Post by Stitches on Apr 5, 2024 22:39:50 GMT -6
'All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream' - Edgar Allan Poe
The shadows of dancing figures bounce across the walls of a darkened room. There is a clear and distinct sound of whistling which reverberated throughout the darkened room. The whistling sounded like it had no rhyme or reason as if the perpetrator were whistling random tunes. Underneath a dimly lit bulb that dangled precariously from the ceiling was a hooded figure who swiftly removed the hood to reveal greasy green hair beneath. The carnival clown ran a single hand through the greasy green hair to move it away from his painted face - in turn dragging white face paint into the thickets of his hair - only to lift his head skyward and continue to whistle for a brief moment before abruptly stopping. He had felt a sense of euphoria for several days now, reminiscing about spiking Vertigo’s head into the canvas whilst all El Pablo could do was sit back and watch. His intentions had initially been pure. As much as it pained him to work side-by-side with El Pablo, he also wanted to get his hands on The House, and particularly the unholy pairing of JoJo Rush and Tori Taylor. However, as he stood there with El Pablo at the mercy of handcuffs and Vertigo standing by his side, his urges overcame any sense of camaraderie he felt with the Silent Discotecnicos, and a sense of redemption kicked in. All these years, he still harbingered a sense of disdain over El Pablo beating him for the X-Division Championship and going on to reign for five-hundred and sixty-one days without their paths crossing for the championship ever again. He felt more at ease now having spiked Vertigo’s head into the canvas and knowing he was only weeks ago from reclaiming the International Championship at Stranglemania after both JoJo Rush and Tori Taylor tried so desperately to keep him away from the equation during the Gauntlet match in Chicago.
'I made it abundantly clear in Atlanta; I am a man of symbolism' the carnival clown says as he stares down at the cowbell, attached to a bull rope, and wrapped around his neck like a thick scarf. It is the same cowbell that was used to concave Stitches' cranium at the hands of Tori Taylor - from which he returned the favour by smashing the cowbell into her ribs - which is evident by the dent on the upper side of the cowbell where metal met steel. 'I am a little disappointed I wasn't able to smash this cowbell across your own cranium, Tori, but there is always time for that. The shot to the ribs will suffice for now, and spiking your head across the canvas with the Sound Of Silence was bittersweet'. A sinister smirk permeates the face of the carnival clown. 'But back to my point; I am a man of symbolism. Everything has meaning, everything has a purpose, and not a single action occurs without some form of intention. As much as Tori wants you to believe that she hit me with the cowbell as a reminder that she is always in the wings, she had other intentions. I have been doing this a long time... dear girl... there are no shadows you can hide in that I am unaware of. Your presence does not go unnoticed by me. You cracked my skull with this cowbell in an attempt to remove me from the equation and ensure that JoJo Rush walked into Stranglemania free from the pressure of facing the most decorated presence this industry has seen walk through those curtains. Don't believe me? I had the Twisted Mettle locked in tight, JoJo Rush was going nowhere, and you decided to attack me right in front of the referee... but keep spilling your drivel and I'll continue to laugh at your desperation'.
The carnival clown emits a mocking, almost comical laugh, the cowbell clinking against the buttons of his jacket. The laughter is swiftly and abruptly subsided by an empty and emotionless expression, the cowbell clinking a final time against the carnival clown's chest before there is nothing more than a sound of silence, only interrupted by heavy breathing and the sound of the carnival clown's voice.
'The only person to fall for your antics on that night was Caleb Scott, which further cements my prior comments; he falters under pressure, which was again further exemplified when he failed to capture the Television Championship from The Lad in what could only be described as a consolation prize for being a screw-up. And yet, he has the audacity to harp on my failure to capture the Heritage Championship against Morgan Darkwater and then promises to take away my chance at the International Championship by pinning JoJo Rush to the ground in the first round. That didn't work out too well for you, did it, Caleb? Neither did carrying the FX Broadcast Championship into Brawl's Season Finale. And now, mere weeks away from me having an opportunity you were so adamant about taking away from me, you are in the role to play spoiler and after everything the two of us have been through in such a short span, I am sure you would love nothing more to stomp my painted face into the ground and destroy my momentum heading into Stranglemania. It would be just a semblance of redemption for the cracks I have carved into your fragile armour. There is a beautiful dichotomy behind dreaming manifestation, but Caleb; the distance between dreams and reality is action, and your actions aren't surmountable to manifestation. Sure, you have beaten Jason Anderson and Amis Shelton this season. Sure, you have carved some semblance of credibility. However, you showed your true colours in the Gauntlet match against competitors of substance and now you are back to scratching and clawing at the scraps just to be relevant'.
The carnival clown shifts across the steel chair a little so that he is planted right on the edge. He places the palms of his hands on his thighs and allows the cowbell dangling from the bull rope tied around his neck to precariously sway as the corners of his mouth turn upright.
'Yes, I am referring to myself as 'scraps' in this instance because this match is inconsequential... for both of us. If - heaven forbid - you beat me, history dictates you will never capitalise off of that momentum. And, when I beat you... again... I simply move onward to Stranglemania as was always the plan to challenge for the International Championship. Nothing changes here, Caleb, not the direction, not the narrative, and certainly not the paint. You'll still sit there - in front of the reflection of a mirror - and paint your frivolous black lines onto a pallid white canvas whilst calling yourself a sadist, and I will sit there - in front of the reflection of a mirror - and paint a beautiful disasterpiece knowing that there needs to be no names for the carnival clown because I am defined not by my words but by my actions. You have the opportunity to change that, Caleb. In a match being dubbed a 'circus of violence' you have the opportunity to prove to myself, but more importantly, the world, that you are more than just fancy names, that when push comes to shove you can go toe-to-toe with the most sadistic man to step through those curtains. I don't need to stand here and prove that to you, the trail of bloodshed I have left in my path proves without a shadow of a doubt those claims. I've brought kings and queens down to their knees. I have pummeled my fair share of nameless faces that thought it wise to use me as their stepping stone. I have painted that canvas red with a concoction of my own and my opponent's blood more times than I dare count, and the time we spend in Louisiana will be no different. You want your momentum? Here is your chance, all you have to do is be sicker and more depraved than the carnival clown. I can only hope you live up to your namesake'.
The carnival clown stands up from the steel stair and methodically walks behind it before placing a hand on the top ridges of the steel chair. The carnival clown clutches the steel chair and lifts it a few feet off of the ground before folding it. Moving his hand down to the legs of the steel chair, he clutches onto the middle piece and throws the steel chair over his shoulder so that the metallic backrest and seat rests against the back of his head. The carnival clown starts twirling the cowbell in one hand whilst clutching onto the steel chair with the other as he exits the darkened room, whistling a tune under his breath. This time the tune sounded more intentional, as if whistling from music sheets. The whistling was dark and disturbing, but also repetitive, and sounded eerily similar to 'The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly'. The whistling continued as the carnival clown, and his props for violence disappeared into the darkness of the shadows.
