PlaceMarker Who Are You? - Printable Version

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Isaiah King Corporation Said:The following is a work of art, a visceral experience, an unparalleled masterpiece produced by Isaiah King Corporation. It will be best enjoyed along with its musical accompaniment and your full attention, any less and you should be ashamed of yourself. Try to keep your hand(s) out of your pants, if you can - you have been warned.

“Who are you?”

Static. A flicker. The strum of a guitar. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the Isaiah King show, brought to you by the one and only Izzy, it's so good to see you ingrates again. The dull orange of a New York streetlamp takes centre stage on your screen, as the frame zooms out to reveal a grey-skied night, much like every night in this grossly light-polluted city we call home. Your nose scrunches before you can help yourself as the trash-covered streets and the pee-stained sidewalks come into view.

A single man rounds a street corner, clad in a worn-out plaid shirt and jeans years past their due. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a chiselled stomach that belongs on a methhead. Oh. Yeah, trust your gut, hun. His feet cross each other with a little hop as he walks, his left hand flicking out in a flick as his lips pursed into a whistle. A familiar tune catches your speakers but you can’t place the song amidst his broken, raspy whistle.

“Whoooo, are you? Whoo whoo, whoo whoo.”

The man’s face distorts, his lip curling up and his eyebrows furrowing as his stank face reveals itself. He’s really in it huh, meth is a helluva drug. . The man twirls on a heel before turning another corner and disappearing from the f-.

“Uh-uh, sorry sonny- didn’t see ya’ there”

The man practically bounces back into the frame, and you can see him narrowing his gaze to see a little clearer. His dirt-covered hands come up to rub his eyes. Ugh, you really shouldn’t… That’s how you get pink eye.

“Izzah, is that ya? It is ya! What’s ya fightin’ ass doing out at this time of nigh?”

“Nothing special Vince, just another run to get the sleep juices flowing.”

Cue the Disney channel guest-star automated cheers and clapping. It’s our golden boy, yes it’s the one, the only, sculpted from the marble of Mount Olympus itself…

“Izzah, it ain’t safe this late at night, no matter how dem hands can fly-“

“You’re right Vince, these hands can fly, but they sure can’t stop the Harlem slasher.”

Isaiah King creeps into the frame, throwing slow-motion jabs and hooks at the man while walking forward. Vince chuckles, swerving and dipping away from them, his laughing mouth revealing too many gaps. He makes overly comical knife sounds as he swings his hands in return.

“Aw, you keep hittin’ em’ with these and you just might one day.”

Isaiah laughs along with the man before squeezing his shoulder in thanks. Ugh, come on Isaiah, market value dropping by the minute.

“Couldn’t do it without trainers like you, Vince.”

Yuh son, one day when erryone know’s your name - yuh better stick my name up there too.”

Isaiah taps him on the shoulder and points directly towards the camera, giving Vince a quick wink.

“It’s already up there, Vince.”

Vince’s face runs through a dozen different emotions in a matter of milliseconds before he bursts into a smile and wraps an arm around Isaiah. Pulling the much bigger, much sexier man close to him, he sticks a thumb up and poses for the camera.

“This boy is gonna be a star. Izzah King, remember the name!!”

Vince sprints through the sentence before turning a bright red, dabbing Isaiah up and mumbling something about catching him around. He does a little hop and quickly makes his way off the frame again, nerves making him bump into the wall on his way out. Finally, the peasantry has moved away and we can get a glimpse of our star, our golden boy.

Isaiah’s gaze track’s Vince’s retreating body off frame before he turns back towards the camera. He rubs his palms against his sweat-drenched sweatpants and twists his torso to give his back and sides a good stretch.

“Remember the name. You heard him?”

Isaiah turns to look at the camera and tilts his head slightly… menacingly. Your eyes trace the sweat on his exposed arms, rippling over his developed shoulders, traps, biceps… Just as he bursts off into a jog. You hear the grind of wheels on the tarmac, and the scuff of a shoe against the road. The camera tracks him as he runs through the street, and it seems to be on a gimbal of sorts to reduce the shake. Only the top quality for a top star, amiright?

He jogs through the night street, not too late that only the homeless and drugged out are out, they’re joined by college students, night shift workers and the topknotted-beard-wearing-metrosexual returning from a private pianist event at an uptown redbrick. Harlem, New York is very much a live, and the streets are Isaiah’s track.

“Hey, aren’t you that new- YO!”

Isaiah claps the hand of a passing fan, donned in a faded Danny Imperial shirt.

“Hope I’ve got your support tomorrow.”

The fan isn’t even listening as his hand zips to his pocket to grab a photo before Isaiah runs off. What an ungrateful little sod, doth he knoweth who’s presence-th he’s in…Eth? Ugh, kids these days.”

Isaiah rounds another corner, his steps steady and to some unheard beat, eyes slightly glazed over as his body rushes with endorphins. The glee tugs at the corner of his lips and he breathes in through clenched teeth. Drops of sweat glisten on his skin and with every step his muscles bulge and throb.

Turning one last corner, Isaiah’s jog comes to a halt and he looks up towards the 2nd floor of a worn-out building. An open window reveals the blue, white and red of a pennant of some sort, flying in the wind. The King’s Court. You catch the feint sound of squeaking shoes, dull and rhythmic thuds and the mixed grunts of men and women, a gym of some sort?

The camera flickers into static, you the sound of thuds and grunts increases as the feed is replaced with what looks like a VHS recording.

