Relevance in miscellany

[There’s a woman who spends every day cooking and cleaning. Every night she has dinner on the table. Every morning she makes breakfast.

But her husband is not there. He has not been there for a long time. He left her years ago.

And yet, she still cooks his meals.

And in the mornings, those plates are all clean, drying on the side.]

?

[Just outside Busan, Neonero’s hometown, there’s a crossing. Every Friday night, at 2207, a woman appears, staring into the woods that surround the crossing.

There’s a man. We’ll call him Jun-Bin. Every Friday night, he travels to that crossing. He parks his car down the way, and he walks to the crossing, just to see the woman.

Jun-Bin never knew the girl. In fact, he doesn’t even know her name. Yet every Friday, he’s there, like clockwork.

One Friday, the roads were icy. Jun-Bin was hit by a car that lost control. Jun-Bin never flinched.

He lies in a coma to this day.]

?

Impulse is a powerful thing. So is familiarity. The human mind will naturally cling to that which is familiar. Even if that thing has passed away. Even if that thing was never theirs to begin with; even if that person never even had a relation with what they cling to. It’s similar to the women who write love letters to men in jail. There is no logic, it is just a natural phenomenon.

We cling to what’s familiar.

We cling to all we know.

But what if we know nothing?

What if we never knew a thing more than the next moment’s breath?

What if that breath was threatened with every heartbeat?

How does one make a human, anyway?

What is a human, anyway?

Certain things have developed in the last few weeks, things that simply cannot be explained away in one short, or even one abridged promo. Things will become clear in time, but for now we glare into the murk of a bubbling brook, its banks treacherous and overgrown; its water flow obscured by year on year of being used as a refuse tip for litterbugs. The occasional glance of water, but no clarity. Aren't metaphors fun.

One thing we know is this; Neonero has changed in ways both tangible and intangible.

There’s the mask. He burnt it symbolically after Madness, yet we never learnt its secrets; just what exactly was its hold over him? Could it possibly be compared to Mark Flynn’s dependence on gold in explaining its negative connotations?

The mask created a jester. A guy who hit finishers first thing in a match. A guy who pranced around. A guy who let himself get kicked in the balls by Peter Gilmour.

One minute we are seeing images of a boy abused and forced to wear the mask. The next the mask is an afterthought.

What kind of bullshit is this? A lazy diversion from what was an interesting arc? Perhaps not. The letter at the start of the first promo was signed ‘DU’. We have no idea who that might be. But it had strange overtones. It seemed to suggest Neonero was some kind of automaton. Of course he’s not, and that’d be a silly gimmick to give a character of such depth. But, seriously, the mask? We feel as confused as Neonero appeared at some points in the past. Just what is going on, and where was Neonero between his victory over Hisoka Itazura and Monday’s Madness?

We want answers, but nothing is forthcoming...is it? Were there possibly clues in what you just heard?

We fade

And if Mark Flynn is the Boogieman, what the Hell is Neonero?

What is the real prize?



A tall, gaunt man in light metal armour stands before a thick oaken door, which is being closed from the other side with deliberate slowness. Beyond the door is a starry sky, and a pale full moon hangs high, casting light into what we now see is a corridor. And then...

Clunk.

Alone in the dark.

The man sinks to his knees momentarily, then rises with a flaming torch, which guides his way like a beacon. His thin face is illuminated by the flames, which send shadows darting about his features. Strands of his long, mousey blonde hair rise and fall with the heat.

Before he proceeds, he wraps a small piece of string on the door handle. Then he turns, producing a small sword.

Looking at this guy, if we didn’t know better we’d say we were in Ancient Greece.

The string starts to unfurl from the man’s belt as he steps forwards cautiously. Almost as if on cue, there’s a deep, rumbling roar from the dark beyond. The man grits his teeth, flares his nostrils subconsciously, and presses forwards. The walls are dank, covered in moss, and drip water in rhythmic drops that echo throughout the corridor.

About 12 paces in now...bones. Human bones. The Hell is this. The man examines them, then pushes them to the side of the path. The floor itself is sandy but damp, and occasionally the floor falters off into puddles of unknown depth. To say it’s treacherous would be, well, it would be stating the obvious.

