RP runs through Monday, May 14. 2 RP limit in this round.
Round 2: Sylo vs. Troy Douglas
- Thread starter Chad
- Start date
J The Ripper
FWrestling's Reckoning
Open
The embodiment of a nightmare leans casually against the ropes. His stature is massive but his legacy dwarfs even him. Two hands clinch dusty ring ropes as if he's holding something back--as if he's keeping something from coming out. The scene is simple enough; just another run down arena. Each one of the dust covered seats lines up perfectly like tombstones while the ghost of past fans still echoes through. The Superbeast suddenly lets his arms fall limp and keeps his head perfectly still, his eyes locked on the ring mat below him where giant foot imprints are the only thing that has disturbed the dust in quite some time.
"All hail the king" He whispers so low it's almost inaudible but somehow still manages to pierce into the back of your mind. That nightmare equation, set up to make you scream out like a child at night. "Troy Douglas? Yes, I know you. See, though you're all insects to me, even insects deserve to be researched. You must appreciate what you crush in order to truly find the satisfaction in crushing the poor bastard. Originally I was going to have fun with this, bait you in, and then crush your dreams but there's no need for head games with you, is there Troy?"
Sylo held perfectly still, his head still down, gaze still fixated on the map.
Twitch
"Troy, allow me to share just a fraction of myself. See I know so much about you and you know nothing of me, do you? No, of course not. This arena...this ring...is where I really hurt people, Troy. Legacy of Champions...The first Legacy Arena in Orlando, Florida. I did things that would have you on the ground, wishing it'd go away, but Troy...it would have only just started." Sylo smirked a little, even with his head down you could still see the flash of white all in one perfect row, except the canines which resembled that of an animal more than a man.
"They called me The King of the Underground, Troy. Do you know why? Because we were new age gladiators and I gave those ravenous fans what they wanted. Fool after hopeless fool tried but they all fell Troy, they all paved the path, not even the baddest of the bad could stop the warpath I was on. The very sky-box above us is famous because the night I defeated a monster named Frost--I jumped from the top of a cell, crashed through that very sky-box and put another poor soul by the name of Trev Echo through a desk and then through the floor," Sylo's smirk widened.
"And then I did what no other man would have dreamed of doing. I set my sights on the Legacy champion Ninja K. If you don't know the Ninja, if you've never been in the ring with the ninja, you should count yourself lucky. He's known to embarrass people. Except when he met me, in the biggest match in any era, he fell. He fought with the heart of a Champion, something you lack, and he...still...fell. I walked out that night as the first and only Undisputed Champion in The Legacy of Champions," Sylo's posture changed, it appeared to be more relaxed as he let himself rest against the dusty turnbuckles.
"I paved the way to that match with bodies. Broken and mangled bodies. I let no man stand in my way and Troy, someone with your history? You should be terrified. Why? Remember being a Rookie in the pro's? Remember how it felt when you sustained that injury? Do you remember how it felt laying there wondering if you'd ever walk much less have a career? Well, one of those two things happened, didn't they? You walked again but for what? To spend your career being nothing? Being injured? You won one major title in a federation I've never heard of and now you believe this pathetic tournament will be the salvation of your career?" Sylo started to laugh...almost manically but quickly calmed himself.
He finally looked up, those predator-like eyes, various shades of blue stared back. The smirk twisted, contorted, and eventually became a sneer. His eyes flashed through the lone camera in the dead arena. Sylo wasn't looking into a camera, he was looking into his opponent and anyone else that had the fortitude to watch.
"This only ends one way Troy. I'll make that neck and back injury look like child's play. I'll break you and just when you want me to finish you--I'll break you some more. I'll keep breaking you, I'll keep destroying you, and you will know me, Troy. You will know me as your savior. You will know me for what I am."
A dark chuckle.
"You will know me as THE...GOD...DAMN...SUPERBEAST!" Sylo roared, his voice almost inhuman. If this was a gimmick this man really had it down but somehow you had to wonder was it a gimmick? Was it all an act? Or...was this just who Sylo was? A man that had transcended beyond man and into a world so dark that none would venture forth and came out THE BEAST?
Sylo dropped his head again, chuckling, that demented ring still lingering like the taste of a lovers kiss.
"Show me what you have Troy, bring it all, because I'm ready to add you to the list of names and forget you just as fast. Your biggest mistake is thinking that these are idle threats because Troy, I'm after something a lot bigger than you," Sylo let his head roll up to where he was looking into the camera once more.
"Are you listening Chad? I'm coming for your tournament. I'm coming to end it and when I do all you can do is watch as I burn the ULTRATITLE and leave the legacy you built in nothing but ash. I'm coming. Just a few more steps,"
More laughter...
But then...a voice...almost not human...
"FLOCK TO ME MY SHEEP! FLOCK TO ME AND I SHALL SLAUGHTER YOU ALL!"
The camera seemed to cut to static...as the video ended with nothing but a whisper...
All hail The King.
The embodiment of a nightmare leans casually against the ropes. His stature is massive but his legacy dwarfs even him. Two hands clinch dusty ring ropes as if he's holding something back--as if he's keeping something from coming out. The scene is simple enough; just another run down arena. Each one of the dust covered seats lines up perfectly like tombstones while the ghost of past fans still echoes through. The Superbeast suddenly lets his arms fall limp and keeps his head perfectly still, his eyes locked on the ring mat below him where giant foot imprints are the only thing that has disturbed the dust in quite some time.
"All hail the king" He whispers so low it's almost inaudible but somehow still manages to pierce into the back of your mind. That nightmare equation, set up to make you scream out like a child at night. "Troy Douglas? Yes, I know you. See, though you're all insects to me, even insects deserve to be researched. You must appreciate what you crush in order to truly find the satisfaction in crushing the poor bastard. Originally I was going to have fun with this, bait you in, and then crush your dreams but there's no need for head games with you, is there Troy?"
Sylo held perfectly still, his head still down, gaze still fixated on the map.
Twitch
"Troy, allow me to share just a fraction of myself. See I know so much about you and you know nothing of me, do you? No, of course not. This arena...this ring...is where I really hurt people, Troy. Legacy of Champions...The first Legacy Arena in Orlando, Florida. I did things that would have you on the ground, wishing it'd go away, but Troy...it would have only just started." Sylo smirked a little, even with his head down you could still see the flash of white all in one perfect row, except the canines which resembled that of an animal more than a man.
"They called me The King of the Underground, Troy. Do you know why? Because we were new age gladiators and I gave those ravenous fans what they wanted. Fool after hopeless fool tried but they all fell Troy, they all paved the path, not even the baddest of the bad could stop the warpath I was on. The very sky-box above us is famous because the night I defeated a monster named Frost--I jumped from the top of a cell, crashed through that very sky-box and put another poor soul by the name of Trev Echo through a desk and then through the floor," Sylo's smirk widened.
