Post by Evan Harrison on Oct 15, 2011 12:22:16 GMT -5
"So let me get this straight. No rules means I'm supposed to be at a disadvantage? According to this guy, anyway..."
We blink into a world of color where we see Evan Harrison seated, presumably on a stool, given the height, with his elbows resting on the bronze marble top of an island or counter. We are viewing Evan through the eye of his own video-camera, which is seated an awkward distance away, only givng us a view of the bottom half of his face.
It's evident that Evan has not taken it upon himself to shave in several days. The beginnings of a beard are produced in the form of stubble on his cheeks and jawline. He has the phone pressed to his ear, evidently, and is engaged in an ongoing conversation with who we can best discern as a young adult female.
"I understand that he has a chip on his shoulder. He wants-- needs to defeat me to solidify himself as a threat in ACW. Not because it's a win over Evan Harrison, but because it's a victory in what he feels is his own personal playground. It's in an environment that Nate feels that he cannot lose... And I respect that. He thrives in this type of environment, right? And I'm giving him what he wants. Nate proved that he wants to play dirty so now he has the proper outlet to do that. I see his point, about everything he loves to do suddenly being legal; I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't throw myself in a match like this to put myself at a disadvantage."
Evan moves up from the table and steps out of frame, though we still hear his voice, loud and clear, from whatever spot he happens to be in within the kitchen.
"He can kick me in the 'jewels' again if he feels that's what he needs to do, or wants to do in this match because he's well within the rules. I have no shame in admitting that Nate pinned me in between those ropes two weeks ago in Orlando, and I also have no problem pointing out that he flat-out wouldn't have won that match if it weren't for the low blow."
The woman on the phone line says something to interrupt Evan before he goes on a tirade. Evan can be heard rummaging through something-- papers, perhaps, and the opening and closing of drawers, cupboards, or other doors within the kitchen. Throughout this, Evan remains out of the frame.
"Yeah. I know. Just call me when you're here, and we'll go from there."
Reflecting off of the marble is a bright, blue-tinted light, proving within seconds to be the light emanating from Harrison's phone. He returns to the table, the upper half of his face still hidden from view. He sighs, drumming his fingers along the top of the table for a moment-- something clearly on his mind.
"Nate, I'll hand it to you. You bring up a good point. At this point in time, you have every right to say that you're better than me. You pinned me, and you've been on a roll. You could easily just brush me off as another name on your list-- on your path of destruction-- on your way to unleash that supposed beast you have living inside of you. Who... Vlad, was it? Vlad?"
Evan sits down and leans into the camera, revealing his face-- his messy dark hair, his stubble, his bright hazel eyes, and a genuine smile in spite of what had transpired just six days prior.
"I didn't ascend to the top as quickly as you in the traditional sense, Nate. You're good at what you do and I think you're raising a lot of eyebrows. But you asked me a question so I'll answer you; when I started my professional career, I won my first championship within five weeks. After a month, I had entire arenas chanting my name. I had the World Champion and a Hall of Famer picking fights with me. I may not have been a part of the most prestigious tournament in my company by my fifth match, and I sure as hell didn't have as great of a record when I started-- but I'm proud of what I did. I'm proud of how I came up. And if that statement isn't relevant to you, allow me to give you a brief history lesson since you decided to mention old stomping grounds..."
Evan pauses, folding his hands and gazing down at the table for a couple of seconds, searching for the correct way to start this alleged "history lesson."
"Since the age of fourteen, I've been wrestling. In my junior and senior years of high school, I participated in kickboxing. Was I a prodigy? No. Did I continue after those two years? No. Did I remember what I learned and do I apply it to this day? Yes. The same goes for my amateur wrestling background as I've mentioned before and the same goes for the hardcore, bash-em-up, garbage wrestling style that I requested for this week.
"Dig deep in the AWA vault Nate, and look up the website's biography for one Evan Heir. You'll see that for over a year, I was a 'backyard wrestler'. I was involved in some of the stupidest scenarios since Kyle Travis attempting to be a good guy... I fought with some of the lamest excuses for wrestlers this side of Connor Murphy... And I learned what it was like to take a beating from guys in that ring that didn't give a -ACW forced Censored- about their bodies. They just wanted to get noticed, like me. They threw me through tables. They tossed me against barbed wire. They busted me open. They bruised my ribs, and sent me home craving ibuprofen every single night. But never once did they break me, Nate. And neither will you.
