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Prince Adeyemi · (02-03-2023)

The best way to experience the following promotional video would be to hit play on the music accompaniment. That’s how I designed it to be experienced, and that’s how I’d like you to read it – if not, I hope it’s still a fun read. I will share no liability for a subpar experience.

A trip down memory lane, brought upon by concrete concussions and Jenny Myst’s irresponsible leaps from high heights has… led to some unforeseen circumstances.

For better or for worse, we either have gotten something new or have been given a glimpse into who he used to be – we’re not quite sure yet.

As the smaller maniac slams into his spine, Isaiah’s head rocks against the concrete of the parking lot with a horrendous thud. His vision, marred by bloodlust and a thirst for championship gold, is now a pitch black with tinges of a throbbing white.

Damn, that hurt.

The black and white are met with a few new colours, an asphalt grey, a muddy brick red. From far-left field comes the tinge of red, accelerating quickly towards him. The red Jordan 1 High OG comes slamming into the side of his face, snapping Isaiah’s head back, just until his restrained body makes it snap back.

We in New York, baby.

He can feel the clammy hands of teenagers holding his own arms down, his feet being uncomfortably sat on by a child who ate one too many dollar slices. A cackle rings out to mock the screaming pain his brain was in.

“How many more till we make our money back, Jay?”

Isaiah tries to peel his eyes open, only to see the dirtied yellow of a pair of vans come into his view. The curb was pressing down painfully on his chest, and his head hangs off it, nose inches from the street. The shoes come to rest right under his lips.

“Oooh his head’ll be nothing more than street-jam if we went until we made it all back. He knows that. The Emp’ charge a 20% interest day on day after all. Dumb shit.” He practically sings that last bit, enough to give anyone the chills.

Jay Won lifts his shoes up into Isaiah’s bleeding mouth, the dark maroon staining his shoes but illiciting another cackle from the kids who’d had him surrounded. The kids, who seemed like they were going to kill him.

“Just one more, Jay?” The sound of shoes shuffling on asphalt.

“Ye-” A gunshot snaps through the air.

“S-shit!” The shoes leave Isaiah’s mouth, and he feels the weight move off his back, albeit a little slowly. Fat shit.

Isaiah feels his arms fall to his side, numb from being held for so long. He tries to wiggle his fingers to get blood back in them, but can’t seem to muster up the energy. As he hears feet run off, he hears feet approach him quickly.

A pair of hands, followed by another, wrap around him and hoist him up into the air. A large, burly man… Teenager? Monster? Hoists him onto a an equally large pair of shoulders. Isaiah tries to peel his blood-crusted eyes open, until he hears a growingly unfamiliar voice.

“Them k-town trash really gotta’ learn who’s in charge before one ov’ em get’s done. Ye’ good Iz? Ye got blood all over ya colors.” Jeremiah places a gentle hand under Isaiah’s chin and lifts his head up so their eyes can meet.

“Damn, you a real state, huh. Let’s get you to Doc.’” His voice still sounds confident, but not in the way Isaiah is used to. Not the concern of a childhood friend, but the disappointed assurance of a leader.

Your screen flickers to life to reveal Isaiah King soaked in an icebath. His head bobs out from the top, a pained smile plastered on it, and a few stitches on his face all he has to show from his Snow Job match. Well at least all he has to show to the camera, his presumably butt-naked body is hidden by dozens of ice cubes.

“I’ve been put to the boot - on the brink of death, more times than I’d like to count. Not usually for the best of reasons either.

But we did what we had to do to survive.

To thrive.

To grow and gain power.

To go from disenfranchised to… Franchised? Empowered, right - that’s the word.

Sorry, its all been a little bit of a blur since Snow Job - my body still feels like it just got run over by a plow. Good thing I’m at least prettier than Jeremy Renner.

That one night, between Myst, Goth and hard, cold concrete… I’m sure my life is shorter for it.

That’s the business though, am I right? A business where we put our lives on the line every single show to get a glimpse of glory, a taste of victory.

Where we spill blood to scoop up power.

Where I give it all, to one day stand above all.”

Isaiah lifts his arms out of the water, to reveal more welts and cuts. His beautiful chocolate skin now splotchy with blues and greys.

“I haven’t been standing above anything in recent weeks.

It’s left a bad taste in my mouth, a bitterness made of more than the blood I’ve spilt.

Everything started out so well, until I started facing some champions - people who craved… Maybe as much I did.

People who craved progress as much as I did, like Ned Kaye.

Who craved as much glory as I did, like Jenny Myst.

And perhaps they craved even more.

I’m beginning to see that I am not alone here at the XWF.

My early suppositions and determinations of this business have perhaps been… Misguided, naivete.