"And then I did what no other man would have dreamed of doing. I set my sights on the Legacy champion Ninja K. If you don't know the Ninja, if you've never been in the ring with the ninja, you should count yourself lucky. He's known to embarrass people. Except when he met me, in the biggest match in any era, he fell. He fought with the heart of a Champion, something you lack, and he...still...fell. I walked out that night as the first and only Undisputed Champion in The Legacy of Champions," Sylo's posture changed, it appeared to be more relaxed as he let himself rest against the dusty turnbuckles.
"I paved the way to that match with bodies. Broken and mangled bodies. I let no man stand in my way and Troy, someone with your history? You should be terrified. Why? Remember being a Rookie in the pro's? Remember how it felt when you sustained that injury? Do you remember how it felt laying there wondering if you'd ever walk much less have a career? Well, one of those two things happened, didn't they? You walked again but for what? To spend your career being nothing? Being injured? You won one major title in a federation I've never heard of and now you believe this pathetic tournament will be the salvation of your career?" Sylo started to laugh...almost manically but quickly calmed himself.
He finally looked up, those predator-like eyes, various shades of blue stared back. The smirk twisted, contorted, and eventually became a sneer. His eyes flashed through the lone camera in the dead arena. Sylo wasn't looking into a camera, he was looking into his opponent and anyone else that had the fortitude to watch.
"This only ends one way Troy. I'll make that neck and back injury look like child's play. I'll break you and just when you want me to finish you--I'll break you some more. I'll keep breaking you, I'll keep destroying you, and you will know me, Troy. You will know me as your savior. You will know me for what I am."
A dark chuckle.
"You will know me as THE...GOD...DAMN...SUPERBEAST!" Sylo roared, his voice almost inhuman. If this was a gimmick this man really had it down but somehow you had to wonder was it a gimmick? Was it all an act? Or...was this just who Sylo was? A man that had transcended beyond man and into a world so dark that none would venture forth and came out THE BEAST?
Sylo dropped his head again, chuckling, that demented ring still lingering like the taste of a lovers kiss.
"Show me what you have Troy, bring it all, because I'm ready to add you to the list of names and forget you just as fast. Your biggest mistake is thinking that these are idle threats because Troy, I'm after something a lot bigger than you," Sylo let his head roll up to where he was looking into the camera once more.
"Are you listening Chad? I'm coming for your tournament. I'm coming to end it and when I do all you can do is watch as I burn the ULTRATITLE and leave the legacy you built in nothing but ash. I'm coming. Just a few more steps,"
More laughter...
But then...a voice...almost not human...
"FLOCK TO ME MY SHEEP! FLOCK TO ME AND I SHALL SLAUGHTER YOU ALL!"
The camera seemed to cut to static...as the video ended with nothing but a whisper...
All hail The King.
CuseTroy
League Member
"Well, that was ... cute."
FADE IN...
Nothing fancy today. Troy Douglas, in a vintage black ULTRATITLE '92 t-shirt and jeans, stands in front of an ESEN banner, an LCD screen flashing the current ULTRATITLE logo behind his right shoulder. Troy's smiling slightly, but his eyes show why he's always been referred to as one of pro wrestling's red light players. When that little red light starts flashing on top of the camera, it's game time.
3...
2...
1...
GO.
DOUGLAS: You were expecting something different, maybe? Did you think I'd be cowering in the corner, Sylo? Maybe pulling the covers real tight at night and praying I didn't piss myself because of my nightmares of the big, bad Superbeast?
Or maybe you thought I'd take one look and you chewing up the Big Sauce Man and spitting him out, grab my bags and leave a vapor trail behind me as I headed back to Greensboro.
Troy looks pointedly at the camera, eyebrows raised slightly.
DOUGLAS: Get over yourself, big man. For the sake of everyone who tunes in to digest everything ULTRATITLE, get over yourself before our heads explode from all the guttural shouting and megalomaniacal laughing coming out your oversized noise-hole.
'Cause here's the thing about running your mouth and calling all of us insects and sheep ... eventually, someone's going to shut you up and shove those words right back in your face. And big boy? Shutting people up just happens to be my specialty.
I'm not a stupid man, Sylo. I do my research, I watch the tape and I was right there backstage watching when I saw you take the Ol' Saucer and crush him like an overripe tomato. I know you're a dangerous, dangerous man, and I know you've got some kind of ludicrously overdeveloped God complex about this tournament.
Gee, a humongous, angry bastard with an ego the size of Dan Ryan's palatial estate who thinks that all the puny humans beneath him will just scatter when he goes HULK SMASH on the rest of us? You know, that's something I've never seen in more than a decade inside the squared circle ... I mean, except for pretty much every Thursday and alternate weekends.
But, for all I know, you might be that special breed of evil, Sylo. You might just be that guy who supercedes all the rest. But, riddle me this, big man: If we're all so insignificant to His Royal Superbeastiality, WHY ARE WE ALL HERE? Why did Chad Merritt send out the call to the best professional wrestlers on the planet, get 128 of them in one field and put a half-million bucks on the line if this whole thing is just in the bag for you without so much as a question mark?
Actually, better question: Why are YOU here, Sylo?
If this is automatic, if this is just seven little lambs in a row being led to your slaughterhouse, why bother showing up?
To destroy a legacy? Pardon me, big man, but that strikes me as just a touch, well ... excessive. Forgive me for banging the history drum a little bit here, but I'm pretty sure that one giant monster beating the ever-loving crap out of people WON'T destroy the legacy of the ULTRATITLE. In fact, one man rising as a dominant force?
I'm pretty sure that's the whole point of this shindig, buddy.
And maybe ... maybe you're the guy to do it. Maybe you are just that good, just that scary, just that tough. But, you know what? A guy like Dan Ryan thought the same thing. A man that you can make a damn good case for being the best of all-time, and he was just one of 64 first-round losers.
That's ULTRATITLE, Sylo. Anything can happen, at any time. You never know when that little bump in the road comes along and sends you careening off your predestined path. You never know when my right boot is going to crack you in the temple, when I'll go out and break your jaw with a lariat, turn your spinal column inside-out with the Scorpion Deathlock or fracture your skull and your neck with the End of the Road.
All it takes for one of those sheep, one of those insects you like to cackle maniacally about so much to turn your world upside down is a simple count of one ... two ... three.
The wry smile Troy's been sporting fades from his face. He looks down for a moment, then slowly raises his eyes to camera level.
DOUGLAS: As for me?
