran meant, but knowing well enough not to ask the question that burned in the front of his mind. Instead, he pulled the camera up onto his shoulder and started it up, motioning for Caoran to begin.
Caoran stared into the camera, addressing it directly.
“For those of you that don’t know me yet, you will, my name is Caoran Lavery and I am your only hope of salvation in this day and age. Many of you have fallen by the wayside without even realising it, some of you were born into the gutter and have never even considered the possibility of climbing out. This is why I am here; I have come to save you.”
“Last time out, I dismantled the good doctor Rudkilde, as a forewarning to you all that vanity and narcissism have no place in the light. These notions are foolish, they are wrong and they will only lead you further into darkness. Today, we will consider my next opponent; Brandon Young. A man that literally screams exuberance; he burns with the very fire and passion of youth as is fitting for a man named ‘Young’. Cocky, laidback, goofy, determined, passionate and full of energy; it isn’t hard to see why he has such a following among the youth of today. In truth, he pretty much epitomises the youth of today.”
“So, naturally, we’ll be talking to the youth of today to get an insight into their lives and their values, so that maybe we can find out a bit more about the mindset of ‘The Young Gun’. I have studied his matches and seen his in-ring performances, but that tells me little more than I already knew; he’s fast and a high flyer that favours offence and speed. Not so unusual, which begs the question… Why are people talking about Brandon Young? What makes him so special? Let’s find out!”
Caoran surveys the street, his first port of call is two twenty-something men stood next to a hot dog cart. One is hungrily munching through a humongous chilli dog, whilst the second is engaged in a heated debate with the vendor about something. Caoran can’t help a sneer developing, both men are considerably overweight and the one talking is rather obnoxious; the camera man would fit in well with these two. However, something has caught the eye of Caoran Lavery; it’s a faded “Machine” T-shirt that one of the guys is wearing.
“Morning fellas, can I speak to you for a minute?”
Caoran approaches as the one still eating looks up and then carries back in, holding the dog in his hands and vacuuming it up, he looked every part the pig; his snout deep within his trough. The second man turns to Caoran and sees the camera, his eyes lighting up as he nods enthusiastically.
“Yes, buddy, get over now and bring that camera. You look like a news reporter, right? Or are you from consumer affairs? God, I wish you were. Just take a look at this! You see this? Get your camera stuck in there and take a look!”
The vendor immediately starts flapping his arms, trying to obstruct the camera; his shouting belies a heavy accent, suggesting that he’s from somewhere in the Mediterranean, likely Turkish or Greek.
“Hey, stop that! I give you dog now, yes? Cameras go away?”
The other man nods, “With chilli, bro. Got to have chilli on my dog.”
The vendor nods and quickly assembles a chilli dog, passing it to the man and then passing a second to his gluttonous friend before turning to face Caoran with an apologetic smile.
“And you, friend? You like chilli dog too? Maybe extra one for camera?”
Caoran could feel his teeth grinding. He simply waved the vendor away and turned to face the two men as the camera man moved towards the vendor.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The camera man sighed and solemnly shook his head, adjusting the camera to focus on Caoran and the two men as they moved away from the vendor.
“Nice shirt,” said Caoran, nodding at the Sabora emblazoned design, “Are you a wrestling fan then?”
“Yeah, we both are, but neither of us have watched in a while.”
Damn.
“Why’s that?”
“It’s that Rivera guy. He’s been around for ages, but he’s crazier now than ever and it seems like every week someone was leaving because he chased them out; guys like Jack Bull and Jason Ambrose… Gone, without any kind of explanation.”
His friend nodded, “Rivera knows how to run a successful business, he’s done it before but if he keeps it up, it’ll just be two hours of Rivera week in, week out.”
“And Roy Viper, he must be giving the boss head or something.”
“Well, he must have stopped,” said Caoran, “He’s not even on the match card for Prestige.”
“Man, I might have quit watching, but I’m still thinking about ordering Prestige. Xplode facing Oblivion one last time… It’s like the good old days!”
“It’s giving me a proper old-school vibe, shame that the rest of the roster doesn’t do anything for me. None of those new guys could hold a candle to Meltdown or Tom Roberts.”
Caoran Lavery might have something to say about that.
“Either of you two heard of a guy called Brandon Young?”
The more talkative of the pair finished his free chilli dog and dumped the wrapper in a trash can, nodding as he did.
“Yeah, he started in the EUW when I was losing interest. He was in their Royal Rumble, he put on a good show.”
“Along with that girl, uh, Natalie something.”
“Yeah, I remember her too. Seemed like a desperate bid for viewing figures in my mind. Rivera knows he’s putting out a poor product these days, so he’s bringing in woman to try and get people interested in a few of the babes instead.”
“She seemed kind of frigid for a babe. Can’t imagine her being in Playboy.”
“Yeah, well we all knew Brandon was boning her. Has he admitted it yet?”
Caoran nodded, “They had some romantic, heart-felt conversation and now they’re an item.”
“That’s going to draw in the fans. Red-blooded American males love a good romance!”
“So,” said Caoran, “What do you guys like?”