"When I got out of the backyard wrestling scene, I was ecstatic. For a while, I wasn't able to get out of that mindset though, evident in some of my earliest matches. I went for the high-flying, high-glory, your-body-be-damned kind of offense at any and all times-- even at the most inappropriate moments. I was on such a high horse because of the attention I was getting and the reputation I was developing against those who faced me, that I forgot that I was still a rookie. I felt so damned good that I knew how to fight-- I knew how to brawl-- I knew how to be hardcore and that was getting a huge reaction.
"But unlike you, in the first five matches of my career, I got my ass handed to me."
Evan rubs his chin, thoughtfully and smirks at the camera.
"But I'd like to see you just go balls to the wall and come at me with everything, Nate. Surprise me, please. Bring a trash can full of weapons down to the ring. Let's just swing at each other until one of our craniums splits right down the middle. That's what you want, right? You want to spill another man's blood in the ring so you can 'lose control' and come at me with some sinister dark side that hundreds of wrestlers have claimed to have in the past, right? You want me to believe that you're so dangerous, that you're so unlike anything I've seen in four years.
"I was thrown head-first off of a stage in a match where my own brother and sister were against me. I've seen the fire brought out in another man's eyes in this kind of a match when they have put their everything on the line, and they didn't need to hype the world up for it with claims of multiple personalities and by labeling themselves as 'crazy'. These were men that had it in them the entire time. I get you, Nate. You, like every other person that has stepped into that ring, just need some attention. And you're gonna get a lot of it after this Sunday, babe. Your face will be printed in black-and-white on international headlines. It'll be on the front of magazines, hidden behind silver wrapping because they can't display something like that on the book shelves. It'll be shown on television-- but only after ten o'clock at night; feel me? That's the grim reality, Nate. If you think you're crazy now, wait until you see your own face, mangled and bloodied, everywhere you turn? What's something like that gotta do to your psyche?"
Evan turns away for a moment and makes a kissing motion toward somebody or something out of frame-- within a few seconds, a black figure leaps up onto the island. Her back is arched, her tail angled in the air as she reached a paw up toward Evan's face. Evan allows the paw to rest on his puckered lips for a moment, smiling at the tiny feline before scooping her up in one hand and holding her in front of him, his eyes focused on the small cat instead of the camera.
"This cat is here for purely psychological and metaphorical purposes. Her name is Jade and she's the cutest kitten ever."
Evan gently lowers the cat back down onto the marble island. She takes a seat, looking directly into the camera while Evan returns to addressing Nathan von Liebert.
"But don't you think that after four years in the professional wrestling business, that I would have seen some shit by now? A freefall onto my head? Jumping onto me while I'm tied up in the ropes? Really, Nathan? Avoiding moves like that-- sure, you're damn right I'm going to avoid them at all costs, especially when they feature no repercussions for the guy using them. But hey, this gives me a chance to please the internet and bust out my Figure 4-Neck Lock.
"This gives me a chance to choke you out and be well within the rules to do just that. This gives me the chance to stomp your nuts ten times harder than you hit mine, Nate. And not a referee in the arena could disqualify me."
Jade arches her back and yawns before stretching out, lying on her stomach on the island. Evan narrows his eyes at the camera that is now displaying a low-battery warning in the upper right-hand corner.
"You continue to go on with this odd claim that I am a shell of my former self-- that I'm not a damned thing like the old Evan Harrison. I wouldn't go as far as saying that. A little rusty, sure, but I still have what it takes to go out there and deliver a stellar performance whenever I'm called into action. My loss to Devon Mayhem last week was definitely a back-hand in the nuts courtesy of reality. I applaud him and I commend him. It was a great match, and I let my guard down for a second. Just one-- and that was all it took. I've known since the moment I picked up my first win in my career that it really all comes down to that one second, and I think as long as I remember that, I'm good. As long as I don't lose sight of that..."
A half-smile crosses Evan's face.
"I'm not discouraged, Nate. I'm just waiting for that one second opportunity. I've used it to the best of my ability, from the beginning of my career, until now. It's not something that you lose-- the ability to react under pressure. The ability to just kick it into fifth gear when all the chips are down."
Evan turns to Jade, running a finger over her smooth, black coat. The cat closes her eyes, purring softly.
"There's no excuse for the way I've been performing lately, but maybe this is what I need; that extra kick that just tells my brain to knock down any barriers-- to eliminate this human desire I have to feel mercy for somebody else. To eliminate this appreciation for human flesh. To have the capability of completely disrespecting the genetic makeup of another man... You know, out of everybody on the roster, Nate, I think I feel the most comfortable in a no-disqualifications match with you because I don't need to worry about overstepping my boundaries.