I'm not scared of you, Sylo. Telling me you're going to break me and break me again, screaming and shouting and wiggling your fingers like you're putting some ancient mystical voodoo curse on me, that ain't exactly making me shake in my size 13s, pal.
Wanna know why?
You brought up my football injury, right? Asked if I remember the feeling of lying on that field, not knowing what would happen next? Here's the thing ... I don't. One second, I was trying to get downfield on a screen pass. The next, I didn't even see 350-pound offensive lineman trip and tumble straight toward me. I didn't even see what had happened. I didn't see him land with all his weight on the exposed part of my neck at the base of my helmet. I didn't see the perfect storm of incidents that ended my football career, and I never have.
I woke up 16 hours later in a hospital bed, not able to move at all. So no, Sylo, I don't remember the feeling of lying on the turf like wounded animal. I know the feeling of fighting every damned day to take the next step and the next step after that so that I could even have a career.
And you want to ask if THAT was worth it, just for one world title in a company that the Great and Powerful Sylo apparently was too self-centered to hear of? If getting up from a fractured spinal column was worth it? If Kaiser Vashaun shattering my orbital bone was worth it? If having the ACL in my left knee replaced with the stuff that's going to one day coat the USS Enterprise was worth it?
If waking up every morning dealing with pain was worth it for that one night in Boston, when I went an hour with another Beast, a first-ballot Hall of Famer named Marcus Westcott, and came out with the A1E World Heavyweight Championship after a decade of waiting was worth it?
Every second of it, Sylo. EVERY DAMN SECOND.
So here's my message for you, Mr. Superbeast: BRING. IT. ON. You can try to break me and break me again, but when the chips are down, and I keep fighting back -- just like I've fought back for every second of my career -- that little seed of doubt is going to fester in your mind. That little question is just going to keep buzzing in your ear...
"Why can't I beat this guy?"
It's because no matter what you do to me, I promise you, I've been through worse. I've been through worse here...
Troy points to his head.
DOUGLAS: And here.
Troy points to his heart.
DOUGLAS: I've stood on the ledge of an 18th floor hotel room and wondered what sound I'd make when I hit the street. I've buried far too many people close to me far too young, but I have always ... ALWAYS rebounded.
And in the second round of ULTRATITLE, it'll be the same old song and dance. You'll come at me with the rage of the Superbeast, but I'll keep getting up, keep fighting back, and when you give me that one, little opening?
Well, you'll learn that true meaning of that old chestnut ... "The bigger they are, the harder they fall."
You're counting your chickens before they hatch, big boy. And that is never ... EVER ... a good idea.
It might just lead to the end of your road.
See you there, Sylo.
...FADE OUT
FADE IN...
Nothing fancy today. Troy Douglas, in a vintage black ULTRATITLE '92 t-shirt and jeans, stands in front of an ESEN banner, an LCD screen flashing the current ULTRATITLE logo behind his right shoulder. Troy's smiling slightly, but his eyes show why he's always been referred to as one of pro wrestling's red light players. When that little red light starts flashing on top of the camera, it's game time.
3...
2...
1...
GO.
DOUGLAS: You were expecting something different, maybe? Did you think I'd be cowering in the corner, Sylo? Maybe pulling the covers real tight at night and praying I didn't piss myself because of my nightmares of the big, bad Superbeast?
Or maybe you thought I'd take one look and you chewing up the Big Sauce Man and spitting him out, grab my bags and leave a vapor trail behind me as I headed back to Greensboro.
Troy looks pointedly at the camera, eyebrows raised slightly.
DOUGLAS: Get over yourself, big man. For the sake of everyone who tunes in to digest everything ULTRATITLE, get over yourself before our heads explode from all the guttural shouting and megalomaniacal laughing coming out your oversized noise-hole.
'Cause here's the thing about running your mouth and calling all of us insects and sheep ... eventually, someone's going to shut you up and shove those words right back in your face. And big boy? Shutting people up just happens to be my specialty.
I'm not a stupid man, Sylo. I do my research, I watch the tape and I was right there backstage watching when I saw you take the Ol' Saucer and crush him like an overripe tomato. I know you're a dangerous, dangerous man, and I know you've got some kind of ludicrously overdeveloped God complex about this tournament.
Gee, a humongous, angry bastard with an ego the size of Dan Ryan's palatial estate who thinks that all the puny humans beneath him will just scatter when he goes HULK SMASH on the rest of us? You know, that's something I've never seen in more than a decade inside the squared circle ... I mean, except for pretty much every Thursday and alternate weekends.
But, for all I know, you might be that special breed of evil, Sylo. You might just be that guy who supercedes all the rest. But, riddle me this, big man: If we're all so insignificant to His Royal Superbeastiality, WHY ARE WE ALL HERE? Why did Chad Merritt send out the call to the best professional wrestlers on the planet, get 128 of them in one field and put a half-million bucks on the line if this whole thing is just in the bag for you without so much as a question mark?
Actually, better question: Why are YOU here, Sylo?
If this is automatic, if this is just seven little lambs in a row being led to your slaughterhouse, why bother showing up?
To destroy a legacy? Pardon me, big man, but that strikes me as just a touch, well ... excessive. Forgive me for banging the history drum a little bit here, but I'm pretty sure that one giant monster beating the ever-loving crap out of people WON'T destroy the legacy of the ULTRATITLE. In fact, one man rising as a dominant force?
I'm pretty sure that's the whole point of this shindig, buddy.
And maybe ... maybe you're the guy to do it. Maybe you are just that good, just that scary, just that tough. But, you know what? A guy like Dan Ryan thought the same thing. A man that you can make a damn good case for being the best of all-time, and he was just one of 64 first-round losers.
That's ULTRATITLE, Sylo. Anything can happen, at any time. You never know when that little bump in the road comes along and sends you careening off your predestined path. You never know when my right boot is going to crack you in the temple, when I'll go out and break your jaw with a lariat, turn your spinal column inside-out with the Scorpion Deathlock or fracture your skull and your neck with the End of the Road.
All it takes for one of those sheep, one of those insects you like to cackle maniacally about so much to turn your world upside down is a simple count of one ... two ... three.
The wry smile Troy's been sporting fades from his face. He looks down for a moment, then slowly raises his eyes to camera level.
DOUGLAS: As for me?
I'm not scared of you, Sylo. Telling me you're going to break me and break me again, screaming and shouting and wiggling your fingers like you're putting some ancient mystical voodoo curse on me, that ain't exactly making me shake in my size 13s, pal.
Wanna know why?