“I watched for the wrestling. I didn’t mind if it was brawling, or high flying or submissions or hardcore or whatever. I just wanted to be entertaining. I mean, I like boxing too, but wrestling was like fantasy boxing; you got to see stuff that boxers never did. The rules just don’t allow it, man.”
“It’s called wrestling; that should be its focus. People don’t watch it for interviews with wrestlers, or to see soppy hand-holding and first kisses, they’re watching it to see two guys beat the ever-loving crap out of each other. I want to see cage matches, and ladder matches; I don’t want to listen to Rivera talk about shit just to hear the sound of his own voice.”
“Hell yeah. I just want to see two guys give it their all. I mean, Sabora has a crazy win-loss record because he fights every fight like it’s his first, or his last, or whatever. You can tell that each match matters to him, and the same went for the other EUW Legends. They all busted their asses to get to the top by putting everything they had into every match. These days you get lazy guys turning up that just see it as a pay cheque and don’t take it seriously.”
“I saw some a few weeks back, guys like Stephen Callaway and that Doctor bloke-“
“-Rudkilde”
“Yeah, him, they were just throwing lazy punches around. Neither guy seemed like he cared if he won or not, as if he got paid the same either way. If you want to be a champion you’ve got to work for it. If you don’t want to be a champion then you’re probably better off quitting and doing something else.”
Caoran nodded, these men might not be intellectual elite, but at least they appreciated that wrestling should focus on the wrestling. At least they understood that much.
“So you two want to see wrestlers that care, wrestlers that are wrestling fans themselves?”
“Yeah, just people that give a shit, you know? I don’t want romance or fake rappers or anything like that; I want two dudes whaling on each other until one guy can’t take it no more.”
I can certainly promise a beating.
“You guys should check out Prestige if you get a chance,” Caoran said with a smile, “There are some interesting characters there and I’m sure you’ll at least see some wrestling.”
“I suppose, we usually have a Prestige party – you know, invite the guys around, drink some beers, eat pizza. It’s good fun.”
“Yeah, it would be a shame not to.”
“Just think about it. This will not be a show to miss.”
Caoran shook his head, these guys weren’t so good, they barely knew Brandon Young and they certainly didn’t recognise Caoran Lavery. They would soon enough though. He was sure of that. These slobs, clearly not in any kind of serious employment, at least knew enough about wrestling to know the basics – the wrestling comes first. Romance and hand-holding take a back seat. Caoran made a mental note of this; it wasn’t anything he couldn’t have concocted, but he would be sure to interrupt any tender moments between the EUW’s latest happy couple if the chance arose. He bore neither of them any particular malice, but if Brandon Young wants to go around kissing girls and making them swoon then he’ll have to buck up his ideas in order to overcome the Moral Vigilante, “love” certainly can’t overcome truth, of this, Caoran was sure, and the divorce statistics would only further reinforce such notions.
Caoran Lavery; the fan favourite. Giving them exactly what they asked for. A beating, he would make sure that Brandon Young was beaten on the grandest stage of them all that it might echo throughout the industry. Perhaps Brandon Young’s role as the second victim might not be so forgettable.
“Come on,” said Caoran turning to the camera man, “We need to find some younger fans.”
“How ‘bout those kids? Over in that coffee shop?”
Caoran turned in the direction that the camera man was indicating. A group of four guys, probably about twenty or so were drinking overpriced coffee, wearing overpriced jeans and listening to their overpriced iPods, all whilst complaining about the evils of big business. Generation Y; the “Y” stands for “why bother?” Why bother shopping at fair trade shops or actively reducing your energy usage to save the environment? After all, what difference can you make, when the evils of big business are looming over, threatening to steal the sun itself? The apathy of youth needs no exaggeration; it is well known enough already. Instead, they line the pockets of the rich whilst bemoaning the failings of Capitalism, all the while subscribing to urge to buy more and more. Buying a Che Guevara t-shirt doesn’t make you an activist, or someone with political opinions; it makes you a tool that shops at the GAP and wears the same clothes as everyone else. Che Guevara must be spinning in his grave.
Nevertheless, they were closer to Brandon Young in age and presumed mindset. These boys barely looked old enough to remember the past greats; in their lifetime, Sidney Long has only ever been a commentator. Caoran took a deep breath; this was going to be more unpleasant than the greasy slackers he had already spoken to.
“Any of you kids minding taking five minutes to talk to me?”
“Why, are you doing some kind of documentary, dude?”
“Something along those lines, yes. I’m looking to talk to young people and get their opinions on matters. The usual dross.”
“Eh… I guess, man. I’m not exactly doing much else, go for it,” said the first youth, who seemed to have taken charge. “So what do you want to shoot the breeze about?”
“Professional wrestling.”
The tallest of the group immediately perks up, sounding a little more interested than his self-appointed group leader. He turns to Caoran and squints a little.
“That’s where I’ve seen you before. You’re a wrestler, aren’t you?”
“I am. Caoran Lavery’s the name.”
