Post by M.D.K. on Apr 1, 2018 20:01:19 GMT -5
(Sorry for the shortness. I started out well and the weekend caught up with me and I fell asleep! Here’s what I have...)
M.D.K. sits and tapes himself up. Another adventure with Alyce had taken its toll and despite winding down the frequency of the excursions that he was going to be taking with the champion elect, the ones he still were going on hurt like hell. He sits in an art studio surrounded by easels which are all facing him as he looks at the nasty gash on his arm and drips a fabric pouch across it. Alyce called it a salve of healing or something and always had a way of easing any injuries sustained when bad things happened to him. It always worked with injuries sustained in the other realm but in this world, nothing was healed with this sack of fluid.
M.D.K. knew that his time with Alyce was always going to be limited but with her attention split in so many directions at the moment, it was impossible for them to spend time together unless he joined her on her outlandish quests. He just wished he didn't have to share her with anybody. Some days he wished he could just say that he wouldn't share her any more... He then remembers how important her duties are to the other realm are and that he wouldn't always be the loser in such a decision and that was something he couldn’t bring himself to face right now. Especially with such a big couple of weeks ahead of them. If there’s any justice in this world, in a couple of short week’s time, M.D.K. will have made that glorified potato his bitch and Alyce will be the WGWF World Heavyweight Champion. Until such time though, M.D.K. has to focus on the positives; he’s still the star of the WGWF, he’s still the man they all pay to see and he is still public enemy number one despite being without gold.
?: “The great M.D.K. Is in a fucking art studio... When they told me I thought either you have completely lost your mind or you were short of an idea of where to shoot this week.”
M.D.K. turns and sees a familiar face standing before him. Max Shepherd was hired by M.D.K.’s now terminally ill former manager ‘Fast Car’ Eddie Simmons to train a very green M.D.K. In the world of professional wrestling. Max’s idea of training was to have the shit kicked out of the young upstart each and every day until it hurt a little less. It would then involve greater beatings until one day, the young upstart snapped and put two of his assailants in hospital with pure brutality. His training methods have been scrutinised in the modern era of avocado munching, barrista worshipping millennial hipsters but it made M.D.K. into the man that he is today. It toughened him, it sharpened his skills and it turned him into a grade A bastard. Besides it being tried and tested, Max would always say that his methods aren’t designed for soft skinned bitches and would laugh off criticism before telling you to fuck off his property. Max had aged from when they had last seen each other but then again, it had been nearly fifteen years since they had last spoken. The company that M.D.K. was in ceased operations and the young upstart had already been classified as hot property. The need for a grizzled trainer wasn’t high on his list any longer and there was a whole new batch of soft skinned bitches for Max to train up.
M.D.K. does a double take, then a triple check and then gets to his feet with a look of disbelief on his face. The face was a little more weather beaten than it once was but the salt and pepper hair was still perfectly coiffed and he still looked like he would be able to handle himself were the time to call for action. The former student takes a few smiling steps towards his former mentor and the pair shake hands warmly and M.D.K. instinctively goes to bring it in for an embrace when Max pushes him away.
Max: “Easy on the gay shit cowboy...”
Oh... And Max is also wildly politically IN-correct.
M.D.K.: “Max Shepherd - trainer to the stars. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”
Max: “Same old Tenegra; using the smarm and passing it off as charm.”
M.D.K.: “Same old Shepherd; a miserable fucking old goat...”
The pair laugh and Max quickly jabs M.D.K. in the ribs causing him to double over in pain.
Max: “You cheeky shit.”
M.D.K. picks himself up and winces as he eyes his former mentor with caution.
M.D.K.: “So to what do I owe the... Well it’s anything other than a pleasure to see you so I guess I’ll simply say that... What do you want?”
Max: “Life is a revolving door of people who come and go from your life. With the war you have ahead of you, you need to make sure that you have an ally or two in your corner...”
---
M.D.K. Is alone again in the studio as he looks to the camera.
M.D.K.: “If this past month has shown us anything, it’s that you don’t need to have gold in this industry in order to be the biggest draw of all, you just need to be an icon. That’s why in the past few months, people haven’t been joining and re-joining the WGWF to have a shot at Tristan Slater, they couldn’t give a shit who is holding the trinkets and the trophies of this company when a man like me is everybody’s white whale they crave to pursue.”
“And that isn’t down to being the ever-present big bad of the pantomime that is this industry but rather day after day of hard graft ground out over years to ensure that I built enough history with the peons, peasants and pissants of this sport that I have a future for years to come.”
“Each man, woman and child that lines up outside those doors and bays for my blood has a story to tell. A tale of betrayal, a tale of abandonment and a take of evolution. This week, it’s the turn of a legend of this industry in Black Death to tell you why I am a bastard incarnate. He’ll tell you how I lied to him, abandoned him and disrespected a man who was once such a giant of the sport you all love reduced to a husk of a man, scrambling for scraps from the big table while demi-gods grace you with their presence.”
“You know damn well Black Death that this is your chance to show that you are still worth something... Anything to anybody in this business. It’s your chance to make the Wallace name relevant again after that disappointment of a daughter just couldn’t hack it in the big leagues.”
He smirks as he knows that will have struck a nerve. He reveals that every canvas bears an image of a target with the face of M.D.K. At the centre of each and every one of them.
M.D.K.: “Black Death, you are just like every other mook that has dared to dream. You have painted a big target on my back as you endeavour to slow my charge towards Wrestle-Wars. What you forget most of all is who the fuck you are dealing with, how he operates and the fact he will revel in rendering you truly... And utterly inferior Once Again.”