You brought up my football injury, right? Asked if I remember the feeling of lying on that field, not knowing what would happen next? Here's the thing ... I don't. One second, I was trying to get downfield on a screen pass. The next, I didn't even see 350-pound offensive lineman trip and tumble straight toward me. I didn't even see what had happened. I didn't see him land with all his weight on the exposed part of my neck at the base of my helmet. I didn't see the perfect storm of incidents that ended my football career, and I never have.
I woke up 16 hours later in a hospital bed, not able to move at all. So no, Sylo, I don't remember the feeling of lying on the turf like wounded animal. I know the feeling of fighting every damned day to take the next step and the next step after that so that I could even have a career.
And you want to ask if THAT was worth it, just for one world title in a company that the Great and Powerful Sylo apparently was too self-centered to hear of? If getting up from a fractured spinal column was worth it? If Kaiser Vashaun shattering my orbital bone was worth it? If having the ACL in my left knee replaced with the stuff that's going to one day coat the USS Enterprise was worth it?
If waking up every morning dealing with pain was worth it for that one night in Boston, when I went an hour with another Beast, a first-ballot Hall of Famer named Marcus Westcott, and came out with the A1E World Heavyweight Championship after a decade of waiting was worth it?
Every second of it, Sylo. EVERY DAMN SECOND.
So here's my message for you, Mr. Superbeast: BRING. IT. ON. You can try to break me and break me again, but when the chips are down, and I keep fighting back -- just like I've fought back for every second of my career -- that little seed of doubt is going to fester in your mind. That little question is just going to keep buzzing in your ear...
"Why can't I beat this guy?"
It's because no matter what you do to me, I promise you, I've been through worse. I've been through worse here...
Troy points to his head.
DOUGLAS: And here.
Troy points to his heart.
DOUGLAS: I've stood on the ledge of an 18th floor hotel room and wondered what sound I'd make when I hit the street. I've buried far too many people close to me far too young, but I have always ... ALWAYS rebounded.
And in the second round of ULTRATITLE, it'll be the same old song and dance. You'll come at me with the rage of the Superbeast, but I'll keep getting up, keep fighting back, and when you give me that one, little opening?
Well, you'll learn that true meaning of that old chestnut ... "The bigger they are, the harder they fall."
You're counting your chickens before they hatch, big boy. And that is never ... EVER ... a good idea.
It might just lead to the end of your road.
See you there, Sylo.
...FADE OUT
J The Ripper
FWrestling's Reckoning
(OOC: Troy, I don't know your real name, but win, lose, or draw I had fun writing against someone again for the first time in many MANY years. Thanks for keeping me on my toes and helping me get back into the swing of things. You've done a hell of a job so far man.)
------
Revelation 6:8: And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
------
Open...
This time the backdrop was an old concrete wall, decorated with reddish-brown splotches. All around the concrete wall cracks ran here and there like tree branches, breaking off at certain points, thinning at others, but always present. At the top you could see half a window, bars were in place to either keep someone out or more likely, to keep something in. Each bar wore a coat of rust as if it was armor, showing how time precedes all things in life--even iron couldn’t withstand time.
The floor looked as if it used to have padding of some sort but mostly worn cement shown through, connecting to the wall, and just like the wall, it too had random splotches of reddish-brown. Dead center of all of this sat Sylo, lazily letting something fall from one hand to the next. He watched as the object slinks from the top of one massive hand to the next. Finally he looked up but kept moving his hands in perfect rhythm.
As he looked, once more, through the camera those eerie blue eyes almost seemed to glow. The different hues of blue seemed to dance and swirl around two slit-like pupils. He didn’t speak, only stared, a look of indifference seemed to be etched into his face like granite. The morning sun was rising behind him, hues of red and orange pushed through clouds indicating that on the horizon the sun would rise before long. It was enough to illuminate through the gaps in the iron bars to where no artificial light would be needed to see Sylo.
“Troy Douglas,” Sylo began, his voice barely above a whisper, but still clear enough to hear. “You’ve disappointed even me and my expectations weren’t high to begin with.” Sylo let out an exasperated sigh. Both hands continued to move in rhythm though as he began again.
“You really think an accident is the same as what I’ll do? You assume me snapping your neck will be an accident? Everything I do is planned and calculated. Every opening is a chance for me to hurt you more. I don’t want to walk into a ring, knock you out, and that be the end. After all, where is the fun in that? You want sympathy because you’ve had it so hard and all I want is blood. I just want to leave a mangled corpse for Mama Douglas.”
Sylo began to shake, laughing a small bit, before looking back up again. He let that half-smirk sit on his face only for a moment before letting it shift back to more of an apathetic look. Without caution he let his head fall back against the cement wall, letting out another, almost bored, puff of air before shifting his gaze back to the camera.
“See, you again assume I have this complex where I believe I’m some sort of omnipotent being that stomps around the ring, roars a bit, and blows a bunch of hot air but what sets me apart from your run of the mill “monster”, Troy, is the fact that the first thing I enjoy doing is letting my opponent think he’s wont. The truth is I let you believe that’s all I was. I let you believe I just stomp around all angry at the world when in reality I’ve been calm this whole time or more accurately, apathetic.You thought you knew the key to victory but it turned out you fell right into my hands, Troy.” Sylo frowned a bit, disgusted, as he shook his head. His hands still moving as the object fell from the top of one hand to the other.
“A man isn’t just beaten physically, Troy. You can heal from injuries. You of all people should know that. To truly beat a man, Troy, you first have to get inside his head, break him down mentally, destroy him mentally and spiritually, and then when the time is right you splinter him physically. You snap the twigs before you bring the tree crashing down, Troy.” Sylo scoffed once more, the disgust rising like bile.
“It’s sad. Nothing you said had any bearing on this match. Just wake up and realize you’re another victim on my path to the ULTRATITLE. You’re a step, that’s all, but you did your job and that’s what matters most. You can believe what you like about me but the truth is you don’t know what I am and what I’m capable of.” Sylo couldn’t hold it. He spit to the side to release some of the disgust but still managed to keep his hands moving up and down, almost like a slinky, before turning back to address Troy Douglas.
“You watched a tape. One video. One match. You watched me run through fodder. I’m glad you’re satisfied with your "research". I’m blithesome that you’ve shown how little this tournament means to you. A former football star, turned wrestler, won the big one, suffered through some injuries, and now this is your redemption but there was a wrench thrown in there. I’m that wrench. I’m the person that will end your dream. You think because” Sylo’s tone became almost mocking, “You were injured and still preserved” that you’re entitled to respect? Half the men in this tournament has had the piss beat out of them, some are injured now, but you don’t see them crying about it and I’m the one with the ego,” Sylo cackled a little, grinning, those pearly whites with the extended canines showing as he leaned against the wall again.
