Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

Neville Sinclair · (01-05-2018)

Jan. 4, 1897

He was exhausted

Determined to become one of the Nation’s greatest playwrights, Bram Stoker had moved out of the London Theatre scene and into a small house in a town on the coast. It was incredible to see the difference between the hustle and the bustle of city life against the slow and quiet life out here. The house he sat in trying to write had no neighbors for a ways, and it would be at least a 20 minute ride to get into any civilization. This was the life.

Stoker sat in a dark room overlooking the ocean. It was a stormy night, the waves crashed against the shore and somewhere in the distance he could hear the thunder. The lightning would come shortly.

This was exactly the place he needed to gather ideas for what he wanted to write. For years, he had admired many of the greats. He was pleased to know Oscar Wilde, the bastard had even tried to woo his wife before he had gotten her. He had become close friends with Henry Irving, together they travelled the world and presented their works of fiction.

All he needed now was an idea

Come to bed

Stoker’s wife, Florence, came into the room with a light of her own. There was something incredibly romantic about nights like tonight. He wanted to bed her in an instant. But that had to wait, he had set out to write at least 500 words of story ideas before bed.

He put both his hands around her waist and kissed up her body

Do you like it here?

She rolled her eyes and left once one of the kids downstairs started crying. The thunder was louder and nearer than before. This could be long night.

Bram pondered what he should write. Romance? Not tonight… apparently. Family Drama? No there was enough of that in his house tonight. War epic? It had been done to death by better writers than him recently.

It was a dark and stormy night

He laughed as those words appeared on his paper. It was oft-mocked by writers that they should start a novel that way. Edward Bulwer Lytton had done it years previously and people still knocked him to this day. No, he couldn’t start a novel with those words.

He gazed out the window. There was something incredibly interesting about the dark. Something that seemed so right to him. Maybe he would write something that would give children nightmares and parents cause for concern. If he could do that well enough, it would create an air of controversy and people would notice him.

It was time for the family man to give into darkness. It was time for him to use his skills to create an atmosphere that, at best, was uncomfortable, and at worst, horrifying.

Lightning struck right outside of his house. It woke another of his children, he rushed downstairs to help his wife out. Tonight, he hoped they had sweet dreams, but in the future he hoped for nightmares.
---------------------------------------------------------

Jan. 4, 2018

[Image: article-2259560-16D4ACC9000005DC-313_634x418.jpg]

Neville wandered the streets of Whitby in England. He was amazed he had come back here. Years previously, he had come here for a debate with the boy’s school in the area. The other school had taken great offence when the boys determined this town should be nicknamed “shitby” because of the inhabitants that seemed to live here. Fisherman and Ghost Stories were what this town was known for.

Everywhere had it’s own “haunted” story, probably only because one of the most famous horror novels of all time was written here. Neville would go around and see some of the sites Stoker had seen, but for now he was content to spend a little bit in the town.

He wandered up to one of the many fish and chips restaurants in the area. He ordered a takeaway to walk around town with. As he waited, he spotted a young man walking up the road. As soon as he got near to the fish and chips area, the people in the shop yelled and told him to get away

That’s a bad apple, that one. There’s something about him that’s gone wrong. He’s not allowed around here anymore.

Neville smiled courteously but couldn’t help watching the young man’s face. There was an intensity in his eyes as he looked back at the woman who chased him away. There was something about him that Neville couldn’t help but almost admire. It was a sort of courage. Neville wondered what it would be like to be considered the bad apple of the town. For years people had done nothing but admire him, he was always someone that others could be impressed with. Once more, as he did his thing with the XWF, he knew people were impressed with him.

But would that let them down?

Ah, Mezian. I kind of remember you. You're the bastard that owes me five dollars right? I can’t help but wonder why of all the matches in the XWF to make your comeback with you chose mine. Maybe I’ve done something to impress you. Maybe you’re just stupid enough to think you have a chance with the title. Either way, I can’t wait to try and figure out the “why” of you coming back this week.

I get that you’ve walked into things feeling like you’re owed a title. I get that you’ve fought for awhile trying to attain what I accomplished in one week. Maybe you think, like me, you can return and win the TV Championship in your first week back. But I can’t wait to prove you wrong. You see Mezian, you’re nothing like me. You’re like someone from this shitty little town, pretending to be dark, yet we all know you just do it to be noticed.

Neville noticed he had caught the cooks’ eyes as he said this. He really hoped they wouldn’t spit in his food. By now the batter should already be deep frying, he would have to watch his tartar sauce.

Mezian, I really do look forward to teaching you a few things this week.

Lesson #1 – Don’t Name Drop When You Can’t Hold Your Own

I get it Mezian, watching the short-ass promo you filmed this week, you needed to remind everyone in the XWF who you were. I mean you’ve left such a big mark on this promotion that the first words out of your mouth were introductions to yourself because I didn’t know who the fuck you were. Even funnier, it didn’t seem it was only me you were reminding. It was like the whole XWF needed to remember, “oh yeah, this fucking guy”. I almost burst out laughing after getting up from that chair shot because the entire audience seemed stunned. Not because of your return, they genuinely seemed to have to google you to remember your relevance in this federation. Mezian, it’s hilarious to watch you parade around like you think people give a shit that you’re back, when really, we have to remember why you relevant in the first place.