He snarls at the camera as he says this and the scene comes to a close.
M.D.K. sits and tapes himself up. Another adventure with Alyce had taken its toll and despite winding down the frequency of the excursions that he was going to be taking with the champion elect, the ones he still were going on hurt like hell. He sits in an art studio surrounded by easels which are all facing him as he looks at the nasty gash on his arm and drips a fabric pouch across it. Alyce called it a salve of healing or something and always had a way of easing any injuries sustained when bad things happened to him. It always worked with injuries sustained in the other realm but in this world, nothing was healed with this sack of fluid.
M.D.K. knew that his time with Alyce was always going to be limited but with her attention split in so many directions at the moment, it was impossible for them to spend time together unless he joined her on her outlandish quests. He just wished he didn't have to share her with anybody. Some days he wished he could just say that he wouldn't share her any more... He then remembers how important her duties are to the other realm are and that he wouldn't always be the loser in such a decision and that was something he couldn’t bring himself to face right now. Especially with such a big couple of weeks ahead of them. If there’s any justice in this world, in a couple of short week’s time, M.D.K. will have made that glorified potato his bitch and Alyce will be the WGWF World Heavyweight Champion. Until such time though, M.D.K. has to focus on the positives; he’s still the star of the WGWF, he’s still the man they all pay to see and he is still public enemy number one despite being without gold.
?: “The great M.D.K. Is in a fucking art studio... When they told me I thought either you have completely lost your mind or you were short of an idea of where to shoot this week.”
M.D.K. turns and sees a familiar face standing before him. Max Shepherd was hired by M.D.K.’s now terminally ill former manager ‘Fast Car’ Eddie Simmons to train a very green M.D.K. In the world of professional wrestling. Max’s idea of training was to have the shit kicked out of the young upstart each and every day until it hurt a little less. It would then involve greater beatings until one day, the young upstart snapped and put two of his assailants in hospital with pure brutality. His training methods have been scrutinised in the modern era of avocado munching, barrista worshipping millennial hipsters but it made M.D.K. into the man that he is today. It toughened him, it sharpened his skills and it turned him into a grade A bastard. Besides it being tried and tested, Max would always say that his methods aren’t designed for soft skinned bitches and would laugh off criticism before telling you to fuck off his property. Max had aged from when they had last seen each other but then again, it had been nearly fifteen years since they had last spoken. The company that M.D.K. was in ceased operations and the young upstart had already been classified as hot property. The need for a grizzled trainer wasn’t high on his list any longer and there was a whole new batch of soft skinned bitches for Max to train up.
M.D.K. does a double take, then a triple check and then gets to his feet with a look of disbelief on his face. The face was a little more weather beaten than it once was but the salt and pepper hair was still perfectly coiffed and he still looked like he would be able to handle himself were the time to call for action. The former student takes a few smiling steps towards his former mentor and the pair shake hands warmly and M.D.K. instinctively goes to bring it in for an embrace when Max pushes him away.
Max: “Easy on the gay shit cowboy...”
Oh... And Max is also wildly politically IN-correct.
M.D.K.: “Max Shepherd - trainer to the stars. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”
Max: “Same old Tenegra; using the smarm and passing it off as charm.”
M.D.K.: “Same old Shepherd; a miserable fucking old goat...”
The pair laugh and Max quickly jabs M.D.K. in the ribs causing him to double over in pain.
Max: “You cheeky shit.”
M.D.K. picks himself up and winces as he eyes his former mentor with caution.
M.D.K.: “So to what do I owe the... Well it’s anything other than a pleasure to see you so I guess I’ll simply say that... What do you want?”
Max: “Life is a revolving door of people who come and go from your life. With the war you have ahead of you, you need to make sure that you have an ally or two in your corner...”
---
M.D.K. Is alone again in the studio as he looks to the camera.
M.D.K.: “If this past month has shown us anything, it’s that you don’t need to have gold in this industry in order to be the biggest draw of all, you just need to be an icon. That’s why in the past few months, people haven’t been joining and re-joining the WGWF to have a shot at Tristan Slater, they couldn’t give a shit who is holding the trinkets and the trophies of this company when a man like me is everybody’s white whale they crave to pursue.”
“And that isn’t down to being the ever-present big bad of the pantomime that is this industry but rather day after day of hard graft ground out over years to ensure that I built enough history with the peons, peasants and pissants of this sport that I have a future for years to come.”
“Each man, woman and child that lines up outside those doors and bays for my blood has a story to tell. A tale of betrayal, a tale of abandonment and a take of evolution. This week, it’s the turn of a legend of this industry in Black Death to tell you why I am a bastard incarnate. He’ll tell you how I lied to him, abandoned him and disrespected a man who was once such a giant of the sport you all love reduced to a husk of a man, scrambling for scraps from the big table while demi-gods grace you with their presence.”
“You know damn well Black Death that this is your chance to show that you are still worth something... Anything to anybody in this business. It’s your chance to make the Wallace name relevant again after that disappointment of a daughter just couldn’t hack it in the big leagues.”
He smirks as he knows that will have struck a nerve. He reveals that every canvas bears an image of a target with the face of M.D.K. At the centre of each and every one of them.
M.D.K.: “Black Death, you are just like every other mook that has dared to dream. You have painted a big target on my back as you endeavour to slow my charge towards Wrestle-Wars. What you forget most of all is who the fuck you are dealing with, how he operates and the fact he will revel in rendering you truly... And utterly inferior Once Again.”
He snarls at the camera as he says this and the scene comes to a close.