“Troy, they say animals can smell fear. I know you’re afraid, you’d be stupid to not be afraid. The ULTRATITLE is mine because I not only have the drive but the ability to make it happen, you don't, and that's just nature. We're not all created equally. It’s just not in your future. Let...go. Go back to obscurity and finish your career. Don’t make the mistake of actually pissing me off.” Sylo’s expression never changed but his hands kept moving. The object on the outside of his hand bouncing to and fro.
“I threw on a mask. I did one little act. Now you’re all fired up and I sit here calm, halcyon, even a bit...bland, Troy. You thought that was the Beast? You thought that was what you were facing? I’m in your head Troy but I know the response, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” Sylo cleared his throat and began his best Troy Douglas impression, some could speculate that he intentionally made him sound slow. “That was a for the fans, I’m focused on the ULTRATITLE and when I beat you, you’ll realize that, big man. You’re not inside my head, in fact, when I beat you I won’t even think about you!” Sylo stopped, cocking his head slightly to the side as he grinned a fraction.
“That sound about right, champ?”
Sylo snorted in disgust before gazing down at his hands again, watching the object tumble and twirl along his hands, leading everyone to wonder...what in the hell was that? Sylo slowly let his head raise once more as he stared yet again.
“Why enter this tournament? You answered your own question. One hundred and twenty eight insects and sheep wanted this f*cking thing so bad they were willing to risk their career. All I want, Troy, is to break as many sheep and insects as they’ll allow me to. After that, since you’re either not paying attention or you really are just that slow, I’ll burn the ULTRATITLE. You say you can’t kill a legacy and I disagree. The ULTRATITLE is a symbol. If you give a symbol power it means something, it becomes more than a symbol, but if you destroy that symbol...then the power is gone. Sheep and insects like you, Troy, is the reason I’ll burn the ULTRATITLE, because it gives you this...false sense of accomplishment like you actually earned something in your pathetic career. Insects, sheep, whatever you want to be called, you all have a purpose, but when you stand in the way there's really only one thing left to do, isn’t there?”
Sylo cocked his head again, as if he was waiting for a response, before sighing.
“Troy, you said I’m going to stand there and wonder why. Why I can’t beat you? Why won’t you stay down? You fail, again, to realize that’s part of the fun. Breaking you until you can’t get up, until you can’t fight back, and if I have to beat you to death to do that? So be it. You signed the waiver just like I did. I can live with more blood on my hands. Since you don’t get it Troy, since I’m wasting words on you like you’re going to magically comprehend what I'm telling you, I’ve got something with me to use as a demonstration tool as I explain to you, once and for all, what I mean when I say I’ll break you.”
Sylo sighed once more, it was a sigh of relief. Slowly he lifted the object from his hand to reveal a spider that he had been letting crawl from hand to hand the entire time. It was small, nothing really to look at, in fact it could probably be found in most homes. He held the spider by one leg as he looked back up. It fought but couldn’t get free.
“Even a bug will fight for its life. See how it squirms trying to get free? It’s even bit me a few times but its bites are nothing. Now, I named this spider Troy, and to demonstrate my point,” Sylo smirked and plucked one of the Spiders legs off as casually as someone picking the petal of a flower off.
“That’s your arm, Troy. It’s broken, possibly out of socket, maybe your rotator cuff is out. You no longer have use of it.” Sylo plucked another leg off the spider as it tried to bite and wiggle free to get away. “That’s your other arm. Useless. Same thing.”
Sylo looked down again, plucking yet another leg. “There goes a leg. Broken, ligaments damaged, muscles torn, your ACL may be torn to sh*t as well, who knows?” Sylo yanked another leg off. “There’s your other leg. Now you can’t walk or use your arms. How are you going to twist my spine up now, Troy?” Sylo shook his head with a smile. The spider frantically bit and wiggled. Sylo on shushed it quietly. “It’ll be over soon,” Sylo said to the spider before turning back to the camera.
Pluck.
Pluck.
Pluck.
Pluck.
Sylo looked down holding his hand out for the camera to see, the spider still tried to bite but was weak in Sylo’s palm. Sylo let everyone stare at the poor creature for what felt like an eternity before speaking again.
“Troy Douglas, once everything is broken, once your back is broken, once your neck is broken, and you lie there choking on your own blood there’s nothing you can do, is there? There’s no question for me to ask, is there? Then I either let the nice man in the stripped shirt stop the match or...”
Sylo looked down in his palm.
And smashed the spider.
“I think you get the point. See you in a few days Troy. Keep telling yourself whatever you need to because when I do this to you and take your blood, your very life essence, and wear it like warpaint? I want you to be at your best so there are no excuses. So you can’t say you weren’t ready. Sleep tight, sheep. You’ll meet The Superbeast in the flesh soon enough,” Sylo smiled one last time before closing his eyes.
He laid his head back and sighed again. Watching. Waiting until he had the chance to destroy another poor soul as everything went to static and faded out.
------
Revelation 6:8: And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
------
Open...
This time the backdrop was an old concrete wall, decorated with reddish-brown splotches. All around the concrete wall cracks ran here and there like tree branches, breaking off at certain points, thinning at others, but always present. At the top you could see half a window, bars were in place to either keep someone out or more likely, to keep something in. Each bar wore a coat of rust as if it was armor, showing how time precedes all things in life--even iron couldn’t withstand time.
The floor looked as if it used to have padding of some sort but mostly worn cement shown through, connecting to the wall, and just like the wall, it too had random splotches of reddish-brown. Dead center of all of this sat Sylo, lazily letting something fall from one hand to the next. He watched as the object slinks from the top of one massive hand to the next. Finally he looked up but kept moving his hands in perfect rhythm.
As he looked, once more, through the camera those eerie blue eyes almost seemed to glow. The different hues of blue seemed to dance and swirl around two slit-like pupils. He didn’t speak, only stared, a look of indifference seemed to be etched into his face like granite. The morning sun was rising behind him, hues of red and orange pushed through clouds indicating that on the horizon the sun would rise before long. It was enough to illuminate through the gaps in the iron bars to where no artificial light would be needed to see Sylo.
“Troy Douglas,” Sylo began, his voice barely above a whisper, but still clear enough to hear. “You’ve disappointed even me and my expectations weren’t high to begin with.” Sylo let out an exasperated sigh. Both hands continued to move in rhythm though as he began again.
“You really think an accident is the same as what I’ll do? You assume me snapping your neck will be an accident? Everything I do is planned and calculated. Every opening is a chance for me to hurt you more. I don’t want to walk into a ring, knock you out, and that be the end. After all, where is the fun in that? You want sympathy because you’ve had it so hard and all I want is blood. I just want to leave a mangled corpse for Mama Douglas.”