The man moves almost on tiptoes; half concealing his footsteps, half attempting to place his weight on the right spots. One false step could send him plummeting into a puddle, and there isn’t time to stop and check how deep each one is.

A fork. The first of many. But the man remembers some advice he once heard; in a maze, always turn left. He turns left. It’s a dead end.

Thanks a lot for that advice.

A large rat scurries out of the dead end, heading right for the boy. Lord knows how a rat has grown so big down here, but whatever the case it’s hungry and its heading for the man. It just takes one moment.

The rat lies in half, twitching its legs in death. The man bites his lip, and without realising, draws blood from himself. A small knick that dribbles claret down his chin. He turns back, oblivious.

Turning right this time, he decides to alternate left and right as his choices. He passes many identical rooms, then ends up right back next to a halved rat.

Damn.

There’s clearly no logical pattern here. This could take hours, days, weeks. So, instead...lets follow the sound of deep breathing. We suddenly become aware of that sound; a heavy, ghastly breath that rasps through the air like a harbinger of death. It’s occasionally accompanied by a snort or a deep, rumbling roar.

He passes corridors at random now, remembering not to go the same way twice thanks to what is now a mess of string, or using his judgement where he’s already been.

As you can tell there is no logic to this labyrinth.

Finally, he reaches another door. It must be another door, because there's no string, and it looks totally different to the first one. It’s a heavy, arched door, and it takes all the boy’s might to push it open. But push it open he does, and on the other side is a sight that at first shocks him; a mirror. He draws his sword back instinctively for a blow, but stops just short of striking the glass. He frowns, noticing in the mirror a trail of green blood on his chin. He wipes his chin and looks at his fingers; red blood. Yet in the mirror, green. His eyes bulge, but he turns away before letting this treacherous mirror get the better of him. In fact –

Smash.

The mirror is no more, and behind it, lies a passageway. Interesting. He follows it, and it leads to a set of stairs. What lies beneath? It seems like a gullet of darkness, but the man presses forwards, until he feels cracks under feet. He looks down, to see that he has just crushed a human skull. Worse still, the floor is carpeted with them. As far as the light can reach, there are skulls, bones and miscellany on the floor. There is simply no quiet way forward, so he turns back.

Probably wise.

We follow him for several more minutes, until he reaches the central chamber, and inside, his prize.

The chamber is domed, rather like a mosque, except this is before Islam, right? It’s a plain ceiling, no decoration. Even the struts and archways that support it are plain. Its as if this place was designed to appear sterile and desolate.

The breathing is heavy now. Really heavy. We notice a tall, golden gate behind the central plinth in the room. Atop the plinth is the prize. The man approaches. He picks it up. In the same instant, like some Indiana Jones booby trap, the golden gate flies open. The snorts and heavy breathing become a roar.

The rumbling of feet.

The boy readies himself; escape in these corridors is impossible. Even if he could outwit the beast directionally, he could not be assured of his footing and would probably kill himself in the process.

The answer is not to run.

The answer is not to be haphazard.

The answer is to face the beast. The answer is to look danger in the face. To do the impossible. No matter the mortal cost, because it is the only option.

The rumbling grows and grows, until mist can be seen pouring from beyond the golden gates. The breath of the beast. It pours from the doorway like...wait. It’s consuming the scene. Completely obscured.

"...................."

Eh, here’s your coffee sir.

Norris Cole’s face takes center shot and we pan out. Neonero is sprawled across his desk, and his eyes look heavy. He shoots his gaze right at Norris.

What happens next?!

Sir...?

He stands up slowly, then rushes Cole. He slaps him hard across the face, sending him sprawling into the door to the room.

SIR, NO!

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENS NEXT?!

I DON'T...

Neonero stomps Norris in the face before he can finish his sentence, and Neonero glowers down at him, overcome with a rage not seen before. Norris has always been an inane man with irritating sensibilities, but this...

Neonero bends down, hand on Norris’s shoulder. Norris is whimpering, and Neonero looks like he’s about to comfort him, but instead uses his proximity to grab Cole’s glasses. He puts them on his own face then rips them off in disgust.

Don’t ever wake me up again.

