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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "Anarchy Special" RP Board
Safe Travels, Don't Die
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Samuel Nyström
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#1
05-28-2015, 08:38 PM


It was raining.

The moon was out. Floating in the sky, it loomed over the Earth below. High above the thick layer of dark clouds that eclipsed the world as far as Samuel could see. Droplets of rain splattered across the ground, sending ripples through the puddles formed in the parking lot of a small gas station.

Samuel stood, his back against the dirty bricks of the building, waiting out the storm. His jacket and hair were soaked, water dripped down his face. He wiped some away then stuck his hands in his jacket pocket to protect them from the wind. With a sharp inhale, he felt the chilly air brush against the back of his throat and coughed, forcing out puffs of visible breath.

”Hey,” spoke a woman’s voice over the light pitter-patter of rain striking and sloshing on the ground. Samuel whipped his head around towards the source of the voice and squinted. Even with the pale light blasting out of the gas station’s windows, he couldn’t quite make out the figure to his side.

”Yes?” he responded as he took a step closer.

The woman, lit cigarette between her lips, took a drag and blew smoke into the night sky. Even as he approached; Samuel couldn’t quite get a good look at her face, hidden behind strands of hair and the hood of her coat.

”Can’t you read the sign?” she asked, pointing behind her to a sign that read “NO LOITERING”.

He chuckled, cocking his head.

”Can’t you?”

His warmness was not reciprocated. She sighed, straightening herself out and pushing herself away from the wall. ”I’m on my break.”

Samuel shook his head with a sly grin on his face. ”No you aren’t.”

”And how would you know?” she asked, turning to face him head on before taking another drag and spitefully blowing the smoke his face.

”Don’t look the type. Plus, I doubt an employee would blow smoke in a potential customer’s face.”

The woman nodded her head, dropping the cigarette on the ground and snuffing it.

”Got a point there.”

”What was that, then?”

”What was what?”

”Everything.”

A smile crossed her face.

”Test.”

Samuel shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

”What kinda--”

”So many fucking idiots just hang out ‘round here, wanted to make sure you weren’t one of them.”

Samuel took a step back.

”What? I don’t bite,” she said, laughing.

He sighed and moved closer.

”Really though, what are you doing out here?”

”Hate drivin’ in the rain, you?”

The woman reached into her pocket, then pulled nothing out. ”Don’t know. Just kinda wound up here.”

He scanned the woman. ”That happen a lot?”

”No, normally I wind up somewhere not in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

He chuckled.

”What’s so funny?” she asked, stepping closer to him.

”Never met someone so forthright is all.”

”Ain’t the first time I’ve heard that, don’t reckon it’ll be the last. Where you goin’?”

”Glasgow. Montana.”

The woman gave him a quizzical look, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

”Really? There’s a Glasgow, Montana?”

”Yeah. Just seven hours away, now.”

”Yeesh! Helluva drive.”

She thought for a second, before opening her mouth again.

”Got any room?” she asked, pointing to the car she saw him arrive in: a beat-up blue sedan.

”Huh?”

”In your car. Got any room? Glasgow, Montana sounds… interesting.”

He took a moment to collect his thoughts before just coming out with it.

”I don’t even know your name!”

Arr, ahem uh, Erica. Erica Frasier.”

He eyed her skeptically.

”You just want to go seven hours and countless miles into the middle of nowhere on a whim?”

Erica nodded immediately, as if there was nothing wrong with what she was proposing. Samuel cracked an awkward smile and chuckled.

”For all you know, I could be a murderer or a rapist or something.”

”No.”

”What?”

”No, you aren’t either of those things. Don’t look the type.”

Samuel nodded. ”Fair enough.”

There was silence. Relatively speaking. The rain still fell, splashing, sloshing, pounding the ground. There was still the faint noise of people inside. However, the pair just stood. Not taking, hardly moving. Eyes fixed on each other. Samuel’s gaze was questioning and confused; Erica’s confident and slightly annoyed. She put her hands on her hips, and slowly inched one hand behind her, dragging it along her waistband.

”Well?”

He scoffed and shot a wild-eyed look at her. ”Drifter I just met wants a ride to my hometown, what could possibly go wrong? Fine.”

The annoyance on her face quickly gave way to wide smile as she pulled her hands off her hips and lept into the rain and made her way to the sedan.

”What do you think you’re doing?”

”I don’t mind driving in the rain.”

For a second, Samuel thought about it. Seriously, deeply contemplated handing over the keys to his car to Erica, the woman he literally just met and who had no idea where Glasgow even was.

”You got a fuckin’ GPS in here if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Well, she was right.