"Because I know you won't.
"I won't have any concern for your wellbeing because I know you don't have any concern for mine or for your own. Therefore, there is no risk of guilt when I walk away from the ring with my music playing. I won't have to walk to the back stifling a grimace, feeling like I just maimed somebody-- feeling like I just somehow prevented somebody from further earning a paycheck and feeding themselves and their families. There's none of that, Nate."
Evan's phone begins to vibrate. He picks it up, silencing it, putting this person on the backburner for the time-being until he is finished addressing von Liebert.
"You won't be getting the old Evan Harrison, and you won't be getting this miserable, poor excuse of an Evan Harrison that you claim to have sighted over these past few weeks-- but you're going to be getting me. Coming at you with everything that I can muster up. So this is me-- not talking to somebody about you, but to you, Nathan von Liebert-- I will run right through you. And that's not to call you nothing, because I think you really are somebody in ACW. Your record is impressive and you'll be a champion within months. I know it. Because you're good."
Evan picks up the phone, putting it to his ear.
"Door's open, come in."
With that, he quickly hangs it up and goes back to the camera.
"But I'm better. I'm a better wrestler, I'm a better fighter, and I've been through too damn much to allow myself to be broken by somebody who thinks he knows it all. It feels... Odd, to be the guy to say this, but I'm gonna show you how it's done, Nate. And if it comes down to it, I'll show Vlad too. I don't care who you are when you come at me this week, but understand that whoever it is is going to be hurt by Evan Harrison. No monickers."
Evan raises an eyebrow and turns slightly as Quinn makes her way around the corner and into the kitchen, a smile on her face. She is dressed in a white hoodie and throws her arms around Evan, embracing him in a hug. He motions for her to wait one second before turning to the camera, which again indicates a low battery.
"So you know exactly what you need to prepare for. You've already established that you're a threat. Trust me... And I'll make sure that we both leave Georgia this Sunday looking like a million bucks. But in your case, it'll be simply because of novelty."
And with that, we briefly, for a time amounting to less than a second-- cut to an image of a newspaper, displaying a man, lying on the ground, his bloodied face covered and hidden from the public by towels. His body language screams the agony for him... And we fade to black.
Darkness.
Please. Replace. Battery.
We blink into a world of color where we see Evan Harrison seated, presumably on a stool, given the height, with his elbows resting on the bronze marble top of an island or counter. We are viewing Evan through the eye of his own video-camera, which is seated an awkward distance away, only givng us a view of the bottom half of his face.
It's evident that Evan has not taken it upon himself to shave in several days. The beginnings of a beard are produced in the form of stubble on his cheeks and jawline. He has the phone pressed to his ear, evidently, and is engaged in an ongoing conversation with who we can best discern as a young adult female.
"I understand that he has a chip on his shoulder. He wants-- needs to defeat me to solidify himself as a threat in ACW. Not because it's a win over Evan Harrison, but because it's a victory in what he feels is his own personal playground. It's in an environment that Nate feels that he cannot lose... And I respect that. He thrives in this type of environment, right? And I'm giving him what he wants. Nate proved that he wants to play dirty so now he has the proper outlet to do that. I see his point, about everything he loves to do suddenly being legal; I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't throw myself in a match like this to put myself at a disadvantage."
Evan moves up from the table and steps out of frame, though we still hear his voice, loud and clear, from whatever spot he happens to be in within the kitchen.
"He can kick me in the 'jewels' again if he feels that's what he needs to do, or wants to do in this match because he's well within the rules. I have no shame in admitting that Nate pinned me in between those ropes two weeks ago in Orlando, and I also have no problem pointing out that he flat-out wouldn't have won that match if it weren't for the low blow."
The woman on the phone line says something to interrupt Evan before he goes on a tirade. Evan can be heard rummaging through something-- papers, perhaps, and the opening and closing of drawers, cupboards, or other doors within the kitchen. Throughout this, Evan remains out of the frame.
"Yeah. I know. Just call me when you're here, and we'll go from there."
Reflecting off of the marble is a bright, blue-tinted light, proving within seconds to be the light emanating from Harrison's phone. He returns to the table, the upper half of his face still hidden from view. He sighs, drumming his fingers along the top of the table for a moment-- something clearly on his mind.