He bends the glasses in half, then rips off the earpieces, and stuffs the whole thing into Norris’s left eye socket, jamming it in firmly.

There, a monocle, consider it your compensation. And why the fuck are there cameramen here? Get the fuck out!

Neonero grabs the camera focused on him, and throws it at the heap of Norris lying in front of the door. We vaguely hear 'not me, ese!' in the background, before the feed cuts out completely.

We faded already

Imitation is flattery

With a whiz and a whir, the lens on the camera unfolds, at first bright light obscuring our view, before the lens is fully exposed and adjusts itself. We open with a shot of Neonero, stood looking resplendent in a dark purple suit with matching tie. He’s stood before a white photographer’s backdrop, and behind him several Korean women are posing and having their photos taken. It’s not clear what group it is; perhaps not even a music shoot, perhaps it’s just a fashion shoot, or some magazine shoot. At any rate, Neonero draws no focus to the girls, instead focusing his own eyes on the lens of the camera, as if looking right at us. Cyan daggers piercing our gaze.

Coldly.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention two other people while I have your attention. First of all, Randall Cross. Our special ‘guest’ referee for the evening. I have no idea what relevance you have here, except perhaps to exert more pain on Mark Flynn after stealing the tag titles. However I will tell you now...I don’t want any shenanigans during the match. If you have to pull some shit on him, then feel free, but this match will have a clean finish. If that’s possible in a cage match. You know what I mean.

Neonero begins to walk, and grabs the European title from a stool, draping it over his shoulder lazily. It looks a good fit.

We’ve had our run ins Cross, but purely on a business level. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that because we’ve done business in the past, I wont make it my business to paint the ring with your blood if you let us down.

Passing posters of beautiful Korean women, Neonero walks down a still-white corridor, finally reaching a pair of double doors, pressing through them into a plush, purple and white reception room. There are comfy sofas installed in little orange segment shapes, and in the center of the room a reception desk. Neonero walks towards it.

And who else...Michael James. After watching your promo, I cant say my respect for you has grown at all, but I applaud you for having the balls to step in the middle of this rivalry. This is a match that’s going to blow the roof off the joint and you’re happy to stand in the middle. That take some kind of intestinal fortitude. You are completely correct when you say I deliberately placed you against Cyren.

Why?

Because I have the ability to actually see potential in people. When I came to this company, I was treated the same way you were. Treated as an under card guy. However, I got my first main event in only my third match...the match with Flynn. Why? Because our first encounter was an epic one, one that shocked the world. Even management couldn’t hide that.

Then it was back to being under booked, forcing me to run the gamut and enter Lethal lottery. Which, again, I would have won if I wasn’t such a fucking wanker back then.

Neonero reaches the reception desk, and rings the bell, lazily shouting the name ‘Bernard’. No one emerges at first, so he turns back to the camera.

I saw in Michael James what people failed to see in me. He ruins careers. I ended a career in my first night. I gave him the crack at a so called legend – I cant actually say that sentence without vomiting a little, sorry.



So I applaud you, James, for having the stock to see the situation for what it is; something not to run away from. A coming freight train, not to be stood in front of, but to hitch a ride on. Still in the main event. Still in the picture.

Just don't go trying to double cross me. Or I promise, I will fucking ruin you.

Neonero turns back to the reception desk, itching to check out, when finally someone walks into shot. But it’s not Bernard. Whoever the Hell Bernard is.



Neonero’s jaw hangs a little lower.

Checking in for another night, Mr. Cyn?

I...yes.

Excellent. I’ll personally bring you room service if you need it, just dial #69.

Perfect.

The receptionist winks and turns around, walking slowly out of the scene. Neonero’s eyes don’t leave her arse, or at least we assume not; ours didn’t, and we know he’s straight. He turns back to the camera, smirking.

Ladies. I grow weary of talking. There’s only so long I can talk about Mark Flynn before it feels like my tongue wants to commit suicide. And no one enjoys a sour tongue.

The facts are thus;

A blackout cage match will take place tonight.

This European title will be formally placed around my waist.

Mark Flynn will be sour about life.

And that’s that.

I’m off to order room service, nothing like a happy ending a few hours before a big match.

GG NORE


We fade

















Excellent, the seed is planted. - Du