The war that echoes continuously inside your mind will plague you. From time to time it will cause an undeniable continuous strain of persistent anxiety, and perhaps an never ending, unnevering state of battles with reality. As humans, what we are constantly trying to identify as the most "sane" thought of judgment is something that is difficult, it is something that is hard and for so many people who walk on the face of this depraved, barren wasteland of a planet, that is something that is almost nearly impossible.

But at times of need, in times where there needs to perhaps a bit of fire, a bit of energy...perhaps a bit of intensity to get someone ready for whatever destructive challenges that they might have decided to make themselves known and light themselves to go and get what they want...to not sit back in a depraved state of motionless treading and to go venture for something grander...something bigger...perhaps something just a little bit larger than whatever their life currently is right now. They need that extra bit of momentum to surge them forward. They need a particular element that will provide a metaphorical cascade of rocket fuel that will push them to the absolute very end...that will push them to the absolute living core and perhaps more importantly above all, it will push them to a point where they feel that at last, at long fucking last they can ascend and arrive at that next level...

And what is that tool? What is that substance? What is that element of momentum that they will use to cascade further and further? That very element that is needed is simply called, "the art of vital aggression." People everywhere constantly have a negative view on the word or emotion of aggression. They constantly have this warped ideology that it's bad thing to showcase the emotion of aggression. That it's a bad thing to showcase a form of emotion that utilizes methods of extreme passion and perhaps in some cases, a very high-impact extreme version of violence as far as attempts to go to get your own point across but in other instances, the art of vital aggression for many...is incredibly necessary. Incredibly. Fucking. Necessary.

Professional wrestling. The battle of the squared circle. A sport where the immortal warriors clash head to head against each other in a brutal, perhaps almost unholy battle of strength in both terms of physical as well as emotional. It is not a place where one can be timid at all. It was a place and an industry where some of the most insanely, brutal, physical moments could be possibly contested. Where some of the most death-defying feats of ultimate, inhuman athleticism could be performed and finally it was a sport showcase where lives are changed...where fires are forged...where wars and battles spiral into a weaving, cesspool of adrenaline-fueled intensity, and finally where legends are created.

This was Damon Tyler's life. This was all he never knew. Those mental demons that surged and swarmed his brain, destroying at his very fiber of beings from time-to-time...just encompassing his whole mental state...professional wrestling was release. The fact that no matter what those voices told him, he could channel everything out into that ring and unleash nothing but pure, carnal, destruction on every single one of his adversary's he faced in that ring was enough for him. It was enough to keep him grounded. It was enough to keep him sound. It was enough to keep himself fucking sane.

And no matter what those voices inside his mind instructed him to do, there was one single, solitary, emotion he knew he could count and rely on...and that was simply put, in his etched words, "The Art Of Vital Aggression." Aggression once again - so many of those who dwell upon society today view it in such a negative connotation, in such an negative light...but Damon thought otherwise. To him sometimes aggression was vital. Sometimes it was a necessity...if it means that, that particular emotional mind state would help him accomplish the various goals he stacked at hand at any particular moment, then it was what he would need to do and it was what he would need to release out, regardless of whatever fucking opponent was standing directly in his path. And likewise in Damon's brainwave, the act of aggression was not a bloodrushed, frenzied state of hellfire...instead he viewed it as an art form.

An art form where the blood and pain he could derive out of his opponent was in his mind, a canvas...a canvas where he could draw nothing but the utmost and pure inspiration from as far as showcasing examples to the rest of the XWF locker room was concerned. His opponent, whoever they were, whoever that person was going to be...their blood, pain, and destruction would be utilised as his paint. The offence, damage and attacks that Damon would be dishing and inflicting would become his metaphorical paintbrush, and finally, the very ring that they would brandish their wars and battles in would become his canvas where he could ultimately create his masterpiece...his opponent being destroyed and laid down to rest in a bloody..fucking...pulp.

