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Mr. H · (04-01-2016)

Travis McCoy still sits in the center of the dilapidated ring only moments after addressing his opposition in the upcoming X-treme Wrestling Federation Tag Team Championship match. The few and flickering lights illuminate the dust particles that perpetually float through the air. Though the area has become derelict over the past several months of abandonment, the clock on the wall still ticks on at the end of Travis' gaze. A door creaks below it, and his eyes shift downward, a smirk just barely curving the corner of his lips, as a shaft of light spills into the aisle.
Travis rises from the folding chair as the light is blocked by a figure entering the empty arena. He kicks it aside as that figure steps into the poorly lit ringside area. X-treme Wrestling Federation fans would likely struggle to identify the man standing before him, clad in jeans and a t-shirt, with a brown bandanna tied around his head. Not only is he an unfamiliar face at this point but he's also lacking the facepaint and attire that will hopefully make him one of their most recognized stars in the very near future.
But rest assured, this IS Mr. H. One might think that he is not 'suited up', so to speak, not 'in character'...but in fact, and in time, you'll find that the paint-free, street-clothes-clad incarnation is as much the costume, as much the other side of the curtain, as the Painted Prince you'll see in the ring. Indeed you will find, in time, my new friends, that should you tear his flesh away, you'll find nothing but the vibrant paint that personifies his passion bleeding out from beneath.

Travis kicks the chair aside, it bounces off the ropes and collapses as Mr. H pulls himself up onto the apron. Travis takes a few steps over to kick it to the floor as Mr. H gets into the ring and as he returns to the center, the newest signee to the X-treme Wrestling Federation is there to meet him. The to stand face to face, nose to nose, and for a moment there is nothing but silence and tension. An amused smile parts Mr. H's lips, returned by a smile from Travis that is far more flippant.
...and then Mr. H headbutts him straight in the nose.
Travis stumbles back, clutching his face, blood immediately pouring down into his beard. The crimson stains teeth that are now bared in something that could just as much be a grin as a snarl as he nods approvingly and lunges toward his attacker.
And so they go to battle.
There are no cheers or jeers in response to their blows, no roar of the crowd to drown the sound of their violence, and so the empty arena echoes with the smacks and thuds of flesh and bone being driven into flesh and bone, the grunts and growls of aggression and exertion, and the resounding crack of human bodies being driven onto the wrestling ring beneath them.
Fist and feet fly, drawing bruises and blood from both men's features, sending sweat drops gleaming under the lights.
They grapple, they strain and struggle as they control and contort each other limbs, they slam each other to the mat, again and again.
Travis throws Mr. H with every suplex in his arsenal.
Mr. H fires back with kicks from every angle.
The two go hold for hold on the mat, stretching each others joints to their limits.

That clock is still ticking.

Soon they begin unloading their heavy hitters...
Mr. H wraps Travis up in Hurts Like Hell.
Travis drives him down with The Real McCoy.
Mr. H catches Travis with 4AM.
And Travis pildrives.
And piledrives.
And piledrives.
And catches a blast of poison mist that sends him staggering...
...and soon he is reeled into The H-o-Matic Clutch.
And maybe he taps and maybe he doesn't.
Because this is no match. There is no ref. And there are no pinfalls. Tapouts only end the hold, they do not end the war.
The war rages on.

And that clock's still going. And the night's rolling onto toward morning.

That chair was not forgotten. It cracks across them both. It rests on the canvas for a moment...only long enough for Travis to send Mr. H skull-first onto it.
Seeing Red.
Indeed, both men are...as their faces are a pair of crimson masks, as they both sit in crumpled heaps at opposite corners of the ring.
The clock has tracked the time...the hours...
...and their battered and mangled bodies have tracked the blows of this battle.
Their arsenals are depleted.
They've given all they have.
And now, all they have is throbbing pain...
...paralyzing exhaustion...
...and an absolute shitload of respect.
Because that's what this was.
That's the reason for this war.
They needed to know.
To be sure.
They needed to silence any doubt in their minds.
That this was the right thing to do.
The right road to follow.
The right reunion.
The right time, place, and reason.
To come together.
And to Rise From The Pyre.