So I get that you knew that, I mean, why else would you spend so much time spelling out who you were and what your accomplishments were. But the funniest shit of all was watching you try to name drop others and bring them into your fucking confused memories here in XWF. I get it, you fought Thomas Nixon, you fought Jack Cain. Hell, you even had a fight against Barney Green! Big fucking deal. That doesn’t give you any right to come into the fucking ring and smack our heads around with a steel chair.

What you accomplished in your promo was the equivalent of going to a wedding, not being recognized, and proving who you are by who you know. Oh yeah, you don’t recognize me? I’m Uncle Steve’s son? You don’t know Uncle Steve? Uh, Aunt Flo’s Husband? Oh, she’s second cousins with the Bride. Seriously Mezian, that’s the way you want to play this week?

Well let me introduce you to myself. I’m Neville Fucking Sinclair, THE TV Champion. I have held this belt longer than almost everyone else in XWF history, and I don’t plan on losing it to some dumbass, hardly recognizable, two hair coloured asshole like you. We’ve never officially met, but that’s because I was sparing you. You’ve never faced the likes of me, and I can’t fucking wait to show you why a come back was a bad idea.

Neville heard a call from the window and picked up his fish and chips. The chips looked overcooked and the batter looked overly thick. But Neville would take this. It had been so long since he’d eaten at a good chippy, and at least here, he knew the fish was probably fresh. He took a bite, his eyes rolled back into his head and he was sure the woman at the counter thought he was having an orgasm. This was just right.

Lesson #2 – Understand what “Leagues” Are

The other part that made me laugh out loud in your promo was seeing you talk about me being out of your league. Do you understand how leagues work Mezian? The importance of keeping more than one league is usually because they want people of lesser skill to be able to play with people of the same significance. The higher leagues operate at a faster, more skilled pace, and the lower ones give people a chance to catch up. You do realize this right? This is where the phrase “Out of my league” comes from.

So how in the fuck do you think I’m out of your league? I mean you said it yourself, you fought many times to try and win the TV Title. But why don’t I actually see your name beside the title history? That’s right, because you’ve never won shit here. And that’s why people don’t remember you. You seriously want to call someone out for running over all the XWF puts in front of him, holding the belt for a record amount of time, and having to defend against some returning douchebag?
Mezian, I know I don’t need to state the obvious, but let’s make some sense of this. You’ve never won anything. As far as I can tell, you barely win matches let alone championships. The XWF barely cares about you, didn’t miss you while you were gone, and now lets you fight me as a favour, and I’m the one out of your league? You can take your division two level ass back down where it came from as far as I’m concerned because you’ve proven to me you don’t make any sense.

Obviously, you’re not a sports fan, because as far as I’m concerned, the fact that you said this shows your either ignorant or insane.

Neville walks a bit further and opens up a bag he’s been holding. It had been forever since he’d really enjoyed a good scotch. He pulled out an Old Malt Cask Tamnavulin. He had tried this over Christmas Break and now he couldn’t wait to bring it out once more. This was some smooth shit.

He took three shots almost immediately and smiled as he felt the burn down his throat. He knew that people might get sick of him drinking every promo, but he loved the consistency of everything. All he wanted to do right now was talk shit and drink Scotch. There was a t-shirt idea there somewhere. He grabbed a few bites of his fish while he stopped talking. Still warm and damn good.

Lesson #3 – You Need to Do More Than Make People Bleed

So finally Mezian, I couldn’t help but notice this running theme of yours that whenever you cut a promo, you seem to desire to see someone bleed. I get it, I mean it asserts your dominance when you can cut someone. It satisfies your desire to do something to someone else when you see that drip of blood tricking down their forehead. But making people bleed isn’t why we step into the ring, is it Mezian? We go into the ring to stand toe-to-toe and give each other one hell of a fight. That’s why I step in there week after week, that’s why I desire to hold the title. It proves that I do a hell of a lot more than just make people bleed. I use their weaknesses against them, I exploit rules and find loopholes, I play to my strengths when people don’t think I have anything more to give.

What do you do?

I mean seriously, I need to ask that question. You have a bonafide habit of running your mouth, threatening people, then backing off when the fight comes. You have a championship losing record that would make the Buffalo Bills blush. You sound about as smart as Ben Stiller’s character in Dodgeball when he looks intensely into the camera and exclaims “nobody makes me bleed my own blood”. And yes, I just quoted a comedy movie to describe you. You can try to be horrific, you can try to be intense, but really all you seem to be good for is making others laugh and be glad that they’re not you.

Mezian, I dare you to try and make me bleed. I really do. Maybe if you do, I’ll give you a shot of Scotch and raise your arm for doing something right. But don’t think for a second that you even have a chance in this match. I’ll be heading home with the title on Saturday, I’ll call it like I see it. But I’ll give you the chance to stand with me and try to make me bleed. Go ahead I dare you.

Neville took one more bite of the chips and spat it out. There was definitely some spit in there.

Fuck this place, I hate slumming in “Shitby” anyway.

Neville walked back towards the Chippy, threw his plate of food against the wall and walks away.

Fucking Shitby...

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode A Dark and Stormy Night
Author	Message