I saw low-lifes and scoundrels. The lack of ethics and ambition.

I perceived a great darkness, thought myself the light.

I saw a kingdom ripe for the taking, begging for MY deliverance.

…I saw wrong.

It’s not all black and white. And it’s not all grim. There is hunger in this place, albeit masked and covered by the domination of the less than ideal.

There are the likes of Finn Kuhn, Raion Kido, Ned Kaye and his group of friends who seem to be looking for change but struggling to enact it, lacking the power to take down the powers that be.

Then there’s the men on top - Chris Page, Mark Flynn, Jenny. The people with a tight grip on this company and too loose of one when it comes to their morals. Wrestlers who have the power but have gained it by hamstringing the industry.”

Isaiah has both his hands cupped, mimicking a weighing scale with his hands. He tilts his head slightly to the side and looks back into the camera.

“Then there’s you Dolly… And I’m not sure where you fit. You’ve been around for years. XWF royalty alongside your father, grandmother. Yadayada.

You dance with the likes of that revolting fiend Charlie so I’d put you in the latter… Save for the fact that you’ve hardly been a dominant force as of late.

Sure,you’re still very much in the peak of your youth - much like yours truly… But you’ve definitely had the biggest leg-up.

Yet… Didn’t you masquerade around as a bigger man, with something meaningful to prove - that a tiny girl could still kick some real ass? Even fight some crime for a bit?

A little all over the place. A little unclear. Morally ambiguous.

The waters of your career, just a little murky.

Muddy even.

I’m sure you’re seeking just as much clarity on trajectory as I am. In just as much of a slump since your vampire-partner departed.

This upcoming first-round match up is time to shed some clarity to OUR murky futures.

And I cannot wait… But can you?

I hope you’re in this match to win it Dolly - I really do.

I hope you’re in this match to take it all, because I am - always. My showing at Snow Job… Though unideal, was a step forward. A step towards regaining my footing - the sprouts of spring after a cold winter.

I’m going to use the tournament to shine the Sun on my career, that shall light my path to the top.

I’m ready to lay it all down again next week to make those sprouts spring to life - are you?

Or has your once promising career been choked out by the mud of complacency?”

Isaiah’s hands drop back into the water, a sad look on his face as the camera cuts off.

The gang of boys take him back to Doc - the King’s Court’s go to medical… Professional? He was a significantly older man in the community, a veteran, someone who had patched his fare share of medical injuries in the gulf as a combat medic.

He also happened to be Isaiah’s uncle and only known relative.

As they rush into the man’s rundown apartment, the smell of alcohol hits them hard. It looks no more than a crackhouse, a couple of pipes scattered across a wooden table covered in newspapers. Some cans here and there, and the wafting smell of burnin’ weed. War had taken a toll on Doc.

It was hard to tell how old he was, drug abuse and trauma had sapped the years out of his once beautiful face. A face Isaiah could still remember. The gaunt man jerks off his couch the moment the boys stormin. He goes from numbing the pain to combat medic so quickly.

If anything was true, it was that Doc loved Isaiah, and he hated to see him like this.

“Whad’ the hell happened Jerry, you damned kids piss off them K’s again?”

“Yessir, they had Isaiah in a bad state, I think he’s lost some teeth from those kicks.”

“To the head? Lord have mercy, he was never the smartest boy.”

Doc clears up the table and gets his medical supplies out, shining a light into the bloodshot eyes of Isaiah and shaking his head. “He just ain’t made out for this Jer.”

“He’s my right hand man, a general, a knight. You don’t know what you’re on about Doc. Isaiah does what he gotta do, cuz it’s what WE gotta do.” Jeremiah snaps back uncharacteristically… Well more characteristically of his recent persona.

Isaiah’s back on your screen, with his hands back representing a weighing scale.

“There’s a million different voices that whisper into my ear. Not voices of insanity, fantasy, or exploitation.

Voices of influence. Voices of credibility. Voices of reason.

Yet, they all say different things.

They lay down different paths before me, different steps to take. All promising me glory, power and betterment.

March Madness, though has one clear route. Through Dolly Waters - and whoever else falls into my bracket next.

But there’s many ways to beat a man, a woman, a girl.

There’s so many ways to get better, to be stronger and finally on top.

I’ve seen Neds & Jenny’s - their paths. Now show me yours.

Show me your way Dolly. Show me what you’ve got, prove to me your way is best and I might just take it and run right through you.

The Heir Apparent has a dream - and every opponent will help him achieve it.

Next up… it’s you.”

Isaiah weighs the left and the right on the screen, good and evil. Morality and power. Hunger and dominance.

What will sway him? Who?

Black.

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