"Nate, I'll hand it to you. You bring up a good point. At this point in time, you have every right to say that you're better than me. You pinned me, and you've been on a roll. You could easily just brush me off as another name on your list-- on your path of destruction-- on your way to unleash that supposed beast you have living inside of you. Who... Vlad, was it? Vlad?"
Evan sits down and leans into the camera, revealing his face-- his messy dark hair, his stubble, his bright hazel eyes, and a genuine smile in spite of what had transpired just six days prior.
"I didn't ascend to the top as quickly as you in the traditional sense, Nate. You're good at what you do and I think you're raising a lot of eyebrows. But you asked me a question so I'll answer you; when I started my professional career, I won my first championship within five weeks. After a month, I had entire arenas chanting my name. I had the World Champion and a Hall of Famer picking fights with me. I may not have been a part of the most prestigious tournament in my company by my fifth match, and I sure as hell didn't have as great of a record when I started-- but I'm proud of what I did. I'm proud of how I came up. And if that statement isn't relevant to you, allow me to give you a brief history lesson since you decided to mention old stomping grounds..."
Evan pauses, folding his hands and gazing down at the table for a couple of seconds, searching for the correct way to start this alleged "history lesson."
"Since the age of fourteen, I've been wrestling. In my junior and senior years of high school, I participated in kickboxing. Was I a prodigy? No. Did I continue after those two years? No. Did I remember what I learned and do I apply it to this day? Yes. The same goes for my amateur wrestling background as I've mentioned before and the same goes for the hardcore, bash-em-up, garbage wrestling style that I requested for this week.
"Dig deep in the AWA vault Nate, and look up the website's biography for one Evan Heir. You'll see that for over a year, I was a 'backyard wrestler'. I was involved in some of the stupidest scenarios since Kyle Travis attempting to be a good guy... I fought with some of the lamest excuses for wrestlers this side of Connor Murphy... And I learned what it was like to take a beating from guys in that ring that didn't give a -ACW forced Censored- about their bodies. They just wanted to get noticed, like me. They threw me through tables. They tossed me against barbed wire. They busted me open. They bruised my ribs, and sent me home craving ibuprofen every single night. But never once did they break me, Nate. And neither will you.
"When I got out of the backyard wrestling scene, I was ecstatic. For a while, I wasn't able to get out of that mindset though, evident in some of my earliest matches. I went for the high-flying, high-glory, your-body-be-damned kind of offense at any and all times-- even at the most inappropriate moments. I was on such a high horse because of the attention I was getting and the reputation I was developing against those who faced me, that I forgot that I was still a rookie. I felt so damned good that I knew how to fight-- I knew how to brawl-- I knew how to be hardcore and that was getting a huge reaction.
"But unlike you, in the first five matches of my career, I got my ass handed to me."
Evan rubs his chin, thoughtfully and smirks at the camera.
"But I'd like to see you just go balls to the wall and come at me with everything, Nate. Surprise me, please. Bring a trash can full of weapons down to the ring. Let's just swing at each other until one of our craniums splits right down the middle. That's what you want, right? You want to spill another man's blood in the ring so you can 'lose control' and come at me with some sinister dark side that hundreds of wrestlers have claimed to have in the past, right? You want me to believe that you're so dangerous, that you're so unlike anything I've seen in four years.
"I was thrown head-first off of a stage in a match where my own brother and sister were against me. I've seen the fire brought out in another man's eyes in this kind of a match when they have put their everything on the line, and they didn't need to hype the world up for it with claims of multiple personalities and by labeling themselves as 'crazy'. These were men that had it in them the entire time. I get you, Nate. You, like every other person that has stepped into that ring, just need some attention. And you're gonna get a lot of it after this Sunday, babe. Your face will be printed in black-and-white on international headlines. It'll be on the front of magazines, hidden behind silver wrapping because they can't display something like that on the book shelves. It'll be shown on television-- but only after ten o'clock at night; feel me? That's the grim reality, Nate. If you think you're crazy now, wait until you see your own face, mangled and bloodied, everywhere you turn? What's something like that gotta do to your psyche?"
Evan turns away for a moment and makes a kissing motion toward somebody or something out of frame-- within a few seconds, a black figure leaps up onto the island. Her back is arched, her tail angled in the air as she reached a paw up toward Evan's face. Evan allows the paw to rest on his puckered lips for a moment, smiling at the tiny feline before scooping her up in one hand and holding her in front of him, his eyes focused on the small cat instead of the camera.
"This cat is here for purely psychological and metaphorical purposes. Her name is Jade and she's the cutest kitten ever."
