06.21.06 Avarice

4 am, I cannot sleep.

I thought I might, but once again, since Marissah has been gone these few days, I cannot.

It simply will not come.

There is no point laying here any longer; I run my hand over the touch lamp and light slowly floods in to illuminate the posh surroundings that I call home.

My bed sheets are scattered about, the pillows in complete disarray. The curtains flutter silently in the midnight air of Manhattan.

Reality has not yet set in for the people of Manhattan. The arrogant Sun has not had a chance to arise; still the grasp of darkness rules.

And that is how I like it. Darkness over light - always.

I slip out of bed wearing my silk boxers, rubbing my eyes, still being sure to walk slowly and deliberately on my still healing legs. I quickly run my hand over the back of my cranium to feel the bloodied horror that are stitches, still noticeable, still crying out their shouts of agony.

I'm a bit of a people watcher. Out onto the balcony I step - putting on my robe first, of course - and peer into the sleep that Manhattan exudes.

Some have not this luxury however and find themselves up at this godless hour. Taxi drivers, newspaper delivery persons, the police.

I peer down onto the road below and indeed traffic hums along unabated. Truly we are the city that never sleeps.

Across from me is Central Park. A flood of trees mired in the centre of a concrete jungle. It stands out starkly almost to protest against the Chrysler Buildings and Empire State Buildings of this city, in a vain attempt to reclaim the land that once was theirs.

All of a sudden I hear faint words below. It's remarkable how well sound travels up the concrete mass.

A police unit has pulled over some poor bugger. They're gesticulating fairly wildly - at least the man who was pulled over is. The police officer stands and listens, without much sympathy I would imagine. Out comes the ticket thing - where one writes tickets on - whatever the fuck it's called. The cop goes back in, probably to do a background check.

Minutes pass, he returns, hands the man his summons, and off he goes.

One person's life changed in a split second.

It seems his speeding got the best of him.

A lesson learned, however.

Why is it people never learn lessons until all Hell forces them to?

Take the tsunami of 2005. Tremendous disaster. I didn't donate one cent - I have nothing to do with those people, I mind my own business.

Regardless: humanity, the sad excuse that it is, came out en masse to lend assistance. So many pundits remarked: how the bad always brings out the best in people.

Why does it take the destruction of 100 000 (worthless, mind you) lives to bring about the best in people?

I really do not care - just marks man's hypocrisy and pathetic state of being.

I sometimes wonder if I am a misanthrope. Just look at humanity's sad record.

The Roman hordes massacred hundreds of thousands, conquered and destroyed how many cultures? Countless. All in the name of conquest and plunder.

The Crusades, the allegedly "enlightened" white Christians - another group I have the utmost scorn for - enter a sovereign land on some supposed just cause to teach the infidel Arabs a damn good lesson.

Sounds rather like Iraq, actually.

Guess old Dubya didn't do very well in history class.

I chuckle. Why is it I make myself laugh more than anyone else?

I choose to leave that question rhetorical in nature.

Then we come to World Wars One and Two, Auschwitz, Vietnam, Rwanda, Yugoslavia, the works.

Scum. Humanity is scum.

But I give credence to the conquerors. They were able to conquer. They therefore showed themselves to be more able, more talented.

Perhaps it's not man itself I hate.

It's simply man's weakness.

A nice bit of reasoning for...I check my watch...4:20 AM.

Never a better time for a nice late night scotch.

Linkwood 1954, a true gem. I lick my lips in anticipation as I head inside, find my little scotch library as I like to call it, uncork it, and pour a generous helping into my cut crystal scotch glass.

To all of humanity, motherfuckers!

Down it goes, and sends all my nerves on end, jolting me further awake.

I think this calls for another one.

I believe in going all out.

A glass more - and then another.

One more for good luck.

JOLLY good show.

My coordination - is slightly off now. But just slightly. I flop back into my bed still holding my glass, only a few drops remaining.

A sadder sight there is not than a glass devoid of scotch.

Feeling slightly more jovial after that anti-human race rant - which I am entirely correct in my thinking - I polish off the last of my drink and toss the glass to the foot of my bed.

I think it's time for a bit of fun. And seeing as Marissah would just faint or yell in embarrassment, no better time than the present.

From off the table near by I grab the championship belt.

Funny, I haven't even really stopped to look at it.

Its intricate features are admirable, and few have had the chance - well, nobody, save for Kirk, the timekeeper, referees and Daemon Curtis - to look at it in such detail as I can noww do so at liberty.

It has taken a while to get used to seeing my name there - Avarice, etched immortally on the name plate.

We are eternal now. We have conquered. We have overcome.

A very great feeling of satisfaction wells up in me.

It's time to showboat.

And why the fuck not.

Six years has culminated to this focal point.