Sylo began to shake, laughing a small bit, before looking back up again. He let that half-smirk sit on his face only for a moment before letting it shift back to more of an apathetic look. Without caution he let his head fall back against the cement wall, letting out another, almost bored, puff of air before shifting his gaze back to the camera.
“See, you again assume I have this complex where I believe I’m some sort of omnipotent being that stomps around the ring, roars a bit, and blows a bunch of hot air but what sets me apart from your run of the mill “monster”, Troy, is the fact that the first thing I enjoy doing is letting my opponent think he’s wont. The truth is I let you believe that’s all I was. I let you believe I just stomp around all angry at the world when in reality I’ve been calm this whole time or more accurately, apathetic.You thought you knew the key to victory but it turned out you fell right into my hands, Troy.” Sylo frowned a bit, disgusted, as he shook his head. His hands still moving as the object fell from the top of one hand to the other.
“A man isn’t just beaten physically, Troy. You can heal from injuries. You of all people should know that. To truly beat a man, Troy, you first have to get inside his head, break him down mentally, destroy him mentally and spiritually, and then when the time is right you splinter him physically. You snap the twigs before you bring the tree crashing down, Troy.” Sylo scoffed once more, the disgust rising like bile.
“It’s sad. Nothing you said had any bearing on this match. Just wake up and realize you’re another victim on my path to the ULTRATITLE. You’re a step, that’s all, but you did your job and that’s what matters most. You can believe what you like about me but the truth is you don’t know what I am and what I’m capable of.” Sylo couldn’t hold it. He spit to the side to release some of the disgust but still managed to keep his hands moving up and down, almost like a slinky, before turning back to address Troy Douglas.
“You watched a tape. One video. One match. You watched me run through fodder. I’m glad you’re satisfied with your "research". I’m blithesome that you’ve shown how little this tournament means to you. A former football star, turned wrestler, won the big one, suffered through some injuries, and now this is your redemption but there was a wrench thrown in there. I’m that wrench. I’m the person that will end your dream. You think because” Sylo’s tone became almost mocking, “You were injured and still preserved” that you’re entitled to respect? Half the men in this tournament has had the piss beat out of them, some are injured now, but you don’t see them crying about it and I’m the one with the ego,” Sylo cackled a little, grinning, those pearly whites with the extended canines showing as he leaned against the wall again.
“Troy, they say animals can smell fear. I know you’re afraid, you’d be stupid to not be afraid. The ULTRATITLE is mine because I not only have the drive but the ability to make it happen, you don't, and that's just nature. We're not all created equally. It’s just not in your future. Let...go. Go back to obscurity and finish your career. Don’t make the mistake of actually pissing me off.” Sylo’s expression never changed but his hands kept moving. The object on the outside of his hand bouncing to and fro.
“I threw on a mask. I did one little act. Now you’re all fired up and I sit here calm, halcyon, even a bit...bland, Troy. You thought that was the Beast? You thought that was what you were facing? I’m in your head Troy but I know the response, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” Sylo cleared his throat and began his best Troy Douglas impression, some could speculate that he intentionally made him sound slow. “That was a for the fans, I’m focused on the ULTRATITLE and when I beat you, you’ll realize that, big man. You’re not inside my head, in fact, when I beat you I won’t even think about you!” Sylo stopped, cocking his head slightly to the side as he grinned a fraction.
“That sound about right, champ?”
Sylo snorted in disgust before gazing down at his hands again, watching the object tumble and twirl along his hands, leading everyone to wonder...what in the hell was that? Sylo slowly let his head raise once more as he stared yet again.
“Why enter this tournament? You answered your own question. One hundred and twenty eight insects and sheep wanted this f*cking thing so bad they were willing to risk their career. All I want, Troy, is to break as many sheep and insects as they’ll allow me to. After that, since you’re either not paying attention or you really are just that slow, I’ll burn the ULTRATITLE. You say you can’t kill a legacy and I disagree. The ULTRATITLE is a symbol. If you give a symbol power it means something, it becomes more than a symbol, but if you destroy that symbol...then the power is gone. Sheep and insects like you, Troy, is the reason I’ll burn the ULTRATITLE, because it gives you this...false sense of accomplishment like you actually earned something in your pathetic career. Insects, sheep, whatever you want to be called, you all have a purpose, but when you stand in the way there's really only one thing left to do, isn’t there?”
Sylo cocked his head again, as if he was waiting for a response, before sighing.
“Troy, you said I’m going to stand there and wonder why. Why I can’t beat you? Why won’t you stay down? You fail, again, to realize that’s part of the fun. Breaking you until you can’t get up, until you can’t fight back, and if I have to beat you to death to do that? So be it. You signed the waiver just like I did. I can live with more blood on my hands. Since you don’t get it Troy, since I’m wasting words on you like you’re going to magically comprehend what I'm telling you, I’ve got something with me to use as a demonstration tool as I explain to you, once and for all, what I mean when I say I’ll break you.”
Sylo sighed once more, it was a sigh of relief. Slowly he lifted the object from his hand to reveal a spider that he had been letting crawl from hand to hand the entire time. It was small, nothing really to look at, in fact it could probably be found in most homes. He held the spider by one leg as he looked back up. It fought but couldn’t get free.
“Even a bug will fight for its life. See how it squirms trying to get free? It’s even bit me a few times but its bites are nothing. Now, I named this spider Troy, and to demonstrate my point,” Sylo smirked and plucked one of the Spiders legs off as casually as someone picking the petal of a flower off.
“That’s your arm, Troy. It’s broken, possibly out of socket, maybe your rotator cuff is out. You no longer have use of it.” Sylo plucked another leg off the spider as it tried to bite and wiggle free to get away. “That’s your other arm. Useless. Same thing.”
Sylo looked down again, plucking yet another leg. “There goes a leg. Broken, ligaments damaged, muscles torn, your ACL may be torn to sh*t as well, who knows?” Sylo yanked another leg off. “There’s your other leg. Now you can’t walk or use your arms. How are you going to twist my spine up now, Troy?” Sylo shook his head with a smile. The spider frantically bit and wiggled. Sylo on shushed it quietly. “It’ll be over soon,” Sylo said to the spider before turning back to the camera.
Pluck.
Pluck.
Pluck.
Pluck.
Sylo looked down holding his hand out for the camera to see, the spider still tried to bite but was weak in Sylo’s palm. Sylo let everyone stare at the poor creature for what felt like an eternity before speaking again.
“Troy Douglas, once everything is broken, once your back is broken, once your neck is broken, and you lie there choking on your own blood there’s nothing you can do, is there? There’s no question for me to ask, is there? Then I either let the nice man in the stripped shirt stop the match or...”
Sylo looked down in his palm.
And smashed the spider.