Samuel followed her into the downpour, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the keychain and pressing the automatic unlock button. A few seconds later, they were settled into the car. Erica slid the key into the ignition, turned it, and the car came to life.

The Journal of Samuel Nyström
Entry #001: Motive Rant

There’s a certain appeal the world of wrestling has. There has to be; why else would we sign up to put our bodies, our livelihood on the line? I don’t feel I have to explain to anyone in the business just how dangerous it is, how even the simplest of maneuvers can lead to grievous injuries or worse. That, of course hasn’t even touched on the more obviously dangerous aspects of the sport we shed sweat, tears, and blood for. The weapons, the falls, the hard landings onto concrete, through wooden tables, into pits of glass, thumbtacks, and whatever other twisted instruments may come into play.

So, why do we do it? What is the thing that gives us the fires in our bellies to lace up our boots and walk on down to that ring, to look whoever we’re fighting in the eye, to give a hundred percent? Not just that, not just once, but week in and week out. Are we some kind of elite breed of human, specifically designed for this brand of human cockfighting? Or does this inspiration come from an outside source.

Are we born, or are we made? That’s the big question. But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Let’s go back to the why of the matter. Why do we do it?

The truth is, there’s no single, solitary answer. That’s the beauty of it. Just like we’re all individuals, people with our own experiences, our own beliefs and as such, our own motives. We don’t all fight for the same reasons.

Some fight for glory. The rush of euphoria you get when you look up at the blinding lights and you hear the fans cheering for you. Chanting your name. The feeling in your heart when you hear that, when you feel the love everyone in those arenas and everyone watching at home almost makes the near crippling pain you’re in as a result of the match unreal. Like it never existed because at that moment, you don’t care if your ribs are broken. You don’t care if you’ll need neck surgery a couple years down the line because in that moment, you’re a hero and I think that’s, deep down, what we all want to be.

Some, fight for accolades. Validation. They feel somewhere in their hearts that they’re the best who ever lived and strive for title belts to prove it. To them, the sport is just a means to an end. The area they’re most proficient in. Which isn’t to diminish the value of championships, by any stretch of the imagination.

Some fight to release their rage. For them, it doesn’t matter who they fight. The whens, the whys, the hows. All that matters to them is the act itself. In the heat of the moment, they feel reborn. Molded into something new. Something all powerful. Maybe they’ve never had power before. Trapped, a victim of cruel cosmic coincidence or the spite of a wrathful god, whichever is your prerogative. So they lash out. Violently. It’s not so much that they block out the pain, or that any other feeling eclipses it; they live for the pain.

Some fight for legacy. Like my opponent, DMX-Factor. A man who retired from the sport, only to come back later. A fresh start in a federation that never so much as heard his name before he signed it on the dotted line. He’s claimed to be doing it to restore honor and dignity but if that’s even true, it is as much for him as it is for everyone else. He yearned for it while he was gone. It scratched at his flesh and dug under his skin.

So he’s back. Ready to pick up right where he left off and conquer yet another federation.

Yet, he’s already encountered a roadblock. Wherein lies the question: was it slight disruption, or an omen for the rest of his return will go? Ask him, it’s the former. Without a doubt. He’s not going to let that loss affect his confidence any. He didn’t even take the pin!

Ask me, and the answer will be this: I don’t know. I don’t have the gift of clairvoyance, I can’t sense the future. I have no idea how his return will go following our match but I can assure one thing. This match will be but another roadblock.

Only this time, it will be him getting pinned.

He’s fighting for his legacy. As much as he’ll fake it, he doesn’t have the hunger of someone like me. Someone getting their first big break in this little world of ours. I have absolutely everything to lose and everything to gain. If I drop the ball, I don’t get to retreat back to my money, to my celebrity because I don’t have any of either. This is the first time most anyone on this planet has heard the name Samuel Nyström.

I’m not going to give them a fucking reason to forget it.

I have the drive on my side. I’ve sacrificed too much for this opportunity. I’ve lost relationships, threw away stable employment, sacrificed my body, drove myself into debt just to get here, to the big time. To the XWF. To anywhere outside of Montana, and here I am. And if he thinks I’m going to roll over and die for a potential wash-up’s comeback tour, he’s got another thing coming.

And with that, we come to reason I fight.

Because I literally can not stop. If a shark stops swimming, it’ll drown. If I stop fighting, even for a moment, I go under completely and I’m not sure if I’ll float back to the top so I’m making it a plan to never stop. Not until I get my fill. He’s had his. He’s known hunger. Past tense.

I’m living the battle.

And I ain’t planning on losing it.
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[-] The following 2 users Like Samuel Nyström's post:
DMX-Factor (05-30-2015), Tommy Gunn (05-30-2015)




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