I roll out of bed once more, almost tripping over the stool at the foot of the bed, OLW Title in hand, and walk towards the dresser, where a very large mirror sits silently and judgingly.

Judge all that thou wish to do.

Various champions like to hold and display the title in various ways.

Some cup it in their arms, like a rifle.

I fold up the straps and hold the plate face-first, cradled in one arm.

I shake my head. It conceals too much.

Others like the "cool" appearance of the title loosely strewn around one's shoulder.

I did as required to get said image.

Those others does not include me.

I take my time to fasten it around my waist - a task only made harder thanks to Mr. Linkwood's 1954 - and then stand for presentation.

The classical champion.

Much more to my style. It represents all that I am, all that I have achieved, all to which I have evolved towards.

I now stand before the whole world and declare: here I am; I am that I am.

And yet the eyes, the looks I receive...they are more than just looks of disapproval, or even fear.

Some are of disgust.

I have sensed it ever since arriving in the CAL, even as my past self. I feel it is with me still.

Suddenly I don't feel so goddamned jovial any more.

I tear off the title and let it fall to the floor.

THUD. Onto the hardwood.

I step back and look at it. A new feeling starts to well up in me.

One of anger. One of defiance, loathing.

Upon entering the CAL, I was an outsider. I was not part of the cliques that already existed in all these glorified federations. I did not belong up there with the likes of the Timmy Fantastico's, the Think Tank Turner's, CCK's, Adam-X's, and the like. By God no.

I was not worthy to be among such illustrious names.

And now...as part of the Unforgiven II, I am met with such fierce resistance by the likes of the homophobe Danny Vicious, who reviles at the fact that I was not IWA, or LBWF or whatever the fuck it is.

I was not one of the established names. Certainly not a Keith Edwards.

He is brash. He is lively. He is glamorous. His name is associated with success.

My name? Is associated as a stranger still. Not one to have acceptance, let alone popularity.

But popularity - as so once aptly described - is the hallmark of mediocrity.

Yet still:

I am nonetheless written off in context against anyone associated with the past glories of the CAL.

He himself believes all this.

I can't believe how worked up I am getting.

I feel sweat dripping off my brow.

I need my cam - where is the fucking thing.

I walk away from the mirror and dig through a bag, and find it, and somehow am able to set it up - I'll send the bloody thing to OLW as soon as I'm done so they can stream it online.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, and talk, without let or hindrance.

"Keith Edwards. You bastard. You have the whole world in your hands, or so you think. You feel you are the establishment, you are to be victorious simply because you are Keith Edwards. And there are countless individuals in the CAL and OLW who will see this match booked and believe without one [I hold up a finger] iota of a doubt that you will annihilate me because of your past, and because you are that you are. You will have to goddamn kill me you arrogant son of a bitch to gain one inch in that ring against me. Like you I too have shed too much sweat and blood to get to where we are. But you will not you will not [sternly] enter that ring and expect to walk all over me. Bluntly, to Hell with you, where my Master reigns, and he will take all of your souls and torture them endlessly forever and forever and forever. And I shall rule by his side and enjoy seeing it done eternally. Danny Vicious, you first you little prick. When you address me you address me as "sir" because I am entitled to your goddamn respect as champion, and also as the de facto head of The Untouchables. Frankly the IWA, NPW and everything else associated with any supposed glory days of the CAL can kiss my ass. You are witnessing the EVOLUTION of wrestling before your eyes and it is I - AVARICE, Destroyer of Worlds. I am the present and the future so, please, with the utmost humility, I advise you to get used to it or face consequences of your own doing. And now to you Jeffy Andrews, you who has been dethroned so unceremonially, the same what I said to Vicious goes for you ten times over; respect me, and please, I invite you, and Vicious, and indeed, the whole of UTII, to work WITH me - not against me - to achieve our goals. Andrews, if you choose otherwise, I will welcome that equally, and I look forward to seeing your crumpled broken corpse in the ring."

"Keith Edwards, 'Golden Boy,' you are first mate, and you will not have the good graces to steam roll over me as you think and expect - I fear you not, I fear NOBODY. Your past means nothing to me, nor your accomplishments. Edwards you will be the first example made of my rule of tyranny as I promised, and your sweet blood will be tasted by my antichrist wife - and that is a compliment to her - and she will enjoy every single drop of it. Keith I anticipate this match so greatly the minutes and seconds cannot tick away fast enough, for they toll to spell your humiliation, and the tarnishing of your image in the eyes of the world, and more importantly, in your own eyes. Keith, I hear you like to swear, so to sum everything up neatly - to you, Vicious, Andrews, the whole of the CAL if needs be, to any doubters, to anyone who thinks that what I have done in this profession is not enough to dispense of my challenger - fuck you."