The video is shaky, and clearly filmed handheld. It finally focuses on a boy who, obviously by his already chiselled features, is a young Isaiah... That’s right folks, feast your eyes on Isaiah King, aged seven, okay don’t feast your eyes you creeps.

The young Isaiah has on black boxing gloves, a half grin on his face and is throwing hard and quick punches to the shouts of a coach somewhere off the frame.

“A5, A3, A6, B1, B3, A2, A5, B5, B6, B1 - Come on! You’re better than that!”

With each combination, Isaiah either throws a punch or avoids an invisible one. He misses the last defence, a cupful of water comes splashing out at him from behind the camera. Isaiah drops to the ground into a pushup position and carries on with a ten-count. Once he’s done, he’s quickly back to his feet for another set.

“A champion ends fights dry.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Who are you?”

“A champion.”

“A2, A1, A6…”

Isaiah returns to brutalizing the the bag. His movements are sharp enough for a kid, a piece of ice holding steady between his shoulder and neck melts into his skin as the feed cuts off.

It returns to a live feed of Isaiah, finishing up pushups before the same building as before. Oooh, backstory.

“A champion ends fights dry. Heh.”

Isaiah turns away from the building and looks directly into the camera, giving it a worn smile - an aged version of the one he wore at seven.

“Right now none of you have a clue who I am. I’ve accomplished nothing. I’ve said some stuff, but I’ve proven nothing. I’ve made no mark. In your eyes… I’m nothing.

And that’s fine.

You are consumers, not planners. You are the wrestling faithful, not visionaries. You are customers, not scouts. I am just a bundle of untapped potential, of course, you don’t know me.

But you will.

And when you do, your jaws will drop. You’ll come back with a bowl of popcorn in your hand, ready to flick the channel to some UFC fight or an F1 race somewhere and your jaw will drop. Remote still in your hand, you’ll see my right hook remodel one of your favourite faces. You’ll be hooked.

You’ll come back with your fingers still stinging with pee, hands zipping your pants and scanning the crowd for your seat when you see my elbow concuss one of your legend’s brains. You’ll be addicted.

You’ll go turn off the TV at your boyfriend’s place begging for him to rail you from the back when you see the referee raise my hand with a champ unconscious at my feet. You’ll fall in love.

You’ll go from having no clue who I was, to being a groupie begging for me to give you my last name. You’ll go from thinking I’m a filler-match fighter to being confident I’m the Universal Champion you really need - after your first time.

I’ll go from a nobody to your one and only. A rookie to a champ. An unknown to your king.

You’ll see.

Tomorrow when I dance with Angelica, or next Savage when I claim a championship.

At some point, you’ll see.

Reaching that point is inevitable, it is just a matter of time.

Vince is already there, and all the guys at the bar you saw the other night. The screaming faceless fans who saw me fight, bleed, and conquer last time around on Warfare. Even the ol’ king Kuhn. They got to see, hear, and taste what I am all about and it’s only a matter of time before you do.

Some get the privilege sooner than others, and our dear Angelica is one of those lucky few.

I’m sure she’s getting this contender shot because she deserves it, because she’s fought tooth and nail, taken wins and losses to get to a place where some gold around her waist seems right. She’s young but feels grizzled like she’s jousted with the best and comes off second place. She seems to be finding herself, figuring out what it means to be Angelica Vaughn.

She’s done so much already, at such a young age. Multiple titles, multiple tag partners, multiple factions… multiple cafes? She’s been around the block and twice again… And still doesn’t seem to know who she is.

And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

People take decades to find themselves, they need the ups and the downs, they need counsel from all walks of life, and they need to try different things out to find what sticks. Angelica is doing just that, she’s taking a tour around every little thought that pops into her mind - trying to find out who she is.

I’m more than willing to help move her along that journey. To be a light speedbump or deep valley in her journey. I don’t know where she’s headed, or who she’ll be at the end of this - I mean… Neither does she.

I can guarantee her one thing though, bitches they come and go. But those deserving crowns persevere to the end, driven by one desire, driven by one goal and putting in everything they have to achieve that.

People know the greatest not because they do everything but because they do one thing perfectly. The greatest basketballer alive, the greatest golfer, the greatest boxer alive, the greatest rapper of all time. You can be a lil bit of this and a lil bit of that for the rest of your life Angelica, but until you know who you are, you’ll never be the greatest wrestler of all time.

Until you know who you are, you’ll just be Angelica Vaughn, running through the motions, having a good time, winning some, losing some, naive and… Lost.

So who are you?

Who does your history say you are?

Who do your friends say you are?

Who does your coach say you are?

Who does your daddy say you are?

Who does your reflection say you are?

Cos the man on the street knows I’m gonna be a champion. My fans know I’m gonna be a champion. My family knows I’m gonna be a champion and I sure as hell know I’m going to be a champion. Not just the Television Champion, not just the X-Treme Champion, not just any one champion. I’m going to be a champion. The greatest of all time.

Not tomorrow, not in a week’s time, not even in a month… But soon.

I know who I am. I am Isaiah King, and I have limitless potential. I am Isaiah King and I’m on the road to greatness. I’m Isaiah King and there’s only one thing I want to be, only one thing I want to have, only one thing I am going to achieve. I’m Isaiah King and I am the expectant heir to the XWF throne.

That is who I am.

Who are you?”

The feed cuts to black and you’re left with silence. There’s a pit in your heart where you wish you were Isaiah King too, or at least… At least be his side.