“That’s it, yeah! I was at the show last week, I watched you beat Dr. Rudkilde, I guess you’re going for the HardKore title then? It seems right up your street, bro.”
Caoran grunted, “How about the rest of you? Wrestling fans?”
“I used to be more into it; I still watch it sometimes, yeah.”
Another “former” fan. Is Rivera really a master businessman and promoter if he’s driving away so many fans? Does he know this? Does he even care?
“My brother’s still into it, I watch with him sometimes. It’s Prestige in a few weeks, I’ll be watching that. I always do.”
“So, boys, any of you heard of Brandon Young? He’s supposed to be your kind of wrestler. What do you think?”
“He’s alright. Guy’s got some pretty cool tricks.”
“Yeah, I know who you mean. He’s got some skills, he really put Bane to the sword in that HardKore title match, so you can tell the guy knows his way around the ring. He’s always got this smile on his face, like he loves being there. I don’t know that he’s good enough to be the top dog though; he’s not like, Oblivion or Brett Cross or anyone.”
“So, he’s good but not great?”
“Yeah. He’s enthusiastic and you can tell he’s trying but it’s kind of hard to take the guy seriously. He walks out to the freakin’ Bloodhound Gang. He’s funny and all, but I don’t know if he’s got anything more than that.”
We’ll see soon enough. Does the funny man have a second gear? Is there anything more to him than being just a comedy character? Perhaps he’s got a few secrets hidden up his sleeves, or maybe it’s just more coloured handkerchiefs. The class clown is rarely proven to be much more than the class clown; neither Bane nor Viper’s stooges were credible opponents for the Young Gun; that much is apparent. Let Brandon Young come at the Moral Vigilante. Let him prove his worth in a real fight.
“I’m sure he’ll get tested soon enough.”
Caoran nodded to the kids and turned his back, moving away and speaking directly to the camera once more.
“I’m not sure that we’re getting much luck here. It seems that most people don’t really know or care enough to talk much about Brandon Young, that’s not to his detriment, but to their own ignorance. He’s young and new on the scene; not too different to yours truly, and people are too enamoured by their childhood heroes like Xplode and Meltdown, but I certainly won’t be speaking to any children on this matter. They might speak with open honesty, but it’s not truth; truth comes through knowledge and understanding, not through playing in mud and eating quarters.”
“Truth is my strength; it is my driving force. I see the truth; I know it. Does Brandon Young see the truth? Can he see the truth that this encounter will be brief, but eventful, for all the wrong reasons? His speed and trickery are well-documented and whilst I am sure that he has more secrets kept up his sleeve like the proverbial magician, I see through his strategies and deceits and find his strategy to be little more than a house of cards, waiting to be blown away.”
“I’m not going to pretend to know Brandon Young; I can’t read minds, but I have studied him. I have watched past matches, I saw his last performance live before I left the arena, based on a hunch that our paths were likely to cross soon. It’s the usual mismatch of styles; speedy high flier against power house brawler, but this isn’t David vs. Goliath; this is Brandon vs. Caoran. I fully expect Brandon to give it his all, something that seems to be his game; going in strong and hoping for a result. Do I put my body on the line and give it my all?”
“Of course I do. Caoran Lavery holds some values to be very important, among them the belief that hard work is its own reward; that the truth will always make itself known and that if something is worth doing, it was worth doing with every ounce of power, ability and determination that a person possesses.”
“I may have a reputation forming for being a harsh man, but I am not entirely unfair. I punished Rudkilde because he took me lightly and made no real effort; Brandon, if you come out strongly, I’ll give you a fair fight and let your measure yourself against me. Should you give anything less than all you have, I will dispose of you like I did the good doctor. This isn’t personal, I don’t know you, but all I’m saying is that you must get your priorities straight. I’ve checked the statistics; you’ve never been in a real fight in the EUW; you may have won the HardKore title, but ask yourself if that match really proved anything. Bane isn’t in your class; he certainly isn’t in my class. It would have been an embarrassment for you to lose to him.”
“This is a fight. People might be excited for Xplode and Oblivion squaring off, but there is always one match that surprises people and gets them talking. My showing will surprise people; they don’t expect it, but I won’t allow them to forget it. Don’t allow them to forget you, either. Focus on me, focus on wrestling. Ignore the sentimental nonsense and your precious feelings that ‘Southern Belle’ that you have taken a shine too; she can’t help you here, and this is nothing to do with her. Your goofy smile and dorky jokes won’t endear you to me, nor will your laidback approach to life. You may think that you’re some kind of cloud; drifting through life and enjoying the sights, but this is serious business. In that ring, come Prestige, it’s just you and I. No titles, no fanfares, no stipulations; just two men going toe-to-toe and fist-to-fist to determine the victor. If you slip up, you will be punished.”
Caoran moves towards the camera, staring straight into it.
“Brandon, I’m telling you this now, and I’m an advocate of truth, so you had better listen, and listen good; these aren't lies. The truth is that you’ll struggle to just survive in that ring with me if you can’t get serious about this fight.”
“Because that’s what it will be. A fight.”
“I hope you have what it takes. I don’t want to be disappointed again.”