Post by Rated R on Jan 4, 2009 14:15:01 GMT -5
Harold Wilson once stated that “He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery.”
Harold Wilson may have been a politician, but even he made at least this one correct statement. Change is a never ending experience, it continues at an alarming rate. Some changes may be welcome, some may not, but it doesn’t stop change. Nothing stops change.
Except a cemetery apparently.
Yet another meeting. Yet another wasted day I could spend elsewhere, readying myself for an easy week. The pine table in front of me shines, the work of an over eager cleaner desperate to impress the big boys and try and land a job with the most attractive boss in professional wrestling, hell, in the world.
Cleaning. The one job with real career prospects.
My fingers tap on the arm rest of my seat, the sound making a hollow echo that fails to reach out to the sides of the room, instead making a sad sound. The sound of failure. A sound I hear way too often now-a-days. My eyes drift over my office, the pine table, the plasma screen tv, the stack of paperwork that I need to get my secretary to sign for me.
I spend way too much time in the room.
I light a cigarette and take a puff, the smoke rolls out into the air in front of me before joining with the air and vanishing forever. Well, at least until the next drag. I flick the gold lighter open and watch the flames dance in the air, the mix of reds and yellows flickering away trying to tell a silent message. A message that will never be delivered.
“I was informed that you quit smoking.”
“No, I told the last one that I should probably quit smoking”
I close the lighter and slip it into my pocket. I stare at the man in front of me, another nameless drone with a suit and a briefcase stands in the doorway, one hand propping the door open as if he doesn’t know whether I’m going to allow him to stay. I take another drag and point at the seat in front of me.
“Thank you sir.”
Sir. I hate being called sir, it makes me feel old, as if my youth climbed out of my mouth while I was sleeping one night, stole my wallet and grabbed a taxi. It’s probably living the high life right now, sipping a whiskey chaser and sitting in the backroom of a strip club. My youth and a twenty one year stripper doing god knows what god knows where.
“Sir?”
“I wish I was in a strip club right now.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
“Alright sir.”
Bloody hell.
“So I was asked to come here on behalf of the Shadow Conglomerate. They have some... concerns.”
I take a final drag and put the cigarette out in the glass ashtray in front of me and let out a lengthy cough - Maybe I should quit. The Shadow Conglomerate. The owners of the WFWF and technically the men who sign my paychecks. I’ve only met them once, and since then I’ve found myself talking to a different suited ‘representative’ every time.
“Conerns?”
“Yes. They are worried that maybe you are putting their investment in you at risk my stepping in the ring again.”
“Did they forget the year I spent wrestling for this company before I took this job?”
I direct his eyes to the WFWF National Championship on my wall, surrounded by a glass case. It shines in the office, the one piece of light in an otherwise dark drag soulless room. The one thing that differentiates me from the other corporate drones that I refuse to turn into.
“Well sir. They are worried that it may not be in their best interests if you lose against Aaron Ashton.”
The word jumps out at me like Sylvester Stallone in a cheap disappointing remake of a cheap disappointing original film.
“Lose?”
“Yes sir. They do keep tabs on their employess, and they fear that Aaron Ashton could be, lets say, better than you.”
I don’t remember what exactly happens in the next minute, the next thing I know there’s a man on my floor with a crimson stream of blood flowing across my black carpet, and me with a whiskey chaser in my hand.
It’s the whiskey chaser that confuses me, not the crimson coated man. I feel myself grinning, without meaning to, and kneel beside grey suit. I grab a box of tissues from my desk and hand one to him.
“Your bleeding on my floor.”
“Sorry... sir.”
Christ, suits. Suck ups to the very end.
So they think Aaron Ashton is better than me, they think that he can win. Well, they’re partially right. Aaron Ashton can win.
But he won’t.
Change comes to us all eventually. I’m no longer the violent individual outside the ring I once was. At least not the same extent. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t tear him limb from limb. It doesn’t mean I won’t feed on his flesh and reign supreme.
You can bring what you want to that ring when you face me but none of it matters. I have the power and I have the experience. I have the demonic edge that those who face me don’t. My soul head isn’t clouded by the fears of death. Of the great void that we shall all eventually arrive at.