***



A steel room, quite minimal in design, came in to view. The room was masked in a vast layer of stainless steel, giving of a vibe that could described as perhaps fairly cold, and almost a bit unwelcoming perhaps to the outside eye. All that remained in the room was a black chair, and a large steel lamp. The lamp was shining bright, the radiant nature of the lightbulb glaring shades on Damon's head as he sat in the chair, in a black suit as always, finishing up the final drags on his cigarette.

"...Swarming, circling, swimming. So many damn words you can use to describe it. Those voices that encompass me channel so many emotions you know? So many different feelings that just control and dictate my mental and physical state of flow. Perhaps you could describe it as the nature of the beast, perhaps you could describe this mental station as the way the game is played, but for me it's something entirely different and something entirely grander than all of that. They circle everything I compute in my brain and they dictate practically everything I do in all wakes of my current existence but do I hate it? Do I hate the fact that I, myself, cannot control what I do? You bet...that I don't fucking hate it all."

"I wouldn't have it any other way. When that angelic voice speaks to me and my brain is just rattled with her voice calling out to me nothing and I mean absolutely nothing at any point makes me hate or regret or want to try and eviscerate it. It doesn't just dictate who I am as a person, it dictates the person that I am today. Not a coward, not a weakling, and not someone who is going to bawl, cower and hide from whatever complications and problems...it turned me into a warrior. It turned me into a brawler. It turned, shaped and transformed me into a fighter."

The ember of the cigarette had ran out with the flame's light finally all but disappearing as, Damon flicked the final bits of ash away, before putting it out and continuing - leaning forward from his chair.

"And because of how it shaped me, it has the ability to manipulate and dictate so many, various, emotions. Some good, some bad...but most importantly, all of it fucking real. Sometimes it's a state of chaos, sometime it's a state of immaculate psychosis, but at the other times, it can definitely be describe as a pure art of vital aggression. Aggression is vital, especially in the industry that I choose to make my living. If you back down, if you cower and you try to hide yourself away from the adversaries and opponents that are there to challenge you then you can't survive. You won't. Simple facts. You will be dethroned and enslaved into a world of consistent misery as competitor after competitor, individual after individual, will just run you over and manipulate you until you get stuck in a cascading spiral of self-hatred and once that cycle commences, it's all over. There is no getting out of that sinking hole as it will consume you and it will FEAST on you until nothing of you remains except for the shallow and hollow beaten carcass which now becomes the only remnants of the fallen warrior that once stood, representing it's shadow."

"So because of this, when those demons and those voices command me to utilize my aggression and define it as my TRUE art form? Well who in the ungodly fuck am I to deny that? If that's how she tells me to present and carry myself in that ring, then that's how I'll present and carry myself. Because when she says that...that angelic voice...my angel...my banshee...my mistress...when she speaks his words and commands me on my instincts there's no turning back. Never has been, never will and that is when my mental and physical state go into full ignition and I will decimate whoever stands across from me, right in that very ring."

With the intensity heading to it's final breaking point, Damon fully stands up now as he addresses the camera.

"So here I stand, this coming Saturday night in a tornado tag team match, my first tag team contest in XWF where I team up with Jenny Myst...one of the most skilled competitors in this promotion today where we team up to take on...an unorthodox, chauvinistic spaceman and a woman who couldn't lace up her boots in hopes of even getting a tenth of the same ability of Jenny if she even attempted to. Listen, I'm going to lay the facts down as simply as I possibly can. You saw what happened to Rain last week. You ALL saw what happened to Rain last week. That is just the beginning. That is just a taste...and you can be SURE AS FUCK that this coming Saturday night that voice in my brain? The one that controls and dictates every single course of action I choose to make? She is commanding to steer myself clearly on the path of vital aggression. And the second she tells me to do so, I don't care who you put me against and I don't care who you team me up with...AZRAEL. CATE. FOR THE TWO OF YOU, YOUR BODIES ARE THE PAINT, MY OFFENSIVE ARSENAL IS THE PAINTBRUSH, AND THAT RING IS THE MOTHERFUCKING CANVAS AND I WILL SHOWCASE YOU TO THE FINEST ART FORM I KNOW. Your bodies...laid in the ring in nothing more...than a molten...bloody...HEAP.[/align]