“I think you get the point. See you in a few days Troy. Keep telling yourself whatever you need to because when I do this to you and take your blood, your very life essence, and wear it like warpaint? I want you to be at your best so there are no excuses. So you can’t say you weren’t ready. Sleep tight, sheep. You’ll meet The Superbeast in the flesh soon enough,” Sylo smiled one last time before closing his eyes.
He laid his head back and sighed again. Watching. Waiting until he had the chance to destroy another poor soul as everything went to static and faded out.
CuseTroy
League Member
FADE IN...
A pair of black wrestling boots, clearly well-worn, are the only thing in a camera's focus. For a second, the twoboots simply dangle in midair, as if accepting the absurdity of the visual. Then, very rapidly, the boots begin to shake back and forth for several seconds, until they're brought down to the concrete floor below with a dull THWACK! Pulling back, the camera reveals a man sitting in a chair positioned in front of an ULTRATITLE backdrop, wearing faded jeans and an old A1E Golden Dreams 2009 t-shirt. Standing up, Troy Douglas moves the chair out of shot, looks down at his feet for a second, then glances toward the camera, smiling.
DOUGLAS: Well, you caught me, Sylo.
Here's me, shakin' in my boots.
The camera pans down again and Douglas wildly shakes his feet back and forth for a few seconds, before stamping them back down to the floor.
DOUGLAS: Aaaaaaand ... that's just about enough of that.
What's next, Sylo? What are you going to do to try and intimidate me next? Threaten my wife? Invoke some ancient spirit of absolute malice? Wiggle your fingers at me and go, "BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!" until I cower in terror? 'Cause if you're so dead set on getting me to stay awake at night, trembling in fear of what'll happen when you and I meet in Round Two of this here ULTRATITLE Twenty-Twelve, then big man, all of your eggs are in the wrong damn basket.
I said it before, I'll say it again: There is not a damn thing on God's Green Earth that you can say or do that'll scare me, Sylo. You want to get into that ring and break me, then by all means, go out there and try. Trust me, you won't be the first to make the attempt.
But, hoss, you've gotta trust me on this. Don't waste your time telling me and the rest of the world about how you're gonna go about doing it, because that's just piling up a big ol' mound of empty promises that your gargantuan ass is NEVER going to be able to fulfill.
Believe me when I'm talking about this, Sylo, because I have been on this train a thousand times and a thousand times again, and guess what? It always ends up at the same damn station. Big angry man promises to break my bones, rip out my joints, tear my flesh into tiny scraps and leave me in a heap of human remains, never to wrestle again. And guess what? Hasn't happened yet.
Didn't happen when Mike Randalls damn near yanked my left knee out of its socket with the Santa Fe Cloverleaf back in 2008. Didn't happen when Cameron Cruise almost broke my neck with the Reality Check a year later. Didn't happen with any one of the dozens upon dozens upon dozens of bumps and bruises to come my way over a decade and more of going out into that squared circle and being one of the very best in the world on a nightly basis.
But, hey, maybe you're different. You did have some very, umm ... interesting ... visual aids.
After all, you're the Big Bad Superbeast, right? You're going to huff and puff and blow my house down, aren't ya?
But the Big Bad Wolf got outsmarted at the end of that story, didn't he? Tried to blow down a house of bricks and couldn't quite get the job done.
Remember the tale, Sylo. Because when you and I do this dance of ours in person, it'll be a line-by-line recreation -- with the identities changed to protect those innocent Three Little Pigs, of course. You'll huff, you'll puff, you'll scream and shout and come at me with absolutely everything you've got, but in the end, you're just running into a brick wall. And sooner or later, just like every other one of the Big Bad Wolves I've dealt with in my career, you'll tire yourself out ... and then you'll be ripe for the picking.
So, am I going to just tap out before the bell even rings, pack my bags, head back to Greensboro and watch the rest of the unlucky sheep get led to His Mighty Syloness' slaughterhouse on ESEN like the rest of the wrestling world?
Not hardly, big boy.
Because just like I'm not entitled to your respect, you're not entitled to my fear. You want me to be scared of you? Go out and prove it inside the squared circle. Don't talk about what you did to Ninja K and Frost, don't pluck limbs off an insect like you're some ridiculous grade-school bully ... get in between those ropes and actually DO IT.
Try and break my neck, try and tear out my spine, try and turn my one good ACL into a piece of overcooked spaghetti, because I'll be honest, big boy...
I DON'T THINK YOU CAN.
Troy's eyes narrow as he glares at the camera, his casual smile fading away.
DOUGLAS: And do yourself a favor, Sylo. Don't talk about things that you won't ever understand.
Don't bring up my family, big man. Just ... just don't. Don't talk about sending my corpse home to Mama Douglas, when I've been paying annual visits to her grave since I could barely walk. That's not a place in my life you want to go near, Sylo. Don't poke that part of my life and expect to come out with your hands still attached, pal. Like I've said before, I've lost too much and buried too many important people in my life — Mama and Papa Douglas included — and now that you've gone and touched the nerve, you'd better be prepared to reap what you've sown.
But, here's the thing, Sylo. I'm not the guy who gets all crazy, jumping and shouting about how I'm not just going to beat you, I'm going to HURT you. I'm not the guy talking about how I'm going to break you and end your career and force you to spend the rest of your days being force-fed tapioca pudding through a tube.
I might just go out and do it, because believe me when I tell you that I can, but that's not the name of the game.
The name of the game, Sylo, is THREE SECONDS. It's being better than your opponent just long enough to hear that bell ring and move on. It's about surviving and advancing, and if I've learned one thing in my career — not just my career, my LIFE — it's how to survive.
I keep getting up, Sylo. I keep getting up because, frankly, I don't know any better. I know it's not for my own good, it's never been for my own good, but that's just the way I do things.
I keep getting up.
I keep getting up.
I KEEP GETTING UP.
And eventually, when you think you're still toying with me, still playing a game like you're ripping the legs off another harmless insect, when you're at your most overconfident ... that's when I strike.
That's when you realize that the spider you've been torturing? You're not trapping him.
He's trapping you.
So, try the HULK SMASH! routine. Try the evil, manipulative overlord routine. Try "Who's on First?" for all that I care. In the end, I'll keep getting up, because really, that's all I've ever known how to do. And then, when you finally clear the stars from your eyes, you look up at those bright, bright lights and then you turn your head and see my arm being raised by the referee, when you hear MY music playing, that's when you're going to learn the cold, hard truth of the matter.
I didn't have to hurt you. I didn't have to break you. All I had to do was BEAT you, and that cuts deeper than anything else.
Because then ... that's when you realize that you're not the puppet master here. You're not the Pied Piper, leading the innocent to their slaughter.