Me mind is clear, my soul pure.
A change IS coming, the question is, can you survive?
Harold Wilson may have been a politician, but even he made at least this one correct statement. Change is a never ending experience, it continues at an alarming rate. Some changes may be welcome, some may not, but it doesn’t stop change. Nothing stops change.
Except a cemetery apparently.
Yet another meeting. Yet another wasted day I could spend elsewhere, readying myself for an easy week. The pine table in front of me shines, the work of an over eager cleaner desperate to impress the big boys and try and land a job with the most attractive boss in professional wrestling, hell, in the world.
Cleaning. The one job with real career prospects.
My fingers tap on the arm rest of my seat, the sound making a hollow echo that fails to reach out to the sides of the room, instead making a sad sound. The sound of failure. A sound I hear way too often now-a-days. My eyes drift over my office, the pine table, the plasma screen tv, the stack of paperwork that I need to get my secretary to sign for me.
I spend way too much time in the room.
I light a cigarette and take a puff, the smoke rolls out into the air in front of me before joining with the air and vanishing forever. Well, at least until the next drag. I flick the gold lighter open and watch the flames dance in the air, the mix of reds and yellows flickering away trying to tell a silent message. A message that will never be delivered.
“I was informed that you quit smoking.”
“No, I told the last one that I should probably quit smoking”
I close the lighter and slip it into my pocket. I stare at the man in front of me, another nameless drone with a suit and a briefcase stands in the doorway, one hand propping the door open as if he doesn’t know whether I’m going to allow him to stay. I take another drag and point at the seat in front of me.
“Thank you sir.”
Sir. I hate being called sir, it makes me feel old, as if my youth climbed out of my mouth while I was sleeping one night, stole my wallet and grabbed a taxi. It’s probably living the high life right now, sipping a whiskey chaser and sitting in the backroom of a strip club. My youth and a twenty one year stripper doing god knows what god knows where.
“Sir?”
“I wish I was in a strip club right now.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
“Alright sir.”
Bloody hell.
“So I was asked to come here on behalf of the Shadow Conglomerate. They have some... concerns.”
I take a final drag and put the cigarette out in the glass ashtray in front of me and let out a lengthy cough - Maybe I should quit. The Shadow Conglomerate. The owners of the WFWF and technically the men who sign my paychecks. I’ve only met them once, and since then I’ve found myself talking to a different suited ‘representative’ every time.
“Conerns?”
“Yes. They are worried that maybe you are putting their investment in you at risk my stepping in the ring again.”
“Did they forget the year I spent wrestling for this company before I took this job?”
I direct his eyes to the WFWF National Championship on my wall, surrounded by a glass case. It shines in the office, the one piece of light in an otherwise dark drag soulless room. The one thing that differentiates me from the other corporate drones that I refuse to turn into.
“Well sir. They are worried that it may not be in their best interests if you lose against Aaron Ashton.”
The word jumps out at me like Sylvester Stallone in a cheap disappointing remake of a cheap disappointing original film.
“Lose?”
“Yes sir. They do keep tabs on their employess, and they fear that Aaron Ashton could be, lets say, better than you.”
I don’t remember what exactly happens in the next minute, the next thing I know there’s a man on my floor with a crimson stream of blood flowing across my black carpet, and me with a whiskey chaser in my hand.
It’s the whiskey chaser that confuses me, not the crimson coated man. I feel myself grinning, without meaning to, and kneel beside grey suit. I grab a box of tissues from my desk and hand one to him.
“Your bleeding on my floor.”
“Sorry... sir.”
Christ, suits. Suck ups to the very end.
So they think Aaron Ashton is better than me, they think that he can win. Well, they’re partially right. Aaron Ashton can win.
But he won’t.
Change comes to us all eventually. I’m no longer the violent individual outside the ring I once was. At least not the same extent. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t tear him limb from limb. It doesn’t mean I won’t feed on his flesh and reign supreme.
You can bring what you want to that ring when you face me but none of it matters. I have the power and I have the experience. I have the demonic edge that those who face me don’t. My soul head isn’t clouded by the fears of death. Of the great void that we shall all eventually arrive at.
Me mind is clear, my soul pure.
A change IS coming, the question is, can you survive?