And so they muster whatever last ounce of strength they have in them to pull themselves up from the canvas...to walk to the center of the ring...
...and to shake hands.

Because they've left the past in steadily drying puddles of sweat and blood at their feet.
All that has ever been between them has been exorcised over the course of this night.
Tonight they're put themselves, their history, their relationship, all of it...
...through the refiner's fire...
...to find purity on the other side.
They may never be friends.
They may never be brothers in any loving sense of the word...
...but now they stand, brothers in arms and brothers in cause.

Tonight this arena was the chosen location for one last funeral...
...tonight they laid their past on the pyre...
...tonight they lit it up with one last war...
...and tonight they burned it to ashes.

And tonight...
...again...
...like they always have...
...and always will...
...but now, perhaps more than ever before...
...they Rise From The Pyre.

Warriors, soldiers, brothers.
Risen From The Pyre.

-------------

We move from one empty arena to another. This one's quite a bit nicer. Like, a hell of a lot bit nicer. Because this is the arena where the X-treme Wrestling Federation runs shows. At the moment it is basked in darkness with little more than the occasional EXIT sign or utility light glowing in the vast expanse of black.
A spotlight clicks on above the stage.
With it comes music:

And into that spotlight steps a man slathered in color and style from head to toe, a man new to this place but a respected veteran and, dare I say, a legend outside of it, a man who will hopefully prove why he's earned that reputation elsewhere by re-earning it here, I am, of course, talking about William H. Macy...er, no, sorry, that's a typo, he is The Electric Infection, Mr. H.

The spotlight follows Mr. H as he strolls down the aisle with a swagger befitting the musical accompaniment and then steps through the ropes. The ring lights illuminate and we see a bit of a set: a black desk with a black chair behind it, and a big ol' timey talk show microphone on the desk. Mr. H strokes his hand along the desk as the music fades...then snatches the microphone off it, raising it with a snap,

"WELL, THIS AIN'T JOHNNY CARSON!!"

He bellows, throwing his head back. He holds the microphone above his head as he stares skyward.

"This...is The Mr. H Hour. Thanks for tuning in."

He lowers his head slowly, a grin gleaming on his painted face.

"...and I reckon it's time I introduce myself..."

He gives a playful wave to the camera.

"Hello, I'm Mr. H.
Now I know I've got a match to address, I know I've got opponents to address, Tag Team Championships to address, I know I've got to say a few things about all that jazz and we'll get there in due time, my babies, but that time is not this time because this time is my time.
This is The Mr. H Hour. Due time's gonna have to hold up until we're done here.
Because let's be honest...and you're going to learn, my sweet babies, that if I'm one thing, it's honest..
...and the honest truth is I might have over a decade of this business under my belt...but here, now, in the X-treme Wrestling Federation...I'm just some jackass with paint on his face and a tie around his neck.
So i think it's fair and not at all self-centered of me...because I'll have plenty of time to be genuinely self-centered later, I'm sure...to just go full-on all me here for your viewing pleasure."

He runs off the ropes and slides into a reclined position across the desk.

"Let's get familiar, let's get intimate, let's get juicy, hm?"

He curls his tongue and sneers into the camera before suddenly swinging his legs around and sitting upright on the desk.