Evan gently lowers the cat back down onto the marble island. She takes a seat, looking directly into the camera while Evan returns to addressing Nathan von Liebert.
"But don't you think that after four years in the professional wrestling business, that I would have seen some shit by now? A freefall onto my head? Jumping onto me while I'm tied up in the ropes? Really, Nathan? Avoiding moves like that-- sure, you're damn right I'm going to avoid them at all costs, especially when they feature no repercussions for the guy using them. But hey, this gives me a chance to please the internet and bust out my Figure 4-Neck Lock.
"This gives me a chance to choke you out and be well within the rules to do just that. This gives me the chance to stomp your nuts ten times harder than you hit mine, Nate. And not a referee in the arena could disqualify me."
Jade arches her back and yawns before stretching out, lying on her stomach on the island. Evan narrows his eyes at the camera that is now displaying a low-battery warning in the upper right-hand corner.
"You continue to go on with this odd claim that I am a shell of my former self-- that I'm not a damned thing like the old Evan Harrison. I wouldn't go as far as saying that. A little rusty, sure, but I still have what it takes to go out there and deliver a stellar performance whenever I'm called into action. My loss to Devon Mayhem last week was definitely a back-hand in the nuts courtesy of reality. I applaud him and I commend him. It was a great match, and I let my guard down for a second. Just one-- and that was all it took. I've known since the moment I picked up my first win in my career that it really all comes down to that one second, and I think as long as I remember that, I'm good. As long as I don't lose sight of that..."
A half-smile crosses Evan's face.
"I'm not discouraged, Nate. I'm just waiting for that one second opportunity. I've used it to the best of my ability, from the beginning of my career, until now. It's not something that you lose-- the ability to react under pressure. The ability to just kick it into fifth gear when all the chips are down."
Evan turns to Jade, running a finger over her smooth, black coat. The cat closes her eyes, purring softly.
"There's no excuse for the way I've been performing lately, but maybe this is what I need; that extra kick that just tells my brain to knock down any barriers-- to eliminate this human desire I have to feel mercy for somebody else. To eliminate this appreciation for human flesh. To have the capability of completely disrespecting the genetic makeup of another man... You know, out of everybody on the roster, Nate, I think I feel the most comfortable in a no-disqualifications match with you because I don't need to worry about overstepping my boundaries.
"Because I know you won't.
"I won't have any concern for your wellbeing because I know you don't have any concern for mine or for your own. Therefore, there is no risk of guilt when I walk away from the ring with my music playing. I won't have to walk to the back stifling a grimace, feeling like I just maimed somebody-- feeling like I just somehow prevented somebody from further earning a paycheck and feeding themselves and their families. There's none of that, Nate."
Evan's phone begins to vibrate. He picks it up, silencing it, putting this person on the backburner for the time-being until he is finished addressing von Liebert.
"You won't be getting the old Evan Harrison, and you won't be getting this miserable, poor excuse of an Evan Harrison that you claim to have sighted over these past few weeks-- but you're going to be getting me. Coming at you with everything that I can muster up. So this is me-- not talking to somebody about you, but to you, Nathan von Liebert-- I will run right through you. And that's not to call you nothing, because I think you really are somebody in ACW. Your record is impressive and you'll be a champion within months. I know it. Because you're good."
Evan picks up the phone, putting it to his ear.
"Door's open, come in."
With that, he quickly hangs it up and goes back to the camera.
"But I'm better. I'm a better wrestler, I'm a better fighter, and I've been through too damn much to allow myself to be broken by somebody who thinks he knows it all. It feels... Odd, to be the guy to say this, but I'm gonna show you how it's done, Nate. And if it comes down to it, I'll show Vlad too. I don't care who you are when you come at me this week, but understand that whoever it is is going to be hurt by Evan Harrison. No monickers."
Evan raises an eyebrow and turns slightly as Quinn makes her way around the corner and into the kitchen, a smile on her face. She is dressed in a white hoodie and throws her arms around Evan, embracing him in a hug. He motions for her to wait one second before turning to the camera, which again indicates a low battery.
"So you know exactly what you need to prepare for. You've already established that you're a threat. Trust me... And I'll make sure that we both leave Georgia this Sunday looking like a million bucks. But in your case, it'll be simply because of novelty."
And with that, we briefly, for a time amounting to less than a second-- cut to an image of a newspaper, displaying a man, lying on the ground, his bloodied face covered and hidden from the public by towels. His body language screams the agony for him... And we fade to black.
Darkness.
Please. Replace. Battery.