Deep down, you're just like the rest of us, Sylo. You're no Beast, you're no Superbeast ...
You're just a MAN. And when you figure out that you're down here with the rest of us?
Well, for you, my friend, that's the end of the road.
...FADE OUT
A pair of black wrestling boots, clearly well-worn, are the only thing in a camera's focus. For a second, the twoboots simply dangle in midair, as if accepting the absurdity of the visual. Then, very rapidly, the boots begin to shake back and forth for several seconds, until they're brought down to the concrete floor below with a dull THWACK! Pulling back, the camera reveals a man sitting in a chair positioned in front of an ULTRATITLE backdrop, wearing faded jeans and an old A1E Golden Dreams 2009 t-shirt. Standing up, Troy Douglas moves the chair out of shot, looks down at his feet for a second, then glances toward the camera, smiling.
DOUGLAS: Well, you caught me, Sylo.
Here's me, shakin' in my boots.
The camera pans down again and Douglas wildly shakes his feet back and forth for a few seconds, before stamping them back down to the floor.
DOUGLAS: Aaaaaaand ... that's just about enough of that.
What's next, Sylo? What are you going to do to try and intimidate me next? Threaten my wife? Invoke some ancient spirit of absolute malice? Wiggle your fingers at me and go, "BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!" until I cower in terror? 'Cause if you're so dead set on getting me to stay awake at night, trembling in fear of what'll happen when you and I meet in Round Two of this here ULTRATITLE Twenty-Twelve, then big man, all of your eggs are in the wrong damn basket.
I said it before, I'll say it again: There is not a damn thing on God's Green Earth that you can say or do that'll scare me, Sylo. You want to get into that ring and break me, then by all means, go out there and try. Trust me, you won't be the first to make the attempt.
But, hoss, you've gotta trust me on this. Don't waste your time telling me and the rest of the world about how you're gonna go about doing it, because that's just piling up a big ol' mound of empty promises that your gargantuan ass is NEVER going to be able to fulfill.
Believe me when I'm talking about this, Sylo, because I have been on this train a thousand times and a thousand times again, and guess what? It always ends up at the same damn station. Big angry man promises to break my bones, rip out my joints, tear my flesh into tiny scraps and leave me in a heap of human remains, never to wrestle again. And guess what? Hasn't happened yet.
Didn't happen when Mike Randalls damn near yanked my left knee out of its socket with the Santa Fe Cloverleaf back in 2008. Didn't happen when Cameron Cruise almost broke my neck with the Reality Check a year later. Didn't happen with any one of the dozens upon dozens upon dozens of bumps and bruises to come my way over a decade and more of going out into that squared circle and being one of the very best in the world on a nightly basis.
But, hey, maybe you're different. You did have some very, umm ... interesting ... visual aids.
After all, you're the Big Bad Superbeast, right? You're going to huff and puff and blow my house down, aren't ya?
But the Big Bad Wolf got outsmarted at the end of that story, didn't he? Tried to blow down a house of bricks and couldn't quite get the job done.
Remember the tale, Sylo. Because when you and I do this dance of ours in person, it'll be a line-by-line recreation -- with the identities changed to protect those innocent Three Little Pigs, of course. You'll huff, you'll puff, you'll scream and shout and come at me with absolutely everything you've got, but in the end, you're just running into a brick wall. And sooner or later, just like every other one of the Big Bad Wolves I've dealt with in my career, you'll tire yourself out ... and then you'll be ripe for the picking.
So, am I going to just tap out before the bell even rings, pack my bags, head back to Greensboro and watch the rest of the unlucky sheep get led to His Mighty Syloness' slaughterhouse on ESEN like the rest of the wrestling world?
Not hardly, big boy.
Because just like I'm not entitled to your respect, you're not entitled to my fear. You want me to be scared of you? Go out and prove it inside the squared circle. Don't talk about what you did to Ninja K and Frost, don't pluck limbs off an insect like you're some ridiculous grade-school bully ... get in between those ropes and actually DO IT.
Try and break my neck, try and tear out my spine, try and turn my one good ACL into a piece of overcooked spaghetti, because I'll be honest, big boy...
I DON'T THINK YOU CAN.
Troy's eyes narrow as he glares at the camera, his casual smile fading away.
DOUGLAS: And do yourself a favor, Sylo. Don't talk about things that you won't ever understand.
Don't bring up my family, big man. Just ... just don't. Don't talk about sending my corpse home to Mama Douglas, when I've been paying annual visits to her grave since I could barely walk. That's not a place in my life you want to go near, Sylo. Don't poke that part of my life and expect to come out with your hands still attached, pal. Like I've said before, I've lost too much and buried too many important people in my life — Mama and Papa Douglas included — and now that you've gone and touched the nerve, you'd better be prepared to reap what you've sown.
But, here's the thing, Sylo. I'm not the guy who gets all crazy, jumping and shouting about how I'm not just going to beat you, I'm going to HURT you. I'm not the guy talking about how I'm going to break you and end your career and force you to spend the rest of your days being force-fed tapioca pudding through a tube.
I might just go out and do it, because believe me when I tell you that I can, but that's not the name of the game.
The name of the game, Sylo, is THREE SECONDS. It's being better than your opponent just long enough to hear that bell ring and move on. It's about surviving and advancing, and if I've learned one thing in my career — not just my career, my LIFE — it's how to survive.
I keep getting up, Sylo. I keep getting up because, frankly, I don't know any better. I know it's not for my own good, it's never been for my own good, but that's just the way I do things.
I keep getting up.
I keep getting up.
I KEEP GETTING UP.
And eventually, when you think you're still toying with me, still playing a game like you're ripping the legs off another harmless insect, when you're at your most overconfident ... that's when I strike.
That's when you realize that the spider you've been torturing? You're not trapping him.
He's trapping you.
So, try the HULK SMASH! routine. Try the evil, manipulative overlord routine. Try "Who's on First?" for all that I care. In the end, I'll keep getting up, because really, that's all I've ever known how to do. And then, when you finally clear the stars from your eyes, you look up at those bright, bright lights and then you turn your head and see my arm being raised by the referee, when you hear MY music playing, that's when you're going to learn the cold, hard truth of the matter.
I didn't have to hurt you. I didn't have to break you. All I had to do was BEAT you, and that cuts deeper than anything else.
Because then ... that's when you realize that you're not the puppet master here. You're not the Pied Piper, leading the innocent to their slaughter.
Deep down, you're just like the rest of us, Sylo. You're no Beast, you're no Superbeast ...
You're just a MAN. And when you figure out that you're down here with the rest of us?
Well, for you, my friend, that's the end of the road.
...FADE OUT