"But ah! Where in the hell do I even begin? And I think...I think the best place to start, the real thing that ties it all together, the real core of my story, the tale of Mr. H, the journey of the Jackalope...
is death.
Funny thing about life...it always ends in death.
Heh.
So...so when i was just a kid I used to think about death, used to ponder it, try to wrap my head around it, get a grasp on it...
...and by that I mean I literally tried to imagine dying, being dead.
And I had to tell myself it wasn't just everything going black...because then you're still there, sitting in the dark...I had to try to get past that and imagine completely ceasing to exist, ceasing to have consciousness...just blip, gone and you can't do it...you can't imagine not existing because if you're imagining, you're existing, even within that imagination...
...it's like when you fall asleep and next thing you know, you're waking up, and there seemed to be nothing in the middle...it's that nothing, it's that, forever.
Big fucking thoughts for a kid to wrestle with but damn if I didn't go there when i was left alone with my mind.
I don't know why but I did.
And the funny thing was...the funny thing was I was raised a Christian, raised to believe in God and heaven and all that stuff...
...but my contemplation of death involved no afterlife. I did not try to envision the glorious wonders of paradise. Or the torturous flames of hell, for that matter.
Nope, just poof, gone.
Eternal nothing.
And I think...
...I think it was those thoughts, that time I spent with that, that made me...at a very young age, come to terms with death. Make peace with it.
Because people die.
All the time.
Everyone.
Death is an inevitability and you can do any and everything to try to ward it off and deny it...
...but brother, it's coming for you and it's going to get you in the end.
And I...I'm alright with that.

Alright...
...alright, so what in the sweet name of Christmas on a stick does this have to do with my jabbering ass being here in the X-treme Wrestling Federation, you ask?
Well, thank you kindly for asking, you're really doing well to help move this promo along.
Well, you see, in case it hasn't dawned on you yet, I'm a professional wrestler.
And for the past decade and change, I've been wrestling. Professionally.
And death...
...well, death has many forms and while I may have made peace with the reaper that's coming for me whenever it's my time to kick off...
...death came to the wrestling world in a way that...well, that rubbed me the wrong way.
And daddy only likes being rubbed the right way, ok? Might want to write that down.

I don't mean people death. I mean company death.
Companies.
Every goddamn one of them and there were a hell of a lot:
RPW. IRW. PCW. LXW. URP. RoR. ICW.
I legit cannot name all the companies I've worked for.
Come and gone.
My career has been nothing but a long series of starts and stops.
A perpetual climb up an ever crumbling mountain.
And I've reached the peak, I've stood on the summit.
I was RoR and URP World Heavyweight Champion...
...and as I stand before you today, I still am because both those companies withered and croaked while I held those belts and now they are nothing more than gravestones for me to carry.
Hell, I'm still IRW Tag Team Champion, as well.
And the thing...
...the thing is...there's only so much you can take before you break...
...because this is all I know, this is all I am, this is what I live and breathe and bleed, this is my life, this is me...
...and if that's dying, if that's being killed...every couple of months...
...quite often in the most drawn out and pathetic way possible...
...well that just fucks you up a bit.
Well maybe not 'you' so much as 'me'.
My point is fed death is a very real problem and it's ruined my life.
BUT!
And this is where you really ought to start paying attention if you weren't before because you were probably texting or Tweeting or dick piccing or whatever you kids do when you can't keep your eyes forward for five fucking minutes...
...BUT I kept coming back.
Every time.
Because you can kill where I work.
But you can't kill my work ethic.
Because let me tell you something, bucko: I will DDT you at the motherfucking grocery store because I don't have a goddamn clue how to function in the real world.
You need to know that.
You need to know that I cannot live without this.
I will not live without this.
If you take one thing away from all my yap-trap flapping here, it's this:
Again and again, I've had the food taken off my table, the breath taken from my lungs, my fucking heart ripped from my chest...
...I've seen everything I've ever worked for buried in the ground and forgotten, AGAIN AND AGAIN...
...I've lost count.
I've lost count of how many times my life has been stolen from me by forces outside of myself, a reaper that, as far as I can tell, will never stop coming for me.
And all i can do is this:
Rise.
Again and again.
I will Rise From The Pyre.
Because for the past decade and a half, that's what Travis and I have had to do...over and over...
...and we may have done it at each others throats but we did it together, and we went down in flames, and rose from the ashes together.
We smell like smoke because we've been through fire.
A thousands times over.
And we have Risen From the Pyre.

X-treme Wrestling Federation, my name is Mr. H...and you don't know me very well yet...
...but I am here because the reaper's breathing down my neck.
And I want to live just a little bit more..."

With that he tosses the mic aside and and the lights go out.

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